The Rasp

by Philip MacDonald

  With his silence, Lucia’s cloak of impassivity left her. ‘What shall we do?’ she whispered. ‘What shall we do? They’ll find out that Jimmy—they’ll find out. I know they will, I—’

  ‘The police know nothing about your brother, Mrs Lemesurier.’ Anthony’s tone was soothing. ‘And if they did, they wouldn’t worry their heads about him. You see, they’ve found a man they’re sure is the murderer. There’s quite a good prima facie case against him, too.’

  Relief flooded her face with colour. For a moment she lay relaxed in her chair; then suddenly sat bolt upright again, her hands clutching at its arms.

  ‘But—but if they’re accusing someone else, they—we must tell them about—about—Jimmy.’ Her face was white, dead white, again.

  ‘You go too fast, you know,’ said Anthony. ‘Don’t you think we’d better find out a few people who didn’t do it before we unburden ourselves to the Law?’

  She laid eager hands on his arm. ‘You mean—you think Jim didn’t—didn’t do it?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘More prejudice, you see. And I know the man the bobbies have got hold of had nothing to do with it either. Again prejudice. Bias, lady, bias! There’s nothing like it to clear the head, nothing. Now, have you a telephone?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said eagerly. Hope, trust, and other emotions showed in the velvet darkness of her eyes.

  ‘And your brother’s address?’

  Unhesitatingly she gave it; then added: ‘The phone’s in here.’ She pointed to a writing-table at the far end of the room.

  As he turned to go to it, she clutched again at his arm. ‘Damn it!’ thought Anthony. ‘I wish she wouldn’t keep doing that. So disturbing!’ But he smiled down at her.

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous to use the telephone?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t it? The girls at the exchange—if you use his name—’

  ‘Credit me with guile,’ smiled Anthony.

  He crossed the room, sat by the table and pulled the instrument towards him. She stood beside him, her fingers gripping the back of his chair. He lifted the receiver and asked for a city number.

  ‘Is it a trunk-call?’ he added. ‘No? Good!’

  To Lucia, her heart in her mouth, it seemed hours before he spoke again. Then—

  ‘Hallo. That The Owl office?’ he said. ‘It is? Well, put me on to Mr Hastings, please. At once. You can’t? My child, if I’m not put through at once you’ll go tomorrow! Understand?’ A pause. To Lucia it seemed that the heavy thudding of her heart must be filling the room with sound. She pressed a hand to her breast.

  Then Anthony’s voice again. ‘Ah, that you, Spencer? Oh, it’s the unerring Miss Warren, is it? Yes, Gethryn speaking. He is, is he? When’ll he be back? Or won’t he? Oh, you’re all always there until midnight, are you? Well, when he comes in, will you please tell him—this is important—that I’ve run across some one who knows where our old friend Masterson, Jimmy Masterson, is. Hastings will want to see him at once, I know. He and I have been trying to find Masterson for years. And say that I want to find out what Jimmy was doing last night. Tell Hastings to ask him or to find out somehow where he was. It’s a great joke.

  ‘The address is 84 Forest Road, NW5. Now, Miss Warren, if you wouldn’t mind repeating the message?’ A pause. Then: ‘That’s exactly right, Miss Warren, thanks. You never make mistakes, do you? Don’t forget to tell Hastings he simply must go there this evening, whether the work’ll allow him or not. And he’s got to ring me up here—Greyne 23—and tell me how he got on. And, by the way, ask him from me if he remembers his Cicero, and tell him I said: Haec res maximi est: statim pare. Got it? I won’t insult you by offering to spell it.

  ‘Thanks so much, Miss Warren. Good-night.’

  He replaced the receiver and rose from his chair. He turned to find the face of his hostess within an inch of his own. The colour had fled again from her cheeks; the eyes again held fear in them. It seemed as if this passing-on of her brother’s name had revived her terror.

  ‘Preserve absolute calm,’ said Anthony softly. ‘The cry of the moment is “dinna fash”.’ Gently, he forced her into a chair.

  The eyes were piteous now. ‘I don’t—I don’t understand anything!’ she gasped. ‘What was that message? What will it do? What am I to—to do? Oh, don’t go! Please don’t go!’

