“S.O.S.”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 20 July 1935, Page 7

“5.0.5.”

BY SYDHEY IIORLER. (Author of “The Spider’s Web,” “The Dream Girl,” “Sporting Chance,” etc.)

(COPYRIGHT.; PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL AREAHGEMEHT.

CHAPTER I.—EXILED. “How,” glancing at the card on his table, 1 ‘Mr Thorp. ’ ’ The nerve specialist, who looked absurdly young to have gained so exalted a position, swung round in the swivel chair and faced his patient. James Thorp was very conscious of a pair of grey-blue eyes that looked inflexibly into his own. In his present mood, he resented this keen scrutiny, just as he had resented having to come to Harley Street at all.

Ho wasn’t going tc give the fellow any lead; let him get on with liis job. “According to the little information Sir Rimington Blade gave me over the telephone, Mr Thorp, I understand that you are badly in need of a holiday. Well, there ought to bo no difficulty about that!” The smile which accompanied the words was kindly, but firm. Thorp sat forward in his chair, “I think it’s all a lot of rot, Doctor; Sir Rimington’s been getting the wind up about me without any cause.” “You must please allow me to be the best judge of that—after I have examined you.”

The patient shrugged. If he had followed his own inclination, ho would have left the room straight away. There was not a thing wrong with him —except that annoying tendency to feel as though things were closing in on him; but that would pass; he had just been smoking too much, or perhaps it was a touch of liver ....

Ho was aroused by a few peremptory words.

“If you don’t mind taking off your coat and waistcoat, Mr Thorp ...”

For the next half an hour he was without a will of his own; ho had had to surrender it to this fresh-coloured medical youngster, who certainly had self-confidence, if nothing else. He was pommeled, jerked about, questioned, had various strange instruments tried out on him, and, at the end, felt that any more of this physical indignity would make him completely lose his temper. “You can put your things on,” said the doctor, who, having made the remark, turned to his desk and busied himself in writing. With his collar and tie adjusted, Thorp prepared himself for the verdict.

“There’s no doubt about your wanting a holiday, my friend,” started the neurologist; “you’re in pretty bad shape. ’ ’ “Exactlv how?”

Stephen Rossiter smiled as he noticed the look of annoyance on the questioner’s face. “My dear fellow, life is far too short for me to enter into a detailed analysis of your condition. You must take my word for it that you want a holiday—and, if you’re the sensible man I imagine you to be, you’ll start to-day. Briefly, you’ve been trying to run the human engine witlr not sufficient motive power; in other words, you re under-engined. You haven’t been .sleeping very well, have you?” “Hot particularly.” “And your appetite’s poor?” “Yes.” “I thought so. You’ve been smoking too much.” “Perhaps I have.” “And, above all, you’ve been working too hard. How, it’s not my business to inquire the exact kind of hush-hush job you’ve been doing lately; but, whatever it-is. I shall recommend Sir Rimington Blade to appoint a substitute.” Thorp pushed his hair back from his forehead, and found that his hand was moist. “That will be as cheerful to me as hell,” he remarked. daresay. 33ut I shouldn't . he honest, either with you or my friend, Blade, if I didn’t tell you the real facts. And those-are that you’ve simply got to slow up. That’s all thcio is'to it,” the speaker continued briskly, as though the subject were becoming wearisome; “there’s nothing senously wrong with you—vet. But you ve been putting too big a strain on yourself—especially your nerves. How, the human nervous system —” lie broke off suddenlv: “But I don’t want to bore you. Here’s the prescription, ’ handing over a small sheet of paper; not that that will do you any good unless you follow my strict orders.’ ’ “What are they?” “These, get away from London; rent a cottage in some quiet place; find a man friend to go with you if possible, and then laze—golf, fish, walk; do whatever pleases you best, but give yourself a chance. Hot so much smoking. and plenty of good food; go to bed early and get up late. You want three months of it. Do that, and you’ll be as fit a man as I’ve ever examined. Don’t do it, and —well, Sir Rimington Blade will be putting you on permanent pension—if you fellows have any pension. Good afternoon—and good luck!” Thorp’s impressions changed. From being annoyed, he now felt dazed. This follow might have all the jargon of his trade at his tongue’s tip, but he also commanded respect. There was no.; beating about the bush with him; he certainly was not afraid of the truth. At the door, the consultant held out his hand. , , ~ “Don’t be a fool. Thorp; at least believe I know my job—just as I’m, sure you know yours. Three months’ rest, old chap.” , , . The next moment, he had turned, and the patient found himself being escorted to the Harley Street front door bv the neurologist’s secretary-reception-ist, a small, neatly-attired girl with a fascinating Irish accent. #

A quarter of an lidur later, the man -who had been condemned to 3 months’ inactivity was sitting in a quiet corner of the Travellers’ Club,, pouringtea. He did the job slowly, for during the preceding fifteen minutes, he had been giving considerable thought to the words of wisdom that had been poured into his ears. "Go slow’' —that was what Kossiter had said: “go slow.” Now that he had had time to digest the matter, he knew that it was good advice. His nerves were certainly playing the fool; even the waiter, coming unexpectedly to take his order, had caused him to jump. He had just taken his first sip, when a well-known figure crossed the room and nulled up a chair. “Well, what did Kossiter say?”

