The Noose

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘Cats,’ said Anthony, ‘are truthful beasts more often than not. What’s Lake’s rank in the Legion?’

  Miss Brocklebank pursed her lips. ‘I can only talk from hearsay, and what I’ve happened to see … I should say he’s fairly high up. Sort of favourite Lieutenant who knows he’s all right so long as he doesn’t object when someone else is temporarily on duty.’

  Anthony looked at her. A little smile twisted his mouth. ‘You don’t like the lady, do you?’

  The girl flushed hotly. ‘I do not! Shouldn’t like myself if I did. I know it’s the 20th century and all that rot—but there must be a limit. At least, I think so. And so does Daddy. He’s the only one, though, that lives up to what he thinks. All the others kow-tow to her with one hand and backbite her with the other. I say they’re as bad as she is. Worse. She has got the courage …’

  ‘Of her predilections,’ finished Anthony. ‘Quite. But that’s fairly easy when there’s all that money. Yes … This Legion now, any others here tonight?’

  Miss Brocklebank shook her head. ‘Not to speak of. Two recruits. Jack Borstowe and another boy.’ Miss Brocklebank allowed a small but heavy sigh to escape her; then angrily bit her lip. She said, in a tone exaggeratedly level: ‘Pity about Jack. He was a nice boy. He is still. But he won’t be long, if he ever gets out of the Recruit class … I say!’

  ‘Yes?’ said Anthony.

  ‘You said, at the beginning of this conversation, that you wanted to know a lot about Captain Lake …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthony.

  ‘And we’ve really been spending all our time on That Woman …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Brocklebank. ‘Was it Her you really wanted to know about?’

  Anthony got suddenly to his feet. He smiled. He said vaguely:

  ‘Yes and no. In a way … I’m going to be very rude. I’m going to ask you to give up the rest—or almost all of it—of this party to me. Will you? I should be very …’

  Miss Brocklebank interrupted. ‘Can,’ she said, ‘a duck swim?… Of course I will, Colonel Gethryn.’ She looked up at him with her blue eyes shining.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Anthony. ‘Please don’t. Anything but “Colonel”. I never could bear it. And in this atmosphere it’s worse than ever. The place is alive with the things.’

  The girl laughed. ‘It is, isn’t it? They’re all soldiers …’

  ‘I …’ began Anthony. And then stopped. His mouth closed. His whole body stiffened. His eyes became slits, the frown between them carving deep creases between his brows. He said beneath his breath, ‘Good Lord!’

  Miss Brocklebank regarded him. ‘Forgotten something?’ she said.

  He shook his head. He laughed, and that sudden alertness, like the sudden alertness of a pointer, went from him. He said:

  ‘No. Rather the other way. Perhaps … Miss Brocklebank, give further proof of your angelity. Stay here while, for a moment, I go and speak to my wife.’

  ‘Right.’ Miss Brocklebank smiled serenely. ‘I always said,’ she murmured, ‘that I’d make a Watson.’

  ‘Watson,’ said Anthony, ‘nothing! You’re the answer to the Detective’s Prayer!’ He was gone, his long stride, with its seeming laziness, taking him down the corridor and round its corner, out of the girl’s sight, quicker than she would have thought possible.

  Anthony was in luck. Turning into the hall, he came face to face with his wife, and his wife at the one moment, between partners, when she was alone. The hall was full; the music had just stopped, and stopped for a real interval while the band might drink. The dancers were making, in eddying blocks, for the buffet in the library. Lucia said:

  ‘So you are still here. I thought …’

  Anthony took her by the arm. He steered a way for her through the press. Back to the ballroom he went. He said:

  ‘We’ll be alone here. Only got a moment, dear. Want to tell you: keep one of those eyes of yours on someone for me. The Carter-Fawcett woman. Let the other eye go everywhere, but one on her all the time. And pick up anything you can about her, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said his wife. ‘Why?’

  ‘No time now. Just for oddity generally. Look out for anything unusual. She’s sure to give you something to tell me about, whether it’s what I want or not … G’bye!’

  Lucia watched his back as he made swift, easy way across the hall again. She was still looking, though the back had gone, when a voice came in her ear; the voice of her next partner.

  And down the western corridor, Anthony sat again to face Peggy Brocklebank. He said:

  ‘Now. Ready for questions. Lots of ’em? About lots of people?’

