by Peter Baron
He was beginning to understand why the Colonel had summoned his brothers, yet he was not so absorbed that he failed to hear a persistent tapping sound from the adjoining room. Rising, he walked into the bedroom. The tapping still persisted, and now it seemed to come from the further room, and with an exasperated grunt he entered the bathroom and looked round him. It took him exactly two minutes to locate the place from which the sound came, and climbing on to the table he unbolted the skylight. Pushing it upwards he looked into the smiling face of Superintendent Kaye.
“Oh, it’s you, is it,” he growled. “What’s the idea? Mending the slates or admiring the view?”
Superintendent Kaye dropped lightly to the floor and explained.
“I dressed as soon as I received your message and reached the Teyst girl’s flat as you were leaving. I followed you on here. Getting gay, aren’t you, gadding about in cars at night with sweet young things?”
His colleague scowled and tried to think out a rude retort.
“I thought you were going to make a night of it,” said Kaye. “I’ve been up on the roof ever since you and Brown tried to open that door downstairs. I saw you trying to reduce that elegant figure as I passed in the taxi.”
“Oh, it was you, was it?”
“Certainly. What happened to Teyst? I heard the shot.” Inspector Keating smiled profoundly. It was his moment of triumph.
“He was too slow with his gat. Come and see.”
If either Brown or the enthusiastic constable was surprised to see two men return where one had gone out, neither betrayed it. The younger man’s eyes opened a little wider, that was all. It was quite in keeping with the stories he had heard of Superintendent Kaye.
Kaye stared down at Dennis and lighted a cigarette. “You’ve made a nasty mess of that young man,” he commented. “He tried to get away across the roof, but I turned him back. Funny how I have to nurse you every time someone gives you a case to play with.”
To which Inspector Keating made no reply. With feelings too deep for words he watched the arrival of the ambulance men and supervised the removal of Dennis. Then he came back into the room slowly filling his pipe.
“Read that,” he said, proffering the Poacher’s message. “I took that from the pocket of our wounded friend.”
Kaye studied it for some moments.
“The question is whether he was going to put that in Ralph’s safe or whether it was already there,” he said slowly.
“I don’t mind crosswords, but I’m no good at riddles,” said Keating gloomily, and pulled out the Colonel’s letter. “That was also in Dennis’ pocket.”
Kaye read it and pocketed it.
“Now we know why George summoned his brothers. Well, it all dovetails. Good-night, Sam, I’m going home to think this out.”
Keating accompanied his friend to the door and then sat down in a comfortable chair. He looked at his watch, and then at the enthusiastic young constable. Winding the former, and dismissing the latter, he disposed himself to await the return of Larry Wade. Incidentally he fell asleep and a certain constable waiting in the mews at the back of the house wishing that he could do likewise continued to stand in a drafty cul-de-sac, and caught a severe cold.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Inspector Keating had his wait in vain and at about half past four in the morning he made his way home, a disgruntled man.
From the top floor of a flat on the opposite side of the road Larry Wade watched his retreat with satisfaction. For two hours he had watched the windows of his own flat across the way, and thereby, was doing something that he had taken the precaution of preventing other people from doing. The flat in which he now sat belonged to a friend and it insured Larry’s immunity from the eyes of anyone who otherwise might have leased the flat for the purpose of watching him.
Inspector Keating had been correct. Larry disliked having his movements watched. He was at great pains to avoid espionage, police or otherwise. His clothes, although of a fashionable cut were such as would leave no very definite impression on the eye of the beholder, and his manner retiring. There was nothing about him to court attention—the attention say of one of those men with big feet and an unmistakable walk.
Leaving his house he crossed the road and made his way up to his own flat. Switching on the light he looked around and then walked through into his bedroom.
He seated himself on the bed and removed his shoes. He was still amused as he took off his hat and tossed it aside. With good cause. On the top of his head reposed a string of pearls.
Removing them he examined them and reflected calmly on the uproar that he had left behind him at Raith House. Unless he was mistaken the Dowager Countess of Raith was still nagging her son. Larry had seen her open the engagement from his position on the pavement. He had also seen the arrival of the law and pitied it heartily. Then he had retired from the depths of the crowd that had collected, and gone his way three thousands pounds richer.
Reaching out a leisurely hand he felt for a cigarette and in doing so encountered something unfamiliar beneath the top layer of cigarettes. The something was an envelope and turning it over he read the words scrawled on the back.
“Keep this for me Larry until I go under. If I’m alive in a week I’ll claim it, D.”
So Dennis had been there. Larry scratched the tip of his nose. This put a slightly different construction on matters and did much to explain Keating’s appearance. It did more. It explained the sudden shot and the appearance of the police ambulance. He frowned moodily. He had little doubt whose figure it was that he had seen carried out. Certainly it explained much and it also relieved him.
Apparently it was not himself for whom Keating had been searching the flat. That his appearance at the Raith gathering had leaked out, he knew was unlikely, but there were various reasons why Keating might be interested in his movements. It was a relief to know that he himself was not the object of Keating’s raid. But the knowledge that Dennis had been hit in a shooting match was disturbing. For Dennis, Larry entertained a friendly feeling.
