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OKEWOOD OF THE SECRET SERVICE

by Valentine Williams (pseud. Douglas Valentine)



CONTENTS

I. THE DEPUTY TURN
II. CAPTAIN STRANGWISE ENTERTAINS A GUEST
III. MR. MACKWAYTE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
IV. MAJOR OKEWOOD ENCOUNTERS A NEW TYPE
V. THE MURDER AT SEVEN KINGS
VI. "NAME O'BARNEY"
VII. NUR-EL-DIN
VIII. THE WHITE PAPER PACKAGE
IX. METAMORPHOSIS
X. D. O. R. A. IS BAFFLED
XI. CREDENTIALS
XII. AT THE MILL HOUSE
XIII. WHAT SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDIES REVEALED
XIV. BARBARA TAKES A HAND
XV. MR. BELLWARD IS CALLED TO THE TELEPHONE
XVI. THE STAR OF POLAND
XVII. MR. BELLWARD ARRANGES A BRIDGE EVENING
XVIII. THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES
XIX. THE UNINVITED GUEST
XX. THE ODD MAN
XXI. THE BLACK VELVET TOQUE
XXII. WHAT THE CELLAR REVEALED
XXIII. MRS. MALPLAQUET GOES DOWN TO THE CELLAR
XXIV. THE TWO DESERTERS
XXV. TO MRS. MALPLAQUET'S
XXVI. THE MAN IN THE SUMMER HOUSE
XXVII. THE RED LACQUER ROOM
XXVIII. AN OFFER FROM STRANGWISE
XXIX. DOT AND DASH
XXX. HOHENLINDEN TRENCH
XXXI. THE 100,000 POUND KIT



CHAPTER I. THE DEPUTY TURN

Mr. Arthur Mackwayte slipped noiselessly into the dining-room and
took his place at the table. He always moved quietly, a look of
gentle deprecation on his face as much as to say: "Really, you
know, I can't help being here: if you will just overlook me this
time, by and by you won't notice I'm there at all!" That was how
he went through life, a shy, retiring little man, quiet as a
mouse, gentle as a dove, modesty personified.

That is, at least, how Mr. Arthur Mackwayte struck his friends in
private life. Once a week, however, he fairly screamed at the
public from the advertisement columns of "The Referee":
"Mackwayte, in his Celebrated Kerbstone Sketches. Wit! Pathos!
Tragedy!!! The Epitome of London Life. Universally Acclaimed as
the Greatest Portrayer of London Characters since the late Chas.
Dickens. In Tremendous Demand for Public Dinners. The Popular
Favorite. A Few Dates still Vacant. 23, Laleham Villas, Seven
Kings. 'Phone" and so on.

But only professionally did Mr. Mackwayte thus blow his own
trumpet, and then in print alone. For the rest, he had nothing
great about him but his heart. A long and bitter struggle for
existence had left no hardness in his smooth-shaven flexible
face, only wrinkles. His eyes were gray and keen and honest, his
mouth as tender as a woman's.

His daughter, Barbara, was already at table pouring out the
tea--high tea is still an institution in music-hall circles. Mr.
Mackwayte always gazed on this tall, handsome daughter of his
with amazement as the great miracle of his life. He looked at her
now fondly and thought how.... how distinguished, yes, that was
the word, she looked in the trim blue serge suit in which she
went daily to her work at the War Office.

"Rations a bit slender to-night, daddy, she said, handing him his
cup of tea, "only sardines and bread and butter and cheese. Our
meatless day, eh?"

"It'll do very well for me, Barbara, my dear," he answered in his
gentle voice, "there have been times when your old dad was glad
enough to get a cup of tea and a bite of bread and butter for his
supper. And there's many a one worse off than we are today!"

"Any luck at the agent's, daddy?"

Mr. Mackwayte shook his head.

