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Title: Seven Sins
Author: Rohmer, Sax [Ward, Arthur Henry Sarsfield] (1883-1959)
Date of first publication: 1943
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Robert M. McBride, December 1943
   [third printing]
Date first posted: 26 January 2013
Date last updated: 26 January 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1038

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                              Seven Sins

                             by SAX ROHMER


    _New York_
    _ROBERT M. McBRIDE & CO._
    _1943_

    SEVEN SINS

    _Copyright, 1943, by
    Robert M. McBride & Co._

    _Third Printing, December, 1943._

    SAX ROHMER'S NOVELS ARE PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY
    IN LONDON AND NEW YORK. THEY HAVE BEEN TRANSLATED
    INTO GREEK, FRENCH, GERMAN (SUPPRESSED BY THE GESTAPO
    IN 1936), ITALIAN, SPANISH, DUTCH, SWEDISH, HUNGARIAN,
    POLISH, DANISH, PORTUGUESE, CZECH, JAPANESE,
    ARABIC, AND PRINTED IN BRAILLE.

    PRINTED IN U. S. A.
    AMERICAN BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC.




Contents


     1. Black-Out in Babylon                               3

     2. House with the Scarlet Door                       10

     3. Shrine of Isis                                    27

     4. Someone Comes In                                  35

     5. Someone Else Comes In                             46

     6. Misty Morning                                     51

     7. The Limping Man                                   60

     8. Concerning Taxi Drivers                           66

     9. Simone's                                          74

    10. Reports and Theories                              86

    11. Destre of the Lilies                             92

    12. M. Gaston Max                                    105

    13. Treasure Island                                  120

    14. Pythagoric Buds                                  128

    15. Messieurs, Faites Vos Jeux!                      134

    16. The Ivory Ball                                   143

    17. Covering Mr. Bernstein                           162

    18. "Who Is This Limping Man?"                       173

    19. Counsel's Opinion                                182

    20. Murder Confessed                                 194

    21. The Quest of Lord Marcus                         210

    22. Ivory and Powdered Satin                         217

    23. Dossier Destre                                  229

    24. The Wheel Rolls On                               239

    25. Kyphi                                            250

    26. Michael Corcoran Calls                           255

    27. Gaston Max Wears Pearl Gray                      260

    28. "Up in the Morning Early"                        268

    29. Wake Takes a Taxi                                276

    30. Malta Convoy                                     290

    31. In Berkeley Square                               297

    32. The Man and the Mummy                            301

    33. Destre Closes Her Eyes                          307

    34. At Scotland Yard                                 316

    35. The Voice in the Shrine                          319




SEVEN SINS




1

Black-Out in Babylon


In a somewhat oddly appointed room a man was listening to the nine
o'clock news bulletin.

The apartment, in addition to a super radio set, also boasted a large
dressing-table with wing mirrors and two tall wardrobe cabinets of the
kind seen in a modiste's establishment. There were several trunks and
other items of baggage, a camp bed and three ornate gilt chairs; there
was a dictaphone and there was no carpet on the floor. Walls from which
musty gray paper hung like elephants' ears; nails of unknown purpose
protruding from unpainted woodwork; a nearly black ceiling: these things
did not make harmony with the costly appointments. This room did not add
up.

The man seated on one of the three chairs wore a shabby blue suit with a
muffler in lieu of a collar. His hands were dirty and he displayed a two
days' beard on his chin. His nose was expensively colored. A small cap,
having a greasy peak, rested on the back of his head, to expose a mop of
uncombed reddish brown hair resembling a dying dahlia.

His behavior was not without interest. He was attaching a fitting to
connect the radio with the dictaphone. When the bulletin came to its
rather anaesthetic end, the man pressed a control and the cylinder began
to revolve.

"To-night's postscript," said the announcer, "will be by Sir Giles
Loeder--and here he is."

Sir Giles Loeder was one of the most popular political broadcasters in
England: he had the art of driving home his points to a mixed audience.
Formerly member for North Tiverton (Independent), he had resigned his
seat soon after the outbreak of war in order to be able to devote more
time to what he then described as "direct aid." In fact, he was chairman
of so many committees, contributor to such a number of influential
journals, and so tireless a radio speaker that his departure from the
House of Commons seemed to be wholly justified.

Certainly, the man with the greasy cap gave undivided attention to Sir
Giles' remarks, sometimes stopping the record during a sentence or two
and then starting it again as if anxious to capture the next phrase. At
the conclusion of the postscript, he disconnected his apparatus, put the
cylinder in a box and the box in a drawer, and switched the light off.

An uncarpeted stair, which he negotiated with the aid of a torch,
enabled him to reach the ground floor and to step into a mews where a
deserted taxicab was standing. Climbing to the driver's seat, he pulled
out into Windmill Street.

One curious enough, and able, to have followed him, would have learned
that he drove at speed, ignoring would-be fares, through the black-out
mysteries of Soho and straight up deserted Regent Street. Half way
along in spite of his tactics, a pair of unusually determined wanderers
appeared from nowhere and ran out to head him off. They were Australian
gunners.

"Say, chum, what's the hurry? We need you."

"Can't be done, mates. See--me flag's dahn. I'm bespoke by a gent at the
B.B.C."

Whether this reference to the British Broadcasting Corporation, or the
man's glittering Cockney, impressed the Diggers may never be known; but
they allowed him to proceed unmolested.

The prevalent scarcity of taxis did not facilitate his plans, however.
Just outside a Tube station he was delayed by traffic lights, and before
he could utter a word of protest, a girl who wore a chiffon cape over a
brief dance frock opened the offside door and got in.

