Death on the Highway

by Death on the Highway (retail) (epub)

  The greetings were warm but not effusive, and Mrs. Crewe managed to convey by her tone that Harrison was doing her a remarkable kindness in thus accepting her invitation. Netta Crewe’s eyes gave a look of affectionate approval of this attitude and, altogether, Harrison felt that he was undoubtedly going to enjoy his evening.

  “I know you drink such a thing as a cocktail, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe. “Archie will be here in one moment and he rather prides himself on his mixture.”

  “Can I deputise for him?” asked Netta.

  “Good heavens, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crewe, “Mr. Harrison is professionally good at detecting poisons.”

  Netta Crewe blushed slightly and Harrison felt that the remark was somewhat harsher than was warranted.

  “Go and see if you can find Archie, Netta,” said Mrs. Crewe, “he never can be on time.”

  Netta went out of the room and Mrs. Crewe asked Harrison to close the door.

  “Just a bit hard, weren’t you?” said Harrison.

  That’s what I want to talk to you about, Mr. Harrison,” replied Mrs. Crewe. “Netta will never find Archie but I wanted a word alone with you. It was Netta who insisted on your coming tonight.”

  “I’m greatly obliged to her,” said Harrison, gallantly.

  “Not that I didn’t want to see you again too, of course,” added the old lady, “but the girl’s quite moonstruck about you. You’ll forgive my being frank, Mr. Harrison. My age, I think, gives me that privilege. Ever since she saw you at Great Crockham she has done nothing but talk about you. Quite a conquest, Mr. Harrison,” the old lady looked keenly at him, “and Netta isn’t impressionable either. A level-headed girl. Occasionally too much so, for my liking. But still, there it is. You have made a great impression.”

  “It may sound affectedly modest of me, Mrs. Crewe,” answered Harrison, “but I can hardly believe it.”

  “Whether you do or not, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe, “I know you’re not the marrying type, and I believe you to have a sense of honour. Quite frankly, I ask you to keep Netta at a very respectful distance and not give her a chance, shall we say, of thinking she is being encouraged.”

  Harrison smiled. The position seemed very absurd to him, but the old lady was so insistent that he bowed his acquiescence and was rewarded with a look of warm gratitude. The reappearance of Netta Crewe with the news that her brother was nowhere to be seen closed the conversation, although the very affectionate, almost languishing glances, which she bestowed upon him, inclined Harrison to agree with the old lady.

  Archie Crewe soon arrived with long apologies for being late. As they had come to London unexpectedly, he had improved the shining hour by transacting a certain amount of private business. He was much more affable to Harrison, but still maintained his somewhat irritating attitude of gibing at the expense of the “amateur detective.”

  “By sheer deduction you will be able to tell us the age of some of the ladies in the opera,” he said to Harrison, with a laugh.

  “Can’t you leave Mr. Harrison alone, Archie?” asked Netta.

  “His cocktails are better than his humour, I can assure you,” said Mrs. Crewe. “Get busy, Archie.”

  Harrison moved across the room to assist as acolyte to the high priest of this important rite and, as he did so, he heard Netta’s voice saying, in a coldly venomous tone, “You’ve had a letter, I see, Archie.”

  “And why not?” came back the taunting reply.

  “Was it from her?” returned Netta, in an even more bitter tone than before.

  Archie did not trouble to reply, but Harrison, whose back was obviously turned to the two women as he bent over the side table to pick up some glasses, out of the tail of his eye saw very curious thing happen. The old lady’s hand shot out and gripped Netta Crewe’s white arm, twisting it quickly with an extraordinarily vicious movement. Such an operation must have produced the most exquisite pain, and Harrison, unable to gather the facial expression of the younger woman, marvelled at the self-control which could stifle any cry at such a sudden and unpleasant onslaught.

