‘And then, obviously, walk straight back into the Spider’s Parlour!’ interrupted Molly, scornfully. ‘And you think yourself clever!’
‘I am afraid I do think myself clever,’ the old man confessed, enjoying the instant. ‘The reason Don Pasquali will return is because he will hope to walk back into a lady’s parlour—though I admit some people think that is the same thing.’
‘You’re worse than a beast, Mr Lovelace,’ said Molly, with a little gulp. ‘You’re a devil.’
‘But always, please, a clever devil. Yes, Don Pasquali will return, because you are here—’
‘And I’ll tell him you’ve searched me already!’
‘My child, is your own cleverness evaporating now?’ asked the old man, affecting a pained voice. ‘If he has the letter, why will he want to search you for it?’
‘But suppose he hasn’t—?’
‘I refuse to suppose anything so depressing! The torture, in such a case, would have to be visited on you. So we will suppose that he has the letter. And we will also suppose that he refuses to give it up, or pretends he hasn’t got it—I am quite ready for his twisting. In that event I shall bargain with him. I am certain, when we get to genuine market prices, he will prefer you to a musty old letter written twenty years ago.’ Molly was looking beyond him towards the window, as though expecting to see the Spaniard’s face materialise there at any moment. ‘But you need not fear a long bout of unwelcome attentions from him, I shall make sure that I get the letter first—and, afterwards, Don Pasquali will not live long. I shall, of course, have to kill him.’
He waited again for her, for some comment. She again disappointed him, as before, by stubborn silence.
‘The police will think, naturally, that you have killed him,’ he went on.
Now she wrenched her eyes from the window at that, and he smiled at his victory.
‘Ah—that wakes you up, eh?’ he chuckled. ‘Now, you must admit, I am clever? Don Pasquali, having himself killed—let us count them—a man in Southampton, his accomplice, a sailor—’
‘What?’ she gasped, her will-power nearly snapping.
‘Well, we may assume the sailor,’ said Mr Lovelace. ‘It’s hardly likely that he has allowed your gentleman friend to wander around loose? Please do not interrupt the inventory!… No. 3 is a dog. A mere detail. The dog, the police will assume, was guarding the house. No. 4, a man-servant. He, also, was guarding the house. No. 5—perhaps—myself. But that, after all, will be a police theory only. The police will search for my body, and then give up. Another sad, unsolved mystery! Four victims will be enough, however, and my body, of course, will be on the Continent. Yes, and with the letter upon it. It is rather a pity that I shall have to complete the business with Medway from abroad—’
‘But do you think I won’t say anything?’ cried Molly.
‘I’m afraid you will not be able to say anything,’ answered Mr Lovelace. ‘Don Pasquali will have wounded you fatally with his knife, I regret to say, before you shot him with my pistol. You will be unbound when you are discovered, of course, and your finger-prints will be on the revolver.’
Mr Lovelace rose from his chair, and walked to the door. Molly noticed that he had now taken the revolver from his pocket, and was holding it close to his side.
‘And when I am abroad,’ he murmured, softly, ‘I will send Mr Joseph Medway, M.P., a copy of the letter that has given us all so much trouble. He wrote it twenty years ago, none too wisely, to a charming lady whom he met while he was attached to the British Embassy in Madrid. As he was already married, it was unfortunate that he became the father of this attractive lady’s child. The lady moved to a small village called Puerbello, and he paid her for her silence. Now the lady is dead—and he shall pay me for mine.’
Even in her own extremity she was able to detach her mind and think of others. After all, if Ben were really dead …
‘I’ve met some pretty low things in my life,’ she said, surprised that she was still able to find her voice, ‘but I’ve never even thought of anybody as low as you. Pickpocketing’s a virtue. Do you really and truly suppose that, even if you can work this devilish business from abroad, you’ll get your money?’
