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John Dene of Toronto; a Comedy of Whitehall

<h3> CHAPTER XVIII </h3> <h4> THE RETURN OF JOHN DENE </h4> "It's very strange," murmured Sir Lyster Grayne, as he raised his eyes from an official-looking document. "What are the official figures for the last six weeks, Heyworth?" he enquired. "Seven certainties and two doubtful," was the reply. "About normal, then?" Admiral Heyworth nodded. "Then why the devil should the Hun get the wind up?" demanded Sir Bridgman, a look of puzzlement taking the place of the usual smile in his eyes. "What does the I.D. say?" "That during the last four weeks thirty-seven U-boats have failed to return to their bases as they should have done," replied Admiral Heyworth, referring to a buff-coloured paper before him. "That leaves twenty-eight in the air," said Sir Bridgman, more to himself than to the others. Sir Lyster nodded thoughtfully. "No wonder they're getting the wind up," mused Sir Bridgman. "The I.D. says that Kiel and Wilhelmshaven are in a state of panic," said Admiral Heyworth. "It's damned funny," remarked Sir Bridgman thoughtfully. "Structural defects won't explain it?" He looked interrogatingly across at Admiral Heyworth, who shook his head in negation. "It might of course be wangle," murmured Sir Bridgman. Sir Lyster shook his head decidedly. "The I.D. says no," he remarked. "They're doing everything they can to keep it dark." "Well, it's damned funny," repeated Sir Bridgman. "What does L. J. say?" "He's as puzzled as the rest of us," said Sir Lyster in response. "He's making enquiries through Department Z." There was the merest suggestion of patronage in Sir Lyster's voice at the mention of Department Z. Sir Bridgman lit a cigarette, then after a short silence Sir Lyster said tentatively: "I suppose it isn't the Americans?" "Impossible," said Sir Bridgman. "You can't base ships on ether, and we were bound to know, besides frankness is their strong point. They are almost aggressively open," he added. "I——" began Sir Lyster, then paused. "It's damned funny," murmured Sir Bridgman for the third time. "Well, I must buzz off," he added, rising. "I shall see you at L.J.'s this afternoon." "It's a conference, I think," said Sir Lyster. "Walton is to tell us what has been discovered." Again there was the note of patronage in his voice. "Well," said Sir Bridgman, "I'll try and prevent it spoiling my lunch," and he stretched his big frame lazily. "By the way," he remarked, turning to Sir Lyster, "did you see about that convoy a hundred miles off its course, bleating like a lost goat to know where it was?" "It might have been very serious," said Sir Lyster gravely. "Oh! the luck of the navy," laughed Sir Bridgman. "We have to do it all, even teach the other fellows their job. Mark it, Grayne, we shall take over the whole blessed country before we've finished, then perhaps they'll raise our screws," and with that he left the room. Two minutes later his cheery laugh was heard outside again as he enquired of Mr. Blair if it were true that he was going to double the reward for the discovery of John Dene. A moment later he rejoined Sir Lyster and Admiral Heyworth. "I forgot about that flying-boat business," he said, and soon the three were engaged in a technical discussion. For more than three months Mr. Blair had known peace. He had been able to walk leisurely across St. James's Park from his chambers in St. Mary's Mansions, pause for a moment to look at the pelicans, dwell upon the memory of past social engagements and anticipate those to come, receive the salute of the policeman at the door of the Admiralty and the respectful bows of the attendants within and walk up the stairs and along the corridors to his room, conscious that in his heart was an abiding peace. It was true that a war raged in various parts of the world, and that Mr. Blair's work brought him constantly into close touch with the horrors of that war; but it was all so far away, and his was a nature that permitted the contemplation of such matters with philosophical detachment. A scorched shirt-front, an ill-ironed collar, or an omelette that was not all an omelette should be, bulked vastly more in Mr. Blair's imagination than the fall of Kut, the over-running of Roumania, or the tragedy of Caporetto. National disaster