"These revues are fair killing the trade, my dear, and that's a
fact. They don't want art to-day, only rag-time and legs and all
that. Our people are being cruelly hit by it and that's a fact.
Why, who do you think I ran into at Harris' this morning? Why,
Barney who used to work with the great Charles, you know, my
dear. For years he drew his ten pound a week regular. Yet there
he was, looking for a job the same as the rest of us. Poor
fellow, he was down on his luck!"

Barbara looked up quickly.

"Daddy, you lent him money...."

Mr. Mackwayte looped extremely uncomfortable.

"Only a trifle, my dear, just a few shillings.... to take him
over the week-end.... he's getting something.... he'll repay me,
I feel sure...."

"It's too bad of you, daddy," his daughter said severely. "I gave
you that ten shillings to buy yourself a bottle of whiskey. You
know he won't pay you back. That Barney's a bad egg!"

"Things are going bad with the profession, replied Mr. Mackwayte.
"They don't seem to want any of us old stagers today, Barbara!"

"Now, daddy, you know I don't allow you to talk like that. Why,
you are only just finished working.... the Samuel Circuit, too!"

Barbara looked up at the old man quickly.

"Only, four weeks' trial, my dear.... they didn't want me, else
they would have given me the full forty weeks. No, I expect I am
getting past my work. But it's hard on you child...."

Barbara sprang up and placed her hand across her father's mouth.

"I won't have you talk like that, Mac"--that was her pet name for
him--"you've worked hard all your life and now it's my turn. Men
have had it all their own way before this war came along: now
women are going to have a look in. Presently' when I get to be
supervisor of my section and they raise my pay again, you will be
able to refuse all offers of work. You can go down to Harris with
a big cigar in your mouth and patronize him, daddy..."

The telephone standing on the desk in the corner of the cheap
little room tingled out sharply. Barbara rose and went across to
the desk. Mr. Mackwayte thought how singularly graceful she
looked as she stood, very slim, looking at him whimsically across
the dinner-table, the receiver in her hand.

Then a strange thing happened. Barbara quickly put the receiver
down on the desk and clasped her hands together, her eyes opened
wide in amazement.

"Daddy," she cried, "it's the Palaceum... the manager's office...
they want you urgently! Oh, daddy, I believe it is an
engagement!"

Mr. Mackwayte rose to his feet in agitation, a touch of color
creeping into his gray cheeks.

"Nonsense, my dear!" he answered, "at this time of night! Why,
it's past eight... their first house is just finishing... they
don't go engaging people at this time of day... they've got other
things to think of!"

He went over to the desk and picked up the receiver.

"Mackwayte speaking!" he said, with a touch of stage majesty in
his voice.

Instantly a voice broke in on the other end of the wire, a
perfect torrent of words.

"Mackwayte? Ah! I'm glad I caught you at home. Got your props
there? Good. Hickie of Hickie and Flanagan broke his ankle during
their turn at the first house just now, and I want you to take
their place at the second house. Your turn's at 9.40: it's a
quarter past eight now: I'll have a car for you at your place at
ten to nine sharp. Bring your band parts and lighting directions
with you... don't forget! You get twenty minutes, on! Right!
Goodbye!"

"The Palaceum want me to deputize for Hickie and Flanagan, my
dear," he said a little tremulously' "9.40... the second house...
it's... it's very unexpected!"

Barbara ran up and throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him.

"How splendid!" she exclaimed, "the Palaceum, daddy! You've never
had an engagement like this before... the biggest hall in
London...!!

"Only for a night, my dear"' said Mr. Mackwayte modestly.

"But if they like you, daddy, if it goes down... what will you
give them, daddy?"

Mr. Mackwayte scratched his chin.

"It's the biggest theatre in London"' he mused, "It'll have to be
broad effects... and they'll want something slap up modern, my
dear, I'm thinking..."

