10 “Pat”

“Friend!” exclaimed Margaret. “He’s a policeman. Pat, we’ve had—”

Paterson gripped her arm so tightly that she stopped speaking. He looked all the time at Roger; there was no hiding the hostility in his expression, but was there any nervousness, any hint of fear?

“What are you doing here?”

“Police do come to the scene of a burglary, you know. Although we don’t yet know what’s happened here,” Roger said. “It was probably housebreaking, I fancy it was done before dusk. And it might not even be that. An inside job.” He smiled at Paterson, intending to irritate the man, to make him lose his self-control. He did not like the handsome Paterson, and knew that the spontaneous dislike was mutual.

Paterson said: “Did you send for him Margaret?”

“No, I—”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Pat, I met him at the gate, there was—” she broke off, as if there was too much to explain simply, and she didn’t feel equal to the task.

“A man shot at your daughter. She crashed her car. I was passing, and came to the rescue. She was nervous, so I brought her to the house. We found it deserted, and your room ransacked.”

“Ransacked?” Paterson’s aplomb deserted him, he shot a glance toward the door. Then he tossed his grey Homburg hat into a chair. He wore a grey overcoat, raglan style, concealing a powerful figure. A silk scarf was draped round his neck; he wore one yellow pigskin glove, new and bright, and carried the other.

Headlights blazed at the end of the drive again.

Margaret said: “The bag’s safe. I put it in your wardrobe. Pat, Carney’s not here, all the staff has gone. The house is empty, and—oh, it’s fantastic!” She looked very young, now, the sophisticated young woman had become an ingenuous schoolgirl. And she had named Carney. Roger didn’t speak, but that had jolted him.

“I’d better go and see what’s happened,” said Paterson, and turned and saw the headlights of the other car, which was now very near the house. “Who the devil is this? We don’t want visitors. Margaret, go and say—”

“More police, I’m afraid,” Roger said.

“More? What right—” Paterson broke off, and shrugged. “Oh, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it now. Margaret, do you mean that none of the staff is here? What about dinner?”

“Nothing’s ready, nothing’s been done.”

“What time did you leave the house?” Roger asked. Bray was getting out of the car, and speaking to the men with him. “Miss Paterson tells me that you didn’t go to the office today.”

“As a policeman, you’d better get your facts right. I didn’t go this morning, I went this afternoon.”

“Was everything normal when you left?”

“Yes. May I see your credentials?”

Bray came in as Roger showed Paterson his card. Paterson looked at it, but made no comment. Bray was eager, and seemed triumphant. Paterson nodded to him distantly, and kept silent while Roger told the Hounslow man what had happened.

Men were waiting in the hall with their equipment: a camera, fingerprint outfit, everything likely to be needed for the investigation. On such a job as this, Bray would be an artist.

“We’d better look round,” Bray said, trying to sound casual.

“I’ll come with you. Margaret—” Paterson looked at his daughter, frowning as he spoke. “Telephone the Pied Piper, tell them we shall be along to dinner in about an hour’s time. Then I should take some aspirin and close your eyes a bit. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

“I’m all right.”

“Do as I say.” He spoke as if he knew that his orders would be carried out to the letter; “orders” was exactly the right word. Then he turned, scanned the three men in the hall distastefully, and led the way upstairs. He said nothing when Roger unwrapped the key from his handkerchief and opened the door, but he was the first to go inside. He stood in the middle of the room, looking round, scowling.

“They made a job of it,” said Bray. Roger opened the window, and the wind blew in, papers began to float about the room, falling from the desk and then dancing on the floor. Paterson went to the window, and made to close it, but Bray got there first and said: “Leave it, please. Shut the door, one of you.” He glanced inquiringly, almost hopefully, at Roger, who waved a hand, silently telling him to carry on. Roger was intent on Paterson, studying the man, taking in every detail on his face, his manner, his movements. He had short grey hair, very thick; it was cropped at the back and sides, and inclined to curl on top. His cheeks were pale, but not with a sickly pallor. There was a slight red ridge on the bridge of his nose; so for close work, he wore glasses. His regular features had a film star-ish perfection, his lips were red and moist, there was a cleft in his square chin; and he kept a poker face. His grey eyes, which seemed very bright, missed nothing; and he was aware that Roger was studying him. Yet in spite of his composure, Roger felt there was great strain; he didn’t find it easy to be so calm.

