Deadly Hall

by John Dickson Carr

  “But they didn’t find the gold?” demanded Lieutenant Minnoch. “Is that it?”

  “They did not find the gold,” Uncle Gil conceded. “Under such tragic circumstances, good friends, it’s hardly a pleasure to tell you I have found it.”

  Two voices cried, “Where?” Gilbert Bethune, holding himself in, blew a leisurely smoke ring and watched it dissolve.

  “Let us see,” he continued, “what we can make of some cryptic hints left by an ingenious-minded old gentleman who himself would have been devoted to detective fiction if it had then grown as sophisticated as it has become today.

  “He found that gold in the summer of 1860, fully twenty-two years before he imported this house. Where could he have kept it, during that interval as well as afterwards, so as to have aroused no suspicion at all?

  “With regard to the gold, remember his own comments. ‘It’s here,’ he told his son. ‘It’s not buried; in one way it’s not even concealed. It’s in plain sight, when you know how to look for it.’ Then again, carefully written, ‘Distrust the surface; surfaces can be very misleading, especially from that workshop. See Matthew VII, 7.’ Well, what particular workshop? The biblical quotation is from the Sermon on the Mount. Who but a— Well, never mind. Yesterday, wondering what surface ought to be distrusted, somebody asked whether the surface would be brick, stone, or wood. When I replied that it might be none of them, my own nephew seemed to doubt my sanity. But I was quite sane as well as quite serious. What surface, and from what workshop?”

  Minnoch stared at him.

  “Has all this got a point, sir?”

  “It has. Come with me, both of you, and I will show you.”

  “Come where, Mr. Bethune?”

  “Into the study, please.”

  Jeff swung round. The door to the billiard-room, to the gunroom, and to the study stood wide open. Though the first two rooms remained dark, a broad yellow path lay along that vista from the lights Cato had switched on in the study several minutes ago.

  Uncle Gil led the way, with the other two following at his heels. Gilbert Bethune walked very slowly, talking over his shoulder as he traversed billiard-room and gunroom.

  “Some time ago, as Jeff can testify, I asked Ira Rutledge some questions which (for once) that legal luminary readily answered. I was not concerned, I said, with the present financial holdings of the Hobart family.”

  “Are you telling us, sir,” Minnoch threw at him, “their present finances don’t matter?”

  “For my particular purpose, they don’t matter at all. But what had been their holdings in the past: the long past, when Commodore Hobart was still a young man? Had they any financial interest in state or local industry?”

  “And that helped?”

  “Indeed it helped. Among other sources of income, Ira responded, they had held an almost controlling interest in the Vulcan Ironworks at Shreveport, once the largest in the South after Tredegar at Richmond.”

  Crossing the threshold of the study, with Jeff and Minnoch immediately behind him, Uncle Gil stepped to one side and made a flourishing gesture with his cigar.

  “Now tell me!” he said. “Does this room look the same as it did yesterday, or is there something different about it today?”

  Three lamps, the central table lamp and both floor lamps, shed soft illumination over that nineteenth-century study of leather chairs and sporting prints. Jeff did not have to look far. When his eyes sought the room’s far left-hand corner, he could only stare.

  “Look, sir,” Minnoch burst out, “aren’t you going to show us where the treasure is?”

  “I am going to show you where the treasure was,” returned Uncle Gil. “But neither of you has yet answered my question. Is there anything different about this room?”

  Jeff had to restrain himself from jumping or dancing.

  “The safe!” he cried. “That iron safe in the far left-hand corner. It’s not there at all; it’s gone!”

  “It is gone, Jeff, because it was removed this afternoon by the Fitzroy Scrap Metal Company of Algiers. One of their own trucks being unavailable, they shifted it with some effort and transported it in a borrowed furniture van. In the absence of the safe, will you kindly describe it for us? Particularly the front, and any letters or lettering you remember seeing there?”

  “Old, very old, blackish and dingy-looking! Across the front, above the door with the combination-dial, it had Fitzhugh Hobart’s name in faded gilt. Underneath that, for no reason I could see, it had the Roman numeral of V for 5, also in gilt.”