‘From one source or another,’ he answered, as he opened the door a crack. ‘If Medway doesn’t pay me for the letter, there are others who will, and who’ll ask no questions. You see, young lady, I don’t start these devilish businesses. My mind is much too pure.’ He peered through the crack. ‘The seeds are sown by others—personal enemies, perhaps, or business enemies, or political enemies, or international enemies. People whose names are too respectable to do more than sow the seeds. I am merely a middleman. I carry out orders. Unwritten ones. But sometimes the middleman scores the most. He has, you see, alternative markets … But these matters are beyond you … Your brain cannot soar above pickpocketing. Otherwise you might have gone farther. Tell me, do you hear anything?’
All she heard through the door-crack was the ticking of the grandfather clock—the ticking that sounded only when the clock was empty and the pendulum was free to swing. But the old man evidently heard more, for an instant later he slipped from the room and closed the door softly behind him.
Then Molly heard what Mr Lovelace had heard. Somebody was outside the window; close to it. And she noticed, for the first time, that the window was open a crack, as the door had been. Just a tiny crack at the bottom, through which fingers …
The fingers were long and brown. She recognised them. She recognised, too, the scar on a hand when the hand came through, turned, and pushed the frame upwards.
The lower part of the window was now open wide. A dark face filled the gap. The old man’s deduction had been right. Don Pasquali had returned.
The face peered in cautiously. The unpleasant eyes noted the room’s emptiness saving for the girl. When they noted the girl, they became more unpleasant. Beneath a perspiring brow, the eyes smiled.
‘So!’ whispered Don Pasquali.
He slipped through the window like a great cat. He came forward. She stared at him helplessly.
‘Where is he?’ asked the Spaniard, in a low voice.
She felt numbness gripping her. She had fought against similar numbness many times during the past hours, but this time the numbness seemed to be winning. A minute ago, she had conceived nothing lower than the old man. Now there seemed nothing lower than the Spaniard, with his hot, hateful breath, and his shameless, devouring eyes.
Should she tell him where the old man was? Should she say that he was just outside the door, listening? It might save Don Pasquali! But did she want him saved? If one of them had to die …
‘Where is he?’ repeated the Spaniard.
Her eyes rested on his knife. He had not entered the room unprepared.
‘Cut me free,’ she gulped, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
‘Oh, no! You tell me first!’
‘I’ll tell you nothing! Where’s Ben? That’s what you’ve got to tell! Where’s Ben? Oh, my God! Have you—killed him?’
The Spaniard grinned suddenly. This was a good idea.
‘Oh, yes—I kill Ben,’ he answered.
Molly closed her eyes, then opened them in terror as she felt Don Pasquali draw closer.
‘He have to be killed,’ continued Don Pasquali, ‘for the trick he play! Southfield? Pah! As if I believe that!’ He stretched forward his hand and touched her shoulder. ‘You have the letter! I know all along! But I have to deal with Signor Ben first. And now I am back. And, see, I keep well the appointment!’
He held up the hand that had touched her shoulder, while from the hall sounded the preliminary wheeze of the grandfather clock.
‘Now it strike!’
The clock struck ten.
‘So! And now I search you, as it is arrange! Very clever, to hide the letter on the pretty little body, and think it is safe there! Not from Don Pasquali! It is where I like to find it!’
The hand was on her shoulder again, and
she re-lived the nightmare of his visit to her bedroom in Southampton. But this was a worse nightmare. Then she had not been bound, and could put up a fight.
‘Wait!’ she gasped. ‘Don Pasquali!’
‘Wait?’ he laughed. ‘There is no time to wait. The police will be here if he wait!’
‘But I haven’t the letter—I haven’t—I haven’t!’
‘You say so. But I say you have!’
‘I swear I haven’t.’
‘No good! I am sure! All the time, the letter is here, and you try to fool me!’
‘But Mr Lovelace has already searched me—’
‘Oho!’
