‘I am Detective-Inspector Cadover. Rouse your master, please, and say that I must see him at once on a matter of the utmost urgency.’
The man bowed imperturbably. His dignity was by no means disturbed by his having just scrambled out of bed; perhaps – Cadover inconsequently thought – it was fortified by a dressing-gown entirely appropriate in its sombre splendour. ‘Very good, sir. Will you please step into the library?’
It was, Cadover remembered, the Spanish room. He entered it and the door closed softly behind him. He waited.
He waited for perhaps five minutes, not displeased at having this interval in which to arrange his ideas and calm down. But presently he found that he was far from calming down; on the contrary, he felt an obscure pricking of impatience and even alarm. The house was quite silent. He listened in vain for a footstep, for the soft opening or closing of a bedroom door. He got to his feet and prowled. He stared at a picture confronting him from the end of the room. And as he did this there came back to him powerfully the first occasion upon which, tenuously but hauntingly, he had experienced the feeling of something eluding him that he ought to have held. Something that somebody had said…something that somebody had failed to say…a single word that had not been spoken…
Velazquez. That was it. The owner of this splendid thing had said it was there because of its likeness to his son. And then – as if by way of placing it – he had said that it was an old picture – very old indeed. It was a remark absurdly wide of anything that could, in its context, be uttered by a person of genuine cultivation in such things. And Cadover had missed it. He had missed the moment at which a monstrous and daring imposture had given itself away. And here was why the notion of impersonation had haunted him in some connexion other than that of the two lads with the two bowler hats. Sir Bernard Paxton, the owner of this august and sleeping mansion, was one on whom he had never yet set eyes. Sir Bernard had not told fibs about his son. Somebody else – having more colour as an eminent scientist than as an owner of Old Masters – had done that for him.
Cadover strode to the door and threw it open. The hall was in darkness. He brought out a pocket torch and let its beam play until it picked out the light switches. He flicked them on and an aggressively imposing world sprang into being around him. It was like one of those exaggeratedly spacious halls in the movies, with a great curving staircase on which female stars might display their gorgeous gowns or alluring nether limbs. Cadover glanced rapidly about him and discerned, among the numerous expensive and exotic objects displayed, one of homely domestic use, yet of proportions so noble as to be not inadequate to its surroundings. It was a gong – such a gong, it might be supposed, as had once thundered down the remotest corridors of some vast Tibetan lamasery. And Cadover, perhaps because his vanity was wounded at having been egregiously fooled, was prompted to have his moment of drama out of this plodding and harassing affair. He picked up the gong stick and plied it with a will.
The effect exceeded even his exasperated expectation. It was like being himself the stone cast into a still pool; great waves – and they seemed of sheer, quintessential energy rather than of mere sound – pulsed and beat outwards from him in widening circles. When he paused, laying a hand on the great bronze disc to still it, he was aware of numerous doors being thrown open, and of alarmed feet running, in some remote quarter of the house. That, no doubt, was the servants – or what was left of them. But he was aware, too, of something else. A light had flicked on at the head of the staircase, and a single tall figure stood there regarding him. And suddenly Cadover heard over again, on his inner ear, all the gloriously outrageous tumult he had just created. But it had shrunk to a tiny, foolish, and impertinent noise. This was Paxton. There could be no doubt about that.
‘Who are you, and what the devil do you mean?’
The words were such as any indignant householder might have used. They were accompanied, moreover, by the thrusting forward of an object altogether familiar to Cadover’s experience: namely, an automatic pistol. But for a full second longer, and as he laid down the gong stick, he preserved the simple sense of a unique event. He had never before looked straight at genius, and he might never do so again.
‘I am a police officer, and I have taken the quickest means I could to rouse you to a matter of extreme urgency.’
For a split second the tremendous presence that was Sir Bernard Paxton wavered. It was, Cadover saw, unreadiness, irresolution; it was certainly no sort of uneasy conscience. And the impression was instantly gone. The tall figure half turned to some invisible corridor down which several pairs of feet could be heard hurrying. ‘Go back to your rooms,’ he said in a level voice. ‘Tell the women that there is no danger of any sort. It has been’ – and his glance came back to Cadover – ‘a mere prank.’
