Black Plumes

by Margery Allingham

  That was why you came back, of course!"

  Lucar lowered one thick white eyelid.

  "Partly," he said.

  "I don't see why you had to take your own money, Mr. Lucar."

  The observation was forced out of Miss Dorset by sheer indignation. "That was ordinary routine intelligence and our property."

  "Never mind." Gabrielle's distaste was a Victorian tour de force. "I imagine that Mr. Lucar... is it... did not ask us here to discuss a piece of very ordinary business chicanery on his part. What have you got to tell us, Mr. Lucar, that you feel we might find interesting?" She was quite insufferable and meant to be. They all were. They all sat round, hating him, despising him for his vulgarity and his pettiness, and yet they hung on his words. It was very alarming.

  Lucar appeared to be enjoying himself.

  "Well, you know," he said softly, "I thought we all ought to have a little chat. You see, I've got my position to think of. The guvnors coming back, isn't he? And I may decide to stay with the firm."

  They watched him blankly. After all, as Gabrielle remarked afterward, there is nothing actually unbelievable about mass blackmail, but it is so very unconventional that it startles one.

  "I don't think we understand you, Lucar."

  It was David, sounding dangerously quiet.

  "That's a pity. Field." Lucar shot the words out with unexpected savagery. "I rather hoped you would.. you particularly."

  "I'm afraid I don't, all the same."

  "Oh, you don't? Then I'll tell you. You're in a jam, aren't you? All of you. While I was out of the country there was always a chance, from the point of view of the people who didn't know, that I was the person the police were after. My absence seemed to let you out. It didn't really. Anyone who was close to the business saw that. But to the man in the street I was a good enough scapegoat. However, now I'm back, now I've had my little talk with the police and they've shown that they're not interested in me, all that's altered. Now do you see where I'm leading?"

  Nobody answered him, and his smile grew more pronounced.

  "You're leaving me to do all the talking, aren't you?" he said. "I don't care. If you want it put in words you can have it. It's all the same to me. My freedom puts a rope round you. Don't you kid yourselves it isn't there. Don't you imagine the police are going to sleep. There's a lot of work being done on the quiet. A lot of little odds and ends of information are finding their way onto the superintendent's desk. But so far they haven't had all my contribution."

  "You're suggesting that we don't want the police to find Robert's murderer," said Frances abruptly.

  He turned towards her.

  "One of you doesn't," he said, "and none of you will."

  "What the hell are you saying?" Godolphin rose painfully to his feet. "We've listened to quite enough of this," he said. 'This is the kind of thing one might have expected from you, Lucar. You were a sniveling little nuisance on the last occasion I had anything to do with you. I remember you, always whining and sneaking food. When I went off to do my damned silly heroics I looked down at you sleeping by Madrigal's feet and I thought then it was a wasted effort."

  The force of his contempt was tremendous, and they glanced at him slyly out of the corners of their eyes. Great heroism, like great cowardice, is shy making, and they were all, in spite of their other emotions crowding upon them, embarrassed when he mentioned the story which had made headlines when Robert Madrigal had returned to civilization to tell it.

  Lucar met Godolphin's eyes for a moment and flushed as he looked away.

  "All right, say what you like," he said doggedly. "Think what you like. I don't care. I've never cared what anyone said or thought about me and that's how I've got where I am. I know what I want and I go for it, and if any of you has any sense at all you'll keep quiet and you'll keep civil. One of you here killed Madrigal. If that's not clear to you believe me it is to the rest of the world. In your hearts you know it. That's why you're here. That's why you're listening. Well, now you know where you stand. So far I'm not telling any more of what I know than is necessary to clear myself, and if everything goes on as I intend it shall I shan't feel called upon to say any more. I thought I'd tell you all and I'd tell you all together, so no one makes any mistakes."

  Godolphin limped to the desk and picked up the telephone.

  "Tut me on to the police," he said briefly into the instrument.

  Lucar leaned forward and laid a finger on the stand, destroying the connection.

