Ask For Ronald Standish

by Sapper

  “And put that way it certainly sounded madness to refuse. I had nothing particular to do yesterday afternoon, and fifty pounds are not to be sneezed at these hard days. So I accepted, and agreed to meet him at Hyde Park Corner at two o’clock.”

  “Before you continue, Mr Ivolsky,” said Ronald, “had you formed any opinion as to what nationality this so-called Smithson was?”

  “German, perhaps, or Dutch. Possibly Swedish.”

  “I see. Please go on.”

  “The drive down was quite uneventful. The car was a big limousine with a liveried chauffeur, and we made very good time. Smithson was not talkative, but once or twice I had the impression that he was watching me covertly out of the corner of his eye. He made no further allusion to the business in hand, and when I tentatively remarked about it he turned it aside with a smile.

  “‘All in good time, Mr Ivolsky,’ he said. ‘I can assure you that you won’t find it at all complicated.’

  “At about half-past three we arrived. The house was a big one with lodge gates and a long drive, and the first thing that struck me was the shocking condition the whole place was in. The drive was overgrown with weeds; the bushes and trees on each side were nothing but a tangled mass of undergrowth. I suppose he saw me looking, because he made a remark about it.

  “‘Terrible thing these days having a place of this size to keep up,’ he said. ‘But gardeners’ wages are quite prohibitive.’

  “The house itself was in keeping with the approach. One could see at a glance that there had been no work done on it for years, and I confess, Mr Standish, that I began to regret having come. But it was too late to draw back then, and so with considerable misgivings I followed my host into the hall.

  “‘You won’t forget, will you, Mr Ivolsky,’ he said with his hand on a door, ‘that the poor fellow is dumb. And he’s very sensitive about it. He will just nod or shake his head, as the case may be, in answer to your questions.’

  “On that we entered the room, and I took a quick look round. It was most inadequately furnished, with a round table and a few chairs. But there was one unusual feature. Stretched right across it from side to side, and cutting it in half, were heavy black curtains reaching to the ceiling.

  “The occupant of the room rose as we came in. He was a middle-aged man with grey hair, and Smithson introduced me to him. His name was Pilaudi, and I greeted him in Hungarian.

  “‘Shall we begin?’ said Smithson. ‘Will you sit here, Mr Ivolsky?’

  “He indicated a chair at the table with its back to the curtains. I sat down and Pilaudi took one opposite me. Then Smithson came and stood beside me.

  “‘I think the simplest way,’ he said, ‘is for me to give you the questions written in English, and for you to translate them. Here is the first.’

  “He laid a piece of paper on the table in front of me; on it was the following sentence:

  “‘Do you realise that what I have is useless without the other?’

  “I translated it into Hungarian and watched Pilaudi. For a while he appeared to take no notice, and merely stared vacantly over my head. Then suddenly he nodded, and Smithson put down a second slip:

  “‘Will you produce the other?’

  “Once again I watched Pilaudi; once again for an appreciable time he seemed not to have heard what I said. Then he shook his head.

  “Came the third slip, this one not a question:

  “‘I will pay you the same amount that you can get elsewhere.’

  “There was no delay this time; Pilaudi at once shrugged his shoulders, and I looked at the fourth sentence:

  “‘I will give you twenty-four hours to think things over. If at the end of that time the other is not forthcoming the result will be fatal.’

  “I glanced at Smithson.

  “‘Fatal,’ I said.

  “‘Only to our negotiations,’ he remarked.

  “So I translated the last sentence, and Pilaudi again shrugged his shoulders immediately.

  “‘That is all, thank you, Mr Ivolsky,’ said Smithson. ‘And I’m very much obliged to you for your assistance. Here is an envelope containing the sum we agreed on, and the car can take you back to London at once.’

  “I rose, and so did Pilaudi. Smithson was already at the door, and since there seemed nothing more for me to do, I shook hands with both of them and got into the waiting car. The whole affair had barely taken five minutes, and it all seemed so bizarre and fanciful that I felt I had been dreaming. I had expected a long and possibly complicated business interview; instead of that, four simple remarks of a most general nature. But the envelope contained ten five-pound notes, and I can safely say I have never earned money more easily.”