"'Alf a mo!" said the man. "'Alf a bloomin' mo!"

He directed the ray of a lamp into the interior; and he saw there a
remarkably pretty brunette whose smiling glance caressed him. Her beauty
was confident in its young inexperience, and the velvet brown eyes
glowed with conquest: she would have attracted a cultured
woman-hunter--or a novice.

"Please don't say you're engaged. I simply _must_ get to the B.B.C."

"Oh! the B.B.C? That's different--" and an appreciative grin spread over
the driver's unshaven face, a grin which revealed flashing white teeth.
"I'm goin' there."

He drove on, and at the entrance to Broadcasting House the pretty
brunette jumped out and fumbled in her bag.

"No charge, lady. Me flag's dahn. Also--it's a pleasure. A smile like
yours is worth more than a bob."

And this highly unusual taximan moved away and took his stand in
darkness outside the Temple of British radio, a darkness fitfully, and
startlingly, dispersed whenever high, fleeting clouds unveiled the
harvest moon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rather less than four hours later, an interesting conversation took
place between two men in an office which, when not blacked-out,
overlooked the Thames Embankment.

"Ye will have obsairved foreby," said the taller man, and his accent was
impressive, "unless ye bought the evening paper as a pipe lighter, that
there's a marked decrease o' crime in the West End of London."

He turned hazel eyes, which had an almost leonine quality, in the
direction of a smaller man who leaned against a mantelpiece staring
vacantly down into an empty grate.

The speaker, large framed, gaunt, his graying hair cropped at the sides
of a square, mathematical forehead, and wearing a moustache so closely
trimmed as to produce the effect of an unshaven upper lip, might have
suggested to some the figure of a Covenanter born out of his generation.

The bare room in which he sat behind a bare desk (it contained a pewter
inkpot and pens, a blotting pad, a calendar, a writing block, a wire
basket and a telephone) was furnished with such severe simplicity that,
excepting the desk and a framed print of Lord Trenchard over the
mantelpiece, four chairs and a hatrack would have completed the
inventory. This was the Scotland Yard office of Chief Detective
Inspector Firth, and the tall man was the celebrated Chief Inspector.

"That's right," remarked the smaller man.

From a pocket of his sports jacket he withdrew a tightly rolled copy of
an evening newspaper, glanced at it, rolled it up even more tightly and
put it back into another pocket. Red faced, clean shaven, with surprised
sandy hair, this was the Chief Inspector's assistant, Detective-sergeant
Bluett.

He was never seen without an evening paper; indeed, it was believed that
he invariably slept with a Final Edition under his pillow. There was no
evidence to show that he ever read one.

"It would be grand news for the likes o' you and me," said Firth--"if it
happened to be true." Big Ben, which sounded as though it stood directly
outside the darkened window, chimed the half-hour. "Half past one in the
morning--and we're still at it. What's more, a wasted night."

Sergeant Bluett produced the rolled newspaper, glanced at it and put it
back in the original pocket. "There was a girl dancing at the Green
Spider," he pointed out, "with nothing on but her shoes."

"I ha' small doubt," the Chief Inspector commented, "that had ye
mentioned your disapproval, she would ha' been glad to take them off.
The naked women o' Babylon concern the Church; they are no affair o'
this department. A decrease in crime? Wi' black-out thugs, two unsolved
murders, and a new and highly efficient cat-burglar in the West End."

"That's right."

"Millions behind the black market, the gambling racket taking more
money than Monte Carlo; a big spy ring sending news to Berlin before
it's known to the Hoose o' Commons. A decrease in crime!"

He rested his elbow on the blotting pad, pressing tips of long,
sensitive fingers together and exposing his angular wrists.

"I mind me of Port Said, where a wee job led me some whiles ago. A
cleaner, quieter little bit of a town no man could wish to see. But my
opposite number there took me underground. Weel, weel! The black-out has
done just that to crime in London:--driven it underground."

"I'm glad the spy game isn't in my hands," remarked Sergeant Bluett.
"Mr. Gaston Max is welcome to his job."

"Gaston Max is a most acceptable confrre. Owing to what he calls a wee
misunderstanding wi' Vichy, he's now one o' us. He has a brilliant
record wi' the Paris police, and in my opeenion is the best detective in
Europe."

Sergeant Bluett withdrew the evening paper and rerolled it almost
fiercely. "He gets far more rope from the Chief than we do. We have to
stick to the book of the words; he sings his own sweet song."

"Such was the arrangement. And until he has proven himself, it isna' for
us to creeticise a clever officer."

"He looks more like a clever comic to me. As for the marvellous Paris
methods we've heard so much about, I should say they're twenty years out
of date."

"That's as may be. But his English compares verra favorably wi' your
French."

"H'm--" the evening paper disappeared into a pocket of Bluett's grey
trousers--"I'm none too sure about the French these days. You've only
got to look at their history to see what I mean."

"French history has its dark spots, Bluett. But I could remark that
England has black patches. I was thinking about the execution o' King
Charles."

"Scotland too," said Bluett helpfully. "I was thinking about the
massacre of Glencoe."

The 'phone buzzed. Sergeant Bluett groaned. Chief Inspector Firth,
frowning, took up the instrument.

"Yes, sir. Firth here." He framed his lips in an unspoken word, whereby
Sergeant Bluett became aware of the fact that the caller was Assistant
Commissioner Colonel J.N.G. O'Halloran--affectionately known as Jingo,
and probably the most popular of Scotland Yard's senior officers.
"Sergeant Bluett is in my office. Yes, sir,--I will be along at once."

