Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  “Look!” Ruth was pointing in front of her. “Look! There he is. I’d know ’im anywhere. That’s ’im. I’d swear it! Whatever they do to me I swear it. It’s ’im. Look!”

  The inspector was by her side in a moment.

  The man whose card was in his pocket, the man who had introduced himself as Saxon Marsh and whose name he thought he vaguely recognized, had just come out of the building and was standing talking outside his huge grey limousine to the doctor who had accompanied him.

  Ruth lifted a pale, excited face to the policeman.

  “That’s the man who was in fancy dress. That’s the man who told me he was Lionel Birch and asked the way to Major Deane’s room. . . . Swear it? Of course I swear it! Who’s goin’ to forget a face like that in a hurry?”

  The girl’s voice died away, and there was silence in the waiting room before the inspector decided to make a move. Miss Dartle was, he felt sure, the sort of witness of whom a clever King’s Counsel would make a most distressing exhibition in any witness box, although she certainly seemed convinced enough at the moment.

  It was unfortunate that all these things should have had to pass through Inspector Winn’s mind at such a critical juncture. However, the law of the land being what it is, he could hardly rush out on the spot and make an arrest.

  This consideration did not occur to Ruth Dartle, however. Her pale stupid face grew suddenly pink with anger, and she showed a spirit with which Winn would not have credited her.

  “Well, look,” she said, “there he is! There’s the man. There’s the man you’re looking for. Why are you waiting? Don’t let him get away!”

  In her extreme excitement her voice had become shrill and penetrating, so penetrating, indeed, that even the heavy glass of the window could not quite stifle it. It reached the ears of the man outside.

  Saxon Marsh turned abruptly, and for an instant his eyes rested upon the scene in the window: the excited, gesticulating girl, and behind her the inspector in uniform.

  Instantly Winn’s doubts of Ruth’s testimony were dispelled. He saw the expression on the skull-like face of the man outside, saw the quick shadow of alarm pass over that cadaverous countenance, and the next instant Marsh had shaken hands with the doctor and, leaping into his car, had shouted a word of command to his chauffeur which was instantly obeyed.

  The doctor’s jaw dropped. He was evidently astounded that the conversation should have ended so hurriedly.

  “He’s gorn!” Miss Dartle was loud in her disappointment. “You’ve lorst ’im! I thought you policemen were so quick on the uptake. You’ve let ’im get away. That’s the man, I tell you. I’d swear it—I’d swear it anywhere, on me dying oath.”

  She was becoming hysterical again, and Inspector Winn caught her wrist.

  “You be quiet,” he said firmly. “You’ve done your part, and you’ve done it very well, and I shall need you later. But just at the moment, for God’s sake, hold your tongue.”

  “Well, I must say——” began Miss Dartle, but, catching sight of the suppressed excitement in his eyes, she shut her mouth abruptly and watched him with eagerness.

  Inspector Winn drew the visiting card which Saxon Marsh had given him from his waistcoat pocket. He felt the surface with a sensitive thumb. Both name and address were engraved, and the inspector sighed. The chances were against its being a fake.

  He read the address very carefully. Then, taking Ruth firmly by the arm, he piloted her straight out of the building and across the street to the nearest call box.

  Ruth had to wait outside for quite a long time while the inspector was talking, but when he came out she noticed that he seemed extraordinarily pleased, and even went so far as to buy her a packet of chocolate as a reward for her assistance.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Two Who Hurried

  “MY DEAR, how long you’ve slept. How do you feel?”

  Marguerite sat on the end of Judy’s bed, looking cool and inexplicably lovely in a long, shadowy blue gown which seemed to enhance the fairness of her hair.

  Webb stood behind her, his hands in his pockets, his habitual good-natured expression on his face, entirely convincing had it not been for a certain eagerness in his narrow eyes.

  Judy lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “I can’t understand it,” she said. “I feel completely exhausted. It’s awfully late, isn’t it?”

  “After lunch,” said Marguerite, smiling at her. Now that the woman had something to do, all her previous nervousness had vanished, and she looked calm and completely natural.