  The little man paused and looked at Ronald and me almost apologetically.

  “I really feel quite ashamed to have taken up your time,” he said. “All the same, the whole thing was so strange that I couldn’t help telling Mr Laver about it. And when he suggested my coming to you I felt I’d risk it. What do you think, Mr Standish?”

  “In the first place,” said Ronald, “I think that a man who can afford to pay fifty pounds for such a trifling service, and cannot afford to keep a gardener, is a peculiar customer. Tell me, Mr Ivolsky, about this man Pilaudi. Did he strike you as being a Hungarian?”

  “I really didn’t think much about it at the time. I assumed he was, and there was nothing in his appearance to make one think he wasn’t. But what do you mean, Mr Standish? If he wasn’t what was the object of my going down there at all?”

  Ronald lit a cigarette thoughtfully and answered the question with another.

  “Did you see anybody else except Smithson and the dumb man?”

  “Nobody. Except of course the chauffeur.”

  “And what impression did the interior of the house give you?”

  “Well, I only saw the hall and that one room. But they gave me the impression of extreme discomfort.”

  “You did not, of course, see what was behind the curtain?”

  “No. I did not.”

  “You realise the significance, Bob, don’t you?” he said, turning to me, “of the delay in answering after the two questions, and the prompt reply after the two statements?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” I answered. “He had to think over the questions, whereas the other two remarks were, as you say, statements.”

  “Possibly. I wonder. You said he was staring over your head, Mr Ivolsky, when you spoke to him.”

  “That is so. But what has that to do with it?”

  Ronald got up and began to pace up and down the room.

  “Let us briefly recapitulate the whole thing at its face value,” he said. “A man, posing as an Englishman, comes to Mr Ivolsky and offers him a big fee to go down to his house in the country. He has a large limousine; a liveried chauffeur, and yet the condition of the house and grounds is one that indicates great poverty. Arrived at the house Mr Ivolsky meets a dumb Hungarian, who is in the throes of an important business deal with the owner of the house. He makes four remarks to him: he sees no servant: he is offered no refreshment. He then returns to London the richer by fifty pounds.”

  He paused and stared at us.

  “It doesn’t sound sense to me, you know. Dumb men who are in a position to make big business deals don’t travel in foreign countries unattended.”

  “Well, he was certainly dumb,” cried Ivolsky.

  “Was he?” said Ronald calmly.

  “But if he wasn’t, why didn’t he answer when I spoke to him?”

  “Were you speaking to him? That’s the point.”

  He resumed his restless pacing.

  “Yes: that’s the point. You thought you were: in reality I believe you were speaking to someone you couldn’t see, and who was a genuine Hungarian. And I’d lay a small wager that Pilaudi was neither a Hungarian nor dumb. The delay in answering your two questions, of which he, of course, knew the English equivalent, was due to waiting for the reply from the oth
er side of the curtain. And that reply he had to pass on to Smithson.”

  “But why the mystery?” expostulated our visitor. “Why not take me behind the curtain and let me speak direct?”

  “It’s when we try to answer that ‘why,’ Mr Ivolsky, that the matter becomes more sinister. If I am right: if this so-called Pilaudi was merely pretending to be dumb because he realised he’d immediately give himself away if he spoke, then the whole affair assumes a very different complexion.”

  “I am completely bewildered,” said the little man. “Even now I do not quite see what you are driving at, Mr Standish.”

  “There are too many glaring inconsistencies in the story you have told us, my dear sir, for it to be the truth. Please don’t misunderstand me: I am not suggesting that you have said anything but what actually happened. Why should you? You have no object in wasting my time as well as your own. What I am suggesting is that the whole story of this business deal was a lie from start to finish. That the four remarks you made consisted of two questions, an offer, and a threat. That they were addressed to someone who was behind the curtain out of your sight. And if that is so there arises at once a very unpleasant question. Why did this someone make no sound, and say no word? Why, indeed, was it necessary for him to be hidden at all? And there can be only one answer. He is being held as a prisoner. There may have been half a dozen men behind the curtain with him. Somebody certainly was – the man who passed the answer to the so-called Pilaudi. Yes, Mr Ivolsky, I’m inclined to think that you have been moving in far deeper waters than you imagined. Could you find this house again?”