The Chief Inspector replaced the receiver and stood up, revealing his
great height and the fact that he wore a Harris tweed suit which his
tailor might with justice have claimed to be well cut, assuming that it
had been cut for a smaller customer. Firth smiled grimly, and because he
had a slightly undershot jaw, when he smiled one saw his lower teeth.

"Back to the streets o' Babylon," he said. "Wi' this decrease in crime,
our work is never done."




2

House with the Scarlet Door


A full moon, veiled from time to time by ragged clouds, looked down upon
a crop of giant mushrooms which was really a fleet of barrage balloons
floating high above a hushed and darkened London. The police officers
were accustomed to these strangely silent streets; they no longer
suffered memory's pangs; unmoved they passed by the sites of historic
landmarks, of buildings with associations whose tendrils were wound
around the heart of every Londoner, but which were marked now only by
gaping chasms. The blue pencil of the Luftwaffe had erased those homely
records; the red pencil of the Royal Air Force was busily balancing the
account.

But the returning Londoner who had known the area in normal times must
have surveyed this scene with some astonishment. Revellers there were,
although the hour was late, but they revelled behind closed doors,
unlighted windows. Wardens, police, and irrepressible taxicabs held
undisputed possession. Gloomy reflections no doubt claimed the Chief
Inspector's mind, for he broke a long silence only when the police car,
entering South Audley Street, swung from thence into a narrow turning.
The driver pulled up.

"This is the house, sir."

"Good."

Firth disentangled his great length from the low pitched car, and when
he stood upright on the pavement he towered above its roof. Sergeant
Bluett, who rode beside the driver, got out also. To their experienced
eyes, the scene possessed certain unique characteristics, not least of
these being the fact that South Audley Street showed empty from end to
end.

"No one in sight," muttered the Chief Inspector.

Sergeant Bluett was shining the ray of a torch upon a door painted vivid
scarlet, and further distinguished by what appeared to be silver
fittings. He moved the ray slightly so that it illuminated a small
silver plate; he read aloud:

     "LORD MARCUS AMBERDALE"

As Bluett switched off the torch and turned, staring with innocent
looking eyes at the Chief Inspector:

"Ring," said Firth.

Bluett pressed a silver button, and a dim note sounded from somewhere
beyond the scarlet door, as a fourth occupant of the car, uttering a
loud sigh, clambered out carrying a brown leather bag. This was a short,
stout man, with a short, stout black moustache, and wearing a stout
black hat. He lingered beside the car for a moment and stared up and
down the street.

"The first time in my experience, inspector," he said, "that I have been
called to such a scene and found not a soul about."

"Just what I was thinking, doctor," Bluett replied, glancing over his
shoulder. "Queer, I call it."

"Ring again," said the Chief Inspector; and Bluett rang.

The three men stood in the silent street, while the uniformed driver
leaned out watching. That murmurous background composed of themes
mechanical and human, which is the symphony of London, and which until
black-out was invented had never ceased, day or night, for several
centuries, was hushed to a querulous whisper. This new stillness of
metropolitan midnight had a capacity to awe.

Inspector Firth stepped back, and during a brief flood of moonlight
surveyed the house. It was one of those bijou Mayfair residences, smart
and labor saving, which had become so popular as a result of the
insoluble staff problem. It contained no more than seven or eight rooms
and had a total frontage of some four paces. Nestling between larger
neighbors, a low parapet enclosed narrow strips of tiled forecourt. The
corners of this parapet, flanking the obstinately closed scarlet door,
supported square stone flower boxes, filled with soil but displaying no
flowers. And now, as Firth stood there looking up, South Audley Street's
silence was broken.

A sound of distant chanting arose. The voice was a man's, rich, sweet,
and informed with passionate intensity.

As this chanting swelled, diminished, and died away:

"Phew!" exclaimed Sergeant Bluett. "This isn't the tradesmen's entrance
to Farm Street, is it?"--for indeed, that fashionable Jesuit Church was
no great distance away.

The moon became wholly obscured. Drops of rain made a sound like tapping
fingers on the car roof. And some small, furry object darted past
Sergeant Bluett and disappeared in darkness.

"Here! what was that?" he exclaimed.

"That," said Firth, with ponderous sarcasm, "was an example of _felis
domestica_, or common hoose cat. The bell push is directly before ye ...
For heaven's sake, what's that!"

"That" was another cat, which had brushed against Firth's leg in
retiring. And now Sergeant Bluett began to shine his torch into shadows
behind the low parapet--and out from this cover sprang countless cats of
all kinds; certainly no less than ten! When the last of the cats, a
large and majestic Persian, had been put to flight by the questing ray,
Sergeant Bluett inhaled deeply.

The three men before the scarlet door exchanged glances. It was the
police driver who spoke.

"That's funny," he said.

Inspector Firth half turned as if to reply, then evidently changed his
mind, and addressed Bluett instead.

"Ring again--and keep on ringing."

So that once more that remote buzzing might be heard from somewhere
behind the scarlet door. And now Firth pressed his ear to one of the
enamelled panels.

"Can you hear anything?" Dr. Fawcett inquired, a nervous note in his
voice.

"I can. Footsteps."

