THERE was much light in the usually dim house of Colonel Brownlough, and music of a sort, and many women of whom a few had pretensions to beauty.
And there were flowers and ferns and sofas in the great hall, and along the corridors which from it ran east and west. And in the conservatory at the end of the western corridor—through the billiard-room—were chairs and soft-shaded lights. And in the library, along the whole length of the far wall, was a white-draped buffet, on and beneath and behind it bottles, bottles and yet more bottles.
And the whole house of Colonel Brownlough, usually so silent a house that in it a sneeze unrepressed would assail the ear like the shattering of a bomb, vibrated now with the droning hum of a hundred ceaseless voices which wove their sound, against the background of the dance-music, into a changeless yet ever shifting pattern by no means unpleasant.
Anthony’s car, its low headlights cutting the blackness with a pure hard beam, swung through Colonel Brownlough’s gates. It throbbed its slow, repressed way up the curving drive and came to a halt, near an orderly mass of other cars, before the house.
Anthony switched off lights and engine. ‘Out you pop!’ he said. But Lucia sat. She laid a hand upon his arm.
‘These,’ she said, ‘are the first words from you in twelve miles. Most unusual! …’ Her voice changed. ‘Darling: what are you thinking? Tell.’
‘I can’t,’ said her husband. ‘It’s always like that with these great detectives. We think, but we don’t speak. We say it’s because we aren’t ready for speech. But it’s really because we don’t know what we’re thinking about.’
He felt, in the darkness, soft fingers make strong, gentle pressure upon his arm. ‘Tell!’ said Lucia.
He smiled. But when he spoke there was to his voice the rough edge of worry. He said:
‘If you must know—it’s a link I want. Not the surface link of blackmail, but the one behind that. Tell me something—anything—which could even in the remotest possibility, link Bronson with Blackatter and both—both mark you—with X. Tell me! You can’t. Nor can I … Now out you pop!’ He stretched a long arm across her and opened the door.
They were barely within the house when its owner, brushing aside a manservant, surged upon them.
‘Good of you!’ coughed Colonel Brownlough. ‘Good of you to come! Very pleased. Very pleased.’ He took Lucia’s hand between both his own. ‘So this is your husband, eh? Very glad to meet you at last, Gethryn. Very glad. Heard a lot about you. A lot. Who hasn’t, eh? Known this lovely wife of yours since she was a kiddie. Haven’t I, m’dear? Yes. So high …’
He went on spraying Anthony with talk while Lucia went, shepherded by a servant, to unwrap. He was somewhere, this Colonel Brownlough, between fifty and sixty; a burly man of considerable height and great breadth and thickness, with an agility and lack of fat most commendable.
He stuck to Anthony and went on spraying Anthony, who bided his time and smiled and nodded.
They went from cloakroom to hall, from hall to library. Colonel Brownlough waved a hand at the long white-clothed table, beside it small clusters of guests in which, rather surprisingly for the times, the men outnumbered the women. ‘Glass of wine?’ said Colonel Brownlough. ‘Or anything else you’d rather? What?’
Anthony found himself drinking a Pol Roget of excellence. He kept half an ear for the splashing talk of his host and discreetly used all his eyes and the rest of his hearing for others. What he saw he found to be what he had expected. Perhaps a little more so. The atmosphere of a Hunt Ball without its formality and with a rather larger leavening of militance than is usual at most Hunt Balls. Fully forty per cent of the men he saw were very obviously soldiers, the subaltern predominating.
‘… and so that’s how it was!’ The barking rattle of his host’s voice beat upon Anthony’s ears. ‘No sooner did I enter Betty Marston’s drawing-room than I saw your wife … An’ so here you are at my little tamasha …’ The voice paused for a moment; then dropped to a tone of impressive confidentiality. ‘S’pose,’ it said, ‘you won’t be gettin’ in any huntin’ round here, what? Too busy, eh? Damn fine effort, this o’ yours. Fine!’ The voice went lower still. ‘No business o’ mine o’ course, Gethryn … mustn’t take any offence … just a friendly tip y’know … but that lovely wife o’ yours … well, fact is, thought she talked a bit more than you’d like … what I mean, must be half round the county by this time that you’re makin’ this effort …’
Anthony, restraining his emotions, smiled at his host. He said:
‘Much obliged. A woman’s tongue’s a tiresome thing—nearly as bad as a man’s. But in this case, the more talk there is, the better I’ll be pleased. That, you know, was my wife’s reason for talking.’ His voice, by stages so cleverly handled as to be imperceptible, had been rising. It was now, though unostentatiously, loud; so loud that it would carry—should they care to listen—to any of the other groups at the buffet. He said:
‘I’ve no objection to the whole world knowing. I am, in fact, encouraging all I meet to spread my business here. The more it’s known that there’s a movement to save Bronson because there are people who believe Bronson innocent, the better I shall like it. And the greater the chance for Bronson. Because, as Bronson isn’t guilty, there must be someone who is. And that someone is in this county. And the more Someone hears the more frightened he’ll get, and a Someone afraid’s worth two in a hush … Besides, the revival of thoughts about Bronson might lead to a revival in memories about l’affaire Bronson, and that’d be to the good too. Something—some little, apparently insignificant point—might be remembered for the first time—as Mrs Starbuck remembered the ashplant in the Corson business—and turn out to be the key-piece that’s been missing …’ Anthony allowed himself to become aware, for the first time, of Colonel Brownlough’s now fervid attempts to silence or quieten him. He made almost petulant apology. He shrugged and said: ‘Sorry, sorry! Boring you!’ and plunged into small talk.
But of small talk his host would have none. He cut across it with an apology of his own.
‘Not boring at all! No. Deeply interested, Gethryn. Deeply …’ He moved closer and in hoarse whisper added: ‘Feller just come in. Standin’ behind me now. Ravenscourt. Chief Constable. Very proud of the way the case was handled. Don’t want to upset him. Stout fellah. VC an’ all that. But opinionated. Always right. Sorry if I seemed rude. Doosid awkward …’
Anthony permitted himself to unbend. ‘Not at all. My fault entirely. Talking much too much. And I quite see your point.’ Overtly now, as covertly for the past few moments, he looked at the Chief Constable of the County. He wanted to know the Chief Constable, if the Chief Constable of the County were the right sort. It was impossible, he found, to tell. If Brownlough were right, then no need to waste time in trying to get the man’s help. But Brownlough might be wrong …
His thoughts were past this point when Colonel Brownlough, with spraying apology, left his side—‘just for a moment, Gethryn.’
With half an eye, Anthony watched; saw Colonel Brownlough’s quick, deft preening—a twitch to the tie, a tug to the waistcoat, a one-two, one-two up-brushing of the moustache; saw Colonel Brownlough making erect and swift and by no means ungainly passage towards his objective; saw at once the objective. He studied this for a moment. He saw a flame-coloured, startling island entirely surrounded by Man. A tall woman, but without that seeming of top-heaviness which is the marring of many tall women. A woman whose face and body, whose gown and few jewels, whose self in all guessed and unguessed aspects, not so much demanded attention as spontaneously received attention without the necessity for demand.
Anthony, empty glass in hand, drifted nearer. He set the glass down and, immediately, it was filled. He lifted it, began drifting again; finally settled to drink upon a spot from whence his view was good and less interrupted. He could see her face in detail now. A face, like the whole of her, which held attention. Not a beautiful face; but a face of that undefinable kind which, for good or evil or both of these, far outruns mere beauty in its effect upon mankind. He studied this face; its pallor, its tenseness, its long eyes whose colour seemed not static but ever-changing, its lack of paint except upon the over-full lips which stood out impossibly yet pleasingly scarlet against their background; its hardness which sometimes seemed a mask for tenderness; its gentleness which might be a veil for cruelty.
