The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith: A Golden Age Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  “No.”

  “What languages do you know?”

  “French—I’m not good at it.”

  “Well, that’s that. Now, Arnold tells me you heard them say you were to go to Luttrell Marches?” Renata looked terrified.

  “Yes, yes, I did.”

  “You’re not supposed to know? They haven’t told you officially?”

  “No—no, they haven’t told me anything.”

  “Your father goes away to-morrow. Have they told you that?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Renata, bursting into tears. “Oh, Jane, you don’t know what it’s like!—to be locked in here—to have them come and ask questions until I don’t know what I’m saying—and to know, to know all the time that if I make one slip I’m lost.”

  “Yes, yes, but it’s going to be all right,” said Jane.

  “I can’t sleep,” sobbed Renata, “and I can’t eat.” She held up her wrist and looked at it with interest. “I’ve got ever so much thinner.”

  Jane could have slapped her. She reflected with thankfulness that Bolivia was a good long way off.

  “Now, look here,” she said, “you talk about ‘they’—who are ‘they’?”

  “There’s a man in a fur coat,” faltered Renata—“that is to say, he generally has on a fur coat; he always seems to be cold. He’s the worst; I don’t know his name, but they call him Number Two. He’s English. Then there’s Number Four. He’s a foreigner of some sort, and he’s dreadful—dreadful. I think—I think”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“my father is Number Three.” Then almost inaudibly, “Number One is at Luttrell Marches. It’s Number One who will decide about me—about me. Oh, Jane, I’m so dreadfully frightened!”

  Renata’s eyes, wide and terrified, stared past Jane into vacancy.

  “You needn’t be in the least frightened; you’re going to Bolivia,” said Jane briskly.

  “I must tell some one,” said Renata, still in that whispering voice—still staring. “I didn’t tell them, I wouldn’t tell them, but I must tell some one. Jane, I must tell you what I heard.”

  Quick as lightning Jane put her hand over the other girl’s mouth.

  “Wait!” she said, and in the pause that followed two things stood out in her mind clear and sharp. If Renata told her secret, Jane’s danger would be doubled. If Renata did not tell it, the crime these men were planning might ripen undisturbed. Jane had a high courage, but she hesitated.

  Her hand dropped slowly to her side. She saw Renata’s mouth open protestingly, and there came on her a wild impulse to stave things off, to have time, just a little time before she let that secret in.

  “We’ve got to change clothes,” she said. “Quick, give me that skirt and take mine. Yes, put on the coat, and I’ll give you my shoes, too. My hat’s on the bed; you’d better put it on.”

  Renata obeyed. A resentful feeling of being hustled, ordered about, treated like a child, was upon her; but Jane moved and spoke so quickly, and seemed secure of herself, that there seemed no opening for protest. She thought Jane’s blue serge shabby and old fashioned—not nearly as nice as her own—and Jane’s shoes were terribly worn and needed mending.

  “Now, listen,” said Jane.

  “If Arnold likes to go to my rooms and pay up two weeks’ rent, he can get my box and all my other clothes for you. There’s not very much, but it’ll be better than nothing. I’ll write a line for him to take, and put the address on it. And will you please remember now and from henceforth that you are Jane Renata Smith, and not Renata Jane Molloy?”

  Jane was scribbling a couple of lines as she spoke, and as she turned and gave the paper into Renata’s hand, she knew that she must decide now. The moment of grace was up, and whether she bade Renata speak or be silent, there could be no drawing back.

  “What were you going to tell me?” she said.

  Renata stood silent for a long minute. She was twisting and turning the slip of paper which Jane had given her. She looked down at her twisting fingers; her breath began to come more quickly. Then with great suddenness she pushed the note into her pocket, and caught at Jane with both hands.

  “Yes, I must tell you—I must. It will be coming nearer all the time, and I must tell some one, or I shall go mad.”

  “Tell me, then,” said, Jane. “You were walking in your sleep, and you opened the door and heard—what did you hear?”

