Tish Marches On (5 page)

He got up angrily, jammed his hat on his head, yelped, and jerked it off again.

“Then all I can say,” he said in a savage voice, “is God save the king.”

He slammed out the door, and we realized with a sense of relief that our strange journey was indeed over.

Perhaps I would never have written this, but Mr. Ostermaier was in a day or so ago about the next hunt dinner, and this brought it all back to me.

He read me the clue for the ice cream, which was to hang in an old well for coolness.

Three ladies went out to fish one day, and ended across the sea.

So take a look

Ere you drop your hook

Or you’ll meet catastrophe.

Before he left he took out of his pocket a small piece of black cloth and handed it to me.

“I meant to bring it long ago,” he said, “but I always forgot. Perhaps the young man who—er—lost it might need it.”

I gazed at it thoughtfully.

“Not now,” I said. “But there was a time when he needed more than that.”

I
T WAS SHORTLY AFTER
our return from England that Mrs. Ostermaier asked Tish if she would read a paper on the Coronation before the Ladies’ Missionary Society. I saw Aggie turn pale, but Tish remained imperturbable, stating merely that she saw little or nothing of it and preferred not to remember what she saw.

The incident, however, recalled to me with great force the events of our stay in London following our strange journey there by dirigible, and in all fairness to Tish I think they should be explained. Especially perhaps the situation when, all being over, we were confronted at Scotland Yard not only by Inspector Jewkes but later on by Tish’s own nephew, Charlie Sands.

The Inspector especially looked extremely grim, with the plaster on his lip. He accused us of having abducted and imprisoned him, which was the sheerest nonsense, and actually had the temerity to call us a bunch of wildcats.

Tish was magnificently calm under the accusation. She listened as patiently as she could until he had finished. Then:

“Fiddlesticks,” she said tartly, “why on earth would we kidnap you? I cannot think of anybody I would want less.”

The Commissioner, or whoever it was behind the desk, glanced at Mr. Jewkes and smiled.

“Well, well, Jewkes,” he said, “you see how it is. These ladies did not want you. Are you sure about this kidnaping?”

“Kidnaping and assault,” said the Inspector heavily. “When I came to myself, they were getting ready to hit me again. If you’ll look at my lip—”

“Yes, yes, Jewkes,” said the Commissioner hastily, “I’ve seen it already. Still the American sense of humor, Jewkes—”

“If you think it funny, sir,” began the Inspector, breathing hard. But the Commissioner merely coughed and looked at us.

“Not funny,” he observed mildly, “but still it has its aspects, Jewkes. It has its aspects.”

It was then that Charlie Sands came in. He gave a start when he saw us, and I must say that I do not blame him. As usual Tish, in spite of her policeman’s uniform, maintained her dignity. But poor Aggie’s costume—that of an Indian rajah—was dripping, and now and then she sneezed plaintively. As for me, although I had left the handcart, I found myself still clutching my street broom, and as Charlie Sands stood staring, the Inspector pointed to it.

“That’s the weapon they used, sir,” he said bitterly. “Plain murderous they are, and that’s the fact.”

It was after that that Charlie Sands said he did not know us! I saw Tish stiffen, but he refused to look at her.

“It is true,” he said, “that they bear a faint—a very faint—resemblance to an aunt of mine and her friends. But no aunt of mine would masquerade as a police officer, assault an inspector of Scotland Yard, or—if I am correctly informed—deliberately imprison a group of fellow Americans.”

Tish eyed him.

“Don’t be a fool, Charlie,” she said sharply. “I could explain everything if that idiot of an inspector would stop talking and give me a chance.”

He looked startled at that, and took a more careful survey of us. Then he leaned heavily on the desk and shook his head, as if to clear it.

“The voice,” he said, “is familiar; also I seem to have heard the same or similar statements before. It is possible, gentlemen, that I do know these persons. But I wish to go on record here and now as having no responsibility for them. I do not know how they obtained the costumes they are wearing. I do not know how the Inspector obtained that plaster on his face. And what is more,” he continued, “I do not want to know. I refuse to know.”