  “What looked like the Roman numeral for 5,” said Uncle Gil, “was in fact the letter V for Vulcan, always the trade-mark of the firm which cast that safe late in the year 1860.

  “The misleading surface, gentlemen, was not brick or stone or wood; it was iron. Not long ago I had the telephoned report of the Fitzroy foreman who made certain tests. Under a thin sheathing of iron, apart from an honest combination-dial and single shelf of base metal, the entire safe is made of gold; it was cast in gold and then covered.”

  Gilbert Bethune pointed with the cigar.

  “You see, good friends, you have looked everywhere except in the right direction. You sought a missing ledger inside the safe, and never once stopped to think of the safe itself. It was almost too obvious to be seen. That safe does not hold the secret of the commodore’s hidden gold; it is the commodore’s missing gold, and has been for almost seventy years.”

  17

  DURING THE LONG pause that followed, Jeff could distantly hear faint rumblings across the sky. No doubt a brief spring thunderstorm, so characteristic of this uncertain climate, lurked there on its approach to town. Jeff studied the corner where Commodore Hobart’s safe had stood.

  “Let’s acknowledge,” he ventured, “that the commodore was an even craftier old schemer than anybody anticipated. Wherever he lived, he could take his treasure along unquestioned. The reason for a safe in any man’s study seems evident; we don’t have to explain it, and neither does the owner. When did you tumble to this trick, Uncle Gil?”

  “Not long ago,” Uncle Gil looked rueful, “and perhaps I should apologize. If I had bent my slow wits to the problem of the gold as soon as I learned that our Hobart family controlled the Vulcan Ironworks, instead of shelving it for future consideration as fallible humanity will do—”

  “‘Slow’ wits, eh?” exclaimed Lieutenant Minnoch, staring at him. “‘Slow’ wits, for Pete’s sake? Anybody who calls that slow-witted, sir, has got some kind of a leak in his own judgment to start with!”

  “And yet had I acted sooner, it must be plain, Serena Hobart might still be alive. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Frankly, Uncle Gil,” Jeff returned, “I don’t think either of us sees anything at all. Finding the gold, you’ve said, is only half our problem, the harmless half. To get all the answers, to explain the half that’s anything but harmless, we must learn who killed Serena and how the murderer got at her. You say you can explain that too?”

  “I think so; I hope so.”

  “Was it done, for instance, by another ingenious trick like the trick of the gold safe?”

  “By a trick of much the same sort, at least.”

  “Deriving its inspiration from the same source?”

  Gilbert Bethune studied the cigar.

  “If you ask whether long-defunct Commodore Hobart had anything to do with his granddaughter’s murder, even in the sense of inspiring the person who killed her, my answer is a most thunderous ‘No.’ On the other hand—”

  “As a practical man, sir,” said Lieutenant Minnoch, “I’ve got a question for you. Whoever the murderer is, and however he did it (if you won’t tell me, all right; you won’t!), just what the hell do we do now?”

  “Also as a practical man, Lieutenant, I reply that we lay plans to trap the murderer. Somebody, before all our eyes, has been leading a double life. Already, with still another phone call, I have received some desired information. A certain pursuit, as I sus
pected, is practised in fall, winter, and the edge of spring, but never in summer. Finally, if we can call in the expert advice I hope for, we may end our quarry’s evil doing by this time tomorrow. Meanwhile, Lieutenant, can you by any chance be persuaded of my belief that Dave Hobart is completely innocent?”

  “It don’t come easy, Mr. Bethune; I admit it don’t come easy. I was dead set on that young fellow bein’ as guilty as Old Nick; I went all out to nail him, and thought I had. Still! You proved your point about the old commodore’s safe; you’ve been right before this, and I’ll go along. If you say Dave wasn’t even mixed up in the funny business, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Good!” beamed Uncle Gil. “Dave is in the house now, remember; up in his room, I think. When Jeff saw him yesterday morning, if memory serves, he said he hadn’t been entirely frank with us. But Dave promised to be frank. If I have a word with him now, perhaps I can clear up one or two still doubtful points. When you see him, Lieutenant, will you be tactful? You won’t let him know you had such strong suspicions of incest, murder, or anything else?”