  Jane’s eyes were bright and steady, her face set. She had taken her decision, and her courage rose to meet an unknown shock.

  “I was walking in my sleep,” repeated Renata, in a low, faltering voice, “and I opened the door, and I heard—”

  “What did you hear?”

  “There was a screen in front of me, and just beyond the screen a man talking. I heard—oh, Jane, I heard every single word he said! I can’t forget one of them—if I could, if I only could!”

  “What did you hear?” said Jane firmly.

  Renata’s grip became desperate. She leant forward until her lips touched Jane’s ear. In a voice that was only a breath, she gave word for word, sentence by sentence, the speech in which Number Four had proclaimed the death sentence of the civilised world. It was just a bald transcript like the whisper of a phonograph record, as if the words and sentences had been stamped on an inanimate plate by some recording machinery, to be released again with utter regularity and correctness.

  Every vestige of colour left Jane’s face as she listened. Only her eyes remained bright and steady. Something seemed to knock at her heart. Renata’s last mechanical repetition died away, and with a sob of relief she flung her arms round Jane.

  “Oh, Jane, I do hope they won’t kill you! Oh, I do hope they won’t!”

  “So do I,” said Jane.

  She detached herself from Renata, and as she did so, both girls heard the same thing—from beyond the two closed doors the groan and grind of the lift machinery in motion.

  “They’ve come back,” said Renata, in a whisper of terror.

  Jane’s hand was on the electric-light switch before the words had left Renata’s lips.

  As darkness sprang upon the room she had the door open. Her grip was on Renata’s wrist, her arm about Renata’s waist, and they were in the hall. It seemed pitch black at first, with a gloom that pressed upon their eyes and confused the sense of direction.

  The lift rose with a steady rumble.

  Then, as Jane stared before her, the oblong of the window sprang into view. She took a step forward and felt Renata’s head against her shoulder.

  “I’m going to faint,” came in a gasp.

  “Then you’ll never see Arnold again. Do you want to be caught like this?”

  “Jane, I can’t.”

  Jane dragged her on.

  “Renata, you rabbit!—if they don’t kill you, I will. Faint in Bolivia as much as you like, but I forbid you to do it here.”

  “Oh, Jane!”

  Jane’s arm felt the weight of a limp, sagging figure, but they had reached the window. From the sill Arnold bent, listening anxiously.

  “Quick!” gasped Jane.

  And, as his arm relieved the strain, she pinched Renata with all her might. There was a sob—a gasp— Arnold lifted, Jane pushed, and somehow the thing was done. Arnold and Renata were outside, crouched down between the parapet and the window, whilst Jane leaned panting against the jamb.

  As the lift stopped with a jerk, her rigid fingers drew the window down and fastened it. Now, horribly loud, the clang of the iron gate. Steps outside—voices—the grate of a key in the lock.

  Jane knew now what Renata had felt. Easy, so easy to yield to this paralysis of terror, and to stand rooted there until they came! With all her might she pushed the temptation from her and roused to action.

  Thank Heaven, she had had no time to put on Renata’s shoes!

  After the first movement strength and swiftness came to her. She was across the hall without a sound. The bedroom door closed upon her. As it did so, the door of the fla
t swung wide.

  Chapter Five

  Jane stood in the dark, her hand upon the door knob. Slowly, very slowly, she released it. As she leaned there, her head almost touching the panelling, she could hear two men talking in the hall beyond. They spoke in English, but only the outer sound of the words came to her.

  With an immense effort she straightened herself, and was about to move away when a thought struck her like a knife-blow—the key—the second tell-tale key—if she had forgotten it!

  Her hand slid back, touched the cold key, turned and withdrew it, moving with a steady firmness that surprised herself.

  Then she made a half-turn and tried to visualise the room as she had seen it in the light.

  Immediately opposite, the cupboard with the looking- glass panel. The window in the right-hand wall, and the bed between window and cupboard. At the foot of the bed a chair, and on the same side as the window a chest of drawers with a looking-glass upon it and Renata’s plain schoolgirlish brush and comb.

