“Must!” cried Preedy, and for the first time roughly. “It’s getting late. We can’t go on advancing and retreating. We are not dancing the Lancers.”
He approached her impatiently, almost threateningly. I suppose that from the other side I closed in upon her. For she looked at me sharply and then back again at the set and quiet features of Preedy. Quiet they were, but there was now a menace in the room, a chill.
“There have been pacts, haven’t there?” said Preedy.
“Pacts?”
She was really bewildered.
“Don’t ask me to take you for a fool. You understand well enough. Pacts. The coroners’ courts are full of them.”
Her eyes opened wide. She looked at Preedy. She looked at me. I think that we must both by now have been standing quite close to her.
“Suicide pacts,” she said with a little falter in her voice. But she didn’t move, not a foot, not a hand. I don’t think it would have been lucky for her if she had. We were all three as motionless as effigies. All three might move as sedately or as violently as the plot demanded, but not one alone. No, indeed. But I believed, I still believe, that if she had been absolutely certain that I and not the innocent Devisher would be convicted of the murder, she would have taken her risks of us and let Horbury’s blackmailing be exposed. But she had no such certainty. Whatever she might say, the evidence pointed to Devisher and not to me.
“Then that’s settled,” said Preedy. “We all three have the same secret to hide. Will you bring the little table — yes, the one from which you took your key, and set it between the corner of the divan and — well, here?”
He pointed to Horbury.
“Now, please sit on the divan, your hand perhaps on the end so as to leave your prints.”
He then asked her where the champagne, the famous Pommery ‘06, was kept. He left us together, and I can’t remember a period more embarrassing. But, in truth, he worked quickly. He came back with two goblets of thin glass which Horbury affected. One was half full, and that he placed on the occasional table by Olivia. The other he set on the table over which Horbury lay. There was just room for it. He had a cloth in his hand and he wiped away from the glasses all traces of his own handling of them.
“Will you touch that with your fingers and your lips,” he said, pointing to the half-filled glass in front of her. But she nodded to the glass on Horbury’s table.
“That one first.”
Preedy handed it to her and she drank it with a little nod and a small wistful smile towards the horror sprawled over the table. She drank it to the last drop, partly as a tribute to a good many pleasant hours spent with her ogre at White Barn, partly because she was as near exhaustion as a woman well could be. A little colour rose into her face as she handed back the empty glass to him. Preedy balanced it once more on the table, and then with a push toppled it off on to the ground, where the thin glass smashed into splinters.
“We were sitting here?” she asked. “Just the pair of us?”
“Yes. Then you left him and went up to bed.”
“And fell asleep?”
“Yes. You heard nothing until your servant screamed in the morning.”
“And I waked,” she said sardonically, and so paused and shivered, “to find the door unlocked?”
She thought upon the endless hours of darkness during which she must lie and listen, and perhaps hear that dead man struggling to rise from the table. Where she had shivered, she now shuddered so that her teeth rattled.
“‘What if the vigil — for that it must be — persuaded no one?” she asked.
Preedy set out his argument. Men like Horbury had always troubles which were secret. He had weathered storms, no doubt, but men lose heart at the last. “And so, sitting up here alone at night, and, if things were well with him, perhaps thinking that he was, after all, doing his best for you, he sought this way out. There is one more thing to be done, alas!”
On the floor, amidst the congealing blood, lay the long, thin-bladed knife with its gay blue handle. Preedy knelt, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and stooped.
“No!”
The cry broke from Olivia Horbury passionately. Her eyes were ablaze, her arm stretched out with, a pointing finger as steady as justice itself. Preedy sat back on his heels.
“His fingers held that knife!”
That one fact swept all the arguments for our decision out of her mind.
“Yes,” answered Preedy.
“His fingers were the last to hold it.”
“Yes.”
“The murderer’s.”
Proof was there lying in that red pool — proof which would hang.
“Yes.”
