The Mysterious Commission Read Online Free PDF Page A

glass box and the driver in a little glass box, and communication between the two was by means of some acoustic device which a more rational disposition of things would have rendered unnecessary. Honeybath realized that the prospects of informative chat were not too good.
    He could, on the other hand, at least look around undisturbed. The chauffeur could scarcely suggest blindfolding him, or throw a blanket over his head in the manner favoured by the police when conducting hither or thither some unfortunate individual who has been helping them with their inquiries. Nor did the car have blinds all round, since that was an amenity which had gone out more or less with dear old Queen Mary. Honeybath, who knew his London very well, had little doubt that he could retain a pretty sound knowledge of where this wild-goose affair was taking him. He settled himself comfortably in his seat. The chauffeur was stowing his stuff in the back. It was observable that he took even more care of Honeybath’s professional equipment than of his merely diurnal baggage. This showed tact. It even showed something like refined feeling. A slight sense of personal importance stole over Honeybath. He was glad that it had occurred to him to pack his dinner-jacket. Odd as this affair was, it might nevertheless be bringing him into the company of people with civilized habits.
    The chauffeur took his seat, and the car moved off. Nothing could be easier, Honeybath told himself, than to keep an eye on the route. At the moment it looked very much as if the fellow was making for Millbank. This was something which Honeybath himself, when setting out from his studio, would do only if he was proposing to cross Lambeth Bridge. There was the possibility, however, that the car was going to proceed very deviously to its destination, and eventually plunge into some obscure quarter which there was almost no chance of his knowing about. But this, on the whole, seemed unlikely; they could scarcely be proposing to put him up for a fortnight (and even supply the services of quite a good cook) in a South or East London slum. And if he did lose his bearings for a time, couldn’t he simply command the chauffeur to stop at a tobacconist’s, or something of that kind? He could then manage a swift reconnaissance, or at least ask the man in the shop for his bearings. The chauffeur, presumably, would hardly risk disobeying so small an injunction; to do so would be to be putting his passenger too nakedly under duress.
    But how, in the first instance, did one communicate with the chauffeur? The answer seemed to lie in a microphone-like contraption which depended from a bracket on Honeybath’s right hand. He picked it up, and at once a small informative light went on at the top of it.
    ‘Can you hear me?’ he asked of this thing.
    ‘Yes, sir – for so long as you hold the instrument. Can I be of any assistance to you?’
    ‘No, no – nothing of the kind. It has just occurred to me to ask you whether you happen to know if Chelsea won their match.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Two-Nil.’
    ‘Thank you very much.’ Honeybath replaced the microphone, and reflected with satisfaction that he had extracted at least some information from the fellow. Not precisely relevant information. But it was a start. He sank back again on his seat, and as he did so he pushed away the fur rug. It was a good deal too hot in the car, and he must by no means turn drowsy. He decided to lower a window and let in some fresh air. But the windows appeared to be unprovided with the ordinary sort of crank for this purpose. Probably the job was done by some totally unnecessary electrical push-button affair. It was with the irritation of the artist in the face of pretentious and trivial technology that Honeybath again picked up the microphone. ‘These windows,’ he demanded, ‘–how do they open and shut?’
    ‘Full air-conditioning in the interior, sir. Do you require a little more warmth?’
    ‘Nothing of the