“Since I stayed at home and minded the store, I found it anything but profitable. I can’t speak for Jeff; he went to a night club with Penny Lynn.”
“Jeff went gallivanting to a night club? And with Penny? Tell me, Jeff …”
Serena did not finish. Through the open windows they could all see a Yellow taxi approaching up the drive, where it turned and stopped at the terrace steps. Muttering excuses, Dave left in haste. They heard him cross the drawing-room and cross the hall, then the opening of the front door.
Serena and Jeff drifted to the line of southern windows. Out of the taxi had climbed a figure in cream-colored suit and Panama hat, carrying a brief-case. Dave appeared on the terrace, descended its steps, and shook hands with the newcomer amid a murmur of unintelligible words. Serena’s brow was wrinkled.
“Jeff, who is that? I don’t think I …”
“His name is Townsend, Malcolm Townsend. Dave’s been expecting him.”
“Oh, the man who wrote Secret Ways? Yes, Dave’s mentioned it more than once. But I never thought he’d really turn up. You never do expect something to happen, do you, when it’s been planned beforehand?”
Motioning his taxi-driver to wait, the newcomer accompanied Dave up the steps, and they both entered the refectory. Seen close at hand, Malcolm Townsend proved to be a spare, middle-sized man of indeterminate age not ill-looking, with a narrow line of brown moustache. His manner combined the suave and the easygoing; you could not help liking him on sight. After Dave had introduced the others, Mr. Townsend declined breakfast or even coffee because he had eaten two hours ago. Then he turned to Serena.
“This is all the more a pleasure, Miss Hobart, since it’s my first opportunity to visit Delys Hall. Your late father did not see his way clear to granting permission when I requested it. That’s understandable, of course; I must often seem the most unpardonable kind of interloper.”
Serena decided to be gracious.
“You’re no interloper now, at all events. Are you an architect, Mr. Townsend?”
“Not by profession, no. But I take some considerable interest in old houses, and I’ve picked up a little architecture on the way.”
“It’s most interesting, I’m sure,” said Serena, who did not sound very interested. “Dave’s told you what he’s anxious to find, I imagine. How does one of your profession or hobby go about finding it?”
“Before any practical steps can be taken, it’s as well to familiarize oneself with the history of the house, especially an old English house like this, and determine why some previous owner wanted or needed a secret hiding place. Invariably it was to hide some person, either during the days of religious persecution between Protestant and Catholic or during the days of political persecution between Roundhead and Cavalier. They didn’t build such things for fun, you know.”
“But that’s just the trouble, isn’t it?” Jeff interposed. “If the old Delys family were such strict conformists as they seem to have been, they’d have had no reason to hide anybody or anything.”
“Exactly!” agreed Malcolm Townsend, as though rather pleased than otherwise. “But I gather from young Mr. Hobart that his famous grandfather may well have meant it as a kind of joke, humorous or otherwise. The first practical step, then, is to find some space that can’t be accounted for. I have here,” he held up the brief-case, “some measuring tapes and other easily portable gear.”
“You know, this is real business!” exclaimed Dave. “Shall we get on with the search right away?”
“By all means, if it won’t seem too abrupt.”
“Oh, it won’t seem too abrupt! We might begin with a look at those stairs out there. Coming, Serena?”
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I’d better go about my own affairs. Just call me in case you find anything; I won’t be far.”
All three went on through towards the main hall. About to join them, Jeff glanced out of the window. Up the drive came bowling a Buick sedan, which parked at one side a little way behind the taxi. Out of the car unfolded the long, lean shape of Gilbert Bethune. Uncle Gil, well and formally dressed, took two steps towards the house, then turned and stood staring down the drive in the opposite direction.
Jeff hesitated. There was one small matter which, as a matter of mere courtesy, he must not neglect. He hurried out into the hall. Serena had disappeared; Dave was addressing some remark about the staircase to a fascinated Malcolm Townsend. Jeff ran up those stairs, hearing the peal of the doorbell as he reached the Tapestry Room, where he found the book of detective short stories he had brought with him.
