by David Garth
Luce looked at him intently. He made as if to speak and then as someone was heard descending the stairs he merely smiled and rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder in a graceful, companionable gesture.
The doctor appeared in the room carrying his bag.
“She is sleeping normally,” he reported. “That tough young constitution of hers put up a stiff fight for her.”
“But what was it?” demanded Richard Britton.
The genial old doctor shook his bald head, standing there and filling his pipe.
“Darned if I know yet. I’ll have to talk to Berkeley. It was plenty powerful, whatever it was.”
He stuck his pipe between his teeth and lighted it. “As it is, her mother needs care more than she does. I’ve sent her to bed. This has been a deep shock to her.”
He nodded at Luce through a wreath of blue smoke.
“I imagine you want to see Berkeley—”
“Yes,” said Luce measuredly, “I do. As soon as possible.”
“Well, tomorrow. She shouldn’t be disturbed tonight.”
“We’ll put you in an adjoining room, Robert,” said Mr. Britton. “I think that would be best, don’t you?”
Luce looked at him. “I think,” he said promptly, “that is an excellent idea. I wouldn’t hear of anything else.”
The doctor picked up his bag.
“I wish I could tell you more about the exact cause,” he repeated. “But, honestly, the way it appears to me she nearly had an overdose of a sleeping draught.”
CHAPTER 10
Berkeley awoke to a feeling of strangeness. For a moment she was conscious only of things like the diamond-shaded reflection of sunlight on the ceiling and the persistent disjointed song of birds outside the windows. Then abruptly she realized the fact that she was in her own home and with that realization came reality and recollection.
She remembered that the car had been turning off the parkway. She could go back that far. But from then on everything was a total blank.
As she was frowning over the attempt to remember there was a soft knock at the door and her father appeared.
“What hit me?” she inquired wryly. “A freight train?
He surveyed her intently. She looked pale and tired.
“You were drugged, my dear,” he told her.
“Drugged! I never took any kind of a drug in my life.”
“Take it easy, Berkeley,” he advised gently. “We’ll talk about it later. Feel like some breakfast? I’ll have it sent up and then look around for Robert.”
“Robert?” said the girl. Robert? Luce! She looked up at her father quickly, immediately and thoroughly awake. “Where is he?”
“He arose early and went out for a walk a short while ago, so Cardon told me. I imagine he looked in on you and saw that you were still asleep.” He squeezed her hand. “Quite a scare you gave us. But it’s all right now.”
He left to order breakfast sent up to her. But his advice to take it easy was ignored. She arose and dressed in slacks and slipover sweater, feeling a sense of weakness and lack of energy, and went out on the sun deck to have her coffee. Mr. Britton found her there when he returned to report that Robert Luce was nowhere to be found.
“He may have taken the station wagon and gone down to the village for something,” he said. Then as he heard the sound of a car in the drive he paused. “There he is now probably. Berkeley, we have a lot to discuss. But I want to get this drugging affair settled first. Doctor Sloane thinks it was some powerful concentrate.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Berkeley. “It must have happened on the plane, but exactly when or how, I don’t have any idea. Or,” she added, “by whom, for that matter.” She set her coffee cup aside and lounged down on a bamboo chaise, clasping her hands behind her head.
“But I don’t know of anything that could make me more furious,” she went on evenly, “than the thought of being drugged.”
Her father lighted a cigarette and looked somberly out over the sun terrace at the rolling verdant hills.
“A thing like that is in the same class as a stab in the dark,” he agreed. “This is certainly the most astounding homecoming of yours—” He broke off as his houseman entered.
“A gentleman asking to see Miss Berkeley, sir,” he said. “He says he is from the Department of Justice.”
Berkeley straightened up quickly. Department of Justice! “Justice man?” repeated her father. “I wonder what he could want.”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “But I could use a little justice. Let’s go down and see him.”
They found the department agent waiting in the library off the entrance hall. He was a brisk, youngish man in sober dark serge. As Berkeley entered he gave her a brief, direct scrutiny. “Miss Britton?” he said immediately, and jerked his hand out of his pocket, holding it palm upward. A badge gleamed. “I’m Winters of the Department of Justice,” he said, shoving his badge back. “I won’t take much of your time. Just a few questions.”
“Of course,” said Berkeley, and introduced him to her father.
“I’ve heard of Mr. Britton,” said Winters promptly.
They seated themselves, Winters in a chair facing Berkeley and her father. He began by asking if she had not just arrived from Europe by clipper plane.
“You were in Spain, place called Valleron?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Berkeley attentively.
“I’ll give you the story, Miss Britton. A man named Tresh died in Valleron. The American consular officials over there cabled that there were suspicious circumstances found in connection with his death and have asked us to investigate certain angles. Now, please understand,” he hastened on, “I’m not investigating you. We just have a list of the people at the Valleron hotel when he died and we’re checking back to see if we can get a little information.”
Berkeley’s attention deepened. So there was some doubt as to whether Tresh had died accidentally!