  When she had placed everything, Jane began to move forward in the direction of the window. Her left hand touched the rail of the bed-foot, her right, groping, brushed the counterpane and rested on something oddly familiar. Her heart gave a sudden jerk, for this was her own bag, which Renata should have taken. She opened it with quick, trembling fingers, took out her handkerchief, and then stuffed the bag right down inside the bed.

  A couple of steps brought her to the window, and she pressed closely to it, listening, and wished she dared to open it. There was no sound from outside. She leaned her forehead against the glass, and wondered how many years had passed since the morning. It seemed impossible for this day to come to an end.

  Then quite suddenly a key turned in the lock, and the door opened, not widely, but as one opens the door of a room where some one is asleep. A man’s head was silhouetted against the hall light. Fart of his shoulder showed in a dark overcoat.

  He spoke, and a hint of brogue beneath a good deal of American twang informed Jane that this was her official father.

  “Are you awake, Renata?”—and, as he asked the question, a second man came up behind him and stood there listening.

  “Yes,” said Jane, muffling her voice with her handkerchief.

  He hesitated a moment, and then said:

  “Well, good-night to you”—and the other man, speaking over his shoulder, said in an easy, cultivated voice without any accent at all:

  “Pleasant dreams, Miss Renata.”

  Jane’s “Good-night” was just audible and no more, but obviously it satisfied the two men, for the door was shut, the key turned and withdrawn, and presently the hall light went out, and the darkness was absolute and unrelieved, except where the midnight sky showed just less black than the interior of the room.

  After what seemed a long, long time, Jane undressed and got to bed. It was strange to grope for and find Renata’s neatly folded nightdress.

  Presently she lay down, and presently she slept. Time ceased; the day was over.

  She woke suddenly a few hours later. It was still dark. She came broad awake at once, and sat up in bed as if some one had called to her. Her mind was full of one horrifying thought.

  The plank—what had Arnold done with the plank?

  Impossible that he should have helped Renata down the fire-escape and carried the plank as well, and somehow Jane did not see Arnold troubling to come back for it.

  One thing was certain; if Arnold had left the plank in its compromising position, it must be removed before daylight.

  Jane got out of bed, shivering. She went to the window, opened it, and leaned out. The yard, mews, wall, and parapet—all were veiled in the same thick dusk. She strained her eyes, but it was impossible to distinguish anything. There was nothing for it but to cross that horrid little hall again, open the window, and make sure.

  With the key in her hand, and mingled rage and terror in her heart, she felt her way to the door, opened it noiselessly, and crossed barefoot to the window. The hasp was stiff, it creaked, and the window stuck.

  Recklessness took possession of Jane. With a jerk she pushed it up; as it chanced, recklessness made less noise than caution would have done. She leaned right out, and there, sure enough, was the plank.

  Even Jane’s anger could provide her with nothing more cutting than, “How exactly like Arnold Todhunter.”

  She stood quite still and considered.

  A bold course was the only one. Remembering the plank’s previous fall and the perfect calm with which the neighbourhood had received it, she decided to take the same chance again—only, she must be quick and have it all planned in her head: first a shove to the plank, then down with the window and latch it, five steps—no, six—across the hall, and then her own door, and on no account must she forget the key.

  She drew a long breath, leaned out, and pushed. The board was heavier than she had supposed—harder to move. She had to pull it in, until the sudden weight and strain told her that it was clear of the coping upon which the farther end had rested. Then she pushed with all her might, and as it fell, her hands were on the window quick and steady. Next moment she was crouching in Renata’s bed, the clothes clutched about her, the door key cold in her palm. She pushed it far down beneath the clothes, and sat breathless—listening.

  The crash with which the plank had landed seemed to have deafened her, but as the vibrations died away, she heard, sharp and unmistakable, the click of a latch and hurrying footsteps.

  The next moment her door was opened and her light switched on. Quick as thought her hand was over her eyes and the sheet up to her chin.

