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Title: The seven dials mystery
Author: Agatha Christie
Release date: February 4, 2025 [eBook #75288]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Bantam Books, Inc, 1929
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN DIALS MYSTERY ***
The Seven Dials Mystery
Agatha Christie
PRINTING HISTORY
_Dodd, Mead edition published March 1929_
_Grosset & Dunlap edition published February 1930_
_American Mercury edition published October 1942_
_Bantam edition/January 1964_
_New Bantam edition/March 1976_
_The Agatha Christie Mystery Collection/September 1986_
_All rights reserved._
_Copyright 1929 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc._
_Copyright renewed © 1957 by Agatha Christie Mallowan._
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I ON EARLY RISING
II CONCERNING ALARUM CLOCKS
III THE JOKE THAT FAILED
IV A LETTER
V THE MAN IN THE ROAD
VI SEVEN DIALS AGAIN
VII BUNDLE PAYS A CALL
VIII VISITORS FOR JIMMY
IX PLANS
X BUNDLE VISITS SCOTLAND YARD
XI DINNER WITH BILL
XII INQUIRIES AT CHIMNEYS
XIII THE SEVEN DIALS CLUB
XIV THE MEETING OF THE SEVEN DIALS
XV THE INQUEST
XVI THE HOUSE PARTY AT THE ABBEY
XVII AFTER DINNER
XVIII JIMMY'S ADVENTURES
XIX BUNDLE'S ADVENTURES
XX LORAINE'S ADVENTURES
XXI THE RECOVERY OF THE FORMULA
XXII THE COUNTESS RADZKY'S STORY
XXIII SUPERINTENDENT BATTLE IN CHARGE
XXIV BUNDLE WONDERS
XXV JIMMY LAYS HIS PLANS
XXVI MAINLY ABOUT GOLF
XXVII NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
XXVIII SUSPICIONS
XXIX SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF GEORGE LOMAX
XXX AN URGENT SUMMONS
XXXI THE SEVEN DIALS
XXXII BUNDLE IS DUMFOUNDED
XXXIII BATTLE EXPLAINS
XXXIV LORD CATERHAM APPROVES
THE SEVEN DIALS MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
ON EARLY RISING
That amiable youth, Jimmy Thesiger, came racing down the big staircase
at Chimneys two steps at a time. So precipitate was his descent that
he collided with Tredwell, the stately butler, just as the latter
was crossing the hall bearing a fresh supply of hot coffee. Owing to
the marvellous presence of mind and masterly agility of Tredwell, no
casualty occurred.
"Sorry," apologized Jimmy. "I say, Tredwell, am I the last down?"
"No, sir, Mr. Wade has not come down yet."
"Good," said Jimmy, and entered the breakfast-room.
The room was empty save for his hostess, and her reproachful gaze gave
Jimmy the same feeling of discomfort he always experienced on catching
the eye of a defunct codfish exposed on a fishmonger's slab. Yet, hang
it all, why should the woman look at him like that? To come down at
a punctual nine-thirty when staying in a country house simply wasn't
done. To be sure, it was now a quarter past eleven which was, perhaps,
the outside limit, but even then--
"Afraid I'm a bit late, Lady Coote. What?"
"Oh! it doesn't matter," said Lady Coote in a melancholy voice.
As a matter of fact, people being late for breakfast worried her very
much. For the first ten years of her married life, Sir Oswald Coote
(then plain Mr.) had, to put it baldly, raised hell if his morning
meal were even a half minute later than eight o'clock. Lady Coote had
been disciplined to regard unpunctuality as a deadly sin of the most
unpardonable nature. And habit dies hard. Also, she was an earnest
woman, and she could not help asking herself what possible good these
young people would ever do in the world without early rising. As Sir
Oswald so often said, to reporters and others: "I attribute my success
entirely to my habits of early rising, frugal living, and methodical
habits."
Lady Coote was a big, handsome woman in a tragic sort of fashion. She
had large, dark, mournful eyes and a deep voice. An artist looking
for a model for "Rachel mourning for her children" would have hailed
Lady Coote with delight. She would have done well, too, in melodrama,
staggering through the falling snow as the deeply wronged wife of the
villain.
She looked as though she had some terrible secret sorrow in her life,
and yet if the truth be told, Lady Coote had had no trouble in her
life whatever, except the meteoric rise to prosperity of Sir Oswald.
As a young girl she had been a jolly flamboyant creature, very much
in love with Oswald Coote, the aspiring young man in the bicycle shop
next to her father's hardware store. They had lived very happily,
first in a couple of rooms, and then in a tiny house, and then in a
larger house, and then in successive houses of increasing magnitude,
but always within a reasonable distance of "the Works" until now Sir
Oswald had reached such an eminence that he and "the Works" were no
longer interdependent, and it was his pleasure to rent the very largest
and most magnificent mansions available all over England. Chimneys was
a historic place, and in renting it from the Marquis of Caterham for
two years, Sir Oswald felt that he had attained the top notch of his
ambition.
Lady Coote was not nearly so happy about it. She was a lonely woman.
The principal relaxation of her early married life had been talking
to "the girl"--and even when "the girl" had been multiplied by three,
conversation with her domestic staff had still been the principal
distraction of Lady Coote's day. Now, with a pack of housemaids, a
butler like an archbishop, several footmen of imposing proportions,
a bevy of scuttling kitchen and scullery maids, a terrifying foreign
chef with a "temperament" and a housekeeper of immense proportions who
alternately creaked and rustled when she moved, Lady Coote was as one
marooned on a desert island.
She sighed now, heavily, and drifted out through the open window, much
to the relief of Jimmy Thesiger who at once helped himself to more
kidneys and bacon on the strength of it.
Lady Coote stood for a few moments tragically on the terrace and
then nerved herself to speak to MacDonald, the head gardener, who
was surveying the domain over which he ruled with an autocratic eye.
MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his
place--which was to rule. And he ruled--despotically.
Lady Coote approached him nervously.
"Good-morning, MacDonald."
"Good-morning, m'lady."
He spoke as head gardeners should speak--mournfully, but with
dignity--like an emperor at a funeral.
"I was wondering--could we have some of those late grapes for dessert
to-night?"
"They're no fit for picking yet," said MacDonald.
He spoke kindly but firmly.
"Oh," said Lady Coote.
She plucked up courage.
"Oh! but I was in the end house yesterday, and I tasted one and they
seemed very good."
MacDonald looked at her, and she blushed. She was made to feel that she
had taken an unpardonable liberty. Evidently the late Marchioness of
Caterham had never committed such a solecism as to enter one of her own
hothouses and help herself to grapes.
"If you had given orders, m'lady, a bunch should have been cut and sent
in to you," said MacDonald severely.
"Oh, thank you," said Lady Coote. "Yes, I will do that another time."
"But they're no properly fit for picking yet."
"No," murmured Lady Coote. "No, I suppose not. We'd better leave it
then."
MacDonald maintained a masterly silence. Lady Coote nerved herself once
more.
"I was going to speak to you about the piece of lawn at the back of the
rose garden. I wondered if it could be used as a bowling green. Sir
Oswald is very fond of a game of bowls."
"And why not?" thought Lady Coote to herself. She had been instructed
in her history of England. Had not Sir Francis Drake and his knightly
companions been playing a game of bowls when the Armada was sighted?
Surely a gentlemanly pursuit and one to which MacDonald could not
reasonably object. But she had reckoned without the predominant trait
of a good head gardener, which is to oppose any and every suggestion
made to him.
"Nae doot it could be used for that purpose," said MacDonald
noncommittally.
He threw a discouraging flavour into the remark, but its real object
was to lure Lady Coote on to her destruction.
"If it was cleared up and--er--cut--and--er--all that sort of thing,"
she went on hopefully.
"Aye," said MacDonald slowly. "It could be done. But it would mean
taking William from the lower border."
"Oh!" said Lady Coote doubtfully. The words "lower border" conveyed
absolutely nothing to her mind--except a vague suggestion of a
Scottish song--but it was clear that to MacDonald they constituted an
insuperable objection.
"And that would be a pity," said MacDonald.
"Oh! of course," said Lady Coote. "It _would_."
And wondered why she agreed so fervently.
MacDonald looked at her very hard.
"Of course," he said, "if it's your _orders_, m'lady--"
He left it like that. But his menacing tone was too much for Lady
Coote. She capitulated at once.
"Oh! no," she said. "I see what you mean, MacDonald. N-no--William had
better get on with the lower border."
"That's what I thocht meself, m'lady."
"Yes," said Lady Coote. "Yes. Certainly."
"I thocht you'd gree, m'lady," said MacDonald.
"Oh! certainly," said Lady Coote again.
MacDonald touched his hat and moved away.
Lady Coote sighed unhappily and looked after him. Jimmy Thesiger,
replete with kidneys and bacon, stepped out on to the terrace beside
her, and sighed in quite a different manner.
"Topping morning, eh?" he remarked.
"Is it?" said Lady Coote, absently. "Oh! yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't
noticed."
"Where are the others? Punting on the lake?"
"I expect so. I mean, I shouldn't wonder if they were."
Lady Coote turned and plunged abruptly into the house again. Tredwell
was just examining the coffee pot.
"Oh, dear," said Lady Coote. "Isn't Mr.--Mr.--"
"Wade, m'lady?"
"Yes, Mr. Wade. Isn't he down _yet_?"
"No, m'lady."
"It's very late."
"Yes, m'lady."
"Oh! dear. I suppose he will come down _sometime_, Tredwell?"
"Oh, undoubtedly, m'lady. It was eleven thirty yesterday morning when
Mr. Wade came down, m'lady."
Lady Coote glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. A
wave of human sympathy rushed over her.
"It's very hard luck on you, Tredwell. Having to clear and then get
lunch on the table by one o'clock."
"I am accustomed to the ways of young gentlemen, m'lady."
The reproof was dignified, but unmistakable. So might a prince of the
Church reprove a Turk or an infidel who had unwittingly committed a
solecism in all good faith.
Lady Coote blushed for the second time that morning. But a welcome
interruption occurred. The door opened and a serious, spectacled young
man put his head in.
"Oh! there you are, Lady Coote. Sir Oswald was asking for you."
"Oh, I'll go to him at once, Mr. Bateman."
Lady Coote hurried out.
Rupert Bateman, who was Sir Oswald's private secretary, went out the
other way, through the window where Jimmy Thesiger was still lounging
amiably.
"Morning, Pongo," said Jimmy. "I suppose I shall have to go and make
myself agreeable to those blasted girls. You coming?"
Bateman shook his head and hurried along the terrace and in at the
library window. Jimmy grinned pleasantly at his retreating back. He and
Bateman had been at school together, when Bateman had been a serious,
spectacled boy, and had been nicknamed Pongo for no earthly reason
whatever.
Pongo, Jimmy reflected, was very much the same sort of ass now that he
had been then. The words "Life is real, life is earnest" might have
been written specially for him.
Jimmy yawned and strolled slowly down to the lake. The girls were
there, three of them--just the usual sort of girls, two with dark,
shingled heads and one with a fair, shingled head. The one that giggled
most was (he thought) called Helen--and there was another called
Nancy--and the third one was, for some reason, addressed as Socks. With
them were his two friends, Bill Eversleigh and Ronny Devereux, who were
employed in a purely ornamental capacity at the Foreign Office.
"Hallo," said Nancy (or possibly Helen). "It's Jimmy. Where's what's
his name?"
"You don't mean to say," said Bill Eversleigh, "that Gerry Wade's not
up _yet_? Something ought to be done about it."
"If he's not careful," said Ronny Devereux, "he'll miss his breakfast
altogether one day--find it's lunch or tea instead when he rolls down."
"It's a shame," said the girl called Socks. "Because it worries Lady
Coote so. She gets more and more like a hen that wants to lay an egg
and can't. It's too bad."
"Let's pull him out of bed," suggested Bill. "Come on, Jimmy."
"Oh! let's be more subtle than that," said the girl called Socks.
Subtle was a word of which she was rather fond. She used it a great
deal.
"I'm not subtle," said Jimmy. "I don't know how."
"Let's get together and do something about it to-morrow morning,"
suggested Ronny vaguely. "You know, get him up at seven. Stagger the
household. Tredwell loses his false whiskers and drops the tea urn.
Lady Coote has hysterics and faints in Bill's arms--Bill being the
weight carrier. Sir Oswald says 'Ha!' and steel goes up a point and
five eighths. Pongo registers emotion by throwing down his spectacles
and stamping on them."
"You don't know Gerry," said Jimmy. "I daresay enough cold water
_might_ wake him--judiciously applied, that is. But he'd only turn over
and go to sleep again."
"Oh! we must think of something more subtle than cold water," said
Socks.
"Well, what?" asked Ronny bluntly. And nobody had any answer ready.
"We ought to be able to think of something," said Bill. "Who's got any
brains?"
"Pongo," said Jimmy. "And here he is, rushing along in a hurried manner
as usual. Pongo was always the one for brains. It's been his misfortune
from his youth upwards. Let's turn Pongo on to it."
Mr. Bateman listened patiently to a somewhat incoherent statement. His
attitude was that of one poised for flight. He delivered his solution
without loss of time.
"I should suggest an alarum clock," he said briskly. "I always use one
myself for fear of oversleeping. I find that early tea brought in in a
noiseless manner is sometimes powerless to awaken one."
He hurried away.
"An alarum clock." Ronny shook his head. "_One_ alarum clock. It would
take about a dozen to disturb Gerry Wade."
"Well, why not?" Bill was flushed and earnest. "I've got it. Let's all
go into Market Basing and buy an alarum clock each."
There was laughter and discussion. Bill and Ronny went off to get hold
of cars. Jimmy was deputed to spy upon the dining-room. He returned
rapidly.
"He's there right enough. Making up for lost time and wolfing down
toast and marmalade. How are we going to prevent him coming along with
us?"
It was decided that Lady Coote must be approached and instructed to
hold him in play. Jimmy and Nancy and Helen fulfilled this duty. Lady
Coote was bewildered and apprehensive.
"A rag? You will be careful, won't you, my dears? I mean, you won't
smash the furniture and wreck things or use too much water. We've got
to hand this house over next week, you know. I shouldn't like Lord
Caterham to think--"
Bill, who had returned from the garage, broke in reassuringly.
"That's all right, Lady Coote. Bundle Brent--Lord Caterham's
daughter--is a great friend of mine. And there's nothing she'd stick
at--absolutely nothing! You can take it from me. And anyway there's not
going to be any damage done. This is quite a quiet affair."
"Subtle," said the girl called Socks.
Lady Coote went sadly along the terrace just as Gerald Wade emerged
from the breakfast-room. Jimmy Thesiger was a fair, cherubic young man,
and all that could be said of Gerald Wade was that he was fairer and
more cherubic, and that his vacuous expression made Jimmy's face quite
intelligent by contrast.
"Morning, Lady Coote," said Gerald Wade. "Where are all the others?"
"They've all gone to Market Basing," said Lady Coote.
"What for?"
"Some joke," said Lady Coote in her deep, melancholy voice.
"Rather early in the morning for jokes," said Mr. Wade.
"It's not so very early in the morning," said Lady Coote pointedly.
"I'm afraid I was a bit late coming down," said Mr. Wade with engaging
frankness. "It's an extraordinary thing, but wherever I happen to be
staying, I'm always last to be down."
"Very extraordinary," said Lady Coote.
"I don't know why it is," said Mr. Wade, meditating. "I can't think,
I'm sure."
"Why don't you just get up?" suggested Lady Coote.
"Oh!" said Mr. Wade. The simplicity of the solution rather took him
aback.
Lady Coote went on earnestly.
"I've heard Sir Oswald say so many times that there's nothing for
getting a young man on in the world like punctual habits."
"Oh! I know," said Mr. Wade. "And I have to when I'm in town. I mean,
I have to be round at the jolly old Foreign Office by eleven o'clock.
You mustn't think I'm always a slacker, Lady Coote. I say, what
awfully jolly flowers you've got down in that lower border. I can't
remember the names of them, but we've got some at home--those mauve
thingummybobs. My sister's tremendously keen on gardening."
Lady Coote was immediately diverted. Her wrongs rankled within her.
"What kind of gardeners do you have?"
"Oh! just one. Rather an old fool, I believe. Doesn't know much, but he
does what he's told. And that's a great thing, isn't it?"
Lady Coote agreed that it was with a depth of feeling in her voice that
would have been invaluable to her as an emotional actress. They began
to discourse on the iniquities of gardeners.
Meanwhile the expedition was doing well. The principal emporium of
Market Basing had been invaded and the sudden demand for alarum clocks
was considerably puzzling the proprietor.
"I wish we'd got Bundle here," murmured Bill. "You know her, don't
you, Jimmy? Oh, you'd like her. She's a splendid girl--a real good
sport--and mark you, she's got brains too. You know her, Ronny?"
Ronny shook his head.
"Don't know Bundle? Where have you been vegetating? She's simply it."
"Be a bit more subtle, Bill," said Socks. "Stop blethering about your
lady friends and get on with the business."
Mr. Murgatroyd, owner of Murgatroyd's Stores, burst into eloquence.
"If you'll allow me to advise you, Miss, I should say--_not_ the 7/11
one. It's a good clock--I'm not running it down, mark you, but I
should strongly advise this kind at 10/6. Well worth the extra money.
Reliability, you understand. I shouldn't like you to say afterwards--"
It was evident to everybody that Mr. Murgatroyd must be turned off like
a tap.
"We don't want a reliable clock," said Nancy.
"It's got to go for one day, that's all," said Helen.
"We don't want a subtle one," said Socks. "We want one with a good loud
ring."
"We want--" began Bill, but was unable to finish, because Jimmy, who
was of a mechanical turn of mind, had at last grasped the mechanism.
For the next five minutes the shop was hideous with the loud raucous
ringing of many alarum clocks.
In the end six excellent starters were selected.
"And I'll tell you what," said Ronny handsomely, "I'll get one for
Pongo. It was his idea, and it's a shame that he should be out of it.
He shall be represented among those present."
"That's right," said Bill. "And I'll take an extra one for Lady Coote.
The more the merrier. And she's doing some of the spade work. Probably
gassing away to old Gerry now."
Indeed at this precise moment Lady Coote was detailing a long story
about MacDonald and a prize peach and enjoying herself very much.
The clocks were wrapped up and paid for. Mr. Murgatroyd watched the
cars drive away with a puzzled air. Very spirited the young people of
the upper classes nowadays, very spirited indeed, but not at all easy
to understand. He turned with relief to attend to the vicar's wife, who
wanted a new kind of dripless teapot.
CHAPTER II
CONCERNING ALARUM CLOCKS
"Now where shall we put them?"
Dinner was over. Lady Coote had been once more detailed for duty. Sir
Oswald had unexpectedly come to the rescue by suggesting bridge--not
that suggesting is the right word. Sir Oswald, as became one of
"Our Captains of Industry" (No. 7 of Series I), merely expressed a
preference and those around him hastened to accommodate themselves to
the great man's wishes.
Rupert Bateman and Sir Oswald were partners against Lady Coote and
Gerald Wade, which was a very happy arrangement. Sir Oswald played
bridge, like he did everything else, extremely well, and liked a
partner to correspond. Bateman was as efficient a bridge player as
he was a secretary. Both of them confined themselves strictly to the
matter in hand, merely uttering in curt short barks, "Two no trumps,"
"Double," "Three spades." Lady Coote and Gerald Wade were amiable and
discursive and the young man never failed to say at the conclusion
of each hand, "I say, partner, you played that simply splendidly,"
in tones of simple admiration which Lady Coote found both novel and
extremely soothing. They also held very good cards.
The others were supposed to be dancing to the wireless in the big
ballroom. In reality they were grouped around the door of Gerald Wade's
bedroom, and the air was full of subdued giggles and the loud ticking
of clocks.
"Under the bed in a row," suggested Jimmy in answer to Bill's question.
"And what shall we set them at? What time, I mean? All together so that
there's one glorious what-not, or at intervals?"
The point was hotly disputed. One party argued that for a champion
sleeper like Gerry Wade the combined ringing of eight alarum clocks was
necessary. The other party argued in favour of steady and sustained
effort.
In the end the latter won the day. The clocks were set to go off one
after the other, starting at 6:30 A.M.
"And I hope," said Bill virtuously, "that this will be a lesson to him."
"Hear, hear," said Socks.
The business of hiding the clocks was just being begun when there was a
sudden alarm.
"Hist," cried Jimmy. "Somebody's coming up the stairs."
There was a panic.
"It's all right," said Jimmy. "It's only Pongo."
Taking advantage of being dummy, Mr. Bateman was going to his room for
a handkerchief. He paused on his way and took in the situation at a
glance. He then made a comment, a simple and practical one.
"He will hear them ticking when he goes to bed."
The conspirators looked at each other.
"What did I tell you?" said Jimmy in a reverent voice. "Pongo always
_did_ have brains!"
The brainy one passed on.
"It's true," admitted Ronny Devereux, his head on one side. "Eight
clocks all ticking at once do make a devil of a row. Even old Gerry,
ass as he is, couldn't miss it. He'll guess something's up."
"I wonder if he is," said Jimmy Thesiger.
"Is what?"
"Such an ass as we all think."
Ronny stared at him.
"We all know old Gerald."
"Do we?" said Jimmy. "I've sometimes thought that--well, that it isn't
possible for anyone to be quite the ass old Gerry makes himself out to
be."
They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny's face.
"Jimmy," he said, "you've got brains."
"A second Pongo," said Bill encouragingly.
"Well, it just occurred to me, that's all," said Jimmy, defending
himself.
"Oh! don't let's all be subtle," cried Socks. "What are we to do about
these clocks?"
"Here's Pongo coming back again. Let's ask him," suggested Jimmy.
Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his
decision.
"Wait till he's gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very
quietly and put the clocks down on the floor."
"Little Pongo's right again," said Jimmy. "On the word one all park
clocks, and then we'll go downstairs and disarm suspicion."
Bridge was still proceeding--with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was
now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her
the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote
accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real
interest. She reiterated, not once but many times:
"I see, dear. It's so kind of you to tell me."
And she continued to make exactly the same errors.
At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:
"Well played, partner, jolly well played."
Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.
"Say he goes to bed about twelve--what do you think we ought to give
him--about an hour?"
He yawned.
"Curious thing--three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye,
but to-night, just because I know we've got to sit up a bit, I'd give
anything to be a mother's boy and turn in right away."
Everyone agreed that he felt the same.
"My dear Maria," rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation,
"I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are
wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table
information."
Lady Coote had a very good answer to this--namely that as Sir Oswald
was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But she
did not make it. Instead she smiled kindly, leaned her ample chest well
forward over the table, and gazed firmly into Gerald Wade's hand where
he sat on her right.
Her anxieties lulled to rest by perceiving the queen, she played the
knave and took the trick and proceeded to lay down her cards.
"Four tricks and the rubber," she announced. "I think I was very lucky
to get four tricks there."
"Lucky," murmured Gerald Wade, as he pushed back his chair and came
over to the fireplace to join the others. "Lucky, she calls it. That
woman wants watching."
Lady Coote was gathering up notes and silver.
"I know I'm not a good player," she announced in a mournful tone which
nevertheless held an undercurrent of pleasure in it. "But I'm really
very lucky at the game."
"You'll never be a bridge player, Maria," said Sir Oswald.
"No, dear," said Lady Coote. "I know I shan't. You're always telling me
so. And I do try so hard."
"She does," said Gerald Wade _sotto voce_. "There's no subterfuge about
it. She'd put her head right down on your shoulder if she couldn't see
into your hand any other way."
"I know you try," said Sir Oswald. "It's just that you haven't any card
sense."
"I know, dear," said Lady Coote. "That's what you're always telling me.
And you owe me another ten shillings, Oswald."
"Do I?" Sir Oswald looked surprised.
"Yes. Seventeen hundred--eight pounds ten. You've only given me eight
pounds."
"Dear me," said Sir Oswald. "My mistake."
Lady Coote smiled at him sadly and took up the extra ten-shilling note.
She was very fond of her husband, but she had no intention of allowing
him to cheat her out of ten shillings.
Sir Oswald moved over to a side table and became hospitable with whisky
and soda. It was half-past twelve when general good-nights were said.
Ronny Devereux, who had the room next door to Gerald Wade's, was told
off to report progress. At a quarter to two he crept round tapping at
doors. The party, pyjamaed and dressing-gowned, assembled with various
scuffles and giggles and low whispers.
"His light went out about twenty minutes ago," reported Ronny in a
hoarse whisper. "I thought he'd never put it out. I opened the door
just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?"
Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty
arose.
"We can't all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person's got to
do it and the others can hand him the what-nots from the door."
Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.
The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle.
Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and
heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he
fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered
possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of
Rupert Bateman.
"Pongo's the lad," agreed Jimmy. "Anyway, he walks like a cat--always
did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of
some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible
that'll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions."
"Something subtle," suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.
"Exactly," said Jimmy.
Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the
bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two
largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold
and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally
he emerged. Every one held his breath and listened. The rhythmical
breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered
and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr.
Murgatroyd's eight alarum clocks.
CHAPTER III
THE JOKE THAT FAILED
"Twelve o'clock," said Socks despairingly.
The joke--as a joke--had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks,
on the other hand, had performed their part. _They_ had gone off--with
a vigour and _élan_ that could hardly have been surpassed and which had
sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the
day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next
door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in
the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.
He expected profanity--expected it confidently and with intelligent
anticipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard
nothing of what he expected. The clocks were ticking all right--ticking
in a loud, arrogant, exasperating manner. And presently another went
off, ringing with a crude, deafening note that would have aroused acute
irritation in a deaf man.
There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part
faithfully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for
them. But apparently they had met their match in Gerald Wade.
The syndicate was inclined to be despondent about it.
"The lad isn't human," grumbled Jimmy Thesiger.
"Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolled
over and went to sleep again," suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).
"It seems to me very remarkable," said Rupert Bateman seriously. "I
think he ought to see a doctor about it."
"Some disease of the ear-drums," suggested Bill hopefully.
"Well, if you ask me," said Socks, "I think he's just spoofing us.
Of course they woke him up. But he's just going to do us down by
pretending that he didn't hear anything."
Every one looked at Socks with respect and admiration.
"It's an idea," said Bill.
"He's subtle, that's what it is," said Socks. "You'll see, he'll be
extra late for breakfast this morning--just to show us."
And since the clock now pointed to some minutes past twelve the general
opinion was that Socks' theory was a correct one. Only Ronny Devereux
demurred.
"You forget, I was outside the door when the first one went off.
Whatever old Gerry decided to do later, the first one must have
surprised him. He'd have let out something about it. Where did you put
it, Pongo?"
"On a little table close to his ear," said Mr. Bateman.
"That was thoughtful of you, Pongo," said Ronny. "Now, tell me." He
turned to Bill. "If a whacking great bell started ringing within a few
inches of your ear at half-past six in the morning, what would you say
about it?"
"Oh! Lord," said Bill. "I should say--" He came to a stop.
"Of course you would," said Ronny. "So should I. So would anyone. What
they call the natural man would emerge. Well, it didn't. So I say that
Pongo is right--as usual--and that Gerry has got an obscure disease of
the ear-drums."
"It's now twenty past twelve," said one of the other girls sadly.
"I say," said Jimmy slowly, "that's a bit beyond anything, isn't it? I
mean a joke's a joke. But this is carrying it a bit far. It's a shade
hard on the Cootes."
Bill stared at him.
"What are you getting at?"
"Well," said Jimmy, "somehow or other--it's not like old Gerry."
He found it hard to put into words just what he meant to say. He
didn't want to say too much, and yet--He saw Ronny looking at him.
Ronny was suddenly alert.
It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked round him
hesitatingly.
"I thought Mr. Bateman was here," he explained apologetically.
"Just gone out this minute through the window," said Ronny. "Can I do
anything?"
Tredwell's eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then back
again. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him.
Tredwell closed the dining-room door carefully behind him.
"Well," said Ronny. "What's up?"
"Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sending
Williams up to his room."
"Yes."
"Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation,
sir." Tredwell paused--a pause of preparation. "I am afraid, sir, the
poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep."
Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.
"Nonsense," cried Ronny at last. "It's--it's impossible. Gerry--" His
face worked suddenly. "I'll--I'll run up and see. That fool Williams
may have made a mistake."
Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand. With a queer, unnatural
feeling of detachment, Jimmy realized that the butler had the whole
situation in hand.
"No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr.
Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the
door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must
now find Mr. Bateman."
Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.
"Gerry," he muttered to himself.
Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered him out through a side
door on to a secluded portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to
a seat.
"Take it easy, old son," he said kindly. "You'll get your wind in a
minute."
But he looked at him rather curiously. He had had no idea that Ronny
was such a friend of Gerry Wade's.
"Poor old Gerry," he said thoughtfully. "If ever a man looked fit, he
did."
Ronny nodded.
"All that clock business seems so rotten now," went on Jimmy. "It's
odd, isn't it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?"
He was talking more or less at random, to give Ronny time to recover
himself. The other moved restlessly.
"I wish that doctor would come. I want to know--"
"Know what?"
"What he--died of."
Jimmy pursed up his lips.
"Heart?" he hazarded.
Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh.
"I say, Ronny," said Jimmy.
"Well?"
Jimmy found a difficulty in going on.
"You don't mean--you aren't thinking--I mean, you haven't got it into
your head that--that, well, I mean he wasn't biffed on the head or
anything? Tredwell's locking the door and all that."
It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny
continued to stare straight out in front of him.
Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn't see that
there was anything to do except just wait. So he waited.
It was Tredwell who disturbed them.
"The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if you
please, sir."
Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him.
Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face.
He greeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and
spectacled than ever, performed introductions.
"I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade's," the doctor said
to Ronny.
"His greatest friend."
"H'm. Well, this business seems straightforward enough. Sad, though.
He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit of
taking stuff to make him sleep?"
"Make him _sleep_?" Ronny stared. "He always slept like a top."
"You never heard him complain of sleeplessness?"
"Never."
"Well, the facts are simple enough. There'll have to be an inquest, I'm
afraid, nevertheless."
"How did he die?"
"There's not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuff
was by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are."
It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on his
friend's lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get
out.
"There's no question of--foul play?"
The doctor looked at him sharply.
"Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?"
Jimmy looked at Ronny. If Ronny knew anything, now was the time to
speak. But to his astonishment Ronny shook his head.
"No cause whatever," he said clearly.
"And suicide--eh?"
"Certainly not."
Ronny was emphatic. The doctor was not so clearly convinced.
"No troubles that you know of? Money troubles? A woman?"
Again Ronny shook his head.
"Now about his relations. They must be notified."
"He's got a sister--a half-sister rather. Lives at Deane Priory. About
twenty miles from here. When he wasn't in town Gerry lived with her."
"H'm," said the doctor. "Well, she must be told."
"I'll go," said Ronny. "It's a rotten job, but somebody's got to do
it." He looked at Jimmy. "You know her, don't you?"
"Slightly. I've danced with her once or twice."
"Then we'll go in your car. You don't mind, do you? I can't face it
alone."
"That's all right," said Jimmy reassuringly. "I was going to suggest it
myself. I'll go and get the old bus cranked up."
He was glad to have something to do. Ronny's manner puzzled him. What
did he know or suspect? And why had he not voiced his suspicions, if he
had them, to the doctor.
Presently the two friends were skimming along in Jimmy's car with a
cheerful disregard for such things as speed limits.
"Jimmy," said Ronny at last, "I suppose you're about the best pal I
have--now."
"Well," said Jimmy, "what about it?"
He spoke gruffly.
"There's something I'd like to tell you. Something you ought to know."
"About Gerry Wade?"
"Yes, about Gerry Wade."
Jimmy waited.
"Well?" he inquired at last.
"I don't know that I ought to," said Ronny.
"Why?"
"I'm bound by a kind of promise."
"Oh! Well then, perhaps you'd better not."
There was a silence.
"And yet, I'd like--You see, Jimmy, your brains are better than mine."
"They could easily be that," said Jimmy unkindly.
"No, I can't," said Ronny suddenly.
"All right," said Jimmy. "Just as you like."
After a long silence, Ronny said:
"What's she like?"
"Who?"
"This girl. Gerry's sister."
Jimmy was silent for some minutes, then he said in a voice that had
somehow or other altered:
"She's all right. In fact--well, she's a corker."
"Gerry was very devoted to her, I know. He often spoke of her."
"She was very devoted to Gerry. It--it's going to hit her hard."
"Yes, a nasty job."
They were silent till they reached Deane Priory.
Miss Loraine, the maid told them, was in the garden. Unless they wanted
to see Mrs. Coker--
Jimmy was eloquent that they did not want to see Mrs. Coker.
"Who's Mrs. Coker?" asked Ronny as they went round into the somewhat
neglected garden.
"The old trout who lives with Loraine."
They had stepped out into a paved walk. At the end of it was a girl
with two black spaniels. A small girl, very fair, dressed in shabby old
tweeds. Not at all the girl that Ronny had expected to see. Not, in
fact, Jimmy's usual type.
Holding one dog by the collar, she came down the pathway to meet them.
"How do you do," she said. "You mustn't mind Elizabeth. She's just had
some puppies and she's very suspicious."
She had a supremely natural manner and, as she looked up smiling, the
faint wild rose flush deepened in her cheeks. Her eyes were a very dark
blue--like cornflowers.
Suddenly they widened--was it with alarm? As though, already, she
guessed.
Jimmy hastened to speak.
"This is Ronny Devereux, Miss Wade. You must often have heard Gerry
speak of him."
"Oh! yes." She turned a lovely, warm, welcoming smile on him. "You've
both been staying at Chimneys, haven't you? Why didn't you bring Gerry
over with you?"
"We--er--couldn't," said Ronny, and then stopped.
Again Jimmy saw the look of fear flash into her eyes.
"Miss Wade," he said, "I'm afraid--I mean, we've got bad news for you."
She was on the alert in a moment.
"Gerry?"
"Yes--Gerry. He's--"
She stamped her foot with sudden passion.
"Oh! tell me--tell me--" She turned suddenly on Ronny. "_You'll_ tell
me."
Jimmy felt a pang of jealousy, and in that moment he knew what up to
now he had hesitated to admit to himself.
He knew why Helen and Nancy and Socks were just "girls" to him and
nothing more.
He only _half_ heard Ronny's voice saying gravely:
"Yes, Miss Wade, I'll tell you. Gerry is dead."
She had plenty of pluck. She gasped and drew back, but in a minute or
two she was asking eager, searching questions. How? When?
Ronny answered her as gently as he could.
"_Sleeping_ draught? Gerry?"
The incredulity in her voice was plain. Jimmy gave her a glance. It was
almost a glance of warning. He had a sudden feeling that Loraine in her
innocence might say too much.
In his turn he explained as gently as possible the need for an
inquest. She shuddered. She declined their offer of taking her back to
Chimneys with them, but explained she would come over later. She had a
two-seater of her own.
"But I want to be--be alone a little first," she said piteously.
"I know," said Ronny.
"That's all right," said Jimmy.
They looked at her, feeling awkward and helpless.
"Thank you both ever so much for coming."
They drove back in silence and there was something like constraint
between them.
"My God! that girl's plucky," said Ronny once.
Jimmy agreed.
"Gerry was my friend," said Ronny. "It's up to me to keep an eye on
her."
"Oh! rather. Of course."
They said no more.
On returning to Chimneys Jimmy was waylaid by a tearful Lady Coote.
"That poor boy," she kept repeating. "That poor boy."
Jimmy made all the suitable remarks he could think of.
Lady Coote told him at great length various details about the decease
of various dear friends of hers. Jimmy listened with a show of sympathy
and at last managed to detach himself without actual rudeness.
He ran lightly up the stairs. Ronny was just emerging from Gerald
Wade's room. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Jimmy.
"I've been in to see him," he said. "Are you going in?"
"I don't think so," said Jimmy, who was a healthy young man with a
natural dislike to being reminded of death.
"I think all his friends ought to."
"Oh! do you?" said Jimmy, and registered to himself an impression that
Ronny Devereux was damned odd about it all.
"Yes. It's a sign of respect."
Jimmy sighed, but gave in.
"Oh! very well," he said, and passed in, setting his teeth a little.
There were white flowers arranged on the coverlet, and the room had
been tidied and set to rights.
Jimmy gave one quick, nervous glance at the still, white face. Could
that be cherubic, pink Gerry Wade? That still peaceful figure. He
shivered.
As he turned to leave the room, his glance swept the mantelshelf and
he stopped in astonishment. The alarum clocks had been ranged along it
neatly in a row.
He went out sharply. Ronny was waiting for him.
"Looks very peaceful and all that. Rotten luck on him," mumbled Jimmy.
Then he said:
"I say, Ronny, who arranged all those clocks like that in a row?"
"How should I know? One of the servants, I suppose."
"The funny thing is," said Jimmy, "that there are seven of them, not
eight. One of them's missing. Did you notice that?"
Ronny made an inaudible sound.
"Seven instead of eight," said Jimmy, frowning. "I wonder why."
CHAPTER IV
A LETTER
"Inconsiderate, that's what I call it," said Lord Caterham.
He spoke in a gentle, plaintive voice and seemed pleased with the
adjective he had found.
"Yes, distinctly inconsiderate. I often find these self-made men
_are_ inconsiderate. Very possibly that is why they amass such large
fortunes."
He looked mournfully out over his ancestral acres, of which he had
to-day regained possession.
His daughter, Lady Eileen Brent, known to her friends and society in
general as "Bundle," laughed.
"You'll certainly never amass a large fortune," she observed dryly,
"though you didn't do so badly out of old Coote, sticking him for this
place. What was he like? Presentable?"
"One of those large men," said Lord Caterham, shuddering slightly,
"with a red square face and iron-grey hair. Powerful, you know. What
they call a forceful personality. The kind of a man you'd get if a
steam-roller were turned into a human being."
"Rather tiring?" suggested Bundle sympathetically.
"Frightfully tiring, full of all the most depressing virtues like
sobriety and punctuality. I don't know which are the worst, powerful
personalities or earnest politicians. I do so prefer the cheerful
inefficient."
"A cheerful inefficient wouldn't have been able to pay you the price
you asked for this old mausoleum," Bundle reminded him.
Lord Caterham winced.
"I wish you wouldn't use that word, Bundle. We were just getting away
from the subject."
"I don't see why you're so frightfully sensitive about it," said
Bundle. "After all, people must die somewhere."
"They needn't die in my house," said Lord Caterham.
"I don't see why not. Lots of people have. Masses of stuffy old great
grandfathers and grandmothers."
"That's different," said Lord Caterham. "Naturally I expect Brents
to die here--they don't count. But I do object to strangers. And I
especially object to inquests. The thing will become a habit soon. This
is the second. You remember all that fuss we had four years ago? For
which, by the way, I hold George Lomax entirely to blame."
"And now you're blaming poor old steam-roller Coote. I'm sure he was
quite as annoyed about it as anyone."
"Very inconsiderate," said Lord Caterham obstinately. "People who are
likely to do that sort of thing oughtn't to be asked to stay. And you
may say what you like, Bundle, I don't like inquests. I never have and
I never shall."
"Well, this wasn't the same sort of thing as the last one," said Bundle
soothingly. "I mean, it wasn't a murder."
"It might have been--from the fuss that thick-head of an inspector
made. He's never got over that business four years ago. He thinks every
death that takes place here must necessarily be a case of foul play
fraught with grave political significance. You've no idea the fuss
he made. I've been hearing about it from Tredwell. Tested everything
imaginable for fingerprints. And of course they only found the dead
man's own. The clearest case imaginable--though whether it was suicide
or accident is another matter."
"I met Gerry Wade once," said Bundle. "He was a friend of Bill's. You'd
have liked him, Father. I never saw anyone more cheerfully inefficient
than he was."
"I don't like anyone who comes and dies in my house on purpose to annoy
me," said Lord Caterham obstinately.
"But I certainly can't imagine anyone murdering him," continued Bundle.
"The idea's absurd."
"Of course it is," said Lord Caterham. "Or would be to anyone but an
ass like Inspector Raglan."
"I daresay looking for fingerprints made him feel important," said
Bundle soothingly. "Anyway, they brought it in 'Death by misadventure,'
didn't they?"
Lord Caterham acquiesced.
"They had to show some consideration for the sister's feelings."
"Was there a sister? I didn't know."
"Half-sister, I believe. She was much younger. Old Wade ran away with
her mother--he was always doing that sort of thing. No woman appealed
to him unless she belonged to another man."
"I'm glad there's one bad habit you haven't got," said Bundle.
"I've always led a very respectable God-fearing life," said Lord
Caterham. "It seems extraordinary, considering how little harm I do to
anybody, that I can't be let alone. If only--"
He stopped as Bundle made a sudden excursion through the window.
"MacDonald," called Bundle in a clear, autocratic voice.
The emperor approached. Something that might possibly have been taken
for a smile of welcome tried to express itself on his countenance, but
the natural gloom of gardeners dispelled it.
"Your ladyship?" said MacDonald.