The door was opened. Against dim light in a paved lobby, a gaunt figure
appeared, the figure of a man almost as tall as Chief Inspector Firth.
He wore what looked, at first sight, like a yellow dressing-gown, but
which appeared, on closer inspection, to be a robe of unbleached linen.
As Bluett uncompromisingly directed the ray of his torch upon the man's
face, his impression that they had disturbed a priest at his devotions
was strengthened rather than removed. It was a strange face, that of an
aesthete, a scholar, drawn and lined, no more than a pallid frame for
large, burning eyes which seemed to change from gray to blue. This man
was so blond that it was hard to tell if his hair, grown unfashionably
long and brushed back from a brow almost Shakespearian in contour, was
very fair or nearly white. He wore a slight moustache which drooped at
the ends. Save for the fire which burned in his eyes, he was strangely,
almost unnaturally composed.

"Good evening, sir," said the Chief Inspector, stepping forward. "Do I
address Lord Marcus Amberdale?"

"You do. I am at your service."

Firth turned and spoke to the driver. "Pull around the corner of South
Street. Keep a sharp lookout."

And as he spoke, from the dim lobby where Lord Marcus stood, out into
that silent street crept a heavy perfume, a perfume so unmistakable that
the doctor sniffed audibly, and Sergeant Bluett again exchanged glances
with Chief Inspector Firth. It was burning incense. The car moved off.

"You sent a message to Scotland Yard about ten minutes ago, sir. I am
here to investigate."

"You are welcome." The refined, musical, rather troubled voice expressed
little beyond bewilderment.

"I am Chief Inspector Firth."

"Please come in, Chief Inspector. I was fortunate enough to find Colonel
O'Halloran in his office when I 'phoned. He and I were formerly brother
officers, you know. Who are these other gentlemen?"

"Detective-sergeant Bluett, my assistant, and Dr. Fawcett, Divisional
surgeon."

"Yes, of course. Will you please come in also, gentlemen? I do not
desire to be rude, but this regrettable interruption could not have
occurred at a less fortunate moment. I must request you to lower your
voices and to make as little noise as possible. You will understand, I
trust, that I have a reason for my request."

The lobby which they entered was paved with what Dr. Fawcett (something
of an archaeologist) judged to be fragments of Roman mosaic, cleverly
reconstructed in a geometrical design. Indeed, there was nothing about
the appointments of the place to suggest that it formed part of a London
house. Its character transported the doctor to Pompeii. On the walls
were singular frescoes, and a ceiling of lapis lazuli blue had been
gemmed with stars in mother o' pearl or some other translucent material.

Four antique pillars supported this ceiling, or heaven, and between two
of them a purple curtain hung. A niche in one wall enshrined a statuette
of Isis, an Ancient Egyptian piece, quite perfect, which must have been
of great value. A lamp burned before it. Otherwise, although the lobby
swam in a sort of liquid radiance, the source of light was invisible.
And now, the scarlet door being closed, that oppression of incense which
had been perceptible outside, became almost unendurable--a subtle
prompting to be repelled at all costs.

A long Roman couch rested before the wall facing the niche of Isis, and
upon this lay the body of a man in evening dress. Lord Marcus, having
admitted his visitors, stood before the purple curtain, and one saw,
now, that his robe was bordered with a design of a similar color. He
wore sandals. His large blue eyes were dreamy, preoccupied.

"I repeat, gentlemen, make as little noise as possible. My house is a
small one; and to-night, when I had reached a higher plane than any I
have reached before, comes interruption upon interruption."

He folded his arms and stood there; a tall, strangely impressive figure,
that of a high priest who guards the holy of holies. Dr. Fawcett glanced
at Chief Inspector Firth; found himself thinking about cats; put down
his bag, and crossed the lobby. He bent over the man who lay on the
couch--stooped lower, and uttered a significant exclamation.

"Good God!"

"What?" asked Firth, and was surprised to note that his somewhat
strident voice had uttered no more than a whisper.

"He has a broken neck."

"What!"

"See for yourself."

Lord Marcus, his lips moving as if in silent prayer, did not stir. He
looked straight before him in the direction of the closed door, which
inside was panelled with dull silver and engraved with cabalistic
inscriptions. Firth and Detective-sergeant Bluett joined Dr. Fawcett.

They saw the body of a man of no more than medium height, but of good
figure. He wore a double breasted dinner jacket and its usual
accompaniments, and his face, closely shaven except for a moustache
resembling a pencilled line, was that of one thirty-five or forty years
of age, who in life might have been conventionally handsome. He had
abundant wavy dark hair, carefully dressed, and all those attributes of
good grooming which are usually associated with a man of culture. His
complexion, however, and his expression, if expression it could be
called, were unpleasant to see. He appeared to have sustained a
tremendous blow on the brow above his right eye, and his head was
twisted in a grotesquely horrible manner.

"Just lift his shoulders," the doctor directed.

Firth stooped and did so. The twisted head sagged in a fashion so
gruesome that he quickly lowered the body again.

"You see? Fracture dislocation of the neck. Skull bent back so as to
rupture the anterior ligament. The official hangman couldn't have made a
neater job of it."

Dr. Fawcett stooped again, and carefully examined a slight abrasion on
the firm, clean-shaven jaw. He manipulated the bones and made other
examinations, then straightening up, he stared at that robed immobile
figure before the purple curtain. On an Arab coffee table stood a
crystal pitcher half full of water, a tumbler beside it.

"Did you try to revive him?" the doctor asked Lord Marcus.

"Yes." He inclined his head very slightly; "but the moment I endeavored
to raise him, I realised, as you have realised, that his neck was
broken."

"Was he a friend of yours?" The question came from Firth.