He was still looking when there came a touch upon his arm and the soft deep voice of his wife to his hearing.
‘You too!’ said Lucia. ‘It is what you’d call an eyeful, though, I must admit.’
Anthony looked down at her. He smiled. ‘Interest’s purely the speculative impersonal. Know who it is? Or what?’
Lucia lowered her voice. ‘The name,’ she said, ‘is Carter-Fawcett, with hyphen. The husband is alive but nearly always absent. I also gather that what money Mr Ford and the Rockefellers haven’t got belongs to her. She’s got a house near here, a few castles in Scotland, a palace in Rome, a flat somewhere W1, a yacht and a racing-stable …’
Anthony interrupted. ‘Got it! Racing-stable did it. I thought the Carter-Fawcett sound was familiar … So she’s that one, is she? Well, well!’
‘Well-well what?’ said Lucia. ‘Why well-well?’ She studied her husband with intentness.
He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t tell you. Have a drink, dear.’ He turned from her to the buffet. When he turned back, a wineglass in his hand, it was to find his wife in speech with their host, now sundered from the Carter-Fawcett group. There were, too, a young woman of the usual prettiness and a younger man, plainly military.
It became clear to Anthony, after mumbled introductions, that he was to dance with, talk to or supply with food and drink the young woman. Lucia, the subaltern beside her patently congratulating himself upon his luck, moved off. To Anthony the girl said wistfully:
‘They’re going to dance … Colonel Gethryn, isn’t your wife lovely! Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ’ve …’
‘Why shouldn’t you?’ Anthony smiled upon her. ‘I know it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it. Shall we dance?’
‘Please,’ she said. She had a voice as pretty as herself. Blue eyes looked with frank pleasure at the lean length and quiet splendour of Colonel Gethryn. They walked side by side from the room, weaving a path between clusters of their fellow-guests. To almost every group the girl smiled and nodded. Anthony, his eyes keen beneath sleepy-seeming lids, picked up hope. He said:
‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t catch …’
She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t. It’s Brocklebank. But when Colonel Brownlough says it, it sounds Polish.’
They had come out into and across the hall. Before them the pleasantly-decorated dining-turned-ballroom showed itself. An orchestra of three was playing, softly and with good enough rhythm, the latest foxtrot but three. The floor was crowded with couples. Anthony swung his partner into their midst. They got on quietly but with smoothness. For two complete circles of the big room they did not speak, and then the girl broke the silence. Just as Anthony was about to play his gambit, she said from his shoulder:
‘You must dance an awful lot. And that’s odd …’
Anthony glanced downwards. He could see nothing save the top of a corn-coloured head and a triangle of white forehead. ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘But where’s the oddity?’
‘I’m very rude, I suppose,’ said Miss Brocklebank.
‘If you are you’re disguising it well.’ Anthony, with a sudden and adroit changing of step, avoided collision with a flame-coloured gown and its inhabitant. Mrs Carter-Fawcett and partner swept on—graceful Juggernauts. Anthony’s eyes for a moment followed their progress.
‘And what,’ said his partner’s voice, ‘do you think of her?’
Anthony looked down again. This time the pretty face of Miss Brocklebank was upturned and in full view; its blue eyes wore a guarded, veiled curiosity which belied the pleasant smiling of the nearly insipid mouth. Anthony said:
‘I daren’t … A cyclonic lady.’
‘Daren’t what?’ Miss Brocklebank was persistent. ‘Think of her? Or say what you think?’
Anthony grinned. ‘Both,’ he said.
Miss Brocklebank started in his arms, and missed her step. She said, in a small and panic-stricken voice:
‘I say! You don’t know her, do you? I …’
Anthony was reassuring. ‘I don’t … Now you tell me something. Why, if I did dance a lot, would there be oddity?’
Miss Brocklebank’s face disappeared again. ‘Oh … just because … because … it wasn’t … I mean it isn’t … I mean it wouldn’t … we hadn’t …’
‘I see!’ said Anthony.
Miss Brocklebank suddenly shook with laughter. But the triangle of forehead was white no longer. She said, in a little rush of words:
‘All I was trying to say was that ballrooms didn’t seem quite the setting for Colonel Gethryn who does wonderful finding-out things … You must think I’m a fool, talking like this. But you see Father and Bobbie—my brother—and I, we’re all very great admirers of yours. Ever since the Hoode case. And when Colonel Brownlough happened to tell Father you were coming here tonight, I nearly jumped out of my skin with excitement. And I badgered old Brownie … Colonel Brownlough, I mean … till he introduced me … Oh damn, they’re stopping!’ And, despite Miss Brocklebank’s annoyance, cease the music did.
‘Clap!’ said Miss Brocklebank, ‘please clap!’
Anthony clapped. There came from the room enough applause. With a sour smile, the orchestra-leader picked up again his drum-sticks. There was a pause while he consulted with his two satellites. There came suddenly to Anthony’s ears, through the clattering buzz of the dancers’ chatter, a voice from close behind him. A male voice which he did not know, deep and harsh and vibrant.
‘That’s the feller, is it?’ said this voice. ‘Don’t like the cut of his jib. Looks a blighter.’
Anthony turned, casually, to see the speaker. He knew, as a man inexplicably will always know in such a situation, that this speech had applied to him. And he had seen, though he had given no sign of seeing, the effect of this speech upon his partner. Miss Brocklebank, good manners fighting a losing battle with emotions, had gone first scarlet, then very pale. And the blue eyes of Miss Brocklebank were torches of angry dislike, darting their flames at the speaker. As he turned, too, he caught a mutter from Miss Brocklebank’s lips; one word, which sounded like ‘Swine!’
Anthony looked, across eight feet of unoccupied parquet, into the eyes of the man who had spoken. This was, he saw, the partner of Mrs Carter-Fawcett; a black-haired, black-browed, sleek, very thick person of an age somewhere between thirty-five and forty. On the upper lip of the almost brutal mouth was a bar of black moustache, below it the mouth was twisted into a snarling sneer which showed a glimpse of white, strong teeth; the nearly over-perfect dress-coat set off a magnificent torso. The black eyes gave back a glare for the green, lazy gaze of Anthony’s.
The music began; a quick tune and a noisy. The violinist had now a saxophone. Anthony, sliding his right arm about the waist of his partner, found that her body was a-tremble. He said:
‘And who’s the black gentleman?’
‘Lake,’ said Miss Brocklebank. She did not open her pretty teeth for the word.
‘Yes?’ said Anthony. ‘Crimson, certainly. Who and what is it?’
‘Captain A. D. Featherstone Lake!’ Miss Brocklebank’s rendering of the title and penultimate name was magnificently scornful. ‘He’s … he’s … one of the Lost Legion—that’s what Daddy calls Her … courtiers …’
‘I see,’ said Anthony. ‘And he’d like to be all of it.’ His eye was upon Lake’s back; it noted the force with which Mrs Carter-Fawcett was enclasped.
‘Vile pig!’ said Miss Brocklebank. ‘And why, why, why say that about you—even if he hadn’t almost bellowed it? Why think it?’ There were now two pink patches staining Miss Brocklebank’s pallor.
They were abreast of the door, and through the door Anthony swung Miss Brocklebank. He looked down, smiling, at her surprise and disappointment. He said:
‘D’you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to drink. And, if it’s all the same to you, we’re going out of the crowd to do it.’
‘I should,’ said Miss Brocklebank with fervour, ‘love it … And I know a good place.’
To this good place, with wine, they went. It was an alcove in the western corridor. As, explained Miss Brocklebank, the conservatory was at the end of the eastern corridor, down the western corridor there was no traffic, not even of the most enthusiastic hand-holders.
