"My leave warrant has come and I'm off!" said I. "If Foch should ring up tell him he'll have to struggle along by himself for a fortnight. Cheeroh!"
"Cheeroh!" said Albert Edward. "Give my regards to Nero, Borgia and all the boys."
I shut the door upon him and took the road to Rome.
Arrived there I attempted to shed a card on the Pope, but was repulsed by a halbardier in fancy dress; visited the catacombs (by the way, in the art of catacombing we latter-day sinners have nothing to learn from the early saints. Why, at Arras in 1917 we—— Oh, well, never mind now!); kept a solemn face while bands solemnly intoned Tipperary (under the impression it was the British National Anthem); bought a bushel of mosaic brooches and several million picture postcards and acted the perfect little tripper throughout.
Then one day while stepping into a hotel lift I bumped full into Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur, stepping forth.
You have all of you read the works of Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur (Passion Flowers, Purple Patches, etc. Boost and Boom. 6s.); if you haven't you should, for Wilfrid is the lad to handle the soul-sob and the heart-throb and warm up cold print generally.
In pre-war days he was to be met with in London drawing-rooms about tea-time wearing his mane rather longer than is done in the best menageries, giving a very realistic imitation of a lap-dog. And now behold him in military disguise parading the Eternal City!
"What are you doing here?" I gasped.
He put a finger to his lips. "Psst!" Then pushing me into the lift, he ejected the attendant, turned a handle and we shot aloft. Half-way between heaven and earth he stopped the conveyance and having made quite sure we were not being overheard by either men or angels, leaned up against my ear and whispered, "Secret Service!"
I was amazed. "Not really!"
Wilbur nodded. "Yes, really! That's why I have to be so careful; they have their agents everywhere listening, watching, taking notes."
I felt for my pocket-case momentarily fearful that They (whoever They were) might have taken mine.
"And do you have agents also, listening, noting, taking watches?" I asked.
Wilbur said he had and went on to explain that so perfect was his system that a cat could hardly kitten anywhere between the Yildiz Kiosk and Wilhelmstrasse without his full knowledge and approval. I was very thrilled, for I had previously imagined all the cloak and dagger spy business to be an invention of the magazine writer, yet here was little Wilbur, according to himself, living a life of continuous yellow drama, more Queuxrious than fiction, rich beyond dreams of Garavice. (Publisher—"Tut-tut!" Author—"Peccavi!")
I thrilled and thrilled. "Look here," I implored, "if you are going to pull off a coup at any time, do let me come too!"
Wilbur demurred, the profession wasn't keen on amateurs, he explained; they were too impetuous, lacked subtlety—still if the opportunity occurred he might—perhaps—— I wrung his hand, then, seeing that bells on every landing had been in a state of uproar for some fifteen minutes and that the attendant was commencing to swarm the cable after his lift, we dropped back to earth again, returned it to him and went out to lunch.
"And now tell me something of your methods," said I, as we sat down to meat.
Wilbur promptly grabbed me by the collar and dragged me after him under the table.
"What's the matter now?" I gulped.
"Fool!" he hissed. "The waiter is a Bulgarian spy."
"Let's arrest him then," said I.
Wilbur groaned. "Oh, you amateurs, you would stampede everything and ruin all!"
I apologised meekly and we issued from cover again and resumed our meal, silently because (according to Wilbur) the peroxide blonde doing snake-charming tricks with spaghetti at the next table was a Hungarian agent, and there was a Turk concealed in the potted palms near by.
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled.
Then followed stirring days. Rome at that time, I gathered, was the centre of the spy industry and at the height of the sleuthing season, for they hemmed us in on every hand—according to Wilbur. I was continually being dragged aside into the shadow of dark arcades to dodge Austrian Admirals disguised as dustmen, rushed up black alleys to escape the machinations of Bolshevick adventuresses parading as parish priests, and submerged in fountains to avoid the evil eyes of German diplomats camouflaged as flower girls—according to Wilbur.
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled and thrilled, bought myself a stiletto and a false nose.
However, after about a week of playing trusty Watson to Wilbur's Sherlock without having effected a single arrest, drugged one courier, stilettoed a soul, or being allowed to wear my false nose once, my thrillings became less violent, and giving Wilbur the slip one afternoon, I went on the prowl alone. About four of the clock my investigations took me to Latour's. At a small marble table lapping up ices as a kitten laps cream, I beheld Temporary Second Lieut. Mervyn Esmond.
You all of you remember Mervyn Esmond, he of the spats, the eyeglass and grey top-hat, the Super-Knut of the Frivolity Theatre who used to gambol so gracefully before the many "twinkling toes" of the Super-Beauty Chorus, singing "Billy of Piccadilly." You must remember Mervyn Esmond!
But that was the Esmond of yore, for a long time past he has been doing sterling work in command of an Army Pierrot troupe.