"How are you?" said Bundle.
"I'm no verra grand," said MacDonald.
"I wanted to speak to you about the bowling green. It's shockingly
overgrown. Put someone on to it, will you?"
MacDonald shook his head dubiously.
"It would mean taking William from the lower border, m'lady."
"Damn the lower border," said Bundle. "Let him start at once. And,
MacDonald--"
"Yes, m'lady?"
"Let's have some of those grapes in from the far house. I know it's the
wrong time to cut them because it always is, but I want them all the
same. See?"
Bundle re-entered the library.
"Sorry, Father," she said, "I wanted to catch MacDonald. Were you
speaking?"
"As a matter of fact I was," said Lord Caterham. "But it doesn't
matter. What were you saying to MacDonald?"
"Trying to cure him of thinking he's God Almighty. But that's an
impossible task. I expect the Cootes have been bad for him. MacDonald
wouldn't care one hoot, or even two hoots for the largest steam-roller
that ever was. What's Lady Coote like?"
Lord Caterham considered the question.
"Very like my idea of Mrs. Siddons," he said at last. "I should think
she went in a lot for amateur theatricals. I gather she was very upset
about the clock business."
"What clock business?"
"Tredwell has just been telling me. It seems the house-party had some
joke on. They bought a lot of alarum clocks and hid them about this
young Wade's room. And then, of course, the poor chap was dead. Which
made the whole thing rather beastly."
Bundle nodded.
"Tredwell told me something else rather odd about the clocks,"
continued Lord Caterham, who was now quite enjoying himself. "It
seems that somebody collected them all and put them in a row on the
mantelpiece after the poor fellow was dead."
"Well, why not?" said Bundle.
"I don't see why not myself," said Lord Caterham. "But apparently there
was some fuss about it. No one would own up to having done it, you see.
All the servants were questioned and swore they hadn't touched the
beastly things. In fact, it was rather a mystery. And then the coroner
asked questions at the inquest, and you know how difficult it is to
explain things to people of that class."
"Perfectly foul," agreed Bundle.
"Of course," said Lord Caterham, "it's very difficult to get the hang
of things afterwards. I didn't quite see the point of half the things
Tredwell told me. By the way, Bundle, the fellow died in your room."
Bundle made a grimace.
"Why need people die in my room?" she asked with some indignation.
"That's just what I've been saying," said Lord Caterham, in triumph.
"Inconsiderate. Everybody's damned inconsiderate nowadays."
"Not that I mind," said Bundle valiantly. "Why should I?"
"I should," said her father. "I should mind very much. I should dream
things, you know--spectral hands and clanking chains."
"Well," said Bundle, "Great Aunt Louisa died in _your_ bed. I wonder
you don't see her spook hovering over you."
"I do sometimes," said Lord Caterham, shuddering. "Especially after
lobster."
"Well, thank heavens I'm not superstitious," declared Bundle.
Yet that evening, as she sat in front of her bedroom fire, a slim,
pyjamaed figure, she found her thoughts reverting to that cheery,
vacuous young man, Gerry Wade. Impossible to believe that anyone so
full of the joy of living could deliberately have committed suicide.
No, the other solution must be the right one. He had taken a sleeping
draught and by a pure mistake had swallowed an overdose. That _was_
possible. She did not fancy that Gerry Wade had been overburdened in an
intellectual capacity.
Her gaze shifted to the mantelpiece and she began thinking about the
story of the clocks. Her maid had been full of that, having just been
primed by the second housemaid. She had added a detail which apparently
Tredwell had not thought worth while retailing to Lord Caterham, but
which had piqued Bundle's curiosity.
Seven clocks had been neatly ranged on the mantelpiece; the last
and remaining one had been found on the lawn outside, where it had
obviously been thrown from the window.
Bundle puzzled over that point now. It seemed such an extraordinarily
purposeless thing to do. She could imagine that one of the maids might
have tidied the clocks and then, frightened by the inquisition into the
matter, have denied doing so. But surely no maid would have thrown a
clock into the garden.
Had Gerry Wade done so when its first sharp summons woke him? But no;
that again was impossible. Bundle remembered hearing that his death
must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, and he would
have been in a comatose condition for some time before that.
Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks was curious. She must get
hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew.
To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the
writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back.
Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and
wrote.
DEAR BILL,--
She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk. It had stuck
half-way, as she remembered it often did. Bundle tugged at it
impatiently but it did not move. She recalled that on a former occasion
an envelope had been pushed back with it and had jammed it for the time
being. She took a thin paperknife and slipped it into the narrow crack.
She was so far successful that a corner of white paper showed. Bundle
caught hold of it and drew it out. It was the first sheet of a letter,
somewhat crumpled.
It was the date that first caught Bundle's eye. A big flourishing date
that leaped out from the paper. Sept. 21st.
"September 21st," said Bundle slowly. "Why, surely that was--"
She broke off. Yes, she was sure of it. The 22nd was the day Gerry Wade
was found dead. This, then, was a letter he must have been writing on
the very evening of the tragedy.
Bundle smoothed it out and read it. It was unfinished.
"MY DARLING LORAINE,--I will be down on Wednesday. Am feeling
awfully fit and rather pleased with myself all round. It will be
heavenly to see you. Look here, do forget what I said about that
Seven Dials business. I thought it was going to be more or less of
a joke, but it isn't--anything but. I'm sorry I ever said anything
about it--it's not the kind of business kids like you ought to be
mixed up in. So forget about it, see?
"Something else I wanted to tell you--but I'm so sleepy I can't
keep my eyes open.
"Oh, about Lurcher; I think--"
Here the letter broke off.
Bundle sat frowning. Seven Dials. Where was that? Some rather slummy
district of London, she fancied. The words Seven Dials reminded her of
something else, but for the moment she couldn't think of what. Instead
her attention fastened on two phrases. "Am feeling awfully fit ..." and
"I'm so sleepy I can't keep my eyes open."
That didn't fit in. That didn't fit in at all. For it was that very
night that Gerry Wade had taken such a heavy dose of chloral that he
never woke again. And if what he had written in that letter was true,
why should he have taken it?
Bundle shook her head. She looked round the room and gave a slight
shiver. Supposing Gerry Wade were watching her now. In this room he had
died...
She sat very still. The silence was unbroken save for the ticking of
her little gold clock. That sounded unnaturally loud and important.
Bundle glanced towards the mantelpiece. A vivid picture rose before her
mind's eye. The dead man lying on the bed, and seven clocks ticking on
the mantelpiece--ticking loudly, ominously ... ticking ... ticking....
CHAPTER V
THE MAN IN THE ROAD
"Father," said Bundle, opening the door of Lord Caterham's special
sanctum and putting her head in, "I'm going up to town in the Hispano.
I can't stand the monotony down here any longer."
"We only got home yesterday," complained Lord Caterham.
"I know. It seems like a hundred years. I'd forgotten how dull the
country could be."
"I don't agree with you," said Lord Caterham. "It's peaceful, that's
what it is--peaceful. And extremely comfortable. I appreciate getting
back to Tredwell more than I can tell you. That man studies my comfort
in the most marvellous manner. Somebody came round only this morning to
know if they could hold a tally for girl guides here--"
"A rally," interrupted Bundle.
"Rally or tally--it's all the same. Some silly word meaning nothing
whatever. But it would have put me in a very awkward position--having
to refuse--in fact, I probably shouldn't have refused. But Tredwell got
me out of it. I've forgotten what he said--something damned ingenious
which couldn't hurt anybody's feelings and which knocked the idea on
the head absolutely."
"Being comfortable isn't enough for me," said Bundle. "I want
excitement."
Lord Caterham shuddered.
"Didn't we have enough excitement four years ago?" he demanded
plaintively.
"I'm about ready for some more," said Bundle. "Not that I expect I
shall find any in town. But at any rate I shan't dislocate my jaw with
yawning."
"In my experience," said Lord Caterham, "people who go about looking
for trouble usually find it." He yawned. "All the same," he added, "I
wouldn't mind running up to town myself."
"Well, come on," said Bundle. "But be quick, because I'm in a hurry."
Lord Caterham, who had begun to rise from his chair, paused.
"Did you say you were in a hurry?" he asked suspiciously.
"In the devil of a hurry," said Bundle.
"That settles it," said Lord Caterham. "I'm not coming. To be driven
by you in the Hispano when you're in a hurry--no, it's not fair on any
elderly man. I shall stay here."
"Please yourself," said Bundle, and withdrew.
Tredwell took her place.
"The vicar, my lord, is most anxious to see you, some unfortunate
controversy having arisen about the status of the Boys' Brigade."
Lord Caterham groaned.
"I rather fancied, my lord, that I had heard you mention at breakfast
that you were strolling down to the village this morning to converse
with the vicar on the subject."
"Did you tell him so?" asked Lord Caterham eagerly.
"I did, my lord. He departed, if I may say so, hot-foot. I hope I did
right, my lord?"
"Of course you did, Tredwell. You are always right. You couldn't go
wrong if you tried."
Tredwell smiled benignly and withdrew.
Bundle, meanwhile, was sounding the Klaxon impatiently before the lodge
gates, while a small child came hastening out with all speed from the
lodge, admonishment from her mother following her.
"Make haste, Katie. That be her ladyship in a mortal hurry as always."
It was indeed characteristic of Bundle to be in a hurry, especially
when driving a car. She had skill and nerve and was a good driver; had
it been otherwise her reckless pace would have ended in disaster more
than once.
It was a crisp October day, with a blue sky and a dazzling sun. The
sharp tang of the air brought the blood to Bundle's cheeks and filled
her with the zest of living.
She had that morning sent Gerald Wade's unfinished letter to Loraine
Wade at Deane Priory, enclosing a few explanatory lines. The curious
impression it had made upon her was somewhat dimmed in the daylight,
yet it still struck her as needing explanation. She intended to get
hold of Bill Eversleigh sometime and extract from him fuller details
of the house-party which had ended so tragically. In the meantime, it
was a lovely morning and she felt particularly well and the Hispano was
running like a dream.
Bundle pressed her foot down on the accelerator and the Hispano
responded at once. Mile after mile vanished, traffic stops were few and
far between and Bundle had a clear stretch of road in front of her.
And then, without any warning whatever, a man reeled out of the
hedge and on to the road right in front of the car. To stop in time
was out of the question. With all her might Bundle wrenched at the
steering wheel and swerved out to the right. The car was nearly in the
ditch--nearly, but not quite. It was a dangerous manoeuvre, but it
succeeded. Bundle was almost certain that she had missed the man.
She looked back and felt a sickening sensation in the middle of her
anatomy. The car had not passed over the man, but nevertheless it must
have struck him in passing. He was lying face downwards on the road,
and he lay ominously still.
Bundle jumped out and ran back. She had never yet run over anything
more important than a stray hen. The fact that the accident was hardly
her fault did not weigh with her at the minute. The man had seemed
drunk, but drunk or not, she had killed him. She was quite sure she
had killed him. Her heart beat sickeningly in great pounding thumps,
sounding right up in her ears.
She knelt down by the prone figure and turned him very gingerly over.
He neither groaned nor moaned. He was young, she saw, rather a
pleasant-faced young man, well dressed and wearing a small toothbrush
moustache.
There was no external mark of injury that she could see, but she was
quite positive that he was either dead or dying. His eyelids flickered
and the eyes half opened. Piteous eyes, brown and suffering, like a
dog's. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Bundle bent right over.
"Yes," she said. "Yes?"
There was something he wanted to say, she could see that. Wanted to say
badly. And she couldn't help him, couldn't do anything.
At last the words came, a mere sighing breath:
"_Seven Dials_ ... tell...."
"Yes," said Bundle again. It was a name he was trying to get
out--trying with all his failing strength. "Yes. Who am I to tell?"
"_Tell_ ... _Jimmy Thesiger_...." He got it out at last, and then
suddenly, his head fell back and his body went limp.
Bundle sat back on her heels, shivering from head to foot. She could
never have imagined that anything so awful could have happened to her.
He was dead--and she had killed him.
She tried to pull herself together. What must she do now? A
doctor--that was her first thought. It was possible--just
possible--that the man might only be unconscious, not dead. Her
instinct cried out against the possibility, but she forced herself to
act upon it. Somehow or other she must get him into the car and take
him to the nearest doctor's. It was a deserted stretch of country road
and there was no one to help her.
Bundle, for all her slimness, was strong. She had muscles of whipcord.
She brought the Hispano as close as possible, and then, exerting all
her strength, she dragged and pulled the inanimate figure into it. It
was a horrid business, and one that made her set her teeth, but at last
she managed it.
Then she jumped into the driver's seat and started off. A couple of
miles brought her into a small town and on inquiry she was quickly
directed to the doctor's house.
Dr. Cassell, a kindly, middle-aged man, was startled to come into
his surgery and find a girl there who was evidently on the verge of
collapse.
Bundle spoke abruptly.
"I--I think I've killed a man. I ran over him. I brought him along in
the car. He's outside now. I--I was driving too fast, I suppose. I've
always driven too fast."
The doctor cast a practised glance over her. He stepped over to a shelf
and poured something into a glass. He brought it over to her.
"Drink this down," he said, "and you'll feel better. You've had a
shock."
Bundle drank obediently and a tinge of colour came into her pallid
face. The doctor nodded approvingly.
"That's right. Now I want you to sit quietly here. I'll go out and
attend to things. After I've made sure there's nothing to be done for
the poor fellow, I'll come back and we'll talk about it."
He was away some time. Bundle watched the clock on the mantelpiece.
Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes--would
he never come?
Then the door opened and Dr. Cassell reappeared. He looked
different--Bundle noticed that at once--grimmer and at the same time
more alert. There was something else in his manner that she did not
quite understand, a suggestion of repressed excitement.
"Now then, young lady," he said, "let's have this out. You ran over
this man, you say. Tell me just how the accident happened?"
Bundle explained to the best of her ability. The doctor followed her
narrative with keen attention.
"Just so; the car didn't pass over his body?"
"No. In fact, I thought I'd missed him altogether."
"He was reeling, you say?"
"Yes, I thought he was drunk."
"And he came from the hedge?"
"There was a gate just there, I think. He must have come through the
gate."
The doctor nodded, then he leaned back in his chair and removed his
pince-nez.
"I've no doubt at all," he said, "that you're a very reckless driver,
and that you'll probably run over some poor fellow and do for him one
of these days--but you haven't done it this time."
"But--"
"The car never touched him. _This man was shot._"
CHAPTER VI
SEVEN DIALS AGAIN
Bundle stared at him. And very slowly the world, which for the last
three quarters of an hour had been upside down, shifted till it stood
once more the right way up. It was quite two minutes before Bundle
spoke, but when she did it was no longer the panic-stricken girl but
the real Bundle, cool, efficient, and logical.
"How could he be shot?" she said.
"I don't know how he could," said the doctor dryly. "But he was. He's
got a rifle bullet in him all right. He bled internally, that's why you
didn't notice anything."
Bundle nodded.
"The question is," the doctor continued, "Who shot him? You saw nobody
about?"
Bundle shook her head.
"It's odd," said the doctor. "If it was an accident, you'd expect
the fellow who did it would come running to the rescue--unless just
possibly he didn't know what he'd done."
"There was no one about," said Bundle. "On the road, that is."
"It seems to me," said the doctor, "that the poor lad must have been
running--the bullet got him just as he passed through the gate and he
came reeling on to the road in consequence. You didn't hear a shot?"
Bundle shook her head.
"But I probably shouldn't anyway," she said, "with the noise of the
car."
"Just so. He didn't say anything before he died?"
"He muttered a few words."
"Nothing to throw light on the tragedy?"
"No. He wanted something--I don't know what--told to a friend of his.
Oh! yes, and he mentioned Seven Dials."
"H'm," said Doctor Cassell. "Not a likely neighborhood for one of his
class. Perhaps his assailant came from there. Well, we needn't worry
about that now. You can leave it in my hands. I'll notify the police.
You must, of course, leave your name and address, as the police are
sure to want to question you. In fact, perhaps you'd better come round
to the police station with me now. They might say I ought to have
detained you."
They went together in Bundle's car. The police inspector was a
slow-speaking man. He was somewhat overawed by Bundle's name and
address when she gave it to him, and he took down her statement with
great care.
"Lads!" he said. "That's what it is. Lads practising! Cruel stupid,
them young varmints are. Always loosing off at birds with no
consideration for anyone as may be the other side of a hedge."
The doctor thought it a most unlikely solution, but he realized that
the case would soon be in abler hands and it did not seem worth while
to make objections.
"Name of deceased?" asked the sergeant, moistening his pencil.
"He had a cardcase on him. He appears to have been a Mr. Ronald
Devereux, with an address in the Albany."
Bundle frowned. The name Ronald Devereux awoke some chord of
remembrance. She was sure she had heard it before.
It was not until she was half-way back to Chimneys in the car that it
came to her. Of course! Ronny Devereux. Bill's friend in the Foreign
Office. He and Bill and--yes--Gerald Wade.
As this last realisation came to her, Bundle nearly went into the
hedge. First Gerald Wade--then Ronny Devereux. Gerry Wade's death might
have been natural--the result of carelessness--but Ronny Devereux's
surely bore a more sinister interpretation.
And then Bundle remembered something else. Seven Dials! When the
dying man had said it, it had seemed vaguely familiar. Now she knew
why. Gerald Wade had mentioned Seven Dials in that last letter of his
written to his sister on the night before his death. And that again
connected up with something else that escaped her.
Thinking all these things over, Bundle had slowed down to such a sober
pace that nobody would have recognised her. She drove the car round to
the garage and went in search of her father.
Lord Caterham was happily reading a catalogue of a forthcoming sale of
rare editions and was immeasurably astonished to see Bundle.
"Even you," he said, "can't have been to London and back in this time."
"I haven't been to London," said Bundle. "I ran over a man."
"What?"
"Only I didn't really. He was shot."
"How could he have been?"
"I don't know how he could have been, but he was."
"But why did you shoot him?"
"I didn't shoot him."
"You shouldn't shoot people," said Lord Caterham in a tone of mild
remonstrance. "You shouldn't really. I daresay some of them richly
deserve it--but all the same it will lead to trouble."
"I tell you I didn't shoot him."
"Well, who did?"
"Nobody knows," said Bundle.
"Nonsense," said Lord Caterham. "A man can't be shot and run over
without anyone having done it."
"He wasn't run over," said Bundle.
"I thought you said he was."
"I said I thought I had."
"A tyre burst, I suppose," said Lord Caterham. "That does sound like a
shot. It says so in detective stories."
"You really are perfectly impossible, Father. You don't seem to have
the brains of a rabbit."
"Not at all," said Lord Caterham. "You come in with a wildly impossible
tale about men being run over and shot and I don't know what, and then
you expect me to know all about it by magic."
Bundle sighed wearily.
"Just attend," she said. "I'll tell you all about it in words of one
syllable."
"There," she said when she had concluded. "Now have you got it?"
"Of course. I understand perfectly now. I can make allowances for your
being a little upset, my dear. I was not far wrong when I remarked to
you before starting out that people looking for trouble usually found
it. I am thankful," finished Lord Caterham with a slight shiver, "that
I stayed quietly here."
He picked up the catalogue again.
"Father, where is Seven Dials?"
"In the East End somewhere, I fancy. I have frequently observed buses
going there--or do I mean Seven Sisters? I have never been there
myself, I am thankful to say. Just as well, because I don't fancy it is
the sort of spot I should like. And yet, curiously enough, I seem to
have heard of it in some connection just lately."
"You don't know a Jimmy Thesiger, do you?"
Lord Caterham was now engrossed in his catalogue once more. He had made
an effort to be intelligent on the subject of Seven Dials. This time he
made hardly any effort at all.
"Thesiger," he murmured vaguely. "Thesiger. One of the Yorkshire
Thesigers?"
"That's what I'm asking you. Do attend, Father. This is important."
Lord Caterham made a desperate effort to look intelligent without
really having to give his mind to the matter.
"There _are_ some Yorkshire Thesigers," he said earnestly. "And unless
I am mistaken some Devonshire Thesigers also. Your Great Aunt Selina
married a Thesiger."
"What good is that to me?" cried Bundle.
Lord Caterham chuckled.
"It was very little good to her, if I remember rightly."
"You're impossible," said Bundle, rising. "I shall have to get hold of
Bill."
"Do, dear," said her father absently as he turned a page. "Certainly.
By all means. Quite so."
Bundle rose to her feet with an impatient sigh.
"I wish I could remember what that letter said," she murmured more to
herself than aloud. "I didn't read it very carefully. Something about a
joke--that the Seven Dials business wasn't a joke."
Lord Caterham emerged suddenly from his catalogue.
"Seven Dials?" he said. "Of course. I've got it now."
"Got what?"
"I know why it sounded so familiar. George Lomax has been over.
Tredwell failed for once and let him in. He was on his way up to town.
It seems he's having some political party at the Abbey next week and he
got a warning letter."
"What do you mean by a warning letter?"
"Well, I don't really know. He didn't go into details. I gather it
said 'Beware' and 'Trouble is at hand,' and all those sort of things.
But anyway it was written from Seven Dials, I distinctly remember his
saying so. He was going up to town to consult Scotland Yard about it.
You know George?"
Bundle nodded. She was well acquainted with that public-spirited
Cabinet Minister, George Lomax, His Majesty's permanent Under Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs, who was shunned by many because of his
inveterate habit of quoting from his public speeches in private. In
allusion to his bulging eyeballs, he was known to many--Bill Eversleigh
among others--as Codders.
"Tell me," she said, "was Codders interested at all in Gerald Wade's
death?"
"Not that I ever heard of. He may have been, of course."
Bundle said nothing for some minutes. She was busily engaged in trying
to remember the exact wording of the letter she had sent on to Loraine
Wade, and at the same time she was trying to picture the girl to whom
it had been written. What sort of a girl was this to whom, apparently,
Gerald Wade was so devoted? The more she thought over it, the more it
seemed to her that it was an unusual letter for a brother to write.
"Did you say the Wade girl was Gerry's half-sister?" she asked suddenly.
"Well, of course, strictly speaking, I suppose she isn't--wasn't, I
mean--his sister at all."
"But her name's Wade?"
"Not really. She wasn't old Wade's child. As I was saying, he ran
away with his second wife, who was married to a perfect blackguard. I
suppose the Courts gave the rascally husband the custody of the child,
but he certainly didn't avail himself of the privilege. Old Wade got
very fond of the child and insisted that she should be called by his
name."
"I see," said Bundle. "That explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Something that puzzled me about that letter."
"She's rather a pretty girl, I believe," said Lord Caterham. "Or so
I've heard."
Bundle went upstairs thoughtfully. She had several objects in view.
First she must find this Jimmy Thesiger. Bill, perhaps, would be
helpful there. Ronny Devereux had been a friend of Bill's. If Jimmy
Thesiger was a friend of Ronny's, the chances were that Bill would know
him too. Then there was the girl, Loraine Wade. It was possible that
she could throw some light on the problem of Seven Dials. Evidently
Gerry Wade had said something to her about it. His anxiety that she
should forget the fact had a sinister suggestion.
CHAPTER VII
BUNDLE PAYS A CALL
Getting hold of Bill presented few difficulties. Bundle motored up
to town on the following morning--this time without adventures by
the way--and rang him up. Bill responded with alacrity, and made
various suggestions as to lunch, tea, dinner and dancing. All of which
suggestions Bundle turned down as made.
"In a day or two, I'll come and frivol with you, Bill. But for the
moment I'm up on business."
"Oh," said Bill. "What a beastly bore."
"It's not that kind," said Bundle. "It's anything but boring. Bill, do
you know anyone called Jimmy Thesiger."
"Of course. So do you."
"No, I don't," said Bundle.
"Yes, you do. You must. Everyone knows old Jimmy."
"Sorry," said Bundle. "Just for once I don't seem to be everyone."
"Oh! but you must know Jimmy--pink-faced chap. Looks a bit of an ass.
But really he's got as many brains as I have."
"You don't say so," said Bundle. "He must feel a bit top heavy when he
walks about."
"Was that meant for sarcasm?"
"It was a feeble effort at it. What does Jimmy Thesiger do?"
"How do you mean, what does he do?"
"Does being at the Foreign Office prevent you from understanding your
native language?"
"Oh! I see, you mean, has he got a job? No, he just tools around. Why
should he do anything?"
"In fact, more money than brains?"
"Oh! I wouldn't say that. I told you just now that he had more brains
than you'd think."
Bundle was silent. She was feeling more and more doubtful. This gilded
youth did not sound a very promising ally. And yet it was his name that
had come first to the dying man's lips. Bill's voice chimed in suddenly
with singular appropriateness.
"Ronny always thought a lot of his brains. You know, Ronny Devereux.
Thesiger was his greatest pal."
"Ronny--"
Bundle stopped, undecided. Clearly Bill knew nothing of the other's
death. It occurred to Bundle for the first time that it was odd the
morning papers had contained nothing of the tragedy. Surely it was the
kind of spicy item of news that would never be passed over. There could
be one explanation, and one explanation only. The police, for reasons
of their own, were keeping the matter quiet.
Bill's voice was continuing.
"I haven't seen Ronny for an age--not since that week-end down at your
place. You know, when poor old Gerry Wade passed out."
He paused and then went on.
"Rather a foul business that altogether. I expect you've heard about
it. I say, Bundle--are you there still?"
"Of course I'm here."
"Well, you haven't said anything for an age. I began to think that you
had gone away."
"No, I was just thinking over something."
Should she tell Bill of Ronny's death? She decided against it--it was
not the sort of thing to be said over the telephone. But soon, very
soon, she must have a meeting with Bill. In the meantime--
"Bill?"
"Hullo."
"I might dine with you to-morrow night."
"Good, and we'll dance afterwards. I've got a lot to talk to you
about. As a matter of fact I've been rather hard hit--the foulest
luck--"
"Well, tell me about it to-morrow," said Bundle, cutting him short
rather unkindly. "In the meantime, what is Jimmy Thesiger's address?"
"Jimmy Thesiger?"
"That's what I said."
"He's got rooms in Jermyn Street--do I mean Jermyn Street or the other
one?"
"Bring that class A brain to bear upon it."
"Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I'll give you the number."
There was a pause.
"Are you there still?"
"I'm always there."
"Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103.
Got it?"
"103. Thank you, Bill."
"Yes, but I say--what do you want it for? You said you didn't know him."
"I don't, but I shall in half an hour."
"You're going round to his rooms?"
"Quite right, Sherlock."
"Yes, but I say--well, for one thing he won't be up."
"Won't be up?"
"I shouldn't think so. I mean, who would if they hadn't got to? Look at
it that way. You've no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at
eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I'm behind time is
simply appalling. You haven't the least idea, Bundle, what a dog's life
this is--"
"You shall tell me all about it to-morrow night," said Bundle hastily.
She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First
she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve.
Despite Bill's knowledge of his friend's habits, she inclined to the
belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive
visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street.
The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman's
gentleman. His face, expressionless and polite, was such a face as may
be found by the score in that particular district of London.
"Will you come this way, madam?"
He ushered her upstairs into an extremely comfortable sitting-room
containing leather covered arm-chairs of immense dimensions. Sunk
in one of those monstrosities was another girl, rather younger than
Bundle. A small, fair girl, dressed in black.
"What name shall I say, madam?"
"I won't give any name," said Bundle. "I just want to see Mr. Thesiger
on important business."
The grave gentleman bowed and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly
behind him.
There was a pause.
"It's a nice morning," said the fair girl timidly.
"It's an awfully nice morning," agreed Bundle.
There was another pause.
"I motored up from the country this morning," said Bundle, plunging
once more into speech. "And I thought it was going to be one of those
foul fogs. But it wasn't."
"No," said the other girl. "It wasn't." And she added: "I've come up
from the country too."
Bundle eyed her more attentively. She had been slightly annoyed at
finding the other there. Bundle belonged to the energetic order of
people who like "to get on with it," and she foresaw that the second
visitor would have to be disposed of and got rid of before she could
broach her own business. It was not a topic she could introduce before
a stranger.
Now, as she looked more closely, an extraordinary idea rose in her
brain. Could it be? Yes, the girl was in deep mourning; her black,
silk-clad ankles showed that. It was a long shot, but Bundle was
convinced that her idea was right. She drew a long breath.
"Look here," she said. "Are you by any chance Loraine Wade?"
Loraine's eyes opened wide.
"Yes, I am. How clever of you to know. We've never met, have we?"
Bundle shook her head.
"I wrote to you yesterday, though. I'm Bundle Brent."
"It was so very kind of you to send me Gerry's letter," said Loraine.
"I've written to thank you. I never expected to see you here."
"I'll tell you why I'm here," said Bundle. "Did you know Ronny
Devereux?"
Loraine nodded.
"He came over the day that Gerry--you know. And he's been to see me two
or three times since. He was one of Gerry's greatest friends."
"I know. Well--he's dead."
Loraine's lips parted in surprise.
"_Dead!_ But he always seemed so fit."
Bundle narrated the events of the preceding day as briefly as possible.
A look of fear and horror came into Loraine's face.
"Then it _is_ true. It _is_ true."
"What's true?"
"What I've thought--what I've been thinking all these weeks. Gerald
didn't die a natural death. He was killed."
"You've thought that, have you?"
"Yes. Gerry would never have taken things to make him sleep." She gave
the little ghost of a laugh. "He slept much too well to need them. I
always thought it queer. And _he_ thought so too--I know he did."
"Who?"
"Ronny. And now this happens. Now he's killed too." She paused and then
went on: "That's what I came for to-day. That letter of Gerry's you
sent me--as soon as I read it, I tried to get hold of Ronny, but they
said he was away. So I thought I'd come and see Jimmy--he was Ronny's
other great friend. I thought perhaps he'd tell me what I ought to do."
"You mean--" Bundle paused. "About--Seven Dials."
Loraine nodded.
"You see--" she began.
But at that moment Jimmy Thesiger entered the room.
CHAPTER VIII
VISITORS FOR JIMMY
We must at this point go back to some twenty minutes earlier. To a
moment when Jimmy Thesiger, emerging from the mists of sleep, was
conscious of a familiar voice speaking unfamiliar words.
His sleep-ridden brain tried for a moment to cope with the situation,
but failed. He yawned and rolled over again.
"A young lady, sir, has called to see you."
The voice was implacable. So prepared was it to go on repeating the
statement indefinitely that Jimmy resigned himself to the inevitable.
He opened his eyes and blinked.
"Eh, Stevens?" he said. "Say that again."
"A young lady, sir, has called to see you."
"Oh!" Jimmy strove to grasp the situation. "Why?"
"I couldn't say, sir."
"No, I suppose not. No," he thought it over. "I suppose you couldn't."
Stevens swooped down upon a tray by the bedside.
"I will bring you some fresh tea, sir. This is cold."
"You think that I ought to get up and--er--see the lady?"
Stevens made no reply, but he held his back very stiff and Jimmy read
the signs correctly.
"Oh! very well," he said. "I suppose I'd better. She didn't give her
name?"
"No, sir."
"H'm. She couldn't be by any possible chance my Aunt Jemima, could
she? Because if so, I'm damned if I'm going to get up."
"The lady, sir, could not possibly be anyone's aunt, I should say,
unless the youngest of a large family."
"Aha," said Jimmy. "Young and lovely. Is she--what kind is she?"
"The young lady, sir, is most undoubtedly strictly _comme il faut_, if
I may use the expression."
"You may use it," said Jimmy graciously. "Your French pronunciation,
Stevens, if I may say so, is very good. Much better than mine."
"I am gratified to hear it, sir. I have lately been taking a
correspondence course in French."
"Have you really? You're a wonderful chap, Stevens."
Stevens smiled in a superior fashion and left the room. Jimmy lay
trying to recall the names of any young and lovely girls strictly
_comme il faut_ who might be likely to come and call upon him.
Stevens re-entered with fresh tea, and as Jimmy sipped it he felt a
pleasurable curiosity.
"You've given her the paper and all that, I hope, Stevens," he said.
"I supplied her with the _Morning Post_ and _Punch_, sir."
A ring at the bell took him away. In a few minutes he returned.
"Another young lady, sir."
"What?"
Jimmy clutched his head.
"Another young lady; she declines to give her name, sir, but says her
business is important."
Jimmy stared at him.
"This is damned odd, Stevens. Damned odd. Look here, what time did I
come home last night?"
"Just upon five o'clock, sir."
"And was I--er--how was I?"
"Just a little cheerful, sir--nothing more. Inclined to sing 'Rule
Britannia.'"
"What an extraordinary thing," said Jimmy. "'Rule Britannia,'
eh? I cannot imagine myself in a sober state ever singing 'Rule
Britannia.' Some latent patriotism must have emerged under the stimulus
of--er--just a couple too many. I was celebrating at the 'Mustard and
Cress,' I remember. Not nearly such an innocent spot as it sounds,
Stevens." He paused. "I was wondering--"
"Yes, sir?"
"I was wondering whether under the aforementioned stimulus I had put
an advertisement in a newspaper asking for a nursery governess or
something of that sort."
Stevens coughed.
"_Two_ girls turning up. It looks odd. I shall eschew the 'Mustard and
Cress' in future. That's a good word, Stevens--_eschew_--I met it in a
cross-word the other day and took a fancy to it."
Whilst he was talking Jimmy was rapidly apparelling himself. At the
end of ten minutes he was ready to face his unknown guests. As he
opened the door of his sitting-room the first person he saw was a dark,
slim girl who was totally unknown to him. She was standing by the
mantelpiece, leaning against it. Then his glance went on to the big
leather covered arm-chair, and his heart missed a beat. Loraine!
It was she who rose and spoke first a little nervously.
"You must be very surprised to see me. But I had to come. I'll explain
in a minute. This is Lady Eileen Brent."
"Bundle--that's what I'm usually known as. You've probably heard of me
from Bill Eversleigh."
"Oh! rather, of course I have," said Jimmy, endeavouring to cope
with the situation. "I say, do sit down and let's have a cocktail or
something."
But both girls declined.
"As a matter of fact," continued Jimmy, "I'm only just out of bed."
"That's what Bill said," remarked Bundle. "I told him I was coming
round to see you, and he said you wouldn't be up."
"Well, I'm up now," said Jimmy encouragingly.
"It's about Gerry," said Loraine. "And now about Ronny--"
"What do you mean by 'and now about Ronny'?"
"He was shot yesterday."
"What?" cried Jimmy.
Bundle told her story for the second time. Jimmy listened like a man in
a dream.
"Old Ronny--shot," he murmured. "What _is_ this damned business?"
He sat down on the edge of a chair, thinking for a minute or two, and
then spoke in a quiet, level voice.
"There's something I think I ought to tell you."
"Yes," said Bundle encouragingly.
"It was on the day Gerry Wade died. On the way over to break the news
to _you_"--he nodded at Loraine--"in the car Ronny said something
to me. That is to say, he started to tell me something. There was
something he wanted to tell me, and he began about it, and then he said
he was bound by a promise and couldn't go on."
"Bound by a promise," said Loraine thoughtfully.
"That's what he said. Naturally I didn't press him after that. But he
was odd--darned odd--all through. I got the impression then that he
suspected--well, foul play. I thought he'd tell the doctor so. But no,
not even a hint. So I thought I'd been mistaken. And afterwards, with
the evidence and all--well, it seemed such a very clear case. I thought
my suspicions had been all bosh."
"But you think Ronny still suspected?" asked Bundle.
Jimmy nodded.
"That's what I think now. Why, none of us have seen anything of him
since. I believe he was playing a lone hand--trying to find out the
truth about Gerry's death, and what's more, I believe he _did_ find
out. That's why the devils shot him. And then he tried to send word to
me, but could only get out those two words."
"Seven Dials," said Bundle, and shivered a little.
"Seven Dials," said Jimmy gravely. "At any rate we've got that to go on
with."
Bundle turned to Loraine.
"You were just going to tell me--"
"Oh! yes. First, about the letter." She spoke to Jimmy.
"Gerry left a letter. Lady Eileen--"
"Bundle."
"Bundle found it." She explained the circumstances in a few words.
Jimmy listened, keenly interested. This was the first he had heard of
the letter. Loraine took it from her bag and handed it to him. He read
it, then looked across at her.
"This is where you can help us. What was it Gerry wanted you to forget?"
Loraine's brows wrinkled a little in perplexity.
"It's so hard to remember exactly now. I opened a letter of Gerry's by
mistake. It was written on cheap sort of paper, I remember, and very
illiterate handwriting. It had some address in Seven Dials at the head
of it. I realized it wasn't for me, so I put it back in the envelope
without reading it."
"Sure?" asked Jimmy very gently.
Loraine laughed for the first time.
"I know what you think, and I admit that women are curious. But, you
see, this didn't even look interesting. It was a kind of list of names
and dates."
"Names and dates," said Jimmy thoughtfully.
"Gerry didn't seem to mind much," continued Loraine. "He laughed. He
asked me if I had ever heard of the Mafia, and then said it would be
queer if a society like the Mafia started in England--but that that
kind of secret society didn't take on much with English people. 'Our
criminals,' he said, 'haven't got a picturesque imagination.'"
Jimmy pursed up his lips into a whistle.
"I'm beginning to see," he said. "Seven Dials must be the headquarters
of some secret society. As he says in his letter to you, he thought
it rather a joke to start with. But evidently it wasn't a joke--he
says as much. And there's something else: his anxiety that you should
forget what he'd told you. There can be only one reason for that--if
that society suspected that you had any knowledge of its activity, you
too would be in danger. Gerald realized the peril, and he was terribly
anxious--for you."
He stopped, then he went on quietly:
"I rather fancy that we're all going to be in danger--if we go on with
this."
"If--?" cried Bundle indignantly.
"I'm talking to you two. It's different for me. I was poor old Ronny's
pal." He looked at Bundle. "You've done your bit. You've delivered the
message he sent me. No; for God's sake keep out of it, you and Loraine."
Bundle looked questioningly at the other girl. Her own mind was
definitely made up, but she gave no indication of it just then. She
had no wish to push Loraine Wade into a dangerous undertaking. But
Loraine's small face was alight at once with indignation.
"You say that! Do you think for one minute I'd be contented to keep out
of it--when they killed Gerry--my own dear Gerry, the best and dearest
and kindest brother any girl ever had. The only person belonging to me
I had in the whole world!"
Jimmy cleared his throat uncomfortably. Loraine, he thought, was
wonderful; simply wonderful.
"Look here," he said awkwardly, "you mustn't say that. About being
alone in the world--all that rot. You've got lots of friends--only too
glad to do what they can. See what I mean?"
It is possible that Loraine did, for she suddenly blushed, and to cover
her confusion began to talk nervously.
"That's settled," she said. "I'm going to help. Nobody's going to stop
me."
"And so am I, of course," said Bundle.
They both looked at Jimmy.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, quite so."
They looked at him inquiringly.
"I was just wondering," said Jimmy, "how we were going to begin."
CHAPTER IX
PLANS
Jimmy's words lifted the discussion at once into a more practical
sphere.
"All things considered," he said, "we haven't got much to go on. In
fact, just the words Seven Dials. As a matter of fact I don't even know
exactly where Seven Dials is. But, anyway, we can't very well comb out
the whole of that district, house by house."
"We could," said Bundle.
"Well, perhaps we could eventually--though I'm not so sure. I imagine
it's a well-populated area. But it wouldn't be very subtle."
The word reminded him of the girl Socks and he smiled.
"Then, of course, there's the part of the country where Ronny was
shot. We could nose around there. But the police are probably doing
everything we could do, and doing it much better."
"What I like about you," said Bundle sarcastically, "is your cheerful
and optimistic disposition."
"Never mind her, Jimmy," said Loraine softly. "Go on."
"Don't be so impatient," said Jimmy to Bundle. "All the best sleuths
approach a case this way, by eliminating unnecessary and unprofitable
investigation. I'm coming now to the third alternative--Gerald's death.
Now that we know it was murder--by the way, you do both believe that,
don't you?"
"Yes," said Loraine.
"Yes," said Bundle.
"Good. So do I. Well, it seems to me that there we do stand some faint
chance. After all, if Gerry didn't take the chloral himself, someone
must have got into his room and put it there--dissolved it in the glass
of water, so that when he woke up he drank it off. And of course left
the empty box or bottle or whatever it was. You agree with that?"
"Ye-es," said Bundle slowly. "But--"
"Wait. And that someone must have been in the house at the time. It
couldn't very well have been someone from outside."
"No," agreed Bundle, more readily this time.
"Very well. Now, that narrows down things considerably. To begin with,
I suppose a good many of the servants are family ones--they're your
lot, I mean."
"Yes," said Bundle. "Practically all the staff stayed when we let it.
All the principal ones are there still--of course there have been
changes among the under servants."
"Exactly--that's what I am getting at. _You_,"--he addressed
Bundle--"must go into all that. Find out when new servants were
engaged--what about footmen, for instance?"
"One of the footmen is new. John, his name is."
"Well, make inquiries about John. And about any others who have only
come recently."
