by Molly Thynne
“Did they take any steps about it?”
“I don’t think so. They told her to go home and let them know if she heard nothing from him in the course of the day. Betty’s hard at it rehearsing just now, so, as they live in rooms and there’s a very decent landlady, she went off to the theatre, leaving directions that she was to be sent for if he came home or if any news came through. I knew nothing till I picked her up for lunch. We went back afterwards to her rooms, only to find that there had been no news. Then I went to the police-station.
“I did manage to persuade them that old gentlemen of seventy don’t go off on the burst without some very adequate reason, and they undertook to get on to the hospitals and see if they could trace him to one of them. I rang up half an hour ago, feeling convinced that they’d have found that the poor old chap had been run over or something, only to be told that they’d drawn a complete blank. They say it’s probably a case of loss of memory, and that, if we don’t hear something soon, they’ll arrange for a wireless SOS. That’s what I’ve got to go back and tell Betty, unless you can suggest anything.”
“I could get on to Scotland Yard, I suppose,” said Constantine thoughtfully, “but, if I did, I don’t see quite what they could do. They were quite definite about the hospitals, I suppose?”
“Quite. As a matter of fact, I was standing by, expecting to have to go and identify anyone that seemed likely, but, so far as I could gather, every case that had been admitted since yesterday evening has been neatly labeled with a name and address and some of the other police-stations have anything to report either. If I didn’t know Betty’s grandfather, I should say it was loss of memory. As it is, I refuse to believe it.”
“It’s quite a common occurrence, you know.”
“Common occurrence be damned! I’m sorry, sir, but those sheep at the stations have been bleating those very words at me every time I’ve got on to them to-day. Look here, I’m sorry to be personal, but do you see yourself walking out of this flat any time this evening and knowing no more about anything until you’re picked up by Manners on the pier at Blackpool, having forgotten who you are and where you live or how you got there? Do you?”
Their eyes met, Constantine’s so dark as to appear black, Marlowe’s blue and deceptively sleepy-looking, both steady and controlled, with the glint of humour behind them.
“I don’t,” said Constantine; “but I might do it. So might you.”
“You don’t really believe that any more than I do. I didn’t do it in nineteen sixteen, and I’m not likely to now. Old Julius Anthony is as normal as we are and as utterly incapable of going off the deep end in that way. You don’t know him. I do. I haven’t said so to Betty, but he’s either ill or has had an accident. That’s why I want to get Scotland Yard on the job. The local people are doing their best, but they’re only half-hearted about it. They’ve got loss of memory on the brain.”
“He may be staying away of his own accord and have sent some message that hasn’t reached you,” suggested Constantine.
“Is there any possible reason why a respectable old gentleman should hare off at ten o’clock at night, without any luggage, to parts unknown, when he’s got a perfectly good home of his own?” demanded Marlowe. “And there’s another thing I haven’t told Betty. I got this yesterday morning. He must have posted it on Sunday night.”
He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Constantine. It was brief and rather disconcertingly to the point, and as Constantine read it he realized that Miss Anthony’s grandfather was by no means such a nonentity as the Duchess had suggested.
Dear Lord Marlowe (it ran).
I understand from my grand-daughter that she has consented to marry you. I do not know what the attitude of your family may be towards your engagement, but I imagine that they must share my views as to the utter unsuitability of such a match. In any case I must ask you to postpone the announcement of your engagement until I have had an opportunity to place certain facts before you. I should be obliged if you would tell me when and where I can find you, and grateful if you would refrain from mentioning the subject to Betty until you have seen me.
I remain, yours sincerely.
Julius Anthony.
The letter, written in a firm, angular hand in keeping with its stilted and uncompromising phraseology, brought Constantine to a clearer understanding of the writer than any attempt at description on Marlowe’s part would have done, and he handed it back with a new feeling of respect for the old man.
“It certainly doesn’t look as if he had any intention of going away,” he admitted. “You’ve no idea, I suppose, what he wished to say?”
Marlowe shook his head.
“Not the foggiest, and I can’t ask Betty without showing her the letter. I don’t want to do that till we’ve found the old man. She’s got the wind up enough about him already. So have I, for the matter of that. If he’s been knocked down in the street, surely Scotland Yard ought to be able to trace him.”
“When was he last seen?” asked Constantine.
“About nine-fifteen, when he left the friends with whom he always spends Tuesday evening. Betty rang them up and they said he left a little earlier than usual, but said nothing about going on anywhere, and they thought he was going home. He seems to have been quite fit when he left them, and they hadn’t noticed anything unusual in his manner, but he’s a funny, reserved old chap, a bit crabbed till you know him, but very human at bottom. Betty’s devoted to him and he’s been very decent to me. So much so that I never dreamed he’d take this line about our engagement.”
Constantine’s mind went back to the letter.
“He may object on general principles,” he said, “or, of course, there may be something definite against Miss Anthony’s marriage. The letter looks a little ominous. However, that’s not the main point at the moment. Frankly, I doubt if Scotland Yard will do more than is being done already. If he doesn’t turn up soon the Press and the wireless will be enlisted as a matter of course.”