  It was only a few seconds before he turned and handed the cocktails to the pair but the scene had been enacted so quickly that it was hard to believe that anything had happened at all. Mrs. Crewe was looking at him with the greatest geniality and benevolence, while Netta Crewe, who might have seemed slightly paler than before, was quite calm and unruffled. He would hardly have believed his own eyes if he had not taken careful note of the particular arm as he passed Netta her glass. It had been definitely bruised by the old lady’s grip and there were two angry red patches where her fingers had pressed.

  “A difficult old lady,” he thought, “and the daughter sacrificing herself as usual.”

  Archie Crewe came forward with cocktails for Harrison and himself, and the drinking of them, potency being one of their special excellencies, produced an atmosphere of intimacy and serenity.

  The conversation soon turned to the case of the Jogger, and Mrs. Crewe inquired whether Harrison wanted any more money.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t really started yet,” answered Harrison. “The hundred pounds is still intact.”

  “Don’t let the scent get cold,” remarked Archie.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t struck the scent yet,” said Harrison.

  “Most disappointing,” said the old lady; “our great detective without a clue.”

  It was not Harrison’s custom to discuss his theories, especially when they were as nebulous as in the present instance, and this obvious effort to draw him only inclined him to further reticence.

  “But surely you must have found something out, Mr. Harrison?” asked Netta, sweetly.

  He felt that they were all waiting intently for his answer, so intently as to make him feel somewhat uncomfortable.

  “I can’t think what you expect me to find?” he answered, parrying.

  “If a great detective takes up the smallest case, said Archie, “Netta expects sensational results. Don’t disappoint her, Mr. Harrison. Make something up, if everything else fails.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Harrison, feeling more sure of his ground. “This isn’t a simple case at all—”

  “That’s interesting,” said Mrs. Crewe.

  “I see in it a great international conspiracy,” he continued.

  “Go on,” said Archie, dropping his rallying tone and showing the strongest interest.

  “The unfortunate tramp was a hindrance to the mighty plans of a terrific gang of international crooks and was the victim of a sinister plot woven by the most cunning brains of the underworld.”

  Harrison waited for the laugh to which he thought he was entitled, but his audience seemed spellbound. “A compliment to my reputation and a poor reception for my feeble attempt at humour,” he thought.

  “You don’t really mean that?” asked Netta, in a low, rather tremulous voice.

  “Your brother told me to make something up, Miss Crewe,” said Harrison, reprovingly.

  “And a remarkably fine effort, too,” exclaimed Archie, with a loud laugh.

  A knock on the door receded a hotel servant who announced that dinner was served downstairs.

  Mrs. Crewe rose from her chair and took Harrison by the arm.

  “Mr. Harrison,” she said, as they went down the stairs together, “you are an exceedingly clever man.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Crewe.”

  “But you can’t deceive an old woman like me,” she added. “Making up stories is a very dangerous habit.”

  Chapter VIII

  Henry As Chaperon

  The dinner was admirable and Harrison felt that, however unpretentious the Luxor Hotel pretended to be, its cooking left nothing to be desired. The whole atmosphere might have been described as admirable, and any strange impressions which he might have received in the sitting-room above had receded far into the background.

  Harrison was not an entirely social person. He would have said that he had too
much work to do to spend his time “gadding about,” but the truth was that he was innately shy and was afraid of any company except that of one or two intimate friends or of large social gatherings where he could look on to his heart’s content without himself having to be entertaining. Yet, by the contradiction of nature which makes even the most self-sufficient detective earnestly desire that for which he is least suited, Harrison had always rather yearned for the kind of evening he was at present passing. The pleasant food, the pleasant wine, the pleasant surroundings, and above all, the pleasant company fitted in exactly with his imaginary picture—and he revelled in it.

  Henry might well have been surprised that Harrison had accepted two invitations so readily. This was a corner of his master which he had not explored, an unusual corner which needed the capacity of a Mrs. Crewe to reveal. The remarkable old lady, of course, dominated the party. She led the conversation up hill and down dale but always with a wealth of experience and a shrewd, if somewhat cynical, judgment. But she was not selfish, and listened as well as she talked. Again the party reached the heights of Harrison’s imagination for the attention he received seemed to add to his own powers of conversation, and he warmed to the effort to do his best in such company.