When he returned to the lower floor Dave had admitted the second visitor of that morning; the second visitor had been introduced to the first. While Dave drew Townsend towards the rear of the hall, Jeff shook hands with the more recent arrival.
“How are you, Uncle Gil? When did you get back from Baton Rouge?”
Grown somewhat craggy of feature in his late forties, though gray scarcely yet tinged the dark hair, Gilbert Bethune as ever was cordial without being effusive, all intelligence and restrained energy.
“Late last night,” he replied. “Or, rather, early this morning. I phoned Melchior to see whether he might have any news for me, and he had. So I drove back; here I am. There can’t be any complaint about my health, young fellow; nor, I see, can there be any of yours. How’s Paris?”
“Very much as usual. They’ve done a lot of talking about some Americans who’ll try to fly the Atlantic and make for there when the weather improves. But the Atlantic’s been flown, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course it has. Two Englishmen, Alcock and Brown, made the crossing by dirigible as long ago as 1919. What people mean when they say it hasn’t been flown is that it’s never been flown by one man alone, and never in a heavier-than-air machine. Now, with so many candidates lining up for a shot at that twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize, somebody ought to do the trick before long.”
“It would seem so. Anyway, Uncle Gil, I’ve brought you a small present of your favorite reading.”
He held out the book, which the other took and inspected.
“ The Secret of Father Brown, by G. K. Chesterton. When was this published, Jeff?”
“It hasn’t been officially published. Those are advance page-proofs of the English edition. And the mysteries are first-class; I thought you might like ’em.”
“Thanks; it’s much appreciated.”
Uncle Gil thrust the book into his pocket. Then a shadow crossed his face.
Dave and Malcolm Townsend had gone on up the stairs, the latter examining every tread. Towards the front of the lower hall, on your left as you entered but on your right in the direction Jeff now faced, another arched door led to the companion of the drawing-room opposite, a kind of minor drawing-room less austere because less desperately confined to period furniture. Beyond this, at the southwestern angle of the house, you could see the shelves of the great dusky library.
Putting his hand on Jeff’s arm, Uncle Gil drew him to the doorway of the minor drawing-room. But he did not go into the room; he lingered in the doorway, lowering his voice.
“I’m not surprised to find you here,” he said, “but I wish you had come to my apartment. We may have a first-class mystery of our own, if it doesn’t blow up like a booby trap; things are bound to be awkward whatever happens.
“At City Hall this morning I ran into Harry Minnoch, who told me he’d met you on the boat and said he’d hinted at our problem. You’re old enough to hear the truth; you’d better hear it. Now hearken, young fellow! Dave’s friend Townsend isn’t entirely a stranger; I heard him lecture in Richmond last fall; they’ll be occupied for some time. As for me, I’m tied up this afternoon and most of this evening. But why not come along back to town and have lunch with me? Then I can tell you.”
“Lunch?” exclaimed Jeff, glancing at his watch. “It’s well past eleven already, and I’ve hardly finished breakfast! I may get a sandwich later in the day, but I could
n’t face lunch. Besides …”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Ira Rutledge! Every single person has been plaguing me with mysterious allusions or references not one of ’em will explain. And Ira, since he wrote me a cryptic letter in March, has been the most evasive of all. But now I can have my mind set at rest. I’ve promised to meet him in his office at two sharp this afternoon. At least I’m going to learn how the death of Harald Hobart can affect me and one other person outside the Hobart family. Ira Rutledge is maddening at times, but he does what he says he’ll do. Ira—”
At the rear of the hall, shrilly, the telephone rang. Cato, hovering near, picked it up and answered. Then, bowing smilingly, he held out the phone towards Jeff, who took over.
“Yes?” he said to the mouthpiece.
“Jeff?” returned an unmistakable voice. “Ira Rutledge speaking.” The phone whirred in its throat. “Much though it distresses me, circumstances have arisen which make it impossible for us to meet this afternoon.”