"I suppose," said Bundle slowly, "it must have been a servant. It
couldn't have been one of the guests?"
"I don't see how that's possible."
"Who were there exactly?"
"Well, there were three girls--Nancy and Helen and Socks--"
"Socks Daventry? I know her."
"May have been. Girl who was always saying things were subtle."
"That's Socks all right. Subtle is one of her words."
"And then there were Gerry Wade and me and Bill Eversleigh and Ronny.
And, of course, Sir Oswald and Lady Coote. Oh! and Pongo."
"Who's Pongo?"
"Chap called Bateman--secretary to old Coote. Solemn sort of cove but
very conscientious. I was at school with him."
"There doesn't seem anything very suspicious there," remarked Loraine.
"No, there doesn't," said Bundle. "As you say, we'll have to look
amongst the servants. By the way, you don't suppose that clock being
thrown out of the window had anything to do with it."
"A clock thrown out of the window," said Jimmy, staring. It was the
first he had heard of it.
"I can't see how it can have anything to do with it," said Bundle. "But
it's odd somehow. There seems no sense in it."
"I remember," said Jimmy slowly. "I went in to--to see poor old Gerry,
and there were the clocks ranged along the mantelpiece. I remember
noticing there were only seven--not eight."
He gave a sudden shiver and explained himself apologetically.
"Sorry. But somehow those clocks have always given me the shivers. I
dream of them sometimes. I'd hate to go into that room in the dark and
see them there in a row."
"You wouldn't be able to see them if it was dark," said Bundle
practically. "Not unless they had luminous dials--Oh!" She gave a
sudden gasp and the colour rushed into her cheeks. "Don't you see?
_Seven Dials!_"
The others looked at her doubtfully, but she insisted with increasing
vehemence.
"It must be. It can't be a coincidence."
There was a pause.
"You may be right," said Jimmy Thesiger at last. "It's--it's dashed
odd."
Bundle started questioning him eagerly.
"Who bought the clocks?"
"All of us."
"Who thought of them?"
"All of us."
"Nonsense, somebody must have thought of them first."
"It didn't happen that way. We were discussing what we could do to get
Gerry up, and Pongo said an alarum clock, and somebody said one would
be no good, and somebody else--Bill Eversleigh, I think--said why not
get a dozen. And we all said good egg and hoofed off to get them. We
got one each and an extra one for Pongo and one for Lady Coote--just
out of the generosity of our hearts. There was nothing premeditated
about it--it just happened."
Bundle was silenced, but not convinced.
Jimmy proceeded to sum up methodically.
"I think we can say we're sure of certain facts. There's a secret
society, with points of resemblance to the Mafia, in existence. Gerry
Wade came to know about it. At first he treated it as rather a joke--as
an absurdity, shall we say. He couldn't believe in its being really
dangerous. But later something happened to convince him, and then he
got the wind up in earnest. I rather fancy he must have said something
to Ronny Devereux about it. Anyway, when he was put out of the way,
Ronny suspected, and he must have known enough to get on the same track
himself. The unfortunate thing is that we've got to start quite from
the outer darkness. We haven't got the knowledge the other two had."
"Perhaps that's an advantage," said Loraine coolly. "They won't suspect
us and therefore they won't be trying to put us out of the way."
"I wish I felt sure about that," said Jimmy in a worried voice. "You
know, Loraine, old Gerry himself wanted you to keep out of it. Don't
you think you could--"
"No, I couldn't," said Loraine. "Don't let's start discussing that
again. It's only a waste of time."
At the mention of the word time, Jimmy's eyes rose to the clock and he
uttered an exclamation of astonishment. He rose and opened the door.
"Stevens."
"Yes, sir?"
"What about a spot of lunch, Stevens? Could it be managed?"
"I anticipated that it would be required, sir. Mrs. Stevens has made
preparations accordingly."
"That's a wonderful man," said Jimmy, as he returned, heaving a sigh
of relief. "Brain, you know. Sheer brain. He takes correspondence
courses. I sometimes wonder if they'd do any good to me."
"Don't be silly," said Loraine.
Stevens opened the door and proceeded to bring in a most recherché
meal. An omelette was followed by quails and the very lightest things
in soufflés.
"Why are men so happy when they're single," said Loraine tragically.
"Why are they so much better looked after by other people than by us?"
"Oh! but that's rot, you know," said Jimmy. "I mean, they're not. How
could they be. I often think--"
He stammered and stopped. Loraine blushed again.
Suddenly Bundle let out a whoop and both the others started violently.
"Idiot," said Bundle. "Imbecile. Me, I mean. I knew there was something
I'd forgotten."
"What?"
"You know Codders--George Lomax, I mean?"
"I've heard of him a good deal," said Jimmy. "From Bill and Ronny, you
know."
"Well, Codders is giving some sort of a dry party next week--and he's
had a warning letter from Seven Dials."
"What?" cried Jimmy excitedly, leaning forward. "You can't mean it?"
"Yes, I do. He told Father about it. Now what do you think that points
to?"
Jimmy leant back in his chair. He thought rapidly and carefully. At
last he spoke. His speech was brief and to the point.
"Something's going to happen at that party," he said.
"That's what I think," said Bundle.
"It all fits in," said Jimmy almost dreamily.
He turned to Loraine.
"How old were you when the war was on?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Nine--no, eight."
"And Gerry, I suppose, was about twenty. Most lads of twenty fought in
the war. Gerry didn't."
"No," said Loraine, after thinking a minute or two. "No, Gerry wasn't a
soldier. I don't know why."
"I can tell you why," said Jimmy. "Or at least I can make a very shrewd
guess. He was out of England from 1915 to 1918. I've taken the trouble
to find that out. And nobody seems to know exactly where he was. I
think he was in Germany."
The colour rose in Loraine's cheeks. She looked at Jimmy with
admiration.
"How clever of you."
"He spoke German well, didn't he?"
"Oh! yes, like a native."
"I'm sure I'm right. Listen, you two. Gerry Wade was at the Foreign
Office. He appeared to be the same sort of amiable idiot--excuse the
term, but you know what I mean--as Bill Eversleigh and Ronny Devereux.
A purely ornamental excrescence. But in reality he was something quite
different. I think Gerry Wade was the real thing. Our secret service
is supposed to be the best in the world. I think Gerry Wade was pretty
high up in that service. And that explains everything! I remember
saying idly that last evening at Chimneys that Gerry couldn't be quite
such an ass as he made himself out to be."
"And if you're right?" said Bundle, practical as ever.
"Then the thing's bigger than we thought. This Seven Dials business
isn't merely criminal--it's international. One thing's certain,
somebody has got to be at this house-party of Lomax's."
Bundle made a slight grimace.
"I know George well--but he doesn't like me. He'd never think of asking
me to a serious gathering. All the same, I might--"
She remained a moment lost in thought.
"Do you think _I_ could work it through Bill?" asked Jimmy. "He's
bound to be there as Codders's right-hand man. He might bring me along
somehow or other."
"I don't see why not," said Bundle. "You'll have to prime Bill and
make him say the right things. He's incapable of thinking of them for
himself."
"What do you suggest?" asked Jimmy humbly.
"Oh! it's quite easy. Bill describes you as a rich young
man--interested in politics, anxious to stand for Parliament. George
will fall at once. You know what these political parties are: always
looking for new, rich young men. The richer Bill says you are, the
easier it will be to manage."
"Short of being described as Rothschild, I don't mind," said Jimmy.
"Then I think that's practically settled. I'm dining with Bill
to-morrow night, and I'll get a list of who is to be there. That will
be useful."
"I'm sorry you can't be there," said Jimmy. "But on the whole I think
it's all for the best."
"I'm not so sure I shan't be there," said Bundle. "Codders hates me
like poison--but there are other ways."
She became meditative.
"And what about me?" asked Loraine in a small, meek voice.
"You're not on in this act," said Jimmy instantly. "See? After all,
we've got to have someone outside to--er--"
"To what?" said Loraine.
Jimmy decided not to pursue this tack. He appealed to Bundle.
"Look here," he said. "Loraine must keep out of this, mustn't she?"
"I certainly think she'd better."
"Next time," said Jimmy kindly.
"And suppose there isn't a next time," said Loraine.
"Oh! there probably will be. Not a doubt of it."
"I see. I'm just to go home and--wait."
"That's it," said Jimmy, with every appearance of relief. "I thought
you'd understand."
"You see," explained Bundle, "three of us forcing our way in might look
rather suspicious. And you would be particularly difficult. You do see
that, don't you?"
"Oh! yes," said Loraine.
"Then it's settled--you do nothing," said Jimmy.
"I do nothing," said Loraine meekly.
Bundle looked at her in sudden suspicion. The tameness with which
Loraine was taking it seemed hardly natural. Loraine looked at her. Her
eyes were blue and guileless. They met Bundle's without a quiver even
of the lashes. Bundle was only partly satisfied. She found the meekness
of Loraine Wade highly suspicious.
CHAPTER X
BUNDLE VISITS SCOTLAND YARD
Now it may be said at once that in the foregoing conversation each one
of the three participants had, as it were, held something in reserve.
That "Nobody tells everything" is a very true motto.
It may be questioned, for instance, if Loraine Wade was perfectly
sincere in her account of the motives which had led her to seek out
Jimmy Thesiger.
In the same way, Jimmy Thesiger himself had various ideas and plans
connected with the forthcoming party at George Lomax's which he had no
intention of revealing to--say, Bundle.
And Bundle herself had a fully-fledged plan which she proposed to put
into immediate execution and which she had said nothing whatever about.
On leaving Jimmy Thesiger's rooms, she drove to Scotland Yard, where
she asked to see Superintendent Battle.
Superintendent Battle was rather a big man. He worked almost entirely
on cases of a delicate political nature. On such a case he had come
to Chimneys four years ago, and Bundle was frankly trading on his
remembering this fact.
After a short delay, she was taken along several corridors and into
the Superintendent's private room. Battle was a stolid-looking man
with a wooden face. He looked supremely unintelligent and more like a
commissionaire than a detective.
He was standing by the window when she entered, gazing in an
expressionless manner at some sparrows.
"Good-afternoon, Lady Eileen," he said. "Sit down, won't you?"
"Thank you," said Bundle. "I was afraid you mightn't remember me."
"Always remember people," said Battle. He added: "Got to in my job."
"Oh!" said Bundle, rather damped.
"And what can I do for you?" inquired the Superintendent.
Bundle came straight to the point.
"I've always heard that you people at Scotland Yard have lists of all
secret societies and things like that that are formed in London."
"We try to keep up to date," said Superintendent Battle cautiously.
"I suppose a great many of them aren't really dangerous."
"We've got a very good rule to go by," said Battle. "The more they
talk, the less they'll do. You'd be surprised how well that works out."
"And I've heard that very often you let them go on?"
Battle nodded.
"That's so. Why shouldn't a man call himself a Brother of Liberty and
meet twice a week in a cellar and talk about rivers of blood--it won't
hurt either him or us. And if there is trouble any time, we know where
to lay our hands on him."
"But sometimes, I suppose," said Bundle slowly, "a society may be more
dangerous than anyone imagines?"
"Very unlikely," said Battle.
"But it _might_ happen," persisted Bundle.
"Oh! it _might_," admitted the Superintendent.
There was a moment or two's silence. Then Bundle said quietly.
"Superintendent Battle, could you give me a list of secret societies
that have their headquarters in Seven Dials?"
It was Superintendent Battle's boast that he had never been seen to
display emotion. But Bundle could have sworn that just for a moment
his eyelids flickered and he looked taken aback. Only for a moment,
however. He was his usual wooden self as he said:
"Strictly speaking, Lady Eileen, there's no such place as Seven Dials
nowadays."
"No?"
"No. Most of it is pulled down and rebuilt. It was rather a low quarter
once, but it's very respectable and high class nowadays. Not at all a
romantic spot to poke about in for mysterious secret societies."
"Oh!" said Bundle, rather nonplussed.
"But all the same I should very much like to know what put that
neighborhood into your head, Lady Eileen?"
"Have I got to tell you?"
"Well, it saves trouble, doesn't it? We know where we are, so to speak?"
Bundle hesitated for a minute.
"There was a man shot yesterday," she said slowly. "I thought I had run
over him--"
"Mr. Ronald Devereux?"
"You know about it, of course. Why has there been nothing in the
papers?"
"Do you really want to know that, Lady Eileen?"
"Yes, please."
"Well, we just thought we should like to have a clear twenty-four
hours--see? It will be in the papers to-morrow."
"Oh!" Bundle studied him, puzzled.
What was hidden behind that immovable face. Did he regard the shooting
of Ronald Devereux as an ordinary crime or as an extraordinary one.
"He mentioned Seven Dials when he was dying," said Bundle slowly.
"Thank you," said Battle. "I'll make a note of that."
He wrote a few words on the blotting pad in front of him.
Bundle started on another tack.
"Mr. Lomax, I understand, came to see you yesterday about a threatening
letter he had had."
"He did."
"And that was written from Seven Dials?"
"It had Seven Dials written at the top of it, I believe."
Bundle felt as though she was battering hopelessly on a locked door.
"If you'll let me advise you, Lady Eileen--"'
"I know what you're going to say."
"I should go home and--well, think no more about these matters."
"Leave it to you, in fact?"
"Well," said Superintendent Battle, "after all, we _are_ the
professionals."
"And I'm only an amateur? Yes, but you forget one thing--I mayn't have
your knowledge and skill--but I have one advantage over you. I can work
in the dark."
She thought that the Superintendent seemed a little taken aback, as
though the force of her words struck home.
"Of course," said Bundle, "if you won't give me a list of secret
societies--"
"Oh! I never said that. You shall have a list of the whole lot."
He went to the door, put his head through and called out something,
then came back to his chair. Bundle, rather unreasonably, felt baffled.
The ease with which he acceded to her request seemed to her suspicious.
He was looking at her now in a placid fashion.
"Do you remember the death of Mr. Gerald Wade?" she asked abruptly.
"Down at your place, wasn't it? Took an overdraught of sleeping
mixture."
"His sister says he never took things to make him sleep."
"Ah!" said the Superintendent. "You'd be surprised what a lot of things
there are that sisters don't know."
Bundle again felt baffled. She sat in silence till a man came in with a
typewritten sheet of paper, which he handed to the Superintendent.
"Here you are," said the latter when the other had left the room. "The
Blood Brothers of St. Sebastian. The Wolf Hounds. The Comrades of
Peace. The Comrades Club. The Friends of Oppression. The Children of
Moscow. The Red Standard Bearers. The Herrings. The Comrades of the
Fallen--and half a dozen more."
He handed it to her with a distinct twinkle in his eye.
"You give it to me," said Bundle, "because you know it's not going to
be the slightest use to me. Do you want me to leave the whole thing
alone?"
"I should prefer it," said Battle. "You see--if you go messing round
all these places--well, it's going to give us a lot of trouble."
"Looking after me, you mean?"
"Looking after you, Lady Eileen."
Bundle had risen to her feet. Now she stood undecided. So far the
honours lay with Superintendent Battle. Then she remembered one slight
incident, and she based a last appeal upon it.
"I said just now that an amateur could do some things which a
professional couldn't. You didn't contradict me. That's because you're
an honest man, Superintendent Battle. You knew I was right."
"Go on," said Battle quietly.
"At Chimneys you let me help. Won't you let me help now?"
Battle seemed to be turning the thing over in his mind. Emboldened by
his silence, Bundle continued.
"You know pretty well what I'm like, Superintendent Battle. I butt into
things. I'm a Nosey Parker. I don't want to get in your way or to try
and do things that you're doing and can do a great deal better. But if
there's a chance for an amateur, let me have it."
Again there was a pause, and then Superintendent Battle said quietly:
"You couldn't have spoken fairer than you have done, Lady Eileen. But
I'm just going to say this to you. What you propose is dangerous. And
when I say dangerous, I _mean_ dangerous."
"I've grasped that," said Bundle. "I'm not a fool."
"No," said Superintendent Battle. "Never knew a young lady who was less
so. What I'll do for you, Lady Eileen, is this. I'll just give you one
little hint. And I'm doing it because I never have thought much of the
motto 'Safety First.' In my opinion half the people who spend their
lives avoiding being run over by buses had much better be run over and
put safely out of the way. They're no good."
This remarkable utterance issuing from the conventional lips of
Superintendent Battle quite took Bundle's breath away.
"What was the hint you were going to give me," she asked at last.
"You know Mr. Eversleigh, don't you?"
"Know Bill? Why, of course. But what--"
"I think Mr. Bill Eversleigh will be able to tell you all you want to
know about Seven Dials."
"Bill knows about it? _Bill?_"
"I didn't say that. Not at all. But I think, being a quick-witted young
lady, you'll get what you want from him.
"And now," said Superintendent Battle firmly, "I'm not going to say
another word."
CHAPTER XI
DINNER WITH BILL
Bundle set out to keep her appointment with Bill on the following
evening full of expectation.
Bill greeted her with every sign of elation.
"Bill really _is_ rather nice," thought Bundle to herself. "Just like a
large, clumsy dog that wags its tail when it's pleased to see you."
The large dog was uttering short staccato yelps of comment and
information.
"You look tremendously fit, Bundle. I can't tell you how pleased I am
to see you. I've ordered oysters--you do like oysters, don't you? And
how's everything? What did you want to go mouldering about abroad so
long? Were you having a very gay time?"
"No, deadly," said Bundle. "Perfectly foul. Old diseased colonels
creeping about in the sun, and active, wizened spinsters running
libraries and churches."
"Give me England," said Bill. "I bar this foreign business--except
Switzerland. Switzerland's all right. I'm thinking of going this
Christmas. Why don't you come along?"
"I'll think of it," said Bundle. "What have you been doing with
yourself lately, Bill?"
It was an incautious query. Bundle had merely made it out of politeness
and as a preliminary to introducing her own topics of conversation. It
was, however, the opening for which Bill had been waiting.
"That's just what I've been wanting to tell you about. You're brainy,
Bundle, and I want your advice. You know that musical show, 'Damn Your
Eyes'?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to tell you about one of the dirtiest pieces of work
imaginable. My God! the theatrical crowd. There's a girl--a Yankee
girl--a perfect stunner--"
Bundle's heart sank. The grievances of Bill's lady friends were always
interminable--they went on and on and there was no stemming them.
"This girl, Babe St. Maur her name is--"
"I wonder how she got that name?" said Bundle sarcastically.
Bill replied literally.
"She got it out of _Who's Who_. Opened it and jabbed her finger down on
a page without looking. Pretty nifty, eh? Her real name's Goldschmidt
or Abrameier--something quite impossible."
"Oh! quite," agreed Bundle.
"Well, Babe St. Maur is pretty smart. And she's got muscles. She was
one of the eight girls who made the living bridge--"
"Bill," said Bundle desperately, "I went to see Jimmy Thesiger
yesterday morning."
"Good old Jimmy," said Bill. "Well, as I was telling you, Babe's
pretty smart. You've got to be nowadays. She can put it over on most
theatrical people. If you want to live, be high-handed, that's what
Babe says. And mind you, she's the goods all right. She can act--it's
marvellous how that girl can act. She'd not much chance in 'Damn Your
Eyes'--just swamped in a pack of good-looking girls. I said why not try
the legitimate stage--you know, Mrs. Tanqueray--that sort of stuff--but
Babe just laughed--"
"Have you seen Jimmy at all?"
"Saw him this morning. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, I hadn't
got to the rumpus yet. And mind you it was jealousy--sheer, spiteful
jealousy. The other girl wasn't a patch on Babe for looks and she knew
it. So she went behind her back--"
Bundle resigned herself to the inevitable and heard the whole story
of the unfortunate circumstances which had led up to Babe St. Maur's
summary disappearance from the cast of "Damn Your Eyes." It took a long
time. When Bill finally paused for breath and sympathy, Bundle said:
"You're quite right, Bill, it's a rotten shame. There must be a lot of
jealousy about--"
"The whole theatrical world's rotten with it."
"It must be. Did Jimmy say anything to you about coming down to the
Abbey next week?"
For the first time, Bill gave his attention to what Bundle was saying.
"He was full of a long rigmarole he wanted me to stuff Codders with.
About wanting to stand in the Conservative interest. But you know,
Bundle, it's too damned risky."
"Stuff," said Bundle. "If George _does_ find him out, he won't blame
you. You'll just have been taken in, that's all."
"That's not it at all," said Bill. "I mean it's too damned risky for
Jimmy. Before he knows where he is, he'll be parked down somewhere like
Tooting West, pledged to kiss babies and make speeches. You don't know
how thorough Codders is and how frightfully energetic."
"Well, we'll have to risk that," said Bundle. "Jimmy can take care of
himself all right."
"You don't know Codders," repeated Bill.
"Who's coming to this party, Bill? Is it anything very special?"
"Only the usual sort of muck. Mrs. Macatta for one."
"The M.P.?"
"Yes, you know, always going off the deep end about Welfare and Pure
Milk and Save the Children. Think of poor Jimmy being talked to by her."
"Never mind Jimmy. Go on telling me."
"Then there's a Hungarian, what they call a Young Hungarian. Countess
something unpronounceable. She's all right."
He swallowed as though embarrassed and Bundle observed that he was
crumbling his bread nervously.
"Young and beautiful?" she inquired delicately.
"Oh! rather."
"I didn't know George went in for female beauty much."
"Oh! he doesn't. She runs baby feeding in Buda Pesth--something like
that. Naturally she and Mrs. Macatta want to get together."
"Who else?"
"Sir Stanley Digby--"
"The Air Minister?"
"Yes. And his secretary, Terence O'Rourke. He's rather a lad, by
the way--or used to be in his flying days. Then there's a perfectly
poisonous German chap called Herr Eberhard. I don't know who he is, but
we're all making the hell of a fuss about him. I've been twice told off
to take him out to lunch, and I can tell you, Bundle, it was no joke.
He's not like the Embassy chaps, who are all very decent. This man
sucks in soup and eats peas with a knife. Not only that, but the brute
is always biting his finger-nails--positively gnaws at them."
"Pretty foul."
"Isn't it? I believe he invents things--something of the kind. Well,
that's all. Oh! yes, Sir Oswald Coote."
"And Lady Coote?"
"Yes, I believe she's coming too."
Bundle sat lost in thought for some minutes. Bill's list was
suggestive, but she hadn't time to think out various possibilities just
now. She must get on to the next point.
"Bill?" she said. "What's all this about Seven Dials?"
Bill at once looked horribly embarrassed. He blinked and avoided her
glance.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Nonsense," said Bundle. "I was told you know all about it."
"About what?"
This was rather a poser. Bundle shifted her ground.
"I don't see what you want to be so secretive for," she complained.
"Nothing to be secretive about. Nobody goes there much now. It was only
a craze."
This sounded puzzling.
"One gets so out of things when one is away," said Bundle in a sad
voice.
"Oh! you haven't missed much," said Bill. "Everyone went there just to
say they had been. It was boring really, and, my God, you _can_ get
tired of fried fish."
"Where did everyone go?"
"To the Seven Dials Club, of course," said Bill, staring. "Wasn't that
what you were asking about?"
"I didn't know it by that name," said Bundle.
"Used to be a slummy sort of district round about Tottenham Court Road
way. It's all pulled down and cleaned up now. But the Seven Dials Club
keeps to the old atmosphere. Fried fish and chips. General squalor.
Kind of East End stunt, but awfully handy to get at after a show."
"It's a night club, I suppose," said Bundle. "Dancing and all that?"
"That's it. Awfully mixed crowd. Not a posh affair. Artists, you know,
and all sorts of odd women and a sprinkling of our lot. They say quite
a lot of things, but I think that that's all bunkum myself, just said
to make the place go."
"Good," said Bundle. "We'll go there to-night."
"Oh! I shouldn't do that," said Bill. His embarrassment had returned.
"I tell you it's played out. Nobody goes there now."
"Well, we're going."
"You wouldn't care for it, Bundle. You wouldn't really."
"You're going to take me to the Seven Dials Club and nowhere else,
Bill. And I should like to know why you are so unwilling?"
"I? Unwilling?"
"Painfully so. What's the guilty secret?"
"Guilty secret?"
"Don't keep repeating what I say. You do it to give yourself time."
"I don't," said Bill indignantly. "It's only--"
"Well? I know there's something. You never can conceal anything."
"I've got nothing to conceal. It's only--"
"Well?"
"It's a long story--You see, I took Babe St. Maur there one night--"
"Oh! Babe St. Maur again."
"Why not?"
"I didn't know it was about her--" said Bundle, stifling a yawn.
"As I say, I took Babe there. She rather fancied a lobster. I had a
lobster under my arm--"
The story went on--When the lobster had been finally dismembered in
a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle
brought her attention back to him.
"I see," she said. "And there was a row?"
"Yes, but it was _my_ lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a
perfect right--"
"Oh! you had, you had," said Bundle hastily. "But I'm sure that's all
forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go."
"We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they
play baccarat."
"Father will have to come out and bail me out, that's all. Come on,
Bill."
Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant, and they
were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.
The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be.
It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted
the number.
A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he
started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful
recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic
face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she
could have seen him before.
Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman.
They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke--so much so
that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was
almost overpowering.
On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with
real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly
foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and
several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.
Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard,
watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye.
Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.
"Of course," she said. "How stupid of me. It's Alfred, who used to be
second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?"
"Nicely, thank you, your ladyship."
"When did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?"
"It was about a month ago, m'lady. I got a chance of bettering myself,
and it seemed a pity not to take it."
"I suppose they pay you very well here," remarked Bundle.
"Very fair, m'lady."
Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life
of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at
once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true
type--hawk-eyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.
She and Bill stayed there for about half an hour. Then Bill grew
restive.
"Let's get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing."
Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again.
They danced for another half hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle
declared herself ready to go home.
"But it's so early," Bill protested.
"No, it isn't. Not really. And, anyway, I've got a long day in front of
me to-morrow."
"What are you going to do?"
"That depends," said Bundle mysteriously. "But I can tell you this,
Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet."
"It never does," said Mr. Eversleigh.
CHAPTER XII
INQUIRIES AT CHIMNEYS
Bundle's temperament was certainly not inherited from her father,
whose prevailing characteristic was a wholly amiable inertia. As Bill
Eversleigh had very justly remarked, the grass never did grow under
Bundle's feet.
On the morning following her dinner with Bill, Bundle woke full of
energy. She had three distinct plans which she meant to put into
operation that day, and she realized that she was going to be slightly
hampered by the limits of time and space.
Fortunately she did not suffer from the affliction of Gerry Wade,
Ronny Devereux and Jimmy Thesiger--that of not being able to get up in
the morning. Sir Oswald Coote himself would have had no fault to find
with her on the score of early rising. At half-past eight Bundle had
breakfasted and was on her way to Chimneys in the Hispano.
Her father seemed mildly pleased to see her.
"I never know when you're going to turn up," he said. "But this will
save me ringing up, which I hate. Colonel Melrose was here yesterday
about the inquest."
Colonel Melrose was Chief Constable of the county, and an old friend of
Lord Caterham.
"You mean the inquest on Ronny Devereux? When is it to be?"
"To-morrow. Twelve o'clock. Melrose will call for you. Having found the
body, you'll have to give evidence, but he said you needn't be at all
alarmed."
"Why on earth should I be alarmed?"
"Well, you know," said Lord Caterham apologetically, "Melrose is a bit
old-fashioned."
"Twelve o'clock," said Bundle. "Good. I shall be here, if I'm still
alive."
"Have you any reason to anticipate not being alive?"
"One never knows," said Bundle. "The strain of modern life--as the
newspapers say."
"Which reminds me that George Lomax asked me to come over to the Abbey
next week. I refused, of course."
"Quite right," said Bundle. "We don't want you mixed up in any funny
business."
"Is there going to be any funny business?" asked Lord Caterham with a
sudden awakening of interest.
"Well--warning letters and all that, you know," said Bundle.
"Perhaps George is going to be assassinated," said Lord Caterham
hopefully. "What do you think, Bundle--perhaps I'd better go after all."
"You curb your bloodthirsty instincts and stay quietly at home," said
Bundle. "I'm going to talk to Mrs. Howell."
Mrs. Howell was the housekeeper, that dignified, creaking lady who had
struck such terror to the heart of Lady Coote. She had no terrors for
Bundle, whom, indeed, she always called Miss Bundle, a relic of the
days when Bundle had stayed at Chimneys, a long-legged, impish child,
before her father had succeeded to the title.
"Now, Howelly," said Bundle, "let's have a cup of rich cocoa together,
and let me hear all the household news."
She gleaned what she wanted without much difficulty, making mental
notes as follows:
"Two new scullery maids--village girls--doesn't seem much there. New
third housemaid--head housemaid's niece. That sounds all right. Howelly
seems to have bullied poor Lady Coote a good deal. She would."
"I never thought the day would come when I should see Chimneys
inhabited by strangers, Miss Bundle."
"Oh! one must go with the times," said Bundle. "You'll be lucky,
Howelly, if you never see it converted into desirable flats with use of
superb pleasure grounds."
Mrs. Howell shivered all down her reactionary aristocratic spine.
"I've never seen Sir Oswald Coote," remarked Bundle.
"Sir Oswald is no doubt a very clever gentleman," said Mrs. Howell
distantly.
Bundle gathered that Sir Oswald had not been liked by his staff.
"Of course, it was Mr. Bateman who saw to everything," continued the
housekeeper. "A very efficient gentleman. A very efficient gentleman
indeed, and one who knew the way things ought to be done."
Bundle led the talk on to the topic of Gerald Wade's death. Mrs.
Howell was only too willing to talk about it, and was full of pitying
ejaculations about the poor young gentleman, but Bundle gleaned nothing
new. Presently she took leave of Mrs. Howell and came downstairs again,
where she promptly rang for Tredwell.
"Tredwell, when did Alfred leave?"
"It would be about a month ago now, my lady."
"Why did he leave?"
"It was by his own wish, my lady. I believe he has gone to London. I
was not dissatisfied with him in any way. I think you will find the new
footman, John, very satisfactory. He seems to know his work and to be
most anxious to give satisfaction."
"Where did he come from?"
"He had excellent references, my lady. He had lived last with Lord
Mount Vernon."
"I see," said Bundle thoughtfully.
She was remembering that Lord Mount Vernon was at present on a shooting
trip in East Africa.
"What's his last name, Tredwell?"
"Bower, my lady."
Tredwell paused for a minute or two and then, seeing that Bundle had
finished, he quietly left the room. Bundle remained lost in thought.
John had opened the door to her on her arrival that day, and she had
taken particular notice of him without seeming to do so. Apparently, he
was the perfect servant, well trained, with an expressionless face. He
had, perhaps, a more soldierly bearing than most footmen and there was
something a little odd about the shape of the back of his head.
But these details, as Bundle realized, were hardly relevant to the
situation. She sat frowning down at the blotting paper in front of her.
She had a pencil in her hand and was idly tracing the name Bower over
and over again.
Suddenly an idea struck her and she stopped dead, staring at the word.
Then she summoned Tredwell once more.
"Tredwell, how is the name Bower spelt?"
"B-A-U-E-R, my lady."
"That's not an English name."
"I believe he is of Swiss extraction, my lady."
"Oh! That's all, Tredwell, thank you."
Swiss extraction? No. German! That martial carriage, that flat back to
the head. And he had come to Chimneys a fortnight before Gerry Wade's
death.
Bundle rose to her feet. She had done all she could here. Now to get on
with things! She went in search of her father.
"I'm off again," she said. "I've got to go and see Aunt Marcia."
"Got to see Marcia?" Lord Caterham's voice was full of astonishment.
"Poor child, how did you get let in for that?"
"Just for once," said Bundle, "I happen to be going of my own free
will."
Lord Caterham looked at her in amazement. That anyone could have
a genuine desire to face his redoubtable sister-in-law was quite
incomprehensible to him. Marcia, Marchioness of Caterham, the widow of
his late brother Henry, was a very prominent personality. Lord Caterham
admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her
in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon
Henry's early death as a merciful release.
It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the
lion's mouth.
"Oh! I say," he said. "You know, I shouldn't do that. You don't know
what it may lead to."
"I know what I hope it's going to lead to," said Bundle. "I'm all
right, Father, don't you worry about me."
Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
He went back to his perusal of the _Field_. But in a minute or two
Bundle suddenly put her head in again.
"Sorry," she said. "But there's one other thing I wanted to ask you.
What is Sir Oswald Coote?"
"I told you--a steam-roller."
"I don't mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his
money--trouser buttons or brass beds or what?"
"Oh! I see. He's steel. Steel and iron. He's got the biggest steel
works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn't, of course, run
the show personally now. It's a company or companies. He got me in as
a director of something or other. Very good business for me--nothing
to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those
hotel places--Cannon Street or Liverpool Street--and sit round a table
where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever
Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately
you needn't listen to it--and I can tell you, you often get a jolly
good lunch out of it."
Uninterested in Lord Caterham's lunches, Bundle had departed again
before he had finished speaking. On the way back to London, she tried
to piece together things to her satisfaction.
As far as she could see, steel and infant welfare did not go together.
One of the two, then, was just padding--presumably the latter. Mrs.
Macatta and the Hungarian countess could be ruled out of court. They
were camouflage. No, the pivot of the whole thing seemed to be the
unattractive Herr Eberhard. He did not seem to be the type of man whom
George Lomax would normally invite. Bill had said vaguely that he
invented. Then there was the Air Minister and Sir Oswald Coote, who was
steel. Somehow that seemed to hang together.
Since it was useless speculating further, Bundle abandoned the attempt
and concentrated on her forthcoming interview with Lady Caterham.
The lady lived in a large gloomy house in one of London's higher
class squares. Inside it smelt of sealing wax, bird seed and slightly
decayed flowers. Lady Caterham was a large woman--large in every way.
Her proportions were majestic, rather than ample. She had a large
beaked nose, wore gold rimmed pince-nez and her upper lip bore just the
faintest suspicion of a moustache.
She was somewhat surprised to see her niece, but accorded her a frigid
cheek, which Bundle duly kissed.
"This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Eileen," she observed coldly.
"We've only just got back, Aunt Marcia."
"I know. How is your father? Much as usual?"
Her tone conveyed disparagement. She had a poor opinion of Alastair
Edward Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham. She would have called him, had
she known the term, a "poor fish."
"Father is very well. He's down at Chimneys."
"Indeed. You know, Eileen, I never approved of the letting of Chimneys.
The place is, in many ways, a historical monument. It should not be
cheapened."
"It must have been wonderful in Uncle Henry's day," said Bundle with a
slight sigh.
"Henry realized his responsibilities," said Henry's widow.
"Think of the people who stayed there," went on Bundle ecstatically.
"All the principal statesmen of Europe."
Lady Caterham sighed.
"I can truly say that history has been made there more than once," she
observed. "If only your father--"
She shook her head sadly.
"Politics bore Father," said Bundle, "and yet they are about the most
fascinating study there is, I should say. Especially if one knew about
them from the inside."
She made this extravagantly untruthful statement of her feelings
without even a blush. Her aunt looked at her with some surprise.
"I am pleased to hear you say so," she said. "I always imagined,
Eileen, that you cared for nothing but this modern pursuit of pleasure."
"I used to," said Bundle.
"It is true that you are still very young," said Lady Caterham
thoughtfully. "But with your advantages, and if you were to marry
suitably, you might be one of the leading political hostesses of the
day."
Bundle felt slightly alarmed. For a moment she feared that her aunt
might produce a suitable husband straight away.
"But I feel such a fool," said Bundle. "I mean I know so little."
"That can easily be remedied," said Lady Caterham briskly. "I have any
amount of literature I can lend you."
"Thank you, Aunt Marcia," said Bundle, and proceeded hastily to her
second line of attack.
"I wondered if you knew Mrs. Macatta, Aunt Marcia?"
"Certainly I know her. A most estimable woman with a brilliant brain.
I may say that as a general rule I do not hold with women standing
for Parliament. They can make their influence felt in a more womanly
fashion." She paused, doubtless to recall the womanly way in which
she had forced a reluctant husband into the political arena and the
marvellous success which had crowned his and her efforts. "But still,
times change. And the work Mrs. Macatta is doing is of truly national
importance, and of the utmost value to all women. It is, I think I may
say, true womanly work. You must certainly meet Mrs. Macatta."
Bundle gave a rather dismal sigh.
"She's going to be at a house-party at George Lomax's next week. He
asked Father, who, of course, won't go, but he never thought of asking
me. Thinks I'm too much of an idiot, I suppose."
It occurred to Lady Caterham that her niece was really wonderfully
improved. Had she, perhaps, had an unfortunate love affair? An
unfortunate love affair, in Lady Caterham's opinion, was often highly
beneficial to young girls. It made them take life seriously.
"I don't suppose George Lomax realizes for a moment that you
have--shall we say, grown up? Eileen, dear," she said, "I must have a
few words with him."
"He doesn't like me," said Bundle. "I know he won't ask me."
"Nonsense," said Lady Caterham. "I shall make a point of it. I knew
George Lomax when he was so high." She indicated a quite impossible
height. "He will be only too pleased to do me a favour. And he will be
sure to see for himself that it is vitally important that the present
day young girls of our own class should take an intelligent interest in
the welfare of their country."
Bundle nearly said: "Hear, hear," but checked herself.
"I will find you some literature now," said Lady Caterham, rising.
She called in a piercing voice, "Miss Connor."
A very neat secretary with a frightened expression came running. Lady
Caterham gave her various directions. Presently Bundle was driving
back to Brook Street with an armful of the driest looking literature
imaginable.
Her next proceeding was to ring up Jimmy Thesiger. His first words were
full of triumph.
"I've managed it," he said. "Had a lot of trouble with Bill, though.
He'd got it into his thick head that I should be a lamb among
the wolves. But I made him see sense at last. I've got a lot of
thingummybobs now and I'm studying them. You know, blue books and white
papers. Deadly dull--but one must do the thing properly. Have you ever
heard of the Santa Fé boundary dispute?"
"Never," said Bundle.
"Well, I'm taking special pains with that. It went on for years and
was very complicated. I'm making it my subject. Nowadays one has to
specialize."
"I've got a lot of the same sort of things," said Bundle. "Aunt Marcia
gave them to me."
"Aunt who?"
"Aunt Marcia--Father's sister-in-law. She's very political. In fact,
she's going to get me invited to George's party."
"No? Oh, I say, that will be splendid." There was a pause and then
Jimmy said:
"I say, I don't think we'd better tell Loraine that--eh?"
"Perhaps not."
"You see, she mayn't like being out of it. And she really must be kept
out of it."
"Yes."
"I mean you can't let a girl like that run into danger!"
Bundle reflected that Mr. Thesiger was slightly deficient in tact. The
prospect of _her_ running into danger did not seem to give him any
qualms whatever.
"Have you gone away?" asked Jimmy.
"No, I was only thinking."
"I see. I say, are you going to the inquest to-morrow?"
"Yes; are you?"
"Yes. By the way, it's in the evening papers. But tucked away in a
corner. Funny--I should have thought they'd have made rather a splash
about it."
"Yes--so should I."
"Well," said Jimmy, "I must be getting on with my task. I've just got
to where Bolivia sent us a Note."
"I suppose I must get on with my little lot," said Bundle. "Are you
going to swot at it all the evening?"
"I think so. Are you?"
"Oh, probably. Good-night."
They were both liars of the most unblushing order. Jimmy Thesiger knew
perfectly well that he was taking Loraine Wade out to dinner.
As for Bundle, no sooner had she rung off than she attired herself in
various nondescript garments belonging, as a matter of fact, to her
maid. And having donned them, she sallied out on foot deliberating
whether bus or tube would be the best route by which to reach the Seven
Dials Club.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SEVEN DIALS CLUB
Bundle reached 14 Hunstanton Street about 6 P.M. At that hour,
as she rightly judged, the Seven Dials Club was a dead spot. Bundle's
aim was a simple one. She intended to get hold of the ex-footman
Alfred. She was convinced that once she had got hold of him the rest
would be easy. Bundle had a simple autocratic method of dealing with
retainers. It seldom failed, and she saw no reason why it should fail
now.
The only thing of which she was not certain was how many people
inhabited the club premises. Naturally she wished to disclose her
presence to as few people as possible.
Whilst she was hesitating as to her best line of attack, the problem
was solved for her in a singularly easy fashion. The door of No. 14
opened and Alfred himself came out.
"Good-afternoon, Alfred," said Bundle pleasantly.
Alfred jumped.
"Oh! good-afternoon, your ladyship. I--I didn't recognize your ladyship
just for a moment."
Paying a tribute in her own mind to her maid's clothing, Bundle
proceeded to business.
"I want a few words with you, Alfred? Where shall we go?"
"Well--really, my lady--I don't know--it's not what you might call a
nice part round here--I don't know, I'm sure--"
Bundle cut him short.
"Who's in the club?"
"No one at present, my lady."
"Then we'll go in there."
Alfred produced a key and opened the door. Bundle passed in. Alfred,
troubled and sheepish, followed her. Bundle sat down and looked
straight at the uncomfortable Alfred.
