‘To do with you! You know very well. You set your spies on to ferret out things about a guest of mine—about what he was doing and when. And how and why. And all because you’re a publicity-seeking, press-toadying, jumped-up busybody who’s taken it upon himself to come down here and fidget round to try and prove that a foul dog who shot another, as bad as himself, through the back of the head, ought not to be strung up … I know all about you, you see. Not that I wish to!… But leave my household alone another time. Because a guest and good friend of mine chooses to leave unexpectedly, am I to endure your attentions? And visits from your plug-ugly staff? How the hell does it concern you and this self-imposed Sherlock-Holmsing of yours if Captain Lake does go away without proper leave-taking? Can’t he go where and when and how he likes? I didn’t know he was going, nor did anyone else in my house; but just because, for some very good reasons of his own, he did have to leave suddenly, I don’t conclude that he’s a criminal. I’m not a fool … By God, Mr What’s-your-name, I’ve a damned good mind to stop your game for good and all by reporting you to the Police. I will. I’m not on good terms with Colonel Ravenscourt—can’t stand the man—but I know him. And he’d listen to my complaint …’ Her words, all of them clear, had been coming faster and faster. Now she seemed to stop for breath.
Anthony took his chance. ‘I was just about,’ he said mildly, ‘to ring up Colonel Ravenscourt. Perhaps, if I get the number, you would like to speak first. My business is different business.’ He put up a hand and rubbed gently at the tip of his right ear, which was smarting with the cold.
The woman, for one infinitesimal fraction of time seemed about to strike him in the face.
He stood his ground. His greenish eyes held her gaze. There was silence, broken only by her hurried breathing. She said at last:
‘You damn’ dog!… It won’t be Ravenscourt I’ll see. He and you are the same kind.’
She turned on her heel, drawing that coat about her. Again the chauffeur materialised. He opened the door; settled a rug about her knees; shut the door; went lightly and with speed to his driving-seat. His face—the mask of a dead Apollo—was blank beneath his peaked cap.
The great car slid, without sound, away from the inn, gained the high road, and disappeared.
Anthony stood gazing after it. There was the look in his face of a man who sees beyond what, ostensibly, he looks at. He was motionless for a full minute. His hand which had gone in search of his pipe to his jacket pocket stayed, still as the rest of him, suspended half a foot away from the pocket.
At last he turned. His eyes closed; opened again to the present and the concrete things before them. He saw that at the windows of The Horse and Hound were many curious heads; from the Smoking Room Pike and Lucia, shoulder to shoulder, looked out at him. Suddenly he grinned. He winked at them and ran up the steps of the porch and so into the house.
Before he got to them, there was speech between Pike and his wife. To his astonishment—and utter delight when afterwards he came, as still he frequently does, to think of it—Pike felt the lady’s fingers gripping his arm.
‘Oh!’ breathed Lucia. ‘Oh! What’s happened? He … he hasn’t smiled like that since the beginning.’
Pike nodded; he had not yet properly realised that clutch upon his arm. He beamed. ‘You’re right!’ he said.
Anthony came in to them. There was difference in the whole of him. He had sloughed five years in as many minutes. He strode to the fireplace and pressed long and hard upon the bell-push which was beside it. He said:
‘Oh frabjous day! Calloo and most certainly Callay. We will now all have a little drink.’ From Annie’s understudy, who came hurrying, he ordered whisky for himself and Pike, a glass of sherry for his wife.
The understudy gone, they beset him with questions. He smiled upon them but would not speak. They gave him up. He said at last:
‘Don’t take my spirits without any soda, will you? I mean I’m disproportionately elated. That jigsaw in my poor head’s suddenly given itself a shake. And it looks like making a picture. Very much it looks like making a picture. What’s been making me like a sore with two bare heads has been that cold hot-pot I’ve had up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘So that now I’ve got it sorted, I’m full of bounce and egotism. All zeal, Mrs Easy!’ He looked at his wife. His tone changed. He said:
‘But you’re not to go running away with the idea that I’m bound to be Deus ex Machina. I’m not. I’ll be frank. It’s a toss-up. Fifty-fifty … I’m just happy because I can see my way. I’ve been wandering about in the dark, being very clever about it and all that, but in the dark. And now I’ve seen a bit of light, it’s gone straight to my head. So don’t be too optimistic. Don’t be optimistic at all, in fact.’