  ‘The message,’ Anthony said, ‘was to a great friend whose discretion is second only to mine own. Don’t you think it was a nice message? Nothing there any long-ears at the exchange could make use of, was there? All so nice and above board, I thought. And I liked the very canine latin labelled libellously “Cicero”. That was to make sure he understood that the affair was urgent. The need for discretion he’ll gather from the way the message was wrapped up. Oh, I’m undoubtedly a one, I am!

  ‘And as for going, I’m not until I’ve had an answer from Hastings. That ought to be about midnight. At least, I won’t go unless you ask me to.’ He sat down, heavily, upon a sofa.

  Something—his calmness, perhaps—succeeded. He saw the fear leave the face, that face of his dreams. For a moment, he closed his eyes. He was thirsty for sleep, yet desired wakefulness. She glanced at him, timidly almost, and saw the deep lines of fatigue in the thin face, the shadows under the eyes.

  ‘Mr Gethryn,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes?’ Anthony’s eyes opened.

  ‘You look so tired! I feel responsible. I’ve been so very difficult, haven’t I? But I’m not going to be silly any more. And—and isn’t there anything I can do? You are tired, you know.’

  Anthony smiled and shook his head.

  Suddenly: ‘Fool that I am!’ she exclaimed; and was gone from the room.

  Anthony blinked wonderingly. He found consecutive thought difficult. This sudden recurrence of fatigue was a nuisance. ‘Haven’t seen her laugh yet,’ he murmured. ‘Must make her laugh. Want to hear. Now, what in hell do we do if Brother James turns out to be the dastardly assassin after all? But I don’t believe he is. It wouldn’t fit. No, not at all!’

  His eyes closed. With an effort, he opened them. To hold sleep at bay he picked up a book that lay beside him on the couch. He found it to be a collection of essays, seemingly written in pleasant and even scholarly fashion. He flicked over the leaves. A passage caught his eye. ‘And so it is with the romantic. He is as a woman enslaved by drugs. From that first little sniff grows the craving, from the craving the necessity, from the necessity—facilis descensus Averno…’

  The quotation set his mind working lazily. So unusual to find that dative case; they nearly all used the almost-as-correct but less pleasant ‘Averni’. But he seemed to have seen ‘Averno’ somewhere else, quite recently, too. Funny coincidence.

  The book slipped from his hand to the floor. In a soft wave, sleep came over him again. His eyes closed.

  He opened them to hear the door of the room close softly. From behind him came a pleasant sound. He sat upright, turning to investigate.

  Beside a small, tray-laden table stood his hostess. She was pouring whisky from decanter to tumbler with a grave preoccupation which lent an added charm to her beauty. Anthony, barely awake, exclaimed aloud.

  She turned in a flash. ‘You were asleep,’ she said, and blushed under the stare of the green eyes.

  ‘I’m so psychic, you know,’ sighed Anthony. ‘I always know when spirits are about.’

  She laughed; and the sound gave him more pleasure even than he had anticipated. Like her voice, it was low and soft and golden.

  She lifted the decanter again. ‘Say when,’ she said, and when he had said it: ‘Soda?’

  ‘Please—a little.’ He took the glass from her hand and tasted. ‘Mrs Lemesurier, I have spent my day in ever-increasing admiration of you. But now you surpass yourself. This whisky—pre-war, I think?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded absently, then burst out: ‘Tell me, why are you doing all this for me—taking all this trouble? Tell me!’

  Tonight Anthony’s mind was running in a Latin groove. �
�Veni, vidi, vicisti!’ he said, and drained his glass.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE INEFFICIENCY OF MARGARET

  I

  MISS MARGARET WARREN, severely exquisite as to dress, golden hair as sleek as if she were about to begin rather than finish the day’s work, sat at her table in Hastings’s room.

  Before her was the pad on which, ten minutes ago, she had written Anthony’s message. She knew it by heart. As the minutes passed she grew more troubled at her employer’s absence. Here—it was obvious—was something which ought to be done without waste of time; and time had already been wasted. She knew Colonel Gethryn well enough to be sure that the talk about a ‘great joke’ had been camouflage. No, this was all something to do with the murder. Had he not said with emphasis that Ja—Mr Hastings was to ring him up as soon as he had found this man Masterson? He had, and all had to know, it seemed, where this man Masterson had been on Thursday night, the night Hoode had been killed.