  She nodded eagerly.

  II

  It was at about the time when Anthony’s first of this second batch of questions was being announced—or perhaps a little earlier—that there entered the Saloon Bar of The Horse and Hound, from the interior and not the street door, Mr Walter Flood.

  There were two other men in this bar; Mr Dollboys, quiet and self-contained on the settee which was drawn, cornerwise, close to the glowing fire in the brick fireplace; and, at the other side of the fire a man, erect upon a small chair, who was hidden by the evening paper which he read.

  Mr Flood sauntered to the bar and stood leaning, not without grace, upon it. His ruddy face shone with health; his fair hair was sleek and gleaming. His tie was very beautiful and the jacket of his plus-four suit a quiet advertisement for his tailor.

  Mr Flood ordered a brandy and soda. Mr Dollboys stared at him. Mr Flood, glass in hand, turned from the bar towards the fire; became suddenly aware of Mr Dollboys’ presence; smiled genially; wished Mr Dollboys good evening.

  Mr Dollboys was amicable. He returned almost heartily Mr Flood’s greeting. He said, after this:

  ‘Pleasant t’see a friendly face.’ His speech was a little blurred; ever so slightly thickened at its edges; his words showed a tendency to run one into the other. He glared over his glass at the other man, still behind his barrier of paper. ‘Some folks,’ said Mr Dollboys, ‘can only just bring ’emselves to pass the time o’ day. An’ after that … well, that’s where their speakin’s finished.’ From Mr Dollboys’ face, which was pale beneath its tan, his small eyes glittered balefully.

  ‘Join me?’ said Flood. His tone was soothing. He held up his glass.

  ‘Don’ …’ said the other, ‘don’ … mine if I do!’ He rose to his feet and walked, with a rather solemn care, to the bar counter. Flood joined him. He studied Mr Dollboys. He came easily to the conclusion that Dyson was right. The man was scared. Or had been scared … Well, he was about to be scared still further. He looked actually smaller; there were pinched lines about the corners of his mouth. And the eyes—bright with the glaze of alcohol—would not be still. Flood remembered their steadiness of the early afternoon. Now they darted quick, furtive glances this way and that.

  ‘What is it?’ said Flood blandly.

  ‘Whis … whisky.’ The man pushed his glass towards the barmaid with fingers which shook. He watched, with the painful concentration of the unsober, while the girl held his glass beneath the tapped bottle. Behind his back Flood cast a glance back at the bar’s other occupant. Who now put down for a moment the paper from before the face of Pike, and held up a hand with all five fingers out-stretched. So Dollboys was on his fifth double since Pike’s entrance an hour before. And there must have been some before that … Flood turned back to his guest; in his wide blue gaze there was something like admiration.

  To Dollboys’ owlish salutation he raised his own glass. He was very affable. He said:

  ‘Good luck! And I hope our little deal this afternoon may bring you a slice. What?’

  Mr Dollboys did not like this. Mr Dollboys put an unsteady finger to his mouth. He said:

  ‘Ssh! Ssh! No talk o’ that.’ His voice was a hoarse and penetrating rumble. ‘Not here, mister. No bus … bus’ness here. No.’

  ‘Sorry indeed,’ sa
id Flood. His round face wore a look of solicitous concern.

  ‘Comansiddown!’ said Mr Dollboys, still in his penetrating whisper. He fastened fingers to Flood’s coat sleeve and led him, slowly but with commendable accuracy, to the settee. He let go the sleeve and sat heavily. Some of the whisky slopped out of his glass and splashed down over his waistcoat. He rubbed at it with an uncertain palm. He sat straighter, suddenly, and seemed to take a grip upon himself. Flood marvelled, for when the whisper came again much of the slurring and thickness had gone from it. It said:

  ‘After you’d gone s’afternoon, mister … that other cove turned up … the one you bade me keep eye open for …’ Once more the fingers of Mr Dollboys fastened themselves upon Flood’s coat-sleeve. ‘Jest ’s you said, mister …’

  ‘Shame,’ said Flood indignantly. ‘That fellow Marable’s a public nuisance. If I had my way, I’d have him locked up. Can’t stand the creeping hound!’