"No, no, daddy" his daughter broke in vehemently "they want the
best. This is a London audience, remember, not a half-baked
provincial house. This is London, Mac, not Wigan! And Londoners
love their London! You'll give 'em the old London horse bus
driver, the sporting cabby, and I believe you'll have time to
squeeze in the hot potato man..."

"Well, like your poor dear mother, I expect you know what's the
best I've got" replied Mr. Mackwayte, "but it'll be a bit awkward
with a strange dresser... I can't get hold of Potter at this
time, of night... and a stranger is sure to mix up my, wigs and
things..."

"Why, daddy, I'm going with you to put out your things..."

"But a lady clerk in the War Office, Barbara... a Government
official, as you might say... go behind at a music-hall... it
don't seem proper right. my dear!"

"Nonsense, Mac. Where Is your theatre? Come along. We'll have to
try and get a taxi!"

"They're sending a car at ten to nine, my dear!"

"Good gracious! what swells we are! And it's half-past eight
already! Who is on the bill with you?"

"My dear, I haven't an idea... I'm not very well up in the London
programmes' I'm afraid... but it is sure to be a good programme.
The Palaceum is the only house that's had the courage to break
away from this rotten revue craze!"

Barbara was in the hall now, her arms plunged to the shoulder in
a great basket trunk that smelt faintly of cocoa-butter. Right
and left she flung coats and hats and trousers and band parts,
selecting with a sure eye the properties which Mr. Mackwayte
would require for the sketches he would play that evening. In the
middle of it all the throbbing of a car echoed down the quiet
road outside. Then there came a ring at the front door.

* * * * * *

At half-past nine that night, Barbara found herself standing
beside her father in the wings of the vast Palaceum stage. Just
at her back was the little screened-off recess where Mr.
Mackwayte was to make the quick changes that came in the course
of his turn. Here, since her arrival in the theatre, Barbara had
been busy laying out coats and hats and rigs and grease-paints on
the little table below the mirror with its two brilliant electric
bulbs, whilst Mr. Mackwayte was in his dressing-room upstairs
changing into his first costume.

Now, old Mackwayte stood at her elbow in his rig-out as an old
London bus-driver in the identical, characteristic clothes which
he had worn for this turn for the past 25 years. He was far too
old a hand to show any nervousness he might feel at the ordeal
before him. He was chatting in undertones in his gentle,
confidential way to the stage manager.

All around them was that curious preoccupied stillness hush of
the power-house which makes the false world of the stage so
singularly unreal by contrast when watched from the back. The
house was packed from floor to ceiling, for the Palaceum's policy
of breaking away from revue and going back to Mr. Mackwayte
called "straight vaudeville" was triumphantly justifying itself.

Standing in the wings, Barbara could almost feel the electric
current running between the audience and the comedian who, with
the quiet deliberation of the finished artist, was going through
his business on the stage. As he made each of his carefully
studied points, he paused, confident of the vast rustle of
laughter swelling into a hurricane of applause which never failed
to come from the towering tiers of humanity before him,
stretching away into the roof where the limelights blazed and
spluttered. Save for the low murmur of voices at her side, the
silence behind the scenes was absolute. No one was idle. Everyone
was at his post, his attention concentrated on that diminutive
little figure in the ridiculous clothes which the spot-lights
tracked about the stage.

It was the high-water mark of modern music-hall development. The
perfect smoothness of the organization gave Barbara a great
feeling of contentment for she knew how happy her father must be.
Everyone had been so kind to him. "I shall feel a stranger
amongst the top-liners of today, my dear," he had said to her in
the car on their way to the hall. She had had no answer ready for
she had feared he spoke the truth.

Yet everyone they had met had tried to show them that Arthur
Mackwayte was not forgotten. The stage-door keeper had known him
in the days of the old Aquarium and welcomed him by name. The
comedian who preceded Mr. Mackwayte and who was on the stage at
that moment had said, "Hullo, Mac! Come to give us young 'uns
some tips?" And even now the stage manager was talking over old
days with her father.