He then observed that he was going out to get a drink, or indeed several drinks; and he did go, leaving us there helpless in a foreign land.

The Coronation was over by that time. Large and jubilant crowds filled the streets, and the crown jewels were presumably safe after all. But there we sat, friendless and alone, listening to the slow drip of Aggie’s sodden garments and the heavy and infuriated breathing of Inspector Jewkes.

It was indeed a tragic anticlimax.

In a previous account I have related how, through a pure inadvertence, we reached England, having crossed the Atlantic in the
Snark
, a small dirigible belonging to a Mr. Smith; and that it was wrecked on a golf course in Sussex. Also that the police were still searching for us, although it was pure accident that the frying pan had struck a village constable on the head.

We had merely thrown it out, along with other movable articles, in order to lighten the airship. That the constable was below was certainly no fault of ours.

Nevertheless, Tish was determined to stay on and witness the Coronation, although our freedom was greatly circumscribed.

“I have never been afraid of the police yet,” she observed, “and I do not intend to start now. Also, I believe that Scotland Yard has been greatly overrated. The way they stop work for meals and tea, as shown in books about them, is actually shameful.”

I must say that Aggie, still unnerved by her experience on the target, protested; but in the end we took a small service flat near Piccadilly and settled down as best we could.

We were not uncomfortable, although it was gray and cold. The English turn off all heat early in the spring, regardless of temperature, and Aggie greatly missed her red flannel petticoat, still, I believe, on exhibition at the British Admiralty. And then, only a few days before the Coronation, Tish looked up from the morning paper and said calmly:

“I see that Mr. Smith has arrived.”

“Oh, Tish!” Aggie wailed. “What will he do to us?”

“Nothing, unless he finds us,” Tish replied. “He has come to salvage the
Snark
.”

“Then he’s a lunatic,” said Aggie violently. “Anybody who wants that thing is raving crazy.”

Nevertheless, I was uneasy, and I could see that even Tish was not too happy. The
Daily Mail
had an article entitled: “Claims American Women Stole Dirigible,” stating that Mr. Smith had asked Scotland Yard to locate us. Tish read it aloud:

“It is Mr. Smith’s belief that the women are either Communists or hardened criminals, and that at least one is an experienced pilot. Fortunately he brought with him a small photograph of the three, taken on the field by one of the mechanics, and the authorities have widely distributed it. A copy will be found on page eleven of this issue.”

Judge of our feelings when, on turning to page eleven, we saw ourselves there! True, we were encumbered with tackle, baskets, and so on. But the resemblance was undoubted, and it was evident that our safety was at an end. Nor were matters helped by a brief letter in the
Times
that same day, which is before me now.

“Evidently the invasion of England by American criminals has commenced. In this connection it should be remembered that the crown jewels are no longer in the Tower, and that their value is incalculable. It would be well to know what steps, if any, the police have taken to protect them.”

As all of us are members in good standing of our church, and as Tish has taught the same Sunday-school class for almost forty years, it was quite dreadful thus to be classed among the enemies of society. Even, as Tish observed, to be virtually prisoners, while all of London and even England was on the streets, looking at the decorations on Selfridge’s store and so on; or gazing up at the flags and bunting which carried the letters G.E. and which at first we thought referred to General Electric, although actually the initials of the King and Queen.

Then one day, less than a week before the Coronation, Tish insisted upon going to the British Museum to read up about the crown jewels, and she did not come back until the next morning!

We were quite frantic, but we dared not go to the police; when at last she appeared she was in a very bad humor, having been obliged to spend the night in the ladies’ washroom at the Museum.

“It was that dreadful Smith,” she said. “He followed me. He even tried to follow me
there
.”

She then asked for a cup of tea, and over it she explained. She said he was not positive of her identity or he would have called the police. But he had had the plain indecency to stand outside the washroom door until the Museum closed, and she herself was locked in for the night.