"I never saw him in my life before."

"Of course, doctor--" the Chief Inspector turned, the lids of his
leonine eyes slightly contracted--"you know who this is?"

"The face is familiar in some way, inspector, but I confess--"

"_You_ know him, Sergeant Bluett?"

Bluett, who was examining the contents of a wallet he had found on the
dead man, turned. The newspaper in his trouser pocket seemed to impede
his movements: he removed it and put it in an inside coat pocket.

"No. I was just trying to find out."

"Aye, it's a fact that a man's appearance undergoes a subtle change
after he has had his neck broken. It's Sir Giles Loeder."

"Good God!--so it is," Dr. Fawcett exclaimed. "I heard him broadcast
from the B.B.C. this evening--postscript to the nine o'clock news!"

"Aye? Is that so? Weel, no doubt ye'll be wishing to complete your
examination, doctor. I will leave you to it ... Is it possible for us,
Lord Marcus, to sit down anywheres while I ask you a few simple
questions?"

"I am at your disposal, Chief Inspector. Will you be good enough to come
this way."

Lord Marcus crossed before the curtain, and opened a door in a recess
which one might not have suspected to be there. He stood aside, slightly
inclining his head again. Firth and Bluett, each casting an odd,
sidelong glance at that which lay on the Roman couch, entered a room
which was evidently a study.

The smell of incense was less perceptible here, and in his distinctive
way each of the men, as he entered past the white-robed Lord Marcus,
experienced a subtle sense of gratitude for this. Lord Marcus, pausing
for a moment in an attitude of listening, entered after them and closed
the door with a long, white, delicate hand. He indicated a settee and a
deep armchair. This, they saw, was an orderly workroom, every available
inch of wall space being occupied by closely stacked volumes. On a large
mahogany table a green shaded lamp burned; and all the titles of those
books within reach of its light reflected up from the carved and
lustrous surface, indicated that Occultism and Ancient Egypt played a
large part in Lord Marcus' studies.

A nearly illegible papyrus was open on this table, held flat by four
unusual paperweights. These were: a black granite figure of Set, god of
the dead; a fossilised fish; a lump of quartz glittering with specks of
gold; and a mummied hand (that of a woman) highly varnished and mounted
in a gold bangle. Before the books on some of the shelves were
statuettes and tomb ornaments, with fragments of mural decorations, and
there was a complete mummy in a highly painted sarcophagus standing just
inside the door.

"Gentlemen," said Lord Marcus, "I beg you to be seated."

       *       *       *       *       *

Chief Inspector Firth was angrily conscious of feeling ill at ease. The
situation was outside his experience. There was folly, madness, in the
story somewhere; for he doubted the sanity of this impassive,
linen-robed man, who during a national crisis unique in history could
find time for whatever mumbo-jumbo was going on behind that drawn
curtain. Nevertheless, Lord Marcus, mad or sane, was a son of the aged
Marquis of Ord: therefore the Chief Inspector began awkwardly:

"Might I ask, sir, at what time Sir Giles arrived?"

"Arrived?" the musical voice echoed. "I fear I cannot tell you exactly;
but the sound of his arrival, if it may be so described, broke in upon
the Rites at a moment of great danger to myself, since I was compelled
to break the contact in order to learn what had occurred."

And now the courteous, but incomprehensible, character of this reply
increased Firth's ill-humor. What did Lord Marcus mean by "the
Rites"--or for that matter, "breaking the contact"?

He decided, however, that these minor mysteries must not be permitted to
intrude upon that line of inquiry which he had in mind.

"You mean that you were in another room--a room which we have not seen
yet--engaged in some occupation which no doubt ye will explain later,
when you heard a sound. What was the sound?"

Sir Marcus raised one hand to his brow in an effort of recollection.

"I had become dimly conscious of a disturbance in the lobby. I had
deliberately ignored it, supposing that Wake had returned."

"Who is Wake?"

"My butler."

"And had he returned?"

"No. Shortly after this sound interrupted me, however, (it resembled
that of scuffling footsteps and other slight movements), someone rang
the door bell."

"The door bell? What did you do?"

"Accepting the interruption as unavoidable, I was forced to inquire
what had caused it. In the lobby on the couch, as you see him now, I
found a man lying. Until I actually touched him, I did not realise that
he was dead, and I had gone to the dining-room for water, hoping to
revive him."

"You disturbed the body in no way?"

"Beyond placing my arm under his shoulders in order to raise him, I did
not."

There was a short uneasy silence. Even silence in this strange house of
Lord Marcus Amberdale possessed some quality unlike that of other
silences. Chief Inspector Firth was glad when Bluett broke it.

"Do I understand your lordship to mean that there was no one else but
yourself here at the time?"

Lord Marcus inclined his head in that characteristic gesture; "No one
else who was conscious."

"Conscious?" Firth repeated in an irritably bewildered way. "Was there
someone who was unconscious?"

"The physical shell of a woman: her spirit was far away, climbing the
staircase of the planets."

The police officers exchanged furtive glances. Firth's hazel eyes, which
could kindle to a flame of anger, or grow moist in the presence of human
suffering, flashed danger signals.

Following a momentary consideration of the fine fanatical face of Lord
Marcus, the inspector seemed to come to a conclusion.

"I should like to point out, sir," he said, and his strident voice had
become stern, his accent strongly marked, "that a murder, a most brutal
murder, has been committed in this hoose to-night. What the staircase o'
the planets has to do wi' it is not for me to say. But do I understand
there is someone else on these premises--someone we have not seen--who
was present at the time?"