  "Wait," he said. "You're not the only pebble on the beach, Godolphin. Let the others have a say. There are enough witnesses here to make the police give me a grilling, but does everybody here want me to talk?"

  There was a freezing silence. Godolphin stood with the instrument still raised, and Lucar kept his finger on the stand.

  "Well," he said, "now's your opportunity."

  "No." It was Gabrielle. Her voice was almost harsh. "No," she said again. "Sit down, Mr. Godolphin. When the time comes we will call the police."

  There were at least three sighs in the room and a splatter of rain swept the window in that long moment wherein Godolphin replaced the telephone and Lucar smiled again.

  "Someone's seen the light," he said and nodded to Gabrielle as no one had ever nodded to her in nearly ninety years.

  "It's bluff," said David, clearing his throat. "Pure bluff. There's no earthly reason why the thing shouldn't have been done from the outside."

  "Isn't there?" Lucar's mouth twisted with grim amusement "Isn't there any reason why whoever killed Madrigal could disappear quietly out of that dark house over there when the first person who goes in without knowing the place raises half the servants and kicks over a gong the moment he sets foot in it?"

  Frances received a mental thump between the shoulder blades. That was the thing. That was the unformed question which had been worrying her from the beginning. That was the thing which had been wrong. Those quick, firm footsteps marching so surely across the hall, once last night and once on that other night nearly a fortnight before; they had sounded in the dark. They had crossed the dark hall where the gong stood and where there might have been a dozen other obstacles. Whoever owned those footsteps had been peculiarly sure of the ground.

  She caught sight of Gabrielle and Dorothea. The two old women were regarding the redheaded man behind the desk as if he were an apparition. They knew the house, of course. For thirty years they had known every inch of it. But that idea was so preposterous that Frances smiled and did not see David glance so nervously at Phillida.

  Lucar seemed satisfied with the impression he was making. He leaned back in Meyrick's chair and crossed his plump legs.

  'The police seem to be taking a lot of interest in a nigger some skivvy thought she saw," he remarked. "I didn't give my opinion on that idea because I wasn't asked for it. I'm much more interested in certain other little things... the music-hall song, for instance."

  He regarded their stony faces with growing satisfaction.

  "No one really amused?" he said. 'That's a funny thing. It's a famous old song 'No one's going to kiss that girl but me." You know how it goes. 'Pride of Idaho, So now you know If you go You'll find there's something on her mind. Don't think it's you. Cause no one's going to kiss that girl but me." Don't you get it, anybody? Let me whistle it to you."

  He pursed his lips, and the catchy tune sounded shrill and clear in the crowed room. It was not quite an errand boy's version; nor was it strictly correct. There was an individuality about it and an element of great weariness.

  "Oh, my God," said Miss Dorset, her voice thick and deep in her throat. The whistle on the telephone."

  "Was that it?" Phillida and Gabrielle spoke together and both broke off in the same way as if they had said too much.

  "What's this? I haven't been told about this." Godolphin turned towards them eagerly, all his anger evaporating before his interest in the new clue.

  "You recognize it, do you?" Lucar was watching Miss
Dorset with his head on one side.

  "Yes, I heard it... once." The woman spoke dully. She was frightened. Fear showed in her heavy eyes and in the way her mouth quavered. "It was about eight months... ten... no, nearly a year ago. A call came through for Mr. Madrigal here at the office. I didn't recognize the voice. It was foreign and sort of constrained. Something about it made me curious, and I listened for a moment or two. That was all I heard, just the tune whistled like that. Then Mr. Madrigal hung up. He went out at once and didn't come back all day." She paused.

  "I never saw him quite the same after that," she added presently.

  Godolphin was looking at her as if he thought she was gibbering.

  'That doesn't sound like you," he said. "I mean that's a fantastic story, it's melodrama. It sounds like the fakir's curse. Pull yourself together. What really happened?"