  ‘I don’t believe,’ thought Margaret, ‘that either of them know this man Masterson at all. That’s all part of the camouflage, that is. And then there’s that bit of terrible Latin. I thought better of Colonel Gethryn, I did. Still, there it is: “This matter is of the greatest importance. Obey immediately.” Cicero indeed!’

  She glanced at her watch. A quarter of an hour wasted already!

  An idea came to her. Hastings had gone out for food. In that case he might, if he had indeed gone there, still be at that pseudo-Johnsonian haunt, The Cock. Thither she sent a messenger, hot-foot. He was back within five minutes. No, the boss wasn’t there.

  ‘Damn!’ said Miss Warren.

  She looked again at her watch. Twenty past ten. She put on her hat—the little black hat which played such havoc with the emotions of the Editor. The copy of Anthony’s message she placed on Hastings’s table, together with another hastily scribbled note. Then she went down the stairs and out into Fleet Street.

  After three attempts, she found a taxi whose driver was willing to take her so far afield as Forest Road, NW5.

  The journey, the driver said, would take ’arfenar or thereabouts. Margaret employed the time constructing two stories, one to be used if this man Masterson turned out to be over fifty, the other if he were under. They were good tales, and she was pleased with them. The ‘under-fifty’ one involved an Old Mother, Mistaken Identity, and an Ailing Fiancée. The ‘over-fifty’ one was, if anything, better, dealing as it did with A Maiden from Canada, A Times ‘Agony’, Tears, A Lost Kitten, and A Railway Journey. Both tales were ingeniously devised to provide ample opportunity for innocently questioning this man Masterson as to his whereabouts on the night of Thursday.

  The taxi pulled up. The driver opened the door. ‘’Ere y’are, miss. Number fourteen.’

  As she paid the fare, Miss Warren discovered her heart to be misbehaving. This annoyed her. She strove to master this perturbation, but met with little enough success.

  The taxi jolted away down the hill. The road was quiet; too quiet, Margaret thought. Also it was dismal; too dismal. There were too few lamps. There was not even a moon. There didn’t seem to be any lighted windows. A nasty, inhospitable road.

  She perceived No. 14 to be a ‘converted’ house. A great black building that might once have housed a merchant prince, but was now the warren of retired grocers, oddities, solicitors, and divorcees.

  Margaret mounted the steps, slowly. The porter’s lobby in the hall was empty. From one of a series of brass plates she divined that Flat 6B was the burrow of one James Masterson. Flat 6B, it seemed, was on the first floor. The lift was unattended. She walked up the stairs.

  Frantically she reviewed her stories, testing them at every point. She wished she hadn’t come, had waited till Hastings had got back!

  Facing the door of Flat 6B, Miss Margaret Warren took herself in hand, addressed rude remarks to herself, and applied firm pressure to the bell-push.

  There was no sound of footsteps; there was no hand on the latch—but the door swung open.

  Margaret fell back, stifling a scream. A small squeak broke from her lips. It was such a funny squeak that it made her laugh.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Margaret,’ she told herself sternly. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of contraptions to open doors? Hundred per cent labour-saving.’

  But her heart was thudding violently as she entered the little hall. From a room on her right came a man’s voice, querulous, high-pitched.

  ‘Who’s that?’ it said. ‘Come in, damn you! Come in!’

  She turned the handle, and entered a bedroom well furnished but in a state of appalling disorder. A dying fire—the temperature that day had been over ninety in the shade—belched out from the littered grate occasional puffs of black smoke. The bed-clothes were tossed and rumpled; half of them lay on the floor. A small table sprawled on its side in the middle of the room. Crumpled newspapers were everywhere, everywhere. Huddled in an arm-chair by the fireplace was a man.

  His hair was wild, his eyes bright, burning with fever. A stubble of black beard was over the thin face. Over his cheek-bones was spread a brilliant flush. A man obviously ill, with temperature running high.

  One must sympathise with Margaret. She had expected any scene but this. Again fear seized her. What a fool she had been to come! What a fool! This man Masterson was ill; yet she couldn’t feel sorry for him. Those over-bright eyes fixed on hers were so malevolent somehow.

  She stammered something. Her mouth was so dry that coherent speech seemed impossible.