. Sir Rimington Blade had the distinguished type of presence which the old novelists associated with high diplomacy. With his keen-featured, cleanshaven faco and immaculate clothes, he might also have been taken for a fashionable actor. Or, more likely still, as the latest medical success in* Mayfair. Instead, he was none of these things. Sir Rimington Blade directed that important department of the British Secret Service known as “X.2.” He brought to this difficult post many attributes —a sense of culture, wide' reading, indomitable courage, and an extraordinary knowledge of human character.

Thorp looked at the man whom he had served with marked loyalty for the past three years.

“Oh, ho told me the usual rot,” he parried, “said I had to take three months ’ rest. Of course, that’s all nonsense. ”

“Honsense! It’s the best advice of all, my boy, and believe me, you’re,going to take it.” “But how can I, sir,.with this Danton job on?” Ho referred' to a series of inquiries to which he had been devoting his energies both day and night for the past months. He had worked like a, horse but without any result—and the knowledge was humiliating. Placed in charge of this difficult investigation, he had felt it a duty always to take the lead; the most hazardous jobs he had allotted to himself.

To those who do not know life behind the scones of any great capital, it may seem a piece of over-riotous imagination to say that one can run as much danger in London as in any part of the globe. But such is the case—and James Thorp had received many evidences of this truth during the past month.

On no fewer than six occasions, he "had barely escaped with his life. Had anyone suggested that it was these personal perils which had caused his nerves to give way, ho would have laughed at the suggestion. Hadn’t he been in X.2. for over three years? Didn’t he know, and hadn’t he worked in the underworlds of Paris. Berlin, Barcelona, and other great cities* “I know what you’re thinking, Thorp, but you’re going to take that holiday,” replied his chief, in a tone that permitted of no argument. _“I have the utmost reliance in Rossiter, and after what he tohl you, there is nothing more to bo said. Corfiold null take on—and from this moment, you’re on leave. At full pay, of course. How ail you’ve got to do is to think out what particular kind of holiday you most fancy. If I were in your case, I’d go on a sea trip. What did Rossiter sav? ’ ’

“He talked about a cottage in the country. ’ ’

Blade ignored the ironical note, and got up to go. “Three months of the cottage in the country. Have a good time.” As he watched the straight back of his chief disappear through the swingdoor, Thorp lit a cigarette. So he had to maroon himself with the cows . . .

The cocks would wake him at six o’clock every morning, and, if he was lucky, he might get a game of darts at the village pub! Oh, well ....

It was after lie had walked perhaps a dozen yards along crowded Piccadilly that he experienced the sudden fit of nausea. Good Lord, was he going to faint? He felt an absolute ass, standing there, trying to regain control of himself, with the people staring . . . He flung the smouldering cigarette away, remembering the nerve specialist’s dictum: Hot so much smoking, and. putting up his stick to engage a taxi-cab whose driver's face bore an anticipatory expression, he gave the address of his flat and then sank back in the seat.

There was no longer any doubt about it: he was under the weather. Sometimes those doctor fellows could be right. . . . But it was hellish tough luck, coming at this time. He was still feeling shaky when he got out of the lift at the fourth floor of the block of bachelors’ flats, and let himself in with a key. He could understand physical illness —there was something genuine about that: ’flu, and that sort of thing —but he couldn’t get the hang of this: do go all dithery, like an under-fed typist or shopgirl: it was absurd. But, at the recollection of what had hannened in Piccadilly ten minutes before, he put his hand up to his forehead and', for the second time within a short space, withdrew it wet with perspiration. He looked at his bedewed ’■'aim and cursed beneath liis breath. One ought not to be like that at 28. One ought not to have one’s heart beating at such a pace, either . . . AYell, hang it, lie would have a drink. Generallv very abstemious —his kind of job didn’t permit of heavy drinking—the gulped brandy seemed to bring new life. He sat down in a chair by the window and looked idly at the two letters which he had picked up from the mat on thb way in.

The first was in a familiar writing, Dick Vivian! AVhat was he scribbling about?

He opened the envelopge, and read

My dear old sausage, I-lere’s hoping you’re as good as you ought to be! Just a line to say that I’m off on a six weeks’ cruise. I feel the need for fresh air after this filthy summer, and, what is more, I want my next book to be about the sea. You know, life in a sort of floating hotel. It will be a change of scene, and the publisher wallahs are saying that it would be just as well if I shifted mv locale now and then. But you don’t want to hear about my rot. My real purpose in writing is to let you know that the bungalow at Plymcliurch is

yours to command. You can get the key at the local blacksmith’s, so that if you feel inclined to run down for a week-end while I’m away—go to it! Anyway, old fruit, the place is absolutely yours —plate (what there is of it!l included! The old woman who does for me is named Mrs Pilchard, It sounds fishy. I know, but she’s a very good sort. Talks too much —but cooks decent grub, and makes a good bed. What more can you want? You will find her at 2, Myrtle Cottages—it’s just round the corner. Hoping you’ll receive this safely—which is only another way of saying that I trust vo\i are still on the earth; and with my further benisons, old boy—Yours ever, Dick, (To bo Continued.)