Okewood of the Secret Service [12]
is very eloquent," said the Chief drily.
Desmond laughed.
"It's not the silence of consent," he said, "but if you want me to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don't mind telling you I don't like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France. We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine physique, his manliness. I'm sure he's got great strength of character, too. It's because I admire all this about him that I think perhaps it's just jealousy on my part when I feel..."
"What?" said the Chief.
"Well," said Desmond slowly, "I feel myself trying to like something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked. There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough foundation! And he smiles... Well, rather often, doesn't he?"
"I know what you mean," said the Chief. "I always tell my young men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes camouflage, to cover up something that mustn't be seen underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn't he?"
"I think so," answered Desmond, "anyhow, he has lived there. But he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915, I believe, and joined up."
"Ah, here we are!" cried the Chief, steering the car down a turning marked "Laleham Villas."
Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each. The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning, unspeakably depressing.
The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte's house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at the gate.
"You'll like Marigold," said the Chief to Desmond as they got out of the car, "quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!"
British officers don't number detective inspectors among their habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had been wondering whether Mr. Marigold would be lean and pale and bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the detectives in American crook plays.
The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold's external appearance. But there was something so patent about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr. Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the genus.
"Major Okewood, Marigold," said the Chief, "a friend of mine!"
Desmond laughed.
"It's not the silence of consent," he said, "but if you want me to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don't mind telling you I don't like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France. We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine physique, his manliness. I'm sure he's got great strength of character, too. It's because I admire all this about him that I think perhaps it's just jealousy on my part when I feel..."
"What?" said the Chief.
"Well," said Desmond slowly, "I feel myself trying to like something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked. There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough foundation! And he smiles... Well, rather often, doesn't he?"
"I know what you mean," said the Chief. "I always tell my young men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes camouflage, to cover up something that mustn't be seen underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn't he?"
"I think so," answered Desmond, "anyhow, he has lived there. But he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915, I believe, and joined up."
"Ah, here we are!" cried the Chief, steering the car down a turning marked "Laleham Villas."
Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each. The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning, unspeakably depressing.
The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte's house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at the gate.
"You'll like Marigold," said the Chief to Desmond as they got out of the car, "quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!"
British officers don't number detective inspectors among their habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had been wondering whether Mr. Marigold would be lean and pale and bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the detectives in American crook plays.
The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold's external appearance. But there was something so patent about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr. Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the genus.
"Major Okewood, Marigold," said the Chief, "a friend of mine!"