‘I won’t,’ Lucia said. But her radiance robbed the words of meaning.
Anthony groaned. ‘I meant,’ he insisted, ‘exactly what I said. Exactly.’ His tone was incisive. Once more that atmosphere of impending horror, though less heavy, less enveloping than before, settled upon Lucia’s spirit.
Anthony watched her face. He crossed to her chair and sat himself upon its arm and laid a hand upon her shoulder. He smiled down at her. A small and grave and intimate smile that Pike could not see. His fingers pressed the shoulder. He said:
‘I’m a fool. I should never’ve done the song and dance. But I couldn’t help it. And you can bet your boots, my darling, that now I can see something you won’t at least be bothered by that dread sitting-about-and-doing-nothing sort of feeling.’
Lucia looked up at him. Her shoulder lifted itself to return the caress of the hand which rested upon it.
‘But, sir,’ said Pike suddenly, ‘what is this something?’ His eyes were eager but apprehensive. ‘Be best for us all to be abreast of you, wouldn’t it?’
Anthony shook his head. A smile twisted his mouth. ‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘Not yet. It’s not ripe. And I’m constitutionally unable to spill beans before they’re properly cooked. P’r’aps I ought but I can’t. That’s all there is to it. I wouldn’t, mind you, Pike, keep you or anyone else in the dark at a point where your being in the dark might prejudice the chance of success. But until that point, or until I’m dead, cold, utterly sure—whichever is the earlier—my beans remain unspilt. Sorry and all that. Expect it comes from reading too many detective stories. My subconscious ego—a monstrous brute—wants to indentify itself with Lecoq and Rouletabille and Gore. They all hold their tongues till page three hundred and four. They’ve got to, or no one’d read about ’em … Come on, it’s late, let’s go and have some lunch. You order while I use the ’phone.’
They went luncheonwards. From a table near the fire, Pike and Lucia heard Anthony’s voice at the instrument in the hall.
‘’Lo …’ it said. Pause. ‘That the War Office?’ Pause. ‘Right. Colonel Beaumont, please.’ Pause. ‘That Colonel Beaumont’s secretary?… Oh, it’s yourself, Piggy.’ Pause. ‘Yes. Is he still with you?’ Pause. ‘No. No. That’s what I’m ringing for. Stop him. Tell him to wait where he is. I’m coming up. He’s to wait till five. If I’m not with you then, he’s to go to White’s and wait.’ Pause. ‘Thanks. G’bye.’
He came into the Coffee Room with long strides. He was whistling, very softly, a twenty-or-more-year-old music-hall ballad.
VIII
He ate swiftly, and talked not at all. The meal done, he went to the telephone again. He asked for the second of the numbers which Ravenscourt had given him in the morning. He said when he had got it:
‘I want to speak to the Chief Constable if he’s there. Gethryn’s the name.’
There was an instant ‘Yessir’ and many crackling switchboard noises. Then Ravenscourt’s voice:
‘That you, Gethryn? I’ve nothing—yet. Anything you want?’
‘Yes. First—as a matter of interest—d’you happen to’ve heard that Lake’s gone?’
‘Lake’s what?’
‘Gone,’ said Anthony. ‘Left us. Very sudden early thi
s morning. All luggage. Destination unknown.’
‘Damn good thing. But what’s it to do with? …’
‘Ware ’phone. All I’ll say now—and I’m not pressing it—is that I could stand knowing where he could be found.’
‘Might help.’ Ravenscourt’s voice was doubtful. ‘But I can’t do much—not officially. I’ll try and get you something. Anything else? You sound frisky.’
‘Yes. Got something at last. Tell you sometime later. Nothing at all on the Dollboys job yet, then?’
‘Not a thing … Well, I’ll do my best about Lake. ’Bye.’
Anthony heard the click of a receiver, and hung up his own. He was turning to go back to the Coffee Room, where Lucia was still at table, when there came to his ears the sudden roar of a motor-engine; then a screeching of brakes. A car had come into the forecourt and come in fast.
