The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Hobart was not really convinced that the old man deserved a clean bill, but one naturally tries to make matters smooth for a charming woman with glinting auburn hair, particularly when she draws near enough for you to become conscious of the fragrance of the hair.

  ‘It’s nice of you to put it like that,’ replied Miss Clitheroe. ‘If anybody treated me as you’ve been treated, I’d make the dickens of a row.’

  ‘I’ll wager you wouldn’t!’ returned Jack Hobart. ‘By the way, may I know where your father is now? You haven’t locked him in a room, have you, as a punishment?’

  ‘He’d deserve it if I had!’ she laughed.

  ‘He was going to tell me the name of the alleged owner of this house, you know, though the actual reason he left me was supposed to be a drink.’

  ‘Then I’ll make good both his omissions, Mr Hobart,’ said Mr Clitheroe’s substitute, ‘because I can supply you with the name and the drink. The drink is in the little cupboard under the desk. Will you bring it out? And the name of the alleged owner of this house is Parton. A. H. Parton, The Grange, Stowmarket.’

  ‘That’s fine!’ smiled Hobart. ‘Now I can go to the agent and ask to meet this Mr Parton! The agent’s name is Wainwright, isn’t it? What’s his address?’

  ‘I’ll give it to you in a minute,’ answered Miss Clitheroe; ‘but I’m not going to give you anything more until I’ve given you your drink.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters—’

  ‘Not if I want one too?’

  ‘Well, of course, in that case—’

  He walked to the cupboard she had indicated. As he did so the attractive woman turned towards the door, looked out into the passage, and closed the door.

  ‘You’ll find that rather a prolific little cupboard,’ she said, now drawing closer to him again. ‘Whisky, sherry, Martini, orange bitters, angostura—even a cocktail shaker. Do they drink cocktails in your country, Mr Hobart?’

  ‘Anything wet,’ he replied. ‘What are you going to have?’

  ‘I rather like my own cocktails.’

  ‘Say, you know how to mix them?’

  ‘Would you like to test me?’

  He laughed, and handed her the bottles. As she began manipulating them, he had to admit her dexterity. She was patently no novice at the job. In the middle of the operation she paused, and looked at him.

  ‘Bitters?’ he queried.

  ‘No—the door!’ she answered, dropping her voice. He regarded her sharply.

  ‘What about the door?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps—nothing. But I thought I heard my father.’

  ‘Would it matter?’ he frowned.

  ‘Not if he were frank and came right in,’ she replied. ‘Would you go and see?’

  He went to the door and opened it. There was no one outside. When he came back, she was continuing with her task.

  ‘You’ve cheated me!’ he complained. ‘I was learning this wonderful cocktail of yours. What was the last thing you added?’

  ‘My secret!’ she smiled. ‘The kick!’

  ‘But why a secret?’

  ‘The conjurer must keep one trick up his sleeve, or nobody will patronise him.’

  ‘That’s true enough! And I’ll wager yours was a trick too! I believe you sent me to the door just now to get my back turned!’

  ‘I did!’ she confessed. ‘Now for the shake. Et—voilà!’

  She poured her triumph into two glasses. The glasses had long stems, and black cocks were painted on the bowls. The cocks, open-beaked, were laughing.

  ‘Well judged, Miss Clitheroe.’ He applauded her as she concluded the pouring. ‘Two doses exactly!’

  ‘I hope you’ll praise the mixture as well as the measure,’ she returned.

  ‘Sure, I praise it in advance!’ he exclaimed.

  He took his glass and raised it. She raised hers.

  ‘Right down!’ she ordered. ‘No heel-taps!’

  ‘Right down!’ he answered, obeying.

  Just as she was about to follow his example, her eyes turned away from her glass.

  ‘That’s funny!’ she murmured, ‘I’m sure it was father, that time.’

  She laid her glass down, and ran to the door.

  ‘Say—this—strong,’ murmured Jack Hobart.

  A minute later, Mr Clitheroe and the attractive lady who knew how to mix a good cocktail were standing by him again. But he was quite unconscious of the fact.

  CHAPTER XIX

  MR CLITHEROE’S BIG IDEA

  ‘WELL, there he is,’ said the attractive woman. ‘And now what are you going to do with him?’