Bray said: “The quicker we know what’s been stolen, if anything, the quicker we’ll get it back.”

“It will take me some time to check everything. I certainly can’t do it myself. The only really valuable things in the room are the jewels, which my daughter says are still in the house.” Paterson went to the wall safe in the panelling and peered inside, nodded and stood up. “That fooled them. Hadn’t you better start looking for my servants? They’re obviously concerned in this.”

“Have you any photographs of them?” Bray asked.

“I haven’t. There may be some in their rooms.” Paterson took off his scarf and ran it through his hands; it made a little swishing sound. “I can give you their names and a description, if that will help. Have you been outside, or in the gymnasium, Chief Inspector?”

“No.” Roger thought: Gymnasium rings a bell. Morgan had talked of one.

“Carney, my butler-major-domo, in fact, might conceivably be there, although it isn’t likely.” The scarf went swish-swish-swish, the only indication of Paterson’s taut nerves. “I should have said that all my staff was quite reliable, but I suppose I was wrong. It wasn’t because I wasn’t warned.”

Why did he go to the trouble to say that?

“Warned about what?” asked Bray.

His men were already at work, examining the door and the window for fingerprints, studying the window to see how it had been opened, searching the room for any clue.

“I employed ex-convicts,” Paterson said coldly.

Bray shrugged his shoulders. “All of the servants?”

“All the men.”

Bray’s look said: “You fool,” but he didn’t speak, only turned to the window and began to examine it. Paterson stepped to the desk, his hand hovered about the telephone, and Bray said: “Don’t touch that, please!”

“I wish to telephone my secretary.”

“Isn’t there another telephone?”

Paterson said: “Very well.” He went out, and Roger followed him, but the man appeared to ignore his presence, in spite of the fact that Roger was just behind him. In the drawing room, Margaret sat back in an easy chair, but her eyes opened as soon as they entered. “Stay there,” Paterson ordered, and went to the telephone. He dialled, while looking out of the window, and had to hold on for some time. He fidgeted impatiently and frowned, but suddenly his face cleared, and he said: “Helen?” He paused.

“Never mind about that. I want you to come to the house immediately. There has been a robbery, and the police want a list of the missing goods… .Yes, please, as quickly as you can… .Oh, finish your dinner, half an hour won’t make any difference.”

He replaced the receiver, turned, looked at Margaret and said: “What is this about being shot at, Margaret?”

“By a red-haired man,” murmured Roger.

Paterson started; it was the second sign of surprise and alarm that he’d shown, reminding Roger of the way he had looked over his shoulder toward the door. This time he flashed a glance at Roger, looked as if he were about to speak, changed his mind, and approached his daughter.

“Did the Chief Inspector help you?”

“Yes, he—”

“I have to thank you, Mr West.” There was no feeling in the words, this was just a polite convention. “It was extremely fortunate that you happened to be passing. Was that just coincidence? Or were you coming to see me?”

Margaret sat up.

Roger said: “Why should you think that I was coming to see you?”

“I thought you might have heard about the burglary at the office,” Paterson said calmly. “This is the second attempt to rob me.”

“Do you employ ex-convicts at the office, too?”

“No,” said Paterson. “No great harm was done, a little ready money was stolen, that’s all. But it’s odd that the two things should happen so quickly. Hmm.” The scarf swished. “Margaret, you’re not looking too good. Perhaps we ought to have a snack here, so that you can get to bed early. It would be better for you, and—”

“No, I’m all right.” She jumped up, as if anxious to prove it. “Have you looked at the jewels?”

“Not yet.”

