The Feathered Serpent

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

'FORTUNATELY, Miss Ella Creed was not wearing her jewels, but a very clever imitation of them, so the miscreants gained nothing by the outrage. The police have in hand the card with its crude drawing of a Feathered Serpent, and developments are hourly expected.'

'That's the story,' said the news editor, with the complacency which is particularly characteristic of news editors when they send their subordinates to impossible tasks. 'The feathered snake makes the robbery peculiarly interesting, and brings it into the realms of the sensational novelist.'

'Then why don't you hire a sensational novelist to go out and get the story?' demanded Peter, wrinkling his nose.

He was a tall, untidy young man, with a slight stoop. When his hair was brushed, and he adopted, complainingly, the dress suit, the wearing of which is vital to certain kinds of work, he was singularly good-looking. Nobody had told him so: he would have brained them if they had. They said of him on the Post-Courier that he loved crime for crime's sake, and that his idea of heaven was to wear plus-fours seven days a week, and spend eternity investigating picturesque murders.

'This is story-book stuff and doesn't belong to the pages of a respectable newspaper,' he said indignantly. 'Feathered serpent be— blowed! I'll bet you this Creed woman has worked up the stunt for publicity purposes. Ella Creed would jump out of a balloon to get free publicity.'

'Has she ever jumped out of a balloon?' asked the unimaginative news editor, momentarily interested.

'No,' said Peter loudly. 'She may have said she has, but Ella has done nothing more heroic than to eat oysters on the first of September. Honestly, Parsons, can't you give this to the theatrical correspondent? He could spread himself—'

Mr. Parsons pointed awfully to the door, and Peter, who was an experienced journalist and knew just how far a news editor can be baited with safety, slouched back to the reporters' room and moaned his misery to his sympathetic fellows.

On one point he was satisfied: no serpent, feathered or bare, would make him break his engagement. He could only hope that the same ruthless determination was present in the heart of the other party to the contract. Whatever misgivings he had upon this matter were, however, without cause.

When convention and instinct pull different ways, and the subject of the opposing influences is twenty-one and capable, convention is the loser. By most standards, tea-room acquaintances between perfect strangers are attended with certain risks, and 'May I pass you the sugar?' is a wholly inadequate substitute for a formal introduction.

And yet, mused Daphne Olroyd, making a leisurely progress towards the cosy lounge of the Astoria Hotel in the grey of a November afternoon, formal introductions carry with them no guarantee of behaviour. And she was quite sure of Mr. Peter Dewin: much more sure than she was of Leicester Crewe or that red-faced and leering friend of his.

Whether she was cheapened or not by her acceptance of Peter Dewin's attention did not trouble her. She had her own code of values, and the imponderable sense of understanding which told her that the tall young man with the untidy hair thought no less of her because, almost unhesitatingly, she accepted his invitation to tea in a public place.

Peter Dewin was standing square in the middle of the palm court, looking anxiously at the revolving door, when she came in.

'I've got a table as far from the infernal band as I could get— do you like hotel orchestras or do you prefer music?'

He led the way to a corner table, firing over his shoulder comments on things and people that would have embarrassed her if she had not been amused.

'Everybody comes here on Saturday afternoon... no charge for admission... that man over there with the horrible waistcoat is a card-sharp—only just got back from New York.

He had a trick of emphasising little points with elaborate gestures; she seemed to be walking behind a human semaphore. 'Here we are— take the low chair— sorry.'

There was nothing furtive about Mr. Peter Dewin. Everybody in the palm court was aware of his presence, even though they might guess wildly at his identity. The waiter knew him, the floor manager knew him, the hall porter knew him. Nobody else mattered.

Daphne learnt of his profession now for the first time, and was interested. Newspaper folk had a mystery for her.

'What do you report?' she asked.

'Crime mostly— murders and things,' he said vaguely, as he fitted a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles to his nose and solemnly surveyed the company. 'When crime is slack— royal weddings, important funerals. I've even sunk to the depths of covering a debate in the House of Commons. Dash these glasses, I can't see anything!'

'Why do you wear them?' she demanded, astonished.

'I don't,' he said calmly as he took them off. 'They belong to a fellow at the office. I collected 'em from an optician.'

He looked round at his companion and surveyed her critically. She did not grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny: she had a sense of humour.

'Well?' She awaited an outspoken verdict.