"I suppose you know," she said crisply, "that what you're doing here is
dead against the law?"
Alfred shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"It's true as we've been raided twice," he admitted. "But nothing
compromising was found, owing to the neatness of Mr. Mosgorovsky's
arrangements."
"I'm not talking of the gambling only," said Bundle. "There's more than
that--probably a great deal more than you know. I'm going to ask you a
direct question, Alfred, and I should like the truth, please. _How much
were you paid for leaving Chimneys?_"
Alfred looked twice round the cornice as though seeking for
inspirations, swallowed three or four times, and then took the
inevitable course of a weak will opposed to a strong one.
"It was this way, your ladyship. Mr. Mosgorovsky, he come with a
party to visit Chimneys on one of the show days. Mr. Tredwell, he
was indisposed like--an ingrowing toe-nail as a matter of fact--so
it fell to me to show the parties over. At the end of the tour, Mr.
Mosgorovsky, he stays behind the rest, and after giving me something
handsome, he falls into conversation."
"Yes," said Bundle encouragingly.
"And the long and the short of it was," said Alfred, with a sudden
acceleration of his narrative, "that he offers me a hundred pound
down to leave that instant minute and to look after this here club.
He wanted someone as was used to the best families--to give the place
a tone, as he put it. And, well, it seemed flying in the face of
providence to refuse--let alone that the wages I get here are just
three times what they were as second footman."
"A hundred pounds," said Bundle. "That's a very large sum, Alfred. Did
they say anything about who was to fill your place at Chimneys?"
"I demurred a bit, my lady, about leaving at once. As I pointed out,
it wasn't usual and might cause inconvenience. But Mr. Mosgorovsky,
he knew of a young chap--been in good service and ready to come any
minute. So I mentioned his name to Mr. Tredwell and everything was
settled pleasant like."
Bundle nodded. Her own suspicions had been correct and the _modus
operandi_ was much as she had thought it to be. She essayed a further
inquiry.
"Who is Mr. Mosgorovsky?"
"Gentleman as runs this club. Russian gentleman. A very clever
gentleman too."
Bundle abandoned the getting of information for the moment and
proceeded to other matters.
"A hundred pounds is a very large sum of money, Alfred."
"Larger than I ever handled, my lady," said Alfred with simple candour.
"Did you never suspect that there was something wrong?"
"Wrong, my lady?"
"Yes. I'm not talking about the gambling. I mean something far more
serious. You don't want to be sent to penal servitude, do you, Alfred?"
"Oh, Lord, my lady, you don't mean it?"
"I was at Scotland Yard the day before yesterday," said Bundle
impressively. "I heard some very curious things. I want you to help me,
Alfred, and if you do, well--if things go wrong, I'll put in a good
word for you."
"Anything I can do, I shall be only too pleased, my lady. I mean, I
would anyway."
"Well, first," said Bundle, "I want to go all over this place--from top
to bottom."
Accompanied by a mystified and scared Alfred, she made a very thorough
tour of inspection. Nothing struck her eye till she came to the gaming
room. There she noticed an inconspicuous door in a corner, and the door
was locked.
Alfred explained readily.
"That's used as a getaway, your ladyship. There's a room and a door on
to a staircase what comes out in the next street. That's the way the
gentry goes when there's a raid."
"But don't the police know about it?"
"It's a cunning door, you see, my lady. Looks like a cupboard, that's
all."
Bundle felt a rising excitement.
"I must get in here," she said.
Alfred shook his head.
"You can't, my lady; Mr. Mosgorovsky, he has the key."
"Well," said Bundle, "there are other keys."
She perceived that the lock was a perfectly ordinary one which probably
could be easily unlocked by the key of one of the other doors. Alfred,
rather troubled, was sent to collect likely specimens. The fourth that
Bundle tried fitted. She turned it, opened the door and passed through.
She found herself in a small, dingy apartment. A long table occupied
the centre of the room with chairs ranged round it. There was no other
furniture in the room. Two built-in cupboards stood on either side of
the fireplace. Alfred indicated the nearer one with a nod.
"That's it," he explained.
Bundle tried the cupboard door, but it was locked, and she saw at once
that this lock was a very different affair. It was of the patent kind
that would only yield to its own key.
"'Ighly ingenious, it is," explained Alfred. "It looks all right when
opened. Shelves, you know, with a few ledgers and that on 'em. Nobody'd
ever suspect, but you touch the right spot and the whole thing swings
open."
Bundle had turned round and was surveying the room thoughtfully. The
first thing she noticed was that the door by which they had entered was
carefully fitted round with baize. It must be completely soundproof.
Then her eyes wandered to the chairs. There were seven of them, three
each side and one rather more imposing in design at the head of the
table.
Bundle's eyes brightened. She had found what she was looking for. This,
she felt sure, was the meeting place of the secret organization. The
place was almost perfectly planned. It looked so innocent--you could
reach it just by stepping through from the gaming room, or you could
arrive there by the secret entrance--and any secrecy, any precautions
were easily explained by the gaming going on in the next room.
Idly, as these thoughts passed through her mind, she drew a finger
across the marble of the mantelpiece. Alfred saw and misinterpreted the
action.
"You won't find no dirt, not to speak of," he said. "Mr. Mosgorovsky he
ordered the place to be swept out this morning, and I did it while he
waited."
"Oh!" said Bundle, thinking very hard. "This morning, eh?"
"Has to be done sometimes," said Alfred. "Though the room's never what
you might call used."
Next minute he received a shock.
"Alfred," said Bundle, "you've got to find me a place in this room
where I can hide."
Alfred looked at her in dismay.
"But it's impossible, my lady. You'll get me into trouble and I'll lose
my job."
"You'll lose it anyway when you go to prison," said Bundle unkindly.
"But as a matter of fact, you needn't worry, nobody will know anything
about it."
"And there ain't no place," wailed Alfred. "Look round for yourself,
your ladyship, if you don't believe me."
Bundle was forced to admit that there was something in this argument.
But she had the true spirit of one undertaking adventures.
"Nonsense," she said with determination. "There has _got_ to be a
place."
"But there ain't one," wailed Alfred.
Never had a room shown itself more unpropitious for concealment. Dingy
blinds were drawn down over the dirty window panes, and there were no
curtains. The window sill outside, which Bundle examined, was about
four inches wide! Inside the room there were the table, the chairs and
the cupboards.
The second cupboard had a key in the lock. Bundle went across and
pulled it open. Inside were shelves covered with an odd assortment of
glasses and crockery.
"Surplus stuff as we don't use," explained Alfred. "You can see for
yourself, my lady, there's no place here as a cat could hide."
But Bundle was examining the shelves.
"Flimsy work," she said. "Now then, Alfred, have you got a cupboard
downstairs where you could shove all this glass? You have? Good. Then
get a tray and start to carry it down at once. Hurry--there's no time
to lose."
"You can't, my lady. And it's getting late, too. The cooks will be here
any minute now."
"Mr. Mosgo-what-not doesn't come till later, I suppose?"
"He's never here much before midnight. But, oh, my lady--"
"Don't talk so much, Alfred," said Bundle. "Get that tray. If you stay
here arguing, you _will_ get into trouble."
Doing what is familiarly known as "wringing his hands," Alfred
departed. Presently he returned with a tray, and having by now realized
that his protests were useless, he worked with a nervous energy quite
surprising.
As Bundle had seen, the shelves were easily detachable. She took them
down, ranged them upright against the wall, and then stepped in.
"H'm," she remarked. "Pretty narrow. It's going to be a tight fit. Shut
the door on me carefully, Alfred--that's right. Yes, it can be done.
Now I want a gimlet."
"A gimlet, my lady?"
"That's what I said."
"I don't know--"
"Nonsense, you must have a gimlet--perhaps you've got an auger as well.
If you haven't got what I want, you'll have to go out and buy it, so
you'd better try hard to find the right thing."
Alfred departed and returned presently with quite a creditable
assortment of tools. Bundle seized what she wanted and proceeded
swiftly and efficiently to bore a small hole at the level of her
right eye. She did this from the outside so that it should be less
noticeable, and she dared not make it too large lest it should attract
attention.
"There, that'll do," she remarked at last.
"Oh! but, my lady, my lady--"
"Yes?"
"But they'll find you--if they should open the door."
"They won't open the door," said Bundle, "because you are going to lock
it and take the key away."
"And if by chance Mr. Mosgorovsky should ask for the key?"
"Tell him it's lost," said Bundle briskly. "But nobody's going to worry
about this cupboard--it's only here to attract attention from the other
one and make a pair. Go on, Alfred, someone might come at any time.
Lock me in and take the key and come and let me out when everyone's
gone."
"You'll be taken bad, my lady. You'll faint--"
"I never faint," said Bundle. "But you might as well get me a cocktail.
I shall certainly need it. Then lock the door of the room again--don't
forget--and take all the door keys back to their proper doors. And,
Alfred--don't be too much of a rabbit. Remember, if anything goes
wrong, I'll see you through."
"And that's that," said Bundle to herself when, having served the
cocktail, Alfred had finally departed.
She was not nervous lest Alfred's nerve should fail and he should
give her away. She knew that his sense of self-preservation was far
too strong for that. His training alone helped him to conceal private
emotions beneath the mask of the well-trained servant.
Only one thing worried Bundle. The interpretation she had chosen to put
upon the cleaning of the room that morning might be all wrong. And if
so--Bundle sighed in the narrow confines of the cupboard. The prospect
of spending long hours in it for nothing was not attractive.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MEETING OF THE SEVEN DIALS
It would be as well to pass over the sufferings of the next four hours
as quickly as possible. Bundle found her position extremely cramped.
She had judged that the meeting, if meeting there was to be, would take
place at a time when the club was in full swing--somewhere probably
between the hours of midnight and 2 A.M.
She was just deciding that it must be at least six o'clock in the
morning when a welcome sound came to her ears, the sound of the
unlocking of a door.
In another minute the electric light was switched on. The hum of
voices, which had come to her for a minute or two rather like the
far-off roar of sea waves, ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and
Bundle heard the sound of a bolt being shot. Clearly someone had
come in from the gaming room next door, and she paid tribute to the
thoroughness with which the communicating door had been rendered sound
proof.
In another minute the intruder came into her line of vision--a line of
vision that was necessarily somewhat incomplete but which yet answered
its purpose. A tall man, broad shouldered and powerful looking, with a
long black beard. Bundle remembered having seen him sitting at one of
the baccarat tables on the preceding night.
This, then, was Alfred's mysterious Russian gentleman, the proprietor
of the club, the sinister Mr. Mosgorovsky. Bundle's heart beat faster
with excitement. So little did she resemble her father that at this
minute she fairly gloried in the extreme discomfort of her position.
The Russian remained for some minutes standing by the table, stroking
his beard. Then he drew a watch from his pocket and glanced at the
time. Nodding his head as though satisfied, he again thrust his hand
into his pocket, and, pulling out something that Bundle could not see,
he moved out of her line of vision.
When he reappeared again, she could hardly help giving a gasp of
surprise.
His face was now covered by a mask--but hardly a mask in the
conventional sense. It was not shaped to the face. It was a mere piece
of material hanging in front of the features like a curtain in which
two slits were pierced for the eyes. In shape it was round and on it
was the representation of a clock face, with the hands pointing to six
o'clock.
"The Seven Dials!" said Bundle to herself.
And at that minute there came a new sound--seven muffled taps.
Mosgorovsky strode across to where Bundle knew was the other cupboard
door. She heard a sharp click, and then the sound of greetings in a
foreign tongue.
Presently she had a view of the newcomers.
They also wore clock masks, but in their case the hands were in a
different position--four o'clock and five o'clock respectively. Both
men were in evening dress--but with a difference. One was an elegant,
slender young man wearing evening clothes of exquisite cut. The grace
with which he moved was foreign rather than English. The other man
could be better described as wiry and lean. His clothes fitted him
sufficiently well, but no more, and Bundle guessed at his nationality
even before she heard his voice.
"I reckon we're the first to arrive at this little meeting."
A full pleasant voice with a slight American drawl, and an inflection
of Irish behind it.
The elegant young man said in good, but slightly stilted, English:
"I had much difficulty in getting away to-night. These things do not
always arrange themselves fortunately. I am not, like No. 4 here, my
own master."
Bundle tried to guess at his nationality. Until he spoke, she had
thought he might be French, but the accent was not a French one. He
might possibly, she thought, be an Austrian, or a Hungarian, or even a
Russian.
The American moved to the other side of the table, and Bundle heard a
chair being pulled out.
"One o'clock's being a great success," he said. "I congratulate you on
taking the risk."
Five o'clock shrugged his shoulders.
"Unless one takes risks--" He left the sentence unfinished.
Again seven taps sounded, and Mosgorovsky moved across to the secret
door.
She failed to catch anything definite for some moments since the
whole company were out of sight, but presently she heard the bearded
Russian's voice upraised.
"Shall we begin proceedings?"
He himself came round the table and took the seat next to the arm-chair
at the top. Sitting thus, he was directly facing Bundle's cupboard. The
elegant five o'clock took the place next to him. The third chair that
side was out of Bundle's sight, but the American, No. 4, moved into her
line of vision for a moment or two before he sat down.
On the near side of the table also, only two chairs were visible, and
as she watched a hand turned the second--really the middle chair--down.
And then with a swift movement, one of the newcomers brushed past the
cupboard and took the chair opposite Mosgorovsky. Whoever sat there
had, of course, their back directly turned to Bundle--and it was at
that back that Bundle was staring with a good deal of interest, for it
was the back of a singularly beautiful woman very much _décolleté_.
It was she who spoke first. Her voice was musical, foreign--with a deep
seductive note in it. She was glancing towards the empty chair at the
head of the table.
"So we are not to see No. 7 to-night?" she said. "Tell me, my friends,
shall we ever see him?"
"That's darned good," said the American. "Darned good! As for seven
o'clock--_I'm_ beginning to believe there is no such person."
"I should not advise you to think that, my friend," said the Russian
pleasantly.
There was a silence--rather an uncomfortable silence, Bundle felt.
She was still staring as though fascinated at the beautiful back in
front of her. There was a tiny black mole just below the right shoulder
blade that enhanced the whiteness of the skin. Bundle felt that at last
the term "beautiful adventuress," so often read, had a real meaning for
her. She was quite certain that this woman had a beautiful face--a dark
Slavonic face with passionate eyes.
She was recalled from her imaginings by the voice of the Russian, who
seemed to act as master of ceremonies.
"Shall we get on with our business? First to our absent comrade! No. 2!"
He made a curious gesture with his hand towards the turned down chair
next to the woman, which everyone present imitated, turning to the
chair as they did so.
"I wish No. 2 were with us to-night," he continued. "There are many
things to be done. Unsuspected difficulties have arisen."
"Have you had his report?" It was the American who spoke.
"As yet--I have nothing from him." There was a pause. "I cannot
understand it."
"You think it may have--gone astray?"
"That is--a possibility."
"In other words," said five o'clock softly, "there is--danger."
He spoke the word delicately--and yet with relish.
The Russian nodded emphatically.
"Yes--there's danger. Too much is getting known about us--about this
place. I know of several people who suspect." He added coldly: "They
must be silenced."
Bundle felt a little cold shiver pass down her spine. If she were to be
found, would she be silenced? She was recalled suddenly to attention by
a word.
"So nothing has come to light about Chimneys?"
Mosgorovsky shook his head.
"Nothing."
Suddenly No. 5 leant forward.
"I agree with Anna; where is our president--No. 7? He who called us
into being. Why do we never see him?"
"No. 7," said the Russian, "has his own ways of working."
"So you always say."
"I will say more," said Mosgorovsky. "I pity the man--or woman--who
comes up against him."
There was an awkward silence.
"We must get on with our business," said Mosgorovsky quietly. "No. 3,
you have the plans of Wyvern Abbey?"
Bundle strained her ears. So far she had neither caught a glimpse of
No. 3, nor had she heard his voice. She heard it now and recognized it
as unmistakable. Low, pleasant, indistinct--the voice of a well-bred
Englishman.
"I've got them here, sir."
Some papers were shoved across the table. Everyone bent forward.
Presently Mosgorovsky raised his head again.
"And the list of guests?"
"Here."
The Russian read them.
"Sir Stanley Digby. Mr. Terence O'Rourke. Sir Oswald and Lady Coote.
Mr. Bateman. Countess Anna Radzky. Mrs. Macatta. Mr. James Thesiger--"
he paused and then asked sharply:
"Who is Mr. James Thesiger?"
The American laughed.
"I guess you needn't worry any about him. The usual complete young ass."
The Russian continued reading.
"Herr Eberhard and Mr. Eversleigh. That completes the list."
"Does it?" said Bundle silently. "What about that sweet girl, Lady
Eileen Brent?"
"Yes, there seems nothing to worry about there," said Mosgorovsky. He
looked across the table. "I suppose there's no doubt whatever about the
value of Eberhard's invention?"
Three o'clock made a laconic British reply.
"None whatever."
"Commercially it should be worth millions," said the Russian. "And
internationally--well, one knows only too well the greed of nations."
Bundle had an idea that behind his mask he was smiling unpleasantly.
"Yes," he went on, "a gold mine."
"Well worth a few lives," said No. 5, cynically, and laughed.
"But you know what inventions are," said the American. "Sometimes these
darned things won't work."
"A man like Sir Oswald Coote will have made no mistake," said
Mosgorovsky.
"Speaking as an aviator myself," said No. 5, "the thing is perfectly
feasible. It has been discussed for years--but it needed the genius of
Eberhard to bring it to fruition."
"Well," said Mosgorovsky, "I don't think we need discuss matters any
further. You have all seen the plans. I do not think our original
scheme can be bettered. By the way, I hear something about a letter
of Gerald Wade's that has been found--a letter that mentions this
organization. Who found it?"
"Lord Caterham's daughter--Lady Eileen Brent."
"Bauer should have been on to that," said Mosgorovsky. "It was careless
of him. Who was the letter written to?"
"His sister, I believe," said No. 3.
"Unfortunate," said Mosgorovsky. "But it cannot be helped. The inquest
on Ronald Devereux is to-morrow. I suppose that has been arranged for?"
"Reports as to local lads having been practising with rifles have been
spread everywhere," said the American.
"That should be all right then. I think there is nothing further to be
said. I think we must all congratulate our dear one o'clock and wish
her luck in the part she has to play."
"Hurrah!" cried No. 5. "To Anna!"
All hands flew out in the same gesture which Bundle had noticed before.
"To Anna!"
One o'clock acknowledged the salutation with a typically foreign
gesture. Then she rose to her feet and the others followed suit. For
the first time, Bundle caught a glimpse of No. 3 as he came to put
Anna's cloak round her--a tall, heavily built man.
Then the party filed out through the secret door. Mosgorovsky secured
it after them. He waited a few moments and then Bundle heard him unbolt
the other door and pass through, after extinguishing the electric light.
It was not until two hours later that a white and anxious Alfred came
to release Bundle. She almost fell into his arms and he had to hold her
up.
"Nothing," said Bundle. "Just stiff, that's all. Here, let me sit down."
"Oh, Gord, my lady, it's been awful."
"Nonsense," said Bundle. "It all went off splendidly. Don't get the
wind up now it's all over. It might have gone wrong, but thank goodness
it didn't."
"Thank goodness, as you say, my lady. I've been in a twitter all the
evening. They're a funny crowd, you know."
"A damned funny crowd," said Bundle, vigorously massaging her arms and
legs. "As a matter of fact, they're the sort of crowd I always imagined
until to-night only existed in books. In this life, Alfred, one never
stops learning."
CHAPTER XV
THE INQUEST
Bundle reached home about 6 A.M. She was up and dressed by
half-past nine, and rang up Jimmy Thesiger on the telephone.
The promptitude of his reply somewhat surprised her, till he explained
that he was going down to attend the inquest.
"So am I," said Bundle. "And I've got a lot to tell you."
"Well, suppose you let me drive you down and we can talk on the way.
How about that?"
"All right. But allow a bit extra because you'll have to take me to
Chimneys. The Chief Constable's picking me up there."
"Why?"
"Because he's a kind man," said Bundle.
"So am I," said Jimmy. "Very kind."
"Oh! you--you're an ass," said Bundle. "I heard somebody say so last
night."
"Who?"
"To be strictly accurate--a Russian Jew. No, it wasn't. It was--"
But an indignant protest drowned her words.
"I may be an ass," said Jimmy. "I daresay I am--but I won't have
Russian Jews saying so. What were you doing last night, Bundle?"
"That's what I'm going to talk about," said Bundle. "Good-bye for the
moment."
She rang off in a tantalizing manner which left Jimmy pleasantly
puzzled. He had the highest respect for Bundle's capabilities, though
there was not the slightest trace of sentiment in his feeling towards
her.
"She's been up to something," he opined, as he took a last hasty drink
of coffee. "Depend upon it, she's been up to something."
Twenty minutes later, his little two-seater drew up before the Brook
Street house and Bundle, who had been waiting, came tripping down the
steps. Jimmy was not ordinarily an observant young man, but he noticed
that there were black rings around Bundle's eyes and that she had all
the appearance of having had a late night the night before.
"Now then," he said, as the car began to nose her way through the
suburbs, "what dark deeds have you been up to?"
"I'll tell you," said Bundle. "But don't interrupt until I've finished."
It was a somewhat long story, and Jimmy had all he could do to keep
sufficient attention on the car to prevent an accident. When Bundle had
finished he sighed--then looked at her searchingly.
"Bundle?"
"Yes?"
"Look here, you're not pulling my leg?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm sorry," apologized Jimmy, "but it seems to me as though I'd heard
it all before--in a dream, you know."
"I know," said Bundle sympathetically.
"It's impossible," said Jimmy, following out his own train of thought.
"The beautiful foreign adventuress, the international gang, the
mysterious No. 7, whose identity nobody knows--I've read it all a
hundred times in books."
"Of course you have. So have I. But it's no reason why it shouldn't
really happen."
"I suppose not," admitted Jimmy.
"After all--I suppose fiction is founded on the truth. I mean unless
things did happen, people couldn't think of them."
"There is something in what you say," agreed Jimmy. "But all the same
I can't help pinching myself to see if I'm awake."
"That's how I felt."
Jimmy gave a deep sigh.
"Well, I suppose we are awake. Let me see, a Russian, an American, an
Englishman--a possible Austrian or Hungarian--and the lady who may
be any nationality--for choice Russian or Polish--that's a pretty
representative gathering."
"And a German," said Bundle. "You've forgotten the German."
"Oh!" said Jimmy slowly. "You think--"
"The absent No. 2 is Bauer--our footman. That seems to me quite
clear from what they said about expecting a report which hadn't come
in--though what there can be to report about Chimneys, I can't think."
"It must be something to do with Gerry Wade's death," said Jimmy.
"There's something there we haven't fathomed yet. You say they actually
mentioned Bauer by name?"
Bundle nodded.
"They blamed him for not having found that letter."
"Well, I don't see what you could have clearer than that. There's
no going against it. You'll have to forgive my first incredulity,
Bundle--but you know, it was rather a tall story. You say they knew
about my going down to Wyvern Abbey next week?"
"Yes, that's when the American--it was him, not the Russian--said they
needn't worry--you were only the usual kind of ass."
"Ah!" said Jimmy. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator viciously
and the car shot forward. "I'm very glad you told me that. It gives me
what you might call a personal interest in the case."
He was silent for a minute or two and then he said:
"Did you say that German inventor's name was Eberhard?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Wait a minute. Something's coming back to me. Eberhard, Eberhard--yes,
I'm sure that was the name."
"Tell me."
"Eberhard was a Johnny who'd got some patent process he applied to
steel. I can't put the thing properly because I haven't got the
scientific knowledge--but I know the result was that it became so
toughened that a wire was as strong as a steel bar had previously
been. Eberhard had to do with aeroplanes and his idea was that the
weight would be so enormously reduced that flying would be practically
revolutionized--the cost of it, I mean. I believe he offered his
invention to the German Government, and they turned it down, pointed
out some undeniable flaw in it--but they did it rather nastily. He set
to work and circumvented the difficulty, whatever it was, but he'd been
offended by their attitude and swore they shouldn't have his ewe lamb.
I always thought the whole thing was probably bunkum, but now--it looks
differently."
"That's it," said Bundle eagerly. "You must be right, Jimmy. Eberhard
must have offered his invention to our Government. They've been taking,
or are going to take, Sir Oswald Coote's expert opinion on it. There's
going to be an unofficial conference at the Abbey. Sir Oswald, George,
the Air Minister and Eberhard. Eberhard will have the plans or the
process or whatever you call it--"
"Formula," suggested Jimmy. "I think 'formula' is a good word myself."
"He'll have the formula with him, and the Seven Dials are out to steal
the formula. I remember the Russian saying it was worth millions."
"I suppose it would be," said Jimmy.
"And well worth a few lives--that's what the other man said."
"Well, it seems to have been," said Jimmy, his face clouding over.
"Look at this damned inquest to-day. Bundle, are you sure Ronny said
nothing else?"
"No," said Bundle. "Just that. _Seven Dials. Tell Jimmy Thesiger_.
That's all he could get out, poor lad."
"I wish we knew what he knew," said Jimmy. "But we've found out one
thing. I take it that the footman, Bauer, must almost certainly have
been responsible for Gerry's death. You know, Bundle--"
"Yes?"
"Well, I'm a bit worried sometimes. Who's going to be the next one! It
really isn't the sort of business for a girl to be mixed up in."
Bundle smiled in spite of herself. It occurred to her that it had taken
Jimmy a long time to put her in the same category as Loraine Wade.
"It's far more likely to be you than me," she remarked cheerfully.
"Hear, hear," said Jimmy. "But what about a few casualties on the other
side for a change? I'm feeling rather bloodthirsty this morning. Tell
me, Bundle, would you recognize any of these people if you saw them?"
Bundle hesitated.
"I think I should recognize No. 5," she said at last. "He's got a queer
way of speaking--a kind of venomous, lisping way--that I think I'd know
again."
"What about the Englishman?"
Bundle shook her head.
"I saw him least--only a glimpse--and he's got a very ordinary voice.
Except that he's a big man, there's nothing much to go by."
"There's the woman, of course," continued Jimmy. "She ought to be
easier. But then, you're not likely to run across her. She's probably
putting in the dirty work being taken out to dinner by amorous Cabinet
Ministers and getting State secrets out of them when they've had a
couple. At least, that's how it's done in books. As a matter of fact,
the only Cabinet Minister I know drinks hot water with a dash of lemon
in it."
"Take George Lomax, for instance, can you imagine him being amorous
with beautiful foreign women?" said Bundle with a laugh.
Jimmy agreed with her criticism.
"And now about the man of mystery--No. 7," went on Jimmy. "You've no
idea who he could be?"
"None whatever."
"Again--by book standard, that is--he ought to be someone we all know.
What about George Lomax himself?"
Bundle reluctantly shook her head.
"In a book, it would be perfect," she agreed. "But knowing Codders--"
And she gave herself up to a sudden uncontrollable mirth. "Codders, the
great criminal organizer," she gasped. "Wouldn't it be marvellous?"
Jimmy agreed that it would. Their discussion had taken some time and
his driving had slowed down involuntarily once or twice. They arrived
at Chimneys, to find Colonel Melrose already there waiting. Jimmy was
introduced to him and they all three proceeded to the inquest together.
As Colonel Melrose had predicted, the whole affair was very simple.
Bundle gave her evidence. The doctor gave his. Evidence was given of
rifle practice in the neighbourhood. A verdict of death by misadventure
was brought in.
After the proceedings were over, Colonel Melrose volunteered to drive
Bundle back to Chimneys, and Jimmy Thesiger returned to London. For all
his lighthearted manner, Bundle's story had impressed him profoundly.
He set his lips closely together.
"Ronny, old boy," he murmured, "I'm going to be up against it. And
you're not here to join in the game."
Another thought flashed into his mind. Loraine! Was she in danger?
After a minute or two's hesitation, he went over to the telephone and
rang her up.
"It's me--Jimmy. I thought you'd like to know the result of the
inquest. Death by misadventure."
"Oh, but--"
"Yes, but I think there's something behind that. The coroner had had a
hint. Someone's at work to hush it up. I say, Loraine--"
"Yes?"
"Look here. There's--there's some funny business going about. You'll be
very careful, won't you? For my sake."
He heard the quick note of alarm that sprang into her voice.
"Jimmy--but then it's dangerous--for _you_."
He laughed.
"Oh, _that's_ all right. I'm the cat that had nine lives. Bye-bye, old
thing."
He rang off and remained a minute or two lost in thought. Then he
summoned Stevens.
"Do you think you could go out and buy me a pistol, Stevens?"
"A pistol, sir?"
True to his training, Stevens betrayed no hint of surprise.
"What kind of a pistol would you be requiring?"
"The kind where you put your finger on the trigger and the thing goes
on shooting until you take it off again."
"An automatic, sir."
"That's it," said Jimmy. "An automatic. And I should like it to be a
blue-nosed one--if you and the shopman know what that is. In American
stories, the hero always takes his blue-nosed automatic from his hip
pocket."
Stevens permitted himself a faint, discreet smile.
"Most American gentlemen that I have known, sir, carry something very
different in their hip pockets," he observed.
Jimmy Thesiger laughed.
CHAPTER XVI
THE HOUSE PARTY AT THE ABBEY
Bundle drove over to Wyvern Abbey just in time for tea on Friday
afternoon. George Lomax came forward to welcome her with considerable
_empressement_.
"My dear Eileen," he said, "I can't tell you how pleased I am to see
you here. You must forgive my not having invited you when I asked your
father, but to tell the truth I never dreamed that a party of this kind
would appeal to you. I was both--er--surprised and--er--delighted when
Lady Caterham told me of your--er--interest in--er--politics."
"I wanted to come so much," said Bundle in a simple, ingenuous manner.
"Mrs. Macatta will not arrive till the later train," explained George.
"She was speaking at a meeting in Manchester last night. Do you know
Thesiger? Quite a young fellow, but a remarkable grasp of foreign
politics. One would hardly suspect it from his appearance."
"I know Mr. Thesiger," said Bundle, and she shook hands solemnly with
Jimmy, whom she observed had parted his hair in the middle in the
endeavour to add earnestness to his expression.
"Look here," said Jimmy in a low hurried voice, as George temporarily
withdrew. "You mustn't be angry, but I've told Bill about our little
stunt."
"Bill?" said Bundle, annoyed.
"Well, after all," said Jimmy, "Bill is one of the lads, you know.
Ronny was a pal of his and so was Gerry."
"Oh! I know," said Bundle.
"But you think it's a pity? Sorry."
"Bill's all right, of course. It isn't that," said Bundle. "But
he's--well, Bill's a born blunderer."
"Not mentally very agile?" suggested Jimmy. "But you forget one
thing--Bill's got a very hefty fist. And I've an idea that a hefty fist
is going to come in handy."
"Well, perhaps you're right. How did he take it?"
"Well, he clutched his head a good bit, but--I mean the facts took some
driving home. But by repeating the thing patiently in words of one
syllable I at last got it into his thick head. And, naturally, he's
with us to the death, as you might say."
George reappeared suddenly.
"I must make some introductions, Eileen. This is Sir Stanley
Digby--Lady Eileen Brent. Mr. O'Rourke." The Air Minister was a little
round man with a cheerful smile. Mr. O'Rourke, a tall young man with
laughing blue eyes and a typical Irish face, greeted Bundle with
enthusiasm.
"And I thinking it was going to be a dull political party entirely," he
murmured in an adroit whisper.
"Hush," said Bundle. "I'm political--very political."
"Sir Oswald and Lady Coote you know," continued George.
"We've never actually met," said Bundle, smiling.
She was mentally applauding her father's descriptive powers.
Sir Oswald took her hand in an iron grip and she winced slightly.
Lady Coote, after a somewhat mournful greeting, had turned to Jimmy
Thesiger, and appeared to be registering something closely akin to
pleasure. Despite his reprehensible habit of being late for breakfast,
Lady Coote had a fondness for this amiable, pink-faced young man. His
air of irrepressible good nature fascinated her. She had a motherly
wish to cure him of his bad habits and form him into one of the world's
workers. Whether, once formed, he would be as attractive was a question
she had never asked herself. She began now to tell him of a very
painful motor accident which had happened to one of her friends.
"Mr. Bateman," said George briefly, as one who would pass on to better
things.
A serious, pale-faced young man bowed.
"And now," continued George, "I must introduce you to Countess Radzky."
Countess Radzky had been conversing with Mr. Bateman. Leaning very
far back on a sofa, with her legs crossed in a daring manner, she was
smoking a cigarette in an incredibly long turquoise-studded holder.
Bundle thought she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever
seen. Her eyes were very large and blue, her hair was coal black,
she had a matte skin, the slightly flattened nose of the Slav, and a
sinuous, slender body. Her lips were reddened to a degree with which
Bundle was sure Wyvern Abbey was totally unacquainted.
She said eagerly: "This is Mrs. Macatta--yes?"
On George's replying in the negative and introducing Bundle, the
Countess gave her a careless nod, and at once resumed her conversation
with the serious Mr. Bateman.
Bundle heard Jimmy's voice in her ear:
"Pongo is absolutely fascinated by the lovely Slav," he said.
"Pathetic, isn't it? Come and have some tea."
They drifted once more into the neighbourhood of Sir Oswald Coote.
"That's a fine place of yours, Chimneys," remarked the great man.
"I'm glad you liked it," said Bundle meekly.
"Wants new plumbing," said Sir Oswald. "Bring it up to date, you know."
He ruminated for a minute or two.
"I'm taking the Duke of Alton's place. Three years. Just while I'm
looking round for a place of my own. Your father couldn't sell if he
wanted to, I suppose."
Bundle felt her breath taken away. She had a nightmare vision of
England with innumerable Cootes in innumerable counterparts of
Chimneys--all, be it understood, with an entirely new system of
plumbing installed.
She felt a sudden violent resentment which, she told herself, was
absurd. After all, contrasting Lord Caterham with Sir Oswald Coote,
there was no doubt as to who would go to the wall. Sir Oswald had one
of those powerful personalities which make all those with whom they
come in contact appear faded. He was, as Lord Caterham had said, a
human steam-roller. And yet, undoubtedly, in many ways, Sir Oswald was
a stupid man. Apart from his special line of knowledge and his terrific
driving force, he was probably intensely ignorant. A hundred delicate
appreciations of life which Lord Caterham could and did enjoy were a
sealed book to Sir Oswald.
Whilst indulging in these reflections Bundle continued to chat
pleasantly. Herr Eberhard, she heard, had arrived, but was lying down
with a nervous headache. This was told her by Mr. O'Rourke, who managed
to find a place by her side and keep it.
Altogether, Bundle went up to dress in a pleasant mood of expectation,
with a slight nervous dread hovering in the background whenever she
thought of the imminent arrival of Mrs. Macatta. Bundle felt that
dalliance with Mrs. Macatta was going to prove no primrose path.
Her first shock was when she came down, demurely attired in a black
lace frock, and passed along the hall. A footman was standing there--at
least a man dressed as a footman. But that square, burly figure lent
itself badly to the deception. Bundle stopped and stared.
"Superintendent Battle," she breathed.
"That's right, Lady Eileen."
"Oh!" said Bundle uncertainly. "Are you here to--to--"
"Keep an eye on things."
"I see."
"That warning letter, you know," said the Superintendent, "fairly put
the wind up Mr. Lomax. Nothing would do for him but that I should come
down myself."
"But don't you think--" began Bundle, and stopped. She hardly liked to
suggest to the Superintendent that his disguise was not a particularly
efficient one. He seemed to have "police officer" written all over him,
and Bundle could hardly imagine the most unsuspecting criminal failing
to be put on his guard.
"You think," said the Superintendent stolidly, "that I might be
recognized?"
He gave the final word a distinct capital letter.
"I did think so--yes--" admitted Bundle.
Something that might conceivably have been intended for a smile crossed
the woodenness of Superintendent Battle's features.
"Put them on their guard, eh? Well, Lady Eileen, why not?"
"Why not?" echoed Bundle, rather stupidly, she felt.
Superintendent Battle was nodding his head slowly.
"We don't want any unpleasantness, do we?" he said. "Don't want
to be too clever--just show any light-fingered gentry that may be
about--well, just show them that there's somebody on the spot, so to
speak."
Bundle gazed at him in some admiration. She could imagine that the
sudden appearance of so renowned a personage as Superintendent Battle
might have a depressing effect on any scheme and the hatchers of it.
"It's a great mistake to be too clever," Superintendent Battle was
repeating. "The great thing is not to have any unpleasantness this
week-end."
Bundle passed on, wondering how many of her fellow guests had
recognized or would recognize the Scotland Yard detective. In the
drawing-room George was standing with a puckered brow and an orange
envelope in his hand.
"Most vexatious," he said. "A telegram from Mrs. Macatta to say she
will be unable to be with us. Her children are suffering from mumps."
Bundle's heart gave a throb of relief.
"I especially feel this on your account, Eileen," said George kindly.
"I know how anxious you were to meet her. The Countess too will be
sadly disappointed."
"Oh, never mind," said Bundle. "I should hate it if she'd come and
given me mumps."
"A very distressing complaint," agreed George. "But I do not think
that infection could be carried that way. Indeed, I am sure that Mrs.
Macatta would have run no risk of that kind. She is a most highly
principled woman, with a very real sense of her responsibilities to
the community. In these days of national stress, we must all take into
account--"
On the brink of embarking on a speech, George pulled himself up short.
"But it must be for another time," he said. "Fortunately there is no
hurry in your case. But the Countess, alas, is only a visitor to our
shores."
"She's a Hungarian, isn't she?" said Bundle, who was curious about the
Countess.
"Yes. You have heard, no doubt, of the Young Hungarian party? The
Countess is a leader in that party. A woman of great wealth, left a
widow at an early age, she has devoted her money and her talents to
public service. She has especially devoted herself to the problem of
infant mortality--a terrible one under present conditions in Hungary.
I--Ah! here is Herr Eberhard."
The German inventor was younger than Bundle had imagined him. He was
probably not more than thirty-three or four. He was boorish and ill at
ease, and yet his personality was not an unpleasing one. His blue eyes
were more shy than furtive, and his more unpleasant mannerisms, such as
the one that Bill had described of gnawing his finger-nails, arose, she
thought, more from nervousness than from any other cause. He was thin
and weedy in appearance and looked anaemic and delicate.
He conversed rather awkwardly with Bundle in stilted English and they
both welcomed the interruption of the joyous Mr. O'Rourke. Presently
Bill bustled in--there is no other word for it. In the same such way
does a favoured Newfoundland make his entrance, and at once came over
to Bundle. He was looking perplexed and harassed.
"Hullo, Bundle. Heard you'd got here. Been kept with my nose to the
grindstone all the blessed afternoon or I'd have seen you before."
"Cares of State heavy to-night?" suggested O'Rourke sympathetically.
Bill groaned.
"I don't know what your fellow's like," he complained. "Looks a
good-natured, tubby little chap. But Codders is absolutely impossible.
Drive, drive, drive, from morning to night. Everything you do is wrong,
and everything you haven't done you ought to have done."
"Quite like a quotation from the prayer book," remarked Jimmy, who had
just strolled up.
Bill glanced at them reproachfully.
"Nobody knows," he said pathetically, "what I have to put up with."
"Entertaining the Countess, eh?" suggested Jimmy. "Poor Bill, that must
have been a sad strain--to a woman hater like yourself."
"What's this?" asked Bundle.
"After tea," said Jimmy with a grin, "the Countess asked Bill to show
her round the interesting old place."
"Well, I couldn't refuse, could I?" said Bill, his countenance assuming
a brick-red tint.
Bundle felt faintly uneasy. She knew, only too well, the susceptibility
of Mr. William Eversleigh to female charms. In the hands of a woman
like the Countess, Bill would be as wax. She wondered once more whether
Jimmy Thesiger had been wise to take Bill into their confidence.
"The Countess," said Bill, "is a very charming woman. And no end
intelligent. You should have seen her going round the house. All sorts
of questions she asked."
"What kind of questions?" asked Bundle suddenly.
Bill was vague.
"Oh! I don't know. About the history of it. And old furniture. And--oh!
all sorts of things."
At that moment the Countess swept into the room. She seemed a shade
breathless. She was looking magnificent in a close-fitting black velvet
gown. Bundle noticed how Bill gravitated at once into her immediate
neighbourhood. The serious, spectacled young man joined him.
"Bill and Pongo have both got it badly," observed Jimmy Thesiger with a
laugh.
Bundle was by no means so sure that it was a laughing matter.
CHAPTER XVII
AFTER DINNER
George was not a believer in modern innovations. The Abbey was innocent
of anything so up to date as central heating. Consequently, when the
ladies entered the drawing-room after dinner, the temperature of the
room was woefully inadequate to the needs of modern evening clothes.
The fire that burnt in the well-burnished steel grate became as a
magnet. The three women huddled round it.