  Judy was puzzled. “It’s very queer,” she said. “Very queer indeed. I’ve never felt like this in all my life before. How terrible of me, Marguerite, to come to your house and get ill immediately. It’s almost like a—a—” she smiled ruefully—“a judgment on me for pretending, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my dear, you’re not ill. Don’t worry.” Marguerite was gently reassuring. “That’s why I’ve brought Carlton in. He used to be a doctor, and I thought he might have a look at you.”

  Carlton Webb wandered over to the bed and took the girl’s hand. He held the limp wrist thoughtfully in his own for a moment or so, and then, bending down, felt her forehead and peered into her eyes.

  “Good heavens, no,” he said. “You’re all right. It’s just a collapse brought on by nervous excitement. Nothing to get worried about. Just take things easy for a bit.”

  Judy hesitated. She could not tell why it was that she disliked Carlton Webb. She only knew that she did dislike him very intensely. There was something odd about him, something slightly conceited and insincere, yet not definite enough for her to feel sure that she had not imagined the whole thing.

  Marguerite patted her hand.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I know what that sort of shock is. I was completely exhausted myself after that wretched accident at the hotel. You looked after me then, and I’ll look after you now. You’re not in any pain, are you? Is there anything I can do?”

  “Oh no, I’m not in pain.” Judy frowned. “I’m perfectly all right really—only terribly weak. And—I know it sounds absurd to say so—I had the conviction that I was drugged last night. That last cup of tea, it tasted awfully queer, and I think I fainted after it. Oh, I know,” she went on quickly as she caught a glimpse of the carefully simulated shocked expression on the other woman’s face, “I know it’s quite the craziest mistake. I just wondered if something could have got into it by accident or something. I remember trying to get over to the door and finding it locked.”

  “Locked?” Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Judy darling, you are light-headed.”

  Carlton Webb smiled ruefully. “It’s rather hard on us to say things like that, Miss Wellington,” he said. “After all, we’re doing our best to make you comfortable and——”

  “Oh, I know.” Judy was profoundly unhappy. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m only telling you about the ridiculous experience I had. I know it must have been all a dream now, but it seemed so real then that I thought I ought to let you know. I suppose,” she went on lamely, feeling that her apology was going down badly, “I suppose this wretched business must have been coming on then. I hope it’s not a sort of flu.”

  “Good heavens, no. You can take it from me that it’s just a natural reaction after overexcitement.” Carlton Webb spoke convincingly.

  Judy frowned. Her face was very pale, and, like all naturally healthy young people when suddenly overtaken by illness, she was secretly afraid of her own weakness. It seemed so extraordinary.

  “In a way—” Marguerite looked up at her cousin with what appeared to be a faintly mischievous expression upon her lips—“this indisposition of Judy’s may be a blessing in disguise. In view of our visitor this morning, I mean.”

  Carlton Webb took his cue.

  “Well, yes. I hardly like to mention that in view of our young friend’s headache. However, perhaps I ought to.”

  Judy tried to sit up in bed. “W
hat is it? Something about my uncle?”

  “No, my dear, no. You’ll hear from him soon.” Marguerite’s tone was soothing. “But we had a visit from Saxon Marsh this morning. Do you remember him? A friend of your guardian.”

  Judy lay very still. Things that had been terrifying enough when she was completely fit and mistress of herself had now become unspeakably horrible when she was weak and exhausted.

  “What did he want?” She hardly recognized her own voice.

  “You.” Marguerite grimaced as she spoke, as though there were nothing at all frightening in her statement.

  “Don’t let him take me—please! Oh, please, Marguerite!”

  “Of course not, of course not. Carlton, this child is very nervy still.” The woman patted the slender little hand lying on the coverlet. “But he’s a rather importunate person, and it wasn’t easy to get rid of him.”

  “You did send him away, then?” Judy sighed with relief.

  Again Marguerite glanced at the man behind her, and Judy read in her face only the polite question which was whether the patient could safely be told some triflingly exciting piece of news.

