Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  He jumped out. Two figures loomed at him. A large one and a small one. His eye brightened at their familiar shapes.

  “Hallo, Bob!” he cried. “Where’ve you moved her to? I thought I’d mistaken the spot.”

  He glanced at the vacant water-space where, earlier, the Spray had been.

  “I ain’t moved ’er,” answered Bob.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought, mebbe, you ’ad, sir, while we was lookin’ for you at Wimereux.”

  “Looking for me—at Wimereux?”

  As he repeated the astonishing words, Kendall joined him gravely.

  “So that’s how they did it!” he murmured. “Well, we don’t need much more to complete the evidence!”

  “Bob! Who told you to look for me at Wimereux?” demanded Hazeldean, sharply.

  “Grey-’aired gent, it was, sir,” replied Bob.

  “Yes! Go on!”

  “’E come along—”

  “Alone?”

  “I see a lidy with ’im, sir,” interposed the boy, eagerly, “before they got ’ere, that was, but when they got ’ere, she’d bin lef’ be’ind.”

  “I never seed no lidy,” muttered Bob, unhappily.

  “No, gran’fer didn’t, but I did,” insisted Joe, “but when I look again, she’s be’ind something.”

  “Well—carry on, Bob,” said Hazeldean, “and look sharp!”

  “’E come along,” repeated Bob, “and ’e sez,’Is that the Spray?’ and I sez, ‘Ay, ay,’ and ’e sez, ‘Owner’s name ’Azeldean?’ and I sez, ‘Ay, ay,’ and then ’e sez, ‘Well, ’e’s got some bizziness at Wimereux, that’s my ’otel,’ ’e sez, ‘and ’e’s got to stay the night, and ’e wants you there too, and to take along a bag of ’is things.’ ‘Wot’s the ’otel?’ I sez. ‘’Otel Ongleterre,’ ’e sez, ‘a tram will get you there in twenty minutes, and ’e wants you at once, ’cos one of you may ’ave to bring a message back to someone at the Casino before ’e goes.’” Bob paused rather guiltily, and gulped. “So we went, sir. And—and there wasn’t no ’Otel Ongleterre, the on’y Ongle was Ongles and Bans, but you weren’t there, so arter waitin’ awhile, sir, we came back with our bags”—the bags were on the ground beside him—“and the boat was gone.”

  Hazeldean glanced at Dora, who had now joined them from the car and who was listening in astonishment to this new development.

  “If you’re thinking about me, you mustn’t!” she exclaimed, quickly.

  “I am thinking about you, and I must!” he answered.

  “Yes, everything shall be thought of,” said Kendall, “and I can take you to a good hotel that will cover the immediate situation. But, do you know what I’m thinking of?”

  “What?”

  “The luck of some people who don’t deserve it. Look!”

  He pointed to the water. White shapes were creeping along the surface, wiping more solid substance out.

  “The mist,” said Kendall. “It’s back again.”

  Chapter XXIV

  Half-Way House

  There was no mist on the water when, some weeks later, Detective-Inspector Kendall stepped on board a trim yacht named Spray II, moored at a river mouth somewhere in Africa, to renew his acquaintance with two young people. Hazeldean gripped his hand firmly, and Dora—a very different Dora from the timid girl he had first met in the shadow of the ramparts—was equally happy to see him.

  “My advice has proved good, Miss Fenner,” exclaimed Kendall. “I hardly recognise you!”

  “All the change isn’t due to you, Mr. Kendall,” she answered, with a glance at Hazeldean.

  “But Kendall started the ball rolling by clearing us out of a bad atmosphere into a good one,” said Hazeldean. “That was the smartest bit of work he ever did!”

  “I agree,” nodded Kendall, “though some of the credit must also go to the commissaire and the doctor. It was the doctor, in fact, who warned me that Miss Fenner might go under if she didn’t escape at once from policemen and publicity.”

  “It—it was that last news—about what had happened at Haven House—that nearly finished me,” murmured Dora.