"You had a rough but good schooling, Mac," he was saying, "but,
by Jove, it gave us finished artists. If you saw the penny
reading line that comes trying to get a job here... and gets it,
by Gad!... it'd make you sick. I tell you I have my work cut out
staving them off! It's a pretty good show this week, though, and
I've given you a good place, Mac... you're in front of
Nur-el-Din!"

"Nur-el-Din?" repeated Mr. Mackwayte' "what is it, Fletcher? A
conjurer?"

"Good Lord' man' where have you been living?" replied Fletcher.
"Nur-el-Din is the greatest vaudeville proposition since Lottie
Collins. Conjurer! That's what she is, too, by Jove! She's the
newest thing in Oriental dancers... Spaniard or something...
wonderful clothes, what there is of 'em... and jewelry... wait
till you see her!"

"Dear me"' said Mr. Mackwayte' "I'm afraid I'm a bit behind the
times. Has she been appearing here long?"

"First appearance in London, old man' and she's made good from
the word 'Go!' She's been in Paris and all over the Continent,
and America, too, I believe, but she had to come to me to soar to
the top of the bill. I saw at once where she belonged! She's a
real artiste, temperament, style and all that sort of thing and a
damn good producer into the bargain! But the worst devil that
ever escaped out of hell never had a wickeder temper! She and I
fight all the time! Not a show, but she doesn't keep the stage
waiting! But I won! I won't have her prima donna tricks in this
theatre and so I've told her! Hullo, Georgie's he's finishing..."

The great curtain switched down suddenly, drowning a cascade of
applause, and a bundle of old clothes, twitching nerves, liquid
perspiration and grease paint hopped off the stage into the
centre of the group. An electric bell trilled, the limelights
shut off, with a jerk that made the eyes ache, a back-cloth
soared aloft and another glided down into its place, the comedian
took two, three, four calls, then vanished into a horde of dim
figures scuttling about in the gloom.

An electric bell trilled again and deep silence fell once more,
broken only by the hissing of the lights.

"You ought to stop behind after your turn and see her, Mac," the
stage manager's voice went on evenly. "All right, Jackson! On you
go, Mac!"

Barbara felt her heart jump. Now for it, daddy!

The great curtain mounted majestically and Arthur Mackwayte,
deputy turn, stumped serenely on to the stage.



CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN STRANGWISE ENTERTAINS A GUEST

It was the slack hour at the Nineveh Hotel. The last groups about
the tea-tables in the Palm Court had broken up, the Tzigane
orchestra had stacked its instruments together on its little
platform and gone home, and a gentle calm rested over the great
hotel as the forerunner of the coming dinner storm.

The pre-dinner hour is the uncomfortable hour of the modern hotel
de luxe. The rooms seem uncomfortably hot, the evening paper
palls, it is too early to dress for dinner, so one sits yawning
over the fire, longing for a fireside of one's own. At least that
is how it strikes one from the bachelor standpoint, and that is
how it appeared to affect a man who was sitting hunched up in a
big arm-chair in the vestibule of the Ninevah Hotel on this
winter afternoon.

His posture spoke of utter boredom. He sprawled length in his
chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his, eyes
half-closed, various editions of evening papers strewn about the
ground at his feet. He was a tall, well-groomed man, and his
lithe, athletic figure looked very well in its neat uniform.

A pretty little woman who sat at one of the writing desks in the
vestibule glanced at him more once. He was the sort of man that
women look at with interest. He had a long, shrewd, narrow head,
the hair dark and close-cropped, a big, bold, aquiline nose, and
a firm masterful chin, dominated by a determined line of mouth
emphasised by a thin line of moustache. He would have been very
handsome but for his eyes, which, the woman decided as she
glanced at him, were set rather too close together. She thought
she would prefer him as he was now, with his eyes glittering in
the fire-light through their long lashes.

