Paddy looked at me almost with affection, his eyes alight with oratorical fire.
“It’s yourself should have been there to see it,” he began, grasping my arm with one hand and making his points with the other. “The polis and red coats was there, and the newspaper men in their thousands, and the gravediggers in their tens of thousands.…”
CHAPTER XI
The Amateur Detective
“My mind … rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere.… I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world … the only unofficial consulting detective.… I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection.… I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward.”
—Sir A. Conan Doyle
“The Sign of Four.”
Premonitions—so far as my gross person is concerned—are a matter of digestion, nerves and liver. If I woke up on the morning after Joyce’s flight to Adelphi Terrace with a dull sense of impending disaster, I ascribe it to the fact that I had passed a more than ordinarily hideous night. Unlike the Seraph, who never went to bed, I had sufficient philosophy to turn in when the doctor had left and the nurse was comfortably established. It had been made clear to me that I could do no manner of good by staying up and getting in people’s way.…
I started in my own room, but quickly took refuge in the library. If there are two sounds I cannot endure, one is that of a crying child, and the other of a woman—or man for that matter—moaning in pain. Even in the library I could hear Joyce suffering. Maybury-Reynardson had told us she was all right, and there is no point in calling in experts if you are going to disbelieve them. But I do not want to experience another night of the same kind.
And in the morning the papers were calculated to heighten the horror of the worst premonitions I could experience. I opened the Times, noted in passing that Gartside had fulfilled popular expectation by being appointed to the Governorship of Bombay, and turned to the account of the Clerkenwell raid. Culling was right in saying Mrs. Millington’s had been the only arrest of importance; but he had left the battlefield at the end of the fighting, and had not waited to see the conquerors march into the citadel.
I felt myself growing chilled and old as I read of the discoveries in the printing office. Mrs. Millington would stand charged with incitement to crime and public threat of abduction; serious enough, if you will, but her debt was discharged as soon as she had paid the penalty for a single article in a single paper. Her threats were embryonic, not yet materialised. Joyce stood to bear the burden of the three abductions carried out to date.…
I am no criminologist, and can offer neither explanation nor theory of the mental amblyopia that leads criminals to leave one weak link, one soft brick, one bent girder, to ruin a triumph of design and construction. They always do—men and women, veterans and tiros—and Joyce was no exception. When the police broke open the safe in her editorial office, the first document they found was the half sheet of Chester Square notepaper that the journalists agreed to christen “The Time Table.”
It was written in Joyce’s hand, and her writing could be identified by a short-sighted illiterate at ten yards’ distance. I have forgotten the dates by this time, and can only guess at them approximately; words and names have been added in full where Joyce put only initials. This was the famous Time Table:—
500, Chester Square, S.W.
May 8. Rejection of W. (women’s) S. (suffrage) Amendment.
May 9. M.R. (Mavis Rawnsley) letter R. (Rawnsley).
June 16. R.’s (Rawnsley’s) Time Table. [This was ruled through.]
June 17. P. (Paul) J. (Jefferson) Letters R. and J. (Rawnsley and Jefferson).
June 30. R. (Rawnsley) to decide re A.S. (Autumn Session).
July 2. R. (Rawnsley) in H. (House). No A.S. (Autumn Session).
July 9. S. (Sylvia) R. (Roden). Letters R. (Rawnsley) & R. (Roden).
July 19. R. (Rawnsley) to reply re facilities.
July 20. W.G. [I am not sure whether this refers to Walter Greatorex, the ten-year-old son of the President of the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries, or Lady Winifred Gaythorne, daughter of the Marquis of Berwick—of the India Office. Both Greatorex and Berwick were opposed to the franchise, but in a mild, unoffending fashion. The invariable typed challenge does not help me to decide, as only one letter was to be sent, the usual Letter R. (Rawnsley)].
“So far the police have been unable to discover the whereabouts of Miss Davenant,” the article concluded. That was the sole, poor consolation I could offer to a white, tired Seraph as I threw him the paper and went back to my gloomy premonitions.
As he read, I thought over my last alibi in the north smoking-room at the Club. I wondered what story my friends, the Henley detectives, were concocting in their report, and what action Nigel Rawnsley would take when he had digested it.
It is not entirely my “wisdom after the event” that made me select Nigel as our most formidable opponent, nor altogether my memory of the lead he had taken in the discussion overnight; I was beginning to appreciate his character. When he is Prime Minister of England, like his father before him, it will be in virtue of the same qualities. A brain of steel and a ruthless, iron resolution will force the οἱ φύσει ἀρχόμενοι to follow and obey him. He will be feared, possibly even hated, but the hatred will leave him indifferent so long as power is conceded him. I have met no young man so resolute or successful in getting his own way; few who give me the impression of being so ruthless and, perhaps, unscrupulous in their methods. He is still preserved from active mischief by his astonishing self-consciousness and lack of humour; when he has outgrown these juvenilities, he will be really formidable. His wife—when she comes—will have my sympathy, for what that is worth; but there will be many women less discerning than Sylvia to strive for the privilege.