  “And the policemen and the publicity would have quite finished you,” nodded Kendall. “That’s why I packed you both off. I didn’t need you any more—just then.”

  “Just then?” repeated Hazeldean.

  Kendall smiled.

  “Those two words shouldn’t surprise you. I named this date and this place for a possible reunion—and here I am.”

  “Well, here we are,” responded Hazeldean. “Having obeyed you in all things. Not only have we cut ourselves adrift from everything but winds, tides, fishes, birds and mosquitoes, but we’ve kept this date for you. Do you know we’ve been hanging around here for a fortnight? I only hope you’re going to make it worth our while! There’s a particular mosquito we’ve named George, who calls regularly every night to sing to my nose, that I’m just longing to get away from.”

  “We’ll get away from him,” promised Kendall. “Do you still stock that excellent sherry I once tasted in a smaller river mouth in Essex?”

  “Thus tactfully,” smiled Hazeldean, “a smart detective steered the conversation towards the true object of his visit.”

  “Which was not the sherry,” said Kendall.

  When they were seated in the saloon, with the sherry before them, Kendall suddenly asked, “How much more do you two know than when you sailed off?”

  “Very little,” replied Hazeldean. “You can take it—nothing. We did the thing thoroughly. Dropped right out when you let us go, and haven’t worried about papers. We don’t even know—whether you’ve found any one yet?”

  “Not Mr. Fenner,” answered Kendall. “Yet.”

  “No trace of him since he took my boat and vanished into the mist?”

  “None.”

  “What about the others?”

  “We found Marie the day after you left.”

  “Where?”

  “At the pension.”

  “At the pension? She went back?” exclaimed Dora.

  “Pierre chased her back,” replied Kendall. “He caught her up before she left the ramparts and turned her round again. I don’t know just how he managed it. Marie doesn’t know herself. He scared the life out of her, and when we found her she was nearly out of her mind.”

  “But I don’t understand!” exclaimed Hazeldean. “Marie wasn’t at the pension when you came along.”

  “As a matter of fact, she was,” answered Kendall. “We only unearthed her just in time. Mr. Fenner had a secret workshop at both ends—Boulogne and Benwick—and Master Pierre knew all about it.”

  “You mean, he’d hidden her there?”

  “Practically buried her there. But, as I say, we got her out of the cellar in the nick, and she’s been looked after.”

  “Poor Marie!” murmured Dora.

  “Not so poor as she was,” corrected Kendall, with a dry glance at Hazeldean. “She’s writing her life story.”

  Hazeldean laughed.

  “Or, do you mean, somebody else is?” he asked.

  “Well, I expect somebody else shares the cheques with her. Perhaps, after all, you should have stayed behind, Hazeldean, to pick up the journalistic crumbs?”

  “I doubt whether this particular crumb would have been in my line.”

  “And it must really be a very tiny crumb,” added Dora. “Marie’s life, I should think, must have been very uneventful.”

  “Uneventful?” retorted Kendall. “She was the youngest of thirteen children, always wanted to go on the stage, has fallen out of three windows, been in twenty-eight fires, and once walked home under Maurice Chevalier’s umbrella. By the time we get back she will probably be engaged to a film star!… Well, let us leave Marie to the romancers. Personally, I found Pier
re and his truth far more interesting.”

  “Oh! You found Pierre?” exclaimed Hazeldean.

  “Yes, we found Pierre,” responded Kendall. “After Marie. He led us a dance, though, and was as slippery as an eel. He beat us twice. The third time we got him in a Paris attic. We had to get him, and we had to make him talk. Oh, yes, Pierre’s talk was far more interesting than Marie’s writings. He worked for Dr. Jones, just as Dr. Jones worked—sometimes—for Mr. Fenner. And Pierre had a habit of hearing a lot more than he was ever told.”

  “I learned of the connection between Jones and Mr. Fenner from Pierre. I learned how they met, and how they worked together, and also where Madame Paula came in. I’m afraid—it’s not particularly—”

  “Never mind what it is, please go on,” interposed Dora. “One thing I expect you learned from Pierre was that Dr. Jones was trying to make love to me.”