'You're awfully pretty— I suppose lovely is a better word,' he said unemotionally. 'I knew that when I first met you, of course. I never dreamt that you'd turn up to-day. Was I fresh in the tea-shop? People think I'm fresh when I'm only interested.'

'No, I didn't think you were fresh,' she smiled faintly. 'I thought you were— unusual!'

'I am,' he interrupted promptly. 'I never make love to girls; you lose a lot of fun if you make love to girls just because they're girls. You understand that? You miss their humanity and character— you throw away the apple for the sake of the core. That sounds silly, but it isn't. I'm never wholly absurd.'

The waiter came and deposited divers pots and cups. 'You're Crewe's secretary, aren't you?'

She was staggered by the question.

'I saw you once— I came up to interview him about something. I didn't remember that till this morning. One piece of sugar, please.' He stirred his tea and frowned.

'The older novelists explained why beautiful young ladies occupied humble positions by a bank failure or a gambling father. There have been no bank failures lately.'

'And my poor father didn't gamble,' she smiled. 'I am of the middle class and in my proper sphere.'

He was pleased at this.

'Good. I hate people who've come down in the world. Do you know that woman over there?— she's looking at you.'

Daphne turned her head.

'Mrs. Paula Staines,' she said. 'She's a sort of cousin to Mr. Crewe.'

Peter surveyed the well-dressed lady; she was too far away for him to see her face distinctly.

'Do you like that ménage? he asked abruptly.

'Mr. Crewe's?' She hesitated. 'No— not very much. I am trying to get another position, though I don't imagine that I shall be successful.'

He looked at her sharply.

'Funny, is he? Crewe, I mean. He hasn't the best of reputations. I think that you'd be well out of it. Crewe made his money queerly. It came with a rush, and nobody knows how the money-slide started.'

She laughed.

'Are you very much interested in him, or is this only an extract from—'

'My encyclopaedic brain,' he finished the sentence. 'No; I'm interested in him. I'm a crime reporter with a fantastic mind. I have seven theories about Crewe and none of 'em fits. Eat your darned bun!'

Daphne obeyed meekly.

'I've got to go along and give a thousand pounds' worth of free publicity to a lady who has lost ten pounds' worth of jewellery—'

'Not Miss Ella Creed?' asked Daphne in surprise. 'The girl who was attacked in her garden?'

'Do you know her?' he asked.

I've seen her. She sometimes comes to the house. Only Mr. Crewe was rather concerned about the robbery. He had had one of those Feathered Serpent cards the day Miss Creed was robbed. And he was rather worried about it.'

Peter looked at the girl thoughtfully.

'I don't believe there is anything in it,' he said at last. 'The idea has been pinched from—' He named a novelist whom she knew in a dim way as a writer of bizarre stories. 'Thieves are incapable of doing this sort of thing in real life. That "last warning" stuff is bunk, and I refuse to be thrilled. Where are you going?' he asked her abruptly.

She laughed aloud at the question.

'On an even greater adventure,' she answered. 'I'm going after a new job—and I haven't a ghost of a chance of getting it!'

He left her before the busy doorway of the hotel, and took a leisurely route to the Orpheum. At so early an hour he did not imagine that the leading lady would have arrived at the theatre, and he looked forward to a dreary wait; it was a pleasant shock to learn that she was in her dressing-room and would see him.

Miss Ella Creed had evidently just come in, for she was in her street clothes, and her fur wrap still hung about her shoulders. It was the first time Peter had met her, though her companion was well enough known to him.

Joe Farmer was a familiar figure in London. A coarse, stocky man, with a red, bloated face and an ineffable air of prosperity, he was famous principally as a promoter of boxing contests and the proprietor of a chain of public-houses that ran at intervals from Tidal Basin to Kew. He ran one or two horses that were trained in Berkshire; and if his reputation was not of the most savoury kind, he enjoyed a certain frowsy approval which passed for popularity. His big, fat hands glittered like a jeweller's window; he had a weakness for brilliant stones, and a large diamond sparkled in a cravat which would not have escaped attention even had it been unadorned.

He gave Peter a friendly grin and held out one of his big, moist hands.

'This is the very feller you ought to see,' he said. He had a deep, husky voice, and seemed to be suffering from an incurable attack of laryngitis. 'This is the boy! Sit down, Peter, old son. Let me introduce yer, Ella. Mr. Peter Derwent—'

'Dewin, my poor Bacchus,' said Peter wearily. 'D-e-w-i-n.' Joe Farmer chuckled huskily.