he could bear with a stoical calm befitting in a man of long ancestry; but personal discomfort reduced him to a state of acute nervousness. The Hun ravaged Belgium, invaded Russia, over-ran Lombardy; Mr. Blair was appropriately shocked and, on occasion, expressed his indignation in a restrained and well-bred manner; but John Dene crashing in upon the atmosphere of intellectual quiet and material content with which Mr. Blair was surrounded, ravaged his nerves and produced in him something of a mental palpitation. Therefore of the two events the irruptions of John Dene were infinitely more disturbing to Mr. Blair than those of the hordes of the modern Attila. Mr. Blair sat at his table, pen in hand, before him a pad of virgin blotting paper. His thoughts had wandered back to a dinner-party at which he had been present the previous night. His eyes were fixed upon an antique family ring he wore upon the fourth finger of his left-hand. The dinner had been a success, a conspicuous success. He was conscious of having shone by virtue of the tactful way in which he had parried certain direct and rather impertinent questions of a professional nature addressed to him by one of the guests. They related to the disappearance of John Dene. Mr. Blair had experienced an additional gratification from the discovery that he had been able to hear mentioned the name of John Dene without experiencing an inward thrill of misgiving. As he sat this morning, pen in hand, he pondered over the subject of John Dene in relation to himself, Reginald Blair. Possibly he had been a little weak in not standing more upon his dignity with this rough and uncouth colonial. In such cases a bold and determined front was all that was necessary. Of course there would have been one great contest, and Mr. Blair detested such things; but—yes, he had been weak. In future he—— "Here, who the hell's shut my offices, and where's Miss West?" The pen slipped from Mr. Blair's limp hand, and his jaw dropped as he found himself gazing up into the angry eyes of John Dene, who had entered the room like a tornado. "This ain't a seal tank and it's not feeding time," cried John Dene angrily. "Who's shut my offices?" Then with a sudden look in the direction of the door he called out, "Here, come in, Jasp." Mr. Blair looked more than ever like a seal as he gazed stupidly at John Dene. His eyes widened at the uncouth appearance of "Spotty" Quinton. Mr. Blair started violently as Spotty, seeing the fireplace, expectorated towards it with astonishing accuracy. Spotty could always be depended upon to observe the rules of good breeding in such matters. When a room possessed a fireplace, the ornaments and carpet were always safe as far as he was concerned. Mr. Blair gazed stupidly at his visitors. "I—I——" he stammered. Without a word John Dene turned, strode across the room and, opening Sir Lyster's door, disappeared, closing the door behind him with a bang. Sir Lyster was in the act of reaching across the table for a letter that Sir Bridgman was handing him. Both men turned to see the cause of the interruption. Sir Bridgman dropped the letter, and Sir Lyster slowly withdrew his arm as he gazed in a dazed manner at John Dene. Sir Bridgman was the first to recover from his surprise. "Why, it's John Dene!" he cried heartily, as he rose and grasped the interrupter's hand. "Where the deuce have you been hiding all this time?" "What the hell have you done with that girl, and who's closed my offices?" demanded John Dene, looking from Sir Bridgman to the First Lord. "Girl! what girl?" enquired Sir Lyster. "Miss West," snapped John Dene. "Miss West!" repeated Sir Lyster vaguely, then memory suddenly coming to his aid he added weakly, "Yes, I remember. She became your secretary." John Dene regarded him steadily. Sir Bridgman hid a smile, he always enjoyed a situation that brought Sir Lyster into antagonism with John Dene. "Yes; but that don't help any," cried John Dene irascibly. "Where is she now?" "Really, Mr. Dene," began Sir Lyster stiffly, when his gaze suddenly became fixed on the door, which had opened slowly, whilst round the corner appeared the unprepossessing features of Spotty Quinton. Following the direction of Sir Lyster's eyes, John Dene saw his henchman. "Come right in, Jasp," he cried, and Spotty sidled round the door cap