‘You can do that best,’ Anthony interrupted, ‘by keeping on about Hoode and these press-cuttings. I’ve made some conclusions about ’em myself, but you know more.’
A slight flush rose to the sallow cheek of the man in bed. He turned restlessly.
‘When I come to think of it,’ he said nervously, ‘I don’t know a great deal. Mostly surmise, and from what I’ve heard of you I should say you’re better at that game than I am.’
Anthony grew grim. ‘Someone’s been exaggerating. You fire ahead. The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be able to get away and leave you in peace.’
Masterson said hesitantly: ‘All right. When I first saw the things coming out one by one I didn’t think anything about ’em. But after a week or so—it may have been a month—something queer struck me. At first I couldn’t place it. Then after collecting a few of the articles, I tumbled. It seemed to me that one man was behind ’em. More, that one man was writing ’em—and for three papers of widely different politics and apparently belonging to different people!’
Anthony was pleased. ‘You support me. I thought the author seemed to be one man, though I’ve not had time to study the things carefully. I went so far as to think—the authorship being the same and the papers so different in views—that one man controlled all three.’ He fell silent a moment, then added slowly: ‘One might consider, you know, whether the controller and the writer—’
But Masterson interrupted. ‘Look here,’ he said, sitting up in obvious excitement, ‘how did you spot the unity of authorship business?’
‘Similarity of style, I think,’ Anthony was reflective. ‘I’ve got quite an eye for style. Two or three times the fellow tried to disguise it. By doing that he gave the game away completely.’
‘Oh, but there was more than that!’ cried the other, fumbling with shaking hands at the sheaf of cuttings. ‘Wait till I find—ah! Now, look at this. “The Minister of Imperial Finance, in his efforts for advancement of self, would do well to remember that hackneyed line of Pope: ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’.” Did you see that?’
Anthony opened his eyes. ‘I did. And thought how refreshing it was to see the quotation given right. They nearly all get it wrong, though you’d think anyone could see that Pope couldn’t have been such a fool as to say a little knowledge was dangerous. Knowledge is always useful; learning isn’t—until you’ve got plenty. But go on: what about it?’
Masterson was searching feverishly. ‘Tell you when I’ve found—here we are!’ Listen. Er-um Finance—policy—rumty-tumty—“when Greek joins Greek, then comes the tug-of-war!” There you are again. How many times d’you see that given right?’
‘Never,’ said Anthony. ‘They all say “meets”.’
‘There you are, then. It all goes to prove what you felt and I’m certain about.’ He tapped the bundle of cuttings with a lean finger. ‘All these were written by the same man; there’s not a doubt in my mind. Style—similarity in style, I mean—isn’t proof; but this orgy of correctitude plus that similarity is. At least it’s good enough for me. There are plenty more instances if you want them. There’s one I remember well—a leader in Vox Populi. It was a more vicious attack on Hoode even than the others, and it was so damn well done that it was almost convincing. It said, apropos of him: “facilis descensus averno”. What about that?’
Anthony sat up. ‘“Averno” is very rare,’ he said slowly. ‘But it’s a better reading. I saw it. I wondered. I wondered a lot.’
There was a silence. The two looked at each other.
‘Masterson,’ Anthony said at last, ‘you’re very useful, you know. Most useful. Wish you weren’t sick a-bed. Now here’s another point. We’ve fixed the author of these articles as one man; but what about the motive force behind the author. I’m inclining to the view that as these papers differ so widely in everything else they are controlled by someone whose only interest in them was to do Hoode a bad turn. Agree?’
Masterson nodded emphatically.
‘Right,’ Anthony leant forward, speaking softly. ‘But did this motive force hire someone to write for it, or was its distaste for the unfortunate Robin Hoode so great that it wrote itself, being unwilling to forgo the pleasure of, so to speak, giving birth to a new litter of scorpions three times a month or more? Briefly, are you with me in thinking that author and motive force are probably one and the same?’
