The Man of Dangerous Secrets

by Maxwell March

  Nelson Ash’s voice had sunk, but its reedy tenor was still very clear in the quiet room.

  “Shall I go on? The note was very clear, if you remember. ‘Therefore,’ he wrote, ‘I have placed my evidence and the proofs which I have collected against you, and which I have enumerated in the earlier part of this letter, in a deed box with a firm of solicitors which I shall naturally not name. Should my niece, Jennifer Fern, die, that box will be taken to the Public Prosecutor. In the event of her living, on the day she marries and acquires a husband who can take care of her, the solicitors are instructed to observe the same procedure.’”

  The thin voice ceased. Sir Henry had hidden his face in his hands and now sat silent, his grey head bowed over the table.

  As though to end a situation which had become unbearable to them all, Sir Ferdinand Shawle rose to his feet.

  “It is growing late,” he said. “We should take the draw, I think. In view of what Ash has said tonight, I need hardly remind you how important the Dealer’s instructions are for all our safety.”

  The ceremony took place in absolute silence. It had become a ritual with the five men by this time, a ritual which had grown more terrifying by repetition as on one occasion after another each man drew the marked slip which meant that he was responsible for the particular task the Dealer had set.

  Ash prepared the slips, each one identical in shape and folding. Bourbon mixed them in his trembling hands and threw them down upon the polished surface of the table.

  Sir Ferdinand Shawle chose first, Sir Henry’s nerveless fingers took the second slip, Caithby Fisher, his eyes glinting curiously, snatched the third, Bourbon picked up the pellet nearest to him, and the folder took the last.

  Each man examined his choice furtively, hiding its message from the others. Then, as was their custom, they rose. Each face was blank, and no one eyeing them, however carefully, could have told who out of the five had received the command to attend to Robin Grey.

  Sir Ferdinand sighed, helped himself to a drink from the tantalus, and, after draining it, readjusted the set of his faultlessly fitting tail coat.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “my guests await us.”

  Sir Henry shook his head. His face bore traces of the violent emotions to which he had been subjected.

  “If you’ll excuse me, F. S.,” he said, “I won’t join you immediately. I’m not well.”

  Sir Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders. “I shall see you at dinner, then,” he said.

  The old man stumbled out of the door, while his host moved over towards the panelling, which reached from floor to ceiling on the south side of the room. He touched a bolt and swept the great doors aside. They rolled back on well-oiled runners, so that the room in which they stood became part of the larger salon beyond.

  Instantly the tense atmosphere was swept away. The sound of laughter and music burst in upon them, and the air became heavy with perfume and tobacco smoke. The salon was crowded with chattering young people, and in the center of the heavy Chinese carpet Jennifer stood beside Robin. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, which even the sinister circumstances that had led to her present position could not subdue; her eyes were dancing, and the long slender folds of her white dress enhanced the slim beauty of her figure.

  Robin, sleek, immaculate, and very much at ease, stood by her side. They made a striking couple. It seemed incredible that any shadow could hang over two such attractive, happy young people.

  Sir Ferdinand was just about to step forward when a wiry hand clutched at his coat tail. He turned to find Caithby Fisher looking up at him from the depths of his wheeled chair.

  “Is that the boy?” said the cripple, his dry voice crackling with interest. “Introduce me to him, won’t you? I think I’d like to have a word with him.”

  The thin, unpleasant voice of Nelson Ash cut across the other’s request.

  “I should like to meet him too,” he said. “After all, it’s easier if you know them socially, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Strange Meetings

  “YOU must put up with my questions, my boy. Consider them an old man’s prerogative.”

  The harsh, unbeautiful voice of the cripple was softened into a semblance of friendliness as Caithby Fisher leant forward to speak to Robin.

  The dinner party was almost over. The ladies had retired, and the men sat smoking and sipping their brandy until it should please their host to give them the signal to move.

  On the whole the meal had not been such an ordeal for Jennifer as Robin had feared. Sir Henry Fern had not put in an appearance, and the young people were spared the discomfort of listening to speeches concerning their engagement.

  Caithby Fisher had introduced himself in the salon before dinner, and now that Jennifer, on whose left he had sat, had retired, he had moved his wheeled chair forward dexterously so that he might speak confidentially to the young man.

  Robin, who had been on his guard from the beginning, had not been attracted by the hunchback’s personality, but he found it impossible to shake off the man. Presuming upon the advantages which his age and infirmity lent him, he had fired questions at him with the rapidity and searching quality of a prosecuting counsel.

  “I expect you think my behaviour a little curious,” he continued. “But you must forgive me. I’m a very old friend of Jennifer’s father. Our business association has been close. In fact,” he went on with a sly smile which the boy found oddly disturbing, “I think we may safely say that we share most of each other’s secrets. Therefore it is only natural that I should be tremendously interested in meeting the man whom Jennifer is going to marry. I’ve already told you you’re an extremely lucky man, haven’t I?”

  “I assure you, sir, I realize my own unworthiness,” said Robin, realizing that the remark was stilted but feeling that nothing less was expected of him.