  ‘That, as Hamlet, observed,’ answered Mr Clitheroe, ‘is the question. I am not quite sure, Jessica, what I am going to do with him.’

  ‘But you’ve got some idea at the back of your head, Mr Clitheroe,’ she retorted. ‘And this is the time to explain it to me.’

  Had Jack Hobart, lying inert in his chair, been in a condition to hear her retort, he would have been interested in the fact that she addressed her assumed father by his surname. But if he had been in a condition to hear, she would have continued to adopt the daughterly attitude which she now very definitely shed.

  ‘I explain things at my own time,’ snapped the old man. If she was not daughterly, neither was he paternal.

  ‘No, at Mahdi’s time,’ she corrected spitefully. ‘I suppose you know he’s not far off?’

  ‘I am quite aware that he is not far off,’ barked the old man, more testily than ever. ‘Is it likely that he would be far off? Is it likely that he will take himself off at all until we’ve carried this through? And am I going to carry it through unless I have absolute and unquestioned obedience?’

  ‘Obedience?’ exclaimed Jessica. ‘I say, are you being funny? In the space of three minutes you tell me to send a man I’ve never seen to sleep. In five minutes I have done it—’

  ‘Eight and a half minutes, my dear,’ corrected Mr Clitheroe, with a cynical smile.

  ‘Don’t be irritating! I’ve done what you asked me to do—’

  ‘Told you to do!’

  ‘If you like! What’s it matter? And now you prattle about obedience! What would you do if I became disobedient, for a change?’

  ‘I would make the change complete,’ replied Mr Clitheroe. ‘It would be a change from a charming evening frock, and charming furs, and charming jewellery, to the kind of fashion in vogue at Brixton or Holloway.’

  ‘Well, I’m not pretending that I’d like it,’ she responded shrewdly; ‘but at least I would have the satisfaction of knowing that your own beauty would be in the very latest Dartmoor style! You’ve often complained that I’m over-curious. Perhaps I am. I’m a woman, and it’s my prerogative! But you’re over-secretive, and unless you unbutton your tongue a bit more, maybe you’ll land us all in the soup!’

  ‘Unbutton my tongue? In the soup? What horrid phrases!’ murmured Mr Clitheroe. ‘Well, well, if you insist on increasing your personal risk by sharing dangerous knowledge, I will tell you one of my ideas concerning our friend Mr Hobart. It is to kill him.’

  ‘I’m out of that!’ she muttered quickly.

  ‘Oh, no, you are not,’ he answered. ‘You are in it. Right up to the neck, my dear. The only way to get out of it is to go to a policeman and tell him that you fear for the life of a man you have just drugged. In certain ways, Jessica, you are the cleverest woman I know. If I were twenty years younger, you might even bring off one of your clever tricks on me. White skin means nothing to me now, however…But, yes, in other ways, Jessica, you are a fool. You drive me to tell you things which it would be far healthier for you not to know. You drive me to tell you that, before long, I may kill Mr Hobart. Now, who but a fool would want to know that?’

  She tapped her foot impatiently. If she felt any sympathy for Mr Hobart, she did not betray it. Her antagonism towards Mr Clitheroe appeared to be based on other considerations.

  ‘The fool continues her folly,’ she responded, ‘and
now wants yon to tell her why you may kill Mr Hobart?’

  Mr Clitheroe considered the question thoughtfully. Then he turned towards the subject under consideration, and regarded him silently for several seconds.

  ‘Mr Hobart came into this house out of the void,’ he said, almost as though he were thinking aloud. ‘Would any one be the wiser if he departed back into the void? He has no relatives or friends in England. He has never been in England before. He landed in England only this morning, and does not even seem to have interviewed a hotel manager yet. Out of the void, I said. I am not sure that he has not come to me straight out of heaven.’ He smiled acidly. ‘Why not return the gift?’

  ‘Somebody on earth might inquire for Mr Hobart in time,’ she suggested.

  ‘And might find that some other person—not necessarily Mr Clitheroe—had killed Mr Hobart.’

  ‘I dare say. You’re clever enough. But I’m still waiting to hear the reason for Mr Hobart’s death, if it is really and truly to occur?’