But what was most apparent was the magnificent physical fitness
of the man. His was the frame of the pioneer, the man of the
earth's open spaces and uncharted wilds. He looked as hard as
nails, and the woman murmured to herself, as she went on with her
note, "On leave from the front."

Presently, the man stirred, stretched himself and finally sat up.
Then he started, sprang to his feet, and strode easily across the
vestibule to the reception desk. An officer was standing there in
a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old
Burberry over his arm.

"Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the
shoulder, "isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see
you!"

The new-comer turned quickly.

"Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise! But, good
heavens, man, surely I saw your name in the casualty list...
missing, wasn't it?"

"Yep!" replied the other smiling, "that's so! It's a long story
and it'll keep! But tell me about yourself... this," he kicked
the kit-bag with the toe of his boot, looks like a little leave!
Just in from France?"

He smiled again, baring his firm, white teeth, and looking at him
Desmond suddenly remembered, as one recalls a trifle, his trick
of smiling. It was a frank enough smile but... well, some people
smile too much.

"Got in just now by the leave train," answered Desmond.

"How much leave have you got?" asked Strangwise.

"Well," said the other, "it's a funny thing, but I don't know!"

"Say, are they giving unlimited leave over there now?"

Desmond laughed.

"Hardly," he replied. "But the War Office just applied for me to
come over and here I am! What they want me for, whether it's to
advise the War Council or to act as Quartermaster to the Jewish
Battalion I can't tell you! I shan't know until tomorrow morning!
In the meantime I'm going to forget the war for this evening!"

"What are you going to do to-night?" asked Strangwise.

Desmond began to check off on his fingers.

"Firstly, I'm going to fill the biggest bath in this hotel with
hot water, get the biggest piece of Pears' soap in London, and
jump in: Then, if my tailor hasn't betrayed me, I'm going to put
on dress clothes, and whilst I am dressing summon Julien (if he's
maitre d'hotel here) to a conference, then I'm going to eat the
best dinner that this pub can provide. Then..."

Strangwise interrupted him.

"The bath is on you, if you like," he said, "but the dinner's on
me and a show afterwards. I'm at a loose end, old man, and so are
you, so we'll hit up together! We'll dine in the restaurant here
7.30, and Julien shall come up to your room so this you can order
the dinner. Is it a go?"

"Rather," laughed Desmond, "I'll eat your dinner, Maurice, and
you shall tell me how you managed; to break out of the casualty
list into the Nineveh Hotel. But what do all these anxious-
looking gentry want?"

The two officers turned to confront a group of four men who were
surveying them closely. One of them, a fat, comfortable looking
party with grizzled hair, on seeing Desmond, walked up to him.

"Hullo!" said Desmond, "it's Tommy Spencer! How are you, Spencer?
What's the betting in Fleet Street on the war lasting another
five years? Have you come to interview me?"

The tubby little man beamed and shook hands effusively.

"Glad to see you looking so well, Major," he said, "It's your
friend we want..."

"What? Strangwise? Here, Maurice, come meet my friend Tommy
Spencer of the "Daily Record," whom I haven't seen since we went
on manoeuvres together down at Aldershot! Captain Strangwise,
Tommy Spencer! Now, then, fire away; Spencer!"

Strangwise smiled and shook his head.

"I'm very pleased to know your friend, Desmond," he said, "but,
you know, I can't talk! I had the strictest orders from the War
Office... It's on account of the other fellows, you know..."

Desmond looked blankly at him. Then he--turned to Spencer.

"You must let me into this, Spencer," he said, "what's old
Maurice been up to? Has he been cashiered for wearing shoes or
what?"

Spencer's manner became a trifle formal.

"Captain Strangwise has escaped from a prisoners' of war camp in
Germany, Major," he said, "we've been trying to get hold of him
for days! He's the talk of London!"

Desmond turned like a shot.