  Mr Dollboys almost smiled. ‘Thass right!’ he said. He nodded and forgot for nearly a minute to stop nodding. ‘Thass right!’ he said. The hand which had been gripping Flood’s coat sleeve turned into a patting hand.

  Flood bore the caress with fortitude, as also the blasts of stale spirit which were wafted from Mr Dollboys. He knew there was not long to endure.

  There was not. Before Mr Dollboys could speak again, the door from the hotel passage swung open. Dyson came in with a rush. And Dyson said to Flood, in a voice which might have been heard for a hundred yards:

  ‘There you are, Flood! Been looking all over for you. They’ve lighted a fire in our sitting-room. C’mon up!’

  Mr Dollboys had his back to the newcomer. But at the sound of the voice he started violently. More whisky splashed down upon his clothes. His face became, instantly, of a palish, slatey-grey colour. He began slowly to turn in his seat. It was as if a magnet which he resisted were pulling him.

  But his turning did not prevent him from seeing the actions of Flood, who sat beside him but leaning in the angle of the settee so that almost directly he faced the newcomer. And Flood was making frantic, and patently would-be secret, signs to the newcomer. Signs which meant ‘Go away! Go away!… Before he sees you!’

  And Mr Dollboys, having taken this in, finished his turning. And he saw his long, thin, disturbing visitor of the earlier evening. Who stared at him, gaped, muttered ‘Good God!’ darted a glance of apology at the man beside Mr Dollboys, and fled.

  The glass fell from Mr Dollboys’ hand and smashed into many pieces upon the brick floor. It lay like a ruined star at his feet.

  Flood jumped up. He looked at Mr Dollboys.

  Mr Dollboys rose. He stood like a sober man. He was, very nearly, a sober man. And the grey of his face was like ashes. He said:

  ‘You … you … you and him!’

  Flood shrugged. Flood smiled. Not a pleasant smile. Flood walked to the door and passed out. The door banged behind him. Over the bar looked the puzzled, broad, big-eyed barmaid. She gazed at Mr Dollboys, with unwinking eyes, like a cow.

  Mr Dollboys put a hand to his head. He looked once, across at the chair upon the far side of the fireplace. But still he only saw the evening paper.

  Mr Dollboys made for the door. He looked like a man who wishes to run but dares not.

  ‘I say!’ said the barmaid. ‘Thet glass!’ She pointed accusingly to the smashed and wetly glittering star upon the red floor.

  Mr Dollboys put a hand into his pocket and threw a florin upon the counter …

  The street door swung to behind Mr Dollboys.

  The inner door opened again. Flood came in, cautiously, Dyson behind him.

  Pike threw down his paper and rose. They went up to him. Flood said something.

  ‘Scared?’ said Pike, ‘Frightened stiff. More ’n that, frightened sober!’ He pulled a cap from his pocket, clapped it on his head and went out, but not by the street door.

  ‘Have a snifter?’ said Dyson.

  Flood nodded.

  While they were drinking there came the sound of a car starting, a nerve-racking grinding of gears, a spluttering engine … and then a chug-chug which died rapidly away.

  Dyson grinned over his glass. He said:

  ‘We’ll both call in the morning. Together. He’ll be easy.’

  ‘Clay,’ said Flood, ‘under potter’s thumbs. Wonder what we’ll squeeze out, though … Chin-chin!’

  ‘Chin-chin!’ said Dyson.

  III

  Colonel Brownlough’s ‘little tamasha’ was drawing towards its end. Guests had gone; guests were going. Dance-music spasmodically continued, but only six or seven couples danced. The hall was full of overcoated men and cloaked women. From the darkness without came muffled sounds of motor-engines racing to achieve warmth. The buffet held still a few adherents, now exclusively male.

  Into the hall, from the western corridor, came Anthony and his partner. To meet them strode a tall, stooping man of sixty with white hair and imperial. From under pleasantly incongruous black brows a pair of bright brown eyes looked youthfully out. Miss Brocklebank introduced her father and her partner.

  ‘And, Daddy,’ she said, ‘we mustn’t call him “Colonel”. He doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I never,’ said Sir Richard Brocklebank, ‘call anybody Colonel—if I can help it … How d’ye do, sir.’ He held out a hand. Long, slim fingers gripped Anthony’s with quite astonishing power. The brown eyes twinkled. Anthony said:

  ‘I’ve a lot to thank you for, sir …’

  The black brows were raised; beneath them the young eyes twinkled. ‘Thank me? How’s that?’