I expostulated. Who knew but that some unlucky chance might send us a visitor who would know us again — a stranger asking his way, a motorist who had run short of petrol, a neighbour with sickness in the house whose telephone was under repair. Preedy waited with his eyes on Olivia.
“There must be other ways by which guilt comes home,” she said. “Let me, please, do what must be done.”
She knelt in Preedy’s place. He handed her a clean handkerchief and, taking up the heavy knife by its blade delicately from the congealing blood in which it lay, she wiped the handle. Then, lifting it to Horbury’s out-thrown hand, she placed it in his palm and closed his fingers about it. She opened them again. It needed now some effort, but she made it and, still holding it by the blade under the handkerchief, she replaced it exactly where it had lain.
“That is all?”
“Yes. We can go.”
“Wait!”
She rose to her feet and with such a look of horror upon her face as neither of us had ever seen. She tore the curtain aside from the glass door and passed into the garden. Heaven knows what her thoughts were, but they did not hold her long. Long enough, however, to give me the chance of which I had begun to despair. A steel chain ran from Horbury’s waist into his trouser pocket and the pocket gaped. At the end of the chain a ring of keys hung by a spring hook. I had the time to release the ring from the spring hook, replace the chain and thrust the keys into my pocket, when the garden door was slammed fast and locked. Olivia came back into the room and drew the curtains again so carefully that not a fold was disarranged, not a thread of light shone out upon the lawn.
I took up the ebony board with the chart pinned upon it. Preedy was looking about the room, touching a chair here and there with his handkerchief.
“We ought to have left the prints of the woman who cleans the room,” he said, “but we couldn’t.” He turned to me. “You turned on the lights.”
“Yes.”
He dusted the switch with the white handkerchief and I noticed that a faint blue stain had been left upon the cambric by the handle of the knife.
“You will leave the lights on, of course,” he said to Olivia who was following us. In the hall she latched the door and locked it. Preedy stopped at once.
“I am afraid not,” he said gently. “In the morning the door must be found unlocked.”
Olivia bowed her head and unlocked it. Then she held open the front door of the house. A small breath of wind was rustling amongst the boughs of the trees.
“There was much that was sordid — worse, if you will — in my husband’s life,” said Olivia. “You were right. I would not wish his story to be known to the world, just so that a man called Devisher might be hanged. No!” and she added, after a pause, “there would have to be a much better reason than that.” Though her voice was low, her eyes were fierce, her face quite haggard and all its beauty gone. “Yes, a much stronger reason.”
And upon the two men who listened to her a sense of new danger rolled like a tide.
CHAPTER 33
GEORGE RETURNS
WE ROLLED PREEDY’S car out on to the road, although there was really no reason for such secrecy. Preedy was in an excellent mood, one moment whistling a tune, another assuring me in answer to some anxious question, that it was all S
ir Garnet. Certainly he was correct in one particular. The problem of Devisher was solved.
We found my car outside the gardens of Pevensey Crescent and Devisher inside it. He knew the truth and, at the same time, his own danger. He wanted no trouble any more. He had already endured his life-time’s share and, knowing as much as he did, he applied with some confidence for the opportunity of an easy life in some quiet corner of the world. This took place over a whisky-and-soda in my parlour.
“What about Cairo?” I asked a little too promptly to please Preedy.
“All that has got to stop,” he said. “I am going up to the Caledonian Market myself to see about it.”
“But there are cargoes arranged and some on the way.”
“They will be the last,” said Preedy, and he looked at Devisher. “Well, for the moment, Cairo. Then what about Ceylon, where every prospect pleases? They tell me that as you approach that island a delightful aroma of spices floats out to you across the sea.”
“Either place will be A.1. for me,” Devisher agreed with relief.
