The Rasp

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘I found it,’ said Anthony, slowly, ‘in your bedroom at Abbotshall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In your room. On a ledge inside that wonderful old chimney; about six inches higher than the mantel-piece. That accounts for the filth. You can see the rope was white once, and not so long ago.’

  Deacon frowned at the floor. ‘Well, it’s either been there up the chimney since I went to the house—last May, that is—or else it’s been planted there. I never set eyes on it before.’

  ‘Good!’ Anthony coiled up the cord, wrapped it up in the paper, and returned the parcel to his pocket.

  ‘But what’s the beastly bit of string mean? What’s it got to do with me or you or anything in this business? Tell me that!’

  ‘Shan’t,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m not sure yet myself. You’ll have to wait.’

  Deacon shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Right-o. Next, please.’

  Anthony’s hand went to his breast pocket. From a leather wallet he took a bunch of newspaper cuttings.

  ‘These,’ he said, ‘I found in a really-truly secret drawer in your late chief’s desk. Know anything about ’em? Or why they were there?’

  In silence, Deacon read each slip. When he had finished:

  ‘Well?’ Anthony said.

  ‘They mean nothing in my young life. These three rags—The Searchlight, The St Stephen’s Gazette, and the weekly one, Vox Populi—always were dead agin the boss. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re driving at, Gethryn, I can’t really!’

  Anthony groaned. ‘There you go again. Never mind that, but tell me, did you know Hoode was keeping these cuttings?’

  ‘No,’

  ‘Did he ever mention the persistent attacks of these three papers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Pity.’ Anthony got to his feet. ‘I must move. Anything you want? Books? Food? Tobacco?’

  Deacon smiled. ‘Nothing, thanks awfully. Our Arthur—old Digby-Coates, you know—has done all that. Brought me down a sack of books, a box of cigars, and arranged for decidedly improved victuals to be brought over from the White Horse by quite a neat line in barmaidings. Also, he’s fixed up the solicitors and trimmings. They’re going to try to get Marshall, K.C.’

  ‘Excellent! Marshall’s about the best counsel there is. There’s nothing you want, then?’

  ‘Nothing. Shall I see you tomorrow?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘You will. Early afternoon, probably, as I hear they’re moving you later. Good-night; and don’t forget I’m going to get you out of this—somehow.’

  They shook hands. A minute later Anthony was walking slowly back towards his inn up the cobbled street. The sun was sinking behind the gables of a twisted house at the top of the rise, and the road which had been gold was splashed with blood-red blotches.

  He shivered. In all this morass of doubt and wilderness of evil—a wilderness wherein innocent men had obviously committed crimes they had nothing to do with, where every-one was sure except Anthony Ruthven Gethryn—he felt alone. Not even the golden-dark background to his thoughts which was the perpetual image of the Lady of the Sandal could compensate for the blackness of bewilderment—the blackness through which he could see light but not yet the way to light.

  Then his thoughts turned to Deacon, his cheerfulness, his ease of manner, his courage which surely masked a hell of distress. Suddenly the admiration which he felt somehow cheered him. His step quickened.

  ‘By God!’ he muttered, ‘that’s a man and a half—’ and broke off sharply. He had collided with something softly hard. A girl, running. A girl with wild, red-rimmed eyes and a hatless, dishevelled, golden head.

  Before he could voice apology; almost before he was aware of the collision, she had passed him and was stumbling down the uneven little road with its splashes of crimson painted by the dying sun. From a doorway a slatternly woman peered out, curious with the brutal, impersonal curiosity of the yokel.

  Anthony struggled to adjust his memory. Ah, yes! It was the sister. Her sister, Dora Masterson. He turned; caught up with four long strides; laid a hand upon the girl’s shoulder. She shook it off, turning to him a face disfigured by desire for more tears, tears that would not come.

  ‘You were going to the police-station, Miss Masterson?’ Anthony asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘You mustn’t—not like this.’ He took her gently by the arm. ‘You could do nothing—and you’d make him feel as if things were unbearable.’