  ‘If it is really and truly to occur,’ murmured the old man. ‘If it is really and truly—well, I will tell you one reason. Mr Hobart owns this house. He is a man who could be very pertinacious about his property. He could, in fact—what was your own rather pretty expression just now?—land us all in the soup. Do you know, Jessica, that he seems worried about a certain young lady who left this house a little while ago in tears? He is susceptible, as well as pertinacious, and those are two dangerous qualities when allied against you—’

  ‘Excepting when you want to give the susceptible one a cocktail,’ interposed Jessica. ‘Well, that’s one reason for the proposed death of Mr Hobart. What’s the other?’

  ‘Have I another?’

  ‘Yes. And, if I’m any judge, a damn sight better one.’

  ‘It is,’ nodded Mr Clitheroe. ‘A damn sight better one. Presently, my dear, you may know all about the damn sight better reason for abruptly shortening the existence of Mr Jack Hobart, late of Australia, late of the world, but for the moment all I am going to tell you is this. If I give Mr Hobart a stiffer dose than you have given him, or if I make a little bullet hole in him in a vital spot, it will be because my action will perfect a plan, which, at the moment, seems to have a little flaw. Yes,’ he added, with a sudden little chuckle, ‘and here comes the flaw. Well, Wharton, what is it this time?’

  His eyes were towards the door, which had opened unceremoniously. In the doorway stood the man who had begun to descend to the hall when Mr Clitheroe had been talking to Hobart, and who had been waved back.

  ‘Mr Wharton is as curious as you are, Jessica,’ observed Mr Clitheroe, while the newcomer stood and stared. ‘Now, you’ll see, he will start asking questions!’

  ‘By God, yes!’ exclaimed Wharton. ‘What’s happened here?’

  ‘A man named Wharton has entered my study without knocking,’ replied Mr Clitheroe smoothly, ‘and if he does it again he will be bumped off.’

  ‘I didn’t know a private interview was on,’ retorted Wharton. ‘Look here, suppose we cut out the repartee? That chap there—have you bumped him off?’

  ‘Not yet,’ answered Mr Clitheroe.

  ‘Just doped, eh?’

  ‘Just doped.’

  ‘What’s the big idea?’

  ‘A very big idea, Wharton, believe me,’ Mr Clitheroe assured him. ‘In fact, quite an enormous idea. Stand still for a moment, Wharton. About five feet ten, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why the deuce—’

  ‘And our friend here is about five ten. And you’ve both got dark hair, and you’re both clean-shaven. It’s a pity you’re so pale, Wharton, but a touch of Bronzo could remedy that, and if you wore a similar suit, and the light were not too good—’

  ‘Look here, what the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘I am talking about big ideas, Wharton,’ said Mr Clitheroe, ‘and now let me hear your voice on smaller ones. What are you here for?’

  ‘To tell you that the van has just stopped outside.’

  The front door bell rang as he spoke. Mr Clitheroe’s eyes lit up.

  ‘But how opportune!’ he cried. ‘The van! The van that is delivering something just a few inches longer than five feet ten. Go to the door, Wharton, and help Flitt bring it in.’

  ‘Where are we to put it?’

  ‘In the back room on the second floor,’ responded Mr Clitheroe. ‘And when you have done that, come down again. We’ve got to find a place for this, as well.’

  He glanced towards the limp figure in the chair. Wharton followed his glance, shrugged his shoulders, and then wheeled round and left the room. Jessica, who had stood by silently during this conversation, looked uneasy.

  ‘This is getting a bit deeper than I bargained for,’ she muttered.

  ‘You didn’t bargain for anything, my dear,’ retorted Mr Clitheroe. ‘You’re not in a position to. If you’re feeling worried, why not drink your cocktail?’ He pointed, with a smile, to the full glass.

  ‘No, thanks!’ she retorted, now smiling also. ‘That’s a Jowle Street side-car. I think I’ll mix myself another kind!’

  As she did so, Mr Clitheroe watched her silently, while the hall grew fretful with shuffling noises. The noises shuffled and bumped upstairs. Then they ceased.

  Wharton returned.

  ‘And where, this one?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the limp figure in the chair.

  ‘Third floor front,’ replied Mr Clitheroe.