  There was no doubt, also, that Netta Crewe had her attractions, and when a charmingly feminine person hangs on one’s lips and her eyes sparkle even more brightly at one’s wittier phrases, it is difficult, even ungallant, not to strain every nerve to merit these attentions. At the same time, Netta seemed to possess an intelligence little inferior to that of her mother, and Harrison knew that his remarks were not being received without discrimination, but were being appreciated at the value he himself attached to them. Even Archie Crewe seemed to expand and grow more human. He added his quota to the general discussions and, although certainly not displaying the same high standard as the two women, he was able to produce one or two illuminating experiences.

  Mrs. Crewe, like a good hostess, told Harrison at once that she did not expect him to talk “shop,” but obviously the subject of crime and criminals continued to appear in the conversation, like a single coloured thread through a cloth of variegated texture. The interest seemed natural, for Mrs. Crewe seemed to have had many contacts with the Continental police system and, from his own knowledge, Harrison could see that she knew her subject well.

  He gathered that the Crewes mainly lived on the Riviera. They could not say that any particular resort was their settled abode. They might live a year or more in Nice, say, or Cannes and then, for no reason in particular—“Mother might suddenly object to the waiter’s tie,” said Netta—they wandered on to another spot. But they all loved the Riviera, that was their home.

  They explained, to a query from Harrison, that they did not always inhabit hotels. If they found a suitable villa, they lived there. But never as a permanency. Mrs. Crewe shuddered at permanency. Half the evils of life were due to the habit of settling in a home for the rest of one’s days. And then, see what would have happened if they had wanted to come to England. It was just about three weeks ago that Mrs. Crewe had suddenly decided she must see England again.

  “And the faithful flock followed,” said Harrison.

  “The faithful flock always follows,” answered Netta, with a laugh. Suppose they had had all the details of a settled house to arrange before leaving the Riviera, what an undertaking. Hours, even days of worry before they could be on the move, whereas, they had been able to pack their trunks, get their tickets and be off, almost at a moment’s notice.

  It would be the same when they went back. They had a satisfactory arrangement regarding Overstead House. They could leave at any time. Of course they had to pay more rent while they were there, but not a great deal. Who in their senses was going to rent an old-fashioned, unwieldy house like that. But they weren’t in their senses. Thank heaven they weren’t. People might think them mad but they certainly found life very amusing. One day they would suddenly feel homesick for the Riviera and off they would go again.

  Harrison asked them where they would be likely to live when this happened. They had no idea. They might go somewhere quite different. Mrs. Crew felt that, before their life together ended, they might try as many experiments as possible.

  “Have you ever heard of La Plage?” asked Harrison.

  “What do you know of La Plage?” asked Mrs. Crewe, looking at him very intently. The others did the same, and Harrison felt that unwittingly, he had done something to disturb the pleasant atmosphere which had been lapping round him. The others looked intently at him as well, and he felt the same effect of intense strain among them as he had noticed when he had produced his ill-timed theory of the murder of the strange tramp upstairs just before dinner.

  “Nothing,” he replied, angry with himself for his remark, although puzzled by the unaccountable change it had produced.

  “Come, come, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe, “you wouldn’t say a thing like that without a reason.”

  “As a matter of fact, you mentioned the Riviera and it followed naturally in my mind. That is all,” replied Harrison.

  “I’m surprised you ever heard of it,” said Archie Crewe.

  “Well, I have only just heard of it,” said Harrison. “A friend of mine stayed there, that’s the reason.”

  “But doesn’t La Plage mean anything else to you?” asked Mrs. Crewe. as she fixed him again with a piercing look.

  “Good heavens, no,” he answered, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. “Is there some dreadful history attached to it? “

  “You really don’t know anything about it?” insisted Mrs. Crewe.

  “‘Of course not,” he said.

  “Of course you haven’t been there?” asked Netta.

  “You make me feel I should like to,” was the reply. “All this mystery suggests it’s worth a visit. My curiosity is very excited. Tell me all about it.”