"There is--but she remains in a state of exaltation, of trance. To
arouse her might be fatal."

"That will be for the doctor to decide," said Firth drily. "Ye say that
ye're butler was not in?"

"No. Speaking physically, I was alone in the house, Chief Inspector. I
wish to make that clear."

"Quite so. And when ye came out into the lobby, would ye be noticing if
the front door was open?"

"I opened it myself, and looked out into the street. There was no one in
sight, although I could see right to the corner."

"But," Firth persevered, "ye found the door shut?"

"It was shut."

Firth stared at his assistant rather helplessly.

"This is quite beyond me," he confessed. "Are we to suppose that a man
wi' a broken neck admitted himself into yon lobby? I think not.
Therefore, someone else must ha' brought him in, and then slipped out
again, unless he is still here. Have you searched the hoose?"

"I have not left the ground floor. I was forced to return immediately to
the Rites."

Firth stood up, and then sat down again. "The doctor is out yonder," he
muttered, "so that if there is anyone else inside, he canna very well
get out. Have you a back entrance?"

"No, there is no other entrance."

"Who, other than yoursel', has a key o' the front door?"

"Wake has one. But Wake has not returned."

"Late hours for a butler," Bluett suggested, glancing at his
wrist-watch.

Rather wearily Lord Marcus explained: "Wake sometimes sleeps out. His
wife acts as caretaker at a house in Grosvenor Square. With my
permission, he occasionally spends the night there. To-night, when he
set out (it was his evening off), I told him that I should be engaged
until very late, and--provided he reported in the morning--that it would
be unnecessary for him to return."

"And no one else has a key, sir?" Firth insisted.

"No one else. It is a Yale lock, and there are only two keys for it."

Sergeant Bluett, who had been making notes, glanced up with a puzzled
frown. "Was it before or after the bell rang that you heard these
shuffling footsteps?"

"Before. I should have ignored them if these sounds had not been
followed by that of the bell."

"I see." Bluett scratched his upstanding hair in a manner which
suggested that he did not see at all.

"What other servants are there?" Firth asked.

"A woman who acts as cook and who attends daily; otherwise Wake is in
sole charge of my small household. Let me epitomise the situation,
gentlemen." He glanced with those dreamy eyes from face to face. "I was
engaged in a ritualistic experiment the results of which might well have
meant the end of that evil which oppresses the world. One corner of the
veil, at last, had been lifted. To this moment I had dedicated my life
for many years. You see--" he smiled sadly--"I was doomed to be plucked
back at the very threshold of Knowledge. Hearing the sounds which I have
described, I forced myself from the subconscious back into the
conscious, and went out to the lobby. The man--I had never seen him
before, but you say he is Sir Giles Loeder--was lying as you found him.
The front door was locked. I can tell you nothing more, gentlemen, for
this is all I know."

There was a further uneasy pause: Sergeant Bluett took out the evening
paper, stared at it as though he wondered how it had got there, and put
it back in another pocket.

"Realising that the man was dead," said Firth, "you came to the 'phone,
which I see on the table, yonder, and called up Scotland Yard. Is that
correct?"

"It is correct. I then returned hoping that in the short time still left
to me before final interruption should occur, I might reconquer some of
what I had lost."

"You mean that you went into another room, leaving no one in the lobby
but the dead man?"

"Yes."

"Then someone in hiding," Bluett suggested, "might have slipped out?
Before we arrived, I mean."

"I have no reason to suppose that there was anyone in hiding."

The door opened and Dr. Fawcett entered, sniffing and looking from face
to face, a man whose curiosity could brook no further repression. A wave
of that disturbing perfume followed him in.

"Why do you burn incense, Lord Marcus?" he asked rather tersely--"and
what is it?"

"It is _kyphi_, the sacred _kyphi_ of the Ancient Egyptian temples. Its
production is the result of many years of experiment upon the formula of
Dioscorides. I am the only man in modern times who has succeeded in
producing it. As to why I burn it, I burn it during the Rites."

The surgeon shook his head, staring inquiringly at Chief Inspector
Firth. "Probably you will want to check the dead man's possessions," he
said. "The cause of death is perfectly clear, of course. He seems to
have been lifted up, lifted bodily up, and cast down, head first, upon
the paving--an operation which, in the case of a powerful man--and I
should say he was a fairly powerful man--would have created a tremendous
disturbance."

"There was no such disturbance, doctor," murmured Lord Marcus. "He
cannot have sustained that frightful injury in my house."

"Certainly, I can find no evidence of a struggle in the lobby; but I can
account for his condition in no other way--unless of course he met his
death elsewhere. There is nothing to suggest, however, that he was
knocked down in the street for instance. His clothing bears no trace of
grease or mud."

Dr. Fawcett stared in surprise at the mummy, which he now saw for the
first time, transferring his glance from this to those other curious
objects which lay upon the large table.

"You study strange subjects, Lord Marcus," he observed.

His manner was brisk, direct, but strictly professional; his curiosity
was professional, too. He believed that Lord Marcus Amberdale dabbled in
magic, and he knew from personal experience that such pursuits sometimes
lead to insanity. But as if to prevent a possible diversion, Chief
Inspector Firth stood up.

He knew that the moment was come to make a demand which he anticipated
would be declined. And although he fought a stout inward fight, he was
unable to disguise from himself the fact that Lord Marcus, whom he
believed to be mad, inspired him with a sort of respect, which, although
he despised the weakness he was unable to shake off. He faced him across
the dimly lighted room.