‘By God, I am!’ Masterson said.
Anthony smiled. ‘Well, thank God I’ve found another lunatic! That’s what we are, you know. Think of our theory! It is that someone had such a hatred of Hoode that the secret purchase of three newspapers was needed to assuage it. That’s what we’ve said; we’re thinking more. But we’re frightened to say what it is because it’ll sound so silly.’
‘I know. I know.’ Masterson’s tone was almost fearful. ‘I say, we can’t be right! It isn’t sense! Now I come to think of it there are dozens of other theories that’d fit! There might be more than one person. The whole thing might be political. The—’
Anthony raised a hand for silence. ‘Fear not. Of course you can fit other theories. One always can; that’s the devil of this bloodhound business. The only way to work is to pick a likely-looking path and go down it. I’ve chosen one to get on with. As you say, it’s not sense; but then nothing else is. It’s sad and bad and very mad and very far from sweet. But there it is. So we’ll all go mad. I’m starting now.’ He got to his feet.
‘Here, wait a minute!’ Masterson cried. ‘Don’t go. I—I might be able to help you.’
‘My dear fellow, you have already—immeasurably! For one thing you’ve crystallised my determination to go mad and stay mad—’
‘Oh, I know all about that!’ Masterson exhibited some irritation. ‘But I mean really help. I was just going to tell you. When I was with Hoode, before I told him about the business, I went to one of those filthy private inquiry agents. I was so absolutely certain, you see. I told this chap to find out, if he could, who the enemy was. Or rather I told him to find out who really owned the three newspapers. He thought I was mad, said he could do it in a day—but he didn’t! I think he imagined he’d only got to look it up or get someone from Fleet Street to tell him. Of course, that didn’t work, he only gave me the three figureheads that’re shown to the trusting world. But when I laughed at him, and explained a little, I think he got his back up and really went for the job.’
‘D’you mean to say—?’ began Anthony.
‘No, I don’t! Before I heard any more I had the row with Hoode—I didn’t tell him about the ’tec, of course; I was too angry—and dropped the whole business and paid this chap off. He was very fed up, kept trying to see me, and writing. Of course—well in the state I was in, I refused to see him and chucked his letters into the fire. But he was so very eager! He might know something, I think!’
Anthony was elated. ‘He might indeed. Masterson, you’re a treasure! What’s the name?’
‘Pellett, he calls himself. Office is at 4 Grogan’s Court, off Fleet Street, just past Chancery Lane.’
‘Excellent! Now I’m going.’ Anthony held out his hand. ‘And thank you. Hope I’ve done you no harm.’
‘Not a bit. Feel better already. Let me know how you get on. Going to sleep now,’ said the invalid, and did, before Anthony had reached the door.
In the passage, Anthony hesitated. Should he go straight from the flat or should he tell Her first that he was going? Then, as he reached it, the door of the drawing-room opened.
The passage was dimly lit, and at first she did not see him. He moved towards her. There came a startled ‘Oh!’ of surprise; then she straightened herself into a rigidity eloquent of protest. Anthony groaned. He had hoped the ruffled feathers smooth again.
‘Your brother,’ he said, ‘is asleep. By the look of him he’s in for a good twelve hours. He’s none the worse and I’m even more full of information than I’d hoped to be. So everything in the garden is lovely!’
But Luc
ia was angry. Lucia was not to be put off by this light-and-airyness. When she spoke her voice was cold; cold and cruel. She meant to hurt—and succeeded.
‘Is there nothing,’ she said, ‘that my brother and I can help you with further? Nothing that we can be made to do? A woman and a sick man! Oh, surely there is?’
For the second time that night Anthony lost his temper. One must, to a certain extent, forgive him. He was worried and tired and harassed and very much in love. He laughed, and peered down at her in the half-light. Lucia caught her breath. Like many lesser women she had been angry, said far more than she had meant. And now she was sorry, and—well, yes, frightened.