All in all we were most uneasy, and it was at this time that we all cut our hair and had it dyed black. I must say that it changed us, so that we all felt safer; but it gave Tish a sinister expression quite unlike her usual kindly self. Indeed Charlie Sands, coming in that night, pretended not to know any of us.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said. “Must have got the wrong floor.” He then inspected us more closely and exclaimed, “Holy mackerel! What have you done?”

“We are disguised,” said Tish.

“Disguised? You are ruined!” he insisted.

When he heard Tish’s story he understood, however, and merely asked us to turn out the lights so he could not see us. But it was when he was departing that he made the statement that caused us so much trouble later.

“You may be safe from Mr. Smith,” he said, “but my advice is to keep away from the police. They would arrest you on sight, and while I know little or nothing of English prisons, I gather that they sadly lack the club spirit to be found in ours at home.”

I could see that Tish was annoyed.

“Why on earth would they arrest us?” she inquired stiffly.

“Because there’s a story along Fleet Street today that a band of American crooks has an eye on the Kohinoor and other crown jewels. And if ever I saw a murderous lot of cutthroats I am looking at them now.”

He left on that, and Tish was very quiet during the remainder of the evening.

Who would have thought that it was to be our last peaceful time for days to come? We had never even heard of Inspector Jewkes. The group of young American men in the flat overhead were merely visitors like ourselves, although sending down for beer at all hours of the day and night. None of us had ever been inside of Madame Tussaud’s. And the name Bettina Pell meant nothing to us.

I
T IS CURIOUS, I
think, that we were to meet the Pell girl that very night, and under most unusual circumstances.

Although it was still several days until the Coronation, the celebration had already commenced. Service in our building was practically suspended, the head porter was almost never around, nobody seemed to go to bed, and a Scotch bagpiper that evening chose the pavement beneath our window to make the most dismal sounds.

As a result we did not hear the noises outside our door until very late. Then Tish aroused Aggie and myself, and we investigated. The building had an automatic elevator, or lift, and it was apparently stuck below our floor. Not only this, but a girl inside it was alternately hammering and shouting.

Clad in our dressing gowns, we at once went out. The lift was dark, but we could see her there, evidently in a terrible temper.

“What is the trouble?” Tish inquired.

The girl stopped hammering and looked up.

“Nothing,” she said, “nothing at all. I’m here because I like it. I like shouting and yelling and breaking my finger nails on these bars. It’s just my way of amusing myself.”

Well, we saw at once that she was an American, and that something must be done.

“Have you pressed the button?” Tish inquired.

“Listen,” said the girl, “I’ve pressed everything but flowers for the last hour. And that damned hall porter is out on the street making whoopee somewhere. Get me out of here, can’t you?”

It was obviously impossible to leave her there, and at last, the top of the cage being open, we tied some sheets together and with considerable effort drew her to our landing. She was still indignant, however, maintaining that she had been deliberately shut in, and that if somebody named Jim Carlisle thought he was being funny he could think again.

We took her into our sitting room to rest, and seen in the light she was extremely pretty. But I saw her inspecting us with a rather startled expression.

“Not in any trouble yourselves, are you?” she inquired.

Aggie sneezed, but Tish was her usual calm self.

“Certainly not. Why?” she asked.

“I just wondered,” she said evasively. “The—the hair is unusual. That’s all. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

She then told us her story, maintaining that the power in the lift had been deliberately shut off to keep her a prisoner. She had, she said, had a quarrel with the Carlisle man who lived on the floor above and he had shut her up in the lift and left her there.

“He’s an unspeakable brute,” she said furiously, and then began to cry.

It was some time before she was quiet. Then she explained. She was a newspaperwoman from New York named Bettina Pell, and she had come over to report the Coronation.

“From the woman’s point of view,” she said. “You know, clothes and jewels. Especially the crown jewels. Then tonight I got a hot tip that they were being moved to Buckingham Palace, and if it had not been for that bunch of thugs on the floor above I’d have had the scoop of the world. If those bandits think they were smart—”