The Lost Naval Papers - Bennet Copplestone
As he said these words an inspiration came to him, and by sure
instinct he acted upon it. Jumping down from the platform, he
approached the old sad-faced spokesman, and shook him hard by the
hand. Then he moved along among the other workmen, addressing them by
name, chatting to them of their work and private interests, and
showing so complete and human a regard for them that their hostility
melted away before him. This man, who had conquered them, was one of
themselves, a "tradesman" like them, one of the Black Squad of
Portsmouth, a fellow-worker. He was no tool of the hated "capitalist."
If he said that they must all go back to work unconditionally, well
they must go. But he was their friend, and would see justice done
them. Presently Dawson was handing out cigarettes--of which he had
brought a large supply in his pockets, Woodbines--and the meeting, of
which so much was feared, had apparently turned into, a happy
conversazione. For half an hour Dawson pursued his campaign of
personal conciliation, and then went back to his place upon the
platform.
"Go in peace," he cried. "Come again to-morrow afternoon and tell me
about the mass meeting. There will be more cigarettes awaiting you,
and even, possibly, a bottle or two of whisky."
The men laughed, and one wag called out, "Three cheers for holder-on
Dawson." The cheers were given heartily, the Marines stood aside from
the doors, and the room rapidly emptied. The officials of the
Munitions Department and the Colonel, who was Dawson's insubordinate
subaltern, crowded round him spouting congratulations. He soaked in
their flatteries as was his habit, and then delivered a lesson upon
the management of men which should be printed in letters of gold. "Men
are just grown-up children," said he, "and should be treated as
children. Be always just, praise them when they are good, and smack
them when they are naughty. But if when they are naughty you spare the
rod and try to slobber them with fine words, they will despise you
utterly, and become upon the instant naughtier than ever."
"What about that mass meeting to-morrow?" asked the Colonel.
"I shall not be there, but ten of my men will be. Have no fears of the
mass meeting. The snake's head is off--by to-morrow it will be two
hundred miles away--and though the body may wriggle, it will be quite
harmless. After two or three hours of talk and vain threats the
meeting will collapse, and we shall get unconditional surrender."
And so it happened. The talk went on for four solid hours--vain,
vapouring talk, during which steam was blown off. At the end the
surrender, as Dawson predicted, was unconditional.
That evening of the morrow a telegram sped away over the long wires to
the south addressed to the Secretary of the Admiralty.
"Please tell First Lord that the snake is dead. I am returning the
Marines carriage-paid and undamaged. My commission as a Captain is no
longer required. Dawson."
Back flashed a reply from the Minister himself: "To Captain Dawson,
R.M.L.I. Adjutant-General insists that you retain rank and pay until
the end of the war. So do I. You have done a wonderful piece of work
for which you will be adequately punished in official quarters. But
you will suffer in good company."
Though Dawson thus became entitled to call himself Captain for the
duration of the war, he never used the rank or the uniform again. Once
more, to my knowledge, he served in his well-beloved Corps, but it was
then not as Captain, but as private, during his long watch in the
_Malplaquet_, of which I have told the story earlier in this book.
CHAPTER XVII
DAWSON TELEPHONES FOR A SURGEON
I have never been able to plan this book upon any system which would
hold together for half a dozen consecutive chapters. I am the victim
of my characters who come and go and pull me with them tied to their
chariot wheels. When I wrote the first story of the "Lost Naval
Papers"--which, by the way, were not lost at all--I had not made the
personal acquaintance of William Dawson. When I wrote of my own
encounters with Dawson and of my share, a humble share, in his
researches, my dear Madame Gilbert had not met me and subdued me into
a drivelling worship of her shining personality. While I was amusing
myself trying to convey to the reader the frolicsome atmosphere which
Madame carries about with her and in which she hides the workings of
her big heart and brain, I was ignorant of the adventures of the two
battle-cruisers and of Dawson's encounter with the War Committee, and
of his triumph over the revolting workmen of the north. I have
therefore written, as it were, from hand to mouth, more as one who
keeps a vagabond diary than as one who consciously plans a work of
art. It is as a diary of personal experiences that this book should be
regarded. It has no merit of constructive skill, for I have never
known what the future would yield to me of material. When Dawson
parted with me to return south to the Yard, and to his deserted family
in Acacia Villas, Primrose Road, Tooting, I did not expect to see him
again for months, possibly years. But a turn came to the wheel of my
destiny as it had done to his. I also was plucked from my northern
place of exile and transported joyfully to the south country, whither
I have always fled whenever for a few days or weeks I could loosen the
bonds which tied me to the north. Now that those bonds have fallen
entirely from me, and I am back in my southern home--whether for good
or for evil rests upon the lap of the high gods--I have been able
unexpectedly to resume contact with Dawson and to bring this,
discursive book to some kind of a conclusion. It cannot really end so
long as Dawson and Froissart and Madame Gilbert live and remain in
friendly association with me. They have become parts of my life, and
if I have not outraged their feelings beyond forgiveness by what I
have written of them, I have hopes that I shall meet all of them often
in the future and that they will tell me many more stories of their
exploits.