It was noon before the Amateur Detective invaded us. The Seraph’s man—who had already been admitted to our secret, and would at any time have been crucified head-downwards for his master—flung open the library door with the words—
“Mr. Nigel Rawnsley, Lord Gartside, Mr. Culling, Mr. Philip Roden.”
The Seraph rose and offered chairs. You could to some extent weigh and discriminate characters by the various modes of entry. Nigel refused to be seated, placed his hat on the table and produced a typewritten transcript of the two detectives’ reports in the traditional manner of a stage American policeman—which in passing, I may say, is nothing like any American policeman I have ever met anywhere in America or the civilised world. Philip and Gartside were self-conscious and uncomfortable; Culling strove to hide his embarrassment by more than usual affability.
“It’s ill ye’re looking, Seraph,” he remarked, as he accepted a cigarette. “And has this great ugly brute Toby been slashing the face off you?”
Then the inquiry began, with Philip as first spokesman.
“Sorry to invade you like this, Seraph,” he began, “but it’s about my sister. You know she’s disappeared? Well, we were wondering if you could help us to find her.”
“I’ll do anything I can.…” the Seraph started.
“Do you know where she is?” Nigel cut in.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you know any one who does?” Philip asked.
“I don’t know that I do.”
Philip hesitated, started a sentence, and closed his lips again without completing it. Nigel took up the examination.
“You know Miss Davenant, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“Does she
know where Sylvia and Mavis are?”
“I have no idea. You must ask her.”
“I propose to.”
The Seraph turned to Philip, glancing at the clock as he did so.
“I’m afraid the limits of my utility are soon reached. If there’s anything I can do.…”
“You can tell us where Miss Davenant is hiding,” said Nigel.
“Can I?”
“You can and will.”
The Seraph treated him to a long, unhurried scrutiny, starting from the boots and working up to the freckled face and sandy hair. Then he turned away, as though the subject had no further interest for him.
Nigel tried to return the stare, but broke into a blush and took refuge in his typewritten transcripts.
“I have here,” he said, “a copy of the reports of the two detectives who watched Miss Davenant’s house in Chester Square last night. They saw a woman, with her hair loose, and a long coat over whatever clothes she was wearing, jump into a car and drive to Adelphi Terrace.”
“They were certain of the identity of the car?” I asked.
“Perfectly.”
“They weren’t when I talked to them last night,” I said. “No number—no nothing. They thought it was the same car and called in on chance, as there was a light here, to see if we knew anything. I offered to show them round, but they wouldn’t come in, so we prayed for mutually sweet dreams and parted.”
Nigel tapped his papers.
“I have here their sworn statement that the car which left Chester Square was the car that turned into Adelphi Terrace.”
“Perjury—like joy—cometh in the morning,” I observed.
“That is as may be. I happen to know that Miss Davenant is seriously ill; I imagine, wherever she has gone, she has not gone far. The number of houses within easy reach of Chester Square—houses that would take her in when there’s a warrant out for her arrest—is limited. These considerations lead me to believe that the statement of these men is not perjured.”
“I will apologise when next we meet,” I said. When a young man like Nigel becomes stilted and dignified, I cannot repress a natural inclination to flippancy.
Philip intervened before Nigel could mature a crushing repartee.
“Look here, Seraph,” he began. “Just as a favour, and not because we have any right to ask, will you say whether Miss Davenant’s anywhere in this flat? If you say she is, I’m afraid we shall have to tell the police; if you say she isn’t, we’ll go away and not bother you any more.”
“You must speak for yourself,” Nigel interposed, before the Seraph could answer.
We sat for a moment in silence. Then Nigel continued his statement with unmistakable menace in his tone.
“If once the police intervene, the question becomes more serious and involves any one found harbouring a person for whom a warrant of arrest has been issued. I naturally do not wish to go to extremes.” He turned to me: “You offered to show the detectives round these rooms last night; will you make me the same offer?”
I pointed to the Seraph.
“They aren’t my rooms. I’m only a guest. I took it upon myself to make the offer in the Seraph’s absence.”
He repeated his request in the proper quarter, but was met with an uncompromising refusal.
“May I ask your reason?” he said.
“It is a question of manners,” answered the Seraph.
“Then you wish me to apply for a search-warrant?”
“I am entirely indifferent. If you think it worth while, apply for one. As soon as it is presented, the police—are—welcome—to—any—discoveries—they—may—make.”
The Seraph spoke with the quiet scorn of injured innocence. I saw a shadow of uncertainty settle on Nigel’s face. The Seraph must have seen it, too; we preserved a strategic silence until uncertainty had matured into horrid doubt. I felt sorry for Nigel, as I feel sorry for any successful egoist in the toils of anticipated ridicule.
“It would be quicker to clear the matter up now,” he said.
“My whole day is at your disposal.”