"Brrrrrrrrrrrr!" said the Countess, a fine, exotic, foreign sound.
"The days are drawing in," said Lady Coote, and drew a flowered
atrocity of a scarf closer about her ample shoulders.
"Why on earth doesn't George have the house properly heated?" said
Bundle.
"You English, you never heat your houses," said the Countess.
She took out her long cigarette holder and began to smoke.
"That grate is old-fashioned," said Lady Coote. "The heat goes up the
chimney instead of into the room."
"Oh!" said the Countess.
There was a pause. The Countess was so plainly bored by her company
that conversation became difficult.
"It's funny," said Lady Coote, breaking the silence, "that Mrs.
Macatta's children should have mumps. At least, I don't mean exactly
funny--"
"What," said the Countess, "are mumps?"
Bundle and Lady Coote started simultaneously to explain. Finally,
between them, they managed it.
"I suppose Hungarian children have it?" asked Lady Coote.
"Eh?" said the Countess.
"Hungarian children. They suffer from it?"
"I do not know," said the Countess. "How should I?"
Lady Coote looked at her in some surprise.
"But I understood that you worked--"
"Oh, that!" The Countess uncrossed her legs, took her cigarette holder
from her mouth and began to talk rapidly.
"I will tell you some horrors," she said. "Horrors that I have seen.
Incredible! You would not believe!"
And she was as good as her word. She talked fluently and with a graphic
power of description. Incredible scenes of starvation and misery were
painted by her for the benefit of her audience. She spoke of Buda Pesth
shortly after the war and traced its vicissitudes to the present day.
She was dramatic, but she was also, to Bundle's mind, a little like a
gramophone record. You turned her on, and there you were. Presently,
just as suddenly, she would stop.
Lady Coote was thrilled to the marrow--that much was clear. She sat
with her mouth slightly open and her large, sad, dark eyes fixed on the
Countess. Occasionally, she interpolated a comment of her own.
"One of my cousins had three children burned to death. Awful, wasn't
it?"
The Countess paid no attention. She went on and on. And she finally
stopped as suddenly as she had begun.
"There!" she said. "I have told you! We have money--but no
organization. It is organization we need."
Lady Coote sighed.
"I've heard my husband say that nothing can be done without regular
methods. He attributes his own success entirely to that. He declares he
would have never got on without them."
She sighed again. A sudden fleeting vision passed before her eyes of a
Sir Oswald who had not got on in the world. A Sir Oswald who retained,
in all essentials, the attributes of that cheery young man in the
bicycle shop. Just for a second it occurred to her how much pleasanter
life might have been for her if Sir Oswald had _not_ had regular
methods.
By a quite understandable association of ideas she turned to Bundle.
"Tell me, Lady Eileen," she said, "do you like that head gardener of
yours?"
"MacDonald? Well--" Bundle hesitated. "One couldn't exactly _like_
MacDonald," she explained apologetically. "But he's a first-class
gardener."
"Oh! I know he is," said Lady Coote.
"He's all right if he's kept in his place," said Bundle.
"I suppose so," said Lady Coote.
She looked enviously at Bundle, who appeared to approach the task of
keeping MacDonald in his place so light heartedly.
"I'd just adore a high-toned garden," said the Countess dreamily.
Bundle stared, but at that moment a diversion occurred. Jimmy Thesiger
entered the room and spoke directly to her in a strange, hurried voice.
"I say, will you come and see those etchings now? They're waiting for
you."
Bundle left the room hurriedly, Jimmy close behind her.
"What etchings?" she asked, as the drawing-room door closed behind her.
"No etchings," said Jimmy. "I'd got to say something to get hold of
you. Come on, Bill is waiting for us in the library. There's nobody
there."
Bill was striding up and down the library, clearly in a very perturbed
state of mind.
"Look here," he burst out, "I don't like this."
"Don't like what?"
"You being mixed up in this. Ten to one there's going to be a rough
house and then--"
He looked at her with a kind of pathetic dismay that gave Bundle a warm
and comfortable feeling.
"She ought to be kept out of it, oughtn't she, Jimmy?"
He appealed to the other.
"I've told her so," said Jimmy.
"Dash it all, Bundle, I mean--someone might get hurt."
Bundle turned round to Jimmy.
"How much have you told him?"
"Oh! everything."
"I haven't got the hang of it all yet," confessed Bill. "You in that
place in Seven Dials and all that." He looked at her unhappily. "I say,
Bundle, I wish you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what?"
"Get mixed up in these sorts of things."
"Why not?" said Bundle. "They're exciting."
"Oh, yes--exciting. But they may be damnably dangerous. Look at poor
old Ronny."
"Yes," said Bundle. "If it hadn't been for your friend Ronny, I don't
suppose I should ever have got what you call 'mixed up' in this thing.
But I am. And it's no earthly use your bleating about it."
"I know you're the most frightful sport, Bundle, but--"
"Cut out the compliments. Let's make plans."
To her relief, Bill reacted favourably to the suggestion.
"You're right about the formula," he said. "Eberhard's got some sort
of formula with him, or rather Sir Oswald has. The stuff has been
tested out at his works--very secretly and all that. Eberhard has been
down there with him. They're all in the study now--what you might call
coming down to brass tacks."
"How long is Sir Stanley Digby staying?" asked Jimmy.
"Going back to town to-morrow."
"H'm," said Jimmy. "Then one thing's quite clear. If, as I suppose, Sir
Stanley will be taking the formula with him, any funny business there's
going to be will be to-night."
"I suppose it will."
"Not a doubt of it. That narrows the thing down very comfortably. But
the bright lads will have to be their very brightest. We must come down
to details. First of all, where will the sacred formula be to-night?
Will Eberhard have it, or Sir Oswald Coote?"
"Neither. I understand it's to be handed over to the Air Minister this
evening, for him to take to town to-morrow. In that case O'Rourke will
have it. Sure to."
"Well, there's only one thing for it. If we believe someone's going to
have a shot at pinching that paper, we've got to keep watch to-night,
Bill, my boy."
Bundle opened her mouth as though to protest, but shut it again without
speaking.
"By the way," continued Jimmy, "did I recognize the commissionaire from
Harrods in the hall this evening, or was it our old friend Lestrade
from Scotland Yard?"
"Scintillating, Watson," said Bill.
"I suppose," said Jimmy, "that we are rather butting in on his
preserves."
"Can't be helped," said Bill. "Not if we mean to see this thing
through."
"Then it's agreed," said Jimmy. "We divide the night into two watches?"
Again Bundle opened her mouth, and again shut it without speaking.
"Right you are," agreed Bill. "Who'll take first duty?"
"Shall we spin for it?"
"Might as well."
"All right. Here goes. Heads you first and I second. Tails, vice versa."
Bill nodded. The coin spun in the air. Jimmy bent to look at it.
"Tails," he said.
"Damn," said Bill. "You get first half and probably any fun that's
going."
"Oh, you never know," said Jimmy. "Criminals are very uncertain. What
time shall I wake you? Three thirty?"
"That's about fair, I think."
And now, at last, Bundle spoke:
"What about _me_?" she asked.
"Nothing doing. You go to bed and sleep."
"Oh!" said Bundle. "That's not very exciting."
"You never know," said Jimmy kindly. "You may be murdered in your sleep
whilst Bill and I escape scot-free."
"Well, there's always that possibility. Do you know, Jimmy, I don't
half like the look of that Countess. I suspect her."
"Nonsense," cried Bill hotly. "She's absolutely above suspicion."
"How do you know?" retorted Bundle.
"Because I do. Why, one of the fellows at the Hungarian Embassy vouched
for her."
"Oh!" said Bundle, momentarily taken aback by his fervour.
"You girls are all the same," grumbled Bill. "Just because she's a
jolly good-looking woman--"
Bundle was only too well acquainted with this unfair masculine line of
argument.
"Well, don't you go and pour confidences into her shell-pink ear," she
remarked. "I'm going to bed. I was bored stiff in that drawing-room and
I'm not going back."
She left the room. Bill looked at Jimmy.
"Good old Bundle," he said. "I was afraid we might have trouble with
her. You know how keen she is to be in everything. I think the way she
took it was just wonderful."
"So did I," said Jimmy. "It staggered me."
"She's got some sense, Bundle has. She knows when a thing's plumb
impossible. I say, oughtn't we to have some lethal weapons? Chaps
usually do when they're going on this sort of stunt."
"I have a blue-nosed automatic," said Jimmy with gentle pride. "It
weighs several pounds and looks most murderous. I'll lend it to you
when the time comes."
Bill looked at him with respect and envy.
"What made you think of getting that?" he said.
"I don't know," said Jimmy carelessly. "It just came to me."
"I hope we shan't go and shoot the wrong person," said Bill with some
anxiety.
"That would be unfortunate," said Mr. Thesiger gravely.
CHAPTER XVIII
JIMMY'S ADVENTURES
Our chronicle must here split into three separate and distinct
portions. The night was to prove an eventful one and each of the three
persons involved saw it from his or her own individual angle.
We will begin with that pleasant and engaging youth, Mr. Jimmy
Thesiger, at a moment when he has at last exchanged final good-nights
with his fellow conspirator, Bill Eversleigh.
"Don't forget," said Bill, "3 A.M. If you're still alive, that
is," he added kindly.
"I may be an ass," said Jimmy, with rancorous remembrance of the remark
Bundle had repeated to him, "but I'm not nearly so much of an ass as I
look."
"That's what you said about Gerry Wade," said Bill slowly. "Do you
remember? And that very night he--"
"Shut up, you damned fool," said Jimmy. "Haven't you got _any_ tact?"
"Of course I've got tact," said Bill. "I'm a budding diplomatist. All
diplomatists have tact."
"Ah!" said Jimmy. "You must be still in what they call the larval
stage."
"I can't get over Bundle," said Bill, reverting abruptly to a former
topic. "I should certainly have said that she'd be--well, difficult.
Bundle's improved. She's improved very much."
"That's what your Chief was saying," said Jimmy. "He said he was
agreeably surprised."
"I thought Bundle was laying it on a bit thick myself," said Bill.
"But Codders is such an ass he'd swallow anything. Well, night-night.
I expect you'll have a bit of a job waking me when the time comes--but
stick to it."
"It won't be much good if you've taken a leaf out of Gerry Wade's
book," said Jimmy maliciously.
Bill looked at him reproachfully.
"What the hell do you want to go and make a chap uncomfortable for?" he
demanded.
"You're only getting your own back," said Jimmy. "Toddle along."
But Bill lingered. He stood uncomfortably, first on one foot and then
on the other.
"Look here," he said.
"Yes?"
"What I mean to say is--well, I mean you'll be all right and all that,
won't you? It's all very well ragging, but when I think of poor old
Gerry--and then poor old Ronny--"
Jimmy gazed at him in exasperation. Bill was one of those who
undoubtedly meant well, but the result of his efforts would not be
described as heartening.
"I see," he remarked, "that I shall have to show you Leopold."
He slipped his hand into the pocket of the dark blue suit into which he
had just changed and held out something for Bill's inspection.
"A real, genuine, blue-nosed automatic," he said with modest pride.
"No, I say," Bill said. "Is it really?"
He was undoubtedly impressed.
"Stevens, my man, got him for me. Warranted clean and methodical in his
habits. You press the button and Leopold does the rest."
"Oh!" said Bill. "I say, Jimmy?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful, won't you? I mean, don't go loosing that thing off at
anybody. Pretty awkward if you shot old Digby walking in his sleep."
"That's all right," said Jimmy. "Naturally, I want to get value out of
Leopold now I've bought him, but I'll curb my bloodthirsty instincts as
far as possible."
"Well, night-night," said Bill for the fourteenth time, and this time
really did depart.
Jimmy was left alone to take up his vigil.
Sir Stanley Digby occupied a room at the extremity of the west wing. A
bathroom adjoined it on one side, and on the other a communicating door
led into a smaller room, which was tenanted by Mr. Terence O'Rourke.
The doors of these three rooms gave on to a short corridor. The watcher
had a simple task. A chair placed inconspicuously in the shadow of an
oak press just where the corridor ran into the main gallery formed a
perfect vantage ground. There was no other way into the west wing, and
anyone going to or from it could not fail to be seen. One electric
light was still on.
Jimmy ensconced himself comfortably, crossed his legs and waited.
Leopold lay in readiness across his knee.
He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to one--just an hour
since the household had retired to rest. Not a sound broke the
stillness, except for the far-off ticking of a clock somewhere.
Somehow or other, Jimmy did not much care for that sound. It
recalled things. Gerald Wade--and those seven ticking clocks on the
mantelpiece.... Whose hand had placed them there, and why? He shivered.
It was a creepy business, this waiting. He didn't wonder that things
happened at spiritualistic séances. Sitting in the gloom, one got all
worked up--ready to start at the least sound. And unpleasant thoughts
came crowding in on a fellow.
Ronny Devereux! Ronny Devereux and Gerry Wade! Both young, both full
of life and energy; ordinary, jolly, healthy young men. And now, where
were they? Dank earth ... worms getting them.... Ugh! why couldn't he
put these horrible thoughts out of his mind?
He looked again at his watch. Twenty minutes past one only. How the
time crawled.
Extraordinary girl, Bundle! Fancy having the nerve and the daring
actually to get into the midst of that Seven Dials place. Why hadn't
he had the nerve and the initiative to think of that? He supposed
because the thing _was_ so fantastic.
No. 7. Who the hell could No. 7 be? Was he, perhaps, in the house
at this minute? Disguised as a servant. He couldn't, surely, be one
of the guests. No, that was impossible. But then, the whole thing
was impossible. If he hadn't believed Bundle to be essentially
truthful--well, he would have thought she had invented the whole thing.
He yawned. Queer, to feel sleepy, and yet at the same time strung up.
He looked again at his watch. Ten minutes to two. Time was getting on.
And then, suddenly, he held his breath and leaned forward, listening.
He had heard something.
The minutes went past.... There it was again. The creak of a board....
But it came from downstairs somewhere. There it was again! A slight,
ominous creak. Somebody was moving stealthily about the house.
Jimmy sprang noiselessly to his feet. He crept silently to the head
of the staircase. Everything seemed perfectly quiet. Yet he was quite
certain he had really heard that stealthy sound. It was not imagination.
Very quietly and cautiously he crept down the staircase, Leopold
clasped tightly in his right hand. Not a sound in the big hall. If he
had been correct in assuming that the muffled sound came from directly
beneath him, then it must have come from the library.
Jimmy stole to the door of it, listened, but heard nothing; then,
suddenly flinging open the door, he switched on the lights.
Nothing! The big room was flooded with light. But it was empty.
Jimmy frowned.
"I could have sworn--" he murmured to himself.
The library was a large room with three windows which opened on to the
terrace. Jimmy strode across the room. The middle window was unlatched.
He opened it and stepped out on the terrace, looking from end to end of
it. Nothing!
"Looks all right," he murmured to himself. "And yet--"
He remained for a minute lost in thought. Then he stepped back into
the library. Crossing to the door, he locked it and put the key in
his pocket. Then he switched off the light. He stood for a minute
listening, then crossed softly to the open window and stood there,
Leopold ready in his hand.
Was there, or was there not, a soft patter of feet along the terrace?
No--his imagination. He grasped Leopold tightly and stood listening....
In the distance a stable clock chimed two.
CHAPTER XIX
BUNDLE'S ADVENTURES
Bundle Brent was a resourceful girl--she was also a girl of
imagination. She had foreseen that Bill, if not Jimmy, would make
objections to her participation in the possible dangers of the night.
It was not Bundle's idea to waste time in argument. She had laid her
own plans and made her own arrangements. A glance from her bedroom
window shortly before dinner had been highly satisfactory. She had
known that the gray walls of the Abbey were plentifully adorned with
ivy, but the ivy outside her window was particularly solid looking and
would present no difficulties to one of her athletic propensities.
She had no fault to find with Bill's and Jimmy's arrangements as far as
they went. But in her opinion they did not go far enough. She offered
no criticism, because she intended to see to that side of things
herself. Briefly, while Jimmy and Bill were devoting themselves to the
inside of the Abbey, Bundle intended to devote her attentions to the
outside.
Her own meek acquiescence in the tame rôle assigned to her gave her an
infinity of pleasure, though she wondered scornfully how either of the
two men could be so easily deceived. Bill, of course, had never been
famous for scintillating brain power. On the other hand, he knew, or
should know, his Bundle. And she considered that Jimmy Thesiger, though
only slightly acquainted with her, ought to have known better than to
imagine that she could be so easily and summarily disposed of.
Once in the privacy of her own room, Bundle set rapidly to work. First
she discarded her evening dress and the negligible trifle which she
wore beneath it, and started again, so to speak, from the foundations.
Bundle had not brought her maid with her, and she herself had packed.
Otherwise, the puzzled Frenchwoman might have wondered why her lady
took a pair of riding breeches and no further equine equipment.
Arrayed in riding breeches, rubber-soled shoes, and a dark-coloured
pullover, Bundle was ready for the fray. She glanced at the time. As
yet, it was only half-past twelve. Too early by far. Whatever was going
to happen would not happen for some time yet. The occupants of the
house must all be given time to get off to sleep. Half-past one was the
time fixed by Bundle for the start of operations.
She switched off her light and sat down by the window to wait.
Punctually at the appointed moment, she rose, pushed up the sash and
swung her leg over the sill. The night was a fine one, cold and still.
There was starlight but no moon.
She found the descent very easy. Bundle and her two sisters had run
wild in the park at Chimneys as small children, and they could all
climb like cats. Bundle arrived on a flower-bed, rather breathless, but
quite unscathed.
She paused a minute to take stock of her plans. She knew that the rooms
occupied by the Air Minister and his secretary were in the west wing;
that was the opposite side of the house from where Bundle was now
standing. A terrace ran along the south and west side of the house,
ending abruptly against a walled fruit garden.
Bundle stepped out of her flower-bed and turned the corner of the house
to where the terrace began on the south side. She crept very quietly
along it, keeping close to the shadow of the house. But, as she reached
the second corner, she got a shock, for a man was standing there, with
the clear intention of barring her way.
The next instant she had recognized him.
"Superintendent Battle! You did give me a fright!"
"That's what I'm here for," said the Superintendent pleasantly.
Bundle looked at him. It struck her now, as so often before, how
remarkably little camouflage there was about him. He was large and
solid and noticeable. He was, somehow, very English. But of one thing
Bundle was quite sure. Superintendent Battle was no fool.
"What are you really doing here?" she asked, still in a whisper.
"Just seeing," said Battle, "that nobody's about who shouldn't be."
"Oh!" said Bundle, rather taken aback.
"You, for instance, Lady Eileen. I don't suppose you usually take a
walk at this time of night."
"Do you mean," said Bundle slowly, "that you want me to go back?"
Superintendent Battle nodded approvingly.
"You're very quick, Lady Eileen. That's just what I do mean. Did
you--er--come out of a door, or the window?"
"The window. It's easy as anything climbing down this ivy."
Superintendent Battle looked up at it thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said. "I should say it would be."
"And you want me to go back?" said Bundle. "I'm rather sick about that.
I wanted to go round on to the west terrace."
"Perhaps you won't be the only one who'll want to do that," said Battle.
"Nobody could miss seeing you," said Bundle rather spitefully.
The Superintendent seemed rather pleased than otherwise.
"I hope they won't," he said. "_No unpleasantness._ That's my motto.
And if you'll excuse me, Lady Eileen, I think it's time you were going
back to bed."
The firmness of his tone admitted of no parley. Rather crestfallen,
Bundle retraced her steps. She was half-way up the ivy when a sudden
idea occurred to her, and she nearly relaxed her grip and fell.
Supposing Superintendent Battle suspected _her_.
There had been something--yes, surely there had been something in his
manner that vaguely suggested the idea. She couldn't help laughing
as she crawled over the sill into her bedroom. Fancy the solid
Superintendent suspecting _her_!
Though she had so far obeyed Battle's orders as to return to her room,
Bundle had no intention of going to bed and sleeping. Nor did she think
that Battle had really intended her to do so. He was not a man to
expect impossibilities. And to remain quiescent when something daring
and exciting might be going on was a sheer impossibility to Bundle.
She glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to two. After a moment
or two of irresolution, she cautiously opened her door. Not a sound.
Everything was still and peaceful. She stole cautiously along the
passage.
Once she halted, thinking she heard a board creak somewhere, but then
convinced that she was mistaken, she went on again. She was now in the
main corridor, making her way to the west wing. She reached the angle
of intersection and peered cautiously round--then she stared in blank
surprise.
The watcher's post was empty. Jimmy Thesiger was not there.
Bundle stared in complete amazement. What had happened? Why had Jimmy
left his post? What did it mean?
And at that moment she heard a clock strike two.
She was still standing there, debating what to do next, when suddenly
her heart gave a leap and then seemed to stand still.
_The door handle of Terence O'Rourke's room was slowly turning._
Bundle watched, fascinated. But the door did not open. Instead the knob
returned slowly to its original position. What did it mean?
Suddenly Bundle came to a resolution. Jimmy, for some unknown reason,
had deserted his post. She must get hold of Bill.
Quickly and noiselessly, Bundle fled along the way she had come. She
burst unceremoniously into Bill's room.
"Bill, wake up! Oh, do wake up!"
It was an urgent whisper she sent forth, but there came no response to
it.
"Bill," breathed Bundle.
Impatiently she switched on the lights, and then stood dumfounded.
The room was empty, and the bed had not even been slept in.
Where then was Bill?
Suddenly she caught her breath. _This was not Bill's room._ The
dainty négligé thrown over a chair, the feminine knick-knacks on the
dressing-table, the black velvet evening dress thrown carelessly over a
chair--Of course, in her haste she had mistaken the doors. This was the
Countess Radzky's room.
But where, oh, where, was the Countess?
And just as Bundle was asking herself this question, the silence of the
night was suddenly broken, and in no uncertain manner.
The clamour came from below. In an instant Bundle had sped out of the
Countess's room and downstairs. The sounds came from the library--a
violent crashing of chairs being overturned.
Bundle rattled vainly at the library door. It was locked. But she could
clearly hear the struggle that was going on within--the panting and
scuffling, curses in manly tones, the occasional crash as some light
piece of furniture came into the line of battle.
And then, sinister and distinct, breaking the peace of the night for
good and all, two shots in rapid succession.
CHAPTER XX
LORAINE'S ADVENTURES
Loraine Wade sat up in bed and switched on the light. It was exactly
ten minutes to one. She had gone to bed early--at half-past nine.
She possessed the useful art of being able to wake herself up at the
required time, so she had been able to enjoy some hours of refreshing
sleep.
Two dogs slept in the room with her, and one of these now raised his
head and looked at her inquiringly.
"Quiet, Lurcher," said Loraine, and the big animal put his head down
again obediently, watching her from between his shaggy eyelashes.
It is true that Bundle had once doubted the meekness of Loraine Wade,
but that brief moment of suspicion had passed. Loraine had seemed so
entirely reasonable, so willing to be kept out of everything.
And yet, if you studied the girl's face, you saw that there was
strength of purpose in the small, resolute jaw and the lips that closed
together so firmly.
Loraine rose and dressed herself in a tweed coat and skirt. Into one
pocket of the coat she dropped an electric torch. Then she opened
the drawer of her dressing-table and took out a small ivory-handled
pistol--almost a toy in appearance. She had bought it the day before at
Harrods and she was very pleased with it.
She gave a final glance round the room to see if she had forgotten
anything, and at that moment the big dog rose and came over to her,
looking up at her with pleading eyes and wagging his tail.
Loraine shook her head.
"No, Lurcher. Can't go. Missus can't take you. Got to stay here and be
a good boy."
She dropped a kiss on the dog's head, made him lie down on his rug
again, and then slipped noiselessly out of the room, closing the door
behind her.
She let herself out of the house by a side door and made her way round
to the garage, where her little two-seater car was in readiness.
There was a gentle slope, and she let the car run silently down it,
not starting the engine till she was some way from the house. Then
she glanced at the watch on her arm and pressed her foot down on the
accelerator.
She left the car at a spot she had previously marked down. There was
a gap there in the fencing that she could easily get through. A few
minutes later, slightly muddy, Loraine stood inside the grounds of
Wyvern Abbey.
As noiselessly as possible, she made her way towards the venerable
ivy-covered building. In the distance a stable clock chimed two.
Loraine's heart beat faster as she drew near to the terrace. There was
no one about--no sign of life anywhere. Everything seemed peaceful and
undisturbed. She reached the terrace and stood there, looking about her.
Suddenly, without the least warning, something from above fell with a
flop almost at her feet. Loraine stooped to pick it up. It was a brown
paper packet, loosely wrapped. Holding it, Loraine looked up.
There was an open window just above her head, and even as she looked a
leg swung over it and a man began to climb down the ivy.
Loraine waited for no more. She took to her heels and ran, still
clasping the brown paper packet.
Behind her, the noise of a struggle suddenly broke out. A hoarse voice:
"Lemme go"; another that she knew well: "Not if I know it--ah, you
would, would you?"
Still Loraine ran--blindly, as though panic-stricken--right round the
corner of the terrace--and slap into the arms of a large, solidly built
man.
"There, there," said Superintendent Battle kindly.
Loraine was struggling to speak.
"Oh, quick--oh, quick! They're killing each other. Oh, do be quick!"
There was a sharp crack of a revolver shot--and then another.
Superintendent Battle started to run. Loraine followed. Back round the
corner of the terrace and along to the library window. The window was
open.
Battle stooped and switched on an electric torch. Loraine was close
beside him, peering over his shoulder. She gave a little sobbing gasp.
On the threshold of the window lay Jimmy Thesiger in what looked like a
pool of blood. His right arm lay dangling in a curious position.
Loraine gave a sharp cry.
"He's dead," she wailed. "Oh, Jimmy--Jimmy--he's dead!"
"Now, now," said Superintendent Battle soothingly, "don't you take on
so. The young gentleman isn't dead, I'll be bound. See if you can find
the lights and turn them on."
Loraine obeyed. She stumbled across the room, found the switch by
the door and pressed it down. The room was flooded with light.
Superintendent Battle uttered a sigh of relief.
"It's all right--he's only shot in the right arm. He's fainted through
loss of blood. Come and give me a hand with him."
There was a pounding on the library door. Voices were heard, asking,
expostulating, demanding.
Loraine looked doubtfully at it.
"Shall I--"
"No hurry," said Battle. "We'll let them in presently. You come and
give me a hand."
Loraine came obediently. The Superintendent had produced a large, clean
pocket-handkerchief and was neatly bandaging the wounded man's arm.
Loraine helped him.
"He'll be all right," said the Superintendent. "Don't you worry. As
many lives as cats, these young fellows. It wasn't the loss of blood
knocked him out either. He must have caught his head a crack on the
floor as he fell."
Outside the knocking on the door had become tremendous. The voice of
George Lomax, furiously upraised, came loud and distinct:
"Who is in there? Open the door at once."
Superintendent Battle sighed.
"I suppose we shall have to," he said. "A pity."
His eyes darted round, taking in the scene. An automatic lay by Jimmy's
side. The Superintendent picked it up gingerly, holding it very
delicately, and examined it. He grunted and laid it on the table. Then
he stepped across and unlocked the door.
Several people almost fell into the room. Nearly everybody said
something at the same minute. George Lomax, spluttering with obdurate
words which refused to come with sufficient fluency, exclaimed:
"The--the--the meaning of this? Ah! It's you, Superintendent. What's
happened? I say--what has--happened?"
Bill Eversleigh said: "My God! Old Jimmy!" and stared at the limp
figure on the ground.
Lady Coote, clad in a resplendent purple dressing-gown, cried out:
"The poor boy!" and swept past Superintendent Battle to bend over the
prostrate Jimmy in a motherly fashion.
Bundle said: "Loraine!"
Herr Eberhard said: "Gott im Himmel!" and other words of that nature.
Sir Stanley Digby said: "My God, what's all this?"
A housemaid said: "Look at the blood," and screamed with pleasurable
excitement.
A footman said: "Lor!"
The butler said, with a good deal more bravery in his manner than had
been noticeable a few minutes earlier: "Now then, this won't do!" and
waved away underservants.
The efficient Mr. Rupert Bateman said to George: "Shall we get rid of
some of these people, sir?"
Then they all took fresh breath.
"Incredible!" said George Lomax. "Battle, what has _happened_?"
Battle gave him a look, and George's discreet habits assumed their
usual sway.
"Now then," he said, moving to the door, "everyone go back to bed,
please. There's been a--er--"
"A little accident," said Superintendent Battle easily.
"A--er--an accident. I shall be much obliged if everyone will go back
to bed."
Everyone was clearly reluctant to do so.
"Lady Coote--please--"
"The poor boy," said Lady Coote in a motherly fashion.
She rose from a kneeling position with great reluctance. And as she did
so, Jimmy stirred and sat up.
"Hallo!" he said thickly. "What's the matter?"
He looked round him vacantly for a minute or two and then intelligence
returned to his eye.
"Have you got him?" he demanded eagerly.
"Got who?"
"The man. Climbed down the ivy. I was by the window there. Grabbed him
and we had no end of a set-to--"
"One of those nasty, murderous cat burglars," said Lady Coote. "Poor
boy."
Jimmy was looking round him.
"I say--I'm afraid we--er--have made rather a mess of things. Fellow
was as strong as an ox and we went fairly waltzing around."
The condition of the room was clear proof of this statement. Everything
light and breakable within a range of twelve feet that could be broken
_had_ been broken.
"And what happened then?"
But Jimmy was looking round for something.
"Where's Leopold? The pride of the blue-nosed automatics."
Battle indicated the pistol on the table.
"Is this yours, Mr. Thesiger?"
"That's right. That's little Leopold. How many shots have been fired?"
"One shot."
Jimmy looked chagrined.
"I'm disappointed in Leopold," he murmured. "I can't have pressed the
button properly, or he'd have gone on shooting."
"Who shot first?"
"I did, I'm afraid," said Jimmy. "You see, the man twisted himself out
of my grasp suddenly. I saw him making for the window and I closed my
finger down on Leopold and let him have it. He turned in the window and
fired at me and--well, I suppose after that I took the count."
He rubbed his head rather ruefully.
But Sir Stanley Digby was suddenly alert.
"Climbing down the ivy, you said? My God, Lomax, you don't think
they've got away with it?"
He rushed from the room. For some curious reason nobody spoke during
his absence. In a few minutes Sir Stanley returned. His round, chubby
face was white as death.
"My God Battle," he said, "they've got it. O'Rourke's fast
asleep--drugged, I think. I can't wake him. And the papers have
vanished."
CHAPTER XXI
THE RECOVERY OF THE FORMULA
"Der liebe Gott!" said Herr Eberhard in a whisper.
His face had gone chalky white.
George turned a face of dignified reproach on Battle.
"Is this true, Battle? I left all arrangements in your hands."
The rock-like quality of the Superintendent showed out well. Not a
muscle of his face moved.
"The best of us are defeated sometimes, sir," he said quietly.
"Then you mean--you really mean--that the document is gone?"
But to everyone's intense surprise Superintendent Battle shook his head.
"No, no, Mr. Lomax, it's not so bad as you think. Everything's all
right. But you can't lay the credit for it at my door. You've got to
thank this young lady."
He indicated Loraine, who stared at him in surprise. Battle stepped
across to her and gently took the brown paper parcel which she was
still clutching mechanically.
"I think, Mr. Lomax," he said, "that you will find what you want here."
Sir Stanley Digby, quicker in action than George, snatched at the
package and tore it open, investigating its contents eagerly. A sigh
of relief escaped him and he mopped his brow. Herr Eberhard fell upon
the child of his brain and clasped it to his heart, whilst a torrent of
German burst from him.
Sir Stanley turned to Loraine, shaking her warmly by the hand.
"My dear young lady," he said, "we are infinitely obliged to you, I am
sure."
"Yes, indeed," said George. "Though I--er--"
He paused in some perplexity, staring at a young lady who was a total
stranger to him. Loraine looked appealingly at Jimmy, who came to the
rescue.
"Er--this is Miss Wade," said Jimmy. "Gerald Wade's sister."
"Indeed," said George, shaking her warmly by the hand. "My dear Miss
Wade, I must express my deep gratitude to you for what you have done. I
must confess that I do not quite see--"
He paused delicately and four of the persons present felt that
explanations were going to be fraught with much difficulty.
Superintendent Battle came to the rescue.
"Perhaps we'd better not go into that just now, sir," he suggested
tactfully.
The efficient Mr. Bateman created a further diversion.
"Wouldn't it be wise for someone to see to O'Rourke? Don't you think,
sir, that a doctor had better be sent for?"
"Of course," said George. "Of course. Most remiss of us not to
have thought of it before." He looked towards Bill. "Get Dr.
Cartwright on the telephone. Ask him to come. Just hint, if you can,
that--er--discretion should be observed."
Bill went off on his errand.
"I will come up with you, Digby," said George. "Something, possibly,
could be done--measures should, perhaps, be taken--whilst awaiting the
arrival of the doctor."
He looked rather helplessly at Rupert Bateman. Efficiency always makes
itself felt. It was Pongo who was really in charge of the situation.
"Shall I come up with you, sir?"
George accepted the offer with relief. Here, he felt, was someone on
whom he could lean. He experienced that sense of complete trust in
Mr. Bateman's efficiency which came to all those who encountered that
excellent young man.
The three men left the room together. Lady Coote, murmuring in deep
rich tones: "The poor young fellow. Perhaps I could do something--"
hurried after them.
"That's a very motherly woman," observed the Superintendent
thoughtfully. "A very motherly woman. I wonder--"
Three pairs of eyes looked at him inquiringly.
"I was wondering," said Superintendent Battle slowly, "where Sir Oswald
Coote may be."
"Oh!" gasped Loraine. "Do you think he's been murdered?"
Battle shook his head at her reproachfully.
"No need for anything so melodramatic," he said. "No--I rather think--"
He paused, his head on one side, listening--one large hand raised to
enjoin silence.
In another minute they all heard what his sharper ears had been the
first to notice--footsteps coming along the terrace outside. They rang
out clearly with no kind of subterfuge about them. In another minute
the window was blocked by a bulky figure which stood there regarding
them and who conveyed, in an odd way, a sense of dominating the
situation.
Sir Oswald, for it was he, looked slowly from one face to another. His
keen eyes took in the details of the situation. Jimmy, with his roughly
bandaged arm; Bundle, in her somewhat anomalous attire; Loraine, a
perfect stranger to him. His eyes came last to Superintendent Battle.
He spoke sharply and crisply:
"What's been happening here, officer?"
"Attempted robbery, sir."
"_Attempted_--eh?"
"Thanks to this young lady, Miss Wade, the thieves failed to get away
with it."
"Ah!" he said again, his scrutiny ended. "And now, officer, what about
_this_?"
He held out a small Mauser pistol which he carried delicately by the
butt.
"Where did you find that, Sir Oswald?"
"On the lawn outside. I presume it must have been thrown down by one
of the thieves as he took to his heels. I've held it carefully, as I
thought you might wish to examine it for fingerprints."
"You think of everything, Sir Oswald," said Battle.
He took the pistol from the other, handling it with equal care, and
laid it down on the table beside Jimmy's Colt.
"And now, if you please," said Sir Oswald, "I should like to hear
exactly what occurred."
Superintendent Battle gave a brief résumé of the events of the night.
Sir Oswald frowned thoughtfully.
"I understand," he said sharply. "After wounding and disabling Mr.
Thesiger, the man took to his heels and ran, throwing away the pistol
as he did so. What I cannot understand is why no one pursued him."
"It wasn't till we heard Mr. Thesiger's story that we knew there was
anyone to pursue," remarked Superintendent Battle dryly.
"You didn't--er--catch sight of him making off as you turned the corner
of the terrace?"
"No, I missed him by just about forty seconds, I should say. There's no
moon and he'd be invisible as soon as he'd left the terrace. He must
have leapt for it as soon as he'd fired the shot."
"H'm," said Sir Oswald. "I still think that a search should have been
organized. Someone else should have been posted--"
"There are three of my men in the grounds," said the Superintendent
quietly.
"Oh!" Sir Oswald seemed rather taken aback.
"They were to hold and detain any one attempting to leave the grounds."
"And yet--they haven't done so?"
"And yet they haven't done so," agreed Battle gravely.
Sir Oswald looked at him as though something in the words puzzled him.
He said sharply:
"Are you telling me all that you know, Superintendent Battle?"
"All that I _know_--yes, Sir Oswald. What I think is a different
matter. Maybe I think some rather curious things--but until thinking's
got you somewhere it's no use talking about it."
"And yet," said Sir Oswald slowly, "I should like to know what you
think, Superintendent Battle."
"For one thing, sir, I think there's a lot too much ivy about this
place--excuse me, sir, you've got a bit on your coat--yes, a great deal
too much ivy. It complicates things."
Sir Oswald stared at him, but any reply he might have contemplated
making was arrested by the entrance of Rupert Bateman.
"Oh, there you are, Sir Oswald. I'm so glad. Lady Coote has just
discovered that you were missing--and she has been insisting upon it
that you had been murdered by the thieves. I really think, Sir Oswald,
that you had better come to her at once. She is terribly upset."
"Maria is an incredibly foolish woman," said Sir Oswald. "Why should I
be murdered? I'll come with you, Bateman."
He left the room with his secretary.
"That's a very efficient young man," said Battle, looking after them.
"What's his name--Bateman?"
Jimmy nodded.
"Bateman--Rupert," he said. "Commonly known as Pongo. I was at school
with him."
"Were you? Now, that's interesting, Mr. Thesiger. What was your opinion
of him in those days?"
"Oh, he was always the same sort of ass."
"I shouldn't have thought," said Battle mildly, "that he was an ass."
"Oh, you know what I mean. Of course he wasn't really an ass. Tons of
brains and always swotting at things. But deadly serious. No sense of
humour."
"Ah!" said Superintendent Battle. "That's a pity. Gentlemen who have no
sense of humour get to taking themselves too seriously--and that leads
to mischief."
"I can't imagine Pongo getting into mischief," said Jimmy. "He's done
extremely well for himself so far--dug himself in with old Coote and
looks like being a permanency in the job."
"Superintendent Battle," said Bundle.
"Yes, Lady Eileen?"
"Don't you think it very odd that Sir Oswald didn't say what he was
doing wandering about in the garden in the middle of the night?"
"Ah!" said Battle. "Sir Oswald's a great man--and a great man always
knows better than to explain unless an explanation is demanded. To rush
into explanations and excuses is always a sign of weakness. Sir Oswald
knows that as well as I do. He's not going to come in explaining and
apologizing--not he. He just stalks in and hauls _me_ over the coals.
He's a big man, Sir Oswald."
Such a warm admiration sounded in the Superintendent's tones that
Bundle pursued the subject no further.
"And now," said Superintendent Battle, looking round with a slight
twinkle in his eye, "now that we're together and friendly like--I
_should_ like to hear just how Miss Wade happened to arrive on the
scene so pat."
"She ought to be ashamed of herself," said Jimmy. "Hoodwinking us all
as she did."
"Why should I be kept out of it all?" cried Loraine passionately. "I
never meant to be--no, not the very first day in your rooms when you
both explained how the best thing for me to do was to stay quietly at
home and keep out of danger. I didn't say anything, but I made up my
mind then."
"I half suspected it," said Bundle. "You were so surprisingly meek
about it. I might have known you were up to something."
"I thought you were remarkably sensible," said Jimmy Thesiger.
"You would, Jimmy dear," said Loraine. "It was easy enough to deceive
you."
"Thank you for these kind words," said Jimmy. "Go on, and don't mind
me."
"When you rang up and said there might be danger, I was more determined
than ever," went on Loraine. "I went to Harrods and I bought a pistol.
Here it is."
She produced the dainty weapon, and Superintendent Battle took it from
her and examined it.
"Quite a deadly little toy, Miss Wade," he said. "Have you had
much--er--practise with it?"
"None at all," said Loraine. "But I thought if I took it with me--well,
that it would give me a comforting feeling."
"Quite so," said Battle gravely.
"My idea was to come over here and see what was going on. I left the
car in the road and climbed through the hedge and came up to the
terrace. I was just looking about me when--plop--something fell right
at my feet. I picked it up and then looked to see where it could have
come from. And then I saw the man climbing down the ivy and I ran."
"Just so," said Battle. "Now, Miss Wade, can you describe that man at
all?"
The girl shook her head.
"It was too dark to see much. I think he was a big man--but that's
about all."
"And now you, Mr. Thesiger." Battle turned to him. "You struggled with
the man--can you tell me anything about him?"
"He was a pretty hefty individual--that's all I can say. He gave a few
hoarse whispers--that's when I had him by the throat. He said, 'Lemme
go, guvnor,' something like that."
"An uneducated man, then?"
"Yes, I suppose he was. He spoke like one."
"I still don't quite understand about the packet," said Loraine. "Why
should he throw it down as he did? Was it because it hampered him
climbing?"
"No," said Battle. "I've got an entirely different theory about that.