“Go on, Mr. Winters,” she said.
“This man, Tresh,” said Winters. “Was he known to be sick?”
She nodded. “He was at Valleron for the mineral water.”
“Did you ever see him, Miss Britton?”
“Once,” said Berkeley.
“Did you ever actually talk with him?” As she nodded again, he looked at her in some surprise. “Did he give you any impression of being afraid for his life? What did the conversation consist of, Miss Britton?”
Berkeley hesitated. Then she looked at her father. “Dad…” she said tentatively.
Richard Britton understood. “Tresh cabled me he had vital information,” he told Winters. “I asked my daughter if he would stop at Valleron en route to Lisbon.” His eyes turned back to Berkeley. “He did give you some information, Berkeley? Was it of a nature to interest the Justice Department?”
“I think so,” said the girl.
“Then tell us both at the same time.”
She paused, making sure that she remembered every last thing that the thickset, white-haired John Tresh had told her.
“He said that a man named Buckthorne was running for high public office in his state and that he was hand and foot with the Nazis. He said that he had raised Buckthorne from a small law office and taught him everything he knew. Tresh did not know how the Nazis got to him, but he said that he had to be licked.”
She stopped. Winters looked at her questioningly.
“Buckthorne?” he said uncertainly.
“Wheelhorse of a notorious state machine,” said Mr. Britton briefly. “He’s up for the governorship of his state. Is that all he had to say, Berkeley?”
“He did not offer any proof,” said the girl. “He simply said he was trying to figure if it tied up,” she took a breath and hoped they would not think she was crazy, “with something called the Ivory Tiger.”
Neither Winters nor her father said anything. They regarded her attentively, but expectantly—as though she had stopped in the midd
le of a sentence.
“With what?” said Mr. Britton, frowning.
“I know,” said Berkeley. “It sounded crazy to me, too. But he said he had bought information from some leak in an inner circle that the Nazis have a lot of faith in the Ivory Tiger and they are sending it to America. He especially asked me to tell you, Dad, that it scared him to think what it might be and to believe what he said whether he had proof or not. If you believed it, he said, perhaps the Department of Justice would believe it, too.”
That was all Tresh had said and she had relayed it as faithfully as possible. Now somebody else could see how queer anything like an Ivory Tiger sounded.
“He said nothing more, Miss Britton?” asked Winters.
“That was all.”
“I suppose you will investigate, no matter what the source,” said Richard Britton quietly.
“Oh, yes. We chase down everything. I’ll get in my report to Washington right away.” He nodded to Berkeley. “You need not trouble yourself further in the matter. We’ll take care of it from here, thank you, Miss Britton.”
“It’s a relief to…” Berkeley began, and then stopped, startled. She looked straight past Winters, and her father, following her eyes, saw Robert Luce standing in the doorway.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said. “I was looking for Berkeley.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Britton, rising. “Come in, Robert.”
Luce advanced into the library. There was something easy and effortless about the way he moved. “I’m delighted to see that you’re quite recovered,” he said straightway, his dark eyes resting on Berkeley.
“Thank you, Robert,” she returned. “I feel absolutely tiptop again.”
It was all most courteous and Richard Britton looked somewhat perplexed at the note of formality as he presented Luce to Winters.
“Of the Department of Justice,” he added.
Berkeley saw Luce’s glance transfer itself to the department operative instantly.
“Department of Justice!” he repeated.
That had surprised him, she could tell. And, in fact, as he sat down with them there was an impression of intentness about him.
“Mr. Luce was in Valleron at the same time as my daughter,” said Mr. Britton.
“Luce?” said Winters. He reached into an inside pocket and brought out a thin folded typewritten list.
“That’s right,” he corroborated, scanning it briefly. “Mr. Luce’s name is here.” He put the paper away. “Would you mind answering a few questions, Mr. Luce?”
“In what connection?” asked Luce.
“With a man named Tresh at the hotel in Valleron.”
Luce looked at him a moment before answering.
“Tresh?” he said. “What about him?”
“You know that Tresh died at the hotel in Valleron?”
“Yes, I heard about that.”
“Did you hear what caused his death?”
“No,” said Luce.
“Did you ever see this man or talk to him?”
Luce shook his head briefly.
“There is nothing you can tell us about this man, Tresh?”
“Sorry,” said Luce. “Tresh was nothing but a name to me.” Berkeley had been listening spellbound. Routine questions and answers, but she could not forget that just a few hours after this tall hard man had arrived in Valleron, Tresh had been dead.
“The Cordicio Bureau has all information on foreigners who die in Spain,” Luce said abruptly. “The Department of Justice must know that.”
“We do know that, said Winters. “But we have our own reasons for looking into all possible sources.”
Luce’s eyes seemed to flicker slightly, but, otherwise, he made no move, sitting there in a comfortable, relaxed way. Winters considered him a moment, then nodded. “I think that is all, Mr. Luce. Thank you.” He arose.