  "It's true." Phillida was sitting bolt upright, two spots of color burning in her cheeks. "It often happened, or at least he thought it did. It became an obsession with him. He used to dream about it. That's what frightened me so. I thought he was out of his mind. That day after—after we found him I told Gabrielle up in the bedroom and she thought I was mad. Now Miss Dorset's telling you, and you're looking at her as if she..."

  The words died, and a trickle of laughter escaped her, growing in volume and rising high and uncontrolled. Gabrielle moved with surprising agility.

  "Quick," she said, "quick, somebody."

  It was Frances who reached her first and who shook the hysteria out of her.

  "All right," said Godolphin when the excitement had died a little. "All right, all right. There's no need to go off the deep end about it, Phillida. If you all say it did happen I'll accept it. I knew Robert pretty well, though, and I can't say I see him as a nervous wreck. Are you sure he wasn't pulling your leg?"

  "Oh no, you're on the wrong tack there entirely. Robert had changed. Last time I saw him that's exactly how I should have described him, a nervous wreck."

  David made the statement quietly, almost casually, and his expression did not change before Godolphin's incredulous stare.

  "I heard it once," said Miss Dorset again. "As I told you, I heard it once, but I always knew when it happened by the way he behaved."

  "Amazing," said Godolphin. "I believe you, of course, but it is amazing, isn't it? How often did this occur? Once a month? Once a week?"

  "Pretty regularly at the finish, wasn't it?" Lucar put the question to the woman slyly, as if they shared a confidence. "It began about a year ago, and it's been happening at irregular intervals ever since. Isn't that your impression, Mrs. Madrigal?"

  Phillida covered her face with her hands.

  "Yes, I think so." Her voice was smothered. "He was getting more and more on edge all the time. It was only since the summer that he began to talk so wildly about it, and I began to think he was insane."

  "There's nothing insane about it if Miss Dorset heard it too." Godolphin declared practically.

  "Exactly. That's my point," Lucar's tone was quiet, but it brought them ail round facing him again. "Well, there you are," he said. 'That's all I'm telling at the moment, but I've got a hunch it's going to be enough. You can ring up the police if you like but all I say is before any one of yon does so I'd make sure your best friend wants you to. Now I won't detain you. I dare say you'll all feel like a little discussion without me. I'm sorry I can't offer you this room but I'm going to be busy. However, the rest of the mausoleum is at your disposal. Miss Dorset, I'll have a cup of tea in here at four-fifteen."

  It was the final insult, the last twist of the screw, and he looked round him eagerly to see if his hold was secure.

  On the other side of the room Frances also looked about her. She was waiting for the outcry, the single annihilating stroke which would send him back where he belonged. It did not come. They were going to stomach it. The realization came to her with a sense of dismay. It was unbelievable but also obvious. Gabrielle had lain a restraining hand on Godolphin's sleeve, and the rest were silent and expressionless.

  They went, leaving Lucar in his triumph, and trooped into the antique room. It was deserted, and there was an awkward pause as Gabrielle, who had headed the procession of defeat, leaning on Dorothea for support, paused and faced her flock.

  "I shall sit here," she announced, fixing Miss Dorset with eyes which were still bright in spite of her weariness. "Tell them to keep the public out of here. This gallery is closed."

  "Darling, do you think you ought to?" It was not like Phillida to be solicitous, but she sounded sincere. "You ought to go to bed after all that. I shall myself. I can't stand it. I can't stand it any longer."

  Gabrielle beckoned Godolphin.

  "Take her home," she said. "All of you go out of here. Do you mind? I want to be alone except for Dorothea. I am old, too old. I want to sit here and rest and make up my mind."

  There was nothing to be said after that. She had issued orders for nearly eighty years and had acquired an art in the matter.

  The rest of them moved out onto the staircase and stood about in two little groups, whispering. David paused by Frances.

  "I'm going back to the studio," he said abruptly. "I've got some work."

  'To work?" It was an unexpected announcement at such a time and she echoed him.

  He nodded. "Yes, I've got a drawing, a portrait, I must finish. I'll see you soon. Stay in for me this evening. I'll ring you."