The footsteps died away, and as they did so Sir Bernard came steadily down the staircase. He looked hard at Cadover, the pistol still in his hand. ‘Your credentials,’ he said briefly.
Cadover showed them. Sir Bernard looked at them for what they were worth. It was still the man he was sizing up. ‘Please come into my study,’ he said. Cadover followed him and was presently aware of light-coloured walls, Chinese paintings, glowing lacquers. Sir Bernard faced him squarely. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘I called here last night to interview you on a matter that might concern the safety of your son. I was shown into another room – I think, your library – and there I was interviewed by a person who purported to be yourself.’
‘I see.’ Very quietly, Sir Bernard Paxton turned aside and sat down. The movement, Cadover realized, covered the instant intellectual comprehension of a totally unsuspected danger. Because that danger touched his son, the man was shaken to the depths by it. But he was certainly not going to make an outcry. ‘Jollard – my butler?’ he asked.
‘It was your butler who received me, who told me to come back at a certain hour when you would be available, and who then ushered me into the presence of the impostor. Afterwards, he showed me out.’
‘And I came downstairs and saw him do so.’ Sir Bernard spoke sharply. ‘I called out to him and he told me I forget what. Well’ – and he looked dryly at Cadover – ‘you have not been the only fool.’
Cadover accepted this as it was offered. ‘I was the bigger fool of the two, I ought to have got the hang of it before I rang your front-door bell tonight. As it is, your butler – Jollard, did you say? – has shown us a clean pair of heels. Have you had him in your service for long, Sir Bernard?’
‘Six months.’
‘And he has been in a position of some trust – or, at least, responsibility? He would be able to take, and appear to transmit, messages…that sort of thing?’
‘Certainly. He appeared an efficient and reliable man, although I cannot say that I greatly cared for him. And now’ – and Sir Bernard Paxton drew a long breath – ‘if there is anything in all this that really concerns my son, we had better have it from the beginning, and at once.’
‘Very well, Sir Bernard. I understand that you have an only son, Humphrey? And that you recently engaged a tutor to take him to Ireland?’
‘I engaged a Mr Thewless, a most reliable and experienced man.’
Cadover took out his notebook and made a jotting of the name. ‘Thank you. Did you, in the first instance, try to engage anyone else?’
‘I engaged a Captain Peter Cox, who was highly recommended to me. Unfortunately, he has been prevented from taking up the post by an unexpected death in his family.’
Cadover stared. ‘It would altogether surprise you, Sir Bernard, to learn that the unexpected death was his own?’
‘It would, indeed. But all that I received was a telegram, which is no doubt evidence of the poorest sort. See for yourself.’ And with some deliberation, yet with a visibly trembling hand, Sir Bernard Paxton fished in a drawer of the desk beside him. ‘Here you are.’
Cadover took the slip of paper held out to him and read it grimly. ‘Certainly,’ he sai
d, ‘it was a sudden death that disqualified Captain Cox. We seem to have a bit of a joker to deal with.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So when you received this you fixed things up with Mr Thewless instead?’
‘Precisely so. And Mr Thewless and Humphrey consequently left together for Ireland late yesterday afternoon – or I should say late on Thursday afternoon.’
‘This Captain Cox, Sir Bernard – did he ever, so far as you know, see Humphrey?’
‘He did not. When he called on me, Humphrey chose not to show himself. He is a somewhat difficult boy.’
‘Would it be possible that he was put up to not showing himself by Jollard – I mean by way of a joke?’
Sir Bernard looked surprised. ‘It is not inconceivable. The man was at times a little too familiar with Humphrey. But I doubt if the boy liked him very much.’ He paused, squaring his shoulders. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me have it, please. What has happened?’
‘So far, I know only a little of what has happened, sir – and much of that is a matter of conjecture or inference. But I figure it out like this. When this Captain Cox left your house after accepting the post you offered him, he was accosted by a fifteen-year-old boy who gave himself out to be your son. The impression conveyed, I suppose, would be that your son, having been shy or coy while Cox was in the house, had now run out after him on a sudden impulse. Cox had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong, and he was probably rather pleased. And there and then, I suspect, they made two engagements. Humphrey, I think, was to have a gun?’