Marlowe hesitated for a moment, then:
“I wish you’d see Betty, sir,” he suggested, rather shyly. “I know you’re meeting her to-night if I can persuade her to come along, but she hates leaving, even for half an hour, in case he should come back. If it wasn’t for her job she wouldn’t have gone out at all to-day. But if you’d see her quietly first, you might be able to reassure her and persuade her that everything possible is being done. I believe I could get her to come here if you can spare the time to see her.”
Constantine glanced at his watch.
“I’ll go to her,” he said decisively. “She’ll only be on tenterhooks if she comes here, and, if I do rope in my friend Arkwright, I’d like to have a clear array of facts to put before him.”
Marlowe’s face cleared. This was what he had hoped for from the beginning.
“I’ve got my car outside,” he said. “We shall be there in no time.”
The Anthonys lived in rooms at the top of a house in a small street off the Fulham Road. The girl had been on the watch and opened the door to them herself. At the sight of her Constantine realized that her day had been one long vigil, and he felt certain that every footstep that sounded in the unfrequented little street had brought her rushing to the window.
He had not exchanged a dozen words with her before he went over, unreservedly, to the Duke’s side. Not only was she charming to look at, and that stood for a good deal with Constantine, whose Greek blood never failed to respond to sheer beauty, but there was intelligence in the frank grey eyes that met his with a trust and friendliness that went far to undermine any prejudice he had felt against her. She looked worn and strained, and her first words were about her grandfather.
“You’ve heard nothing, I suppose?” she asked with a desperate effort at hope.
Marlowe took both her hands in his.
“Nothing yet,” he said gently, “but Doctor Constantine’s got Scotland Yard in his pocket, and he’s going to make things hum.
”
“Doctor Constantine’s got a certain amount of influence with one detective-inspector,” Constantine amended. “But if anybody can help, he will. Meanwhile, I’ve come to bother you with a few questions, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can,” She answered, “only I seem to know nothing. But my grandfather never would have stayed away like this of his own accord. Of that I’m certain.”
Constantine, climbing the narrow stairs behind them, watched Marlowe’s arm go around her shoulders, saw the sudden shudder that ran through her as she pressed closer to his side, heard his voice, deep and very even, in her ear, “Steady, old thing,” and became, even more definitely, a spoke in the wheel of the Duchess.
By the time they reached the long, low room, looking out over the chimney-pots, she was herself again and pathetically anxious to give him any information that might be helpful.
“He went round to supper with our friends, the Hahns, just as he always does on Tuesdays,” she said. “It’s the one holiday he allows himself in the week, the one night he doesn’t play in the orchestra, and he always spends the evening playing quartettes with the Hahns. You see, it’s the only chance he gets nowadays of playing or hearing decent music, and he loves it. I rang them up, and they say that they broke off as usual at about nine. Grandfather had a cup of coffee and left at about a quarter past nine. They thought he was coming home. That was the last anybody has heard of him.”
“It seems absurd to ask if you’ve any idea where he may have gone,” probed Constantine gently.
She started at him, wide-eyed.
“There is nowhere. He is old, you know, and rather set in his ways. When he’s not at the Parthenon I can always tell, almost to the minute, what he’s likely to be doing at any time of the day.”
“He’s never gone off like this before?”
“Never.”
“Was he at all secretive about his affairs? Is there anything, I mean, in connection with his work, or his life outside his work, that he might not have told you?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing. Our life here is so simple, really. He has his work and I have mine, and we neither of us have much time for anything else. Music is the only thing he cares for, and his only trouble is that he cannot afford to give up the cinema and enjoy it.”
“There’s nothing you can think of that he might have deliberately kept from you?” persisted Constantine, remembering the letter Marlowe had shown him.
She was about to repeat her denial when a sudden thought made her hesitate.
“There was something I’ve never quite understood,” she said at last. “Mrs. Berry, the landlady, told me once, when I’d been away, that he’d gone off unexpectedly. But that was quite different. He told Mrs. Berry beforehand that he was going, and practically how long he’d be away. And he had luggage with him then.”
“When was this?”
“About three months ago. I can look it up and tell you the exact date if you like.”
“Where did he go?”
The girl’s frank eyes clouded.
“That’s what made me think of it. It was odd. He never said where he was going. He told Mrs. Berry that if he wasn’t back in three days he would write. But he came back after supper two days later, and never said a word to Mrs. Berry about where he’d been. That wasn’t so queer, because, though he was always pleasant to her, he never talked much to her. I was away on tour at the time, and she told me about it when I came back.”
“Did your grandfather never speak to you about it?”
“Never. It bothered me at the time because, though he was funny and reserved in some ways, he always spoke quite openly about his affairs. I remember I said something about his having been away, and he just looked at me for a moment and said, ‘Yes.’ There was something in his manner that made me feel I’d better not say any more.”
“You had a distinct impression that he did not wish to be questioned?”