  “Not at all, not at all.” The narrow eyes of the little cripple ran over the boy’s broad frame approvingly, almost enviously. “I don’t doubt for a moment that in yourself you are everything that any girl could desire. The only question that ran through my mind—if you’ll forgive me—touched upon a purely monetary matter. You are not, I take it, Mr. Grey, as wealthy as you would like to be?”

  “I’m not rich,” said Robin cautiously, wondering where this conversation was going to lead. “But Sir Henry quite understands my position.”

  “I know, I know.” The cracked voice was soothing. “I appreciate your difficulties, my boy, and that’s why I wondered if you would allow me as an old man who has taken a great interest in your future wife’s career to make you an offer, shall I say to put something in your way? Here’s my card.”

  He pressed a slip of pasteboard into the astonished young man’s hand.

  “Come and see me at Armaments House tomorrow. Let me see, make it three o’clock. I think I can offer you something that will interest you. No, no, no, don’t thank me,” he went on, waving away the startled words that had risen to the boy’s lips. “We can’t talk business here. It would hardly be polite to our host’s brandy.”

  He turned away to join in the conversation upon his right, and Robin was prevented from speaking or even thinking any further upon the subject by the sudden appearance at his elbow of one of the footmen who had waited upon him at table.

  “Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr. Robin Grey by any chance?”

  Something that he could only regard as a premonition of evil sent a chill of alarm down Robin’s spine at the simple question.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “You’re wanted on the phone, sir. Would you come this way?”

  With a muttered word of apology to his host, Robin followed the servant out of the dining room and down a thickly carpeted corridor to a little telephone booth, which had been erected in a secluded corner of the hall. Shutting himself in securely, he picked up the receiver.

  “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, Mr. Grey. Is that you? This is Danvers
speaking. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes; be quick.” Robin recognized the voice and the name. Johnny Danvers was one of his most valued assistants, who even now was following up certain matters which had arisen in connection with the present case.

  “I’m speaking from a Kensington call box,” the voice continued. “I followed Bellew, as you instructed. I’ve had my eye on him all day. He went back to his flat about two hours ago. But I thought I’d better ring you. His man’s just given the alarm. I haven’t been able to get many details, but he’s dead all right. Poison, they think. So long. I’ll ring you at your place if anything else transpires.”

  The receiver almost dropped from Robin’s fingers, and when he spoke he did not recognize his own voice.

  “Here—Johnny!” he ejaculated. “Johnny, what did you say?”

  But the only reply was a click as the man at the other end of the wire hung up.

  For some moments Robin did not move. Johnny never spoke until he was sure. He knew as surely as if he stood looking down at the body that Tony Bellew, the last man openly to attach himself to Jennifer Fern, was dead, and although Johnny Danvers had not said it, the ugly word stuck in his mind—murdered.

  “The gentlemen have joined the ladies, sir. Can I direct you to the drawing room?”

  The polite manservant who accosted Robin on the threshold of the dining room looked at the young man curiously. It was evident that he had received bad news.

  “Oh, have they? No, that’s all right. I can find my way, thank you.”

  Robin crossed the hall and entered the big salon where they had foregathered before dinner. The one thought uppermost in his mind was that he must get Jennifer home before the tragic news could be broken to her in some casual and shocking manner.

  At first he could not see her. He stood inside the door looking round anxiously, and had just made up his mind that she was not there when he caught a glimpse of her white dress half hidden by the heavy grey curtains which flanked an alcove in the far corner of the room. He hurried over to find her talking to a tall, dark-haired woman dressed smartly but severely in black, whom he recognized instantly as Madame Julie.

  Sir Ferdinand Shawle’s social secretary was tall and still slender, although the lines round her eyes proclaimed her age to be well over forty. She was still beautiful, however, in spite of the pallor of her skin and a certain intensity in her dark eyes fringed by long, drooping lashes.

  As Robin came up he got the impression that Jennifer was embarrassed by something her hostess was saying. There were bright spots of colour in the girl’s cheeks and a bewildered expression in her big grey eyes. She looked relieved to see him and turned towards him eagerly.

  “Robin, you know Madame Julie, don’t you? I’ve been telling her I think we ought to leave early. I’m so worried about Daddy. I can’t understand why he didn’t come to dinner. I know he meant to.”

  She laid her hand on Robin’s arm as she spoke, and the intimate gesture thrilled him unreasonably.

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “I’ll take you back at once, if Madame Julie will excuse us.” He glanced inquiringly at the woman and was startled to see the curious intensity of expression in her face as she regarded them. Some of his surprise was apparent, and the woman’s heavy lids fluttered down over her eyes, and an embarrassed little laugh escaped her.

  “You must forgive me,” she said. “I am old enough to be Jennifer’s mother, and the sight of you two young people so very much in love reminded me of something very long ago. I am afraid it showed in my face. Of course you shall go if you want to. I can sympathize with you. These formal functions are very dull when one has so much that is more interesting to think about.”

  Robin dared not look at Jennifer. His own ears were burning. The situation was embarrassing. He mumbled some excuse and was about to draw the girl away when Madame Julie spoke again. She had a deep musical voice which long experience in the realms of tact had made soft and versed in every subtle modulation.

