'What, with this blister of mine?’
'Well, keep quiet, then. I want to think,' said Dolly, and walked to the window and stood looking out on London, while Soapy, scarcely daring to breathe lest he stifle thought at its source, lay back in his chair and gently massaged the sole of his left foot, his gaze fixed on her occipital bone as intently as if he could see the brain working behind it. The light of hope in his eyes was only faint, but it was there. Not once but many times in the past had his wife's little grey cells brought triumph out of disaster, and it might be that even the current problem, which, he freely admitted, was a lalla-paloosa, would not prove too much for her.
At length, Dolly spoke.
'Soapy, come here. Want to show you something.’
Soapy came as directed, and he too looked out on London. The portion of it that he saw was the back premises of Barribault's Hotel, for it was in that direction that the window faced. It was not a very exhilarating spectacle, mostly empty boxes and ashcans, and it did little to lighten the gloom in which he was plunged. Not that he would have derived any greater spiritual refreshment from it if the boxes had been the Champs-Elysees in springtime and the ash-cans the Taj Mahal by moonlight.
'See that cat?' said Dolly.
The cat to which she alluded was an animal of raffish and bohemian aspect, the sort of cat that hangs around street corners and makes low jokes to other cats as antisocial as itself. It was nosing about in the ash-cans below, and Soapy regarded it without enthusiasm. He was not, he said, fond of cats.
'Nor's the Yorke dame,' said Dolly. 'One came into the garden while I was there and started stalking a bird, and she eased it out.'
'With her shot-gun?'
'No, she just hollered, and the cat streaked off, and then she told me she didn't like cats.'
'And so?'
'Seeing that one down there gave me the idea.'
Soapy was stirred to his depths. '
You haven't got an idea?'
'I have, too. Wait. Don't talk,' said Dolly. She went to the ornate writing-table with which all suites at Barribault's Hotel are provided, and took pen and paper, frowning meditatively.
'How do you spell "descriptions"?' she asked. 'No, it's okay. I know.' 'D. as in "doughnut"…'
'All right, all right I tell you I know. Is Castlewood t-l-e or t-e-l?'
T-l-e. Why, honey? What is all this?'
Dolly waved him down impatiently, as authors will when interrupted with questions in the middle of an important work, and for some moments concentrated tensely on whatever this literary composition of hers was, her forehead wrinkled and the tip of her tongue protruding a little. After what seemed an hour she rose and handed him a sheet of notepaper.
'How's this?' she said.
It was not a lengthy document. It read:
WANTED
CATS OF ALL DESCRIPTIONS
GOOD PRICES PAID
APPLY
CASTLEWOOD
MULBERRY GROVE
VALLEY FIELDS
'It'll cost money,' said Dolly, 'on account of it's got to go in all the papers including the local ones down Valley Fields way, I know there's one called the South London Argus and there may be half a dozen more. That's up to you to find out. I want them in tomorrow morning, so you'll have to do some getting around, even if you do have a blister. But it'll bring home the bacon, believe me.'
Soapy was examining the script with the puzzled eye of one who is not abreast.
'How do you mean, bring home the bacon, baby?'
'That's the way I figure it. I told you the Yorke dame wasn't any too strong for Valley Fields anyway, so what happens when hundreds of people come horning in on her with cats of all descriptions and prob'ly letting half of them loose in the garden? And if the cats don't do the trick, we can switch to something else. There's plenty of other things. I say she'll pack up and leave pronto. Am I right, or am I right?'
Soapy drew a long breath. Even to him all things had been made clear, and he was telling himself that he had known all along that the light of his life would find a way.
'Honey,' he said, when emotion allowed him to speak,
'there's no one---'
'Say, tell you something,' said Dolly happily. 'I'm beginning to think that myself.'
17
TUCKED away in odd corners of the aristocratic Mayfair section of London there exist, like poor relations of the rich, certain alleys and byways which would be far more at home in the humbler surroundings of Whitechapel or Shoreditch. Halsey Court was one of these. Leila Yorke, on her way to the offices of the J. Sheringham Adair investigation agency two mornings after Dolly had put her plan of campaign into action, found it dark, dirty, dismal and depressing and far too full of prowling cats. Circumstances had so arranged themselves on the previous day as to make her reluctant, if she lived to be a hundred, ever to see another cat again.