* * * * *
As soon as I had settled myself in London I took the earliest
opportunity of calling upon Dawson at the Yard. He was absent, but his
Deputy, who knew my name, received me kindly. He explained that it
would not be easy to find Dawson. "We never know where he is or what
he is doing. I suppose that the Chief knows; certainly no one else.
How can one be Deputy to a man who never tells one what he is doing or
where he may be found?" I agreed that the post seemed difficult to
fill adequately. "I wish I could chuck it as Froissart did when he
went back to Paris. Have you ever seen Madame Gilbert?" he inquired
eagerly. I observed that Madame did me the honour to be my friend. "So
you know her, do you? She's a clinker of a woman. Hot stuff, but a
real genuine clinker. She could do what she pleased with old man
Dawson; make him fetch and carry like a poodle. She's the only woman
born who ever turned Dawson round her fingers." I observed rather
stiffly that Madame Gilbert was a lady for whom I had a very high
regard, and that the expression "Hot stuff" was hardly respectful.
"Hum!" said the Deputy, eyeing me with interest. "So she has made a
fool of you like she has of the rest of us. Even the Chief gets down
on his rheumaticky old knees and kisses the carpet of his room after
she has trodden on it."
The Deputy tended to become garrulous, and I cut him short with an
inquiry for Dawson's exact address. He lived in Acacia Villas, but I
was without the precise number. The Deputy told me, and promised to
inform Dawson of my visit at the earliest moment. "It may be to-day,
or next week, or next month. It may not be till the War is over"--an
expression which has come into colloquial use as a synonym for the
Greek Kalends. I thanked the officer, and withdrew somewhat annoyed.
It appeared that Dawson was not far away, for a letter from him
reached me two days later at my club. It was an invitation to visit
his home and to dine with him on the following Sunday at one o'clock.
Enclosed was a plan designed to assist me in penetrating the mazes of
Tooting. That Sunday was a beautiful day in May, and I wandered down
with plenty of time to spare to provide against the danger of being
"bushed." But with the aid of Dawson's thoughtful plan I found
Primrose Road without difficulty. The hour was then 12.15, and the
house deserted. Dawson and his family were at chapel. I had forgotten
what I had heard months before of Dawson's fervour as a preacher upon
Truth until reminded of it by a constable whose beat passed the house.
"If you are looking for Chief Detective Inspector Dawson," said he, "I
can show you where to find him in chapel. He will be holding forth
just now." The opportunity of seeing Dawson as he really was--known
certainly only to his wife and to God--and of seeing him as a
preacher, spurred me into active interest. "My relief is coming now,"
said the constable; "as soon as I have handed over I will show you the
way."
As we walked together the policeman revealed to me the admiration
inspired by Dawson in his humble subordinates. "There is nothing that
man can't do," said he. "He is a skilled mechanic, a soldier--some say
he has a general's uniform hid away in his house--an electrical
engineer, and a telegraph operator. He has been all over the world in
the Royal Navy, and could if he liked be commanding a ship now. He's
the friend of Ministers and Secretaries of State. He's the best
detective that the Yard ever knew, and he preaches to folk here
like--like the Archangel Gabriel come to trot 'em off to Hell. I'm a
Wesleyan, myself, but I often go to hear the Chief Inspector. He makes
one come out in a cold sweat, and gives a man a fine appetite for
dinner. He shakes you up so that you feel empty," he explained.
I observed that if Dawson were so great a stimulus upon appetite, he
would not be popular with the Food Controller. The policeman, though
he had heard of the Food Controller, was unconscious of his many
activities, which shows how little the world knows of its greatest
men. It also suggests that police constables do not read newspapers.
The chapel was a building illustrative of the straight line and plane.