It was arranged there and then. I was not expected at the office the next morning. I was to start in my car with Devisher at half-past eight. There would be traffic already on the roads and I must never exceed the speed limit or in any way attract attention. I was to drive to Southampton through Camberley and Hartley Row. At Basingstoke and Winchester I was to buy some ready-made clothes, shirts, flannels, under clothes and shoes. Devisher would have his new passport. Since I was well-known to the dock officials, there would be no trouble at the gates. I was to make him out a ticket in the Southampton office of the Line and see him off with the ship. I had the resident staff part of the Line under my control and could arrange by a telegram for his arrival at Port Said to be expected. Then Preedy took him away for the night.
Preedy was equally confident that I should have no trouble with Olivia. She wouldn’t move, for her dead husband’s sake. But, although I had not argued, I had not agreed. The amitié amoureuse, which was all I was going to allow her with Daniel, would in time wear off. And then? I could not but remember the bitterness of her last words. They had frightened Preedy.
I had, however, already taken Horbury’s keys from his pocket and I meant to use them that night. I remembered that whenever Horbury had risen from his chair, he had kept a solid hand upon his blotting-book, and that when he had written in it the name of the ship Sheriff, he had lifted the stiff cover only just enough to use a corner of the blotting-paper. That precious letter to Septimus was between the covers of buhl and mother-of-pearl. Horbury had brought it to White Barn, had meant to hand it over, but I suppose lost his confidence in us at the last minute. I meant to get it before the police did. I don’t think that Preedy had noticed me lifting Horbury’s keys. He had been too busy polishing away fingerprints and I hadn’t consulted him. This, the last achievement of the night, I proposed to carry out alone.
Instead of backing the car into the little garage at the side of my house, I drove it away to Battersea. I would keep within the speed-limit all the way to Southampton, but there was no reason why I should follow that good advice to-night. Night, I say, but it was half-past two in the morning when I left the car under the trees at the side of the road. A risk? Yes, but I had to take it. The choice lay between driving into the courtyard and very likely arousing Olivia’s attention, or leaving the car beyond the reach of her ears The chances of a policeman discovering it were about fifty-fifty.
There was no one whom I could see or hear. The moon was still bright and the world asleep. I crept up to the house and let myself in with Horbury’s key, taking the bunch with me as soon as the hall door was open. I fixed up the latch so that I could get away quickly if it became necessary and I stood still for a few moments in the black hall, listening, until the silence itself began to roar in my ears I moved like a ghost to the garden-room door and noiselessly turn the handle with my fingers wrapped in my handkerchief The lights were burning. Horbury was sprawled across his table; but there was a change in the room since last I had seen it — a change which caught me by the heart and stopped the blood in my veins. The blotting-book was on its edges on the floor now instead of lying flat under the weight of Horbury’s body.
As soon as I recovered my breath, I crossed the room on tiptoe and stooped over it. It stood half-open, the back uppermost. There was no letter under it, none between the leaves. No danger from the woman upstairs! Oh, wasn’t there? She had come back to this room when she was alone. She had pushed the blotting-book from under Horbury’s body. I could hear the buttons of his waistcoat scratching across the metal cover. She had taken the letter to Septimus out of it and then she had toppled it on to the edge of the congealing blood on the floor. What a damnable woman! I was wondering what I should do when the telephone rang on the long table against the wall. It wasn’t possible! I stood up stiff as a tombstone. No, it wasn’t possible! Who should be ringing up White Barn at half-past in the morning? The Love-Nest? No! But there the bell was, one, two, pause, one, two, pause. It had got to be stopped. It wasn’t until I lifted the receiver from its cradle that I realised that I had acknowledged the call. Someone was in the house then, more, was in the room where a man had committed suicide three to four hours before and where he still lay sprawled across the table. I heard a voice calling Horbury. It seemed to come out of my hand. I looked down and saw that my hand was bare. I was not going to answer the call — not I! The noise of ringing had ceased — that was one good thing. I took my handkerchief from my breast-pocket with my left hand and carefully wiped the handle between the ear and the mouthpiece. Then I replaced it on its cradle. The sound: was not renewed at all events. The caller had ceased to call.