‘Captain Cox suggested it, and I thought it quite proper. It was arranged that he should make the purchase.’
‘Then I think he communicated this intention to the boy, and they arranged to meet some time after noon on Thursday. The second arrangement was that they should go on to a cinema, and after that set straight off on their journey. And now I have to tell you that the object of this extraordinary deception was an extremely sinister one. What further communication with you Captain Cox judged himself to have had, I cannot, of course, tell. Jollard and the telephone might account for a good deal there. But the final result was this. Cox entered that cinema – the Metrodrome – believing himself to be in the company of your son. And he never came out alive. He was shot, at close quarters, during the showing of a film called Plutonium Blonde. Meanwhile, you had been persuaded by this telegram that he had withdrawn from his engagement to you, and you arranged to employ Mr Thewless instead.’ Cadover paused. ‘It is clear, Sir Bernard, that this crime must have been designed to gain one of two possible objects.’
‘Quite so.’ Sir Bernard Paxton was now very pale, but it was evident that he had been thrown into no sort of mental confusion. ‘The criminals may have wanted to ensure that Thewless should go with Humphrey, or they may have wanted to ensure that Cox should not go with Humphrey. And now I think we had better put through a trunk call to Ireland at once.’
‘No, sir.’ Cadover spoke gravely. ‘I am afraid I cannot answer for that as being in the best interest of your son’s safety. It is essential that we should try to get the whole matter clearer first.’
Sir Bernard Paxton, who had stretched out his hand to an instrument on his desk, let it fall again to his side. ‘For the moment,’ he said, ‘I will abide by your judgement. What can I tell you more?’
‘Tell me, please, in just what circumstances your son did leave.’
‘It was arranged that he should meet Mr Thewless at Euston. His baggage was sent on there in the morning. I was extremely hard-pressed with work, and I said goodbye to him about eleven o’clock. He was to go to his dentist, he told me, in the afternoon, and then direct to the station.’
‘I see.’ And Cadover paused again, thinking hard. ‘Tell me, Sir Bernard, has Humphrey begun to interest himself in girls?’
Sir Bernard Paxton looked startled. ‘Why should you ask?’
‘For one thing, your boy was apparently being pestered by a very unpleasant character called Clodd. And Clodd makes a speciality of blackmailing adolescents who can be persuaded that they have something shameful to conceal in matters of that sort. Incidentally, we must be grateful to Clodd, but for whom I should not be sitting here now.’
Sir Bernard Paxton’s fingers drummed nervously for a moment on the desk in front of him. ‘For some time I have had suspicion that Humphrey has formed a friendship with a girl – a girl, that is to say, who would not normally be within – um – his own circle of acquaintance. Indeed, it is a matter in which I have naturally felt considerable anxiety.’
‘I see.’ Cadover, although his ideas in the field now being discussed were certainly not lax, paused to reflect that Sir Bernard’s evident habit of anxiety over Humphrey, and his equally evident inability to find time for joining in his son’s occasions, made a combination about as fatal as could be. ‘But there is another indication here. Tell me, sir – did Humphrey by any chance mention to you this film called Plutonium Blonde?’
‘He expressed a wish to see it. I believe I discouraged him, although it was not a matter upon which I should wish to be coercive. From the reviews I had judged it to be a film dealing in a cheaply sensational way with what is, in fact, a shadow of unimaginable calamity impending over our civilization – and this, moreover, disgustingly glamorized through the superimposition of crude sexual solicitations.’
Cadover made a sympathetic noise. These, decidedly, had been his own sentiments. At the same time he had a sort of sympathetic glimpse of the unknown Humphrey Paxton, subject to this polysyllabic disapproval when proposing an afternoon’s mild excitement at the flicks. And this perception brought a touch of impatience into his voice now. ‘I have some reason to believe that your son did not go to his dentist on Thursday afternoon, and never intended to do so. He took an unknown girl to see Plutonium Blonde. And, by an extraordinary coincidence, he found himself sitting next to himself.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He found himself sitting next to the pretended Humphrey Paxton, or as near as made no matter. There was himself, and there was the Captain Cox who had sent a telegram walking out on you. Your son and his friend then left the cinema in a hurry, and just before Cox was murdered. And now, sir, a question about which I am very anxious indeed. Have you heard from Humphrey since?’