'He's "Peter" to me. Are you coming to see my fight at the Big Hall?'

'Never mind about fights,' snapped Ella viciously. And then to Peter: 'Are you a reporter? I suppose you've come about that disgusting attack that was made on me last night. I must say I was never so frightened in my life.'

She spoke rapidly, and her speech was as unpunctuated as a legal document.

'It's a very good thing for me I hadn't got my real jewellery on. Naturally a lady can't afford to go round wearing ten or twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls, as you can quite understand, Mr. What's-your-name—'

'Have you the card?' interrupted Peter.

She opened her bag and took out a rather grimy-looking piece of pasteboard, attached to which was a string.

'That's what they found round my neck when I come to,' she said. 'What I'd like you to put in the paper is this: I never lost my presence of mind. If I hadn't been stunned—'

'Did they hit you?' asked Peter.

She hesitated. The desire for publicity was tempered by the knowledge that she had already made a very exact and truthful statement to the police.

'Stunned in a manner of speaking,' she said. 'To be perfectly honest, I fainted.'

'You wouldn't recognise any of the men again?'

She shook her head.

'No, it was quite dark. Usually my chauffeur waits till I've gone inside the house. But like a fool—very indiscreetly— I told him he could go, and that's what happened!'

Peter examined the card with the Feathered Serpent.

'Do you think anybody is playing a joke on you?' he asked. She brindled at this.

'Joke?' she asked shrilly. 'Do you imagine my friends would play that kind of a joke? No, these men were after the jewels, and I wish I could have seen their faces when they found they'd got "props"!'

She explained unnecessarily that 'props' was a theatrical term indicating imitation jewellery in this case.

Peter heard for the first time the story of the card which had been found in her bag the previous night, and had confirmation— not that he required such— of Daphne Olroyd's story.

'The curious thing is,' said Miss Creed in her breathless, staccato way, 'that my friend, Mr. Leicester Crewe, the well-known stock-broker, also had a card, and—'

'So did I,' Joe Farmer broke in, his face one long grin. 'Say, what do you think of that! Pulling that old stuff on this baby!'

Joe, in his dealings with American boxers, had acquired what he fondly believed to be an East-side vocabulary.

'And listen, Peter— I think I've got a big story for you, one of the biggest—'

'Oh, shut up!' said Miss Ella, sharply if inelegantly. 'We don't want to go into that, Joe.'

So violent was she that evidently she thought it was necessary to offer an explanation.

'Mr. Farmer thinks it's a certain person who's always had a grudge against him and me, but the person is dead, so it can't possibly be him.'

The glance she gave to the red-faced man was full of meaning. 'The least said, soonest mended.'

'He may be dead and he may be alive,' said Joe carefully. 'But I've got my own ideas and I'm going to work on 'em— get that! Nobody can put one over on me without a come-back. I'm that kind of guy— I can be led, but I can't be pushed, see? If people treat me right I'll treat them right—'

'Will you shut up?' This time Miss Ella Creed was really angry, and the promoter of fights relapsed obediently into silence.

There was not much new that Peter could learn, and he went back to his office a little puzzled, and to no small degree annoyed. He met the news editor in the vestibule of the office, on his way home.

'There is something in this card stuff,' insisted Parsons. 'And, Peter, I've been thinking since you left. The Feathered Serpent has a peculiar meaning. I went into the library and looked him up in the encyclopaedia. He's one of the gods of the old Aztec people. Why don't you go along and see Beale?'

'Who is Beale?' asked Peter, and the news editor groaned. For this was Peter Dewin's weakness, that he was totally unacquainted with any save picturesque criminals, past and present.

'Mr. Gregory Beale is an archaeologist,' said the news editor patiently. 'He is also a millionaire. He has just returned from searching for the buried cities of the Mayas; in fact, he got in this evening. I sent a man down to Waterloo to get a story from him, but the darned fool missed him. You'll find his name in the phone directory, and he may give you a good line to the Feathered Serpent.'

He passed out of the building with a cheery good night, and Peter was half-way up the first flight of stairs when the news editor returned and called him back.

'While you're talking to him you might ask him whether slumland has improved since he went away. He used to be a whale for social reform.'

'If he only came back to-day—' began Peter.

'That's all to the good,' replied Mr. Parsons. 'Invite yourself to accompany him on a trip through the East End. You might get a good column out of it.'

Peter continued his ascent, thoroughly unhappy.