‘There’s a bruise on my shoulder—that’s how I got it—’
‘Sst!’ came the hiss. But he paused. ‘Mr Lovelace—I forget him—yes, when I look at you!’ he murmured. ‘And you will not say where he is! Perhaps you do not know? Perhaps, as you say, he search you—and find nothing—and run away?’ He frowned, while considering the possibility. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, well, I search you, just the same. But first I make sure of Mr Lovelace. The door shall be locked, eh?’
He turned and walked towards the door. As he did so, it opened. The next moment he fell to the ground, shot through the heart.
37
‘I’m Goin’!’
Twelve minutes before Don Pasquali died, Ben suddenly opened his eyes in Violet Medway’s arm-chair to find her father looking down at him.
‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’ he asked.
‘We’re just off to save your friend,’ answered Sir Joseph.
‘Eh?’
The next moment he was on his feet. Big Ben pushed him down again. Little Ben got up again.
‘He’s like that,’ Violet whispered to her father, and her father nodded, imagining he could handle him. He had yet to learn that Ben was harder to manage even than Parliament.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Big Ben, soothingly. ‘We know where the house is—we’ll see your friend comes to no harm.’
‘Wotcher mean?’ replied Ben.
‘We mean that you’re to stay here—you’re not well—and that we’ll bring your friend back to you.’
‘Wot—me stay ’ere?’ said Ben.
Sir Joseph frowned slightly, beset by a momentary doubt.
‘You’ve recovered pretty smartly, my man,’ he observed. ‘I thought you were nearly dead?’
‘Bein’ nearly dead’s nothink ter me,’ retorted Ben. ‘When I’m dead, I’ll larf! Oi! I’m goin’ hover!’
He swayed. Big Ben caught him.
‘I’m goin’ with yer,’ breathed Little Ben, in Big Ben’s chest, ‘and nobody’s goin’ ter stop me, see?’
Big Ben looked perplexed. His daughter, substituting instinct for logic, decided for him.
‘Let him come, Father,’ she said. ‘I think it’ll be best.’
And so, instead of remaining stationary, the sitting-room and the landing rolled backwards through Ben’s worn-out brain, and the staircase went back, too, albeit not quite so smoothly, and a small army of constables was encountered at the bottom. Here Ben became an immediate centre of attention, and a momentary view of an inspector’s grey moustache was not reassuring. But he repeated to the grey moustache, ‘I’m goin’ with yer, see?’ and then the grey moustache vanished, and reappeared beneath features that were now a little less forbidding.
‘I’m not quite sure about it,’ said the inspector.
‘I’m quite sure about it,’ said Violet Medway.
‘I think she’s right,’ said Big Ben.
‘I’m goin’!’ said Little Ben.
Then they all vanished again, and while hurried preparations were being made another face loomed above Ben’s. It was the face of Procter.
‘I’m goin’!’ said Ben.
Procter did not reply. When the world is turning upside down it’s no good butting in.
Another face flitted by. It was the face of Maud, the maid. It made a large circle round Ben, as though he were a museum exhibit. Its object was to obtain a closeup for the sake of subsequent descriptions, by an eyewitness, in the kitchen.
And then some of the other faces reappeared, and the imposing hall, through which a ragged man had windmilled his way to the staircase, now went backwards into history with the staircase and the upper passage and the elegant sitting-room; and Ben was on the front-steps again, descending to the street with assistance.
A knot of people stood in the street. Also, two cars. Ben might have been a bride leaving a church from the interest he attracted. One of the people pointed to him excitedly as he neared the bottom of the steps. She was an old lady clutching a black bead bag.
‘I’m goin’!’ Ben told her.
In another sense he appeared already to have gone, for during this last lap of his strange journey he was oblivious to nearly all that was happening around him. Only the knowledge of Molly’s danger kept him functioning. Only that knowledge had brought him safely to Mallow Court, had conquered within the space of twenty minutes, a butler, a society belle, an M.P., and a police inspector. Only that knowledge had startled him out of a dead trance, causing him to resemble a deflated balloon that had suddenly filled itself with air, and had given him the slogan, ‘I’m goin’!’ to hang on to.