  ‘Bit of a way up, isn’t it?’ frowned Wharton. ‘Why so high?’

  ‘Because I say so,’ snapped Mr Clitheroe, with sudden acidity. ‘Don’t waste time!’

  Wharton growled, but obeyed. The diminutive Flitt assisted him. Once again the hall became alive with lugubrious movement. Once more the attractive woman and the unattractive old man waited in silence.

  ‘And what’s my next job?’ demanded Jessica suddenly.

  ‘To stand by, my dear,’ answered Mr Clitheroe. ‘To keep yourself in readiness. And to remain meanwhile the sweet pure creature you have ever been!’

  ‘You know, one day,’ said Jessica, ‘you’ll be so funny you’ll make some one laugh.’

  She turned and left him. He listened to the rustle of her silk as she departed. How different, that seductive rustle, from the bumping sounds—and how far more dangerous!

  Dangerous to all, at least, saving Mr Clitheroe. Perhaps it was this soothing reflection that caused him to retain, almost unconsciously, his faint smile as he quietly paced the carpet, thinking…thinking…

  But the smile vanished when he suddenly looked up from the carpet and saw Mahdi, the Indian, standing in the study doorway.

  CHAPTER XX

  WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

  IT is a strange fact, which may one day be explained by historians or psychologists, that although civilisation travels westwards round the world and looks back over a conquered East, the East retains a compelling hold over the West and never allows the West to feel comfortable in its victories. Out of the silence that is away from factories, and out of the simplicity of primitive ideas arises a sense of ultimate power, and it is this sense that disturbs us when, temporarily detached from the civilised scheme that bears and encourages us along, we encounter the East alone and meet its mystic eye. It is the mysticism of the deathless and of the eternal, confounding our attempts to create and to slay. Just as Frankenstein was devoured by the monster he had made, so is man devoured by the things he destroys. A friend has no power over us, but the fellow we kill can return every night to torment us.

  It was not only the mysticism of the East, however, that caused Mr Clitheroe to regard the appearance of Mahdi in the study doorway with acute discomfort. Until this moment he had been master in his own house—or, more correctly speaking, in the house of Mr Jack Hobart, now lying insensible on a little bed in the third floor front. He had bent other wills to his own. He had played with other moods. He had pulled the strings, and the puppets had danced. But now his quiet assurance left
him, and as he stared back at the Indian, his keen eyes dulled a little.

  That optical dullness was, nevertheless, the only outward sign he gave of his psychological transformation.

  ‘Well?’ he barked at last.

  Then the Indian moved into the room and closed the door. It was as though he had been waiting for the establishment of his dominance by making the other speak first.

  ‘Is it well?’ he asked, after the door was closed.

  ‘Of course, it’s well!’ retorted Mr Clitheroe testily. ‘There was no necessity for you to use your latch key.’

  ‘As ever, over-confident,’ answered Mahdi, his voice as well as his face expressionless. ‘It is very far from well, Mr Clitheroe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mr Clitheroe, still striving angrily to conceal the disturbance within him. ‘What do you know about it?’ Mahdi raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I mean, about this particular business? I don’t interfere with your department, Mahdi. Why do you poke your nose into mine?’

  Mahdi thought for a moment, then replied:

  ‘There is one of your English firms, Mr Clitheroe, where the directors start as waiters. When they become directors they cease to wait, but as they have been through every department they can tell others how to run every department, or they can run the department themselves if those others fail to run it well. Do you understand that? Or no?’

  ‘Oh, I expect I understand,’ grunted the old man; ‘but it doesn’t alter the fact that you’re wasting time here, and creating an unnecessary disturbance.’

  ‘Who are disturbed?’

  ‘Those who are working in my department!’

  ‘And—you?’

  ‘I? Oh, yes! You see, I am interested in my department, and I know it can’t be run properly if it is upset!’

  ‘I, too, share that knowledge, Mr Clitheroe. But if the waiter lays his table badly, he is bound to be upset one way or the other at last. First the director upsets him in the hope that he will learn to lay the table well. Failing that—’ Mahdi shrugged his shoulders lightly. ‘Well, Mr Clitheroe, then the director upsets him by dismissing him altogether.’