  ‘For your daugher’s intelligence and kindness,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ve thanked her. Or tried to.’

  Sir Richard turned his bright gaze upon his daughter. ‘Intelligent?’ he said. ‘And kind?… What have you been up to, Peggy?’

  Miss Brocklebank cast a look about her. She said, in a lowered voice:

  ‘I’ve been a Watson. At last!’

  Anthony shook his head. He looked at Miss Brocklebank’s father. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘is self-libel. Watson asked idiot questions and got no answers. I’ve asked difficult questions and received more than adequate answers.’

  ‘Watson,’ said Miss Brocklebank, ‘never knew what Holmes was driving at. I didn’t know what you were driving at. I am, therefore, Watson.’

  ‘Holmes,’ said Anthony, ‘always knew his own mind. I hardly ever do. Tonight I certainly don’t. As I didn’t know what I was driving at myself, you couldn’t have done so. Ergo, you are no Watson. Bad logic but as good as yours. Anyhow, again thank you.’

  Sir Richard Brocklebank looked at his watch. His daughter said:

  ‘All right, Daddy. I’m coming.’ She turned to Anthony and held out her hand. ‘Good night,’ she said.

  Anthony shook it. Before he had spoken there came a sudden, angry exclamation from Brocklebank père, and, atop of it, a sudden flurry and a shock. A man’s shoulder, hard and heavy, caught Anthony. He swayed but did not stagger. Behind him a deep, harsh voice growled:

  ‘Sorry. Clumsy.’ It did not seem by its tone to be altogether applying the second word to its owner. Anthony turned. Captain Lake was facing Sir Richard. As Anthony saw him, he was stepping aside to pass Sir Richard, and saying as he stepped:

  ‘Excuse me, sir …’

  ‘Why?’ said the old man. His brown eye had now a reddish tinge to its glitter.

  Anthony, turning back to speak with Miss Margaret Brocklebank, seemed suddenly to stumble. He recovered, but in recovery took three backward steps. And the last of these brought his heel down, with force, upon the toes of Captain Lake.

  Anthony turned again. He said:

  ‘Sorry. Very clumsy!’

  There came a choking sound, immediately repressed, from Miss Brocklebank, and the neat beard of her father twitched as his thin lips curled to a smile undisguised.

  Lake and Anthony faced each other. Lake’s dark face was darker, with a dull, ugly flush beneath its tan
. The full lips of his brutal mouth had almost disappeared. His black eyes were slits. His big hands were fists at his sides.

  The Brocklebanks watched. The father’s white head was to one side; the little smile still curved his mouth, his bright eyes darted their curiously eager glance from one man to the other and back again. The girl was white, and her breath came fast. Her eyes, after one furious glare at Lake, fixed their gaze upon Anthony.

  Anthony’s hands were in his pockets. His green eyes, steady upon those slitted black ones, were lazy-seeming but with something very different from laziness somewhere behind them.

  There was no movement in the group for a half-minute which seemed many minutes. And then Sir Richard Brocklebank sighed, groped for his cigarette-case and said:

  ‘Tableau. Very interesting indeed.’

  Lake, with the ghost of a movement, instantly repressed, towards Anthony, muttered something, turned on his heel and flung off.

  They watched him; saw that, with little care for the manner or manners of his progress, he turned in at the library door; the door through which there still came the clinking of glass and the deep buzz of masculine gossiping.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Anthony, ‘me who stole his marbles. But he seems to think so. Wonder why?’ He still gazed out across the hall.

  ‘The thing,’ said Sir Richard, ‘is a nasty thing. It probably has no reason for its action, beyond Brownlough’s champagne …’

  ‘Beast!’ said Miss Brocklebank with conviction. ‘Good night. Colonel Gethryn … Oh! I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good night again,’ said Sir Richard. ‘And, if you will, come and see us. Any time. Stoke House. Not four miles from Farrow. Take the Malling road.’

  They went. Anthony stood where he was. He looked about him for a sign of Lucia, and found none. He glanced at his watch. One-fifteen. He walked towards the library door. As he reached it there came a touch upon his shoulder, and a male voice which said his name. He turned to see a man taller than himself and of much the same age. An erect man, of the best type of military good looks—the County’s Chief Constable.