Prelude For War s-19

by Leslie Charteris

  Fairweather clasped his hands in front of him, frowning seriously with the expression of a man who is carefully and conscientiously marshalling his memories.

  "We had dinner a little early that night—at about seven o'clock—because Captain Knightley and Lady Valerie were going to the cinema. They left immediately after dinner, and shortly afterwards Lady Sangore went to her room to write some letters. The rest of us sat and talked in the library until about half-past ten, when Kennet went to bed. That was the last time any of us saw him. At about a quarter past eleven Captain Knightley and Lady Valerie returned, and I should think we stayed up for not more than another quarter of an hour. Then we all went to bed.

  "Some time later—I should imagine it was about half-past twelve—I was awakened by the clanging of the fire alarms. I put on a pair of trousers and left my room. At once it became obvious to me that the fire was serious. There was a great deal of smoke on the stairs, and from the sound of the flames and the light they gave I could see that the fire must have taken a firm hold on the ground floor.

  "You must understand that I had just been suddenly woken up, and I was somewhat bewildered. As I hesitated, I saw Captain Knightley come along the passage carrying Lady Valerie. Then I heard General Sangore's voice out­side shouting 'Hurry up and get out, everybody!' I started to follow Captain Knightley, and I was halfway down the stairs when I met Mr Luker coming up. He said 'Oh, that's all right—I was afraid you hadn't heard. The others are all out.' "

  "And then?"

  "I ran out into the garden with him. That's about al' I can remember. It all happened so quickly that my recol­lections are a trifle hazy. I still don't know how we came to forget Kennet until it was too late, but I can only imagine that in the excitement Mr Luker and myself mutually mis­understood each other to have accounted for the people we had not seen. It was a tragic mistake which has haunted me ever since."

  The coroner wagged his head sympathetically, as if he could feel everything that Fairweather must have suffered.

  "I'm sure that we all appreciate your feelings," he said. He turned the papers on his table, and went on, as though apologizing for bringing back any more painful memories: "Have you any idea as to how the fire could have started?"

  "None. It may have been a faulty piece of electric wiring, or a cigarette end carelessly dropped somewhere. It must have been something like that."

  "Thank you, Mr Fairweather," said the coroner. "Next witness, please."

  There was an interruption. Before the sergeant could call out the next name the little black-bearded juryman opened his mouth.

  " 'Arf a mo," he said. "I've got some questions I'd like to ask."

  The coroner stared at him as though he had been guilty of some indecency. He seemed to find it extraordinary that a member of the jury should wish to ask a question.

  The little juryman returned his stare defiantly. He had the air of Ajax defying the lightning.

  "And what is your question?" asked the coroner, in a supercilious patronizing tone.

  "Didn't the witness 'ave no servants?"

  "Er—several," Fairweather said mildly. "But I had given them all leave to attend a dance in Reading, and they did not get back until the fire was practically over. The only one left was my chauffeur, who lives in the lodge, about three hundred yards away from the main building."

  "Didn't nobody try to put the fire out?"

  "It was hardly possible. It spread too rapidly, and we had nothing to tackle it with."

  "Thank you," said the coroner. "Next witness, please."

  He contrived to be mildly apologetic and contemptuously crushing at the same time. He seemed to apologize to Fairweather for the trouble and distress he had been caused in answering two altogether ridiculous and irrelevant ques­tions, and simultaneously to point out the little juryman as a pest and a nuisance who would be well advised to shut up and behave himself.

  "Kane Luker," called the sergeant.

  Luker gave his evidence in a quiet precise voice. He had been sitting up reading when he heard the fire alarm. He left his room and went downstairs, where he discovered that the fire appeared to have started in the library, but it was already too fierce for him to be able to get near it. He opened the front door, and while he was doing so Sir Robert and Lady Sangore came downstairs. He told them to get outside and shout up at the bedroom windows. He started to go down to the lodge to telephone for the fire brigade. He met the chauffeur on the way and sent him back to make the call, and himself returned to the house. As he reached it, Knightley carried Lady Valerie out. He went in and started to climb the stairs, where he met Fairweather. He was sure that everyone must have heard the alarms.

  "I said 'Do you know if the others are all out?' and I thought he gave some affirmative answer. It's only since then that I've realized that he must have missed my first words and thought that I said 'The others are all out.' But I agree with him that it will be hard for us to forgive ourselves for the tragic results of our misunderstanding."

  "I don't think that any blame can be attached to you," observed the coroner benignly. "All of us have made simi­lar mistakes even in normal circumstances, and in a moment of excitement like that they are still more understandable. The tragic results of the mistake were due to a combination of causes for which you and Mr Fairweather can scarcely be held responsible."

  He turned pointedly and challengingly towards the jury.

  "Any questions?" he barked.

  He seemed to be daring them to ask any questions.

  "Yus," said the black-bearded little man.

  The coroner discovered him again with fresh evidence of distaste. His brows drew together ominously, as if it had just occurred to him to wonder who had been responsi­ble for including such an impossible person in the quorum, and as if he were making a mental note to issue a severe reprimand to the party concerned. He tapped impatiently on the table with his finger tips.