“But mine is not. What is that room?”
“A spare bedroom, now occupied by Toby, if you ask for information.”
Nigel started to cross the room.
“I like to check all verbal information,” he remarked.
The Seraph had shorter distance to cover, and was standing with his back to the door when Nigel got there.
“I allow no unauthorised person to search my rooms without my leave,” he said.
“You cannot always prevent it.”
“I can in this case.”
“We are four to one.”
“You are one to two.”
“My mistake, no doubt.” He waved a hand round the room to indicate his allies.
“Assuredly your mistake, if you think Toby will stand by and let you search my rooms without my leave, or that any one of the others would raise a finger to help you.”
Not one of his three allies had moved a step to support him. Nigel was impressed. Without retreating from his position he tried the effect of bluff.
“You forget the circumstances are exceptional. My sister has been spirited away, and so has Phil’s. If we think you know the whereabouts of the woman who kidnapped them, we shall neither of us hesitate to employ timely physical force on you, perhaps inflict salutary physical pain.”
“You may try, if you like.”
“If I try, I shall succeed.”
“You don’t really think that, you know.”
Gartside felt it was time to restore the peace. Walking up to Nigel, he led him firmly back to his place at the table and motioned the Seraph to his old position in the armchair by the fireplace. There was a long, awkward silence. Then Culling crossed the room, and sat on the arm of the Seraph’s chair.
“Ye’re white and ill, Seraph,” he said, “and ye know I’m not the man would badger you. We’re in a hole, and maybe ye can give us a hoist out of it. Do ye, or do ye not, know where Miss Davenant’s hiding herself?”
The Seraph looked him steadily in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Well, is she, or is she not, in these rooms?”
“Would you like to search them?”
“Damn it, no, man! Give us yer word, and that’s enough.”
For a fraction of time the Seraph gazed at the faces of Culling, Philip and Gartside, weighing the characters and measuring the men.
“It’s not enough for Rawnsley,” he said.
“It’ull have to be.”
“He likes to check all verbal information.”
Culling shook his clenched fists in the air and involved us all in a comprehensive curse. The Seraph lit himself a cigarette, blew out the match with a deliberation Nigel could not have surpassed, and addressed the company.
“We seem to have reached a deadlock,” he began. “Shall I offer a solution? The four of you come here and charge me with harbouring the woman who is supposed to have made away with Miss Rawnsley and Miss Roden. Very good. Every man is free to entertain any suspicions he likes, and to ventilate them—provided he doesn’t forget his manners. Three of you behaved like gentlemen, the fourth followed his own methods. I should like to oblige those three. Rawnsley, you have menaced me with personal violence, and threatened me with a search warrant. You have done this in my own library. If you will apologise, and undertake not to enter these rooms again or to molest me here or anywhere else, and if you will further undertake not yourself to apply—or incite any one else to apply—for a warrant to search the flat, I shall have pleasure in accompanying Gartside wherever he chooses to go, unlocking any doors that may be locked, and offering him every facility in inspecting every nook and cranny in these rooms. As you may not accept verbal information even from him, I shall have pleasure in
extending my offer to Culling. The one will be able to check the other.”
He blew three smoke-rings and waited for an answer.
There was another moment of general discomfort. Nigel jibbed at the idea of apologising, Gartside and Culling would have done anything to avoid accepting the offer; from Philip’s miserable fidgeting I could see that he had been persuaded into coming against his better judgment. For myself, I waited as a condemned man waits for the drop to fall. It was bound to come in a few seconds’ time, but—illogically enough—I had ceased to dread it. My one fear was that Joyce should betray herself by one of those pitiful moans that had mingled with my dreams and vexed my sleep throughout the night. To this hour I can remember thinking how horror-stricken I should be if that sound broke out again. It had begun to get on my nerves.… The discovery itself was inevitable; I could imagine no trick or illusion that would enable the Seraph to steer his inquisitors past one of the principal rooms in the flat.
“I apologise for any offence I may have given, and I undertake all that you ask.”
It was not gracefully done, but the Seraph accepted the words for the spirit.
“Come on, and let’s get it over!” Culling exclaimed, jumping up and cramming his hat on the back of his head. With sinking heart I saw the three of them framed in the doorway, Gartside’s huge form towering over the other two.
“Devilish sorry about the whole business,” I heard him begin as the door closed. It was opened again for a moment as the Seraph reminded me where the drinks were kept, and suggested I should compound a cocktail. Then it closed finally.
Outside in the hall Culling added his contribution to the general apology.
“Come quietly,” was all the Seraph would answer. “I hope she’s sleeping.”
Both men paused abruptly and gazed first at the Seraph and then at each other. He returned their gaze unwaveringly, surprised apparently that they should be surprised. Then he led them wide-eyed with expectation across the hall; wide-eyed they watched him bend and listen, tap and gently open a bedroom door. The nurse rose from her chair at the bedside and placed a finger on her lips—
The Classic Mystery Novel Page 46