  “Yes, I learned that,” nodded Kendall.

  “And my uncle wanted it, so that he could make love to Madame Paula. Did Pierre tell you that?”

  “Pierre knew that. He also knew what was in a letter Dr. Jones wrote Mr. Fenner the day before your last visit to Boulogne—”

  “Yes, one came in the morning!” exclaimed Dora.

  “Do you know what was in it, Miss Fenner?”

  “No.”

  “I needn’t mince matters?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Well, it was this letter that gave your uncle his first desire to go to Boulogne that week-end. Dr. Jones was impatient. You were giving him no encouragement. Unless your uncle brought you over and altered your mood, the collaboration was at an end, and Dr. Jones would reveal something he knew.”

  Dora was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly, “No, I didn’t know that, though it doesn’t surprise me. What was it Dr. Jones threatened to reveal?”

  “I don’t know. Nor does Pierre. If Pierre had known, you can be sure the commissaire would have got it out of him—you have only seen that polite gentleman on his best behaviour, I assure you!”

  “Then what was the nature of the collaboration?” asked Hazeldean.

  “To explain that, I’ll first explain how it arose,” answered Kendall. “I’ve traced a good deal about both Mr. Fenner and Dr. Jones, and everything fits perfectly. When your father was dying, Miss Fenner, he wrote to his brother in South Africa, your uncle, in the hope of patching up an old quarrel. John Fenner would inherit the house—Haven House—and as you were still a child, your father hoped your uncle would take his place, look after you, and make a home for you.”

  “Yes, I know that,” said Dora. “He told me before he died. He died before Uncle John came.”

  “Did you also know that your uncle sailed from South Africa in the Good Friday, but arrived at Southampton on the William George?”

  “Yes. At least, I knew the first ship had been wrecked, and that Uncle John was the only person saved.”

  “He was picked up by the William George. No trace was ever found of the Good Friday. Your uncle said there had been a mutiny, and that everything, including the wireless, had been smashed before the ship went down. He was in a pretty bad condition when he was rescued. Practically unconscious, and clinging to the last portion of the small boat he’d got away in. The doctor of the William George looked after him, and kept him in his cabin. The doctor was Dr. Jones.

  “I’ve traced the record of the William George’s surgeon at that time. It isn’t much of a record. His conduct had not been professional, and he’d been struck off the Medical Register.

  “But now, apparently, that didn’t matter. The shipwrecked man—John Fenner—whom he’d brought back to life remained his friend. Dr. Jones had a lady friend, also, in Boulogne, who needed money to keep her pension going. Your uncle supplied that money, Miss Fenner, and enabled Dr. Jones to marry the lady and become her permanent boarder.”

  “Wasn’t Mr. Fenner rather elaborate in his gratitude?” suggested Hazeldean.

  “Extremely elaborate,” answered Kendall. “Especially as he needed his inheritance to assist him with his invention. All his money went to the invention and to Dr. Jones. That explains why he pleaded poverty to his niece—”

  “And why you had to do all the housework, Dora,” said Hazeldean. “Of course, what Dr. Jones got out of it wasn’t due to gratitude, but to blackmail.”

  “Yes, obviously,” replied Kendall. “Dr. Jones learned something while he was bringing John Fenner back to life in his cabin on the William George—and what he learned will prove, when we learn it ourselves—to be the kernel of the mystery.”

  “How are we going to learn it?”

  “There are two possible sources. One is from John Fenner himself—the other I’ll tell you shortly. Jones, after settling down with Madame Paula in the pension, seems to have led a useless sort of a life there. His inglorious career had also included a short term in the Air Force, and he took up flying again as a hobby. He flew Fenner across to Boulogne more than once. I found a cable in a drawer of Jones’s bedroom. It said: ‘Agree. William George. Usual. Wait.’ Guessing that the words ‘William George’ were used by them for the aeroplane—probably covering some recognised arrangement—we can elaborate this message into something along the following lines: ‘Agree to the terms of your letter this morning. Fetch me by aeroplane. Will meet you in the usual place. Wait till I turn up.’ The usual place, of course, was the isolated field where Wade and I found Fenner’s bicycle.” He paused as his mind travelled back. “That mist, you know—it might have played the devil with all their arrangements, and instead it was on their side right the way through. It lifted when they needed to see, and came on again when they needed not to be seen.”