‘Before I go,’ Anthony said, ‘I will tell you a story. Once on a time there was a woman who had a big brother and a little sister. One night, she heard that her big brother, who was living in the great city, was sick with a chill. Good friends had taken him to their house and were caring for him. But the woman posted to the great city to make sure that her brother was indeed being well tended.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘she left behind her in the country her little sister. Now, this maid was in great sorrow, for her lover had been seized by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and thrust into a dungeon. Here he was to stay until the king’s judges had decided whether or not to hang him for a misdeed of which he had not been guilty. So, left alone, the little sister grew more and more lonely and frightened, and became in danger of falling ill. She had nobody to comfort her, you see. But that, of course, did not matter, because big brother had his mustard plaster in the right place at last.’
He walked to the front-door; opened it. ‘Good-night,’ he said, and shut it gently behind him.
Hands gleaming pale against her throat, Lucia leant against the wall of the passage.
Down in the street, Anthony jumped into his car; then for a moment sat staring before him. Like many lesser men, he had, being angry, said more than he had meant. And now he was frightened.
They had, it must be admitted, behaved like silly children. Very silly children. But then the best people so often do.
CHAPTER XIV
HAY-FEVER
I
AFTER that one moment of introspection, Anthony headed his car for Fleet Street. At twenty-five minutes past eleven he burst into the room of The Owl’s editor.
The editor and his secretary were rather close together. The shining golden hair of the secretary was noticeably disordered.
‘Er—hallo!’ said Hastings.
Anthony said: ‘Get hold of private ’tec called Pellett; 4 Grogan’s Court. Find out what he knows about the ownership of The Searchlight, The St Stephen’s Gazette, and Vox Populi. He was commissioned for same thing some time ago by J. Masterson. Never mind how much he costs, I’ll pay. If Pellett doesn’t know anything, find out yourself. In any case give me the answer as soon as is damn well possible. Got that? Right. ’Night. ’Night, Miss Warren.’ The door banged behind him.
Margaret Warren snatched some papers from her table and followed. She caught him in the entrance hall.
‘Mr Gethryn!’ she said, breathless. ‘Here’s the report—asked—for—inquest. Just finished—typed. You may—want it.’
Anthony raised his hat. ‘Miss Warren, you’re wonderful.’ He took the papers from her hand. ‘Many thanks. Hope I don’t seem rude. Very busy. Good-night—and good luck.’ He shook her hand and was gone.
Slowly, Margaret went back to her editor. He was found pacing the room, scratching his head in bewilderment.
‘Yes, darling, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?’ Margaret said.
‘He was.’ Hastings spoke with conviction. ‘I’ve known that man for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.’
Margaret patted his cheek. ‘But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more important than that—or I’m a Dutchman!’
Hastings was alarmed. ‘Not that! Anything but that! What was it, then?’
‘A woman, of course. The woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?’
‘Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr Pellett!’ said Hastings.
II
From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were streaming out from its great glass doors.
He anticipated difficulty, and approached the stage door-keeper with a five-pound note and broken English. He was, it seemed, Prince Nicolas Something-or-the-other-vitch. He was oh! so great a friend of the great, the incomparable Vanda—even a relation. He must, it was of an imperativeness, see her. Further, the good keeper of the door really must accept this so little piece of paper.
The good keeper did; then proceeded laboriously to explain that Vanda was not in the theatre. Hadn’t been there at all that day. And there ’adn’t been half a row about it, neither! She had wired to say she couldn’t appear. Why? Gawd perhaps knew; certainly nobody else did. When would she reappear? The keeper of the door reely couldn’t say. P’r’aps to-morrer. P’r’aps never. Good-night to you, sir.
Anthony went to his flat, surprised his man, and ordered a drink, a bath, fresh clothing, a drink, and supper.