  Then the man got out of his chair. Dully, she noticed how great was the tax on his strength. He clutched at the mantel for support. Dislodged by his elbow, a bottle crashed down and splintered on the tiles of the hearth. The smell of whisky, which always made her feel sick, combined with apprehension and the heat of the room, to set Margaret’s senses dancing a fantastic reel.

  Clutching the mantelpiece, the man attempted a bow. ‘You must pardon my appearance,’ he said, and his voice made the girl shrink back, ‘but I am—am at your service. Oh, yes, believe me. What can I have the great pleasure of—of doing for you? Eh?’

  He started to move towards her, aiding his trembling legs by scrabbling at the wall. Margaret felt a desire to scream; choked the scream back. She tried to burst into speech, to say something, anything, to tell one of her little stories that she had been so proud of. She failed utterly.

  The man continued his spider-like approach.

  ‘Go back! Go back!’ Margaret whispered. She was shaking, shaking all over.

  But the man had left the wall, and without its support had fallen to his knees. His head lolling with every movement, he crawled to the overturned table and searched among the litter of newspaper beside it.

  Margaret cast longing eyes at the door. She tried to move, but her legs would not obey her. Fascinated by the horror of the thing she looked down at the man. Her eye caught heavy headlines on the tumbled papers.

  ‘ABBOTSHALL MURDER! CABINET MINISTER ASSASSINATED! HORRIBLE ATROCITY! IS IT BOLSHEVISM?’ they shrieked in letters two inches high.

  And the man—this man Masterson—had found what he wanted. He sat grotesquely on the carpet, holding in both hands the butt of a heavy automatic pistol. The barrel pointed straight at Margaret’s head. A queer, sick feeling came over her. She felt her knees grow weak beneath her.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down, will you!’ The man’s tones were harsh, cracked—the voice of one ill to the point of collapse.

  II

  Spencer Hastings stood disconsolate on the threshold of the editorial chamber. He had supped with a friend who was an artist. The artist had talked. Spencer Hastings had been later than he had intended in returning to the office. When he did—she had gone.

  ‘Damn it! Oh, damn it!’ he said fervently.

  One must sympathise with him. He was ashamed, bitterly ashamed, of himself. For the ten thousandth time he thought it all over. Hell! He was badly in love with the woman, why didn’t he grab hold of her and
tell her so? Why was it that he couldn’t? Because he was afraid. Afraid of her aloof beauty, her completeness, her thrice-to-be-damned efficiency—how he loathed that word beloved of Babbitts! If only she weren’t quite so—so infernally and perpetually equal to the situation!

  Yes, he was afraid, that’s what it was! He, Spencer Sutherland Hastings, sometime the fastest three-quarter in England, sometime something of an ace in the Flying Corps, renowned in old days for his easy conquest of Woman, he was afraid! Afraid forsooth of a little slip of a thing he could almost hang on his watch-chain! Disgusting, he found himself!

  He flitted dejectedly about the room. Should he go home? No, he’d better do some work; there’d be an easy time coming soon.

  He crossed the room and sat down at his table. Two slips of paper, both covered with Margaret’s clear, decisive handwriting, stared up at him.

  He read and re-read. Here was more Efficiency! Undoubtedly she had put its real meaning to Anthony’s message. In his mind alarm replaced that mixture of irritation and reverence. ‘I thought this should be attended to at once, so have gone to the address given by Colonel Gethryn,’ she had written. Aloud, Hastings heaped curses upon the loquacity of the artist with whom he had supped.

  He read the message and the note a third time, then jumped to his feet. That little white darling to go, alone and at such a time, to the house of a man who might be—well, a murderer! Of course, Anthony might only be after a possible witness, but—

  He seized his hat and made for the stairs and Fleet Street.

  III

  Margaret lay huddled in the uncomfortable chair. For perhaps the hundredth time she choked back the scream which persisted in rising to her lips. Every suppression was more difficult than its predecessor.

  Still, though she seemed to have been looking down it for an eternity, the black ring which was the muzzle of the automatic stared straight into her eyes.

  The man had not moved. He was crouched upon the floor, no part of him steady save the hands which held the pistol. And he went on talking. Margaret felt that the rest of her life was a dream; that always, in reality, he had been talking and she listening.