They sat in wicker arm-chairs of inviting appearance and repellent discomfort. Miss Brocklebank settled herself. She looked at Anthony and she said:
‘You want to ask me questions, don’t you?’
Anthony smiled. ‘My dear Watson!… Yes, I do.’
‘Fire ahead!’ said Miss Brocklebank.
‘If you know I want to question,’ Anthony said, ‘you know why. In other words, you know what I’m in this part of the world for.’
The blonde head nodded. ‘I do … And I think it’s won …’
‘How d’you know?’ Anthony’s smile robbed interruption of discourtesy.
‘Everybody does. I was told by Daddy. Daddy was told by old Lady Fisher, who met your wife this afternoon.’
‘So that you believe it to be general knowledge … at least in the county with a capital C?’
‘Yes. Anyone that hasn’t heard about it by now certainly will have by tomorrow afternoon … And I’m including the … the … everybody—servants and all. Talk goes quicker, here anyhow, from top to bottom than it does upwards.’
Anthony surveyed this girl with approval. He saw now that the usualness of her healthy, ordinary, prettiness was belied by the intelligence of the blue eyes. He said, after a pause:
‘And this party? Everyone under this roof?’
‘Knows as much as I do.’
‘Which is?’
Miss Brocklebank fixed her blue gaze upon her questioner. She said:
‘That you think Bronson wasn’t guilty after all and that because you think so you’ve come down here to try and find some new evidence which’ll save him.’
Anthony considered this. ‘I see. And what’s the prevailing attitude?’
Miss Brocklebank hesitated; thought deeply; said at last:
‘It’s not evenly divided …’ she hesitated again.
Anthony, watching her, laughed. ‘You mean that ninety-nine point five per cent say I’m crazy; and I expect some of ’em would add—Captain Crimson Lake for instance—that if I’m not crazy I’m a-hunger for publicity …’
Miss Brocklebank flushed. ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ she said. ‘Fatheads!’
‘Lake now,’ said Anthony; ‘Lake interests me. People who dislike me always seem so much more interesting than the others, especially when they say so without being properly introduced. I could, you know, bear to know a whole lot more about Lake.’
Miss Brocklebank pulled down the corners of the mouth which was not insipid after all. She said:
‘He doesn’t belong. He comes here in the hunting season … for the hunting and … and …’
‘And Mrs Carter-Fawcett,’ said Anthony.
She nodded.
‘And he never comes during the non-hunting seasons?’
She lifted white shoulders. ‘Not unless She’s here. And that’s not often except during the hunting.’
‘And our Crimson friend,’ Anthony asked, ‘he stays …’
‘At Weydings … that’s her house. Lovely place, about four miles from here.’
‘Many … er … other guests?’
‘House,’ said Miss Brocklebank, ‘is always full. Not that that means anything … unless it makes it worse. There’s always a platoon or so of the Lost Legion there … Miaou-miaou!’
‘Cats,’ said Anthony, ‘are truthful beasts more often than not. What’s Lake’s rank in the Legion?’
Miss Brocklebank pursed her lips. ‘I can only talk from hearsay, and what I’ve happened to see … I should say he’s fairly high up. Sort of favourite Lieutenant who knows he’s all right so long as he doesn’t object when someone else is temporarily on duty.’
Anthony looked at her. A little smile twisted his mouth. ‘You don’t like the lady, do you?’
The girl flushed hotly. ‘I do not! Shouldn’t like myself if I did. I know it’s the 20th century and all that rot—but there must be a limit. At least, I think so. And so does Daddy. He’s the only one, though, that lives up to what he thinks. All the others kow-tow to her with one hand and backbite her with the other. I say they’re as bad as she is. Worse. She has got the courage …’
‘Of her predilections,’ finished Anthony. ‘Quite. But that’s fairly easy when there’s all that money. Yes … This Legion now, any others here tonight?’
Miss Brocklebank shook her head. ‘Not to speak of. Two recruits. Jack Borstowe and another boy.’ Miss Brocklebank allowed a small but heavy sigh to escape her; then angrily bit her lip. She said, in a tone exaggeratedly level: ‘Pity about Jack. He was a nice boy. He is still. But he won’t be long, if he ever gets out of the Recruit class … I say!’
‘Yes?’ said Anthony.
‘You said, at the beginning of this conversation, that you wanted to know a lot about Captain Lake …’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony.
‘And we’ve really been spending all our time on That Woman …’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony.
‘Oh!’ said Miss Brocklebank. ‘Was it Her you really wanted to know about?’
Anthony got suddenly to his feet. He smiled. He said vaguely:
‘Yes and no. In a way … I’m going to be very rude. I’m going to ask you to give up the rest—or almost all of it—of this party to me. Will you? I should be very …’
Miss Brocklebank interrupted. ‘Can,’ she said, ‘a duck swim?… Of course I will, Colonel Gethryn.’ She looked up at him with her blue eyes shining.
‘Don’t,’ said Anthony. ‘Please don’t. Anything but “Colonel”. I never could bear it. And in this atmosphere it’s worse than ever. The place is alive with the things.’
The girl laughed. ‘It is, isn’t it? They’re all soldiers …’
‘I …’ began Anthony. And then stopped. His mouth closed. His whole body stiffened. His eyes became slits, the frown between them carving deep creases between his brows. He said beneath his breath, ‘Good Lord!’
Miss Brocklebank regarded him. ‘Forgotten something?’ she said.
He shook his head. He laughed, and that sudden alertness, like the sudden alertness of a pointer, went from him. He said:
‘No. Rather the other way. Perhaps … Miss Brocklebank, give further proof of your angelity. Stay here while, for a moment, I go and speak to my wife.’
‘Right.’ Miss Brocklebank smiled serenely. ‘I always said,’ she murmured, ‘that I’d make a Watson.’
‘Watson,’ said Anthony, ‘nothing! You’re the answer to the Detective’s Prayer!’ He was gone, his long stride, with its seeming laziness, taking him down the corridor and round its corner, out of the girl’s sight, quicker than she would have thought possible.
Anthony was in luck. Turning into the hall, he came face to face with his wife, and his wife at the one moment, between partners, when she was alone. The hall was full; the music had just stopped, and stopped for a real interval while the band might drink. The dancers were making, in eddying blocks, for the buffet in the library. Lucia said:
‘So you are still here. I thought …’
Anthony took her by the arm. He steered a way for her through the press. Back to the ballroom he went. He said:
‘We’ll be alone here. Only got a moment, dear. Want to tell you: keep one of those eyes of yours on someone for me. The Carter-Fawcett woman. Let the other eye go everywhere, but one on her all the time. And pick up anything you can about her, too.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said his wife. ‘Why?’
‘No time now. Just for oddity generally. Look out for anything unusual. She’s sure to give you something to tell me about, whether it’s what I want or not … G’bye!’
Lucia watched his back as he made swift, easy way across the hall again. She was still looking, though the back had gone, when a voice came in her ear; the voice of her next partner.
And down the western corridor, Anthony sat again to face Peggy Brocklebank. He said:
‘Now. Ready for questions. Lots of ’em? About lots of people?’
She nodded eagerly.
It was at about the time when Anthony’s first of this second batch of questions was being announced—or perhaps a little earlier—that there entered the Saloon Bar of The Horse and Hound, from the interior and not the street door, Mr Walter Flood.
There were two other men in this bar; Mr Dollboys, quiet and self-contained on the settee which was drawn, cornerwise, close to the glowing fire in the brick fireplace; and, at the other side of the fire a man, erect upon a small chair, who was hidden by the evening paper which he read.