  ‘I must see him.’ She spoke dully, an unnatural pause between each word.

  ‘Not now,’ said Anthony firmly. ‘Not when I want your help.’ He wondered if the lie showed through his words; cursed that he should have to hamper himself with an hysterical girl.

  She swallowed the bait. ‘Help you?’ she asked eagerly. ‘About—about Archie? HOW can I do that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you here. You must come up to the inn.’ He led her back up the hill.

  CHAPTER XIII

  IRONS IN THE FIRE

  I

  UP in his little, low-ceilinged, oak-panelled sitting-room in the Bear and Key, Anthony sat the girl in the one arm-chair. She refused whisky so pleadingly that he ordered tea. When it had come and the bearer departed, he sat on the table and watched her drink.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘suppose you tell me all about it,’ and was immediately smitten with very fragrant memories of another occasion when he had used that phrase.

  Dora Masterson said simply: ‘I was frightened. Oh, so horribly, horribly frightened!’

  Anthony was puzzled. ‘But why just now? Surely you must have felt like this as soon as you heard?’

  ‘N-no. Of course it was—terrible! But Lucia told me what you said, Mr Gethryn—and she—she seemed to so absolutely believe that you would make everything all right that I—I tried to believe too.’

  Anthony’s heart gave a leap that startled him.

  The girl went on, struggling for control. ‘But—but it was when I heard about the end of the inquest—that he was actually in—Oh, it’s too awful! It’s too terrible!’ She swayed about in the big chair, hands hiding her face, the slim shoulders twisting as if her pain were bodily.

  Again was Anthony puzzled. Something in the tone told him that here was something he had not heard of. And this tendency to hysteria must be stopped.

  ‘What d’you mean? Explain!’ he said sharply.

  She sat upright at that, her face working. ‘I mean that—that—if only I hadn’t been a senseless, vicious little fool; if—if only I hadn’t be-behaved like a b-beastly schoolgirl, Archie wouldn’t—wouldn’t be in that awful place! Oh! why was I ever born?’ She pressed her hands to her face and doubled up in the chair until her forehead rested on her knees.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand yet,’ said Anthony. She raised her head. ‘Weren’t you at the inquest?’ she asked, dabbing at her swollen eyes with the back of a hand like the schoolgirl she had named herself.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Anthony, and wondered how many more times he would have to answer this question.

  ‘Why, then you—you don’t know that—that Archie s-said he went out for a walk during the time when the—the Thing must have been done. And the beasts d-don’t believe him because nobody at all saw him while he was out!’

  ‘I still don’t—’

  She broke in on his sentence with a flood of speech, springing to her feet.

  ‘Oh, you fool, you fool!’ she cried. ‘I ought to have seen him! I, I, I! I was to have met him down there on the bank, this side, by the bridge. We’d arranged a walk! And then because I thought I was someone; because I thought he had been rude to me that afternoon, I must needs think I would punish him! And I didn’t go! I didn’t meet him! I stayed at home! Christ help me, I stayed at home!’

  Anthony was shocked into sympathy ‘My dear chap,’ he said. ‘My dear chap!’ He went to her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. ‘You poor child!’

  Wearily, she sank against hi
m. The reddish-golden head fell on his shoulder. But she made no sound. She was past tears.

  For a moment they stood thus, while he patted the slim shoulder. Then she drew herself upright and away from him.

  ‘You must sit down,’ he said.

  She looked up at him. ‘Please forgive me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to—to make such a fool of myself. And I was very rude.’ She sat down.

  Anthony waved aside apology. ‘What we’ve got to do,’ he said, smiling down at her, ‘is to do something.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. But what, what? Oh, you said I could help, but I believe you only did it out of kindness. But if I could really help—how much less—less filthy I should feel!’

  Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time.

  ‘Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,’ he said to himself; then aloud: ‘You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think. In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. I mean, I’ve found out more than the other fellows—the police—but it’s all odds and ends and tangles—little things, queer in themselves, that men would tell me might be found anywhere if only one troubled to look for ’em. But I say they’re not; that they fit!’