"I must now request, sir," he said, his strident voice quite toneless,
"to interview the other witness who, by your own account, was present at
the time that the events reported took place."




3

Shrine of Isis


Dr. Fawcett observed a change stealing over the ascetic face of Lord
Marcus. The dreamy blue eyes grew hard, the jaw more angular. He
remembered vaguely that Lord Marcus had formerly been a soldier, and
these were the eyes of a soldier which now looked out from the mask of
the visionary.

"I appreciate, Chief Inspector,"--his musical voice remained low and
untroubled--"that you have power to enforce this request. But if I
assure you that the lady you desire to see, although present in the
body, is actually far from this house, if I assure you that she has
remained throughout oblivious of all that has occurred here, will you
accept my word, and not compel me to arouse her? I assure you upon my
honor that to do so might prove fatal."

Firth glanced uneasily at Dr. Fawcett. "The decision on that point rests
in your hands, doctor, but for my part I must certainly see this lady."

"Can I count upon your support, sir?" asked Lord Marcus, turning to the
surgeon. "If I make certain stipulations, as indeed I must, will you
see that they are carried out?"

"To the best of my ability, Lord Marcus. But the conduct of this inquiry
is in the hands of the Chief Inspector, not in mine."

"My stipulations are these," Lord Marcus went on: "I will permit you to
see the shrine on the understanding that no sound is made, no word
spoken. If you consider, Chief Inspector, that an interrogation is
necessary, I must ask for more time."

The three men exchanged glances, and Firth nodded.

"Verra weel," he said dourly. "This is the queerest business that ever
came my ways, but I must carry out my duty. Lead on, sir."

Lord Marcus extended a long, slender hand, inviting his visitors to
return to the lobby. Again, in passing, they all glanced down at the
dead man. "Be good enough to remain immediately outside the door when I
shall have opened it," he said; "no foot but mine must cross the
threshold. And be silent."

He pulled a cord, and the purple curtain opened in its centre, to reveal
another of the silver-plated doors. This also opened in the centre, its
twin leaves sliding silently to right and left. As it opened, an
overpowering wave of incense swept out into the lobby.

The tall, robed figure entered. An imperative gesture warned them to
pause on the threshold. It was significant that they all moved on tiptoe
as one does in the echoing vastness of a cathedral, although the place
into which they looked was of no such dimensions. It was, however, of
surprising form.

The floor was paved with shiny black stone; the walls were plastered
and covered with mural decorations of Ancient Egyptian figures. It was
lighted by two globular lamps resting on slender silver tripods to right
and left of a golden curtain which occupied a great part of that wall
which faced the door. The ceiling was apparently of dull black, creating
an impression of space above. Apart from the two silver lamps there was
absolutely no furniture whatever in the apartment.

Raising a finger to his lips as he looked back across his shoulder, Lord
Marcus, stepping silently in his sandals, advanced to the golden curtain
and drew it aside. The origin of those clouds of incense which permeated
the house now became apparent. A silver burner rested on a third tripod,
and, because of draught occasioned by their entrance, sent up wavering
spirals of aromatic smoke through a perforated cover.

In spite of the injunction to silence, three sibilant inhalations marked
the astonishment of the onlookers.

Recessed beyond the curtain a sort of shrine or altar lay. Upon a dais
covered with a leopard skin rested a throne, evidently of great
antiquity and inlaid with silver and gold. The recess embracing this
throne was semi-circular, and decorated with designs from the Book of
the Dead, so that a grotesque procession of gods of the Nile marched in
eternal monotony behind the woman seated there: figures with the heads
of hawks, of cats, of crocodiles; a saturnalia such as might have
haunted the dreams of a sleeping Pharaoh.

This woman wore the asp headdress of royal Egypt, a dull gold bangle on
her right arm and a number of antique rings upon her fingers. She sat in
a rigid pose, her hands palm downward, her body upright, her knees and
feet pressed closely together--and her beauty was melodramatic in its
flamboyance, in its stark passivity.

Hair dressed in a barbaric fashion resembled polished copper; wide-open
eyes which stared eerily before her were of amber flecked with green:
beautiful eyes but they held no human spark of life or love or passion,
but seemed to survey a past dead world. A sheath-like garment of
transparent tissue permitted the curves of her body to gleam through it
like those of an ivory statue. No pulse throbbed in that white throat:
there was no perceptible movement of her breast. Her lips were slightly
parted in a sibylline smile.

Invasion of this secret temple produced no visible change in that
entranced beauty. Lord Marcus raised his arms like a priest before the
altar, and intoned words in his soft, musical voice, and in a language
unfamiliar to any of those who listened. The long-lashed eyes of the
woman never flickered. Lowering his arms, he stood aside, and for a
period of perhaps a minute allowed the three men to watch--and to
wonder. Then, turning, he gave a sweeping gesture to intimate that they
should retire.

Stepping again on tiptoe, with extreme caution, acutely aware of their
clumsy shoes, those who had watched withdrew. Lord Marcus reclosed the
silent door, and replaced the purple curtain ...

It was Dr. Fawcett who broke an awkward silence. His expression, as he
watched Lord Marcus, was diagnostic, but the effort which it cost him to
recapture his professional manner was not lost upon Inspector Firth.

"Hypnotism?" the doctor inquired, with raised eyebrows.

"Not entirely, doctor," Lord Marcus replied, and that hard light had
died from his eyes: he was again the prophetic dreamer. "_Kyphi_ has
singular properties, and a preparation of _hashish_, which I can procure
only from Aleppo, more widely opens the inner eye. Personal magnetism,
which is fully established between us, directs the quest of the released
spirit."