Mr Flood sauntered to the bar and stood leaning, not without grace, upon it. His ruddy face shone with health; his fair hair was sleek and gleaming. His tie was very beautiful and the jacket of his plus-four suit a quiet advertisement for his tailor.
Mr Flood ordered a brandy and soda. Mr Dollboys stared at him. Mr Flood, glass in hand, turned from the bar towards the fire; became suddenly aware of Mr Dollboys’ presence; smiled genially; wished Mr Dollboys good evening.
Mr Dollboys was amicable. He returned almost heartily Mr Flood’s greeting. He said, after this:
‘Pleasant t’see a friendly face.’ His speech was a little blurred; ever so slightly thickened at its edges; his words showed a tendency to run one into the other. He glared over his glass at the other man, still behind his barrier of paper. ‘Some folks,’ said Mr Dollboys, ‘can only just bring ’emselves to pass the time o’ day. An’ after that … well, that’s where their speakin’s finished.’ From Mr Dollboys’ face, which was pale beneath its tan, his small eyes glittered balefully.
‘Join me?’ said Flood. His tone was soothing. He held up his glass.
‘Don’ …’ said the other, ‘don’ … mine if I do!’ He rose to his feet and walked, with a rather solemn care, to the bar counter. Flood joined him. He studied Mr Dollboys. He came easily to the conclusion that Dyson was right. The man was scared. Or had been scared … Well, he was about to be scared still further. He looked actually smaller; there were pinched lines about the corners of his mouth. And the eyes—bright with the glaze of alcohol—would not be still. Flood remembered their steadiness of the early afternoon. Now they darted quick, furtive glances this way and that.
‘What is it?’ said Flood blandly.
‘Whis … whisky.’ The man pushed his glass towards the barmaid with fingers which shook. He watched, with the painful concentration of the unsober, while the girl held his glass beneath the tapped bottle. Behind his back Flood cast a glance back at the bar’s other occupant. Who now put down for a moment the paper from before the face of Pike, and held up a hand with all five fingers out-stretched. So Dollboys was on his fifth double since Pike’s entrance an hour before. And there must have been some before that … Flood turned back to his guest; in his wide blue gaze there was something like admiration.
To Dollboys’ owlish salutation he raised his own glass. He was very affable. He said:
‘Good luck! And I hope our little deal this afternoon may bring you a slice. What?’
Mr Dollboys did not like this. Mr Dollboys put an unsteady finger to his mouth. He said:
‘Ssh! Ssh! No talk o’ that.’ His voice was a hoarse and penetrating rumble. ‘Not here, mister. No bus … bus’ness here. No.’
‘Sorry indeed,’ said Flood. His round face wore a look of solicitous concern.
‘Comansiddown!’ said Mr Dollboys, still in his penetrating whisper. He fastened fingers to Flood’s coat sleeve and led him, slowly but with commendable accuracy, to the settee. He let go the sleeve and sat heavily. Some of the whisky slopped out of his glass and splashed down over his waistcoat. He rubbed at it with an uncertain palm. He sat straighter, suddenly, and seemed to take a grip upon himself. Flood marvelled, for when the whisper came again much of the slurring and thickness had gone from it. It said:
‘After you’d gone s’afternoon, mister … that other cove turned up … the one you bade me keep eye open for …’ Once more the fingers of Mr Dollboys fastened themselves upon Flood’s coat-sleeve. ‘Jest ’s you said, mister …’
‘Shame,’ said Flood indignantly. ‘That fellow Marable’s a public nuisance. If I had my way, I’d have him locked up. Can’t stand the creeping hound!’
Mr Dollboys almost smiled. ‘Thass right!’ he said. He nodded and forgot for nearly a minute to stop nodding. ‘Thass right!’ he said. The hand which had been gripping Flood’s coat sleeve turned into a patting hand.
Flood bore the caress with fortitude, as also the blasts of stale spirit which were wafted from Mr Dollboys. He knew there was not long to endure.
There was not. Before Mr Dollboys could speak again, the door from the hotel passage swung open. Dyson came in with a rush. And Dyson said to Flood, in a voice which might have been heard for a hundred yards:
‘There you are, Flood! Been looking all over for you. They’ve lighted a fire in our sitting-room. C’mon up!’
Mr Dollboys had his back to the newcomer. But at the sound of the voice he started violently. More whisky splashed down upon his clothes. His face became, instantly, of a palish, slatey-grey colour. He began slowly to turn in his seat. It was as if a magnet which he resisted were pulling him.
But his turning did not prevent him from seeing the actions of Flood, who sat beside him but leaning in the angle of the settee so that almost directly he faced the newcomer. And Flood was making frantic, and patently would-be secret, signs to the newcomer. Signs which meant ‘Go away! Go away!… Before he sees you!’
And Mr Dollboys, having taken this in, finished his turning. And he saw his long, thin, disturbing visitor of the earlier evening. Who stared at him, gaped, muttered ‘Good God!’ darted a glance of apology at the man beside Mr Dollboys, and fled.
The glass fell from Mr Dollboys’ hand and smashed into many pieces upon the brick floor. It lay like a ruined star at his feet.
Flood jumped up. He looked at Mr Dollboys.
Mr Dollboys rose. He stood like a sober man. He was, very nearly, a sober man. And the grey of his face was like ashes. He said:
‘You … you … you and him!’
Flood shrugged. Flood smiled. Not a pleasant smile. Flood walked to the door and passed out. The door banged behind him. Over the bar looked the puzzled, broad, big-eyed barmaid. She gazed at Mr Dollboys, with unwinking eyes, like a cow.
Mr Dollboys put a hand to his head. He looked once, across at the chair upon the far side of the fireplace. But still he only saw the evening paper.
Mr Dollboys made for the door. He looked like a man who wishes to run but dares not.
‘I say!’ said the barmaid. ‘Thet glass!’ She pointed accusingly to the smashed and wetly glittering star upon the red floor.
Mr Dollboys put a hand into his pocket and threw a florin upon the counter …
The street door swung to behind Mr Dollboys.
The inner door opened again. Flood came in, cautiously, Dyson behind him.
Pike threw down his paper and rose. They went up to him. Flood said something.
‘Scared?’ said Pike, ‘Frightened stiff. More ’n that, frightened sober!’ He pulled a cap from his pocket, clapped it on his head and went out, but not by the street door.
‘Have a snifter?’ said Dyson.
Flood nodded.
While they were drinking there came the sound of a car starting, a nerve-racking grinding of gears, a spluttering engine … and then a chug-chug which died rapidly away.
Dyson grinned over his glass. He said:
‘We’ll both call in the morning. Together. He’ll be easy.’
‘Clay,’ said Flood, ‘under potter’s thumbs. Wonder what we’ll squeeze out, though … Chin-chin!’
‘Chin-chin!’ said Dyson.
Colonel Brownlough’s ‘little tamasha’ was drawing towards its end. Guests had gone; guests were going. Dance-music spasmodically continued, but only six or seven couples danced. The hall was full of overcoated men and cloaked women. From the darkness without came muffled sounds of motor-engines racing to achieve warmth. The buffet held still a few adherents, now exclusively male.
Into the hall, from the western corridor, came Anthony and his partner. To meet them strode a tall, stooping man of sixty with white hair and imperial. From under pleasantly incongruous black brows a pair of bright brown eyes looked youthfully out. Miss Brocklebank introduced her father and her partner.
‘And, Daddy,’ she said, ‘we mustn’t call him “Colonel”. He doesn’t like it.’
‘I never,’ said Sir Richard Brocklebank, ‘call anybody Colonel—if I can help it … How d’ye do, sir.’ He held out a hand. Long, slim fingers gripped Anthony’s with quite astonishing power. The brown eyes twinkled. Anthony said:
‘I’ve a lot to thank you for, sir …’
The black brows were raised; beneath them the young eyes twinkled. ‘Thank me? How’s that?’