  Netta looked at her brother and they both looked at Mrs. Crewe, as if leaving the answer to her.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Mr. Harrison,” said the old lady. “What surprised us all was that you mentioned the place at all. Wasn’t it?” she added, appealing to the others. There was a duo of assent, and the strain in the air seemed to be relaxing.

  “You see,” she continued, “La Plage is such a small spot that very few English people have ever heard of it. Indeed, we all thought you were being prophetic, some kind of thought reading—”

  “Or a special display of detective skill,” interrupted Archie Crewe.

  “Of course, Archie, I had never thought of that,” said Mrs. Crewe, again looking into Harrison’s eyes, as if she would read the uttermost depths of his mind therein. “Just before we came to London, we motored through La Plage and it struck us as rather a jolly place to stay in for a while. The odd visitors there seemed to be mainly French, and we decided that we had found something almost unspoiled—a real discovery which we hardly expected on that coast—but if you and your friends and possibly hundreds of other English people know about it, well—” The old lady waved both arms despairingly.

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Crewe, it is not as bad as that,” said Harrison, feeling that he was getting back into his depth again. “My friend felt as you did that here was something quite unspoiled by the regular tourist. Being a friend, he told me about it, but I can’t imagine his communicating his vision of Arcadia to any but those most intimate with him.”

  “A vision of Arcadia. How delicious,” said Netta.

  “Queer that he should have stumbled on the same spot,” urged Mrs. Crewe. “But you’re a man of coincidences, Mr. Harrison.”

  “He certainly is,” seconded Archie.

  “I’m always looking for them, if that’s what you mean,” replied Harrison. “Events seldom happen singly, to my way of thinking, but the trouble is to see where all the pieces fit together. It’s not so much that two and two make four but that there are four single pieces to fit together—and the tota
l takes some reaching.”

  “You must give an instance,” said Mrs. Crewe. “I can’t allow you to make sweeping statements of that kind. Come along now, Mr. Harrison, the evidence, please.”

  Harrison felt that the former atmosphere of complete harmony had been regained. He had a pleasant feeling of relief, and settled down to enlarge on the subject. Again everything was just as he wanted it to be. Mrs. Crewe sitting opposite to him, questioning him and sometimes bantering him when he became too portentously solemn; Archie next to her, listening intently and joining in discreetly; while next to Harrison himself the attractive Netta, radiating a warm and human feminine admiration; all of them made a picture which Harrison regretted would eventually fade. The softly-lit dining-room, with its sense of intimacy and its avoidance of the garish, was mirrored on either side, and Harrison, looking into one, could see his admirable party of four indefinitely reproduced, and he thought, for a moment, that eternity might be an infinite succession of such evenings, each mirrored reflection becoming a reality.

  Even the femininity of Netta Crewe did not disturb him. He was too old to be impressionable but not old enough to be insensitive. He contrasted her with a certain adventurous exponent of the artillery of womanhood in Jeanne de Marplay, whom he had met in an earlier encounter. Her femininity had genuinely disturbed him. She thrust forth a battery which was calculated to excite desire by crushing superiority of armament. Hers was a barrage and bombardment of terrific violence before zero hour, and was calculated to break the resistance of any man. Netta, on the other hand, displayed a simple admiration without any conscious effort to fascinate which was flattering and undeniably pleasant at the same time.

  The dinner party had to come to an end, but it was succeeded by the sheer joy of a seat in a box at Der Rosenkavalier, and Harrison was almost in the seventh heaven. Mrs. Crewe was as appreciative about music as she seemed to be about everything else, and there was little conversation during the performance. Harrison noticed, without thinking it strange, that Archie Crewe disappeared during the first act, and was not to be seen again until the opera had practically finished. No comment was made by Mrs. Crewe, and Harrison assumed that such behaviour was not out of the normal. He bathed himself in the music, and a pang of regret shot through him when he realised that the curtain had fallen for the last time, and once outside the Opera House he would again be faced with all the ugly and intricate problems of his particular world.