  Robin, glancing at her, decided that only her eyes were sincere, and he was surprised by the expression that was almost passionate entreaty in their depths.

  “All ceremonial is irksome at this time, isn’t it?” she went on softly. “That’s why I’ve been telling Jennifer that you two must regard me as your friend. I have a certain amount of influence. If you want to get married without any fuss or bother, I could arrange it for you within the next twenty-four hours. Please don’t think my offer extraordinary,” she went on, and Robin noticed to his astonishment that one of her slender white hands which held her jewelled vanity case was trembling. “I’m genuinely interested in you both. Perhaps I should explain. My own life was ruined many years ago by a delayed engagement. If I had married the man I loved immediately after he had proposed to me, my life would have been very different. Please see me as a sentimental old woman who wants to help.”

  The hurried story told so briefly in the deep musical voice was frankly not convincing, but even had it not been for the evidence of the trembling hand it was impossible to doubt the anxiety of the woman to persuade them to get married immediately.

  Robin felt Jennifer trembling at his side, and with the nightmare project of breaking the news of Bellew’s death to her he felt that this last extraordinary development was more than he could tackle. He pulled himself together.

  “Thank you very much, Madame Julie,” he said with a hint of stiffness in his manner. “Should Jennifer and I decide upon a hurried marriage we shall certainly come to you. As it is, she is tired and naturally a little worried about Sir Henry. If you would excuse us, I think we will go now.”

  “Of course. I quite understand.” The woman’s calm dignity had returned. The heavy lids had once again descended over the dark eyes, but the boy had the impression that there was frustration hidden in their depths, frustration and a shadow of disappointment.

  She escorted Jennifer upstairs to get her cloak and handed the girl over to her escort some minutes later.

  Jennifer’s cheeks were very pink, and Robin noticed that she did not meet his eyes. It was not until they were sitting together in the back of Sir Henry’s chauffeur-driven limousine that she spoke directly to him.

  “It’s—it’s all rather awkward, isn’t it?” she said. “I hope you weren’t made too uncomfortable.”

  “Of course not,” he said hastily, anxious to put her at her ease. “It can’t have been very pleasant for you either. But after all, it was obvious from the moment when we came to our rather unconventional agreement that some sort of situation like this was bound to occur. We must learn to be unselfconscious, mustn’t we?”

  She shot him a shy, grateful glance from under her eyelashes.

  “You’re extraordinarily kind,” she said, and repeated almost wonderingly, “extraordinarily kind.”

  Robin caught his breath. There were moments when his position as a disinterested investigator became very difficult.

  The girl went on before he could speak again.

  “That woman’s behaviour was very strange, wasn’t it?” she said. “The whole thing has been strange. First of all Sir Ferdinand’s invitation, when he didn’t really know us at all. And then Madame Julie’s insistence that we should get married at once. Before you came up she had been talking to me about it. I suppose in the ordinary way I should have been offended, but somehow I got the impression that she really was trying to help. She was so anxious to get me alone too; so anxious to talk to me without Sir Ferdinand seeing her. I don’t understand it. What possible effect could my marriage have on her?”

  Much the same problem had been occupying Robin’s mind, crowding out that other matter which he dreaded to mention.

  “It’s just one of the inexplicable things that we’ve got to sift out,” he said. “And now, Jennifer, I want you to be very brave.”

  The light of a passing street lamp lit up the inside of the dark car for a moment, and in that fleeting instant he caught a glimpse of her face, whi
te and terror-stricken.

  “What is it? Not—not Daddy?”

  “No,” he said hastily. “No, not your father. But after dinner this evening I received a phone call from an assistant who has been shadowing Mr. Bellew. I am afraid there’s bad news for you.”

  She caught her breath, and he felt, rather than heard, the tiny sound in her throat as she checked an exclamation.

  “Not dead?” she whispered.

  He laid a hand over hers. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I can’t give you any details yet; I don’t know them myself. But as soon as I’ve left you at your father’s house I shall go on to see Inspector Whybrow of the Yard. And then I promise you you shall hear everything.”

  After his voice died away there was complete silence in the car. He could feel her trembling, and suddenly something splashed down upon his hand and he realized she was crying. A wave of helplessness passed over him, coupled with a sick feeling of loneliness and emotion which he dared not analyze.

  “You were in love with him?” In spite of himself the words came dully.

  “No,” she said violently, her voice choked with sobs. “No. I never loved Tony. But I was fond of him. He was always so happy, so cheerful. Quite one of the dearest boys I ever met. No, it’s not that. I’m shocked—horrified—terrified—I can’t tell you what I feel.”

  She withdrew her hand from his, and he guessed she was dabbing her eyes with her tiny scented handkerchief.

  “Oh, it’s terrible!” she broke out suddenly. “I can’t believe it. Don’t you see, it’s all through me? Tony was in love with me, and because he was so sweet about it I didn’t send him away. If only I had, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. I’ve prayed that this fate which seems to hang over me was a series of coincidences, but you see it isn’t. It’s a living terror. It’s as if I were poisonous!”

  She began to sob, and Robin, unable to restrain himself any longer, put an arm round her comfortingly. She drew back from him as though he had hurt her.