‘For your daugher’s intelligence and kindness,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ve thanked her. Or tried to.’
Sir Richard turned his bright gaze upon his daughter. ‘Intelligent?’ he said. ‘And kind?… What have you been up to, Peggy?’
Miss Brocklebank cast a look about her. She said, in a lowered voice:
‘I’ve been a Watson. At last!’
Anthony shook his head. He looked at Miss Brocklebank’s father. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘is self-libel. Watson asked idiot questions and got no answers. I’ve asked difficult questions and received more than adequate answers.’
‘Watson,’ said Miss Brocklebank, ‘never knew what Holmes was driving at. I didn’t know what you were driving at. I am, therefore, Watson.’
‘Holmes,’ said Anthony, ‘always knew his own mind. I hardly ever do. Tonight I certainly don’t. As I didn’t know what I was driving at myself, you couldn’t have done so. Ergo, you are no Watson. Bad logic but as good as yours. Anyhow, again thank you.’
Sir Richard Brocklebank looked at his watch. His daughter said:
‘All right, Daddy. I’m coming.’ She turned to Anthony and held out her hand. ‘Good night,’ she said.
Anthony shook it. Before he had spoken there came a sudden, angry exclamation from Brocklebank père, and, atop of it, a sudden flurry and a shock. A man’s shoulder, hard and heavy, caught Anthony. He swayed but did not stagger. Behind him a deep, harsh voice growled:
‘Sorry. Clumsy.’ It did not seem by its tone to be altogether applying the second word to its owner. Anthony turned. Captain Lake was facing Sir Richard. As Anthony saw him, he was stepping aside to pass Sir Richard, and saying as he stepped:
‘Excuse me, sir …’
‘Why?’ said the old man. His brown eye had now a reddish tinge to its glitter.
Anthony, turning back to speak with Miss Margaret Brocklebank, seemed suddenly to stumble. He recovered, but in recovery took three backward steps. And the last of these brought his heel down, with force, upon the toes of Captain Lake.
Anthony turned again. He said:
‘Sorry. Very clumsy!’
There came a choking sound, immediately repressed, from Miss Brocklebank, and the neat beard of her father twitched as his thin lips curled to a smile undisguised.
Lake and Anthony faced each other. Lake’s dark face was darker, with a dull, ugly flush beneath its tan. The full lips of his brutal mouth had almost disappeared. His black eyes were slits. His big hands were fists at his sides.
The Brocklebanks watched. The father’s white head was to one side; the little smile still curved his mouth, his bright eyes darted their curiously eager glance from one man to the other and back again. The girl was white, and her breath came fast. Her eyes, after one furious glare at Lake, fixed their gaze upon Anthony.
Anthony’s hands were in his pockets. His green eyes, steady upon those slitted black ones, were lazy-seeming but with something very different from laziness somewhere behind them.
There was no movement in the group for a half-minute which seemed many minutes. And then Sir Richard Brocklebank sighed, groped for his cigarette-case and said:
‘Tableau. Very interesting indeed.’
Lake, with the ghost of a movement, instantly repressed, towards Anthony, muttered something, turned on his heel and flung off.
They watched him; saw that, with little care for the manner or manners of his progress, he turned in at the library door; the door through which there still came the clinking of glass and the deep buzz of masculine gossiping.
‘It wasn’t,’ said Anthony, ‘me who stole his marbles. But he seems to think so. Wonder why?’ He still gazed out across the hall.
‘The thing,’ said Sir Richard, ‘is a nasty thing. It probably has no reason for its action, beyond Brownlough’s champagne …’
‘Beast!’ said Miss Brocklebank with conviction. ‘Good night. Colonel Gethryn … Oh! I’m sorry.’
‘Good night again,’ said Sir Richard. ‘And, if you will, come and see us. Any time. Stoke House. Not four miles from Farrow. Take the Malling road.’
They went. Anthony stood where he was. He looked about him for a sign of Lucia, and found none. He glanced at his watch. One-fifteen. He walked towards the library door. As he reached it there came a touch upon his shoulder, and a male voice which said his name. He turned to see a man taller than himself and of much the same age. An erect man, of the best type of military good looks—the County’s Chief Constable.
‘It is Gethryn, isn’t it?’ said the pleasant, decisive voice.
Anthony held out his hand. ‘It is. And you’re Ravenscourt.’ His hand was shaken. Ravenscourt said:
‘I’ve been dancing with your wife. I said I wanted to meet you. She told me to seek you out.’
‘Did she say,’ said Anthony, ‘that I wanted to meet you? And badly wanted? Because I did and do.’
Ravenscourt smiled. ‘You have. Let’s go and find a drink. Old Brownlough’s got a good brandy there.’
They went into the room and up to the buffet, whose attendance was now reduced. The extra waiters had gone; behind the long table was now only the ex-soldier-servant of the host. In the middle of the group nearest to where they took their stand was Lake. Anthony eyed him. But Captain Lake was at last showing discretion. He did not see Anthony; most broadly he did not see Anthony.
Ravenscourt ordered drinks, for himself liqueur brandy, for Anthony a brandy-and-soda. He took the two glasses when they came and bore them to a table in the room’s far corner. He said:
‘May as well sit down … Good health!’
Anthony raised his glass. When he had drunk, he said:
‘I want to get straight with you, Ravenscourt. I won’t waste time. You’ve heard what I’m at down here.’
Ravenscourt nodded his fair head. ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. His voice had changed. Now it was a non-committal, official voice. Anthony looked at him. Anthony said:
‘If I want it, do I get any help from you? Officially, of course, I can’t; for officially Bronson’s as dead as he may be on Tuesday morning. But do I, unofficially?’
Ravenscourt raised his eyes from the finger-nails he had been studying. There was a pause. He said at last:
‘I don’t know. Damned if I do. Ever since this evening, when I heard about what you were trying to do, I’ve been wondering how I’d answer if you asked me just the question you have asked me.’ He cupped his glass in both hands and began slowly to roll it, watching intently while the oil of the brandy left its aromatic trail higher and even higher. He was silent; he waited for Anthony to speak but Anthony did not. So himself he spoke again. He said:
‘It’s like this, Gethryn. Here’s a perfectly straightforward case, on which I and my fellows ’ve done a neat, straightforward job. A man’s killed and we find the man who’s killed him. And that man’s tried before every court; given every possible chance of proving his innocence; but he can’t do it; he’s convicted by three courts and a coroner’s jury, and our case—the Police case—isn’t shaken at any point whatsoever. And then, months later, you come along—a private individual—and say you “don’t think Bronson’s guilty” and ask whether I’ll use—because this is what it comes to—whether I’ll use my official knowledge or status or both to help you … I don’t know what to say, Gethryn, and that’s a fact. If it wasn’t you … I mean if I were asked what you’ve asked me by just an ordinary person, I tell you frankly my answer ’d be a polite version of go-to-the-devil. But it is you who’s asking—and you are a man who’s pulled off some extraordinary bits of detective work. So I can’t count you as “just an ordinary person” … But, and it’s a big one, I’m dead, cold, utterly certain you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong. After all, I was on the spot, I know more of the leading characters than you do, I did the work or directed it, I know … D’you follow me?’
Anthony nodded. ‘With ease. And you’re quite right, y’know … except for one thing, and that is that you’re quite wrong. No; let me finish. I mean you’re wrong at the start. Bronson isn’t guilty. I started this business making myself—forcing myself—to adopt that as a creed, because if I hadn’t I shouldn’t have been able to start. But now I have started, and more than started, I’m getting somewhere. And I know now that the hypothesis of Bronson’s innocence was right. I don’t have to make myself believe now; there’s no need.’