I rubbed the sweat off my forehead. I was streaming with it. I was thinking that, whatever happened, never in all my life could I be so startled again. And the next moment the thought was disproved. The last horror of that night capped all. Somewhere, above my head, a key was turned in a lock and someone fell. I didn’t stay after that. I tossed Horbury’s ring of keys on to the table by the instrument. Then I fled. Oh, yes, even in my panic, I pulled to the door of the garden-room and opened the front-door of the house with my handkerchief about my hand. I did it without reflecting, for I was incapable of reflection. I ran down the lane. It was still deserted. To put the proper finish on the night, I should have found that some thief had run away with my car. But, beyond expectation, it was there where I had left it. I drove back to London. My word, the lighted streets! I eased the car very gently into its garage and went to bed.
Mistakes, of course, were made. Preedy made one on this night. He cleaned the garden-room of fingerprints so thoroughly that the absence of them became suspicious. I don’t see how that could have been helped, however, and I don’t count that as his mistake. Where he really went wrong was in the matter of a bottle of Pommery ‘06. He opened it in the pantry without leaving marks on it, but, having filled two glasses, he stoppered the bottle again and put it back amongst the others. There is not very much to be said for Daniel Horbury, but he never opened a bottle of Pommery ‘06 without making sure that the very last drop was going to be squeezed out of it.
I, however, erred more completely. I should never have taken Horbury’s keys from his pocket and returned to White Barn. I should never have taken up the telephone receiver from its cradle. I should have slipped Daniel’s ring of keys once more upon his spring lock. But all these errors are nothing compared with the folly I was guilty of in letting myself go when old Sept broke down over the captivity of the young Dauphin! It is said that I sighed! I let out a great big ‘O’ of delight. For the first time I had found a weak spot in the chain-mail of the old boy’s authority. My hide-out became a prison. The Barnishes wouldn’t be sorry to have Captain Septimus under their charge for a little. Captain Septimus had sacked Fred Barnish at five minutes’ notice. A few weeks of Arkwright’s Farm for Septimus and I saw myself Chairman and Managing Director of the Dagger Line. And then all
’s spoilt because a copper walks into the farm because he suspects that Barnish is keeping a dog without having a dog licence! Well, I ask you!
However, even so, I might perhaps have got through but for the idiot Ricardo and the preposterous Nosey Parker from Paris.
* * * * *
Maltby was caught off his guard by the final sentence. He had meant to leave it out altogether, but discovered himself floundering amongst the opening words. He was then forced to read it without the omission of a word. Mr. Ricardo flushed with shame, but Hanaud jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.
“Without Mr. Ricardo,” he cried, “where should I be? Like the good George, I ask you. I should still be driving over the Bridge of Battersea amongst the seagulls. As for mistakes, it is possible that once or twice in my life I make one,” he said dreamily. “I do not know.”
CHAPTER 34
THE LAST
AT LUNCHEON THE conversation was desultory, but a few additions were made, chiefly by Maltby, to complete the pattern of the story. For instance, certain changes were taking place in the staff of a foreign Embassy and a barber’s shop on the edge of the Caledonian Market had been closed down. The presence of Mordaunt, as an officer in the Egyptian Coastguard Service, had caused one more upheaval to the unfortunate Bryan Devisher, He had been moved on, overnight, as it were, to Delagoa Bay, where a small trade had been carried on by the Dagger Line. He was now dismissed from that service altogether and was working as book-keeper in a Portuguese store. It would be for the Egyptian Government to ask for his extradition if it thought it worth while, but it probably would not.
“And now,” said Maltby, “there is one question which we all wish to ask, Monsieur Hanaud.”
Luncheon was over. Coffee smoked upon the table and a cigar, a pipe, a cigarette smoked in the air, dimming the bright aspect of the Thames.
Monsieur Hanaud beamed.
“Ask!” he answered with simplicity.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 177