He pocketed the envelope and pearls, and lay back. Exposure was a constant danger in his trade and Dennis had apparently overstepped the mark somewhere. It was bad news but it did not prevent him relegating the episode to the back of his mind. At least he could rest safely tonight, or rather this morning. It was unlikely that Keating, after his three hour vigil, would return until he had had about eight hours rest, and with this comforting reflection he fell asleep.
But he was wrong. At half past eight in response to a loud knocking on his door he arose, cursing fluently, and opened it to confront Keating.
“Don’t you fellows ever sleep?” Larry enquired politely, standing aside.
“Not much,” growled Keating, whose short rest had not improved his temper, “but when we do we take our clothes off.”
He stared pointedly at the other’s crumpled evening suit.
“Don’t be indelicate,” Larry implored, and sauntering across the room, he opened the window and sniffed the morning air.
“Come to breakfast?” he asked. “I can offer you some excellent bread and cheese if you care to share my frugal repast.”
“Not so frugal either,” said Keating, looking round the room. “How many deals did you have to pull to furnish like this? Bread and cheese doesn’t go with this atmosphere, or pearls. I hear you dropped into Raith’s last night.”
“You didn’t, you imagined it,” Larry retorted sweetly. “I’ve got four separate and distinct alibis. Which will you have?”
He seated himself calmly on the window ledge and looked innocently at Keating.
“All I’m having is a search,” growled the gentleman beginning to explore. He found nothing. Which was only to be expected since the pearls for which he was looking were at the moment hanging outside from a nail in the wall beneath the sill on which Larry was sitting.
“Smart work. Where do you hide ‘em?” asked Keating at length, abandoning his search.
> Larry’s countenance remained blandly innocent. “Is that all you came for?” he inquired.
“It isn’t. Seen the papers yet?”
“I don’t read in my sleep.”
“No? Well Dennis Teyst was here last night. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. But you should. You were here too.”
“Was I?” asked Keating sourly. “Well that don’t matter. Come off your pedestal, lad. Did Dennis pass anything on to you?”
“I don’t get you.”
“No, but I’ll get you if you try stalling. Has Dennis told you anything about anything.”
“No, and if he had it’d be a safe wager to bet against your finding it out.”
Keating grunted. He knew enough about Larry to know that the statement was fairly accurate.
“That clinches it. He did. What was it?”
“Kind regards to yourself,” yawned Larry and wondered idly if some early riser would detect the necklace hanging beneath the window sill.
“Last night,” said the other deliberately, “Dennis put his brother Ralph out for the count—”
“God,” jerked Larry. “Murder?”
“That’s what it’s usually called. I followed Dennis here and there was a little unpleasantness. That boy’s not so fast with a gat as he thinks he is. He’s in hospital right now. I want to know why he came here.”
“I hope you find out.”
“I shall. I’m betting odds on that Dennis passed something on to you?”
“For answer see Old Moore’s Almanac,” grinned Larry. “You know you’ve known me five years Keating and you honestly expect me to answer a question like that. What do they pay you fellows for. Have some coffee?”
Keating regarded him coldly. “See here,” he said, “when the Colonel snuffed it he passed on instructions for finding those stones to his brothers. One of them’s dead and the other soon will be. Is the secret dying with them? Not damn likely. Come across, Larry.”
“When you get your weekly idea Keating, you wear it thin trying to make it last till the next one hatches. Try a new record.”
Inspector Keating saw nothing funny in the remark.
“If I suggested that you knew the Poacher,” he said unexpectedly, “how near would I be to the truth?”
Larry laughed openly. “When you were a kid, Keating, someone dropped your bonnet and your head was inside it.” And that was all Keating elicited. He was still swearing as he strolled along South Audley Street in the direction of the Raith home. Oddly enough the first person he encountered, almost outside the house, was Barbara.
“Not at me?” she smiled and he apologized.
“No, at the particular swine before whom some perfectly good pearls have been cast. Seen the papers yet?”
She shook her head and he silently cursed himself. Unwittingly he had reminded her that the papers might contain other news than that of the robbery at Raith House. Looking at her contritely he saw that she was dressed in a neat tailor-made costume of gray material, a compromise with the black of full mourning.
“You’re out early after a late night.”
“Yes, I didn’t sleep much,” she admitted. “Sleeping isn’t my strong point somehow. This is the place that was robbed, isn’t it? Molly mentioned it this morning.”
“Yes. I’m going in. I bet that old she cat is raising hell this morning. Sorry Barbara, I’m riled.”
“You know, most of my acquaintances call me Miss Teyst,” she said.
“I’m not an acquaintance, I’m a guardian angel.”
“Does that give you the privilege of calling your earthly charges by their Christian names?”
“Up till now,” he retorted, plunging off at a tangent, “I’ve called young Wade everything but his Christian name. Which reminds me. Would you like to see the inside of one of England’s ancestral homes?”