in hand. Catching sight of the fireplace, he expectorated neatly into it. Sir Lyster stared at him as if he had suddenly appeared from another planet. "This is Jasp. Quinton, one of my boys," announced John Dene, looking from Sir Lyster to Sir Bridgman with a "take it or leave it" air. Sir Bridgman advanced a step and held out his hand, which Spotty clasped warmly, first however, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers with the air of a man unaccustomed to his hands being in a fit condition for the purpose of greeting. "Pleased to meet you," said Spotty briefly. "How's the Destroyer?" asked Sir Bridgman with some eagerness. "Ruddy miracle," said Spotty, as he once more got the fireplace dead in the centre. Sir Lyster seemed temporarily to have lost the power of speech. He gazed at Quinton as if hypnotised by the inequality of his complexion. When he expectorated Sir Lyster's eyes wandered from Spotty to the fireplace, as if to assure himself that a bull had really been registered. At last by an obvious effort he turned to John Dene. "I congratulate you upon your escape," he said, "but I thought you were too ill to——" "My escape!" replied John Dene. "Yes, from that place—where was it, North?" He turned to Sir Bridgman. "Streatham." "Ah! yes, Streatham." "I've been up north sending Huns to merry hell, where I'd like to send the whole Admiralty outfit," was the uncompromising retort. "I've come into contact with some fools——" John Dene broke off. "Shutting up my offices," he muttered. "But——" began Sir Lyster, then paused. "I've been over to Chiswick and she's not there; flat's shut," continued John Dene. "Chiswick!" repeated Sir Lyster. "Whose flat?" "Mrs. West's, and you've shut my offices," he added, with the air of one unwilling to relinquish an obvious grievance. "But I understood that you had just been released from a house in Streatham," persisted Sir Lyster. "Well, there's a good many mutts in this place who've been released too soon. You're talking about Jim." "Jim!" repeated Sir Lyster, "Jim who?" "My brother. They were all after me good and hard, so Jim came along, and I just slipped up north with your man." "Then you were the fellow with red hair all over him," laughed Sir Bridgman. "Sure," was the laconic reply. "They were out for me," he continued a moment later, "and I'd never have got away. Jim didn't mind." "But where is he now?" asked Sir Lyster. "He's probably the John Dene that they think was released from that place in Streatham," suggested Sir Bridgman. "Jim's all right," said John Dene, "but where's Miss West and my keys?" At that moment the telephone bell rang. Sir Lyster lifted the receiver from the rest and listened. "Yes, that's all right, thank you, Blair," he said; then turning to John Dene he added, "Mr. Blair has your keys and he also has Miss West's address at Bournemouth." "Here, come on, Jasp.," cried John Dene, just as Spotty was in the act of letting fly at the fireplace for the sixth time. He turned a reproachful gaze upon his chief. "But the Destroyer?" broke in Admiral Bridgman. "She has been doing her bit," said John Dene grimly. "She's refitting now. I'm off to Bournemouth, and Spotty's going north to-night with some indents." "Mr. Dene," began Sir Lyster in his most impressive manner, "your patriotism has—— "Here, forget it," and with that John Dene was gone, followed by his lieutenant, leaving Sir Lyster, Sir Bridgman and Admiral Heyworth gazing at the door that closed behind him. As Spotty passed Mr. Blair he turned and, thrusting his face forward, growled, "Ruddy tyke." It was his way of indicating loyalty to his chief; but it spoiled Mr. Blair's lunch. For some moments after John Dene had gone, Sir Lyster and Sir Bridgman and Admiral Heyworth gazed at each other without speaking. "Do you think it's drink, Grayne, or only the heat?" Sir Bridgman laughed. Sir Lyster winced and looked across at him as a man might at a boy who has just blown a trumpet in his ear. Without replying he lifted the telephone receiver from its rest. "Get me through to the Prime Minister. What's that? Yes, Sir Bridgman's here. Very well, we'll come round at once." As he replaced the receiver he rose. "The Prime Minister would like us to step round," he said. "Walton and Sage are there. It's about John Dene." "Seen John Dene?" asked Sir