Mr. Britton accompanied him outside to his car. As soon as they left the library, Luce turned to regard Berkeley.
“I’ve been waiting to see you,” he said directly. “I’d like to see you where I don’t have to act like a fond husband.”
She led the way out through the terrace door to a small garden, protected by a luxuriant lilac hedge from the drive.
It was pleasant and private here and there was also a warming note of familiar things. This little garden was her mother’s outdoor living room. The little round table with the big blue beach umbrella where she loved to pore over garden books and write her letters, the gay colorful beds of chrysanthemums, and the two gnarled old apple trees, formed a scene of which Berkeley had thought often during her months abroad.
Yes, it was all familiar, well-loved ground, the good life that she had been advised to pull around her. And yet, right then, she could see vividly that plaza of Valleron, hear the splashing fountain, see a lean, loose-knit figure swinging along in the brilliant moonlight.
“You can be yourself here,” she said. “And I’m sorry that you ever had the embarrassing experience of being anything else.”
“I’m leaving right away,” said Luce. “You jammed this situation at me and I saw you through it. But now I have work to do that won’t wait. Might I ask why you pulled me into this?”
It was a hard thing to explain. One person might add a column of figures painstakingly item by item and double-check the answer. Another might give it a rapid-fire glance and arrive at the answer through a combination of lightning calculation and intuition. She had done that and she knew it, felt intuitively that it was vital to hold on to this man, although she did not have anything definite on him.
But even though she had intuitively felt the capacity for danger that existed about this rangy, black-eyed man, one definite fact remained—she was under a great obligation to him and he had acted in no other way than that of a gentleman, as far as she was concerned. If only she had not been so completely knocked out last night she might have been able to glimpse the clue she needed, some signpost for her next move—but, as it was, she was left only in the category of people who went back on their word.
“I suppose,” she answered, “it was because I wished my family to meet you. Explaining things about nebulous characters is so much harder than if there is a definite idea.”
“That is quite true,” assented Robert Luce. “However, it was not part of our bargain. Don’t try to prolong something that was dead as a doornail the moment your train crossed the Portuguese frontier.”
“I regret the position that you were placed in last night, but I could not foresee that I would be helplessly—drugged.”
The last word had the impact of a sudden jab snapped out from the shoulder. Luce looked at her carefully. She had spoken in her regular clipped low voice, but her eyes had darkened with a rush of anger. As she stood there in slacks and slipover sweater and with her lively chestnut hair banded by a ribbon of the same depthless blue as her eyes, she looked supple and cool and strong.
“In passing,” said Luce, “have you any idea why that should have happened to you?”
“I haven’t been able to put much thought on it yet.”
“Your father should be able to help you find an answer,” said Luce. He glanced at his wrist watch. “I arranged in the village for a taxi,” he said. “So that’s all right. I’ll see to my bags, and this time,” he added, with his keen dark eyes rising to hers, “don’t complicate things.”
“Where do you want the notification sent?” she asked flatly. “General Delivery, Annapolis, Maryland,” he told her. “For the third and last time, good-by, Berkeley. Good luck.”
Without further word he strode off to the house. Berkeley looked after him with a feeling of regret. Even as when he h id strode toward the door to the airport rotunda, she felt again, that it was vital not to lose sight of him. But she had an idea nothing would stop Luce again.
She retraced her steps slowly to the house. In the entrance hall she found her father looking somewhat nonplussed.
“Robert just called
Cardon for his bags,” he said. “And there is a taxi outside. What goes forward around here?”
“Speed the parting guest, Dad,” she advised. “And let me tell you later.”
“Speed him!” He stared at her. “What are you talking about?” He swung around as Cardon came down the stairs with the bags and, shortly after him, Luce.
He descended the stairs deliberately and paused at the foot with one hand resting on the newel post.
“What is this all about?” Richard Britton demanded.
“I’m sorry I must leave, sir,” said Luce shortly. “I have work to do. There is so little time—”
“He has a right to go, Dad,” said the girl.
“I want to know what you mean by leaving like this, Luce.”
“All explanations come from your daughter,” said Luce. “That’s the way it has to be.”
Her father was rapidly becoming as angry as she had ever seen him. “Luce,” he said in a taut low voice, “do you mean that you can simply call for your bags and walk out on the girl who married you? You can leave like this, even when it must be evident to you that Berkeley may be in danger?”
“Dad!” implored the girl.
The distinguished lawyer had sounded as incredulous as though his every decent instinct had been outraged. Luce’s lean rugged face was inscrutable.
“Mr. Britton,” he said quietly, “I am sorry that you think of me the way you do. But I have important work and it will not wait for anything.” He looked past the older man’s shoulder. “There is so little time,” he repeated, softly, as though to himself.
He swept up his hat and topcoat from a chair and strode straight for the front door. There was a car waiting in the drive and Cardon was holding open a door. The ringing sound of his fierce, long stride died away.
Richard Britton felt his arm gripped by the girl’s strong, slender fingers.
“I tell you he has a right to go,” she insisted.