He went along the hall to the porch-door. He opened it and came nose to nose with Flood. At the foot of the steps stood a dusty two-seater, far from new. In it, at the wheel, was a Police Inspector. Not the belligerent Rawlins, thought Anthony, and remembered the name of Fox. He said to Flood:
‘What’s doing?’
‘Quite a lot.’ Flood was nonchalant; but his eye gleamed. He put up both hands to smooth his hair.
Anthony looked at the car and its driver, who now was starting his engine. ‘Where’s he bound?’
‘HQ,’ Flood said. ‘I’ve got something. And they’re on to it, of course.’
‘Come in,’ said Anthony. ‘Food?’
Flood shook the disordered head. ‘No. Shared a constabulary packet of sandwiches. Drink, though. Very dry work, murders.’
Anthony led the way back to the Coffee Room. At its door they met Pike. He turned back and went in with them. Flood was given a drink. He drank. He said:
‘Knew I’d get something out of the old girl if I stuck it. And I did.’
‘Photo of the guilty party?’ Pike was humorously scornful.
‘No,’ said Flood lightly, ‘only his name.’ He sat back and took another drink from his glass and enjoyed the reception of this statement.
For a moment Pike’s mouth opened; he shut it with a snap and once more his lower jaw protruded. But the light of astonishment was still in his eyes. Anthony sat very still; his dark face was expressionless as a mask and his eyes were blank. But his hand, clenched into fist, lay upon the table and its knuckles showed dead-white. He said, in a flat and level voice:
‘Go on, Flood. And be quick.’
Flood went on. ‘I got on to it like this: the old girl kept on saying something about “curtain”. You remember when you and the Chief Constable were leaving she was at it and I was trying to get at what she wanted. She got much quieter after you’d gone and before the rest of the local sleuths arrived I’d managed to get her up to her room and make some tea and get it down her. Alone with me she got calmer, and gradually almost coherent. But the calmer she got the more grief-stricken she got—poor old dame!—and she was so busy weeping that she said even less than before. But I still kept hearing that word “curtain”. And I began to think about it. And suddenly, after I’d tried all the curtains in that room on her and drawn blank as I had downstairs, I saw the word in my head—and it began with a capital C. I made a wild shot and began talking to her as if Curtain was a man.’ Flood paused; he pushed aside his empty glass and leant his arms upon the table and over them his body. He said, with a sort of forced quietness:
‘I was right. Curtain was a name. I got it out of her in bits. Curtain was a man who knew Dollboys and used to come and see Dollboys. He had business of some kind with Dollboys; what it was she never knew. The full name was Luke Curtain. She’d only seen him twice, though he’d been to the house much more often than that. But he always came in the late evening; and if she wasn’t in bed already when he came she was sent there. She knew nothing about Mr Curtain and therefore nothing against him. But she never liked the … feel of Mr Curtain.’
‘She knew this Curtain came last night?’ Pike put in. He was frowning now and his eyes were glittering slits. ‘Because if he did come it must’ve been late. Very late, because I was on that roof there till …’
Flood silenced him. ‘She doesn’t know anything about last night. But she just remembers waking up and hearing a movement outside and Dollboys going downstairs. She didn’t know what the time was, and she just thought “Curtain” and turned over and went to sleep again.’
‘That all?’ said Pike. His tone said: it isn’t enough.
For the first time Anthony spoke. He said, before Flood could reply:
‘What does she say Curtain’s like?’ He had not moved; and still his voice was that curious flat-seeming sound.
Flood looked at him: ‘Biggish, slouching, untidy chap. Uncertain age. Big yellow moustache and a bit of beard. Very rough clothes. Deep, surly voice.’
Anthony moved at last. He sat back in his chair. When he spoke, his voice had lost that queer tonelessness. He said:
‘And where does he live? What part of the county?’
Flood shook his head. ‘She doesn’t know. Nor does this Alice girl: I asked her but she knew nothing at all.’
‘You’ve told the Police?’
Flood nodded. ‘Yes. They’re on it, as I said. Fox has gone to see the Chief Constable.’ He looked from Pike to Anthony, from Anthony to Pike. ‘Funny thing,’ he said slowly, ‘none of the bobbies’d heard of Mr Curtain either. Secretive person.’