"Maurice!" he cried, "'pon my soul, I'm going to have an
interesting evening... why, of course, you are just the sort of
fellow to do a thing like that. But, Spencer, you know, it won't
do... fellows are never allowed to talk to the newspaper men
about matters of this kind. And if you're a good fellow, Spencer,
you won't even say that you have seen Strangwise here... you'll
only get him into trouble!"

The little man looked rather rueful.

"Oh, of course, Major, if you put it that way," he said.

"... And you'll use your influence to make those other fellows
with you drop it, will you, Spencer? And then come along to the
bar and we'll haven a drink for old times' sake!"

Spencer seemed doubtful about the success of his representations
to his colleagues but he obediently trotted away. Apparently, he
succeeded in his mission for presently he joined the two officers
alone in the American Bar.

"I haven't seen Strangwise for six months, Spencer," said Desmond
over his second cocktail. "Seeing him reminds me how astonishing
it is the way fellows drop apart in war. Old Maurice was attached
to the Brigade of which I am the Brigade Major as gunner officer,
and we lived together for the best part of three months, wasn't
it, Maurice? Then he goes back to his battery and the, next thing
I hear of him is that he is missing. And then I'm damned if he
doesn't turn up here!"

Spencer cocked an eye at Strangwise over him Martini.

"I'd like to hear your story, despite the restrictions," he said.

Strangwise looked a trifle embarrassed.

"Maybe I'll tell you one day," he replied in his quiet way,
"though, honestly, there's precious little to tell..."

Desmond marked his confusion and respected him for it. He rushed
in to the rescue.

"Spencer," he said abruptly, "what's worth seeing in London? We
are going to a show to-night. I want to be amused, mark you, not
elevated!"

"Nur-el-Din at the Palaceum," replied the reporter.

"By Jove, we'll go there," said Desmond, turning to Maurice.
"Have you ever seen her? I'm told she's perfectly marvelous..."

"It's an extraordinarily artistic turn," said Spencer, "and
they're doing wonderful business at the Palaceum. You'd better go
and see the show soon, though, for they tell me the lady is
leaving the programme."

"No!" exclaimed Strangwise so suddenly that Desmond turned round
and stared at him. "I thought she was there for months yet..."

"They don't want her to go," answered Spencer, "she's a perfect
gold-mine to them but I gather the lady is difficult... in fact,
to put it bluntly she's making such a damn nuisance of herself
with her artistic temperament that they can't get on with her at
all."

"Do you know this lady of the artistic temperament, Maurice?"
asked Desmond.

Strangwise hesitated a moment.

"I met her in Canada a few years ago," he said slowly, "she was a
very small star then. She's a very handsome and attractive girl,
in spite of our friend's unfavorable verdict. There's something
curiously real about her dancing, too, that you don't find in
this sort of show as a rule!"

He stopped a moment, then added abruptly:

"We'll go along to the Palaceum to-night, if you like, Desmond,"
and Desmond joyfully acquiesced. To one who has been living for
weeks in an ill-ventilated pill-box on the Passchendaele Ridge,
the lights and music and color of a music-hall seem as a
foretaste of Paradise.

And that was what Desmond Okewood thought as a few hours later he
found himself with Maurice Strangwise in the stalls of the vast
Palaceum auditorium. In the unwonted luxury of evening clothes he
felt clean and comfortable, and the cigar he way smoking was the
climax of one of Julien's most esoteric efforts.

The cards on either side of the proscenium opening bore the
words: "Deputy Turn." On the stage wad a gnarled old man with
ruddy cheeks and a muffler a seedy top hat on his head, a
coaching whip in his hand, the old horse bus-driver of London in
his habit as he had lived. The old fellow stood there and just
talked to the audience of a fine sporting class of men that
petrol has driven from the streets, without exaggerated humor or
pathos. Desmond, himself a born Cockney, at once fell under the
actor's spell and found all memories of the front slipping away
from him as the old London street characters succeeded one
another on the stage. Then the orchestra blared out, the curtain
descended, and the house broke into a great flutter of applause.

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