That packet, Miss Wade, was deliberately thrown down to you--or so I
believe."
"To _me_?"
"Shall we say--to the person the thief thought you were."
"This is getting very involved," said Jimmy.
"Mr. Thesiger, when you came into this room, did you switch on the
light at all?"
"Yes."
"And there was no one in the room?"
"No one at all."
"But previously you thought you heard someone moving about down here?"
"Yes."
"And then, after trying the window, you switched off the light again
and locked the door?"
Jimmy nodded.
Superintendent Battle looked slowly round him. His glance was arrested
by a big screen of Spanish leather which stood near one of the
bookcases.
Brusquely he strode across the room and looked behind it.
He uttered a sharp ejaculation, which brought the three young people
quickly to his side.
Huddled on the floor, in a dead faint, lay the Countess Radzky.
CHAPTER XXII
THE COUNTESS RADZKY'S STORY
The Countess's return to consciousness was very different from that of
Jimmy Thesiger. It was more prolonged and infinitely more artistic.
Artistic was Bundle's word. She had been zealous in her
ministrations--largely consisting of the application of cold water--and
the Countess had instantly responded, passing a white, bewildered hand
across her brow and murmuring faintly.
It was at this point that Bill, at last relieved from his duties
with telephone and doctors, had come bustling into the room and had
instantly proceeded to make (in Bundle's opinion) a most regrettable
idiot of himself.
He had hung over the Countess with a concerned and anxious face and had
addressed a series of singularly idiotic remarks to her:
"I say, Countess. It's all right. It's really all right. Don't try
to talk. It's bad for you. Just lie still. You'll be all right in a
minute. It'll all come back to you. Don't say anything till you're
quite all right. Take your time. Just lie still and close your eyes.
You'll remember everything in a minute. Have another sip of water.
Have some brandy. That's the stuff. Don't you think, Bundle, that some
brandy...?"
"For God's sake, Bill, leave her alone," said Bundle crossly. "She'll
be all right."
And with an expert hand she flipped a good deal of cold water on to the
exquisite make-up of the Countess's face.
The Countess flinched and sat up. She looked considerably more wide
awake.
"Ah!" she murmured. "I am here. Yes, I am here."
"Take your time," said Bill. "Don't talk till you feel quite all right
again."
The Countess drew the folds of a very transparent négligé closer around
her.
"It is coming back to me," she murmured. "Yes, it is coming back."
She looked at the little crowd grouped around her. Perhaps something in
the attentive faces struck her as unsympathetic. In any case she smiled
deliberately up at the one face which clearly displayed a very opposite
emotion.
"Ah, my big Englishman," she said very softly, "do not distress
yourself. All is well with me."
"Oh! I say, but are you sure?" demanded Bill anxiously.
"Quite sure." She smiled at him reassuringly. "We Hungarians, we have
nerves of steel."
A look of intense relief passed over Bill's face. A fatuous look
settled down there instead--a look which made Bundle earnestly long to
kick him.
"Have some water," she said coldly.
The Countess refused water. Jimmy, kindlier to beauty in distress,
suggested a cocktail. The Countess reacted favourably to this
suggestion. When she had swallowed it, she looked round once more, this
time with a livelier eye.
"Tell me, what has happened?" she demanded briskly.
"We were hoping you might be able to tell us that," said Superintendent
Battle.
The Countess looked at him sharply. She seemed to become aware of the
big, quiet man for the first time.
"I went to your room," said Bundle. "The bed hadn't been slept in and
you weren't there."
She paused--looking accusingly at the Countess. The latter closed her
eyes and nodded her head slowly.
"Yes, yes, I remember it all now. Oh, it was horrible!" She shuddered.
"Do you want me to tell you?"
Superintendent Battle said, "If you please" at the same moment that
Bill said, "Not if you don't feel up to it."
The Countess looked from one to the other, but the quiet, masterful eye
of Superintendent Battle won the game.
"I could not sleep," began the Countess. "The house--it oppressed me. I
was all, as you say, on wires, the cat on the hot bricks. I knew that
in the state I was in it was useless to think of going to bed. I walked
about my room. I read. But the books placed there did not interest
me greatly. I thought I would come down here and find something more
absorbing."
"Very natural," said Bill.
"Very often done, I believe," said Battle.
"So as soon as the idea occurred to me, I left my room and came down.
The house was very still--"
"Excuse me," interrupted the Superintendent, "but can you give me an
idea of the time when this occurred?"
"I never know the time," said the Countess superbly, and swept on with
her story.
"The house was very quiet. One could even hear the little mouse run, if
there had been one. I come down the stairs--very quietly--"
"Very quietly?"
"Naturally, I do not want to disturb the household," said the Countess
reproachfully. "I come in here. I go into this corner and I search the
shelves for a suitable book."
"Having, of course, switched on the light?"
"No, I did not switch on the light. I had, you see, my little electric
torch with me. With that, I scanned the shelves."
"Ah!" said the Superintendent.
"Suddenly," continued the Countess dramatically, "I hear something. A
stealthy sound. A muffled footstep. I switch out my torch and listen.
The footsteps draw nearer--stealthy, horrible footsteps. I shrink
behind the screen. In another minute the door opens and the light is
switched on. The man--the burglar is in the room."
"Yes, but I say--" began Mr. Thesiger.
A large-sized foot pressed his, and realizing that Superintendent
Battle was giving him a hint, Jimmy shut up.
"I nearly died of fear," continued the Countess. "I tried not to
breathe. The man waited for a minute, listening. Then, still with that
horrible, stealthy tread--"
Again Jimmy opened his mouth in protest, and again shut it.
"--he crossed to the window and peered out. He remained there for a
minute or two, then he recrossed the room and turned out the lights
again, locking the door. I am terrified. He is in the room, moving
stealthily about in the dark. Ah, it is horrible. Suppose he should
come upon me in the dark! In another minute I hear him again by the
window. Then silence. I hope that perhaps he may have gone out that
way. As the minutes pass and I hear no further sound, I am almost sure
that he has done so. Indeed I am in the very act of switching on my
torch and investigating when--_prestissimo!_--it all begins."
"Yes?"
"Ah! But it was terrible--never--never shall I forget it! Two men
trying to murder each other. Oh, it was horrible! They reeled about
the room, and furniture crashed in every direction. I thought, too,
that I heard a woman scream--but that was not in the room. It was
outside somewhere. The criminal had a hoarse voice. He croaked rather
than spoke. He kept saying, 'Lemme go--lemme go.' The other man was a
gentleman. He had a cultured, English voice."
Jimmy looked gratified.
"He swore--mostly," continued the Countess.
"Clearly a gentleman," said Superintendent Battle.
"And then," continued the Countess, "a flash and a shot. The bullet hit
the bookcase beside me. I--I suppose I must have fainted."
She looked up at Bill. He took her hand and patted it.
"You poor dear," he said. "How rotten for you."
"Silly idiot," thought Bundle.
Superintendent Battle had moved on swift, noiseless feet over to the
bookcase a little to the right of the screen. He bent down, searching.
Presently he stooped and picked something up.
"It wasn't a bullet, Countess," he said. "It's the shell of the
cartridge. Where were you standing when you fired, Mr. Thesiger?"
Jimmy took up a position by the window.
"As nearly as I can say, about here."
Superintendent Battle placed himself in the same spot.
"That's right," he agreed. "The empty shell would throw right rear.
It's a .455. I don't wonder the Countess thought it was a bullet in
the dark. It hit the bookcase about a foot from her. The bullet itself
grazed the window frame and we'll find it outside to-morrow--unless
your assailant happens to be carrying it about in him."
Jimmy shook his head regretfully.
"Leopold, I fear, did not cover himself with glory," he remarked sadly.
The Countess was looking at him with most flattering attention.
"Your arm!" she exclaimed. "It is all tied up! Was it you then--"
Jimmy made her a mock bow.
"I'm so glad I've got a cultured English voice," he said. "And I can
assure you that I wouldn't have dreamed of using the language I did if
I had had any suspicion that a lady was present."
"I did not understand all of it," the Countess hastened to explain.
"Although I had an English governess when I was young--"
"It isn't the sort of thing she'd be likely to teach you," agreed
Jimmy. "Kept you busy with your uncle's pen, and the umbrella of the
gardener's niece. I know the sort of stuff."
"But what has happened?" asked the Countess. "That is what I want to
know. I demand to know what has happened."
There was a moment's silence whilst everybody looked at Superintendent
Battle.
"It's very simple," said Battle mildly. "Attempted robbery. Some
political papers stolen from Sir Stanley Digby. The thieves nearly
got away with them, but thanks to this young lady"--he indicated
Loraine--"they didn't."
The Countess flashed a glance at the girl--rather an odd glance.
"Indeed," she said coldly.
"A very fortunate coincidence that she happened to be there," said
Superintendent Battle, smiling.
The Countess gave a little sigh and half closed her eyes again.
"It is absurd, but I still feel extremely faint," she murmured.
"Of course you do," cried Bill. "Let me help you up to your room.
Bundle will come with you."
"It is very kind of Lady Eileen," said the Countess, "but I should
prefer to be alone. I am really quite all right. Perhaps you will just
help me up the stairs?"
She rose to her feet, accepted Bill's arm and, leaning heavily on it,
went out of the room. Bundle followed as far as the hall but, the
Countess reiterating her assurance--with some tartness--that she was
quite all right, she did not accompany them upstairs.
But as she stood watching the Countess's graceful form, supported by
Bill, slowly mounting the stairway, she stiffened suddenly to acute
attention. The Countess's négligé, as previously mentioned, was thin--a
mere veil of orange chiffon. Through it Bundle saw distinctly below the
right shoulder blade _a small black mole_.
With a gasp, Bundle swung impetuously round to where Superintendent
Battle was just emerging from the library. Jimmy and Loraine had
preceded him.
"There," said Battle. "I've fastened the window and there will be a
man on duty outside. And I'll lock this door and take the key. In the
morning we'll do what the French call reconstruct the crime--Yes, Lady
Eileen, what is it?"
"Superintendent Battle, I must speak to you--at once."
"Why, certainly, I--"
George Lomax suddenly appeared, Dr. Cartwright by his side.
"Ah, there you are, Battle. You'll be relieved to hear that there's
nothing seriously wrong with O'Rourke."
"I never thought there would be much wrong with Mr. O'Rourke," said
Battle.
"He's had a strong hypnotic administered to him," said the doctor.
"He'll wake perfectly all right in the morning. Perhaps a bit of a
head, perhaps not. Now then, young man, let's look at this bullet wound
of yours."
"Come on, nurse," said Jimmy to Loraine. "Come and hold the basin or my
hand. Witness a strong man's agony. You know the stunt."
Jimmy, Loraine and the doctor went off together. Bundle continued to
throw agonized glances in the direction of Superintendent Battle, who
had been buttonholed by George.
The Superintendent waited patiently till a pause occurred in George's
loquacity. He then swiftly took advantage of it.
"I wonder, sir, if I might have a word privately with Sir Stanley? In
the little study at the end there."
"Certainly," said George. "Certainly. I'll go and fetch him at once."
He hurried off upstairs again. Battle drew Bundle swiftly into the
drawing-room and shut the door.
"Now, Lady Eileen, what is it?"
"I'll tell you as quickly as I can--but it's rather long and
complicated."
As concisely as she could, Bundle related her introduction to the Seven
Dials Club and her subsequent adventures there. When she had finished,
Superintendent Battle drew a long breath. For once, his facial
woodenness was laid aside.
"Remarkable," he said. "Remarkable. I wouldn't have believed it
possible--even for you, Lady Eileen. I ought to have known better."
"But you did give me a hint, Superintendent Battle. You told me to ask
Bill Eversleigh."
"It's dangerous to give people like you a hint, Lady Eileen. I never
dreamt of your going to the lengths you have."
"Well, it's all right, Superintendent Battle. My death doesn't lie at
your door."
"Not yet, it doesn't," said Battle grimly.
He stood as though in thought, turning things over in his mind.
"What Mr. Thesiger was about, letting you run into danger like that, I
can't think," he said presently.
"He didn't know till afterwards," said Bundle. "I'm not a complete mug,
Superintendent Battle. And anyway, he's got his hands full looking
after Miss Wade."
"Is that so?" said the Superintendent. "Ah!"
He twinkled a little.
"I shall have to detail Mr. Eversleigh to look after you, Lady Eileen."
"Bill!" said Bundle contemptuously. "But Superintendent Battle, you
haven't heard the end of my story. The woman I saw there--Anna--No. 1.
Yes, No. 1 is the Countess Radzky."
And rapidly she went on to describe her recognition of the mole.
To her surprise the Superintendent hemmed and hawed.
"A mole isn't much to go upon, Lady Eileen. Two women might have an
identical mole very easily. You must remember that the Countess Radzky
is a very well-known figure in Hungary."
"Then this isn't the real Countess Radzky. I tell you I'm sure this is
the same woman I saw there. And look at her to-night--the way we found
her. I don't believe she ever fainted at all."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that, Lady Eileen. That empty shell striking the
bookcase beside her might have frightened any woman half out of her
wits."
"But what was she doing there anyway? One doesn't come down to look for
a book with an electric torch."
Battle scratched his cheek. He seemed unwilling to speak. He began to
pace up and down the room, as though making up his mind. At last he
turned to the girl.
"See here, Lady Eileen, I'm going to trust you. The Countess's
conduct _is_ suspicious. I know that as well as you do. It's very
suspicious--but we've got to go carefully. There mustn't be any
unpleasantness with the Embassies. One has got to be _sure_."
"I see. If you were _sure_...."
"There's something else. During the war, Lady Eileen, there was a great
outcry about German spies being left at large. Busybodies wrote letters
to the papers about it. We paid no attention. Hard words didn't hurt
us. The small fry were left alone. Why? Because through them, sooner or
later, _we got the big fellow--the man at the top_."
"You mean?"
"Don't bother about what I mean, Lady Eileen. But remember this. _I
know all about the Countess._ And I want her let alone.
"And now," added Superintendent Battle ruefully, "I've got to think of
something to say to Sir Stanley Digby!"
CHAPTER XXIII
SUPERINTENDENT BATTLE IN CHARGE
It was ten o'clock on the following morning. The sun poured in through
the windows of the library, where Superintendent Battle had been at
work since six. On a summons from him, George Lomax, Sir Oswald Coote
and Jimmy Thesiger had just joined him, having repaired the fatigues of
the night with a substantial breakfast. Jimmy's arm was in a sling, but
he bore little other trace of the night's affray.
The Superintendent eyed all three of them benevolently, somewhat with
the air of a kindly curator explaining a museum to little boys. On the
table beside him were various objects, neatly labelled. Amongst them
Jimmy recognized Leopold.
"Ah, Superintendent," said George, "I have been anxious to know how you
have progressed. Have you caught the man?"
"He'll take a lot of catching, he will," said the Superintendent easily.
His failure in that respect did not appear to rankle with him.
George Lomax did not look particularly well pleased. He detested levity
of any kind.
"I've got everything taped out pretty clearly," went on the detective.
He took up two objects from the table.
"Here we've got the two bullets. The largest is a .455, fired from
Mr. Thesiger's Colt automatic. Grazed the window sash and I found it
embedded in the trunk of that cedar tree. This little fellow was fired
from the Mauser .25. After passing through Mr. Thesiger's arm, it
embedded itself in this arm-chair here. As for the pistol itself--"
"Well?" said Sir Oswald eagerly. "Any fingerprints?"
Battle shook his head.
"The man who handled it wore gloves," he said slowly.
"A pity," said Sir Oswald.
"A man who knew his business would wear gloves. Am I right in thinking,
Sir Oswald, that you found this pistol just about twenty yards from the
bottom of the steps leading up to the terrace?"
Sir Oswald stepped to the window.
"Yes, almost exactly, I should say."
"I don't want to find fault, but it would have been wiser on your part,
sir, to leave it exactly as you found it."
"I am sorry," said Sir Oswald stiffly.
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I've been able to reconstruct things. There
were your footprints, you see, leading up from the bottom of the
garden, and a place where you had obviously stopped and stooped down,
and a kind of dent in the grass which was highly suggestive. By the
way, what was your theory of the pistol being there?"
"I presumed that it had been dropped by the man in his flight."
Battle shook his head.
"Not dropped, Sir Oswald. There are two points against that. To begin
with, there is only one set of footprints crossing the lawn just
there--your own."
"I see," said Sir Oswald thoughtfully.
"Can you be sure of that, Battle?" put in George.
"Quite sure, sir. There is one other set of tracks crossing the lawn,
Miss Wade's, but they are a good deal farther to the left."
He paused, and then went on: "And there's the dent in the ground. The
pistol must have struck the ground with some force. It all points to
its having been thrown."
"Well, why not?" said Sir Oswald. "Say the man fled down the path to
the left. He'd leave no footprints on the path and he'd hurl the
pistol away from him into the middle of the lawn, eh, Lomax?"
George agreed by a nod of the head.
"It's true that he'd leave no footprints on the path," said Battle,
"but from the shape of the dent and the way the turf was cut, I don't
think the pistol was thrown from that direction. I think it was thrown
from the terrace here."
"Very likely," said Sir Oswald. "Does it matter, Superintendent?"
"Ah, yes, Battle," broke in George. "Is it--er--strictly relevant?"
"Perhaps not, Mr. Lomax. But we like to get things just so, you know. I
wonder now if one of you gentlemen would take this pistol and throw it.
Will you, Sir Oswald? That's very kind. Stand just here in the window.
Now fling it into the middle of the lawn."
Sir Oswald complied, sending the pistol flying through the air with a
powerful sweep of his arm. Jimmy Thesiger drew near with breathless
interest. The Superintendent lumbered off after it like a well-trained
retriever. He reappeared with a beaming face.
"That's it, sir. Just the same kind of mark. Although, by the way, you
sent it a good ten yards farther. But then, you're a very powerfully
built man, aren't you, Sir Oswald? Excuse me, I thought I heard someone
at the door."
The Superintendent's ears must have been very much sharper than anyone
else's. Nobody else had heard a sound, but Battle was proved right, for
Lady Coote stood outside, a medicine glass in her hand.
"Your medicine, Oswald," she said, advancing into the room. "You forgot
it after breakfast."
"I'm very busy, Maria," said Sir Oswald. "I don't want my medicine."
"You would never take it if it wasn't for me," said his wife serenely,
advancing upon him. "You're just like a naughty little boy. Drink it up
now."
And meekly, obediently, the great steel magnate drank it up!
Lady Coote smiled sadly and sweetly at everyone.
"Am I interrupting you? Are you very busy? Oh, look at those revolvers.
Nasty, noisy, murdering things. To think, Oswald, that you might have
been shot by the burglar last night."
"You must have been alarmed when you found he was missing, Lady Coote,"
said Battle.
"I didn't think of it at first," confessed Lady Coote. "This poor boy
here"--she indicated Jimmy--"being shot--and everything so dreadful,
but so exciting. It wasn't till Mr. Bateman asked me where Sir Oswald
was that I remembered he'd gone out half an hour before for a stroll."
"Sleepless, eh, Sir Oswald?" asked Battle.
"I am usually an excellent sleeper," said Sir Oswald. "But I must
confess that last night I felt unusually restless. I thought the night
air would do me good."
"You came out through this window, I suppose?"
Was it his fancy, or did Sir Oswald hesitate for a moment before
replying.
"Yes."
"In your pumps too," said Lady Coote, "instead of putting thick shoes
on. What would you do without me to look after you?"
She shook her head sadly.
"I think, Maria, if you don't mind leaving us--we have still a lot to
discuss."
"I know, dear, I'm just going."
Lady Coote withdrew, carrying the empty medicine glass as though it
were a goblet out of which she had just administered a death potion.
"Well, Battle," said George Lomax, "it all seems clear enough. Yes,
perfectly clear. The man fires a shot, disabling Mr. Thesiger, flings
away the weapon, runs along the terrace and down the gravel path."
"Where he ought to have been caught by my men," put in Battle.
"Your men, if I may say so, Battle, seem to have been singularly
remiss. They didn't see Miss Wade come in. If they could miss her
coming in, they could easily miss the thief going out."
Superintendent Battle opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think
better of it. Jimmy Thesiger looked at him curiously. He would have
given a lot to know just what was in Superintendent Battle's mind.
"Must have been a champion runner," was all the Scotland Yard man
contented himself with saying.
"How do you mean, Battle?"
"Just what I say, Mr. Lomax. I was round the corner of the terrace
myself not fifty seconds after the shot was fired. And for a man to
run all that distance towards me and get round the corner of the path
before I appeared round the side of the house--well, as I say, he must
have been a champion runner."
"I am at a loss to understand you, Battle. You have some idea of your
own which I have not yet--er--grasped. You say the man did not go
across the lawn and now you hint--What exactly do you hint? That the
man did not go down the path? Then in your opinion--er--where _did_ he
go?"
For answer, Superintendent Battle jerked an eloquent thumb upwards.
"Eh?" said George.
The Superintendent jerked harder than ever. George raised his head and
looked at the ceiling.
"Up there," said Battle. "Up the ivy again."
"Nonsense, Superintendent. What you are suggesting is impossible."
"Not at all impossible, sir. He'd done it once. He could do it twice."
"I don't mean impossible in that sense. But if the man wanted to
escape, he'd never bolt back into the house."
"Safest place for him, Mr. Lomax."
"But Mr. O'Rourke's door was still locked on the inside when we came to
him."
"And how did you get to him? Through Sir Stanley's room. That's the
way our man went. Lady Eileen tells me she saw the door knob of Mr.
O'Rourke's door move. That was when our friend was up there the first
time. I suspect the key was under Mr. O'Rourke's pillow. But his exit
is clear enough the second time--through the communicating door and
through Sir Stanley's room, which, of course, was empty. Like everyone
else, Sir Stanley is rushing downstairs to the library. Our man's got a
clear course."
"And where did he go then?"
Superintendent Battle shrugged his burly shoulders and became evasive.
"Plenty of ways open. Into an empty room on the other side of the house
and down the ivy again--out through a side door--or, just possibly, if
it was an inside job, he--well, stayed in the house."
George looked at him in shocked surprise.
"Really, Battle, I should--I should feel it very deeply if one of
my servants--er--I have the most perfect reliance on them--it would
distress me very much to have to suspect--"
"Nobody's asking you to suspect anyone, Mr. Lomax. I'm just putting all
the possibilities before you. The servants may be all right--probably
are."
"You have disturbed me," said George. "You have disturbed me greatly."
His eyes appeared more protuberant than ever.
To distract him, Jimmy poked delicately at a curious blackened object
on the table.
"What's this?" he asked.
"That's exhibit Z," said Battle. "The last of our little lot. It is, or
rather it has been, a glove."
He picked it up, the charred relic, and manipulated it with pride.
"Where did you find it?" asked Sir Oswald.
Battle jerked his head over his shoulder.
"In the grate--nearly burnt, but not quite. Queer; looks as though it
had been chewed by a dog."
"It might possibly be Miss Wade's," suggested Jimmy. "She has several
dogs."
The Superintendent shook his head.
"This isn't a lady's glove--no, not even the large kind of loose glove
ladies wear nowadays. Fit it on, sir, a moment."
He adjusted the blackened object over Jimmy's hand.
"You see--it's large even for you."
"Do you attach importance to this discovery?" inquired Sir Oswald
coldly.
"You never know, Sir Oswald, what's going to be important or what
isn't."
There was a sharp tap at the door and Bundle entered.
"I'm so sorry," she said apologetically, "but Father has just rung up.
He says I must come home because everybody is worrying him."
She paused.
"Yes, my dear Eileen?" said George encouragingly, perceiving that there
was more to come.
"I wouldn't have interrupted you--only that I thought it might perhaps
have something to do with all this. You see, what has upset Father is
that one of our footmen is missing. He went out last night and hasn't
come back."
"What is the man's name?" It was Sir Oswald who took up the
cross-examination.
"John Bauer."
"An Englishman?"
"I believe he calls himself a Swiss--but I think he's a German. He
speaks English perfectly, though."
"Ah!" Sir Oswald drew in his breath with a long, satisfied hiss. "And
he has been at Chimneys--how long?"
"Just under a month."
Sir Oswald turned to the other two.
"Here is our missing man. You know, Lomax, as well as I do, that
several foreign Governments are after the thing. I remember the man
now perfectly--tall, well-drilled fellow. Came about a fortnight
before we left. A clever move. Any new servants here would be closely
scrutinized, but at Chimneys, five miles away--" He did not finish the
sentence.
"You think the plan was laid so long beforehand?"
"Why not? There are millions in that formula, Lomax. Doubtless Bauer
hoped to get access to my private papers at Chimneys, and to learn
something of forthcoming arrangements from them. It seems likely that
he may have had an accomplice in this house--someone who put him
wise to the lie of the land and who saw to the doping of O'Rourke.
But Bauer was the man Miss Wade saw climbing down the ivy--the big,
powerful man."
He turned to Superintendent Battle.
"Bauer was your man, Superintendent. And, somehow or other, you let him
slip through your fingers."
CHAPTER XXIV
BUNDLE WONDERS
There was no doubt that Superintendent Battle was taken aback. He
fingered his chin thoughtfully.
"Sir Oswald is right, Battle," said George. "This is the man. Any hope
of catching him?"
"There may be, sir. It certainly looks--well, suspicious. Of course the
man may turn up again--at Chimneys, I mean."
"Do you think it likely?"
"No, it isn't," confessed Battle. "Yes, it certainly looks as though
Bauer were the man. But I can't quite see how he got in and out of
these grounds unobserved."
"I have already told you my opinion of the men you posted," said
George. "Hopelessly inefficient--I don't want to blame you,
Superintendent, but--" His pause was eloquent.
"Ah, well," said Battle lightly, "my shoulders are broad."
He shook his head and sighed.
"I must get to the telephone at once. Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm sorry,
Mr. Lomax--I feel I've rather bungled this business. But it's been
puzzling, more puzzling than you know."
He strode hurriedly from the room.
"Come into the garden," said Bundle to Jimmy. "I want to talk to you."
They went out together through the window. Jimmy stared down at the
lawn, frowning.
"What's the matter?" asked Bundle.
Jimmy explained the circumstances of the pistol throwing.
"I'm wondering," he ended, "what was in old Battle's mind when he got
Coote to throw the pistol. Something, I'll swear. Anyhow, it landed up
about ten yards farther than it should have done. You know, Bundle,
Battle's a deep one."
"He's an extraordinary man," said Bundle. "I want to tell you about
last night."
She retailed her conversation with the Superintendent. Jimmy listened
attentively.
"So the Countess is No. 1," he said thoughtfully. "It all hangs
together very well. No. 2--Bauer--comes over from Chimneys. He climbs
up into O'Rourke's room, knowing that O'Rourke has had a sleeping
draught administered to him--by the Countess somehow or other. The
arrangement is that he is to throw down the papers to the Countess, who
will be waiting below. Then she'll nip back through the library and
up to her room. If Bauer's caught leaving the grounds, they'll find
nothing on him. Yes, it was a good plan--but it went wrong. No sooner
is the Countess in the library than she hears me coming and has to jump
behind the screen. Jolly awkward for her, because she can't warn her
accomplice. No. 2 pinches the papers, looks out of the window, sees,
as he thinks, the Countess waiting, pitches the papers down to her and
proceeds to climb down the ivy, where he finds a nasty surprise in the
shape of me waiting for him. Pretty nervy work for the Countess waiting
behind her screen. All things considered, she told a pretty good story.
Yes, it all hangs together very well."
"Too well," said Bundle decidedly.
"Eh?" said Jimmy, surprised.
"What about No. 7--No. 7, who never appears, but lives in the
background. The Countess and Bauer? No, it's not so simple as that.
Bauer was here last night, yes. But he was only here in case things
went wrong--as they have done. His part is the part of scapegoat; to
draw all attention from No. 7--the boss."
"I say, Bundle," said Jimmy anxiously, "you haven't been reading too
much sensational literature, have you?"
Bundle threw him a glance of dignified reproach.
"Well," said Jimmy, "I'm not yet like the Red Queen. I can't believe
six impossible things before breakfast."
"It's after breakfast," said Bundle.
"Or even after breakfast. We've got a perfectly good hypothesis which
fits the facts--and you won't have it at any price, simply because like
the old riddle, you want to make things more difficult."
"I'm sorry," said Bundle, "but I cling passionately to a mysterious No.
7 being a member of the house-party."
"What does Bill think?"
"Bill," said Bundle coldly, "is impossible."
"Oh!" said Jimmy. "I suppose you've told him about the Countess?
He ought to be warned. Heaven knows what he'll go blabbing about
otherwise."
"He won't hear a word against her," said Bundle. "He's--oh, simply
idiotic. I wish you'd drive it home to him about that mole."
"You forget I wasn't in the cupboard," said Jimmy. "And anyway I'd
rather not argue with Bill about his lady friend's mole. But surely he
can't be such an ass as not to see that everything fits in?"
"He's every kind of ass," said Bundle bitterly. "You made the greatest
mistake, Jimmy, in ever telling him at all."
"I'm sorry," said Jimmy. "I didn't see it at the time--but I do now. I
was a fool, but dash it all, old Bill--"
"You know what foreign adventuresses are," said Bundle. "How they get
hold of one."
"As a matter of fact, I don't," said Jimmy. "One has never tried to get
hold of me." And he sighed.
For a moment or two there was silence. Jimmy was turning things over in
his mind. The more he thought about them, the more unsatisfactory they
seemed.
"You say that Battle wants the Countess let alone," he said at last.
"Yes."
"The idea being that through her he will get at someone else?"
Bundle nodded.
Jimmy frowned deeply as he tried to see where this led. Clearly Battle
had some very definite idea in his mind.
"Sir Stanley Digby went up to town early this morning, didn't he?" he
said.
"Yes."
"O'Rourke with him?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You don't think--no, that's impossible?"
"What?"
"That O'Rourke can be mixed up in this in any way?"
"It's possible," said Bundle thoughtfully. "He's got what one calls a
very vivid personality. No, it wouldn't surprise me if--oh, to tell the
truth, nothing would surprise me! In fact, there's only one person I'm
really sure isn't No. 7."
"Who's that?"
"Superintendent Battle."
"Oh! I thought you were going to say George Lomax."
"Ssh, here he comes."
George was, indeed, bearing down upon them in an unmistakable manner.
Jimmy made an excuse and slipped away. George sat down by Bundle.
"My dear Eileen, must you really leave us?"
"Well, Father seems to have got the wind up rather badly. I think I'd
better go home and hold his hand."
"This little hand will indeed be comforting," said George, taking it
and pressing it playfully. "My dear Eileen, I understand your reasons
and I honour you for them. In these days of changed and unsettled
conditions--"
"He's off," thought Bundle desperately.
"--when family life is at a premium--all the old standards falling!--it
becomes our class to set an example--to show that we, at least, are
unaffected by modern conditions. They call us the Die Hards--I am proud
of the term--I repeat I am proud of the term! There are things that
_should_ die hard--dignity, beauty, modesty, the sanctity of family
life, filial respect--who dies if these shall live? As I was saying,
my dear Eileen, I envy you the privileges of your youth. Youth! What
a wonderful thing! What a wonderful word! And we do not appreciate it
until we grow to--er--maturer years. I confess, my dear child, that I
have in the past been disappointed by your levity. I see now it was but
the careless and charming levity of a child. I perceive now the serious
and earnest beauty of your mind. You will allow me, I hope, to help you
with your reading?"
"Oh, thank you," said Bundle faintly.
"And you must never be afraid of me again. I was shocked when Lady
Caterham told me that you stood in awe of me. I can assure you that I
am a very humdrum sort of person."
The spectacle of George being modest struck Bundle spellbound. George
continued.
"Never be shy with me, dear child. And do not be afraid of boring me.
It will be a great delight to me to--if I may say so--form your budding
mind. I will be your political mentor. We have never needed young women
of talent and charm in the Party more than we need them to-day. You
may well be destined to follow in the footsteps of your aunt, Lady
Caterham."
This awful prospect knocked Bundle out completely. She could only stare
helplessly at George. This did not discourage him--on the contrary. His
main objection to women was that they talked too much. It was seldom
that he found what he considered a really good listener. He smiled
benignantly at Bundle.
"The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. A wonderful picture. I have
a very interesting work on political economy. I will look it out now,
and you can take it to Chimneys with you. When you have finished it, I
will discuss it with you. Do not hesitate to write to me if any point
puzzles you. I have many public duties, but by unsparing work I can
always make time for the affairs of my friends. I will look for the
book."
He strode away. Bundle gazed after him with a dazed expression. She was
roused by the unexpected advent of Bill.
"Look here," said Bill, "what the hell was Codders holding your hand
for?"
"It wasn't my hand," said Bundle wildly. "It was my budding mind."
"Don't be an ass, Bundle."
"Sorry, Bill, but I'm a little worried. Do you remember saying that
Jimmy ran a grave risk coming down here?"
"So he does," said Bill. "It's frightfully hard to escape from Codders
once he's got interested in you. Jimmy will be caught in the toils
before he knows where he is."
"It's not Jimmy who's got caught--it's me," said Bundle wildly. "I
shall have to meet endless Mrs. Macattas, and read political economy
and discuss it with George, and heavens knows where it will end!"
Bill whistled.
"Poor old Bundle. Been laying it on a bit thick, haven't you?"
"I must have done. Bill, I feel horribly entangled."
"Never mind," said Bill consolingly. "George doesn't really believe
in women standing for Parliament, so you won't have to stand up on
platforms and talk a lot of junk, or kiss dirty babies in Bermondsey.
Come and have a cocktail. It's nearly lunch time."
Bundle got up and walked by his side obediently.
"And I do so hate politics," she murmured piteously.
"Of course you do. So do all sensible people. It's only people like
Codders and Pongo who take them seriously and revel in them. But all
the same," said Bill, reverting suddenly to a former point, "you
oughtn't to let Codders hold your hand."
"Why on earth not?" said Bundle. "He's known me all my life."
"Well, I don't like it."
"Virtuous William--Oh, I say, look at Superintendent Battle."
They were just passing in through a side door. A cupboard-like
room opened out of the little hallway. In it were kept golf clubs,
tennis racquets, bowls and other features of country house life.
Superintendent Battle was conducting a minute examination of various
golf clubs. He looked up a little sheepishly at Bundle's exclamation.
"Going to take up golf, Superintendent Battle?"
"I might do worse, Lady Eileen. They say it's never too late to start.
And I've got one good quality that will tell at any game."
"What's that?" asked Bill.
"I don't know when I'm beaten. If everything goes wrong, I turn to and
start again!"
And with a determined look on his face, Superintendent Battle came out
and joined them, shutting the door behind him.
CHAPTER XXV
JIMMY LAYS HIS PLANS
Jimmy Thesiger was feeling depressed. Avoiding George, whom he
suspected of being ready to tackle him on serious subjects, he stole
quietly away after lunch. Proficient as he was in details of the Santa
Fé boundary dispute, he had no wish to stand an examination on it this
minute.
Presently what he hoped would happen came to pass. Loraine Wade, also
unaccompanied, strolled down one of the shady garden paths. In a moment
Jimmy was by her side. They walked for some minutes in silence and then
Jimmy said tentatively:
"Loraine?"
"Yes?"
"Look here, I'm a bad chap at putting things--but what about it? What's
wrong with getting a special license and being married and living
together happy ever afterwards?"
Loraine displayed no embarrassment at this surprising proposal. Instead
she threw back her head and laughed frankly.
"Don't laugh at a chap," said Jimmy reproachfully.
"I can't help it. You were so funny."
"Loraine--you are a little devil."
"I'm not. I'm what's called a thoroughly nice girl."
"Only to those who don't know you--who are taken in by your delusive
appearance of meekness and decorum."
"I like your long words."
"All out of cross-word puzzles."
"So educative."
"Loraine dear, don't beat about the bush. Will you or won't you!"
Loraine's face sobered. It took on its characteristic appearance of
determination. Her small mouth hardened and her little chin shot out
aggressively.
"No, Jimmy. Not while things are as they are at present--all
unfinished."
"I know we haven't done what we set out to do," agreed Jimmy. "But all
the same--well, it's the end of a chapter. The papers are safe at the
Air Ministry. Virtue triumphant. And--for the moment--nothing doing."
"So--let's get married?" said Loraine with a slight smile.
"You've said it. Precisely the idea."
But again Loraine shook her head.
"No, Jimmy. Until this thing's rounded up--until we're safe--"
"You think we're in danger?"
"Don't you?"
Jimmy's cherubic pink face clouded over.
"You're right," he said at last. "If that extraordinary rigmarole of
Bundle's is true--and I suppose, incredible as it sounds, it must be
true--then we're not safe till we've settled with--No. 7!"
"And the others?"
"No--the others don't count. It's No. 7 with his own ways of working
that frightens me. Because I don't know who he is or where to look for
him."
Loraine shivered.
"I've been frightened," she said in a low voice. "Ever since Gerry's
death...."
"You needn't be frightened. There's nothing for you to be frightened
about. You leave everything to me. I tell you, Loraine--_I'll get No.
7 yet_. Once we get him--well, I don't think there'll be much trouble
with the rest of the gang, whoever they are."
"_If_ you get him--and suppose he gets you?"
"Impossible," said Jimmy cheerfully. "I'm much too clever. Always have
a good opinion of yourself--that's my motto."
"When I think of the things that might have happened last night--"
Loraine shivered.
"Well, they didn't," said Jimmy. "We're both here, safe and
sound--though I must admit my arm is confoundedly painful."
"Poor boy."
"Oh, one must expect to suffer in a good cause. And what with my wounds
and my cheerful conversation, I've made a complete conquest of Lady
Coote."
"Oh! Do you think that important?"
"I've an idea it may come in useful."
"You've got some plan in your mind, Jimmy. What is it?"
"The young hero never tells his plans," said Jimmy firmly. "They mature
in the dark."
"You are an idiot, Jimmy."
"I know. I know. That's what everyone says. But I can assure you,
Loraine, there's a lot of brain-work going on underneath. Now what
about your plans? Got any?"
"Bundle has suggested that I should go to Chimneys with her for a bit."
"Excellent," said Jimmy approvingly. "Nothing could be better. I'd like
an eye kept on Bundle anyway. You never know what mad thing she won't
be up to next. She's so frightfully unexpected. And the worst of it is,
she's so astonishingly successful. I tell you, keeping Bundle out of
mischief is a whole-time job."
"Bill ought to look after her," suggested Loraine.
"Bill's pretty busy elsewhere."
"Don't you believe it," said Loraine.
"What? Not the Countess? But the lad's potty about her."
Loraine continued to shake her head.
"There's something there I don't quite understand. But it's not the
Countess with Bill--it's Bundle. Why, this morning Bill was talking to
me when Mr. Lomax came out and sat down by Bundle. He took her hand or
something, and Bill was off like--like a rocket."
"What a curious taste some people have," observed Mr. Thesiger. "Fancy
anyone who was talking to you wanting to do anything else. But you
surprise me very much, Loraine. I thought our simple Bill was enmeshed
in the toils of the beautiful foreign adventuress. Bundle thinks so, I
know."
"Bundle may," said Loraine, "but I tell you, Jimmy, it isn't so."
"Then what's the big idea?"
"Don't you think it possible that Bill is doing a bit of sleuthing on
his own?"
"Bill? He hasn't got the brains."
"I'm not so sure. When a simple, muscular person like Bill does set out
to be subtle, no one ever gives him credit for it."
"And in consequence he can put in some good work. Yes, there's
something in that. But all the same I'd never have thought it of Bill.
He's doing the Countess's little woolly lamb to perfection. I think
you're wrong, you know, Loraine. The Countess is an extraordinarily
beautiful woman--not my type, of course," put in Mr. Thesiger
hastily--"and old Bill has always had a heart like an hotel."
Loraine shook her head, unconvinced.
"Well," said Jimmy, "have it your own way. We seem to have more or less
settled things. You go back with Bundle to Chimneys, and for Heavens'
sake keep her from poking about in that Seven Dials place again.
Heavens knows what will happen if she does."
Loraine nodded.
"And now," said Jimmy, "I think a few words with Lady Coote would be
advisable."
Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing wool-work. The subject
was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an
urn.
Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a
tactful young man, admired her work.
"Do you like it?" said Lady Coote, pleased. "It was begun by my Aunt
Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing."
"How beastly," said Jimmy.
"And how is the arm?"
"Oh, it's feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you
know."
"You'll have to be careful," said Lady Coote in a warning voice. "I've
known blood-poisoning set in--and in that case you might lose your arm
altogether."
"Oh! I say, I hope not."
"I'm only warning you," said Lady Coote.
"Where are you hanging out now?" inquired Mr. Thesiger. "Town--or
where?"
Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put
the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.
Lady Coote sighed heavily.
"Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know
it, perhaps?"
"Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Lady Coote. "It's a very large place, and
gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding
looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I
think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr.
Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall
and a cheerful drawing-room with an ingle-nook--a white striped paper
with a frieze of wisteria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you
know, not moiré. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room
faced northeast, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good
bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints--why, it
was as cheerful as Christmas."
In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several
little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.
"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Coote. "Now, what was I saying?
Oh!--about houses--yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things
for it gives you an interest."
"I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these
days," suggested Jimmy. "And then you can have it just as you like."
Lady Coote shook her head sadly.
"Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it--and you know what that means."
"Oh! But they'd consult you!"
"It would be one of those grand places--all for the antique. They'd
look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir
Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I
daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit
him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants
something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will
end."
Jimmy looked sympathetic.
"It's like a runaway horse," said Lady Coote. "Got the bit between its
teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and
he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men
in England now--but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more.
He wants to be--I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it
frightens me sometimes!"
"Like the Persian Johnny," said Jimmy, "who went about wailing for
fresh worlds to conquer."
Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was
talking about.
"What I wonder is--will his stomach stand it?" she went on tearfully.
"To have him an invalid--with his ideas--oh, it won't bear thinking of."
"He looks very hearty," said Jimmy, consolingly.
"He's got something on his mind," said Lady Coote. "Worried, that's
what he is. _I_ know."
"What's he worried about?"
"I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort
for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man--and so
conscientious."
"Marvellously conscientious," agreed Jimmy.
"Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgment. He says that Mr.
Bateman is always right."
"That was one of his worst characteristics years ago," said Jimmy
feelingly.
Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.
"That was an awfully jolly week-end I had with you at Chimneys," said
Jimmy. "I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for
poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls."
"I find girls very perplexing," said Lady Coote. "Not romantic, you
know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own
hair when we were engaged."
"Did you?" said Jimmy. "How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got
long enough hair to do that nowadays."
"That's true," admitted Lady Coote. "But, oh, it shows in lots of
other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my--well, my young
men--picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at
once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such
a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was
taking a course of mineralogy--or do I mean geology?--at a technical
school. But I liked the idea--and stealing a girl's handkerchief and
treasuring it--all those sort of things."
"Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose," said the practical Mr.
Thesiger.
Lady Coote laid down her wool-work and looked searchingly but kindly at
him.
"Come now," she said, "isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That
you'd like to work and make a little home for?"
Jimmy blushed and mumbled.
"I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys
that time--Vera Daventry."
"Socks?"
"They do call her that," admitted Lady Coote. "I can't think why. It
isn't pretty."
"Oh, she's a topper," said Jimmy. "I'd like to meet her again."
"She's coming down to stay with us next week-end."
"Is she?" said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful
longing into the two words.
"Yes. Would--would you like to come?"'
"I _would_," said Jimmy heartily. "Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote."
And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.
Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.
"What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?" he demanded. "I
can't stand that young fellow."
"He's a dear boy," said Lady Coote. "And so brave. Look how he got
wounded last night."
"Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be."
"I think you're very unfair, Oswald."
"Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there
ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world."
"You must have got your feet damp last night," said Lady Coote. "I hope
you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day.
Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering
about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot
you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next week-end, by the way."
"Nonsense," said Sir Oswald. "I won't have that young man in my house,
do you hear, Maria?"
"Why not?"
"That's my business."
"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so
it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?"
Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife
and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.
"I particularly don't want Thesiger down next week-end," he said at
last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school
with him."
"What did Mr. Bateman say?"
"He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously
against him."
"He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully.
"And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never
known him wrong."
"Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things.
Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should
have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now."
She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her,
made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into
the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her
face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond--in a quiet,
unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner--of getting her own way.
CHAPTER XXVI
MAINLY ABOUT GOLF
"That friend of yours is a nice girl, Bundle," said Lord Caterham.
Loraine had been at Chimneys for nearly a week, and had earned the high
opinion of her host--mainly because of the charming readiness she had
shown to be instructed in the science of the mashie shot.
Bored by his winter abroad, Lord Caterham had taken up golf. He was
an execrable player and in consequence was profoundly enthusiastic
over the game. He spent most of his mornings lofting mashie shots over
various shrubs and bushes--or, rather, essaying to loft them, hacking
large bits out of the velvety turf and generally reducing MacDonald to
despair.
"We must lay out a little course," said Lord Caterham, addressing
a daisy. "A sporting little course. Now then, just watch this one,
Bundle. Off the right knee, slow back, keep the head still and use the
wrists."
The ball, heavily topped, scudded across the lawn and disappeared into
the unfathomed depths of a great bank of rhododendrons.
"Curious," said Lord Caterham. "What did I do then, I wonder? As I was
saying, Bundle, that friend of yours is a very nice girl. I really
think I am inducing her to take quite an interest in the game. She hit
some excellent shots this morning--really quite as good as I could do
myself."
Lord Caterham took another careless swing and removed an immense chunk
of turf. MacDonald, who was passing, retrieved it and stamped it firmly
back. The look he gave Lord Caterham would have caused anyone but an
ardent golfer to sink through the earth.
"If MacDonald has been guilty of cruelty to Cootes, which I strongly
suspect," said Bundle, "he's being punished now."
"Why shouldn't I do as I like in my own garden?" demanded her father.
"MacDonald ought to be interested in the way my game is coming on--the
Scotch are a great golfing nation."
"You poor old man," said Bundle. "You'll never be a golfer--but at any
rate it keeps you out of mischief."
"Not at all," said Lord Caterham. "I did the long sixth in five the
other day. The pro was very surprised when I told him about it."
"He would be," said Bundle.
"Talking of Cootes, Sir Oswald plays a fair game--a very fair game. Not
a pretty style--too stiff. But straight down the middle every time.
But curious how the cloven hoof shows--won't give you a six-inch putt!
Makes you put it in every time. Now I don't like that."
"I suppose he's a man who likes to be sure," said Bundle.
"It's contrary to the spirit of the game," said her father. "And he's
not interested in the theory of the thing either. Says he just plays
for exercise and doesn't bother about style. Now, that secretary chap,
Bateman, is quite different. It's the theory interests him. I was
slicing badly with my spoon; and he said it all came from too much
right arm; and he evolved a very interesting theory. It's all left arm
in golf--the left arm is the arm that counts. He says he plays tennis
left handed but golf with ordinary clubs because there his superiority
with the left arm tells."
"And did he play very marvellously?" inquired Bundle.
"No, he didn't," confessed Lord Caterham. "But then he may have been
off his game. I see the theory all right and I think there's a lot in
it. Ah! Did you see that one, Bundle? Right over the rhododendrons. A
perfect shot. Ah! If one could be sure of doing that every time--Yes,
Tredwell, what is it?"
Tredwell addressed Bundle.
"Mr. Thesiger would like to speak to you on the telephone, my lady."
Bundle set off at full speed for the house, yelling "Loraine, Loraine,"
as she did so. Loraine joined her just as she was lifting the receiver.
"Hallo, is that you, Jimmy?"
"Hallo. How are you?"
"Very fit, but a bit bored."
"How's Loraine?"
"She's all right. She's here. Do you want to speak to her?"
"In a minute. I've got a lot to say. To begin with, I'm going down to
the Cootes' for the week-end," he said significantly. "Now, look here,
Bundle, you don't know how one gets hold of skeleton keys, do you?"
"Haven't the foggiest. Is it really necessary to take skeleton keys to
the Cootes'?"
"Well, I had a sort of idea they'd come in handy. You don't know the
sort of shop one gets them at?"
"What you want is a kindly burglar friend to show you the ropes."
"I do, Bundle, I do. And unfortunately, I haven't got one. I thought
perhaps your bright brain might grapple successfully with the problem.
But I suppose I shall have to fall back upon Stevens as usual. He'll be
getting some funny ideas in his head soon about me--first a blue-nosed
automatic--and now skeleton keys. He'll think I've joined the criminal
classes."
"Jimmy?" said Bundle.
"Yes?"
"Look here--be careful, won't you? I mean if Sir Oswald finds you
nosing around with skeleton keys--well, I should think he could be very
unpleasant when he likes."
"Young man of pleasing appearance in the dock! All right, I'll be
careful. Pongo's the fellow I'm really frightened of. He sneaks around
so on those flat feet of his. You never hear him coming. And he always
did have a genius for poking his nose in where he wasn't wanted. But
trust to the boy hero."
"Well, I wish Loraine and I were going to be there to look after you."
"Thank you, nurse. As a matter of fact, though, I have a scheme--"
"Yes?"
"Do you think you and Loraine might have a convenient car breakdown
near Letherbury to-morrow morning? It's not so very far from you, is
it?"
"Forty miles. That's nothing."
"I thought it wouldn't be--to you! Don't kill Loraine though. I'm
rather fond of Loraine. All right, then--somewhere round about quarter
to half-past twelve."
"So that they invite us to lunch?"
"That's the idea. I say, Bundle, I ran into that girl Socks yesterday
and what do you think--Terence O'Rourke is going to be down there this
week-end!"
"Jimmy, do you think he--"
"Well--suspect everyone, you know. That's what they say. He's a wild
lad, and daring as they make them. I wouldn't put it past him to run a
secret society. He and the Countess might be in this together. He was
out in Hungary last year."
"But he could pinch the formula any time."
"That's just what he couldn't. He'd have to do it under circumstances
where he couldn't be suspected. But the retreat up the ivy and into his
own bed--well, that would be rather neat. Now for instructions. After
a few polite nothings to Lady Coote, you and Loraine are to get hold
of Pongo and O'Rourke by hook or by crook and keep them occupied till
lunch time. See? It oughtn't to be difficult for a couple of beautiful
girls like you."
"You're using the best butter, I see."
"A plain statement of fact."
"Well, at any rate, your instructions are duly noted. Do you want to
talk to Loraine now?"
Bundle passed over the receiver and tactfully left the room.
CHAPTER XXVII
NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
Jimmy Thesiger arrived at Letherbury on a sunny autumn afternoon and
was greeted affectionately by Lady Coote and with cold dislike by Sir
Oswald. Aware of the keen match-making eye of Lady Coote upon him,
Jimmy took pains to make himself extremely agreeable to Socks Daventry.
O'Rourke was there in excellent spirits. He was inclined to be
official and secretive about the mysterious events at the Abbey, about
which Socks catechized him freely, but his official reticence took a
novel form--namely that of embroidering the tale of events in such a
fantastic manner that nobody could possibly guess what the truth might
have been.
"Four masked men with revolvers? Is that really so?" demanded Socks
severely.
"Ah! I'm remembering now that there was the round half dozen of them to
hold me down and force the stuff down my throat. Sure, and I thought it
was poison, and I done for entirely."
"And what was stolen, or what did they try and steal?"
"What else but the crown jewels of Russia that were brought to Mr.
Lomax secretly to deposit in the Bank of England."
"What a bloody liar you are," said Socks without emotion.
"A liar? I? And the jewels brought over by aeroplane with my best
friend as pilot. This is secret history I'm telling you, Socks. Will
you ask Jimmy Thesiger there if you don't believe me. Not that I'd be
putting any trust in what he'd say."
"Is it true," said Socks, "that George Lomax came down without his
false teeth? That's what I want to know."
"There were two revolvers," said Lady Coote. "Nasty things. I saw them
myself. It's a wonder this poor boy wasn't killed."
"Oh, I was born to be hanged," said Jimmy.
"I hear that there was a Russian countess there of subtle beauty," said
Socks. "And that she vamped Bill."
"Some of the things she said about Buda Pesth were too dreadful,"
said Lady Coote. "I shall never forget them. Oswald, we must send a
subscription."
Sir Oswald grunted.
"I'll make a note of it, Lady Coote," said Rupert Bateman.
"Thank you, Mr. Bateman. I feel one ought to do something as a thank
offering. I can't imagine how Sir Oswald escaped being shot--letting
alone die of pneumonia."
"Don't be foolish, Maria," said Sir Oswald.
"I've always had a horror of cat burglars," said Lady Coote.
"Think of having the luck to meet one face to face. How thrilling!"
murmured Socks.
"Don't you believe it," said Jimmy. "It's damned painful." And he
patted his right arm gingerly.
"How is the poor arm?" inquired Lady Coote.
"Oh, pretty well all right now. But it's been the most confounded
nuisance having to do everything with the left hand. I'm no good
whatever with it."
"Every child should be brought up to be ambidextrous," said Sir Oswald.
"Oh!" said Socks, somewhat out of her depth. "Is that like seals?"
"Not amphibious," said Mr. Bateman. "Ambidextrous means using either
hand equally well."
"Oh!" said Socks, looking at Sir Oswald with respect. "Can you?"
"Certainly; I can write with either hand."
"But not with both at once?"
"That would not be practical," said Sir Oswald shortly.
"No," said Socks thoughtfully. "I suppose that would be a bit too
subtle."
"It would be a grand thing now in a Government department," observed
Mr. O'Rourke, "if one could keep the right hand from knowing what the
left hand was doing."
"Can you use both hands?"
"No, indeed. I'm the most right-handed person that ever was."
"But you deal cards with your left hand," said the observant Bateman.
"I noticed the other night."
"Oh, but that's different entirely," said Mr. O'Rourke easily.
A gong with a sombre note pealed out and everyone went upstairs to
dress for dinner.
After dinner Sir Oswald and Lady Coote, Mr. Bateman and Mr. O'Rourke
played bridge and Jimmy passed a flirtatious evening with Socks. The
last words Jimmy heard as he retreated up the staircase that night were
Sir Oswald saying to his wife:
"You'll never make a bridge player, Maria."
And her reply:
"I know, dear. So you always say. You owe Mr. O'Rourke another pound,
Oswald. That's right."
It was some two hours later that Jimmy crept noiselessly (or so he
hoped) down the stairs. He made one brief visit to the dining-room
and then found his way to Sir Oswald's study. There, after listening
intently for a minute or two, he set to work. Most of the drawers
of the desk were locked, but a curiously shaped bit of wire in
Jimmy's hand soon saw to that. One by one the drawers yielded to his
manipulations.
Drawer by drawer he sorted through methodically, being careful to
replace everything in the same order. Once or twice he stopped
to listen, fancying he heard some distant sound. But he remained
undisturbed.
The last drawer was looked through. Jimmy now knew--or could have
known had he been paying attention--many interesting details relating
to steel; but he had found nothing of what he wanted--a reference to
Herr Eberhard's invention or anything that could give him a clue to
the identity of the mysterious No. 7. He had, perhaps, hardly hoped
that he would. It was an off-chance and he had taken it--but he had not
expected much result--except by sheer luck.
He tested the drawers to make sure that he had relocked them securely.
He knew Rupert Bateman's powers of minute observation and glanced round
the room to make sure that he had left no incriminating trace of his
presence.
"That's that," he muttered to himself softly. "Nothing there. Well,
perhaps I'll have better luck to-morrow morning--if the girls only play
up."
He came out of the study, closing the door behind him and locking it.
For a moment he thought he heard a sound quite near him, but decided he
had been mistaken. He felt his way noiselessly along the great hall.
Just enough light came from the high vaulted windows to enable him to
pick his way without stumbling into anything.
Again he heard a soft sound--he heard it quite certainly this time and
without the possibility of making a mistake. He was not alone in the
hall. Somebody else was there, moving as stealthily as he was. His
heart beat suddenly very fast.
With a sudden spring he jumped to the electric switch and turned on the
lights. The sudden glare made him blink--but he saw plainly enough. Not
four feet away stood Rupert Bateman.
"My goodness, Pongo," cried Jimmy, "you did give me a start. Slinking
about like that in the dark."
"I heard a noise," explained Mr. Bateman severely. "I thought burglars
had got in and I came down to see."
Jimmy looked thoughtfully at Mr. Bateman's rubber-soled feet.
"You think of everything, Pongo," he said genially. "Even a lethal
weapon."
His eye rested on the bulge in the other's pocket.
"It's as well to be armed. One never knows whom one may meet."
"I am glad you didn't shoot," said Jimmy. "I'm a bit tired of being
shot at."
"I might easily have done so," said Mr. Bateman.
"It would be dead against the law if you did," said Jimmy. "You've got
to make quite sure the beggar's house-breaking, you know, before you
pot at him. You mustn't jump to conclusions. Otherwise you'd have to
explain why you shot a guest on a perfectly innocent errand like mine."
"By the way, what did you come down for?"
"I was hungry," said Jimmy. "I rather fancied a dry biscuit."
"There are some biscuits in a tin by your bed," said Rupert Bateman.
He was staring at Jimmy very intently through his horn-rimmed
spectacles.
"Ah! That's where the staff work has gone wrong, old boy. There's a
tin there with 'Biscuits for Starving Visitors' on it. But when the
starving visitor opened it--nothing inside. So I just toddled down to
the dining-room."
And with a sweet, ingenuous smile, Jimmy produced from his
dressing-gown pocket a handful of biscuits.
There was a moment's pause.
"And now I think I'll toddle back to bed," said Jimmy. "Night-night,
Pongo."
With an affectation of nonchalance, he mounted the staircase. Rupert
Bateman followed him. At the doorway of his room, Jimmy paused as if to
say good-night once more.
"It's an extraordinary thing about these biscuits," said Mr. Bateman.
"Do you mind if I just--"
"Certainly, laddie, look for yourself."
Mr. Bateman strode across the room, opened the biscuit box and stared
at its emptiness.
"Very remiss," he murmured. "Well, good-night."
He withdrew. Jimmy sat on the edge of his bed listening for a minute.
"That was a narrow shave," he murmured to himself. "Suspicious sort of
chap, Pongo. Never seems to sleep. Nasty habit of his prowling around
with a revolver."
He got up and opened one of the drawers of the dressing-table. Beneath
an assortment of ties lay a pile of biscuits.
"There's nothing for it," said Jimmy. "I shall have to eat all the
damned things. Ten to one, Pongo will come prowling round in the
morning."
With a sigh, he settled down to a meal of biscuits for which he had no
inclination whatever.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SUSPICIONS
It was just on the appointed hour of twelve o'clock that Bundle and
Loraine entered the park gates, having left the Hispano at an adjacent
garage.
Lady Coote greeted the two girls with surprise, but distinct pleasure,
and immediately pressed them to stay to lunch.
O'Rourke, who had been reclining in an immense arm-chair, began at once
to talk with great animation to Loraine, who was listening with half an
ear to Bundle's highly technical explanation of the mechanical troubles
which had affected the Hispano.
"And we said," ended Bundle, "how marvellous that the brute should have
broken down just here! Last time it happened was on a Sunday at a place
called Little Spedlington under the Hill. And it lived up to its name,
I can tell you."
"That would be a grand name on the films," remarked O'Rourke.
"Birthplace of the simple country maiden," suggested Socks.
"I wonder now," said Lady Coote, "where Mr. Thesiger is?"
"He's in the billiard-room, I think," said Socks. "I'll fetch him."
She went off, but had hardly gone a minute when Rupert Bateman appeared
on the scene, with the harassed and serious air usual with him.
"Yes, Lady Coote? Thesiger said you were asking for me. How do you do,
Lady Eileen--"
He broke off to greet the two girls, and Loraine immediately took the
field.
"Oh, Mr. Bateman! I've been wanting to see you. Wasn't it you who was
telling me what to do for a dog when he is continually getting sore
paws?"
The secretary shook his head.
"It must have been someone else, Miss Wade. Though, as a matter of
fact, I do happen to know--"
"What a wonderful young man you are," interrupted Loraine. "You know
about everything."
"One should keep abreast of modern knowledge," said Mr. Bateman
seriously. "Now about your dog's paws--"
Terence O'Rourke murmured _sotto voce_ to Bundle:
"'Tis a man like that that writes all those little paragraphs in
the weekly papers. 'It is not generally known that to keep a brass
fender uniformly bright,' etc.; 'The dorper beetle is one of the most
interesting characters in the insect world'; 'The marriage customs of
the Fingalese Indians,' and so on."
"General information, in fact."
"And what more horrible two words could you have?" said Mr. O'Rourke,
and added piously: "Thank the Heavens above I'm an educated man and
know nothing whatever upon any subject at all."
"I see you've got clock golf here," said Bundle to Lady Coote.
"I'll take you on at it, Lady Eileen," said O'Rourke.
"Let's challenge those two," said Bundle. "Loraine, Mr. O'Rourke and I
want to take you and Mr. Bateman on at clock golf."
"Do play, Mr. Bateman," said Lady Coote, as the secretary showed a
momentary hesitation. "I'm sure Sir Oswald doesn't want you."
The four went out on the lawn.
"Very cleverly managed, what?" whispered Bundle to Loraine.
"Congratulations on our girlish tact."
The round ended just before one o'clock, victory going to Bateman and
Loraine.
"But I think you'll agree with me, partner," said Mr. O'Rourke, "that
we played a more sporting game."
He lagged a little behind with Bundle.
"Old Pongo's a cautious player--he takes no risks. Now, with me it's
neck or nothing. And a fine motto through life, don't you agree, Lady
Eileen?"
"Hasn't it ever landed you in trouble?" asked Bundle, laughing.
"To be sure it has. Millions of times. But I'm still going strong.
Sure, it'll take the hangman's noose to defeat Terence O'Rourke."
Just then Jimmy Thesiger strolled round the corner of the house.
"Bundle, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed.
"You've missed competing in the Autumn Meeting," said O'Rourke.
"I'd gone for a stroll," said Jimmy. "Where did these girls drop from?"
"We came on our flat feet," said Bundle. "The Hispano let us down."
And she narrated the circumstances of the breakdown.
Jimmy listened with sympathetic attention.
"Hard luck," he vouchsafed. "If it's going to take some time, I'll run
you back in my car after lunch."
A gong sounded at that moment and they all went in. Bundle observed
Jimmy covertly. She thought she had noticed an unusual note of
exultance in his voice. She had the feeling that things had gone well.
After lunch they took a polite leave of Lady Coote, and Jimmy
volunteered to run them down to the garage in his car. As soon as they
had started the same word burst simultaneously from both girls' lips:
"Well?"
Jimmy chose to be provoking.
"Well?"
"Oh, pretty hearty, thanks. Slight indigestion owing to over indulgence
in dry biscuits."
"But what has happened?"
"I tell you. Devotion to the cause made me eat too many dry biscuits.
But did our hero flinch? No, he did not."
"Oh, Jimmy," said Loraine reproachfully, and he softened.
"What do you really want to know?"
"Oh, everything. Didn't we do it well? I mean, the way we kept Pongo
and Terence O'Rourke in play."
"I congratulate you on the handling of Pongo. O'Rourke was probably a
sitter--but Pongo is made of other stuff. There's only one word for
that lad--it was in the _Sunday Newsbag_ cross-word last week. Word
of ten letters meaning everywhere at once. Ubiquitous. That describes
Pongo down to the ground. You can't go anywhere without running into
him--and the worst of it is you never hear him coming."
"You think he's dangerous?"
"Dangerous? Of course he's not dangerous. Fancy Pongo being dangerous.
He's an ass. But, as I said just now, he's an ubiquitous ass. He
doesn't even seem to need sleep like ordinary mortals. In fact, to put
it bluntly, the fellow's a damned nuisance."
And, in a somewhat aggrieved manner, Jimmy described the events of the
previous evening.
Bundle was not very sympathetic.
"I don't know what you think you're doing anyway, mouching round here."
"No. 7," said Jimmy crisply. "That's what I'm after. No. 7."
"And you think you'll find him in this house?"
"I thought I might find a clue."
"And you didn't?"
"Not last night--no."
"But this morning," said Loraine, breaking in suddenly. "Jimmy, you did
find something this morning. I can see it by your face."
"Well, I don't know if it is anything. But during the course of my
stroll--"
"Which stroll didn't take you far from the house, I imagine."
"Strangely enough, it didn't. Round trip in the interior, we might
call it. Well, as I say, I don't know whether there's anything in it or
not. But I found this."
With the celerity of a conjuror he produced a small bottle and tossed
it over to the girls. It was half full of a white powder.
"What do you think it is?" asked Bundle.
"A white crystalline powder, that's what it is," said Jimmy. "And to
any reader of detective fiction those words are both familiar and
suggestive. Of course, if it turns out to be a new kind of patent
tooth-powder, I shall be chagrined and annoyed."
"Where did you find it?" asked Bundle sharply.
"Ah!" said Jimmy, "that's my secret."
And from that point he would not budge in spite of cajolery and insult.
"Here we are at the garage," he said. "Let's hope the high-mettled
Hispano has not been subjected to any indignities."
The gentleman at the garage presented a bill for five shillings and
made a few vague remarks about loose nuts. Bundle paid him with a sweet
smile.
"It's nice to know we all get money for nothing sometimes," she
murmured to Jimmy.
The three stood together in the road, silent for the moment as they
each pondered the situation.
"I know," said Bundle suddenly.
"Know what?"
"Something I meant to ask you--and nearly forgot. Do you remember that
glove that Superintendent Battle found--the half-burnt one?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you say that he tried it on your hand?"
"Yes--it was a shade big. That fits in with the idea of its being a
big, hefty man who wore it."
"That's not at all what I'm bothering about. Never mind the size of it.
George and Sir Oswald were both there too, weren't they?"
"Yes."
"He could have given it to either of them to fit on?"
"Yes, of course--"
"But he didn't. He chose you. Jimmy, don't you see what that means?"
Mr. Thesiger stared at her.
"I'm sorry, Bundle. Possibly the jolly old brain isn't functioning as
well as usual, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking
about."
"Don't you see, Loraine?"
Loraine looked at her curiously, but shook her head. "Does it mean
anything in particular?"
"Of course it does. Don't you see--Jimmy had his right hand in a sling."
"By Jove, Bundle," said Jimmy slowly. "It was rather odd now I come to
think of it; it's being a left hand glove, I mean. Battle never said
anything."
"He wasn't going to draw attention to it. By trying it on you it might
pass without notice being drawn to it, and he talked about the size
just to put everybody off. But surely it must mean that the man who
shot at you held the pistol in his _left_ hand."
"So we've got to look for a left-handed man," said Loraine thoughtfully.
"Yes, and I'll tell you another thing. That was what Battle was doing
looking through the golf clubs. He was looking for a left-handed man's."
"By Jove," said Jimmy suddenly.
"What is it?"
"Well, I don't suppose there's anything in it, but it's rather curious."
He retailed the conversation at tea the day before.
"So Sir Oswald Coote is ambidextrous?" said Bundle.
"Yes. And I remember now on that night at Chimneys--you know, the
night Gerry Wade died--I was watching the bridge and thinking idly how
awkwardly someone was dealing--and then realizing that it was because
they were dealing with the left hand. Of course, it must have been Sir
Oswald."
They all three looked at each other. Loraine shook her head.
"A man like Sir Oswald Coote! It's impossible. What could he have to
gain by it?"
"It seems absurd," said Jimmy. "And yet--"
"No. 7 has his own ways of working," quoted Bundle softly. "Supposing
this is the way Sir Oswald has really made his fortune?"
"But why stage all that comedy at the Abbey when he'd had the formula
at his own works."
"There might be ways of explaining that," said Loraine. "The same line
of argument you used about Mr. O'Rourke. Suspicion had to be diverted
from him and placed in another quarter."
Bundle nodded eagerly.
"It all fits in. Suspicion is to fall on Bauer and the Countess. Who on
earth would ever dream of suspecting Sir Oswald Coote?"
"I wonder if Battle does," said Jimmy slowly.
Some chord of memory vibrated in Bundle's mind. _Superintendent Battle
plucking an ivy leaf off the millionaire's coat._
Had Battle suspected all the time?
CHAPTER XXIX
SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF GEORGE LOMAX
"Mr. Lomax is here, my lord."
Lord Caterham started violently, for, absorbed in the intricacies
of what not to do with the left wrist, he had not heard the butler
approach over the soft turf. He looked at Tredwell more in sorrow than
in anger.
"I told you at breakfast, Tredwell, that I should be particularly
engaged this morning."
"Yes, my lord, but--"
"Go and tell Mr. Lomax that you have made a mistake, that I am out in
the village, that I am laid up with the gout, or, if all else fails,
that I am dead."
"Mr. Lomax, my lord, has already caught sight of your lordship when
driving up the drive."
Lord Caterham sighed deeply.
"He would. Very well, Tredwell, I am coming." In a manner highly
characteristic, Lord Caterham was always most genial when his feelings
were in reality the reverse. He greeted George now with a heartiness
quite unparalleled.
"My dear fellow, my dear fellow. Delighted to see you. Absolutely
delighted. Sit down. Have a drink. Well, well, this is splendid!"
And having pushed George into a large arm-chair, he sat down opposite
him and blinked nervously.
"I wanted to see you very particularly," said George.
"Oh!" said Lord Caterham faintly, and his heart sank, whilst his mind
raced actively over all the dread possibilities that might lie behind
that simple phrase.
"_Very_ particularly," said George with heavy emphasis.
Lord Caterham's heart sank lower than ever. He felt that something was
coming worse than anything he had yet thought of.
"Yes?" he said, with a courageous attempt at nonchalance.
"Is Eileen at home?"
Lord Caterham felt reprieved, but slightly surprised.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Bundle's here. Got that friend of hers with
her--the little Wade girl. Very nice girl--_very_ nice girl. Going to
be quite a good golfer one day. Nice easy swing--"
He was chatting garrulously on when George interrupted with
ruthlessness:
"I am glad Eileen is at home. Perhaps I might have an interview with
her presently?"
"Certainly, my dear fellow, certainly." Lord Caterham still felt very
surprised, but was still enjoying the sensation of reprieve. "If it
doesn't bore you."
"Nothing could bore me less," said George. "I think, Caterham, if I may
say so, that you hardly appreciate the fact that Eileen is grown up.
She is no longer a child. She is a woman, and if I may say so, a very
charming and talented woman. The man who succeeds in winning her love
will be extremely lucky. I repeat it--extremely lucky."
"Oh, I daresay," said Lord Caterham. "But she's very restless, you
know. Never content to be in one place for more than two minutes
together. However, I daresay young fellows don't mind that nowadays."
"You mean that she is not content to stagnate. Eileen has brains,
Caterham; she is ambitious. She interests herself in the questions of
the day, and brings her fresh and vivid young intellect to bear upon
them."
Lord Caterham stared at him. It occurred to him that what was so often
referred to as "the strain of modern life," had begun to tell upon
George. Certainly his description of Bundle seemed to Lord Caterham
ludicrously unlike.
"Are you sure you are feeling quite well?" he asked anxiously.
George waved the inquiry aside impatiently.
"Perhaps, Caterham, you begin to have some inkling of my purpose
in visiting you this morning. I am not a man to undertake fresh
responsibilities lightly. I have a proper sense, I hope, of what is due
to the position I hold. I have given this matter my deep and earnest
consideration. Marriage, especially at my age, is not to be undertaken
without full--er--consideration. Equality of birth, similarity of
tastes, general suitability, and the same religious creed--all these
things are necessary and the pros and cons have to be weighed and
considered. I can, I think, offer my wife a position in society that
is not to be despised. Eileen will grace that position admirably. By
birth and breeding she is fitted for it, and her brains and her acute
political sense cannot but further my career to our mutual advantage.
I am aware, Caterham, that there is--er--some disparity in years. But
I can assure you that I feel full of vigour--in my prime. The balance
of years should be on the husband's side. And Eileen has serious
tastes--an older man will suit her better than some young jackanapes
without either experience or _savoir-faire_. I can assure you, my dear
Caterham, that I will cherish her--er--exquisite youth; I will cherish
it--er--it will be appreciated. To watch the exquisite flower of her
mind unfolding--what a privilege! And to think that I never realized--"
He shook his head deprecatingly and Lord Caterham, finding his voice
with difficulty, said blankly:
"Do I understand you to mean--ah, my dear fellow, you can't want to
marry Bundle?"
"You are surprised. I suppose to you it seems sudden. I have your
permission, then, to speak to her?"
"Oh, yes," said Lord Caterham. "If it's permission you want--of course
you can. But you know, Lomax, I really shouldn't if I were you. Just go
home and think it over like a good fellow. Count twenty. All that sort
of thing. Always a pity to propose and make a fool of yourself."
"I daresay you mean your advice kindly, Caterham, though I must confess
that you put it somewhat strangely. But I have made up my mind to put
my fortune to the test. I may see Eileen?"
"Oh, it's nothing to do with me," said Lord Caterham hastily; "Eileen
settles her own affairs. If she came to me to-morrow and said she was
going to marry the chauffeur, I shouldn't make any objections. It's the
only way nowadays. Your children can make life damned unpleasant if you
don't give in to them in every way. I say to Bundle, 'Do as you like,
but don't worry me,' and really, on the whole, she is amazingly good
about it."
George stood up, intent upon his purpose.
"Where shall I find her?"
"Well, really, I don't know," said Lord Caterham vaguely. "She might be
anywhere. As I told you just now, she's never in the same place for two
minutes together. No repose."
"And I suppose Miss Wade will be with her? It seems to me, Caterham,
that the best plan would be for you to ring the bell and ask your
butler to find her, saying that I wish to speak to her for a few
minutes."
Lord Caterham pressed the bell obediently.
"Oh, Tredwell," he said, when the bell was answered, "just find her
ladyship, will you? Tell her Mr. Lomax is anxious to speak to her in
the drawing-room."
"Yes, my lord."
Tredwell withdrew. George seized Lord Caterham's hand and wrung it
warmly, much to the latter's discomfort.
"A thousand thanks," he said. "I hope soon to bring you good news."
He hastened from the room.
"Well," said Lord Caterham. "Well!"
And after a long pause:
"What _has_ Bundle been up to?"
The door opened again.
"Mr. Eversleigh, my lord."
As Bill hastened in, Lord Caterham caught his hand and spoke earnestly.
"Hullo, Bill. You're looking for Lomax, I suppose? Look here, if you
want to do a good turn, hurry into the drawing-room and tell him the
Cabinet have called an immediate meeting, or get him away somehow. It's
really not fair to let the poor devil make an ass of himself all for
some silly girl's prank."
"I've not come for Codders," said Bill. "Didn't know he was here. It's
Bundle I want to see. Is she anywhere about?"
"You can't see her," said Lord Caterham. "Not just now, at any rate.
George is with her."
"Well--what does it matter?"
"I think it does rather," said Lord Caterham. "He's probably
spluttering horribly at this minute, and we mustn't do anything to make
it worse for him."
"But what is he saying?"
"Heavens knows," said Lord Caterham. "A lot of damned nonsense,
anyway. Never say too much, that was always my motto. Grab the girl's
hand and let events take their course."
Bill stared at him.
"But look here, sir, I'm in a hurry. I must talk to Bundle--"
"Well, I don't suppose you'll have to wait long. I must confess I'm
rather glad to have you here with me--I suppose Lomax will insist on
coming back and talking to me when it's all over."
"When what's all over? What is Lomax supposed to be doing?"
"Hush," said Lord Caterham. "He's proposing."
"Proposing? Proposing what?"
"Marriage. To Bundle. Don't ask me why. I suppose he's come to what
they call the dangerous age. I can't explain it any other way."
"Proposing to Bundle? The dirty swine. At his age."
Bill's face grew crimson.
"He says he's in the prime of life," said Lord Caterham cautiously.
"He? Why, he's decrepit--senile! I--" Bill positively choked.
"Not at all," said Lord Caterham coldly. "He's five years younger than
I am."
"Of all the damned cheek! Codders and Bundle! A girl like Bundle! You
oughtn't to have allowed it."
"I never interfere," said Lord Caterham.
"You ought to have told him what you thought of him."
"Unfortunately modern civilization rules that out," said Lord Caterham
regretfully. "In the Stone Age now--but, dear me, I suppose even then I
shouldn't be able to do it--being a small man."
"Bundle! Bundle! Why, I've never dared to ask Bundle to marry me
because I knew she'd only laugh. And George--a disgusting wind-bag, an
unscrupulous, hypocritical old hot-air merchant--a foul, poisonous self
advertiser--"
"Go on," said Lord Caterham. "I'm enjoying this."
"My God!" said Bill simply and with feeling. "Look here, I must be off."
"No, no, don't go. I'd much rather you stayed. Besides, you want to see
Bundle."
"Not now. This has driven everything else out of my head. You don't
know where Jimmy Thesiger is by any chance? I believe he was staying
with the Cootes. Is he there still?"
"I think he went back to town yesterday. Bundle and Loraine were over
there on Saturday. If you'll only wait--"
But Bill shook his head energetically and rushed from the room. Lord
Caterham tiptoed out into the hall, seized a hat and made a hurried
exit by the side door. In the distance he observed Bill streaking down
the drive in his car.
"That young man will have an accident," he thought.
Bill, however, reached London without any mischance, and proceeded to
park his car in St. James's Square. Then he sought out Jimmy Thesiger's
rooms. Jimmy was at home.
"Hullo, Bill. I say, what's the matter? You don't look your usual
bright little self."
"I'm worried," said Bill. "I was worried anyway, and then something
else turned up and gave me a jolt."
"Oh!" said Jimmy. "How lucid. What's it all about? Can I do anything?"
Bill did not reply. He sat staring at the carpet and looking so puzzled
and uncomfortable that Jimmy felt his curiosity aroused.
"Has anything very extraordinary occurred, William?" he asked gently.
"Something damned odd. I can't make head or tail of it."
"The Seven Dials business?"
"Yes--the Seven Dials business. I got a letter this morning."
"A letter? What sort of a letter?"
"A letter from Ronny Devereux's executors."
"Good Lord! After all this time!"
"It seems he left instructions. If he was to die suddenly, a certain
sealed envelope was to be sent to me exactly a fortnight after his
death."
"And they've sent it to you?"
"Yes."
"You've opened it?"
"Yes."
"Well--what did it say?"
Bill turned a glance upon him, such a strange and uncertain one that
Jimmy was startled.
"Look here," he said. "Pull yourself together, old man. It seems to
have knocked the wind out of you, whatever it is. Have a drink."
He poured out a stiff whisky and soda and brought it over to Bill, who
took it obediently. His face still bore the same dazed expression.
"It's what's in the letter," he said. "I simply can't believe it,
that's all."
"Oh, nonsense," said Jimmy. "You must get into the habit of believing
six impossible things before breakfast. I do it regularly. Now then,
let's hear all about it. Wait a minute."
He went outside.
"Stevens?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just go out and get me some cigarettes, will you? I've run out."
"Very good, sir."
Jimmy waited till he heard the front door close. Then he came back into
the sitting-room. Bill was just in the act of setting down his empty
glass. He looked better, more purposeful and more master of himself.
"Now then," said Jimmy. "I've sent Stevens out so that we can't be
overheard. Are you going to tell me all about it?"
"It's so incredible."
"Then it's sure to be true. Come on, out with it."
Bill drew a deep breath.
"I will. I'll tell you everything."
CHAPTER XXX
AN URGENT SUMMONS
Loraine, playing with a small and delectable puppy, was somewhat
surprised when Bundle rejoined her after an absence of twenty minutes,
in a breathless state and with an indescribable expression on her face.
"Whoof," said Bundle, sinking on to a garden seat. "Whoof."
"What's the matter?" asked Loraine, looking at her curiously.
"George is the matter--George Lomax."
"What's he been doing?"
"Proposing to me. It was awful. He spluttered and he stuttered, but
he would go through with it--he must have learnt it out of a book, I
think. There was no stopping him. Oh, how I hate men who splutter! And,
unfortunately, I didn't know the reply."
"You must have known what you wanted to do."
"Naturally I'm not going to marry an apoplectic idiot like George. What
I mean is, I didn't know the correct reply from the book of etiquette.
I could only just say flatly: 'No, I won't.' What I ought to have said
was something about being very sensible of the honour he had done me
and so on and so on. But I got so rattled that in the end I jumped out
of the window and bolted."
"Really, Bundle, that's not like you."
"Well, I never dreamt of such a thing happening. George--who I always
thought hated me--and he did too. What a fatal thing it is to pretend
to take an interest in a man's pet subject. You should have heard the
drivel George talked about my girlish mind and the pleasure it would be
to form it. My mind! If George knew one quarter of what was going on in
my mind, he'd faint with horror!"
Loraine laughed. She couldn't help it.
"Oh, I know it's my own fault. I let myself in for this. There's Father
dodging round that rhododendron. Hallo Father."
Lord Caterham approached with a hangdog expression.
"Lomax gone, eh?" he remarked with somewhat forced geniality.
"A nice business you let me in for," said Bundle. "George told me he
had your full approval and sanction."
"Well," said Lord Caterham, "what did you expect me to say? As a matter
of fact, I didn't say that at all, or anything like it."
"I didn't really think so," said Bundle. "I assumed that George had
talked you into a corner and reduced you to such a state that you could
only nod your head feebly."
"That's very much what happened. How did he take it? Badly?"
"I didn't wait to see," said Bundle. "I'm afraid I was rather abrupt."
"Oh, well," said Lord Caterham, "perhaps that was the best way. Thank
goodness in the future Lomax won't always be running over as he has
been in the habit of doing, worrying me about things. Everything is for
the best they say. Have you seen my jigger anywhere?"
"A mashie shot or two would steady my nerves, I think," said Bundle.
"I'll take you on for sixpence, Loraine."