Bridgman of Mr. Blair, as they passed through the room. "You'd better apply for that twenty thousand pounds, Blair." Sir Lyster wondered why Sir Bridgman persisted in his jokes, however much they might have become frayed at the edges. When they entered Mr. Llewellyn John's room it was to find him a veritable aurora borealis of smiles. He was obviously in the best of spirits. "John Dene has been found," he cried before his callers had taken the chairs to which he waved them. "We left poor Blair with the same conviction," laughed Sir Bridgman. "Then you know?" "I telephoned Sir Lyster," said Colonel Walton. "Mr. Dene has only just left us," explained Sir Lyster. "He was extremely annoyed at the closing of his office and the disappearance of his secretary." "But——" Mr. Llewellyn John looked from Colonel Walton to Malcolm Sage, and then on to Sir Lyster in bewilderment. "Perhaps, Sage——" suggested Colonel Walton. "You'd better tell the story, Sage, as Colonel Walton suggests," said Mr. Llewellyn John. "There is an official report in preparation," said Colonel Walton. Mr. Llewellyn John nodded. In the course of the next half-hour Malcolm Sage kept his hearers in a state of breathless interest by the story of the coming and going of John Dene, as known to Department Z. "I gave Mr. Dene the credit of being possessed of more than the ordinary amount of what he calls 'head-filling,'" began Sage, "but I didn't realise at first that he possessed a twin brother; but I'll begin at the beginning." "When you turned over the matter to Department Z.," continued Malcolm Sage, "we made exhaustive inquiries and discovered that the Huns were determined to prevent the Destroyer from putting to sea, and they were prepared at any cost to stop Mr. Dene from going north. In Canada and on the way over they made attempts upon his life; but then, as so frequently happens, they became the victims of divided councils. They wanted the plans. Thanks to, er—certain happenings they learned that the Destroyer would not sail without Mr. Dene." "How?" interpolated Mr. Llewellyn John "They obtained the guarantee." "I remember," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "it was stolen." "Mr. Dene used to leave his safe open with such papers in it as he wanted the enemy to see. That's what he meant when on one occasion he said, 'If you've got a hungry dog feed it.'" Sir Bridgman North laughed, Sir Lyster turned to him reproachfully. "Mr. Dene became convinced that an effort would be made to kidnap and hold him to ransom, the price being the plans of the Destroyer. Department Z. also became convinced of this, but at a later date. As a precaution John Dene sent to England by another ship his twin brother, known as James Grant. When everything was ready the two changed places; that accounted for the strangeness of manner that Miss West noticed with Mr. Dene a few days before his disappearance." Malcolm Sage then went on to explain the method by which the false John Dene had been kidnapped, and of Department Z.'s discovery with relation to Mr. Montagu Naylor. "But all that time what happened to the Destroyer?" "The Destroyer was responsible for the extraordinary increase in the mortality among U-boats." Mr. Llewellyn John jumped from his chair as if he had been thrown up by a hidden spring. "But—but——" he began. "Mr. Dene hit upon a clever ruse," continued Sage, "and——" "But the advertisements! Did you know this at the time?" "It was known at Department Z., sir, and the advertisements were to convince the Hun of our eagerness to find John Dene so that we might start operations." "I see, I see," cried Mr. Llewellyn John; "but how on earth did you ferret all this out?" "We just sat down, sir, and waited for the other side to make mistakes," said Malcolm Sage quietly, "just as the Opposition does in the House of Commons," he added slyly. And Mr. Llewellyn John smiled. "It was better to say nothing about the Finlay business," said Malcolm Sage, as he and Colonel Walton walked back to St. James's Square. "It's results they're concerned with." Colonel Walton nodded. "We must see John Dene, however," he said. "If only for the good of his own soul," said Sage, as he knocked his pipe against a railing. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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