  “We’re piercing plenty of mist now, anyway,” commented Hazeldean.

  “Before we’ve finished we’ll pierce the lot,” answered Kendall. His eyes rested for a moment on the little round of brilliant blue water that danced and sparkled through the porthole, as though he were dwelling on the contrast. Then he went on: “Matters came to a head on that last trip across the water. I dare say the two men quarrelled en route, but Fenner had to get over. When they landed, however, and Jones got nasty—we can be sure they had plenty to quarrel about—he had to be dealt with. Well, we know what happened to Jones.”

  “May I interrupt for a moment?” asked Hazeldean.

  “Of course. Have you found a flaw?”

  “No, but Madame Paula said that Mr. Fenner had arrived on the evening before—”

  “Yes, by the boat I missed,” added Dora.

  “Madame Paula was lying,” answered Kendall, “which proves the extent to which she was interested in Mr. Fenner. She was ready to lie for him and fly with him. Whether he told her everything, we don’t know; but a woman like that generally knows on which side her bread is buttered, and by now she probably had little feeling left for her husband.”

  “She hated him,” said Dora.

  “She had every reason to,” replied Kendall. “And so, Miss Fenner, had you. We won’t waste any special sympathy over Dr. Jones. But—the seven victims whose deaths preceded that of Dr. Jones? I think we shall find a very different story here.”

  He stared at his half-empty glass, made a movement to finish it, then pushed it away.

  “Those seven people were finished off most devilishly by a new form of gas which is interesting our authorities at this moment,” he continued. “Probably Fenner hoped to make his fortune out of that gas. Probably Jones did also. Well, the gas was convenient for another purpose not originally thought of—and now we come to the cricket ball.”

  “There’s one question I’d like to put first,” interposed Hazeldean. “Where does Pierre come into all this? Is he just a naturally bad character who happened to be handy, or does he fit into the jig-saw?”

  “He fits into the jig-saw,” replied Kendall. “He was a
steward on the William George. Jones took him along with him to Boulogne. Exactly why, I can’t say. We’re satisfied we’ve got all the truth we can out of him—which is quite enough to go on with as far as Pierre himself is concerned—and that he doesn’t know the nature of the original secret between Jones and Fenner. But I expect he smelt a rat—maybe as far back as on the boat—and that Jones thought it wise to have him under his wing.”

  “He recognised a brother of the breed!” added Hazeldean. “Well—what have you found out about the cricket ball?”

  “Very little, for certain. Rather less, by presumption. But the complete story—well, we’re on the way to that now, I hope.”

  “We?”

  “You, I, Miss Fenner, and your crew.”

  The atmosphere in the cabin suddenly tightened. Kendall himself seemed to feel it, for he added quickly: “Of course, we needn’t include Miss Fenner.”

  “Mr. Kendall,” answered Dora, “do you seriously think you can leave me out?”

  Kendall knew that he couldn’t.

  “Right! Very well, that’s settled. Now, what we know for certain about the cricket ball is that it came through a window and gave Mr. Fenner a severe shock. That it increased his desire to leave Haven House, supplying a second urgent motive for going to Boulogne. And that it was an old ball. Expert opinion suggests from five to ten years as the age. I verified the fact that balls of this make and type were obtainable from five to ten years ago in Cape Town—from where John Fenner sailed. Although the ball has known an extraordinary amount of wear and sea-water, the impressions of two small letters are just decipherable. They’ve helped. By the way, Miss Fenner, your father—John Fenner’s brother—also came from South Africa, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was born there, and he had meant to go back when he left,” replied Dora, “but he met my mother in England and stayed to marry her.”