  Minnoch, drawing a deep breath, slapped at the sleeves of his coat as though dismissing all care.

  “I’m no fool, sir, but I can play dumb with the best of ’em. Sometimes I think I could ’a’ gone on the stage and got away with it; you trust me! As for Dave Hobart, if he’s not guilty then he’s all right. Once they haul that load o’ gold back here, and I reckon you’ve made certain they’ll haul it back …”

  “Oh, yes; I have made certain of that.”

  “Then he’s sho’ nuff in good shape and ought to thank you. He has come into a fortune after all!”

  Once more Uncle Gil had turned, and was striding away towards the library with the other two after him. Again he spoke over his shoulder as he traversed intervening rooms.

  “The question, of course, is whether Dave will admit—or can admit—he has come into possession of his grandfather’s treasure. That gold was illegally removed from British territory without being declared to the proper authorities. At so late a date the British authorities, or any authorities, would have a hard job in proving that sunken gold from the Ambrogian Reefs became a gold safe in Commodore Hobart’s study. It would present legal headaches fortunately of no concern either to the police or to my own office.

  “A very vicious murderer, being aware of Dave’s own weak heart, thought a blow from a blackjack would kill him. We need not worry about the lack of fingerprints on the weapon; somebody took the simple precaution of wearing gloves. Our own job, since we agree on Dave’s innocence, is to make sure the same murderer does not try again. The motive for these crimes …”

  Reaching the library, Uncle Gil paused only long enough to extinguish his cigar in the ashtray on the table. Then he made for the door to the minor drawing-room, still closed as Cato had left it on departing. Gilbert Bethune had just opened it when Jeff spoke.

  “Yes, the motive!” he said. “Somebody killed Serena and tried to kill Dave. But with what possible motive? The only ones who stand to profit by killing Dave and Serena are either myself, definitely not guilty, or a quiet Boston cleric already very wealthy in his own right. The motive can’t be gain, can it?”

  “That would seem most unlikely, let’s agree. And yet, if we examine the evidence with care, we may see traces of some motive other than financial gain.”

  “Uncle Gil, there’s one fair question you’ve completely dodged! In your opinion, was Serena murdered by the secret lover both Dave and Penny think she had?”

  “In my opinion, she was.”

  “Then are you suggesting some personal or emotional motive? That Serena tired of the lover, or that the lover tired of Serena, and in either event decided to get rid of her? If so, why try to kill Dave?”

  “Tut!” Uncle Gil clucked his tongue. “I am suggesting no personal or emotional motive of the sort you mean. A certain person we have all met obviously covets something which would be attainable only after two deaths. You see, Jeff—”

  A short peal from the front doorbell was followed by a longer peal which seemed to cry alarm through the house. Gilbert Bethune, his hand on the knob of the open door to the minor drawing-room, roused from whatever thoughts occupied him.

  “That doorbell, as heretofore noted,” he said, “has a very penetrating ring. How does it work, I wonder?”

  Dave Hobart’s voice answered him from the hall beyond. Footsteps could be heard descending the main staircase. Dave, fully dressed, still rather pale but with much of his old bounce, turned to face them as Uncle Gil, Jeff, and Lieutenant Minnoch trooped through into the hall, where every light now burned.

  “The doorbell, as it always has,” Dave replied, “works off three ordinary dry-cell batteries which Cato replaces whenever necessary.” He gestured at that faithful servitor, who was moving towards the front door. “Just a moment, noble Roman! I’ll see to the visitor.”

  Cato drew back. Dave went to the door and rather dramatically threw it open.

  Lightning flickered against the dark landscape; distant thunder rolled low along the sky. In the drive shone the headlamps of a taxi. But just outside stood nobody more alarming than Mr. Charles Saylor, large and untidy and sandy-haired, in another plus-four suit.

  “Chuck Saylor, eh?” Dave greeted him. “So it’s you at last, is it?”

  “Look, Dave!” began the other, uncertain but determined. “I’ve kept away, you know; I haven’t intruded until now, have I? This God-awful business about Serena: it’s upset me almost as much as it must have upset you. Mind if I come in and say how sorry I am?”