It was fairly large, and so full that the crowd of worshippers bulged
out of the doors. Though we could not force our way inside, we could
hear the booming of a voice which was scarcely recognisable as that of
Dawson. Waves of emotion ran so strongly through the congregation that
we could feel them beat against the fringes by the doors. "The Chief
Inspector is on his game to-day," whispered the constable. "He's
hitting them fine." From which I judged that the constable had in his
youth come from the north, where golf is cheap. It was a
disappointment that I could not get in, but perhaps well for the
reader. The temptation to record a genuine sermon by Dawson might have
proved too much for me. Presently the voice ceased to boom, the
congregation squeezed out hot and oily, like grease from a full
barrel, and I waited for Dawson to appear. "Don't speak to him now,"
directed my guide. "Let him get up to his house. He can't talk for
half an hour after holding forth; there's not a word bad or good left
in his carcase."
After all the worshippers had gone there issued forth a party of
three: a man, a woman, and a little girl. "There he is," said the
constable, nudging me. "Who?" asked I. "The Chief Inspector. There he
is with Mrs. Dawson and their little girl." I stared and stared, but
failed to recognise my friend of the north. I was too far away to see
his ears, and his face was quite strange to me.
"I hope," I whispered primly to the constable, "that Mrs. Dawson is
sure he is her husband."
"She ought to be. Aren't you sure?"
"Not yet; I am not near enough to see properly. That Dawson, is not a
bit like those others whom I know."
"That Dawson! Those others! Is there more than one Chief Inspector
Dawson?" asked the man, wondering.
"I should say about a hundred," replied I, and left him gasping. I
fear that he now thinks that either I am quite mad or that Mrs. Dawson
is a pluralist in husbands.
I gave the Dawson family sufficient time to reach their home, and to
recover the power of speech, and then walked gravely to the door as if
I had just arrived. One becomes contagiously deceptive in the vicinity
of Dawson.
The stranger, who was the real undisguised Dawson, welcomed me to his
home. The house was a small one and the family kept no servant. I do
not know what income the Chief Inspector draws from the Yard, but am
sure that it is absurdly inadequate to his services. The higher one
rises, the less work one does and the more pay one gets--provided that
one begins more than half-way up the ladder. For those like Dawson who
begin quite at the bottom, the rule seems to be inverted: the more
work one does, the less pay one gets. I should judge my own ill-gotten
income at twice or three times that of Dawson--which even that
cautious judge, Euclid, would declare to be absurd.
He led me to the parlour, which was well and tastefully
furnished--Dawson has seen good houses--and we waited there while Mrs.
Dawson dished up the dinner. "Please sit there, Dawson, facing the
light," said I. "Let me have a good look at you." He complied smiling,
and I examined his features with grave attention. Dawson, the real
Dawson as I now saw him for the first time, is a very fair man. His
pale sandy hair can readily be bleached white or dyed a dark colour.
He uses quick dyes which can be removed with appropriate chemicals.
His hair and moustache, he told me, grow very quickly. His complexion,
like his hair, is almost white, and his skin curiously opaque. His
blood is red and healthy, but it does not show through. His skin and
hair are like the canvas of a painter, always ready to receive
pigments and ready also to give them up when treated with skill. I
began to understand how Dawson can make to himself a face and
appearance of almost any habit or age. He can be fair or dark, dark or
fair, old or young, young or old, at will. He carries the employment
of rubber and wax insets very far indeed. His nose, his cheeks, his
mouth, his chin may be forced by internal packing to take to
themselves any shape. I made a hasty calculation that he can change
his appearance in seven hundred and twenty different ways. "So many as
that?" said Dawson, surprised when I told him. "I don't think that I
have gone beyond sixty." I assured him that on strict mathematical
principles I had arrived at the limiting number, and it gave him
pleasure to feel that so many untried permutations of countenance
remained to him. In actual everyday practice there are rarely more
than six Dawsons in being at the same time. He finds that number
sufficient for all useful purposes; a greater number, he says, would
excessively strain his memory. He has, you see, always to remember
which Dawson he is at any moment. When he was pulling my leg, or that
of his brave enemy Froissart, the number multiplied greatly, but, as a
working business rule, he is modestly content with six. "I suppose," I
asked, "that here in Acacia Villas you are always the genuine
article."