Humphrey’s father took a deep breath. ‘You appal me,’ he said. ‘But certainly I have heard – or rather I have heard from Mr Thewless. He wired to me late yesterday, Friday, evening, that he and Humphrey had arrived safely at Killyboffin.’
‘You realize that this Mr Thewless, if he is indeed now safely with your son, is so only as the result of a criminal conspiracy that has involved deliberate and callous murder?’
For the first time during this strange interview something like helpless bewilderment showed for a moment on Sir Bernard Paxton’s face. He passed a hand over his tremendous forehead. ‘It is unbelievable!’ he said. ‘I cannot conceive of such a man – patently the most harmless of mortals, interested in Roman archaeology and other trifling branches of learning – being involved in complex conspiracy and atrocious crime. There is simply no sense in it, Inspector – no sense in it at all.’
‘That is just what I want to be assured of.’ And Cadover, in whose solidly buttressed veins a strong tide of excitement and anticipated triumph was beginning to pulse, leant eagerly forward. ‘Your every instinct assures you that this Mr Thewless is, in fact, precisely what he appears to be: a reliable, conscientious, and entirely harmless – well – pedagogue?’
‘I am seldom impressed by the promptings of intuition.’ Sir Bernard, for the moment, appeared to mount some invisible rostrum as he spoke, so that it occurred to Cadover that he too, in the days before his present towering eminence, had owned to the pedagogic trade. ‘I am simply offering you the judgement of considerable experience as digested by an obstinately rational mind. And I say that Thewless is no other than he appears to be.’
‘So far, so good.’ And Cadover nodded. ‘Would you say th
at he would be a good man in a tight place?’
And this gave Sir Bernard Paxton pause – something, Cadover reflected, that had not happened hitherto. His extraordinary eyes – and Cadover had up to this moment scarcely noted how extraordinary his eyes were – seemed to shoot off into infinite space. ‘I don’t know. I am rather inclined to think that it would depend on the degree of tightness involved. In a very tight place I imagine that Thewless might be a very good man indeed.’ And suddenly Sir Bernard smiled – and his smile was, after its fashion, as overwhelming as his most penetrating glance. ‘But here we are landed with intuitions, after all.’
‘We are landed with Captain Cox.’ In Cadover’s eyes too there was now a very respectable gleam. ‘For remember our two propositions. If the crime was not a matter of getting Thewless, then it was a matter of excluding Cox. Now, why? What do you know about him? And what was your impression?’
‘He was recommended to me by reliable friends as having a way with boys. His intellect was plainly negligible. He was commonplace and colourless. He had won the Victoria Cross.’
‘I see. And would you say that that was the complete picture?’
‘It gives us a line.’ Sir Bernard was cautious. ‘With Cox about, anyone openly threatening Humphrey’s safety might have been assured of a broken jaw.’
Cadover pounced. ‘You had reason to be anxious about Humphrey’s safety?’
For a second Sir Bernard hesitated. ‘I happen,’ he said, ‘to be a wealthy man – almost what passes for a very wealthy man in times like these. That is an accident of birth. And by another accident of birth, seconded by what self-discipline I have been able to achieve, I myself happen to be a man whose work is vital to the safety of this country.’
‘Quite so, sir.’ Cadover was mildly confused. If it is possible without slight absurdity to remind a policeman that one is a genius, Sir Bernard Paxton had achieved the feat. But there seemed a slight indecency in obliging him to do so. ‘Then it comes to this. The criminals with whom we appear to be concerned may have killed Cox because he was a person likely to be formidable to them. Not formidable in the sense that he had a penetrating intelligence, but simply as being of unflawed courage and possessing a powerful straight left. Does that seem plausible to you?’
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