  The girl was sitting upright now, alert, gazing at him intently. ‘Think, then,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now for it,’ thought Anthony, ‘and God send it’ll take her in—and quickly.’

  Aloud, he began: ‘Reconcile for me—put these things into order and make ’em mean something—if you can. Innocent fingerprints on a weapon which performed a murder. An innocent person—not the one of the fingerprints—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi, the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious attacks on corpse when alive. Fingerprints—’

  ‘Mr Gethryn!’ the girl interrupted harshly; ‘you’re making fun of me! No, that’s not fair; you’re just playing with me to make me think I can help. No doubt you mean to be kind—but I hate it!’

  Anthony for once was crestfallen. The truth of the accusation was so complete as to make an answer impossible. He found himself in the indefensible position of one ‘who means well’. He groped wildly for words, but was saved; for, suddenly, Dora sprang to her feet.

  ‘Those cuttings!’ she cried. ‘Did you mean—do you really want to know anything about them?’

  Anthony was surprised. ‘Most certainly I do. I don’t know exactly what I want to know, but that means I want to know everything.’

  ‘Well, go and see Jim—my brother—now, at once!’ She stamped her foot at him in her excitement. ‘When he was secretary to Mr Hoode he was full of those attacks in the press. I remember we thought he was rather silly about them. He used to say there was something more than mere—what did he call it?—policy behind them, and swore he’d make Mr Hoode take notice of them. I think it was what they eventually quarrelled about, but I’m not sure, because he’d never tell me. He wouldn’t even tell Loo—my sister. But if you want to know anything about those papers, Mr Gethryn, Jimmie’s more likely to be able to tell you than anyone else!’

  Anthony looked at her and said: ‘The best apology I can make to you is to go up to town now. Your brother ought to be well enough by this time. He’s got to be!’ He paused; then added with a smile: ‘You know, you wouldn’t have found me out if I’d been less preoccupied. I’m a bit tired, too.’

  Dora, forgetting herself, looked at him closely. ‘Why—why, you look almost ill!’ she cried. ‘P’r’aps you—oughtn’t to go tonight.’

  ‘Oh I’m going right enough,’ Anthony said; ‘and now. And I’m not ill; that’s only my interesting pallor. You must go home—and don’t worry.’

  She cried: ‘How can I help worrying? Worrying till I wish I’d never been born! Unless there’s a miracle—’

  ‘Chesterton once wrote,’ Anthony interrupted her, ‘that “the most wonderful thing about miracles is that they sometimes happen”. And he’s a great and wise man.’

  The girl flashed a tremulous smile at him and passed out of the door.

  II

  At ten minutes past ten the great red Mercedes drew up outside the block of flats where Spencer Hastings lived. Anthony had broken his own record of that afternoon for the Kensington-Marling journey.

  Stiffly, he clambered to the pavement, noted with curiosity that his hands were shaking, and ran up the steps. As he went he wondered would he see Her. He arrived at the door of No. 15 more out of breath than the climb should have made him.

  Wonderfully, it was She who opened it, and at her smile the shortness of his breath was foolishly increased. For the smile was one, it seemed, of open delight at seeing him.

  Hastings, she told him, was out, being at his office. His housekeeper, too, was out, being on holiday. But wasn’t Mr Hastings a dear? Wasn’t Mr Hastings’s betrothed a charming betrothed? The invalid was ever so much better; temperature down; sleeping; in fact, almost all right And she hadn’t forgotten how everything, everything was due to the sagacity, kindliness and general wonderfulness of Mr Gethryn!

  They were by this time in the little drawing-room; and as yet Anthony had done nothing save stare with all his eyes. She finished speaking, and he realised that he must say something. But what? He wanted to shout to Heaven that he hadn’t seen her for hours longer than years. He wanted to catch her hands—those long, slim hands—and cover them with kisses. He wanted to tell her that she was most glorious of women and he the vainglorious fool who dared to love her. He wanted—oh, what did he not want?