The entire dictionary had been reduced to those two words. He almost forgot, while he repeated them like a Litany, what they meant. All he knew was that, when any immediate difficulty presented itself, when anything disturbed a kind of black stream that was carrying him onwards, he had to say them. Then everything was all right.
The black stream was rather peaceful, though it was disturbed by a vague procession that flashed by him in a contrary direction and vanished behind. Lamp-posts. Streets. Yellow eyes from other cars, and from illuminated buildings. A bridge. Water, with reflections. More lamp-posts, more streets, more yellow eyes, more illuminated buildings. Then fewer lights. Fewer eyes. Darkness rushing through darkness … rushing both ways …
And vague, distant voices through the darkness.
‘You should have got in touch with us before, sir.’
‘I don’t believe in paying compliments to anonymous letters!’
‘But these contained threats, you say?’
‘Which only my daughter believed in.’
‘Well, the lady was right, wasn’t she—’
Meaningless voices. Droning on quietly, a thousand miles away. Far from the shores of the black tide that was carrying Ben on.
Between him and the voices grew other things. They passed like a succession of vast shadows, flitting into the haven of history. A rolling ship, with a cap flying from a deck, and a figure flying after the cap. Ben’s figure. A cow, soft-eyed and troubled. He’d known that cow at some time or other. Where was it now? Gone—and in its place a taxi-cab, with a dead man in the corner, and a knife sticking in the dead man’s chest. The phantom taxi passed. The black stream suddenly tilted to one side and raced dizzily downwards. It seemed for the moment to be trying to pour Ben out of it. He felt himself rushing downwards towards a bush that hung on the edge of a vast, yawning precipice … But he hung on …
‘I see, miss. But, when you left the place, why didn’t you communicate with us at once?’
‘I telephoned to my father at the House.’
‘And I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to the message, inspector.’
‘Well, then was the time for her to have got in touch with us.’
‘Come, inspector! Would she get in touch with you concerning a matter of blackmail—involving her father’s honour? The letter, as we have since discovered—the letter found in the cap—is written in Spanish to a woman who—’
‘Father!’
‘—bore the writer an illegitimate child.’
‘You needn’t give me the details, sir. They don’t concern us at the moment—’
‘No? But the writer, who was already married, behaved abominably! He was attached to the Spanish Embassy, and he mad
e an excuse for leaving Madrid on account of the unfortunate incident. His cousin went out to fill his post. The baby died.’
‘It really isn’t necessary for you to tell me this, sir.’
‘But I’d rather, inspector. It may be the surest way in the end of preserving the details inside this car—though, of course, it places you under no official obligation. As a matter of fact, I’m telling my daughter, also. She did not know that I was sending money through my solicitor to Carlotta D’Albert …’
Train-smoke. Fog. They came belching down the dark river of Ben’s mind, full of swiftly-moving figures. He escaped from them all. Two of the figures that had been behind him were now ahead of him. The dark river was bearing him close to them, closer and closer, while voices from another world droned on:
‘Poor little baby!’
‘Yes, and poor mother of the poor little baby! Both dead! And poor, foolish father of the poor little baby—dead, also.’
The voices stopped droning for a few moments. Then one continued:
‘He died a few weeks after his cousin went to fill his position at Madrid. It was this cousin who told Carlotta the news of his death—and who, taking pity on the lady, continued the payments that had been arranged. Both cousins were christened Joseph—and the second Joseph might have fallen for such an attractive lady as Carlotta D’Albert—but for the example of the first.’
Another lull. Was the river slowing?
‘Then—father—the letter—?’
‘Cannot hurt me, my dear, even if it is made public,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Just somebody else’s memory, that’s all. Perhaps, inspector, you’ll help us to keep that memory intact?’
The inspector did not reply. His hand had made a sudden grab, and had caught thin air, while the thing he had grabbed at slid out into the lane.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Hoy!’
Ben Sees It Through Page 24