  Dave hesitated. Easy and urbane again, Uncle Gil strolled up beside him.

  “If you don’t mind, Dave,” he said, “the law itself claims first call on your attention at this moment. Your guest here …”

  “Chuck,” blurted Dave, “this is Mr. Bethune, Jeff Caldwell’s uncle. He’s also District Attorney Bethune, so watch your step. Mr. Saylor, Mr. Bethune.”

  “There’s Jeff himself,” Saylor cried, “and also, unless these eyes deceive me, the police lieutenant who’s already been on my trail. You didn’t want to see me, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Saylor, we do,” Uncle Gil assured him. “We think you can help us a good deal. At this juncture, however, our business is solely with Dave. Could you manage to call at my office tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock, say? You’ll find me at City Hall, which is …”

  “Oh, I know where it is. Yes, I’ll be there. All right, then!” Saylor’s manner suddenly became sulky and pettish, as though he might fly into a tantrum. And he swung round towards the waiting taxi. “Hang on, Johnsy!” he bawled at its driver. “Nobody here seems to want me around, so you can just drive me back to town.”

  When he had gone, and the door closed, Dave turned to Uncle Gil.

  “On the level, sir, do you really have business with me? You made it sound like an important conference.”

  “It is an important conference, Dave, in more senses than one. I have good news for you. And you, I hope, will have enlightening news for me. This way.”

  Taking Dave’s arm, he led that apprehensive young man into the minor drawing-room, with Jeff and Minnoch still following. When they reached the library. Uncle Gil spoke pointedly to the last-named two.

  “Try to occupy yourselves here for the next fifteen or twenty minutes,” he advised. “It’s best, I think, that I should see Dave alone in the study.”

  “Like the headmaster,” suggested Dave, “with a hell-raising sixth former?”

  “You are a little old for the sixth form, Dave, and I wish you had behaved as such. But your sins are pardonable; I will try not to be too severe. Follow me, please.”

  They trailed through billiard-room and gunroom to the study, where Gilbert Bethune closed the door.

  Harry Minnoch and Jeff Caldwell, who had nothing whatever to say to each other, did not even try to communicate. The lieutenant, pondering, perched on the edge of the library table
and muttered to himself. Jeff wandered past the bookshelves, taking down an odd volume or two at random. But The Art of Heraldry failed to hold his interest; so did Sermons from a Sussex Parish; he replaced both.

  Few distinguishable words could be heard in the mutter of voices from beyond the study door. Once, when Dave uttered an exclamation, Jeff did make out audible syllables. But since these syllables consisted only of a hearty blasphemy, he learned very little. The conference seemed to take a long time. It was much more than fifteen or twenty minutes, Jeff decided, before Uncle Gil returned alone, looking satisfied.

  “Well?” Jeff asked him. “Your deductions were right, were they?”

  “They were almost more accurate than I could have hoped for.”

  “What about Dave?”

  “Dave wants to be left to himself for a little while, so that he can think. After all, he has much to think about.”

  “Did you tell him you found the gold?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s the point he most wants to consider. If he can’t yet make up his mind about it, he’s hardly to be blamed. As for ourselves,” Uncle Gil consulted his watch, “it’s past seven o’clock and time we adjourned for dinner. Before we break up our present proceedings, however, I should like to show you something I failed to show you on a Saturday night that had become Sunday morning. Ready?”

  Shepherding the other two before him, he directed them out into the main hall, up the stairs, and along the upper hall to Serena’s bedroom at the front.

  Here he switched on several lamps. The room had been completely tidied up: furniture rearranged, clothes put away. No trace of fingerprint powder remained on any surface. Apart from the damaged door, it looked much as it must have looked at any time before violence erupted.

  Uncle Gil surveyed the result.

  “In this room, on the night we first examined it, I propounded many queries. I asked, among other things, what Serena was doing here and why she bolted the door. Eventually, as we were leaving, I asked in what way Serena’s death resembled the death of Thad Peters nearly seventeen years ago. Interpret correctly the exhibit I am about to put in evidence, and you will have a corporate answer to all those queries at once.”