She mounted the three flights of stone stairs that led to the dingy room where Chimp Twist passed his days and with a brief nod dusted a chair and sat down, eyeing him with the intentness of a woman who had come for professional advice and meant to get it.
He was not a very exhilarating spectacle. Sally, drawing a word-picture of him for her benefit, had called him a frightful little man with a face like a monkey and a waxed moustache, and when he had come to Castlewood to obtain a photograph of her husband, Leila Yorke had been struck by the accuracy of the description. But one does not engage an investigator for his looks. What counts is brain, and she had been favourably impressed by his obvious sagacity. Like Dolly, she would not have trusted him to tell her the right time, but she was not proposing to trust him. All she wanted from him was his trained assistance in tracking down the unknown hellhound responsible for the quite untrue statement that she was in need of cats of all descriptions.
'Hope I’m not interrupting you when you're busy on the mysterious affair of the Maharajah's Ruby,' she said, 'but I'd like a conference.'
Chimp leaned back and put the tips of his fingers together.
'With reference to the matter we were discussing when I
visited your residence, madam?' he said, assuming the manner and diction he always employed with clients. In private
life he spoke in the vernacular and generally out of the side
of his mouth, but in his official capacity he modelled his style
on the more gentlemanly detectives in the books he read. 'I
can assure you that everything is being done to bring that
to a successful conclusion. My whole organization is working
on it. Half a dozen of my best men are busy on the investigation at this moment. Let me see, who did I put on the case? Wilbraham, Jones, Evans, Meredith, Schwed…yes, fully half a dozen. They are scouring London from end to end. It is as if you had pressed a button and set in motion some vast machine. The Adair agency is like a kind of octopus, stretching its tentacles hither and thither and---'
Leila Yorke was not a patient woman. She banged the desk, causing a cloud of dust to rise, and Chimp's voice trailed away. Better men than he had fallen silent when Leila Yorke banged desks - Aubrey Popgood of her firm of publishers for one and Cyril Grooly, his partner, for another, and similar effects had been produced on head waiters in restaurants when she banged tables. As she sometimes explained to intimate friends, it was all in the follow-through.
In short,' she said, 'you're telling me you're good.'
Chimp admitted that this was what he had intended to convey.
'Right,' said Leila Yorke briskly. 'So now we've settled that, perhaps you will let me mention what I've come about.'
‘Not the matter we were discussing when I visited your residence?'
'No. Cats.'
Chimp blinked.
'Did you say cats?'
'And dogs.'
'I don't think I quite follow you, madam.'
'You will,' said Leila Yorke, and opening her bag she produced a wad of newspaper clippings. 'Read those.'
Chimp put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Seeing him in his normal state, one would have said that nothing could make him look more repulsive, but these glasses went far to performing that miracle. Even Leila Yorke, though a strong woman, winced at the sight. He read the clippings and raised a surprised and enquiring eye.
'You are fond of cats, madam?'
'I like them in moderation, always provided they don't go for the birds, but you don't suppose I put those advertisements in the papers, do you? Somebody's playing a practical joke on me, and I want you to find out who it is, so that I can strangle him with my bare hands. Cats of all descriptions! I'll say they were. I don't know how many people there are living in South London, but they all called at Castlewood yesterday, and every one of them was carrying a cat and wanted me either to buy it or pay him for the time I'd wasted telling him to bring it. I never saw so many cats in my life. I was up to my waist in them. Black cats, tabby cats, striped cats, cats with bits chewed out of their ears…it was like a mouse's nightmare. And more coming every minute. If it hadn't been for Widgeon's cousin George, they'd have been there still.'
She paused, her eyes gleaming as she relived those testing moments, and Chimp asked who Widgeon's cousin George was.