  Webb answered the unspoken inquiry.

  “Well, yes,” he said. “I think we might tell Miss Wellington. After all, she’s got to know some time or other, hasn’t she?”

  “Oh, what is it?” Judy’s lips were quivering.

  Marguerite put out a protective hand.

  “My dear child, don’t worry. It’s nothing alarming. You see, I told Mr. Marsh that you were not at all well; much too ill to receive visitors, in fact. After all, it was a half truth, and he was such an odious person that I was sure you would want to get rid of him.”

  Judy nodded, but her eyes were still anxious.

  “And then what?”

  “Well, then, my dear, he went, but not very graciously. In fact, I’m afraid he indicated pretty clearly that he did not believe I was telling the truth. What he proposes to do is to send a doctor to see you this afternoon.

  “Now, don’t be alarmed,” she went on hurriedly, as the girl caught her breath. “I should get up, if I were you. Go and sit in the garden. I’ll have some deck chairs put out there, and you can look cool and interesting and pale in the shadow of the trees.”

  Carlton Webb, who had been watching the girl, his narrow eyes taking in every change of expression on her pale face, interposed.

  “I’m afraid you’ve got to face it, Miss Wellington,” he said. “This man Marsh, and I presume Sir Leo too, seem to suspect the bona-fides of the illness you have so cleverly counterfeited. I presume you don’t want them to find out the truth, do you?”

  “Oh no, of course not—of course not.” Judy looked horrified. “But what shall I do? He’ll discover me at once. Oh, can’t you prevent him from seeing me?”

  Again Marguerite glanced at the man, and this time there was an ill-concealed smile on her scarlet lips, a smile, however, which Judy was too overwrought to notice.

  It was Webb who spoke.

  “Now, look here, Miss Wellington,” he said, coming forward, “you know your own business best, and I hesitate to suggest any deliberate deception unless you feel it really necessary, but if you are convinced that it is vital for your guardian not to know of your own and your uncle’s subterfuge, then let me suggest something. You’re not well this morning, and any doctor hastily examining you might be forgiven if he mistook your symptoms, which are purely nervous, for something more serious. However, he will only do that if you tell him the same story that you have told all the other people who have been to see you so far.

  “After all,” he went on, speaking persuasively and gently as though to a child, “doctors are not magicians, you know. At best they’re only clever detectives. They add the evidence which you tell them to the evidence of their own eyes and draw their verdict from the two.”

  “That’s right, Judy.” Marguerite spoke soothingly. “And I shall be with you the whole time. I’ll steer him away from any difficult questions. You just stick to your original story, and you’ll see that you’ll come through all right. And this evening I expect your uncle will attempt to make some communication with you.”

  Judy nodded. She was still wide-eyed and frightened.

  Marguerite sighed. A very difficult interview was at an end.

  “I’ll send someone to help you dress, dear,” she continued. “Don’t try and brace yourself for the ordeal this afternoon. Remember you’ve only got to convince a rather foolish old doctor that you’re not well. I shouldn’t think that’d be at all difficult. You look terribly pale.”

  Judy watched the two go out of the room. Although the day was warm she was cold, and her limbs were trembling. The dreadful lassitude which had come over her in the last few hours could not be shaken off. She felt ill, much more ill than ever in her life before.

  In the passage outside the door Marguerite Ferney looked up at Carlton Webb.

  “All right?” she whispered.

  Carlton Webb nodded. “Yes,” he said, and added under his breath, “So far so good.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Murder Plot

  “IT’S SO TERRIBLY AWKWARD for me, doctor. I don’t know Miss Wellington very well. To be quite frank, I only met her a few days ago at the Arcadian Hotel at Westbourne.”

  Marguerite Ferney was at her most charming. In a soft grey cotton dress with a white ruffle at the neck and sleeves she looked very demure, very young, and very feminine, and Dr. Doe, the busy general practitioner for the district, glanced at her with approval. He was interested in this tall, fair woman who had rented the house for six months in the summer and who kept such an enormous staff of servants.