She nodded, and taking her arm he accompanied her up the steps leading to the porch of Raith House, and rang the bell.
To the butler who appeared, he tendered a request to see Lady Raith.
They were not left long to admire the huge rather overdecorated hall. From the far end swept the tall stately figure of England’s most indefatigable hostess, and scandalmonger.
Lady Raith’s chief claims to facial distinction were a nose and a chin that threatened to meet at any moment. Her only recreation was giving parties to discuss the shortcomings of those people not invited, and her only genuine emotion was a hatred of Mrs. Benton Hesse, whose company she loathed, but whose money she coveted.
“You are from Scotland Yard, I believe. You wished to see me?” she asked harshly.
With her assets depleted to the tune of three thousand pounds, or its equivalent, her aristocratic veneer was less in evidence than usual.
Keating bowed.
“Has anything fresh been discovered?”
“Unfortunately, no. This is Miss Brown of the ‘Morning Post.’ We called to try and clear up a small point.”
Barbara allowed the artistic lie to pass unchallenged and watched interestedly as Keating produced a photograph which until recently had adorned the wall of Larry Wade’s bedroom.
“Can you tell me if this resembles one of your servants or your guests?” he asked, and proffered it.
“Not at all,” said Lady Raith, after a brief scrutiny.
She held out the photograph and with a quick “May I?” Barbara took it and studied it.
“Was this man the thief?” rasped Lady Raith.
“I hope so,” Keating returned. “You’re sure you don’t recognize him?”
“Of course, but in common with other hostesses I may have entertained him unawares amongst my many guests. The practice is known as ‘gate-crashing’ I believe, and it is one of the curses of the age. I am certain I detected that perfectly odious Mrs. Benton Hesse last night with the Duke of Banff’s party, and she’s the last woman I should dream of inviting.”
Under the impression that Barbara was a reporter she enlarged on her theme so expansively that Keating cursed his own inspiration. He eventually escaped and came out on the pavement wiping his forehead.
“That,” he grunted, “is one of England’s stately hostesses. Stately is right. She’s about as graceful as a fawn—with rickets. And her hair has gone red with worry since I last saw it.”
“Her hair’s not dyed. It’s been murdered,” grinned Barbara.
It was then that he noticed that Barbara had still retained the photograph of Larry, and gently possessed himself of it.
“Don’t you start getting a G.P. for that bright lad,” he admonished. “He’s all bad and then some.”
Before she could answer he turned on his heel and suggested that they should stroll into Oxford Street and have some coffee.
She assented eagerly and he led her to a little underground ca& where he was apparently a well-known and welcome visitor.
“I ought to be making out my report,” he said as they sat there sipping their coffee, “and that reminds me, you’ll have to attend an inquest in a few days. I’ll see that it’s not too much of an ordeal, but naturally you’ll be needed as a relation and witness.”
She nodded ruefully. “My relations are a pretty lot,” she said thoughtfully.
“They are. I’m going to see one today.”
“Who?”
“Ian. And as I hate traveling in the Squad’s cars it’ll mean a train which is nearly as bad.”
“Squad?” she asked, and he told her something of the general uses of the Flying Squad.
“And it doesn’t make life any easier to bear,” he continued. “Sitting in one of those darn cars is purgatory. You can’t admire the scenery. You’re too busy reckoning up what the Insurance Company will pay your relatives after the funeral.”
“How would it be if I ran you down in my car?”
“A bad look out for my bereaved widow,” he grinned.
“As a humorist you’re unexcelled. Will you come down with me?”<
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“Are you fit to drive?” he asked.
“Of course. I drove right on top of that business last night.”
“Good, that’s settled.” He stared at her with a mixture of relief and admiration. She had taken her gruel well, and above all things Inspector Keating admired pluck.
“It’ll be interesting seeing Ian again,” she reflected. “I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I was about fourteen when I last visited Streatham.”
“And I hope you’ll be forty before you do it again. Streatham’s too near Brixton, and Brixton is no place for a lady. It’s full of burglars. Even the police ‘pinch’ people.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry. In any case we’re not going to Streatham, Ian’s at Reigate.”
“George’s place?” she asked curiously.
“Right in one. Ian has taken possession. Apparently the place was willed to him.”
“It’s a lovely house,” she murmured.
“So it ought to be. You can afford good things when someone else is putting up the money. All the Teysts had a leaning to nice things, and daughters.”
“I blush modestly. By the way what time are you calling for me?”
“About five.”
“Isn’t that a little late for a social call at Reigate?”
“This isn’t a social call, and it’s never too late to call on a crook. The later the better. Sorry. Did I call your relation a crook? Where are my manners, and where’s a taxi?”
He settled the bill and took his leave. That was the last she saw of him until the time of the rendezvous.
At ten past five he settled himself comfortably beside her and wrapped a rug round his knees.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Like it,” she spoke sideways.
For the first five miles he was remarkably communicative and for the next ten, unusually silent. One reason being that he had fallen asleep. He awoke outside Reigate and glanced at his watch.
“Five-fifty,” he yawned. “Pretty good. Killed anything on the way?”