“You ought to make sure that they’re all right,” said Margaret. “I’ll go and get them.” She hurried out, while Paterson swished the scarf, betraying his taut nerves. He looked sharply at Roger, as if Roger’s silence was adding to the strain. Margaret’s footsteps faded. A policeman ran downstairs to the waiting car, stayed there for a few seconds, and hurried back again. Margaret was away for a long time. Paterson flung the scarf away from him. It fell lightly to the floor, but one corner caught on the seat of a chair, where his hat lay on its side. He didn’t look at Roger, who felt that his tactics were paying a good dividend. Paterson had something to hide, was afraid to meet his eye.

Roger took out his cigarette case.

“Will you smoke?”

Paterson glanced at him, then quickly away. “No, I seldom smoke cigarettes. I—West.” He braced himself and now looked straight at Roger, challenging and hostile. His eyes were different from his daughter’s, grey flecked with green and brown. The whites were muddy now, as they might be if he were tired; a puzzlingly quick change. Yet his movements had been brisk enough. “Did you see this man who shot at my daughter?”

“I caught a glimpse of him.”

“Is it true that he had red hair?”

“There isn’t much doubt about that.”

Paterson looked away again, and muttered: “The fool!”

“Who is?”

“Eh? I didn’t speak. I will have one of your cigarettes.” Paterson stretched out his hand; it was long and slim, like Margaret’s, the nails filbert-shaped and rather too long. “Thanks. Have a drink?”

“No thanks. Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Mr Paterson? There’s too much lying in this house. First your daughter and now you. It’s bad enough to know a man is trying to kill your daughter, without protecting him. Who is the red-headed man you suspect?”

Paterson said: “I don’t think you heard me properly.” The cigarette seemed to steady him, he moved away and his hands became still. “As for Margaret lying to you, I doubt very much whether she would do anything of the kind. She’s upset - anyone who had been fired at would be upset, wouldn’t they? It’s the most natural thing in the world. I wonder where she is?” He turned sharply and hurried to the door.

Roger took a step toward him.

Then he saw the face at the window - the face of a young man, at the side of the window, peering in. Roger saw him out of the corner of his eye, and didn’t look directly at the window. The man ventured a little nearer; and the light shone on to his bright hair.

 

Roger hurried out of the room, without looking at the window openly, and turned right, toward the stairs. Paterson was already near the landing, his footsteps thudding. No one was in the hall. Roger slipped into the next room, the door of which was ajar; it was a dining room with panelled walls and heavy dark-oak furniture; Jacobean or reproduction. Only one light burned here, over the fireplace and the portrait of a man. He didn’t look toward the portrait, but hurried across the room and stood by the side of the window; it was closed, but the catch wasn’t fastened. He inserted his fingers between the bottom of the window and the frame, eased it upward, then pushed. It squeaked a little. He drew back. No one appeared outside. He pushed it farther up, so that he could climb through easily, and peered cautiously toward the drawing room. No one was at that window now, but a slim, boyish figure passed the front door and reached the corner of the house. He looked round before he disappeared.

Roger climbed out.

Upstairs, Paterson called: “Margaret!” There was no answer. Had Margaret really gone upstairs to get the bag of jewels from the wardrobe? They had only her word that the gems were there. There were strong cross currents in this minage, confusing, misleading. Roger’s job was to probe gently, searching for weak spots. There were plenty: the abrupt change in Paterson’s manner; the girl’s sensitiveness about the red-haired man; Paterson’s “the young fool!”; and even Margaret’s sudden dash from the room.

He reached the corner of the house.

“Margaret!” came Paterson’s voice. This time someone else spoke: Bray, or one of his men. The study light still shone on the roof of the stables. The stables were in a walled yard, and the door was on the far side, away from the house. The stalls were some distance away from the entrance, dark shapes without a glimmer of light. Horses stirred; the heavy smell was unpleasant. Roger could make out the shape of a door by the side of the stables; it stood open. He stole toward it, stood for a moment at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. A dim light glowed at the top, so dim that he thought it probably came from a candle, a match, or an electric torch; more likely one of the first two. It revealed a half-open door and the silhouette of a man standing outside it. Roger started up the stairs, then stopped as the man whispered: “Margaret, are you there? Margaret?”