I sat down beside him, stole his ice and finished it for him.
"And now what are you doing here?" I asked.
"I've come down from the line to get some new dresses for Queenie," he replied. "She—he, that is—is absolutely in rags, bursts a pair of corsets and a pair of silk stockings every performance, very expensive item."
I had better explain here and now that Queenie is the leading lady in Mervyn's troupe. She—he, that is—started her—his—military career as an artillery driver, but was discovered to be the possessor of a very shrill falsetto voice and dedicated to female impersonations forthwith.
"She—he—is round at the dressmaker's now," Mervyn went on, "wrestling with half a dozen hysterical mannequins. I'm getting her—him, I should say—up regardless. Listen. Dainty ninon georgette outlined with chenile stitching. Charmeuse overtunic, embroidered with musquash and skunk pom-poms. Crêpe de Chine undies interwoven with blue baby ribbon, camis——"
"Stop!" I thundered. "Do you want me to blush myself to death? I am but a rough soldier."
Mervyn apologised, wrapped himself round another ice and asked me how I was amusing myself in Tiber-town.
Having first ascertained that there were no enemy agents secreted under the table or among the potted palms, I unburdened my soul to him concerning Wilbur and the coups that never came off.
He stared at me for a few moments, his eyes twinkling, then he leaned over the table.
"My active brain has evolved a be-autiful plan," said he. "It's yours for another ice."
I bought it.
* * * * * * * *
I found Wilbur sleuthing the crowd from behind a tall tumbler in the Excelsior lounge, and dragging him into the lift, hung it up half-way between here and hereafter, and whispered my great news.
"Where, when?" he cried, blench-blanching.
"In my hotel at midnight," I replied. "I hid in a clothes-basket and heard all. We will frustrate their knavish tricks, thou and I."
Wilbur did not appear to be as keen as I had expected, he hummed and hawed and chatted about my amateurishness and impetuosity; but I was obdurate, and taking him firmly by the arm led him off to dinner.
I hardly let go of his arm at all for the next five hours, judging it safer so.
Five minutes before midnight I led him up the stairs of my hotel and tip-toeing into a certain room, clicked on the light.
"See that door over there?" I whispered, pointing, "'tis the bathroom. Hide there. I shall be concealed in the wardrobe. In five minutes the conspirators will appear. The moment you hear me shout, 'Hands up, Otto von Schweinhund, le jeu est fait,' or words to that effect—burst out of the bathroom and collar the lady."
I pushed Wilbur into the bathroom (he was trembling slightly, excitement no doubt) and closed the door.
I had no sooner shut myself into the wardrobe when a man and a woman entered the room. They were both in full evening dress, the man was a handsome rascal, the woman a tall, languid beauty, gorgeously dressed. She flung herself down in a chair and lit a cigarette. The man carefully locked the door and crossed the room towards her.
"Hansa," he hissed, "did you get the plans of the fortress?"
She laughed and taking a packet of papers from the bosom of her dress, flung it on the table.
"'Twas easy, mon cher."
He caught it and held it aloft.
"Victory!" he cried. "The Vaterland is saved!"
He passed round the table and stood before her, his eyes glittering.
"You beautiful devil," he muttered, through clenched teeth. "I knew you could do it. I knew you would bewitch the young attaché. All men are puppets in your hands, beautiful, beautiful fiend!"
The moment had come. Hastily donning my false nose, I flung open the wardrobe, shouted the signal and covered the pair with my stiletto. The woman screamed and flung herself into the arms of her accomplice.
"Ah, ha, foiled again! Curse you!" He snarled and covered me with the plans of the fortress.
I grappled with him, he grappled with me, the beautiful devil grappled with both of us; we all grappled.
There was no movement from the bathroom door.
We grappled some more, we grappled all over the table, over the washstand and a brace of chairs. The villain lost his whiskers, the villainess lost her lovely golden wig, the hero (me) lost his false nose. I shouted the signal once more, the villain shouted it, the villainess shouted it, we all shouted it.
There was no movement from the bathroom door.
We grappled some more, we grappled over the chest of drawers, under the carpet and in and out of the towel-horse.
A muffled report rang out from somewhere about the beautiful devil.
"For God's sake, go easy!" she wheezed in my left ear. "My corsets have went!"
Then, as there was still no movement from the bathroom door, and we none of us had a grapple left in us, we called "time."
Mervyn sat up on the edge of the bed sourly regarding the bedraggled Queenie.
"In rags once more, twenty pounds' worth of georgette, charmeuse and ninon whatisname torn to shreds!" he groaned. "Oh, you tom-boy, you!"
"Come and dig these damn whalebones out of my ribs," said she.
I staggered across the room and opening the bathroom door, peered within.
"Any sign of our friend Sherlock, the spy-hound?" Mervyn enquired.
"Yes," said I. "He's tumbled in a dead faint into the bath!"