  Molloy stood in the doorway, and beyond him the other.

  “What’s doing? Did you hear it?” he stammered, and then the other man pushed him aside.

  “I’d like a look from your window if you’ll excuse me, Miss Renata,” he said, and crossed the room.

  As he leaned out, Jane watched him from beneath her hand, and recalled Renata’s words, “He generally wears a fur coat; they call him Number Two.” This man wore a fur coat over pale blue silk pyjamas. When he turned, saying, “I can’t see a thing,” she was ready with her stammered, “What was it?”

  “You heard it, then?” said Molloy.

  “Such a fearful crash! It—it frightened me most dreadfully,”—and here Jane spoke the literal truth.

  “I don’t know.” It was Molloy who answered again, but the other man’s eyes travelled round the room, and a feeling of terror came over Jane.

  If she had forgotten anything, if there were one shred of incriminating evidence, those eyes would miss nothing! She felt as if they must pierce the bed-clothes and see her bag and the hidden key, but he merely nodded to Molloy, and they left the room, switching out the light and locking the door.

  Jane drew a long breath of relief, turned upon her side, and in five minutes was asleep again.

  The day came in with a thick mist. Jane opened her eyes upon it sleepily.

  She began to think what a strange dream she had had, and then, as sleep ebbed from her; she remembered that it was not a dream at all. She was Renata Molloy under lock and key, and in front of her stretched a day that might be even more crowded with adventure than yesterday.

  She jumped out of bed, and as she dressed her eyes brightened and her courage rose. With Renata’s scissors she unpicked the initials which marked her underclothes. This was a game at which one must not make a single slip. Her bag worried her a little, but it was just such a plain leather bag as any one might possess. She ransacked it carefully, and frowned over an envelope addressed to Miss Jane Smith. What in the world was she to do with it?

  There were no matches, so it could not be burned. After some thought she soaked it in water, scratched the name to shreds with a hairpin, and crumpling the wet paper into a ball, tossed it out of the window.

  By the time her door was unlocked, she was very hungry. This time, it appeared, she was being summoned to bid the departing Mr. Molloy a fond farewe
ll.

  His luggage was already being carried out to the lift, and two or three men were coming and going. The man in the fur coat stood with his back to the window, smoking a cigarette. Obviously Molloy’s farewell was not to be said in private.

  Jane looked at him with some curiosity—a tall man, strongly built, with a bold air and a florid complexion.

  It was he who had opened the door, and he stood still holding the handle and looking, not at Jane, but over her shoulder. For this she felt grateful.

  “Well, well then, I'm off,” said Molloy. “You’ll be a good girl and do as you’re bid, and I’ll be having you out to keep house for me in less than no time.”

  From what she had seen of Renata, Jane fancied that a sob would meet the occasion. She therefore sobbed, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

  “There, there,” said Molloy hastily.

  He bent and deposited an awkward kiss upon the top of her head. Then he took his hand from the door and was gone.

  The lift gate clanged, and Jane realised that the real adventure had begun.

  The man by the window threw the end of his cigarette into the fireplace and came towards her.

  “Parental devotion is a beautiful thing, isn’t it, Miss Renata? Suppose we have some breakfast.”

  A meal, a proper meal, enough to eat! As she passed into the dining-room and beheld a ham, coffee, and boiled eggs, Jane felt as if she could confront any one or anything. Besides, the first trick was hers.

  In the full light of day, and under those cold, pale eyes, she had passed as Renata.

  She allowed herself to sigh and dab her eyes, and then—oh, how good was the rather stale bread, the London egg, and the indifferent ham.

  The man watched her quizzically.

  As she finished her second cup of coffee, he remarked that she had a good appetite, and there was something in his tone that cast a chill upon the proceedings.

  Jane pushed back her chair.

  “I’ve finished,” she said.

  “Well, then,” said the man, “I think we must talk. Yes, sit down again, please. I won’t keep you very long.”

  Jane did as she was told.