The answer was whispered; Roger only just heard the sound. The man pushed the door wide open and went in. The door swung to, but didn’t close properly. Roger started to mount the stairs, stepping as close to one side as he could, to try to avoid creaking treads. As he crept up he heard more whispering. The light was blotted out by a shadow. He stood near the door listening to a whispered conversation. He gave them a minute or two, then moved forward.

The door was slammed in his face. He heard an exclamation, then the sharp click of the key turning in the lock.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the room beyond.

He put his shoulder to the door and heaved; it didn’t yield, there was no easy way of forcing it. He turned and raced downstairs, the thin beam of his torch shining brightly in the darkness. He ran out into the yard and turned between the stables and the house. Here a little light came from the study window. The window of the room above the stables was probably at the back.

He reached the corner in time to see a man staggering beneath the window to get his balance. The man ran off, and Roger yelled: “Bray! Down here. Use the window!”

Then his torch light shone on a thick beech hedge. He was forced to stop, while he swivelled the beam round, looking for a gap. Footsteps sounded heavily, beyond him, along a path; by the time he found the gap, the sound faded. He fancied that he could hear it farther away.

Bray called out from the window of the study: “What is it?” Roger looked up, to see one of the Hounslow men climbing down the side of the house and flashing a much larger torch.

He called: “You got that call out for a red-haired man, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s been back,” said Roger. “Call your station and tell them he’s somewhere about here, will you?” He tried to speak calmly, but was bitterly angry with himself. The other man joined him.

“We’d better see what we can find, sir, hadn’t we?”

“Yes. This way.” Although it was probably a waste of time, it had to be tried. Other men came hurrying from the back door of the house, and Bray followed them. Torches flashed from one end of a well-tended vegetable garden to the other, and to a wooden gate in another part of the beech hedge. They found a meadow beyond the gate, and, on the far side of the meadow, another by-road. Bray was by Roger’s side, here.

“Not much use going on, is there?”

“Afraid not,” Roger said. “I thought I was being clever. Sorry. You left someone in the study, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. Paterson was there, too. He says he can’t find his daughter.” There was a complaining note in Bray’s voice. “I do dislike it when so many things happen at once. Do you say you saw this red-haired chap?”

“Yes. And I know where Margaret Paterson is,” Roger said. “Will you go back to the house, and keep Paterson there on some pretext? And lend me a man to stand guard at the stable door while I have another word with her ladyship?”

“Of course.”

In the distance they heard Paterson calling: “Margaret!” By the time they reached the path between the house and the stables, he was in the garden, still wearing his coat. He turned toward the little party of policemen, and his voice was almost shrill.

“Have you seen my daughter?”

“I haven’t, Mr Paterson,” said Bray. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me upstairs. Will you—”

“Damn it, man! My daughter has disappeared.”

“She’ll come back,” Bray said reassuringly. “I shouldn’t worry about that, sir. If—”

Roger said: “I’d like you to look in your wardrobe, Mr Paterson, to find out if that bag of jewels is where she put it. It may be important. We’ll look for Miss Paterson.”

“You mean you think—” began Paterson, but he didn’t finish. He turned toward the corner and the front door, and led the way inside. Bray and two other men followed, Roger and the last of Bray’s squad went to the stables.

Roger shone his torch round, heard the horses stamping, and saw an empty stall, with wood piled up against one wall. He found a long-handled axe and took it.

“Shall I need something?” asked the other anxiously.

“Please yourself. I may want to break a door down.”

“Then I won’t bother, sir.”

“I want you to stand at the foot of these stairs,” Roger said, as they entered the doorway which led to the upper room. “Stay there, until I call. I don’t expect much trouble. Anyhow, she’s probably flown by now.” The harshness of his voice reflected his savage anger with himself. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Garnett, sir.”

“Thanks.”

Roger gripped the axe more firmly as he went upstairs. The door was still closed, and a dim yellow light showed at the bottom. Perhaps she was still in the room. He reached the top and drew back his hand to tap - and then the quiet of the stables was broken by a scream. He raised the axe as the cry came again.

“You all right, sir?” Garnett called up.

“Yes.” Roger smashed at the door. Two blows shattered the wooden panel near the lock - and the light inside went out. There was no more screaming. He thought he heard heavy, laboured breathing in the darkness.