Jeff refrained from swearing aloud. “We don’t meet at all, then?”
“On the contrary, my boy, it’s imperative that we do meet; and as soon as possible.”
“Well, when? I’m at your service.”
“Let me see, now.” The telephone deliberated. “For one of my age and sedentary habits, I fear, I have fallen to keeping shockingly unpredictable hours. I shall not be free until this evening. Would ten tonight, and at the same place, be too late for you?”
“No, not at all! But you won’t put me off again, will you?”
“If the President of the United States requested my presence at that hour, Jeff, I should have to plead a previous engagement. You have mv solemn promise for it.”
“One other matter. I’ve only got to say something can’t or won’t happen, and immediately it does happen to prove I’m a liar. This business which so much affects me and one other person, now. Will you explain what you wouldn’t explain in your letter or yesterday evening? In short, will you explain everything?”
“I will explain everything. You have my solemn word for that too. The door of the anteroom shall be left unlocked; just walk in. Until ten tonight, then, my apologies and goodbye!”
Jeff replaced the receiver. Whereupon, as though diabolically inspired, the phone rang again. An unfamiliar voice asked if it might speak to Mr. Gilbert Bethune, who had said he would be there.
“For you, Uncle Gil. It sounds like your office.”
Taking over in his turn, Uncle Gil listened to some diatribe with the receiver close against his ear, replying only in monosyllables until he said, “Yes, immediately,” and put down the phone.
“It was my office!” he fumed. “They’ve nailed a character we’ve been after for some time, provided we’ve actually got him nailed. The boys have been at him all morning, but without much success; they think I should have a try. And it’ll have to be a devilish good try, mind, if we’re to send Luigi up the river for as long a term as he deserves. Where’s my hat, Jeff? I must run along now.”
“This lunch proposition, Uncle Gil, and the first-class mystery of our own. Lunch doesn’t matter; and I can’t interfere with business, of course. But I could ride into town with you, couldn’t I, while you gave some outline of the mystery?”
“No, young fellow; I’m afraid that won’t do.”
“If it’s to be the brush-off or the runaround even from you … !”
Gilbert Bethune himself could assume lordly airs when he chose.
“And they call me impatient!” he declared, as though preening himself on monumental patience. “No, Jeff, no! These things must be approached in good order, one perplexity at a time, or a harassed public official will never come to the end. I want you to see the original of a certain letter: the original, not a copy. For another thing … well, that can wait. Keep in touch; you know where to find me.”
Cato gave him his hat and ushered him out. The big front door was closing as Dave Hobart and Townsend, deep in conference, descended the stairs and joined Jeff. Townsend, less subdued than he had been, hesitated before addressing Dave again.
“May I ask one question?”
“Yes, ask a hundred; ask anything you like!”
“At this juncture,” said the amateur architect, running a finger along his narrow moustache, “more than one won’t be necessary. As I understand it, you’re looking for what must be a considerable weight of gold bullion, concealed but not buried. Very well. But you’ve just finished telling me there is nothing hidden inside or between the walls. How can you be sure of that?”
“Last Monday night,” Jeff interposed, “Dave told me the same thing. I wondered, but didn’t pursue the point. How can you be sure, Dave?”
Dave held his hands a few inches apart.
“Air spaces,” he said, “between the inside of the outer wall and the wall of the room next to it, that’s how!”
“Oh, furring strips?” murmured Townsend.
“If that’s the term for it, yes. They didn’t build air spaces in the sixteenth century, I believe. They just slapped plaster on the inside of the outer wall and reared their panelling against that; it’s one reason why houses got so damp. When my grandfather had this place transplanted and air spaces built in ’82, it required some readjustment but not a great deal of readjustment: nothing at all that showed after they’d finished.”
Here, facing Jeff, Dave levelled his forefinger for emphasis.
“Moreover!” he added. “I told you, didn’t I, my parents had electricity and a telephone installed in ’07? As architect in charge they used old Pete Stanley, who wasn’t a young man then but is still very much alive and alert to testify.”