Ravenscourt’s rather cold blue eyes were alight now with interest. He said:
‘You say you’ve got somewhere …’
Anthony interrupted. ‘Yes. But where it is God knows. I don’t. What I do know is that there’re so many oddnesses about that there must be something behind ’em. Follow?’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Can’t be more than a certain amount of smoke without a fire.’
‘Exactly. There’s a fire all right. And I’ve got to find it. And I’ve only a limited time—very limited, by God!—to find it in. It’s that time-limit that forces me to ask considerable things of people that in other circumstances I would barely beg a match from …’
He was interrupted. Suddenly Ravenscourt threw back his head and laughed. An infectious sound. He said:
‘All right; don’t rub it in.’ He went on laughing.
Anthony grinned. ‘Sorry. But I’m not mincing words. And I wasn’t necessarily referring to you, you know …’
‘And that’s another!’ said Ravenscourt. Then his tone changed. Laughter faded from his voice and face and eyes. He said: ‘Look here, Gethryn! Will you swear to me that you’re in earnest; that you know you’re not deluding yourself; that you have real and solid reason for believing that, in spite of all appearances, Bronson was not the murderer of Blackatter; that if I put aside my natural feelings and prejudices and promise to give you within reason any help I can, you have hope of saving Bronson?’
Anthony looked at him; across the little table the blue eyes and the green held each other. Slowly, Anthony nodded. He said:
‘See it wet, see it dry! I give you my word.’
Ravenscourt swallowed the remains of his brandy. He got to his feet. He leaned his knuckles on the table and looked down at Anthony. He said:
‘Right. Call on me when you want me. Sooner, if you like; because I’ve got to admit that I’m interested. Though, believe me, entirely unconvinced.’
Anthony got up. He held out his hand and the other took it. Anthony said:
‘Thank you. And suppose we meet tomorrow, if you can.’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes. Morning. Come and see me. No; that won’t do, because you must want all the time you’ve got and then some more. I’ll come and see you. You’re at Bronson’s pub, aren’t you? S’pose I come there about ten?’
‘Ten it shall be,’ said Anthony. ‘And thanks again.’ He watched while Ravenscourt strode away to the door, a wide-shouldered, graceful figure with decision in its every movement, its fair head held like a boy’s.
Anthony, standing, finished his brandy-and-soda. He looked at his watch. At it he raised his eyebrows. He set down his glass and made for the door.
In the hall he found Lucia, and to her hurried. She said:
‘No, I haven’t been waiting. I’ve just come. We ought to go, oughtn’t we? Did Colonel Ravenscourt find you?’
‘Good. Yes. He did, thank you,’ said Anthony. ‘Where’s the host?’
Lucia shrugged white shoulders. ‘No idea. Other people ’ve been looking for him … I’m going to get my things, dear.’
Anthony looked after her. She had been very quiet; quite properly tired seeming and just a little bored. But he knew this woman. Something there was up the sleeve she had not got. There had been about her a certain suppressed excitement, concealed so cleverly that certainly no one else in the world would have seen it. He said to himself:
‘She’s got something, bless her!’
He went in search of hat and coat. He was back in the hall with these before Lucia had emerged. The big doors were open now, and a cold night breeze was playing havoc with tobacco-fumes and jaded air. The ballroom was dark and empty and quiet; and the library lights went out, one by one, until only a single centre lamp was burning. By the open doors there now stood Colonel Brownlough and with him a group. A male group, Anthony saw, posed about the central figure of Mrs Carter-Fawcett. He looked in vain for the burliness of Captain Lake. He stood, hat in hand, waiting for Lucia.
But he was not to wait unheeded. From the fringes of that group, his host detached himself. To Anthony he came hurrying and seized an arm of Anthony. He sprayed Anthony with speech; speech, gathered Anthony, indicative of Mrs Carter-Fawcett’s desire that Colonel Gethryn should be presented to her.
‘Well, well!’ said Anthony. He suffered that hand upon his arm to lead him across to the group.
In the hoarsest of whispers Colonel Brownlough spoke on the journey. ‘Charmin’ woman!’ he said. ‘Wonderful woman. You’ll be glad to’ve met her, Gethryn. Unique woman …’
A segment of the group, most reluctant, made way for them.
‘Here he is, my dear lady. I have him!’ Colonel Brownlough was heavily facetious. It did not suit him. And his voice, thought Anthony, had changed most unpleasingly. Gone its martial throatiness, its full-blooded, vintage-port, be-damned-to-you-damn-you rattle; it was, when its owner addressed the woman, an unctuous and discordant cooing.
‘She’s got something, bless her!’
Anthony, straightening after his bow, looked into the odd eyes of Mrs Carter-Fawcett. They were cold; but with the sort of coldness which may easily become a ravenous flame. She looked tired. She also looked, thought Anthony, a good four years older than she had as many hours ago. She said, in an insolent and deep and rather beautiful voice:
‘You’re not the Gethryn that won the Grand Military on Firespring last year.’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Alas, no. A cousin. A young cousin.’
‘Ah,’ said the lady, ‘thought you weren’t. Pity. Like to meet that boy. He can ride.’
‘After a fashion,’ said Anthony, ‘yes.’ He was very much at his ease; perhaps a shade more than good manners would usually have allowed.
The slanting eyes opened widely for a second. They surveyed him; their coldness blazed for a moment into iced fire; but instantly they were veiled again. She put up a hand to the crimson mouth and yawned behind five fingers whose two rings were worth a fortune not so small. She turned a shoulder to Anthony. To the youth who was next to her she murmured:
‘You drive, Jack. I’m sleepy.’
The boy crimsoned with pleasure. The group broke; drifted down the steps and out into the darkness. By the doors Anthony was left with his host. A voice, her voice, drifted up to them:
‘Thanks for the party, Brownie. Not so bad.’
Colonel Brownlough waved his hand. He turned then to Anthony. He seemed to find some difficulty in finding words. And his eyes did not meet Anthony’s. He was saved by Lucia’s arrival.
They got away from him quickly. He stood at the head of his steps as their shoes began to crunch on gravel and he waved. But he was not waving to them. Lucia glanced back at him. She saw his strong figure silhouetted against the lights of his hall. There was a droop to it now. She said:
‘Is he rather pathetic? Or not? P’r’aps not.’
Anthony found his car. From just before it, two others started, viciously. A spurt of gravel thrown up by the off back-tyre of the nearest car stung his cheek. He swore beneath his breath.
‘That’s a pig in that Bentley!’ Lucia said.
‘Or sow,’ said her husband. ‘Hop in!’
Neither spoke again until the car was out of the drive and fairly upon their homeward road. Anthony drove slowly—a rare thing, a phenomenon. The speedometer needle pointed to twenty-five—figures it had, perhaps, never seen before save in passing. Anthony said:
‘And now!… Shoot, Pinkerton!’
‘Beast!’ said Lucia. ‘How did you know?’
‘Your face told me. What was it, darling?’
‘The Carter-Whatsit woman. I kept that eye on her. But it wasn’t the eye that gave me the only oddity I’ve got to tell you about. It was both ears. And—I’ve got to confess it—utterly by accident. I was sitting out in that conservatory. A very nice boy. He wanted to hold my hand. I let him. He did it very firmly. Sweet. And then I was thirsty and rather than lose seclusion he darted to fetch me a drink. I stayed. I was glad to. He was quite a long time gone, which was a good thing. It was terribly hot in that place and when we first went in he’d opened a window for me—a transom thing. I was sitting right underneath it. I was wondering how much longer that drink was going to be, when I heard—just like George Robey—“footsteps upon the gravel outside”. Two pairs. And they stopped just outside my little window. And a woman spoke. I very nearly squeaked, because it was the Carter-Fawcett female. There’s no mistaking that croaking, rather attractive voice. The man’s I didn’t get a chance of recognising for the simple reason that I never heard it. Two growls were all that came from him; they were just human enough and male enough to make me know it was a man; but otherwise …’ She broke off; she half-turned in her seat and looked at her husband with wide eyes. ‘Dear,’ she said, ‘I … it’s rather awful … now I’ve got to the point of telling you, I feel it’s really all nothing … I mean it may all have been about something else and I may’ve been working myself up for no reason at all … and you … What are you doing?’