'He's a policeman. He and Widgeon have got the house next door. He suddenly appeared and told the multitude to pass along, which they did, and I don't blame them. I'd have passed along myself if a man that size had told me to. Thank heaven for policemen, I say. Salt of the earth, those boys.'
Chimp preserved a rather prim silence. He did not share her enthusiasm for the constabulary, with whom his relations both in his native country and in England had been far from cordial. Fewer and less vigilant officers were what both the United States and Great Britain needed, in his opinion, if they were to have any chance of becoming earthly paradises.
'Very efficient, that Cousin George. Got lots of weight, and threw it about like a hero. I suppose he was grateful to me because I'd taken two of the five-shilling tickets for the concert in aid of the Policemen's Orphanage. Just shows it was right what the fellow said about casting your bread on the waters. He couldn't have been more zealous if I'd bought up the entire front row of orchestra stalls. Well, that ended the episode of the cats.'
Chimp said that was satisfactory, and Leila Yorke corrected him.
'Not so darned satisfactory, because this morning there were the dogs, and he wasn't around to cope with them.'
'Dogs, madam?'
'How many breeds of dogs are there?'
Chimp was unable to supply the information, but said he thought there were a good many.
'Well, representatives of every known breed were there this morning with the exception of Mexican chihuahuas. I don't think I noticed any of them among those present, though I may be wrong. I'm fond of dogs, mind you, I've got six of them at home in the country, but---'
'Castlewood is not your home?'
'No, I only took the place because I was planning to write a book about the suburbs. I live at Loose Chippings in Sussex, and I'm beginning to wish I was back there. A little more of this, and Valley Fields will have seen the last of me. What's the matter?'
What had prompted the question had been a sudden aguelike quiver which had run through her companion's weedy frame, causing his waxed moustache to behave like a tuning-fork. Chimp Twist was, as has been indicated, astute, and a blinding light had flashed upon him. As clearly as if she had appeared before him and given him the low-down herself, he saw behind these unusual occurrences the shapely hand of Mrs. Thomas G. Molloy. His client had spoken of practical jokers. There was nothing of the practical joker about Dolly Molloy. She was strictly a business woman, actuated always by business motives. And Soapy, the dumb brick, had told him all about that ice, even to the very spot where it was hidden. It figured, he was saying to himself, yes it certainly figured.
He stilled his vibrating moustache with a quick hand, and leaned forward - impressively, he hoped, though actually the impression he gave Leila Yorke was that he was about to have some sort of fit.
'Has it occurred to you, madam, that the person who inserted these advertisements may have been trying to force you to leave Castlewood because there is something there he wants to secure and will be able to secure if the house becomes unoccupied?'
Leila Yorke considered the suggestion, and after the briefest of moments placed it in the class of those she did not think much of. No doubt England's criminals included in their ranks a certain number of eccentrics, but she refused to believe that even these would go to so much trouble to obtain an aspidistra, a reproduction of Millais' Huguenot and a china mug with 'A Present From Bognor Regis' on it in pink sea shells.
'What on earth is there in Castlewood for anyone to want?' she demanded.
'Possibly the object is buried in the garden.'
'Not a bone, or those dogs would have got it.'
Chimp's expression, though not losing the respectfulness due to a client, showed that he deplored this frivolity. His manner became more portentous, his diction more orotund.
'If I am right in supposing there is something of value concealed on the premises, it is to be presumed that it was placed there by some recent occupant of the house. It would be interesting to find out who was the tenant of Castlewood before you.'
'I know that. Cornelius told me. It was someone called Molloy.'
Chimp started dramatically.
'Molloy?'
'So Cornelius said.'
'An American?’
'Yes.'
'A large man with a high forehead?'
'I don't know. I never saw him,' said Leila Yorke, unaware that she had had that pleasure and privilege. 'Why?'
'I am wondering if it can have been a dangerous crook known as Soapy Molloy. Who, by the way, is Cornelius?'
'The house agent.'