  “I think I could. In fact, given time, I’m sure I could.”

  “That’s one up to us anyway. But the point is what we are going to do.”

  “Would it not be as well to go to Scotland Yard?” said the Hungarian.

  “What are we going to say to them? I’ve told you what I think, but I haven’t a vestige of proof. Supposing I’m all wrong: supposing Pilaudi really is a dumb Hungarian, and that, incredible though it sounds, the whole story is correct, we should look pretty average fools. We haven’t got a single peg to hang our hat on, except that this man Smithson is not an Englishman though he pretends to be one. But having a bogus visiting card printed is not illegal, unless it is used for perpetrating a swindle or obtaining money. And all he has done is to present you with fifty of the best. No one would grant a search warrant on the story we’ve got to tell. And so if we’re going to do anything in the matter we’ve got to do it ourselves. In other words take the law into our own hands.”

  Our visitor paled visibly.

  “Will not that be very dangerous?” he muttered uneasily.

  “Cheer up, Mr Ivolsky,” laughed Ronald. “Your share of the performance will end when you’ve shown us the house. But twenty-four hours was the time mentioned, and that expires at four o’clock this afternoon. So we haven’t got long.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “’Phone round for the car, Bob, will you? And I expect after all that talking, Mr Ivolsky, you’d like a drink. There’s whisky or beer.”

  “Thank you, I think a small whisky and soda. Tell me, Mr Standish, what do you propose to do?”

  “Have a closer look at the house,” said Ronald. “From what you tell me of the condition of the grounds it shouldn’t be difficult. And when we have reconnoitred we’ll see what we can do next.”

  “There’s going to be an outsize in blots on the copybook,” I remarked, “if by any chance the whole thing is genuine.”

  “Sufficient unto the hour, old boy,” said Ronald cheerfully. “You didn’t by any chance notice if the house had a name on the gate, Mr Ivolsky?”

  “I specially noticed that it had not,” answered the Hungarian. “I looked as we went in, and again when I left.”

  “A pity. We might have made inquiries locally.”

  “Here is Seymour with the car,” I said. “Are you going to take him?”

  Ronald nodded.

  “He’s quite a good man in a scrap if by chance it comes to it. Take this, Bob: it’s better than a gun.”

  He handed me a loaded stick, and took another himself, whilst our visitor watched the proceedings apprehensively.

  “I am beginning to wish, gentlemen,” he remarked, “that I had not followed the advice of the excellent Mr Laver. I trust you will not expect me to become involved in – what do you call it – a scrap?”

  “You’ll probably lead the vanguard,” said Ronald, smacking him on the back. “Come along, mes enfants: en voiture. You come in front with me, Mr Ivolsky, and tell me the way.”

  Which unfortunately was what the little man proved unable to do. Arrived at Alton the direction had to be left to him, and it soon became obvious that he was completely at fault.

  “And I could have sworn,” he cried almost tearfully, “that I could have led you straight to the house. But your roads to me they all look the same.”

  “Take it easy, Mr Ivolsky,” said Ronald soothingly. “You’re sure at any rate that you came through Alton? Good. And that the house was two or three miles beyond? Right. Then all we can do is to try them one by one.”

  He spoke quite quietly but I could tell he was seething with impatience. Time was valuable, and to waste it motoring up and down country lanes was infuriating. For it was not till the third attempt that the Hungarian gave a sudden shout of triumph.

  “That cottage! I recognise it. We are right this time, Mr Standish. The house is about a mile farther on.”

  And the time was a quarter to four.

  “What are you going to do with the car, Ronald? “I asked.

  “Drive past the gates, and leave it in the road. Then you and I, Bob, will walk in. The lodge is still presumably empty, but we can see that as we go past.”