  He said: ‘Er—good evening. Hastings out?’

  She opened her eyes at him. ‘But—but, Mr Gethryn, I’ve just told you that Mr Hastings is at his office!’

  ‘Of course. Ah, yes,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Did you want to see him?’

  Anthony recovered himself; remembered that he had work to do, and that by attending to it he could save himself from behaving foolishly.

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘Mrs Lemesurier, I must see your brother.’ It was, he thinks now, the great fatigue which had accumulated during the past days and the strain of that flying drive which led him to speak with such curtness.

  ‘To see Jim? Oh, but you can’t,’ Lucia said. Her tone was gentle and rather aloof and very firm.

  ‘Oh, but I must,’ Anthony said. His loss of temper was regrettable, and was inexplicable to himself even at the time.

  The dark eyes blazed at him. ‘You can’t,’ she said.

  Anthony said with brutal clearness: ‘Mrs Lemesurier, I am, as best I know how, trying to clear of the charge of murder a man I believe innocent. I’ve got to a point where five minutes’ conversation with your brother will help me. Your brother—you have told me yourself—cannot be considered as seriously ill. I must see him.’

  This time it was her eyes that fell. Anthony was angry—with himself. And a man angry with himself is invincible.

  With a grace that burned a picture into his mind she crossed the room, to stand with her back to the door.

  Anthony picked his hat from the table and walked slowly towards her, smiling as he walked. It was not a nice smile. It was a smile which crept up one side of his face and stopped before it reached his eyes. A black smile. There are men in odd corners of the world who would counsel, out of personal experience, that when one sees that smile one had better get out.

  He came close to her, still smiling. For a moment she faced him; then faltered; then stood to one side and let him pass.

  He closed the door softly behind him and began his search for the sick-room. He found it at once. He entered, closing this door even more softly.

  A shaded lamp arranged to leave th
e bed in shadow was the only light. In the bed lay a man. Peering at his face, Anthony could trace a certain faint resemblance. He sat on the chair by the bed and waited.

  ‘What the devil are you?’ said a weak voice.

  Clearly, but with rapidity, Anthony explained his presence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in conclusion, ‘to disturb a sick man, and I’ll get the business over as quickly as possible. But I’ve got to find out all I can, you see.’

  ‘Quite, quite.’ Masterson’s voice was stronger now. Free of fever, shaven, clean, he was vastly different from Margaret’s bogey.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked after a silence.

  Anthony told him. Bored at first, Masterson woke to sudden interest at the mention of the newspaper-cuttings.

  ‘So he did keep ’em!’ He lifted himself in the bed to rest on one elbow.

  Anthony pushed the little bundle of slips into the thin hands. Eagerly, the sick man read each.

  ‘Some of these are new,’ he said. ‘After my time with Hoode, I mean. But these three—and this one—I remember well. Dammit, I ought to! These are what we had that infernal row about.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, you see, I’d been watching these three papers for a long time, and I’d come to a definite conclusion that there was one man behind all the attacks. I told Hoode so, and he laughed at the idea! That made me as mad as hell. I’ve always had a foul temper, but since the war, y’know, it’s really uncontrollable. I mean I actually can’t help it.’

  ‘I know,’ Anthony nodded.

  ‘That’s all. I cursed him for a blind, pig-headed, big-headed fool, and he sacked me. He couldn’t very well do anything else. I still feel very bitter about it; though not quite so much now he’s dead. He was such a brilliant cove in some ways, but so blasted silly in others. Simply wouldn’t listen to what I had to say—and I was sweating to benefit him!’

  ‘“Zeal, all zeal, Mr Easy!”’ said Anthony.

  ‘Exactly; but zeal’s a damn good thing at times, ’specially in private secretaries, and being turned down like that made me brood. I really couldn’t help it, you know. After I got the sack I brooded to such an extent that I simply went to pieces. Drank too much. Made an idiot of myself. I say, Lucia’s told me all about things, and I want to thank—’