  "Well?"

  "I suppose you all 'ad wine with your dinner, and when you went into the libry you 'ad more drinks," said the little juryman. " 'Ow many drinks did you 'ave and 'ow many did Mr Kennet 'ave?"

  Luker shrugged.

  "Some of us had a little wine with dinner, certainly; and after dinner there was whiskey and soda in the library. I can't say exactly how much we had, but it was certainly a very moderate amount."

  "Kennet wasn't drunk, was 'e?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Then why didn't 'e 'ear the alarm?"

  Luker looked appealingly at the coroner, who said: "That is hardly a question which the witness can be expected to answer."

  He looked at the jury as if inviting them to dissociate themselves from their one discreditable member; and the foreman, a smeary individual with a lock of hair plastered down over his forehead, said ingratiatingly: "He might 've been a heavy sleeper."

  "From the evidence, that seems to be the only reasonable explanation," said the coroner firmly. "Thank you, Mr Luker."

  General Sangore and his wife briefly corroborated what had been told before. They had been wakened by the fire alarms, they left the house, and it was not until later that they realized that Kennet was missing. Lady Valerie gave evidence of being rescued by Captain Knightley and of being the first to notice that Kennet was not outside. The chauffeur gave evidence of having met Luker on the drive and of having gone back to call the fire brigade. He had had a lot of difficulty in getting through, and consequently had been detained too long to see much of what went on at the house.

  None of these witnesses were questioned. The black-bearded juryman, temporarily discouraged, had relapsed into frustrated scowling.

  The coroner shuffled his papers again with an air of returning equanimity. No doubt he was feeling that he had now got the situation well in hand.

  "Next witness, please."

  "Simon Templar," called the sergeant.

  III

  How Simon Templar Drove to London,

  and General Sangore Experi
enced an

  Impediment in His Speech

  THERE was a stir of excitement in the press seats as Simon Templar walked up on to the platform and took the oath. Even if the party from Whiteways had failed to recognize his name, there was no such obtuseness among the reporters. The Saint had provided them with too many good stories in the past for them to forget him, and their air of profes­sional boredom gave way to a sudden and unexpected alert­ness. A subdued hum of speculation swept over them and spread to one or two other parts of the room where the name had also revived recollections. The black-bearded little juryman sat forward and stared.

  While Simon was taking the oath, he noticed that the coroner was poring intently over a scrap of paper which had somehow come into his hands. When he raised his eyes from it, they came to rest on the Saint with a new wariness. He folded the note and tucked it away in his breast pocket without shifting his gaze; and his manner became very brisk again.

  "I understand, Mr Templar, that you arrived on the scene of the fire some time after it had started."

  "I have no idea," said the Saint carefully. "I only saw it a very short time before I got there. And I was there in time to hear Lady Valerie say that Kennet was missing."

  The coroner rubbed his chin. He seemed to be weighing his words with particular circumspection.

  "Then you went into the house to try to get him out."

  "Yes."

  "In what condition was the house when you entered it? I mean, how far had the fire progressed?"

  "The whole place was blazing," Simon answered. "It was worst in the part which I now gather was called the west wing. There was fire in the hall, and the stairs had begun to burn. Part of the passage I had to go down to reach Kennet's room was also alight."

  "I take it that with all that fire there would be a great deal of smoke and fumes."

  "There was quite a bit."

  "I understand that you were quite—er—groggy when you came out."

  "Only for a moment. It passed off very quickly."

  "But I take it that if you had stayed in the house any longer than you did, you would inevitably have been over­come by the smoke and fumes and lost consciousness."

  "I suppose so, eventually."

  "To look at you, Mr Templar, one would certainly get the impression that your physical condition was exceptionally good."

  "I've always got around all right."

  There was a pause. The coroner turned to the jury.

  "Mr Templar modestly tells us that he gets around all right," he stated. "You can see for yourselves that he has the build and bearing of an unusually strong and athletic man. You will therefore agree that his powers of resistance to such things as smoke and fumes are probably higher than the average, and certainly immeasurably greater than those of a slightly built sedentary type such as the late Mr Kennet, whose constitution, I am told, was always some­what delicate. I want you to bear this in mind a little later on."

  He turned back to the Saint.

  "You appear to have acted with singular courage, Mr Templar," he said. "I'm sure that that is quite obvious to all of us here in spite of the modest way in which you have told your story. I should like to compliment you on your extremely gallant attempt to save this unfortunate young man's life. Next witness, please."

  A glint of steel came into the Saint's eyes. He knew that the coroner had had a good talk with the party from Whiteways, and it had been evident from the start of the proceed­ings that everything was laid out to lead up to a verdict of accidental death with as little fuss as possible. That was all very well; and the Saint had quite enjoyed himself while he was waiting for his turn. But now he realized that he was not intended to have a turn. His own evidence had been adroitly manoeuvred towards bolstering up the desired verdict; and the coroner, warned about him in time, was getting rid of him with a pontifical pat on the back before he had a chance to derange the well-oiled machinery. Which was not by any means the Saint's idea.

  "Haven't the jury any questions?" he asked breezily.