  She said nothing and he laughed and, taking one of her hands, squeezed it violently before he turned away and hurried oil down the stairs, leaving her looking after him.

  Frances moved to the long landing window and knelt up on the low sill, to look down into the square and see him go. It was nearly dusk and the lamps were yellow in the blue haze. She could not see the house next door because of the corner, but the square was there with the blackened trees swinging in the wind and the passersby walking with their heads down, clutching their hats, while their coat skirts clung to them cripplingly or floated out like banners. There was no sign of David, and she took it that she had missed him. All the same she did not move.

  The familiar scene outside was peaceful and normal at a moment when ordinary reflection was impossible. At that time her mind was a confused dumping ground of fears and impressions, and she was grateful for a moment's respite. For a while she behaved like a child, counting the private cars, forcing her newest terrors with the old ones far back behind her consciousness and living resolutely in the immediate present.

  She did not notice the others go, nor did she see the various employees who passed her. She remained staring out of the window for nearly twenty minutes, simply kneeling upon the sill, contemplating the traffic.

  It was the hullabaloo at the back of the building which recalled her to the present. The clatter of the restaurant tray on the parquet was the first alarm, and the babel followed when the office boy shouted the news.

  It had been four-fifteen exactly when that young man knocked on the door of Meyrick's room and carried in the tea which Lucar had ordered so ungraciously. He had been halfway to the desk when he had seen the man and the tray had slipped from his hand.

  Lucar was dead. Even a fourteen-year-old office tea maker had seen that much. The smug expression was still on his face, and he still sat in Meyrick's chair, but there was a narrow wound in his side where a thin steel blade had slid in between his ribs, piercing the chest wall and penetrating the heart itself. Lucar had died as Robert Madrigal had died, instantly and without a sound, and once again there was no trace of any weapon.

  It was while the entire staff of the gallery was crowding on the back staircase, the only approach to the office while Gabrielle remained in possession of the antique room, that Frances, still not fully conscious of the smothered uproar two walls behind her. suddenly saw David Field come down the steps directly under the window and hurry off across the road.

  16

  At eight o'clock there were still lights in the gallery, while
in the house next door there was that atmosphere of bustle which alone makes crises bearable. As Frances carried two hot water bottles across the hall she hardly noticed the plainclothes man, sitting there silent and official. She hurried up the stairs for the twentieth time since Phillida's condition had become acute without looking at him. She had grown used to him, and his rigorously noncommittal attitude was no longer even alarming.

  Godolphin remained exactly where she had left him. He was still leaning over the banisters on the landing, his arm folded on the rail where the doctor's coat hung, and he did not glance at her as she passed.

  The upper hall looked strange with all the doors open, and glimpses of the lighted rooms within were intimate and homely. Blankets lay about in piles and the linen press stood open, while the trolley bearing basins and ewers, which was drawn up outside the sickroom, added to the general air of deshabille. 38 Sallet Square was no longer a grande dame but a lady in her petticoat with her stockings coming down. There were whispers everywhere, the rattling of crocks and the hissing of kettles, hurrying footsteps and doors closing quietly.

  Mrs. Sanderson, who wore a great white apron to impress the doctor with her efficiency, came tiptoeing out of Phillida's room with two bundles in her hands.

  "I'm just going to heat these bricks up again," she murmured as they met. "When it come to warmth you can't beat a brick. Just go in, miss. Don't knock. Poor thing, she's delirious again. Can you wonder at it? It's a miracle to me we're not all crawling up the walls. Norris has been sick twice himself. That's pure nerves. They affect the stomach in some people."

  She sped on and crackled starchily down the stairs while Frances let herself into Phillida's bedroom.

  It was very warm in there, and old Dorothea bent over the fire where a small brass kettle was boiling. The doctor was standing at the end of the bed, his hands clasped loosely behind him. Frances was tremendously grateful to him. He was friendly enough but he also possessed, in manner at any rate, that superb quality of super humanity which made it seem safe for Phillida to toss and mutter as much as she liked.