  He was a plump, pompous, conventional little man who had naturally had no suspicions aroused by his telephone summons to the household. Visitors often called him in for trivial ills, and this sort of call came naturally in his day’s work.

  Marguerite went on. “Of course, she’s a permanent invalid. She told me so when we first met, and it seemed so sad that one so young should be staying all alone in a big hotel that I took pity on her and brought her home with me for a week. I’m afraid the journey didn’t do her any good. She looked so terribly pale and worn this morning that I felt I really must have a doctor just for my own protection. She assures me that it’s nothing at all unusual, but I thought I would like a medical opinion. I do hope you don’t think me very foolish.”

  She looked archly at her visitor on the last word, and Dr. Doe replied gallantly.

  “Most natural, my dear lady, most natural. Let me have a look at the young lady.”

  Marguerite noted the placid expression upon his face and smiled to herself. She was an adept at handling this type of man, and she knew quite well that the opinion which had been formed in his mind was just the one she had attempted to create.

  They walked through the house towards the garden where Judy was sitting under the trees. She looked like a little ghost. The vivid scarlet of the garden cushions enhanced the deadly pallor of her face and lips.

  The doctor stepped forward, and, after shaking hands, began in his best bedside manner.

  “Well, young lady,” he said. “A bit under the weather? What’s the trouble?”

  Judy’s eyes flickered. This plump, amiable little person was very different from the imposing London specialist whom she had imagined her guardian, Sir Leo, might send.

  “I’m just a little tired and weak, doctor,” she began hesitantly, trying to keep her eyes away from Marguerite’s face.

  The doctor noticed this tendency and applied an entirely erroneous explanation to it. He took Judy’s wrist, felt her pulse, and, as these told him very little save that the girl was obviously in a state of great weakness, asked the obvious question.

  “Now, tell me, how long has this been going on?”

  Judy did not meet his eyes. “My guardian knows quite well,” she said, “that I’ve been ill since I was thirteen. I assure you I’m very little worse
than I always am. I’ve told Miss Ferney that I only need two or three days’ rest.”

  Her voice was very faint, and her habit of avoiding Marguerite Ferney’s glance convinced the doctor that she was ashamed of having planted herself in the house of a woman who did not know her very well and then having to confess that she was always very delicate.

  “You have your own medical man at home, I suppose?”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  “And you don’t feel very much worse now than you usually do?”

  “No.” Judy spoke hesitantly. “I’m a little nervy, I suppose. I don’t want to see people or travel,”

  “I see.” Dr. Doe smiled. “Well, I’m inclined to agree with your own diagnosis, young lady. Take it easy and you’ll soon get back to your normal state. I’ll send you down a bottle of medicine, something to make you sleep.”

  To Judy’s complete astonishment he rose, and, after shaking hands, made his way across the lawn with Marguerite strolling gracefully at his side.

  Judy was bewildered. It had been a most unexpected interview, quite different from the stern catechism she had both expected and dreaded. This man was just like some nice little country doctor who realized that she was only a visitor and would not be long a patient of his own, rather than a man Sir Leo had sent to wrest the truth from her and force Marguerite to give her up.

  She saw Miss Ferney and the little doctor in earnest conversation as they reentered the house and wondered what they were saying. Had she been able to hear, her bewilderment might well have increased.

  Marguerite was playing her part very well.

  “Then you don’t think I need worry, doctor? That’s such a weight off my mind. I was so afraid I might have to bundle her off to hospital or something. As you say, it’s not wise to invite home people one doesn’t know very well.”

  Dr. Doe looked at her slyly.

  “Oh, no fear of that, dear lady,” he said. “You may have to put up with her for a day or two, and then I should send her back where she came from. I didn’t go into her trouble very fully because she evidently has her own medical man. You can see she’s an invalid. Her pulse was weak and that pallor is very pronounced. But if she’s properly taken care of she may last for years. I don’t know what her trouble is—pernicious anæmia or something of that sort. She evidently seems to regard it as quite the normal thing.”