“You said, I think,” Jeff consulted memory, “the workmen ‘opened’ the walls?”
“They had to. For the proper wiring, of course, they opened the partitions between the individual rooms inside, where there aren’t any air spaces, as well as those in the walls around the place. Pete Stanley was interested enough to make a careful examination of everything. He can tell you, and will tell you if you ask him, there’s not one damn thing hidden inside or between the walls.”
“Yes, but—!”
“I was forgetting,” interrupted Dave, almost in a dance of excitement. “There’s confirmation close at hand. We don’t need to guess at the weight of the gold, if there is any gold. We don’t need to guess the size of the air spaces. It’s all down in the commodore’s log, the ledger he kept for years to jot down notes from time to time. I’ve talked about that log practically ad nauseam, and yet neither of you has seen it! Care to come along and see it now?”
“With pleasure,” Townsend agreed, “though after so many years it probably won’t …”
“You’re right; it probably won’t. But it may. This way; follow me!”
“That staircase out there,” said Townsend, “is a sixteenth-century staircase. That’s all it is, though that’s enough for stimulus. So far, at least, I have seen nothing to provoke wonder or suspicion. Where are we going?”
Striding ahead, throwing remarks over his shoulder, Dave led them through the minor drawing-room into the great library, with its mullioned windows facing south and west, and its oak mausoleum of bookshelves.
“This library, Jeff, used to interest you of yore. You might see what you can unearth in more mature years. We turn to the right here. That door at the back …”
The door at the back opened into a lofty billiard-room, where two tables stood shrouded under rubber covers. There were racks for cues and balls on either side of western windows.
“One table for billiards,” Dave explained, “and one for pool. Both come from the original Hall. The nearer one, on which we play pool,” he tapped it in passing, “was meant for an English game called snooker. It’s harder, trickier than our domestic pool, though any pool shark (Billy Vauban is one, and Ira Rutledge isn’t half bad either) can be a whiz at snooker too.”
“There are two rooms in a line
beyond here, aren’t there?” asked Jeff, beginning to place memories. “The first is the gunroom?”
“It used to be called a gunroom,” replied Dave, leading them through it, “in Victorian days when country houses contained a small armory. The Delys heir of 1882 kept his own array of sporting weapons when he sold the house. Those glass-fronted cabinets now contain a collection assembled but almost never touched both by my grandfather and my father. This room is smaller than the library or the billiard room, as you see, even if the ceiling’s just as high. The study just beyond corresponds to it. I open the door of the study—so. And it’s a dark day; we’d better have some light.”
Dave touched a switch just inside the door on the left. Then he went on in, while the others watched from the doorway.
The soft light which bathed the study came neither from its western windows nor from the central chandelier. On a table in the middle stood a student’s green-shaded lamp. Victorian sporting prints adorned the walls; there were armchairs of black padded leather bunched into leather knots, and what older generations called a smoker’s stand, with ashtray above and cigar-boxes in the cabinet underneath. Catercornered on the room’s northeastern angle, a rolltop desk loomed beneath its hanging lamp. Catercornered in the northwestern angle stood a smallish safe of very antiquated pattern, with a tarnished combination dial and above the door Fitzhugh Hobart’s name, as well as the Roman numeral V, in gilt so faded as to have become almost invisible. The glow of a floor lamp shone on the safe’s door.
Dave’s two companions followed him as he approached the safe.
“Here we are, you see,” he went on briskly. “It’s never locked, as I told Jeff; there’s nothing of value inside. The famous log, as you also see, is on the lower … it’s on the lower—”
Seizing the tarnished handle, he had dragged open the door to reveal a compartment divided into upper and lower compartments by a metal shelf.
Jeff could see nothing inside except some papers in both compartments. But he had more than an intimation. After one glance inside, Dave dropped on his knees and began to scrabble among the papers. Then Dave sprang to his feet. Darting at the desk, he rolled up its top, finding nothing except a bare desk surface and almost bare pigeonholes.
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