An hour passed very peacefully. The three returned to the house in a
harmonious spirit. A note lay on the hall table.
"Mr. Lomax left that for you, my lord," explained Tredwell. "He was
much disappointed to find that you had gone out."
Lord Caterham tore it open. He uttered a pained ejaculation and turned
upon his daughter. Tredwell had retired.
"Really, Bundle, you might have made yourself clear, I think."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, read this."
Bundle took it and read:
"MY DEAR CATERHAM--
"I am sorry not to have had a word with you. I thought I made
it clear that I wanted to see you again after my interview with
Eileen. She, dear child, was evidently quite unaware of the
feelings I entertained towards her. She was, I am afraid, much
startled. I have no wish to hurry her in any way. Her girlish
confusion was very charming, and I entertain an even higher regard
for her, as I much appreciate her maidenly reserve. I must give her
time to become accustomed to the idea. Her very confusion shows
that she is not wholly indifferent to me and I have no doubts of my
ultimate success.
"Believe me, dear Caterham,
"Your sincere friend,
"GEORGE LOMAX."
"Well," said Bundle. "Well, I'm damned!"
Words failed her.
"The man must be mad," said Lord Caterham. "No one could write those
things about you, Bundle, unless they were slightly touched in the
head. Poor chap, poor chap. But what persistence! I don't wonder he
got into the Cabinet. It would serve him right if you did marry him,
Bundle."
The telephone rang and Bundle moved forward to answer it. In another
minute George and his proposal were forgotten, and she was beckoning
eagerly to Loraine. Lord Caterham went off to his own sanctum.
"It's Jimmy," said Bundle. "And he's tremendously excited about
something."
"Thank goodness I've caught you," said Jimmy's voice. "There's no time
to be lost. Loraine's there, too?"
"Yes, she's here."
"Well, look here, I haven't got time to explain everything--in fact, I
can't through the telephone. But Bill has been round to see me with the
most amazing story you ever heard. If it's true--well, if it's true,
it's the biggest scoop of the century. Now, look here, this is what
you've got to do. Come up to town at once, both of you. Garage the car
somewhere and go straight to the Seven Dials Club. Do you think that
when you get there you can get rid of that footman fellow?"
"Alfred? Rather. You leave that to me."
"Good. Get rid of him and watch out for me and Bill. Don't show
yourselves at the windows, but when we drive up, let us in at once.
See?"
"Yes."
"That's all right then. Oh, Bundle, don't let on that you're going up
to town. Make some other excuse. Say you're taking Loraine home. How
would that do?"
"Splendidly. I say, Jimmy, I'm thrilled to the core."
"And you might as well make your will before starting."
"Better and better. But I wish I knew what it was all about."
"You will as soon as we meet. I'll tell you this much. We're going to
get ready the hell of a surprise for No. 7!"
Bundle hung up the receiver and turned to Loraine, giving her a rapid
résumé of the conversation. Loraine rushed upstairs and hurriedly
packed her suitcase, and Bundle put her head round her father's door.
"I'm taking Loraine home, Father."
"Why? I had no idea she was going to-day."
"They want her back," said Bundle vaguely. "Just telephoned. Bye-bye."
"Here, Bundle, wait a minute. When will you be home?"
"Don't know. Expect me when you see me."
With this unceremonious exit Bundle rushed upstairs, put a hat on,
slipped into her fur coat and was ready to start. She had already
ordered the Hispano to be brought round.
The journey to London was without adventure, except such as was
habitually provided by Bundle's driving. They left the car at a garage
and proceeded direct to the Seven Dials Club.
The door was opened to them by Alfred. Bundle pushed her way past him
without ceremony and Loraine followed.
"Shut the door, Alfred," said Bundle. "Now, I've come here especially
to do you a good turn. The police are after you."
"Oh, my lady!"
Alfred turned chalk white.
"I've come to warn you because you did me a good turn the other night,"
went on Bundle rapidly. "There's a warrant out for Mr. Mosgorovsky,
and the best thing you can do is to clear out of here as quick as you
can. If you're not found here, they won't bother about you. Here's ten
pounds to help you get away somewhere."
In three minutes' time an incoherent and badly scared Alfred had left
14 Hunstanton Street with only one idea in his head--never to return.
"Well, I've managed that all right," said Bundle with satisfaction.
"Was it necessary to be so--well, drastic?" Loraine demurred.
"It's safer," said Bundle. "I don't know what Jimmy and Bill are up to,
but we don't want Alfred coming back in the middle of it and wrecking
everything. Hallo, here they are. Well, they haven't wasted much time.
Probably watching round the corner to see Alfred leave. Go down and
open the door to them, Loraine."
Loraine obeyed. Jimmy Thesiger alighted from the driving seat.
"You stop there for a moment, Bill," he said. "Blow the horn if you
think anyone's watching the place."
He ran up the steps and banged the door behind him. He looked pink and
elated.
"Hallo, Bundle, there you are. Now then, we've got to get down to it.
Where's the key of the room you got into last time?"
"It was one of the downstairs keys. We'd better bring the lot up."
"Right you are, but be quick. Time's short."
The key was easily found, the baize-lined door swung back and the three
entered. The room was exactly as Bundle had seen it before, with the
seven chairs grouped round the table. Jimmy surveyed it for a minute or
two in silence. Then his eye went to the two cupboards.
"Which is the cupboard you hid in, Bundle?"
"This one."
Jimmy went to it and flung the door open. The same collection of
miscellaneous glassware covered the shelves.
"We shall have to shift all this stuff," he murmured. "Run down and
get Bill, Loraine. There's no need for him to keep watch outside any
longer."
Loraine ran off.
"What are you going to do?" inquired Bundle impatiently.
Jimmy was down on his knees, trying to peer through the crack of the
other cupboard door.
"Wait till Bill comes and you shall hear the whole story. This is his
staff work--and a jolly creditable bit of work it is. Hallo--what's
Loraine flying up the stairs for as though she'd got a mad bull after
her?"
Loraine was indeed racing up the stairs as fast as she could. She burst
in upon them with an ashen face and terror in her eyes.
"Bill--Bill--oh, Bundle--Bill!"
"What about Bill?"
Jimmy caught her by the shoulder.
"For God's sake, Loraine, what's happened?"
Loraine was still gasping.
"Bill--I think he's dead--he's in the car still--but he doesn't move or
speak. I'm sure he's dead."
Jimmy muttered an oath and sprang for the stairs, Bundle behind
him, her heart pounding unevenly and an awful feeling of desolation
spreading over her.
Bill--dead? Oh, no! Oh, no! Not that. Please God--not that.
Together she and Jimmy reached the car, Loraine behind them.
Jimmy peered under the hood. Bill was sitting as he had left him,
leaning back. But his eyes were closed and Jimmy's pull at his arm
brought no response.
"I can't understand it," muttered Jimmy. "But he's not dead. Cheer up,
Bundle. Look here, we've got to get him into the house. Let's pray to
goodness no policeman comes along. If anybody says anything, he's our
sick friend we're helping into the house."
Between the three of them they got Bill into the house without much
difficulty, and without attracting much attention, save for an unshaven
gentleman, who said sympathetically:
"Genneman's 'ad a couple, I shee," and nodded his head sapiently.
"Into the little back room downstairs," said Jimmy. "There's a sofa
there."
They got him safely on to the sofa and Bundle knelt down beside him and
took his limp wrist in her hand.
"His pulse is beating," she said. "What _is_ the matter with him?"
"He was all right when I left him just now," said Jimmy. "I wonder if
someone's managed to inject some stuff into him. It would be easily
done--just a prick. The man might have been asking him the time.
There's only one thing for it. I must get a doctor at once. You stay
here and look after him."
He hurried to the door, then paused.
"Look here--don't be scared, either of you. But I'd better leave you my
revolver. I mean--just in case. I'll be back just as soon as I possibly
can."
He laid the revolver down on the little table by the sofa, then hurried
off. They heard the front door bang behind him.
The house seemed very still now. The two girls stayed motionless by
Bill. Bundle still kept her finger on his pulse. It seemed to be
beating very fast and irregularly.
"I wish we could do something," she whispered to Loraine. "This is
awful."
Loraine nodded.
"I know. It seems ages since Jimmy went and yet it's only a minute and
a half."
"I keep hearing things," said Bundle. "Footsteps and boards creaking
upstairs--and yet I know it's only imagination."
"I wonder why Jimmy left us the revolver," said Loraine. "There can't
really be danger."
"If they could get Bill--" said Bundle and stopped. Loraine shivered.
"I know--but we're in the house. Nobody can get in without our hearing
them. And anyway we've got the revolver."
Bundle turned her attention back again to Bill.
"I wish I knew what to do. Hot coffee. You give them that sometimes."
"I've got some smelling-salts in my bag," said Loraine. "And some
brandy. Where is it? Oh, I must have left it in the room upstairs."
"I'll get it," said Bundle. "They might do some good."
She sped quickly up the stairs, across the gaming room and through the
open door into the meeting place. Loraine's bag was lying on the table.
As Bundle stretched out her hand to take it, she heard a noise from
behind her. Hidden behind the door a man stood ready with a sand-bag in
his hand. Before Bundle could turn her head, he had struck.
With a faint moan, Bundle slipped down, an unconscious heap, upon the
floor.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE SEVEN DIALS
Very slowly Bundle returned to consciousness. She was aware of a dark,
spinning blackness, the centre of which was a violent, throbbing ache.
Punctuating this were sounds. A voice that she knew very well saying
the same thing over and over again.
The blackness spun less violently. The ache was now definitely located
as being in Bundle's own head. And she was sufficiently herself to take
an interest in what the voice was saying.
"Darling, darling Bundle. Oh, darling Bundle. She's dead; I know she's
dead. Oh, my darling. Bundle, darling, darling Bundle. I do love you
so. Bundle--darling--darling--"
Bundle lay quite still with her eyes shut. But she was now fully
conscious. Bill's arms held her closely.
"Bundle, darling--Oh, dearest, darling Bundle. Oh, my dear love. Oh,
Bundle--Bundle. What shall I do? Oh, darling one--my Bundle--my own
dearest, sweetest Bundle. Oh, God, what shall I do? I've killed her.
I've killed her."
Reluctantly--very reluctantly--Bundle spoke.
"No, you haven't, you silly idiot," she said.
Bill gave a gasp of utter amazement.
"Bundle--you're alive?"
"Of course I'm alive."
"How long have you been--I mean when did you come to?"
"About five minutes ago."
"Why didn't you open your eyes--or say something?"
"Didn't want to. I was enjoying myself."
"Enjoying yourself?"
"Yes. Listening to all the things you were saying. You'll never say
them so well again. You'll be too beastly self-conscious."
Bill had turned a dark brick-red.
"Bundle--you really didn't mind? You know, I _do_ love you so. I have
for ages. But I never have dared tell you so."
"You silly juggins," said Bundle. "Why?"
"I thought you'd only laugh at me. I mean--you've got brains and all
that--you'll marry some bigwig."
"Like George Lomax?" suggested Bundle.
"I don't mean a fatuous ass like Codders. But some really fine chap
who'll be worthy of you--though I don't think anyone could be that,"
ended Bill.
"You're rather a dear, Bill."
"But, Bundle, seriously, could you ever? I mean, could you ever bring
yourself to?"
"Could I ever bring myself to do what?"
"Marry me. I know I'm awfully thick-headed--but I do love you, Bundle.
I'd be your dog or your slave or your anything."
"You're very like a dog," said Bundle. "I like dogs. They're so
friendly and faithful and warmhearted. I think that perhaps I could
just bring myself to marry you, Bill--with a great effort, you know."
Bill's response to this was to relinquish his grasp of her and recoil
violently. He looked at her with amazement in his eyes.
"Bundle--you don't mean it?"
"There's nothing for it," said Bundle. "I see I shall have to relapse
into unconsciousness again."
"Bundle--darling--" Bill caught her to him. He was trembling violently.
"Bundle--do you really mean it--do you?--you don't know how much I love
you."
"Oh, Bill," said Bundle.
There is no need to describe in detail the conversation of the next ten
minutes. It consisted mostly of repetitions.
"And do you really love me," said Bill, incredulously, for the
twentieth time as he at last released her.
"Yes--yes--yes. Now do let's be sensible. I've got a racking head
still, and I've been nearly squeezed to death by you. I want to get the
hang of things. Where are we and what's happened?"
For the first time, Bundle began to take stock of her surroundings.
They were in the secret room, she noted, and the baize door was closed
and presumably locked. They were prisoners, then!
Bundle's eyes came back to Bill. Quite oblivious of her question he was
watching her with adoring eyes.
"Bill, darling," said Bundle, "pull yourself together. We've got to get
out of here."
"Eh?" said Bill. "What? Oh, yes. That'll be all right. No difficulty
about that."
"It's being in love makes you feel like that," said Bundle. "I feel
rather the same myself. As though everything's easy and possible."
"So it is," said Bill. "Now that I know you care for me--"
"Stop it," said Bundle. "Once we begin again any serious conversation
will be hopeless. Unless you pull yourself together and become
sensible, I shall very likely change my mind."
"I shan't let you," said Bill. "You don't think that once having got
you I'd be such a fool as to let you go, do you?"
"You would not coerce me against my will, I hope," said Bundle
grandiloquently.
"Wouldn't I?" said Bill. "You just watch me do it, that's all."
"You really are rather a darling, Bill. I was afraid you might be too
meek, but I see there's going to be no danger of that. In another half
hour you'd be ordering me about. Oh, dear, we're getting silly again.
Now, look here, Bill, we've got to get out of here."
"I tell you that'll be quite all right. I shall--"
He broke off, obedient to a pressure from Bundle's hand. She was
leaning forward, listening intently. Yes, she had not been mistaken. A
step was crossing the outer room. The key was thrust into the lock and
turned. Bundle held her breath. Was it Jimmy coming to rescue them--or
was it someone else?
The door opened and the black-bearded Mr. Mosgorovsky stood on the
threshold.
Immediately Bill took a step forward, standing in front of Bundle.
"Look here," he said, "I want a word with you privately."
The Russian did not reply for a minute or two. He stood stroking his
long, silky, black beard and smiling quietly to himself.
"So," he said at last, "it is like that. Very well. The lady will be
pleased to come with me."
"It's all right, Bundle," said Bill. "Leave it to me. You go with this
chap. Nobody's going to hurt you. I know what I'm doing."
Bundle rose obediently. That note of authority in Bill's voice was new
to her. He seemed absolutely sure of himself and confident of being
able to deal with the situation. Bundle wondered vaguely what it was
that Bill had--or thought he had--up his sleeve.
She passed out of the room in front of the Russian. He followed her,
closing the door behind him and locking it.
"This way, please," he said.
He indicated the staircase and she mounted obediently to the floor
above. Here she was directed to pass into a small, frowsy room, which
she took to be Alfred's bedroom.
Mosgorovsky said: "You will wait here quietly, please. There must be no
noise."
Then he went out, closing the door behind him and locking her in.
Bundle sat down on a chair. Her head was aching badly still and she
felt incapable of sustained thought. Bill seemed to have the situation
well in hand. Sooner or later, she supposed, someone would come and let
her out.
The minutes passed. Bundle's watch had stopped, but she judged that
over an hour had passed since the Russian had brought her here. What
was happening? What, indeed, _had_ happened?
At last she heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Mosgorovsky once
more. He spoke very formally to her.
"Lady Eileen Brent, you are wanted at an emergency meeting of the Seven
Dials Society. Please follow me."
He led the way down the stairs and Bundle followed him. He opened the
door of the secret chamber and Bundle passed in, catching her breath in
surprise as she did so.
She was seeing for the second time what she had only had a glimpse of
the first time through her peephole. The masked figures were sitting
round the table. As she stood there, taken aback by the suddenness of
it, Mosgorovsky slipped into his place, adjusting his clock mask as he
did so.
But this time the chair at the head of the table was occupied. No. 7
was in his place.
Bundle's heart beat violently. She was standing at the foot of the
table directly facing him and she stared and stared at the mocking
piece of hanging stuff, with the clock dial on it, that hid his
features.
He sat quite immovable and Bundle got an odd sensation of power
radiating from him. His inactivity was not the inactivity of
weakness--and she wished violently, almost hysterically, that he would
speak--that he would make some sign, some gesture--not just sit there
like a gigantic spider in the middle of its web waiting remorselessly
for its prey.
She shivered and as she did so Mosgorovsky rose. His voice, smooth,
silky, persuasive, seemed curiously far away.
"Lady Eileen, you have been present unasked at the secret councils
of this society. It is therefore necessary that you should identify
yourself with our aims and ambitions. The place 2 o'clock, you may
notice, is vacant. It is that place that is offered to you."
Bundle gasped. The thing was like a fantastic nightmare. Was it
possible that she, Bundle Brent, was being asked to join a murderous
secret society? Had the same proposition been made to Bill, and had he
refused indignantly?
"I can't do that," she said bluntly.
"Do not answer precipitately."
She fancied that Mosgorovsky, beneath his clock mask, was smiling
significantly into his beard.
"You do not as yet know, Lady Eileen, what it is you are refusing."
"I can make a pretty good guess," said Bundle.
"Can you?"
It was the voice of 7 o'clock. It awoke some vague chord of memory in
Bundle's brain. Surely she knew that voice?
Very slowly No. 7 raised a hand to his head and fumbled with the
fastening of the mask.
Bundle held her breath. At last--she was going to _know_.
The mask fell.
_Bundle found herself looking into the expressionless, wooden face of
Superintendent Battle._
CHAPTER XXXII
BUNDLE IS DUMFOUNDED
"That's right," said Battle, as Mosgorovsky leapt up and came round to
Bundle. "Get a chair for her. It's been a bit of a shock, I can see."
Bundle sank down on a chair. She felt limp and faint with surprise.
Battle went on talking in a quiet, comfortable way wholly
characteristic of him.
"You didn't expect to see me, Lady Eileen. No, and no more did some
of the others sitting round this table. Mr. Mosgorovsky's been my
lieutenant in a manner of speaking. He's been in the know all along.
But most of the others have taken their orders blindly from him."
Still Bundle said no word. She was--a most unusual state of affairs for
her--simply incapable of speech.
Battle nodded at her comprehendingly, seeming to understand the state
of her feelings.
"You'll have to get rid of one or two preconceived ideas of yours,
I'm afraid, Lady Eileen. About this society, for instance--I know
it's common enough in books--a secret organization of criminals with
a mysterious super-criminal at the head of it whom no one ever sees.
That sort of thing may exist in real life, but I can only say that I've
never come across anything of the sort, and I've had a good deal of
experience one way or another.
"But there's a lot of romance in the world, Lady Eileen. People,
especially young people, like reading about such things, and they like
still better really _doing_ them. I'm going to introduce you now to a
very creditable band of amateurs that has done remarkably fine work for
my Department, work that nobody else could have done. If they've chosen
rather melodramatic trappings, well, why shouldn't they? They've been
willing to face real danger--danger of the very worst kind--and they've
done it for these reasons: love of danger for its own sake--which to my
mind is a very healthy sign in these Safety First days--and an honest
wish to serve their country.
"And now, Lady Eileen, I'm going to introduce you. First of all,
there's Mr. Mosgorovsky, whom you already know in a manner of speaking.
As you're aware, he runs the club and he runs a host of other things
too. He's our most valuable Secret Anti-Bolshevist Agent in England.
No. 5 is Count Andras of the Hungarian Embassy, a very near and dear
friend of the late Mr. Gerald Wade. No. 4 is Mr. Hayward Phelps, an
American journalist, whose British sympathies are very keen and whose
aptitude for scenting 'news' is remarkable. No. 3--"
He stopped, smiling, and Bundle stared dumfounded into the sheepish,
grinning face of Bill Eversleigh.
"No. 2," went on Battle in a graver voice, "can only show an empty
place. It is the place belonging to Mr. Ronald Devereux, a very gallant
young gentleman who died for his country if any man ever did. No.
1--well, No. 1 was Mr. Gerald Wade, another very gallant gentleman
who died in the same way. His place was taken--not without some grave
misgivings on my part--by a lady--a lady who has proved her fitness to
have it and who has been a great help to us."
The last to do so, No. 1, removed her mask, and Bundle looked without
surprise into the beautiful, dark face of Countess Radzky.
"I might have known," said Bundle resentfully, "that you were too
completely the beautiful foreign adventuress to be anything of the kind
really."
"But you don't know the real joke," said Bill. "_Bundle, this is Babe
St. Maur_--you remember my telling you about her and what a ripping
actress she was--and she's about proved it."
"That's so," said Miss St. Maur in pure transatlantic nasal. "But it's
not a terrible lot of credit to me, because Poppa and Momma came from
that part of Yurrup--so I got the patter fairly easy. Gee, but I nearly
gave myself away once at the Abbey, talking about gardens."
She paused and then said abruptly:
"It's--it's not been just fun. You see, I was kinder engaged to Ronny,
and when he handed in his checks--well, I had to do something to track
down the skunk who murdered him. That's all."
"I'm completely bewildered," said Bundle. "Nothing is what it seems."
"It's very simple, Lady Eileen," said Superintendent Battle. "It began
with some of the young people wanting a bit of excitement. It was Mr.
Wade who first got on to me. He suggested the formation of a band of
what you might call amateur workers to do a bit of secret service work.
I warned him that it might be dangerous--but he wasn't the kind to
weigh that in the balance. I made it plain to him that any one who came
in must do so on that understanding. But, bless you, that wasn't going
to stop any of Mr. Wade's friends. And so the thing began."
"But what was the object of it all?" asked Bundle.
"We wanted a certain man--wanted him badly. He wasn't an ordinary
crook. He worked in Mr. Wade's world, a kind of Raffles, but much
more dangerous than any Raffles ever was or could be. He was out
for big stuff, international stuff. Twice already valuable secret
inventions had been stolen, and clearly stolen by someone who had
inside knowledge. The professionals had had a try--and failed. Then the
amateurs took on--and succeeded."
"Succeeded?"
"Yes--but they didn't come out of it unscathed. The man was dangerous.
Two lives fell victim to him and he got away with it. But the Seven
Dials stuck to it. And as I say, they succeeded. Thanks to Mr.
Eversleigh, the man was caught at last red-handed."
"Who was he?" asked Bundle. "Do I know him?"
"You know him very well, Lady Eileen. His name is Mr. Jimmy Thesiger,
and he was arrested this afternoon."
CHAPTER XXXIII
BATTLE EXPLAINS
Superintendent Battle settled to explain. He spoke comfortably and
cozily.
"I didn't suspect him myself for a long time. The first hint of it
I had was when I heard what Mr. Devereux's last words had been.
Naturally, you took them to mean that Mr. Devereux was trying to send
word to Mr. Thesiger that the Seven Dials had killed him. That's what
the words seemed to mean on their face value. But of course I knew
that that couldn't be so. It was the Seven Dials that Mr. Devereux
wanted told--and what he wanted them told was something about Mr. Jimmy
Thesiger.
"The thing seemed incredible, because Mr. Devereux and Mr. Thesiger
were close friends. But I remembered something else--that these thefts
must have been committed by someone who was absolutely in the know.
Someone who, if not in the Foreign Office himself, was in the way of
hearing all its chit-chat. And I found it very hard to find out where
Mr. Thesiger got his money. The income his father left him was a small
one, yet he was able to live at a most expensive rate. Where did the
money come from?
"I knew that Mr. Wade had been very excited by something that he had
found out. He was quite sure that he was on the right track. He didn't
confide in anyone about what he thought that track was, but he did say
something to Mr. Devereux about being on the point of making sure. That
was just before they both went down to Chimneys for that week-end.
As you know, Mr. Wade died there--apparently from an overdose of a
sleeping draught. It seemed straightforward enough, but Mr. Devereux
did not accept that explanation for a minute. He was convinced that
Mr. Wade had been very cleverly put out of the way and that someone in
the house must actually be the criminal we were all after. He came, I
think, very near confiding in Mr. Thesiger, for he certainly had no
suspicions of him at that moment. But something held him back.
"Then he did rather a curious thing. He arranged seven clocks upon the
mantelpiece, throwing away the eighth. It was meant as a symbol that
the Seven Dials would revenge the death of one of their members--and he
watched eagerly to see if anyone betrayed themselves or showed signs of
perturbation."
"And it was Jimmy Thesiger who poisoned Gerry Wade?"
"Yes, he slipped the stuff into a whisky and soda which Mr. Wade had
downstairs before retiring to bed. That's why he was already feeling
sleepy when he wrote that letter to Miss Wade."
"Then the footman, Bauer, hadn't anything to do with it?" asked Bundle.
"Bauer was one of our people, Lady Eileen. It was thought likely that
our crook would go for Herr Eberhard's invention and Bauer was got
into the house to watch events on our behalf. But he wasn't able to do
much. As I say, Mr. Thesiger administered the fatal dose easily enough.
Later, when everyone was asleep, a bottle, glass and empty chloral
bottle were placed by Mr. Wade's bedside by Mr. Thesiger. Mr. Wade was
unconscious then, and his fingers were probably pressed round the glass
and the bottle so that they should be found there if any questions
should arise. I don't know what effect the seven clocks on the
mantelpiece made on Mr. Thesiger. He certainly didn't let on anything
to Mr. Devereux. All the same, I think he had a bad five minutes now
and again thinking of them. And I think he kept a pretty wary eye on
Mr. Devereux after that.
"We don't know exactly what happened next. No one saw much of Mr.
Devereux after Mr. Wade's death. But it is clear that he worked along
the same lines that he knew Mr. Wade had been working on and reached
the same result--namely, that Mr. Thesiger was the man. I fancy, too,
that he was betrayed in the same way."
"You mean?"
"Through Miss Loraine Wade. Mr. Wade was devoted to her--I believe he
hoped to marry her--she wasn't really his sister, of course--and there
is no doubt that he told her more than he should have done. But Miss
Loraine Wade was devoted body and soul to Mr. Thesiger. She would do
anything he told her. She passed on the information to him. In the same
way, later, Mr. Devereux was attracted to her, and probably warned
her against Mr. Thesiger. So Mr. Devereux in turn was silenced--and
died trying to send word to the Seven Dials that his murderer was Mr.
Thesiger."
"How ghastly," cried Bundle. "If I had only known."
"Well, it didn't seem likely. In fact, I could hardly credit it myself.
But then we came to the affair at the Abbey. You will remember how
awkward it was--specially awkward for Mr. Eversleigh here. You and
Mr. Thesiger were hand in glove. Mr. Eversleigh had already been
embarrassed by your insisting on being brought to this place, and when
he found that you had actually overheard what went on at a meeting, he
was dumfounded."
The Superintendent paused and a twinkle came into his eye.
"So was I, Lady Eileen. I never dreamt of such a thing being possible.
You put one over on me there all right.
"Well, Mr. Eversleigh was in a dilemma. He couldn't let you into the
secret of the Seven Dials without letting Mr. Thesiger in also--and
that would never do. It all suited Mr. Thesiger very well, of course,
for it gave him a bona fide reason for getting himself asked to the
Abbey, which made things much easier for him.
"I may say that the Seven Dials had already sent a warning letter to
Mr. Lomax. That was to ensure his applying to me for assistance, so
that I should be able to be on the spot in a perfectly natural manner.
I made no secret of my presence, as you know."
And again the Superintendent's eyes twinkled.
"Well, ostensibly, Mr. Eversleigh and Mr. Thesiger were to divide the
night into two watches. Really, Mr. Eversleigh and Miss St. Maur did
so. She was on guard at the library window when she heard Mr. Thesiger
coming and had to dart behind the screen.
"And now comes the cleverness of Mr. Thesiger. Up to a point he told
a perfectly true story, and I must admit that with the fight and
everything, I was distinctly shaken--and began to wonder whether he had
had anything to do with the theft at all, or whether we were completely
on the wrong track. There were one or two suspicious circumstances that
pointed in an entirely different direction, and I can tell you I didn't
know what to make of things, when something turned up to clinch matters.
"I found the burnt glove in the fireplace with the teeth marks on
it--and then--well--I knew that I'd been right after all. But, upon my
word, he was a clever one."
"What actually happened?" said Bundle. "Who was the other man?"
"There wasn't any other man. Listen, and I'll show you how in the end
I reconstructed the whole story. To begin with, Mr. Thesiger and Miss
Wade are in this together. And they have a rendezvous for an exact
time. Miss Wade comes over in her car, climbs through the fence and
comes up to the house. She's got a perfectly good story if any one
stops her--the one she told eventually. But she arrived unmolested on
the terrace just after the clock had struck two.
"Now, I may say to begin with that she was seen coming in. My men saw
her, but they had orders to stop nobody coming in--only going out. I
wanted, you see, to find out as much as possible. Miss Wade arrives
on the terrace, and at that minute a parcel falls at her feet and she
picks it up. A man comes down the ivy and she starts to run. What
happens next? The struggle--and presently the revolver shots. What will
everyone do? Rush to the scene of the fight. And Miss Loraine Wade
could have left the grounds and driven off with the formula safely in
her possession.
"But things don't happen quite like that. Miss Wade runs straight into
my arms. And at that moment the game changes. It's no longer attack but
defence. Miss Wade tells her story. It is perfectly true and perfectly
sensible.
"And now we come to Mr. Thesiger. One thing struck me at once. The
bullet wound alone couldn't have caused him to faint. Either he
had fallen and hit his head--or--well, he hadn't fainted at all.
Later we had Miss St. Maur's story. It agreed perfectly with Mr.
Thesiger's--there was only one suggestive point. Miss St. Maur said
that after the lights were turned out and Mr. Thesiger went over to
the window, he was so still that she thought he must have left the
room and gone outside. Now, if any one is in the room, you can hardly
help hearing their breathing if you are listening for it. Supposing,
then, that Mr. Thesiger _had_ gone outside. Where next? Up the ivy to
Mr. O'Rourke's room--Mr. O'Rourke's whisky and soda having been doped
the night before. He gets the papers, throws them down to the girl,
climbs down the ivy again, and--starts the fight. That's easy enough
when you come to think of it. Knock the tables down, stagger about,
speak in your own voice and then in a hoarse half-whisper. And then,
the final touch, the two revolver shots. His own Colt automatic, bought
openly the day before, is fired at an imaginary assailant. Then, with
his left gloved hand, he takes from his pocket the small Mauser pistol
and shoots himself through the fleshy part of the right arm. He flings
the pistol through the window, tears off the glove with his teeth, and
throws it into the fire. When I arrive he is lying on the floor in a
faint."
Bundle drew a deep breath.
"You didn't realize all this at the time, Superintendent Battle?"
"No, that I didn't. I was taken in as much as anyone could be. It
wasn't till long afterwards that I pieced it all together. Finding
the glove was the beginning of it. Then I made Sir Oswald throw the
pistol through the window. It fell a good way farther on than it should
have done. But a man who is right-handed doesn't throw nearly as far
with the left hand. Even then it was only suspicion--and a very faint
suspicion at that.
"But there was one point struck me. The papers were obviously thrown
down for someone to pick up. If Miss Wade was there by accident, who
was the real person? Of course, for those who weren't in the know, that
question was answered easily enough--the Countess. But there I had the
pull over you. _I knew the Countess was all right._ So what follows?
Why, the idea that the papers had actually been picked up by the person
they were meant for. And the more I thought of it, the more it seemed
to me a very remarkable coincidence that Miss Wade should have arrived
at the exact moment she did."
"It must have been very difficult for you when I came to you full of
suspicion about the Countess."
"It was, Lady Eileen. I had to say something to put you off the scent.
And it was very difficult for Mr. Eversleigh here, with the lady coming
out of a dead faint and no knowing what she might say."
"I understand Bill's anxiety now," said Bundle. "And the way he kept
urging her to take time and not talk till she felt quite all right."
"Poor old Bill," said Miss St. Maur. "That poor baby had to be vamped
against his will--getting madder'n a hornet every minute."
"Well," said Superintendent Battle, "there it was. I suspected Mr.
Thesiger--but I couldn't get definite proof. On the other hand, Mr.
Thesiger himself was rattled. He realized more or less what he was up
against in the Seven Dials--but he wanted badly to know who No. 7 was.
He got himself asked to the Cootes under the impression that Sir Oswald
Coote was No. 7."
"I suspected Sir Oswald," said Bundle, "especially when he came in from
the garden that night."
"I never suspected him," said Battle. "But I don't mind telling you
that I _did_ have my suspicions of that young chap, his secretary."
"Pongo?" said Bill. "Not old Pongo?"
"Yes, Mr. Eversleigh, old Pongo as you call him. A very efficient
gentleman and one that could have put anything through if he'd a mind
to. I suspected him partly because he'd been the one to take the
clocks into Mr. Wade's room that night. It would have been easy for him
to put the bottle and glass by the bedside then. And then, for another
thing, he was left-handed. That glove pointed straight to him--if it
hadn't been for one thing--"
"What?"
"The teeth marks--only a man whose right hand was incapacitated would
have needed to tear off that glove with his teeth."
"So Pongo was cleared."
"So Pongo was cleared, as you say. I'm sure it would be a great
surprise to Mr. Bateman to know he was ever suspected."
"It would," agreed Bill. "A solemn card--a silly ass like Pongo. How
you could ever think--"
"Well, as far as that goes, Mr. Thesiger was what you might describe as
an empty-headed young ass of the most brainless description. One of the
two was playing a part. When I decided that it was Mr. Thesiger, I was
interested to get Mr. Bateman's opinion of him. All along, Mr. Bateman
had the gravest suspicions of Mr. Thesiger and frequently said as much
to Sir Oswald."
"It's curious," said Bill, "but Pongo always is right. It's maddening."
"Well, as I say," went on Superintendent Battle, "we got Mr. Thesiger
fairly on the run, badly rattled over this Seven Dials business and
uncertain just where the danger lay. That we got him in the end was
solely through Mr. Eversleigh. He knew what he was up against, and
he risked his life cheerfully. But he never dreamt that you would be
dragged into it, Lady Eileen."
"My God, no," said Bill with feeling.
"He went round to Mr. Thesiger's rooms with a cooked-up tale,"
continued Battle. "He was to pretend that certain papers of Mr.
Devereux's had come into his hands. Those papers were to suggest
a suspicion of Mr. Thesiger. Naturally, as the honest friend, Mr.
Eversleigh rushed round, sure that Mr. Thesiger would have an
explanation. We calculated that if we were right, Mr. Thesiger would
try and put Mr. Eversleigh out of the way, and we were fairly certain
as to the way he'd do it. Sure enough, Mr. Thesiger gave his guest a
whisky and soda. During the minute or two that his host was out of the
room, Mr. Eversleigh poured that into a jar on the mantelpiece, but he
had to pretend, of course, that the drug was taking effect. It would
be slow, he knew, not sudden. He began his story, and Mr. Thesiger at
first denied it all indignantly, but as soon as he saw (or thought he
saw) that the drug was taking effect, he admitted everything and told
Mr. Eversleigh that he was the third victim.
"When Mr. Eversleigh was nearly unconscious, Mr. Thesiger took him
down to the car and helped him in. The hood was up. He must already
have telephoned to you unknown to Mr. Eversleigh. He made a clever
suggestion to you. You were to say that you were taking Miss Wade home.
"You made no mention of a message from him. Later, when your body was
found here, Miss Wade would swear that you had driven her home and gone
up to London with the idea of penetrating into this house by yourself.
"Mr. Eversleigh continued to play his part, that of the unconscious
man. I may say that as soon as the two young men had left Jermyn
Street, one of my men gained admission and found the doctored whisky,
which contained enough hydrochloride of morphia to kill two men. Also
the car they were in was followed. Mr. Thesiger drove out of town to
a well-known golf course, where he showed himself for a few minutes,
speaking of playing a round. That, of course, was for an alibi, should
one be needed. He left the car with Mr. Eversleigh in it a little way
down the road. Then he drove back to town and to the Seven Dials Club.
As soon as he saw Alfred leave, he drove up to the door, spoke to Mr.
Eversleigh as he got out in case you might be listening and came into
the house and played his little comedy.
"When he pretended to go for a doctor, he really only slammed the
door and then crept quietly upstairs and hid behind the door of this
room, where Miss Wade would presently send you up on some excuse.
Mr. Eversleigh, of course, was horror struck when he saw you, but he
thought it best to keep up the part he was playing. He knew our people
were watching the house, and he imagined that there was no immediate
danger intended to you. He could always 'come to life' at any moment.
When Mr. Thesiger threw his revolver on the table and apparently left
the house it seemed safer than ever. As for the next bit--" He paused,
looking at Bill. "Perhaps you'd like to tell that, sir."
"I was still lying on that bally sofa," said Bill, "trying to look
done in and getting the fidgets worse and worse. Then I heard someone
run down the stairs, and Loraine got up and went to the door. I heard
Thesiger's voice, but not what he said. I heard Loraine say: 'That's
all right--it's gone splendidly.' Then he said: 'Help me carry him
up. It will be a bit of a job, but I want them both together there--a
nice little surprise for No. 7.' I didn't quite understand what they
were jawing about, but they hauled me up the stairs somehow or other.
It _was_ a bit of a job for them. I made myself a dead weight all
right. They heaved me in here, and then I heard Loraine say: 'You're
sure it's all right. She won't come round?' And Jimmy said--the damned
blackguard: 'No fear. I hit with all my might.'
"They went away and locked the door, and then I opened my eyes and saw
you. My God, Bundle, I shall never feel so perfectly awful again. I
thought you were dead."
"I suppose my hat saved me," said Bundle.
"Partly," said Superintendent Battle. "But partly it was Mr. Thesiger's
wounded arm. He didn't realize it himself--but it had only half its
usual strength. Still, that's all no credit to the Department. We
didn't take the care of you we ought to have done, Lady Eileen--and
it's a black blot on the whole business."
"I'm very tough," said Bundle. "And also rather lucky. What I can't get
over is Loraine being in it. She was such a gentle little thing."
"Ah!" said the Superintendent. "So was the Pentonville murderess that
killed five children. You can't go by that. She's got bad blood in
her--her father ought to have seen the inside of a prison more than
once."
"You've got her too?"
Superintendent Battle nodded.
"I daresay they won't hang her--juries are soft-hearted. But young
Thesiger will swing all right--and a good thing too--a more utterly
depraved and callous criminal I never met.
"And now," he added. "If your head isn't aching too badly, Lady Eileen.
What about a little celebration? There's a nice little restaurant round
the corner."
Bundle heartily agreed.
"I'm starving, Superintendent Battle. Besides," she looked round, "I've
got to get to know all my colleagues."
"The Seven Dials," said Bill. "Hurrah! Some fizz is what we need. Do
they run to fizz at this place, Battle?"
"You won't have anything to complain of, sir. You leave it to me."
"Superintendent Battle," said Bundle, "you are a wonderful man. I'm
sorry you're married already. As it is, I shall have to put up with
Bill."
CHAPTER XXXIV
LORD CATERHAM APPROVES
"Father," said Bundle, "I've got to break a piece of news to you.
You're going to lose me."
"Nonsense," said Lord Caterham. "Don't tell me that you're suffering
from galloping consumption or a weak heart or anything like that,
because I simply don't believe it."
"It's not death," said Bundle. "It's marriage."
"Very nearly as bad," said Lord Caterham. "I suppose I shall have to
come to the wedding, all dressed up in tight, uncomfortable clothes,
and give you away. And Lomax may think it necessary to kiss me in the
vestry."
"Good heavens! You don't think I'm going to marry George, do you?"
cried Bundle.
"Well, something like that seemed to be in the wind last time I saw
you," said her father. "Yesterday morning, you know."
"I'm going to be married to someone a hundred times nicer than George,"
said Bundle.
"I hope so, I'm sure," said Lord Caterham. "But one never knows. I
don't feel you're really a good judge of character, Bundle. You told me
that young Thesiger was a cheerful inefficient, and from all I hear now
it seems that he was one of the most efficient criminals of the day.
The sad thing is that I never met him. I was thinking of writing my
reminiscences soon--with a special chapter on murderers I have met--and
by a purely technical oversight, I never met this young man."
"Don't be silly," said Bundle. "You know you haven't got the energy to
write reminiscences or anything else."
"I wasn't actually going to write them myself," said Lord Caterham. "I
believe that's never done. But I met a very charming girl the other day
and that's her special job. She collects the material and does all the
actual writing."
"And what do you do?"
"Oh, just give her a few facts for half an hour every day. Nothing
more than that." After a slight pause, Lord Caterham said: "She was a
nice-looking girl--very restful and sympathetic."
"Father," said Bundle, "I have a feeling that without me you will run
into deadly danger."
"Different kinds of danger suit different kinds of people," said Lord
Caterham.
He was moving away, when he turned back and said over his shoulder:
"By the way, Bundle, who _are_ you marrying?"
"I was wondering," said Bundle, "when you were going to ask me that.
I'm going to marry Bill Eversleigh."
The egoist thought it over for a minute. Then he nodded in complete
satisfaction.
"Excellent," he said. "He's scratch, isn't he? He and I can play
together in the foursomes in the Autumn Meeting."
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