Anthony was drawing the car in to the side of the road. It came gently to a standstill. He switched off the headlights, but left the engine running; it purred softly in the chill, bright darkness. He turned in his seat now; his hands came up and each gripped an arm of his wife. He said:
‘You tell now; or there’ll be trouble.’
She laughed a little. ‘Well … what she said first was: “It doesn’t matter what you say, I know there was something!” … That’s practically word for word. I know it’s the sort of thing that men and women say to each other, all over the world, at the rate of about a thousand a minute; and I know it’s said, equally, about tiny things, and middle-sized things and very, very important things. But the way this was said, and the person it was said by, made me know at once—absolutely know—that whatever it was was an important thing; something vital … And then there was a sort of growling “Ssh!” from the man … And then she said: “It’s all right, there’s no one about … Why won’t you tell me? let me help you; I probably could” … And then another sh’shing growl from the man, and another sort of impatient noise from her; and she said: “All right, damn you, if you won’t tell! But don’t make me sick by saying there’s nothing! And don’t deny this man’s coming hasn’t upset you; because I know better …” They walked off after that; I heard their feet on the gravel. They went round, past the conservatory, to the left … And that … that’s all.’
She fell silent; her dark eyes searched her husband’s face in the faint light cast by the little lamp upon the dashboard; but she could not read the face, except to half-see, half-guess, that it was set in lines she knew, with the jaw muscles standing out beneath the skin and the deep V of a frown between the eyes.
Anthony was silent too. Very silent. He sat motionless. At last, still without speaking, he switched on the headlights again. With a muffled throbbing the car moved forward. And now it did not move slowly; it was travelling on its fourth gear within a hundred yards; the needle on the speedometer dial quivered and began to race round the last segment of its glowing circle.
They were almost home before Lucia spoke. She said, raising her voice to carry above the engine’s humming roar:
‘I wasn’t a fool, then? To be excited, I mean.’ She saw a little smile twist down the corner of Anthony’s mouth. He said:
‘You know you weren’t … I’m thinking … We’ll talk when we get in.’
And in very soon they were. The car in its garage, they stamped cold-footed way across the cobbled yard and so into the warmth of The Horse and Hound. Anthony’s watch showed the time as one-fifty.
In the Smoking Room, beside a fire of magnificence, were Dyson and Flood. They rose. Flood in graceful hurry took Lucia’s cloak; set for her, facing the fire, a chair. Dyson looked on. He said to Anthony:
‘Have a drink? Cold outside.’ His head darted out like a bird’s from between his lean, stooping shoulders; it pointed with its beak to a small table upon which were glasses and a whisky-bottle.
Anthony nodded. ‘Thanks. Where’s Pike?’ He crossed to the table and poured whisky; he looked across at his wife. She smiled, shaking her head. Dyson said:
‘PC Pike’s on his beat. Where that is, God knows.’
‘He rushed off,’ said Flood, ‘just as soon as comrade Dollboys had gone.’
Anthony set down his glass. ‘About Dollboys now? What happened?’
Flood smiled; not without complacence. His round, fresh face seemed rounder and fresher. He smoothed his sleek, fair hair. He said:
‘We frightened him according to plan. I might say I’ve never seen a man more scared.’
‘Tornado,’ said Dyson round his pipe, ‘vertical!’
‘Absolutely!’ Flood beamed. ‘It went off very well, I think. Eh, Mogul? I met him in the bar. I was pleased to see him. He was delighted to see me. He was a bit on; he told me the terrible sleuth-hound reporter I’d warned him against had turned up. He didn’t like him; not at all!… And just then in pops Dyson; it turns out, most convincing, that he and I are really thick as thieves. Comrade Dollboys got the shock of his life. It actually sobered him … And he buzzed off, scared as a hare in the Waterloo Cup …’
‘We know now,’ Dyson said. ‘Bloke was so scared there must be something to him … Collusion between two press men wouldn’t blister him all that much if there’s nothing to him.’ He dropped his dishevelled lankiness into his chair on the last word; it seemed that the length of his last sentence had exhausted him.
Anthony, an arm upon the mantel and a foot upon the fender, stared into the fire’s crimson heart. Flood said, looking at him:
‘And you, sir? Find anything?’
Anthony straightened himself. He turned to face them.
‘Nothing so definite,’ he said, ‘as Dollboys … But I wouldn’t say we found nothing. No …’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lucia from her chair, ‘too much …’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Couldn’t do that. But nothing’—he looked at Dyson and then at Flood—‘we found was positive. Nor negative … Just oddity. I said I was looking for oddity. And I found it. Too much of it for my mental digestion.’
‘Atmosphere only?’ Dyson asked. The words came from his mouth like reluctant bullets.
‘Not only. As my wife would tell you. But won’t, because I’ll ask her not to. Not just yet. No good talking until I’ve got a bit straighter … But I’ve got jobs for you tomorrow …’
Dyson sat up with a jerk. ‘Tomorrow? What about Dollboys?’
‘After Dollboys,’ said Anthony. ‘We’re coming into the open with Dollboys tomorrow. Early, you and Flood and I interview Mr Dollboys. And what you’ve begun with Dollboys I’ll finish. You two’ll be free as soon as Dollboys and I’ve begun our chat.’
Dyson squirmed in his chair. Behind his glasses his eyes were tight shut. His lank black hair seemed more than ever like a disorderly and badly-attached wig. His thin-lipped mouth opened as if he were about to speak. But he shut it again before sound had escaped him. At him Flood gazed with a smile which grew into the widest of grins. Still grinning he looked at Anthony and winked. He said, in a stage-whisper:
‘He’s not used to it.’
Dyson opened his eyes. They blazed at his friend.
‘Shut y’r mouth!’ said Dyson.
Anthony looked down at him. ‘Dyson,’ he said, ‘I’m running this business. Possibly you’d run it better. Only it’s no use running at all if we don’t run one way.’ His voice was very pleasant.
Dyson shut his eyes again. His mouth emitted a sound which may have been the word ‘Quite!’
Lucia did not allow the silence which followed to remain.
‘Wherever,’ she said, ‘is Mr Pike?’
Flood shrugged. Dyson made no reply of voice or gesture.
‘I can guess,’ said Anthony. ‘No; I won’t say. I might be wrong, you know.’
Lucia glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece. ‘It’s so late,’ she said.
The clock struck the quarter-hour past two. And on the last of its strokes the door opened.
Pike came in. He wore no overcoat, but the collar of his tweed jacket was upturned. At sight of Lucia, who smiled at him, he snatched from his head the cap which had been pulled down almost over his eyes. Despite the cold of the outer night his face was flushed beneath its tan, and there was a gleam of sweat upon his forehead. His boots looked sodden; and to the tweed trousers there stuck blades of grass, a burr or two, and traces of mouldering leaves.