  “There it is,” cried Ivolsky, pointing ahead, and Ronald slowed down.

  “Shutters up,” he remarked as we drove by. “No danger to be anticipated there. Now, Mr Ivolsky, I want you to stay here with my chauffeur. You can do no good with us, and if we want you we’ll know where to find you. Come along, Bob: there’s no time to lose.”

  The drive had a bend in it, so that for the first two hundred yards the house could not be seen, and we were able to get along without taking to the undergrowth. And assuredly the little Hungarian had not exaggerated in his description of the condition of the place. It did not look as if a hand’s turn of work had been done on it for years, and when, before reaching the bend, we had to take cover it was almost a question of hacking one’s way through.

  “Let’s hope they’re occupied indoors,” said Ronald. “We’re making enough noise to waken the dead.”

  And then suddenly he stopped abruptly, his hand raised in warning. We had arrived at the edge: in front of us stood the house. I wormed my way cautiously forward: then side by side we crouched down staring at it. To all appearances the place was deserted. The windows were shut, and so was the front door. Dusty ivy trailed drunkenly down the walls: the whole place was dilapidated to a degree.

  “That settles it, Bob,” said Ronald. “Smithson was certainly lying when he said this was his country house, and so the whole story he told Ivolsky was a plant. But it looks remarkably as if the birds had flown, and that we’re too late.”

  “Shall we have a closer look now that we are here?” I remarked.

  “I was just going to suggest it,” he said. “And if by chance there is anybody at home we’ve come to look over the property.”

  He stepped out on to the grass verge bordering the drive, and walked boldly up to the front door. The question of concealment no longer came into it: we were two bona fide prospective tenants. The iron bell pull was old and rusty, and stuck when he tried to use it. Then it went with a jerk, and the reverberation of the bell could have been heard in Alton.

  Gradually it died away, and we listened intently. No sound came from the house: the place might have been a tomb.

  “They’ve gone, Bob,” said R
onald. “We’re wasting our time. Hallo! the door is not locked. That’s strange.”

  He pushed it open, and we stepped into the hall. The unpleasant musty odour of a long disused house at once assailed our nostrils: dust lay thick everywhere and Ronald’s keen eye searched it for footprints.

  “Five people at least,” he remarked, “have been here recently. And that room on our right is obviously where our little friend did his interpreter stuff. There are the curtains now pulled back: there’s the table. Let’s see if we can find anything in the part of the room that was shut off.”

  We walked through and suddenly Ronald halted staring at the floor.

  “Bad, Bob: very bad,” he muttered. “Blood, and recent blood. It’s not even dry. And look at that coil of rope in the corner. There’s been devilry here. Good God! What’s this?”

  He bent down and picked up a strange looking metal implement, which was stained a bright crimson.

  “I am beginning to feel a strong desire to meet Mr Alfred Smithson,” he said quietly. “This, unless I am much mistaken, is a form of thumb screw. They’ve been torturing the wretched fellow. Come on, Bob: this is very definitely a police job.”

  He was standing by the door taking a final look round the hall. And suddenly he gripped my arm.

  “Look at the stairs, Bob: look at the stairs,” he muttered. “One set of footprints, only.”

  “What of it?” I said.

  “They go up, man: and they don’t come down. Get hold of that coil of rope: the police will have to wait. There is someone upstairs.”

  On tiptoe we crept up, and as we reached the top we heard it. Rising and falling there came from a room in front of us an ever swelling cadence of snores. The door was open, and we peered in. And a strange sight met our eyes,

  In one corner lay the motionless body of a man: in another, sprawling on a pile of old sacks was one of the drunkest individuals I have ever seen in my life. The room reeked of whisky, and an empty bottle was on the floor beside him. So drunk was he that he never stirred when we lashed his arms and legs: then we turned our attention to his companion.

  “The swine,” muttered Ronald savagely. “Look at his thumb. However, he’s alive, though they’ve doped him. See if you can find a bucket of water, Bob, and we’ll see what we can get out of this drunken sot.”