"Always," he declared with emphasis. "Once," he went on, "I tried to
play a game on Emma. I came home as one of the others, forced my way
into the house, and was clouted over the head and chucked into the
street. When I got back to the Yard to alter myself--for I had left my
tools there--Emma had been telephoning to me to get the wicked
stranger arrested for house-breaking. I never tried any more games;
women have no sense of humour." He shuddered. Dawson is afraid of his
wife, and I pictured to myself a great haughty woman with the figure
and arms of a Juno.
But when Clara--who asked kindly after my little Jane--had summoned us
to the dining-room, I was presented to a small, quiet mouse of a woman
whose head reached no higher than Dawson's heart. This was the
redoubtable Emma! "Did she really clout you over the head and chuck
you into the street?" I whispered. "She did, sir!" he replied,
smiling. "She threw me yards over my own doorstep."
Between Dawson and his little wife there is a very tender affection.
In her eyes he is not a police officer, but an inspired preacher. She
knows nothing of his professional triumphs, and would not care to
know. She, I am very sure, will never trouble to read this book. To
her he is the lover of her youth, the most tender of husbands, and a
Boanerges who spends his Sabbaths dragging fellow-creatures from the
Pit. The God of Dawson and of his Emma is a pitiless giant with a
pitchfork, busily thrusting his creatures towards eternal torment;
Dawson, in Emma's eyes, is an intrepid salvor with a boat-hook who
once a week arduously pulls them out. Dawson married Emma when he was
a sergeant of Marines, and I think that he has shown to her his
uniform with the three captain's stars. To me she always spoke of him
as "the Captain," though I could not be quite sure whether she meant a
Captain of Marines or a Captain in the Army of Salvation. Dawson, his
Emma, and Clara are very happy, very united, and I am glad that I saw
them in their own home. I am helped to understand how tender is the
heart which beats under Dawson's assumed cloak of professional
ruthlessness. At first I wholly misjudged him, but I will not now
alter what I then wrote. My readers will learn to know their Dawson as
I learned myself.
Whenever in the future I wish to hear from Dawson of his exploits I
shall not seek him at his own house. He is an artist who is highly
sensitive to atmosphere. In Acacia Villas the police officer fades to
shadowy insignificance, even in his own mind. Then, he is a husband, a
father, and a mighty preacher. He will talk of his disguises, and in
general terms of his work, but there is no fiery enthusiasm for
manhunting when Dawson gets home to Tooting. I shall seek him at the
Yard, or upon the hot trail; then and then only shall I get from him
the full flavour of his genius for detection. Dawson, away from home,
is so vain as to be unconscious of his vanity; Dawson at home is quite
extraordinarily modest. He defers always to the opinion of Emma, and
she, gently, kindly, but with an air of infinite superiority, keeps
his wandering steps firmly in the path of truth. He is, I am told, a
most kindling preacher, but it is Emma who inspires his sermons.
Once only during my visit did I see a flash of the old Dawson, the
Dawson of the _Malplaquet_, and of the War Committee, and that was
just before I left. We were in the parlour smoking, and I was getting
rather bored. Conjugal virtue, domestic content and happiness, are
beautiful to look upon for a while, but I confess that in a
remorseless continuous film ("featuring" Dawson and Emma) I find them
boresome. There is little humour about Dawson and none at all about
his dear Emma. I would gladly exchange fifty virtuous Emmas for one
naughty Madame Gilbert. We had been talking idly of our sport together
and of his different incarnations. Suddenly he sprang from his chair
and his pale face lighted up. "Now that I have you here, Mr.
Copplestone, I shall not let you go until you tell me by what trick
you can always see through my disguises. Would you know me now as
Dawson?"
"Of course," said I. "There is no difficulty. If you painted your face
black and your hair vermilion, I should still know you at once."
"You have promised to tell me the secret. Tell me now."
I considered whether I should tell. It was amusing to have some hold
over him, but was it quite fair to Dawson to keep him in ignorance of
those marks of ear by which I could always be certain of his identity.
He had been useful to me, and I had made free with his personality.
Yes, I would tell him, and in a few sentences I told.
He gripped his ears with both hands; he felt those lobes so firmly
secured to his cheekbones, and those blobs of flesh which remained to
him of his wolfish ancestors. He fingered them carefully while he
thought. At last he made up his mind. "It is the Sabbath," said he,
"but when I am on duty I work ever upon the Sabbath day. It is now my
duty to--" He reached for the telephone book, took off the receiver,
and called for a number.
"What are you doing?" I asked, though I ought to have known.
"I am making an appointment with a surgeon," said Dawson.
THE END