At the meal, his hunger surprised him. Then he remembered that since the lightest of lunches he had eaten nothing. Having made up the deficiency, he lit a cigar, sat in a chair by the open window and read through, not once but many times, the typed report of the inquest.
Somewhere a clock struck two. Anthony put down the report, clasped his head with his hands, and plunged into thought. Presently he found his mind to be wandering strictly against orders—wandering in a direction forbidden. He swore, got to his feet, and crossed to the writing-table. At this he employed himself with pen and paper for more than an hour.
At last he put down his pen and read through what he had written. The clock struck four. He finished his reading, said: ‘H’mm! Those blasted gaps!’ and went to bed.
III
He had barely two hours’ sleep, for by a quarter past six he was breaking his fast. At twenty minutes past seven he was driving his car slowly through London.
This morning he took the journey to Marling slowly: the pointer of his speedometer touched eighteen as he left the outskirts of town, and remained there. For Anthony was thinking.
For the first third of the journey his thoughts were incoherently redundant. They were of a certain scene in which A. R. Gethryn had lost his temper; had behaved, in short, abominably, and this to the one person in the world for whose opinion he cared.
It cost him an effort greater than might be supposed to wrench his thoughts out of this gloomy train, but at last he succeeded.
This puzzle of his—some of it fitted now, only there were several idiotic pieces which, unfitted, made nonsense of the rest. He flogged his unwilling brain for the rest of the journey.
He backed the Mercedes into the garage of the Bear and Key at twenty-five minutes to ten. By five minutes to the hour he was walking with his long, lazy stride up the winding drive of Abbotshall.
Drawing near the house he saw that the great oaken door stood open, letting a shaft of hot, clean, morning sunlight paint a golden track across the polished floor of the wide hall. He entered, flung his hat on to a chair, and turned in the direction of the stairs.
He had set foot upon the third step when from behind and below him came a noise—a rasping roar of a noise. To his overtired brain and overheated imagination it seemed a noise evil and inhuman. He swung round. The hall was as he had left it, empty of all save furniture. He descended the three steps; stood looking about him; then walked towards the front door. Before he could reach it, the noise came again, louder this time. The same roaring, rasping sound. But this time it had for a tail a snuffli
ng choke which came, obviously, from the throat of a man.
Anthony laughed at himself. Noiselessly, he retraced his steps, passed the foot of the stairs, and halted outside the door opposite that of the study. It stood ajar, giving him a glimpse of the little room which he remembered as being the lair of the butler.
Anthony waited. In a moment came the roar again, now recognisable as half-cough, half-sneeze. Anthony pushed the door wide. Facing it, huddled in a chair, was the butler. His grey head was on a level with his knees. In one claw of a hand he clutched a bandanna handkerchief with which he dabbed every now and then at his streaming eyes.
Anthony stood unmoving in the doorway. Presently another spasm shook the old man.
‘Bad cold, that,’ Anthony said loudly.
There was no answer. The coughing gasps went on; gradually grew less frequent. The thin shoulders ceased to shake.
‘Bad cold, that,’ said Anthony again.
This time he got an effect. Poole leapt to his feet, fumbling hurriedly to hide in a tail pocket the capacious handkerchief.
‘Your pardon, sir!’ he gasped. ‘Did you want me, sir?’
‘I only remarked that yours was a bad cold.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you. Not that it’s a cold, sir, exactly. It’s this hay-fever. And very troublesome it is, sir, for an old fellow like me!’
‘Must be.’ Anthony was sympathetic. ‘D’you have these attacks many times a day?’
‘I used to, sir. But this summer it does seem to be improving, sir. Only takes me every now and then, as you might say.’ The old man’s voice showed gratitude for this concern about his ailment.
But Anthony’s interest in hay-fever was not yet abated. ‘This the first bad fit you’ve had for some time?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. Quite a while since I was so bad, sir. It didn’t trouble me at all yesterday, sir.’
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