'With your permission I will call him up. This cannot be a mere coincidence,' said Chimp, rummaging in a drawer for the telephone book. 'The name Molloy, and all these strange, one might say sinister, happenings. Suspicious, very suspicious. Mr. Cornelius?' he said. 'This is the J. Sheringham Adair detective agency. We have been asked by Scotland Yard to assist them with some questions regarding a man named Molloy, who occupied a house called Castlewood until recently. Scotland Yard thinks this may be the same Molloy in whom they are interested. Could you describe him to me?...I see…Yes…Yes…thank you.' He hung up, and turned to Leila Yorke with an air of quiet triumph 'It is the same man, not a doubt of it.'
'But who is he?' asked Leila Yorke, impressed. There had been a period since she entered this office when its dustiness and dinginess had shaken her faith in its proprietor, but it was now quite solid again. What is a little dust, she was feeling, if the head it settles on contains a keen, incisive brain?
Chimp fondled his moustache.
'Soapy Molloy, though nothing has as yet been proved against him, nothing that would stand up in court, is known to be the head of an international drug ring which the police have been trying to smash for years, and I think we may take it as certain that he has buried a large consignment of the dope in the garden of Castlewood. No other explanation seems to meet the case. You must leave the house immediately, madam.'
Leila Yorke's jaw tightened, and her blue eyes glowed with an offended light.
'What, let myself be chased out of my home by a dope peddler?'
Chimp hastened to soothe her wounded pride.
'It is merely a ruse. Thinking the house is unoccupied, Molloy will act. But it will not be unoccupied. I shall be there.'
'You?’
'What I suggest is this. You return to your home in Sussex tonight and tell this Mr. Cornelius that you are leaving. Molloy is certain to get in touch with him tomorrow or the day after to find out if his efforts to get rid of you have been successful. He will come to Castlewood, thinking the coast is clear, and I shall be waiting for him.'
'You'd better borrow my shot-gun.'
'Unnecessary. I shall have some of my best men with me--- Meredith certainly and possibly Schwed. Three of us will be enough to overpower this scoundrel.'
'I thought Meredith and Schwed were looking for my husband.'
'I shall take them off the case, but only for a few hours. I am expecting Molloy to make his move tomorrow night. We must oblige Scotland Yard.'
'Why? I'm not worrying about Scotland Yard's troubles. I want to find Joe.'
'We shall find him, madam. The Sheringham Agency never fails. You will leave Castlewood tonight?'
'I suppose so, if you say so.'
Then that is settled. You will telephone me directly you are leaving?'
'Very well.'
'And what did you say your address in the country was?'
'Claines Hall, Loose Chippings.'
‘I’ll send my bill to you there,' said Chimp, and having ushered his client to the door with a suavity of which those who knew him best would never have thought him capable opened another drawer of the desk and produced the bottle of whisky without which, as is generally known, no detective agency can function. As he drank, a glow suffused him, due partly to the generous strength of the spirit but even more to the thought that he was about to slip a quick one over on the Mrs. Thomas G. Molloy, who in the past had so often slipped quick ones over him.
Leila Yorke, meanwhile, had groped her way out of the twilight dimness of Halsey Court and wandered into Bond Street to do a little window-shopping before lunch. She was thus enabled to encounter Freddie Widgeon, who was on his way to enjoy, if it could be called enjoying, the hospitality of his uncle, Lord Blicester. An invitation, equivalent to a royal command, had reached him on the previous day.
Leila Yorke was delighted to see Freddie. She had been contemplating a solitary meal, and she disliked solitary meals.
'Hullo there, Widgeon,' she said. 'The hour has produced just the man I wanted.'
Her interview with Chimp Twist had left her in excellent spirits. The prospect of getting away from Valley Fields, shocking as this would have seemed to Mr. Cornelius, elated her. She wanted to be back at Claines Hall, Loose Chippings, at her familiar desk, writing the same old tripe she had always written, and no more of this nonsense of being stark and grey and significant. It amazed her that she had ever dreamt of trying to top that gloomy historian of the suburbs, the late George Gissing. Even as she gazed into the jeweller's window, there had come into her head the germ of an idea for a story about a man named Claude and a girl called Jessamine who had grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat.
Ice in the Bedroom Page 12