Dyson opened his eyes, squirmed round in his chair, said ‘Enter bit of Big Four!’ and closed his eyes again. Pike, fumbling at his collar to turn it down, came near to the fire. To Lucia he made a slight, stiff, pleasing little bow. He said, looking at Anthony:
‘’Fraid I’m a bit late, sir. I’ve been with that Dollboys, only he didn’t know.’ He chuckled a little. ‘These two’—a little circular movement of his head indicated Flood and Dyson—‘frightened him so much, I thought he’d be none the worse with an eye on him, as you might say.’
Dyson snorted. ‘He’s not suicidal. Wrong sort of guts, if any.’
Flood nodded.
Pike gazed from one to the other of them something in the manner of a parent proud yet irritated by precociousness in offspring. He said drily:
‘Maybe. Or maybe not. But he is the sort that might do a bolt. Quite easy too. And s’pose he’d flitted tonight, where’d we have been? It would’ve made us surer still that he knew something, but it also might’ve made us too late finding out what it was that he knew … This isn’t any ordin’ry case; we’re up against time, time, time!… And I didn’t want what you two had started—and none so badly either—spoiled for a ha’porth o’ tar.’
Dyson grunted. But Flood said:
‘Believe you’re right, Lestrade.’
‘Entirely right,’ Anthony said. ‘Good work, Pike. And Dollboys is all right till the morning, is he?’
Pike nodded. He looked down, rather ruefully, at a rent in his jacket. ‘I’ve been atop of a shed he’s got there next his house. I could see right into his bedroom. He took a long time getting to bed, but he’s there OK …’ He broke off to stare at Flood, who was looking at him speculatively; he returned the look. His tone changed to one of cheerful truculence. ‘What’s up with you?’ he said.
‘I was wondering’—Flood was bland but curious—‘exactly how you got to Dollboys’ house. And back.’
Pike smiled; a grim, small smile with triumph somewhere within it. He said:
‘I walked back. That’s why I’m late. I went there by motor-car. Dollboys’s motor-car. I was in the dickey, though he didn’t know that. I shut the top behind me. You see, Mr Flood, they do teach us just one or two things in the Police. And one of ’em’s to think quick. And another’s to take a chance … Thank you, sir.’ This as he took the proffered tumbler from Anthony’s hand.
Dyson’s voice came again. It said:
‘This other job for the morning, after Dollboys? …’
Anthony turned. ‘Yes. One, for you or Flood or both, according to what the morning brings, is to rout out everything you can about a woman. Decent reticence to be jettisoned …’
‘Haven’t got any,’ said Dyson.
‘Mine sloughs,’ said Flood.
Anthony smiled. ‘The name,’ he said, ‘is Carter-Fawcett.’
Dyson opened his eyes. Flood whistled. Anthony surveyed them. He said:
‘Thought you’d know the sound. She’s news, I suppose?’
‘With two capital Ns.’ Flood had got to his feet. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s mixed up in this business?’
‘I don’t,’ said Anthony, ‘know myself what I mean to say. Except that I could bear to know about her.’
Dyson grinned. ‘Tall order. Don’t suppose she does herself. I’ll have a slap at it.’
‘Or,’ said Flood, ‘me.’ He looked at Anthony. ‘What’s the other job? Or jobs?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘That I’ll tell in the morning. I may change my mind about it—if I’ve got one to change … And now we’ll sleep. All of us. May not be much time for it soon.’
Lucia got to her feet. She was pale, though not with fatigue. Her eyes were enormous. She said:
‘I shan’t sleep. I’m too excited.’ She took a step towards her husband. Her hand came out and rested long, slender fingers upon his arm. ‘If …’ she began. She hesitated; tried again. ‘If this man Dollboys … if you see him in the morning and … won’t you be able to—to make him tell? And if he tells, isn’t it … well, over? I mean … oh! You know what I mean!’ Her voice broke a little on those last six words. Her fingers gripped at the arm they held. She looked up into her husband’s eyes. She had forgotten the other men.
Anthony smiled at her. ‘Of course I do. And you might—you may—be absolutely right, dear. But we daren’t count on that. That’s the obvious, easy solution. So obvious and easy that the chances are against its coming out that way. Never mind what they tell you, its not generally the obvious that happens in this sort of business. Especially in real life, which is very nearly always true to the canons of Wallace. Edgar, I mean.’ He turned to the three men. ‘Dollboys early,’ he said. ‘Before breakfast Dyson, Flood and myself’ll go down there. Six-thirty start. Dyson and Flood, we’ll fix up your other jobs definitely on the way. Pike, will you wait till I come back?’
He received three nods. Lucia, with an effort, smiled and said ‘Good night.’ She smiled once and spoke once; but somehow each of the three was sure that he, at least, had not been overlooked. She slipped a hand through her husband’s arm. Flood held the door for them.
At the head of the stairs, Anthony felt upon his upper arm a sudden, convulsive little squeeze. Lucia shrank against him. He looked down; she was pointing, her arm fully outstretched, at the door to the left of the stairhead. Beneath it showed a thin blade of yellow light.
In the semi-darkness Anthony nodded. He freed his arm and slipped it about soft shoulders. ‘I know,’ he said. But there’s nothing to do, except what we’re doing. And we’re getting on.’ The lighted room was the room of Selma Bronson.
They were in their own room before either spoke again. And again it was Lucia who broke silence. She sat, heavily, upon the bed’s edge. She said.
‘Think of it! Just think … I don’t suppose she’s slept for … even since the Appeal … Poor thing! Poor, poor thing!’ Her voice was dull and heavy. In her lap her hands twisted about each other.
‘Think,’ said Anthony, ‘of what I just said. We’ve done something. We’re doing something. We’ve done better, really, than we’d any right to expect. It won’t do us, or her, any good to get overwhelmed by pity.’ He put a hand beneath her chin and tilted up her face. He smiled down at her. ‘Don’t forget Dollboys,’ he said. ‘And what we’re going to find out tomorrow … today, really. We’re going to be a lot further on before we go to bed again. Dollboys, you know, is a gift from the gods. I don’t know what we’d do without our Dollboys. And that’s the truest thing I’ve said tonight. You get to bed and dream of Dollboys and what Dollboys will bring. He might even—I didn’t say it wasn’t a possibility—he might even give a complete solution. He might say: ‘That’s the man!’ and tell me X’s name … I’m afraid he won’t go quite as far as that, but he might. There’s no denying he might … But whatever he says, and whatever he does, you can bet your small and expensive shoes it’s going to put us on the right pair of rails.’
Lucia’s face had changed. The despair of hopeless pity had gone from it. Her colour had come back. Once more she was eager. She interrupted. She said:
‘But … but all that tonight? All the what you call oddities?’
‘Won’t,’ said Anthony, ‘be oddities any longer. Not in the end. When Dollboys talks, I daresay most of the oddnesses ’ll be smoothed out at once. And any that are left ’ll drop into place just a bit further up that line that the talk of Dollboys is going to put us on to.’ He was not looking at Lucia now, but above her head and out into nothingness; there were lines in his face which had not been there before he began to speak of Dollboys.
Lucia studied him. She drew in her breath sharply. She said, in a smaller voice:
‘What are you going to do to that man?… Suppose he won’t say anything?’
Anthony brought back his gaze. He smiled. ‘He’s got to say something. And say a lot. He will, all right.’
Lucia kept her eyes upon his face. She shuddered a little. ‘I don’t think,’ she said uncertainly, ‘that I like you looking like that. And yet I do …’
Anthony pointed, towards the western wall of their room. ‘Remember her,’ he said. ‘I was telling you not to just now. But in a different way … And remember Bronson himself … It’s up to us to …’ He left his sentence unfinished. His tone changed. He said: ‘But just at present don’t remember anything—except that I’ve got to be out of bed in four hours and that if you’re not in bed within three minutes I’ll beat you. And once you’re in bed you go to sleep and dream dreams about the trustworthiness of your Uncle Stalky.’