There was a silence. Anthony broke it. He got to his feet. ‘I shan’t be here the rest of today. I’m going to London. I’ll bring Dyson back with me.’ He looked at the two men. ‘You must both get busy. Damned busy. On your own, go out into the highways and find out about Curtain. The Police’ll be at it, too, but that’s all to the good. Two extra cooks won’t spoil this pottage; and they might cook it quicker. I’m starting at once. Pike, would you find my wife before you do anything else, and ask her to find out from the girl Annie whether she ever heard, through Dollboys or elsehow, of Curtain. If I’m not back tonight, I’ll ring up.’
Pike and Flood were alone. They looked at each other. Flood’s round face wore a slightly dazed look. Pike’s long face broke presently into a smile. He said:
‘He’s more like himself than he’s been since the beginning of this do.’
Flood shrugged. He looked at the door by which Anthony had left. ‘What’s up his sleeve?’ he said.
Pike chuckled. As always when he was moved, a schoolboy oath came out of him. He said:
‘Don’t know! But, by Crops, I’ll bet there’s five aces.’
Outside, Anthony was shouting for his servant. Who presently came, from some nethermost region; his mouth, though he strove to conceal this, was full.
‘Get the car out,’ Anthony said. ‘I’m going to London. Hurry, you’ll drive.’
White hurried. As he hurried he muttered: ‘Thank God!’
Anthony went to the telephone. Again he gave the second of Ravenscourt’s two numbers. Again he was in luck.
‘Hullo,’ said Ravenscourt’s voice at last. ‘Just off. You caught me.’
‘Good. Tell me a thing. What was Blackatter’s unit, or units, in France? He was in France?’
There was a pause. ‘He was in France all right,’ said the telephone. ‘Can’t remember what with, though. Hang on.’
Anthony hung on. After two minutes the telephone spoke again. ‘Second-Fourth Prince Edward’s Rifles,’ it said. ‘All the time. That is from 16th January ’15 to Armistice. Three leaves during that period. A week in September ’15; a weekend in May ’16 and a long leave—six weeks—in January ’17. And a fortnight in hospital at Barrigny in May ’17. That do?’
‘Thanks,’ said Anthony. ‘Many thanks.’
‘About Lake,’ said the telephone, ‘I’ve nothing for you yet. But might have later. Heard about this talk of the Dollboys woman? Some man called Curtain? I’m off there now.’
‘Thanks about Lake,’ said Ant
hony. ‘Don’t forget about him. Yes: I’ve heard of Curtain. Odd business. Very odd. Who is Curtain, what is he, that no one seems to know him?’
‘Mare’s-nest probably,’ said the telephone. ‘G’bye.’
Anthony hung up the receiver. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and upon it scribbled the details of the dead Blackatter’s years in France.
Lucia came down the stairs and found him putting on his greatcoat. He kissed her. He said:
‘See Pike. I’m off. Back sooner or later.’
He was gone. Within what seemed an impossibly short time there came to Lucia’s ear the boom of the car’s exhaust. She turned to find Pike at her elbow.
Anthony sat, buried in his great frieze coat, in the seat beside the driver’s. His eyes were closed, his head sunk between his shoulders.
‘Fast, sir?’ said White.
‘Push her along,’ said his master.
White pushed her along.
Only twice upon the whole journey—and those times within three or four miles of its beginning—did the eyes of Anthony open and show him to be awake. Upon each occasion it was another car that they looked at. The first, Mrs Carter-Fawcett’s limousine; the second, the sedate coupé of Sir Richard Brocklebank. The first, going their way, they passed. Anthony’s eyes took in the emptiness of the car and the immobile, inhuman beauty of the profile of the silent Apollo at the wheel. The second car was travelling against their way. The road curved here and narrowed; White slowed down for the passing. Miss Brocklebank, driving, raised a hand to Anthony in salute. He raised his hat. Beside his daughter was Sir Richard. He waved airily. Anthony nodded and smiled. The car passed. His had gone perhaps fifty yards when Anthony leaned out and looked back, to see that the baronet had done the same. Even at that distance, Anthony imagined that he could see the twinkling of those brown and eternally youthful eyes.
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