  He turned towards them and looked hard at the black-bearded little man, who was sitting slumped disconsolately in his chair. There was something compelling about his direct gaze.

  The black-bearded little man's figure straightened and an eager light came into his eyes. He rose.

  "Yus," he said defiantly. "I've got some questions."

  The coroner's hands tightened together.

  "Very well," he snapped. "Go on and ask your questions."

  The way in which he spoke explained to the entire audi­ence that the questions could only be a pointless waste of their time as much as his own.

  The little man turned to Simon.

  "You're the chap they call the Saint, ain't you?" he said. "You've 'ad a lot of experience of crime—murders, and that sort o' thing."

  Before Simon could answer the coroner intervened.

  "Mr Templar's past life .and any nickname by which he may be known to the public are not subjects which we have to consider at this inquiry. Kindly confine your questions to facts relevant to the case."

  There was an awkward pause. The little juryman's atti­tude was still undaunted, but he didn't seem to know what to say next. He looked about him desperately, as if search­ing the room for inspiration. Finally he spoke.

  "Do you think there was something fishy about this fire?" he demanded.

  "Mr Templar's personal opinions are not matters which concern this court," interrupted the coroner sternly.

  The Saint smiled. He looked at the little juryman, and spoke very clearly and distinctly.

  "Yes," he said. "I think there were a lot of very fishy things about it."

  There was a moment of silence so heavy that it seemed almost solid. And then it broke in a babble of twittering speculation that surged over the room as if a swarm of bees had been turned loose. There was a craning of necks all over the court, a quick rustling of notebooks among the reporters.

  Simon stood at his ease, absorbing the pleasant radia­tions of the sensation he had created. Well, he reflected, he had certainly done it now. He glanced at the rows of seats where the party from Whiteways was sitting. Luker's expression had not changed: he wore his usual cold stony mask. Fairweather looked acutely unhappy: he could not meet the Saint's gaze. The General and Lady Sangore had adopted an indignant pose of having nothing to do with what was going on: they sat as if red-hot pokers had been inserted into their backs and they were pretending not to notice it.

  Simon's glance travelled on and found the faces of Peter and Patricia among the scatter of pink blobs that were turned up to him. He held their eyes for a moment with a message of impenitent devilry.

  The jury were goggling at him openmouthed, with the sole exception of the small black-bearded man, who had taken up a Napoleonic posture with his arms proudly folded and a radiance of anarchistic joy on his face. The coroner had gone slightly purple; he banged on the table in front of him.

  "Silence!" he shouted. "Silence, or I'll have the court cleared!"

  He turned angrily on Simon.

  "We are not interested in your theories, Mr Templar, and you had no right to make such a statement. You will please remember that this is a court of law."

  "I'm trying to," said the Saint unflinchingly. "I thought I was summoned here to give evidence. I haven't had the chance to give any yet. I'm not offering theories. I'm trying to draw attention to one or two very curious and even fishy facts which I have not been allowed to mention."

  "What are they?" chirped the little juryman exultantly, before the coroner could speak again.

  "For instance," said the Saint, "there is the fact which I noticed, which the lady who was with me noticed, and which even the police who were on the scene must have noticed, that every ground-floor window in sight was open, producing a draught which must have materially helped the growth of the fire."

  Fairweather stood up.

  "I could have explained that if it had been brought up before," he said.
"It is true that most of the windows were probably open. It was a warm evening, and they had been open all day. It has always been the butler's duty to lock up the house before he retires, and it had completely escaped my attention that he was not there to do it that night when we went to bed. He would, of course, have locked up as soon as he came in; but unfortunately the fire started before that."

  "Thank you, Mr Fairweather."

  The coroner shifted the papers on his desk again with two or three aimless, jerky movements, as if to gain time to re-establish his domination. Then he leaned back again and put his finger tips together and went on in a more trenchant voice.

  "This is a regrettable but instructive example of the danger of jumping to rash conclusions. It is one very good reason why the personal opinions of witnesses are not admissible in evidence. There are some people whose warped minds are prone to place a malicious interpretation on anything of which the true explanation is beyond their limited intelligence. There are also persons whose desire for cheap notoriety leads them to distort and exaggerate without restraint when they find themselves temporarily in the public eye, in the hope of attracting more attention to themselves. It is the duty of a court to protect the reputa­tions of other witnesses, and the open-mindedness of the jury, from the harm which may be done by such irresponsible insinuations. In this case, an insignificant fact which is not contested has been brought up with much ado. But so far from supporting the suggestion that there is something 'fishy' involved, to any normal and intelligent person it merely confirms the chain of mischances through which the deceased lost his life."

  "All right," said the Saint, through his teeth. "Then why was Kennet's door locked?"

  The coroner lost his head for a moment.

  "How do you know it was locked?"

  "Because I saw it. I got as far as his room, and I could have got him out if I could have got in. But it was locked, and it was too strong to break down. I went back to get an axe, but the floor of the corridor caved in before I could get back."

  "Well, supposing his door was locked—what of it?" demanded the coroner in an exasperated voice. "Why shouldn't he lock his door?"