“Yes.” Her colour deepened. “I know it sounds as if we aren’t on very good terms with each other, but it isn’t that. I’ve lived with him ever since I can remember, and we’re the greatest friends really. But I think he still looks upon me as a child, and though he’s the kindest person on earth at bottom, he can be forbidding sometimes. He’s not a person anyone would dream of taking liberties with. When he shut me up like that I knew it wouldn’t do to persist. But I couldn’t help wondering what he’d been up to,” she finished, with a little uncertain smile.
“Was there anything in his manner, apart from that, that struck you as unusual?”
She frowned.
“He did seem quieter, a little more unapproachable, perhaps, for a time, but that may have been my imagination. He’s always been a rather silent person. But Mrs. Berry told me that when he came back he looked so white and tired that she was anxious about him and very nearly wrote to ask me to come home. But after he’d been back at work a couple of days he seemed quite himself again, and she was glad she hadn’t bothered me. He may simply have over-tired himself with the journey. Anyway, he’s never alluded to it since, and I’d almost forgotten it till you asked me.”
“Is there nobody you can think of who might have sent for him? Any friend or relation?”
She shook her head.
“We’ve got extraordinarily few relations, and I know all his friends. You see, my father was his only child, and he and my mother died soon after I was born. My grandfather lived in Paris for a time, and he may have made friends there that I’ve never heard of. Certainly he never alluded to them. I thought at first he might have gone away on business. He hates the cinema work and would jump at a good orchestral engagement, but he wouldn’t have been so reticent about that. He always discussed that sort of thing quite openly.”
“You did have a definite impression that he didn’t wish to talk of it?” persisted Constantine.
She agreed emphatically.
“Ordinarily I should have gone on asking him about it,” she admitted, “but I knew at once from his manner that it wouldn’t do to persist. Grandfather is quick-tempered, but he is never really angry with me for long. I have to be careful, though.”
Constantine hesitated. He did not know what to say. Privately he was coming round to Marlowe’s opinion that the old man must have met with an accident. On the earlier occasion his departure had been a perfectly normal one, and it did not look as if there could be any connection between it and his present disappearance.
A sudden movement from the girl made him turn to her, to find a look in her eyes he did not like to see.
“I keep imagining him,” she gasped, as though she could hardly find breath for the words, “laying in some hospital, trying to tell them who he is. Wanting me and not able to say so. He’d hate it all so, the strange nurses and being helpless. If only I knew!”
She was obviously very near breaking point. Constantine rose to his feet, but Marlowe was before him, standing over the girl.
“Look here, old thing,” he said, “this won’t do. If he’s lost his memory or anything of that sort, he’ll want you when he comes back. If you let yourself go to pieces, what good will you be to him? You’ve got to be there when he needs you, that’s what you’ve got to remember. If you let your imagination rip like this, you’ll be no more use than a sick headache. The thing is not to think until you’ve got something definite to think about. Isn’t that true, sir?”
He had given Constantine time to perfect the merciful lie that was all he could find to meet the situation.
“Marlowe’s right,” he said “This other journey of your grandfather’s, mysterious as it is, sheds a new light on the situation. If he went away at a moment’s notice before he may very well have done so again. I’ll get in touch with New Scotland Yard and put the facts before them. After that you can comfort yourself with the thought that everything possible is being done. The moment there’s any news I’ll see that you get it, if you let me know exactly where you
are to be found at stated intervals.”
By the time he had finished his little speech she had rallied, and when she answered her voice was carefully under control.
“I’m sorry I was a goose,” she said with a swift, shy glance that Constantine found very bewitching, “but sitting here waiting makes one imagine all sorts of things. And yet I don’t know what else to do. I ought to be rehearsing now, but I simply couldn’t face it.”
“I should carry on as usual, if I were you,” Constantine advised her. “Provided we know where to find you, we can always get you at a moment’s notice.”
“There’s my job to think of,” she admitted, “and, if my grandfather’s ill, we shall need all the money we can get.”
At the sound of a muttered exclamation from Marlowe she paused, and her eyes met Constantine’s frankly.
“He thinks I’m mercenary,” she went on, “but, when you’ve always had to count your pennies as we have, you learn to look ahead. To people like us illness always means expense, and I can’t afford to lose my job.”
“Once we’re married, Mr. Anthony’s my affair,” got in Marlowe. “We’ve had this out before, and I thought we’d done with it.”
“When you know him a little better you’ll realize that Mr. Anthony’s very much his own affair,” she retorted. “Whatever may happen eventually to you and me, I don’t believe you’ll persuade Grandfather to take a penny. Besides, he’s done everything for me for years, and it’s up to me to look after him now.”
“Of all the arrant nonsense!” began Marlowe heatedly, only to subside, muttering, as she turned to him.
“Don’t let’s start all that again now, please,” she begged. “When all this trouble’s over we can straighten things out.”
She rose, and Constantine realized her slender beauty for the first time.
“I’m going to work,” she said. “It’s stupid to sit here worrying. You know the address if anything turns up. I don’t know what Doctor Constantine thinks about the dinner to-night?”