Chief Inspector Firth interrupted. "I am afraid, sir, there are certain
important points which I must clear up before I can send for an
ambulance and have the body removed."

"I beg that you will make your inquiries as brief as possible."

"I'll do that. First and foremost I would ask, Dr. Fawcett: Are you
prepared to say that yon woman is in a trance?"

"Yes, or under the influence of some drug."

"She's no' just pretending?"

"I am prepared to state that she is unconscious. I can say no more
without a proper examination."

"Verra good, doctor. And now, Lord Marcus, I understand that this woman,
who has been drugged or hypnotised by you, is being used for some kind
of an experiment. Am I right?"

"She is playing her part in the Rites," Lord Marcus replied, in that
musical, weary voice, "which are probably more than two thousand years
old, and which, it is equally probable, have never been attempted by any
living man. You may have observed that to-night is the night of the full
moon. It is the full moon of the Ancient Egyptian Sothic month of
Paophi, which means that, failing, I cannot even attempt to do what I
sought to do for a whole year again."

"Might I ask, Lord Marcus," the doctor interjected eagerly, "what you
sought to do?"

"Certainly." The reply was calm and courteous. "You, very properly, in
common with these officers, assume that I am mad. I assure you that I am
sane. The ancients, so scorned in this machine age, knew more of the
power of the spirit than we to-day even suspect. I have endeavored for
more than twenty years to recover some of that lost knowledge. To-night
I had sent an untrammelled soul upon a voyage of exploration. I sought
to know why the world was so sorely afflicted, and when its punishment
would end."

"It is possible that ye mean, sir," said Firth, and he was funereally
Caledonian in his dourness, "that ye sought to find out when the war
would end?"

"Substantially, perhaps, that was my object. It is vain of you to
endeavor to conceal the fact, Chief Inspector, that you regard me as a
mental case, and even despise me a little for behavior which you look
upon as egregiously flippant at a time of national stress. But you are
wrong. I stood, to-night, upon the edge of knowledge denied to men for
thousands of years, when, ordained by some fatality which I cannot even
pretend to explain, that man died who lies there before us."

"Fatality may be right," murmured the Chief Inspector, his eyes fixed
upon Lord Marcus with an expression no doubt similar to that which fired
the eyes of Torquemada when he rebuked a heretic. "Mysel', I would ca'
it the Hand of God. His ways are strange and beyond computing. And I
think, Lord Marcus, that what ye sought to know, it is not intended
that man should know."

Lord Marcus smiled: It was a sweet and a wistful smile. "You may even be
wiser than I, Chief Inspector. I am perhaps not sufficiently purified.
Indeed, I may venture too greatly. But I sought, not for my own good,
but for the good of the world. This I ask you to believe."

And in fact, despite all that they had seen, all that they suspected,
despite memories of the entranced woman upon whose lips rested a smile
at once voluptuous and mystic, no one of the three doubted this man's
sincerity. But each, in his different degree, doubted his sanity.

Bluett had managed to recall the fact that Lord Marcus in his younger
days had been a notable boxer: he remained, for all his asceticism, a
physically powerful man. Furthermore, the Detective-sergeant, whose
special province was the morals of Mayfair, had recognised the woman.
She was none other than the once notorious Mrs. Vane, whose adventures,
matrimonial and extra-matrimonial, had afforded society journalists just
before the war many spicy paragraphs. In his practical way he was
reconstructing what might have occurred; and in the light of this
reconstruction, Lord Marcus Amberdale already as good as stood in the
dock. He cast a swift glance from ingenuous eyes at his superior. But
there was nothing in the way in which Firth was looking at Lord Marcus
to suggest that he shared Bluett's views.

"Do I understand, sir," said the Chief Inspector, "that in spite of what
has happened, you would wish to renew this--er--expeeriment?"

Lord Marcus shook his head sadly. "Not at all. To do so would be
useless. The shrine has been defiled. Forgive me--the implication does
not reflect upon yourselves. But I must very gradually, and with
infinite care, recall the traveller."

"I see," said Firth. "In the meantime, sir, I am afraid I shall have to
put through a few routine inquiries here regarding the dead man's
possessions and so on, but I will endeavor to keep as quiet as possible.
May I have the lady's name?"

"She is Mrs. Vane, the only woman I have known in thirty years who
possessed at once the ethereal subtlety and the physical courage to
pursue the path so far." Instinctively, startlingly, he turned to
Detective-sergeant Bluett. "You are thinking of the stories which are
told about this lady. I would reply that her physical life is beside the
point: I neither condone nor condemn it. There are qualities present
which I have found in no one else: those of a priestess of Isis. With
your permission, Chief Inspector, I will retire."

And Chief Inspector Firth was about to reply and to give the necessary
authority, when all four men started and turned as one. Clouds of
incense swam, now, visibly in the nearly still air of the lobby; a
slowly writhing pall of oily vapor hung over the body of Sir Giles
Loeder. But it was towards the silver-plated front door with its
cabalistic inscriptions, that all eyes were directed.

Someone had quietly inserted a key in the lock!




4

Someone Comes In


As the door opened, which it did slowly--one might have said
furtively--a draught of cool air penetrated the lobby, weaving those
oily layers of perfumed smoke into swirls and spirals. Lord Marcus,
interrupted in the act of drawing aside the purple curtain, now closed
it again and turned as did the others. He, also, stared with a queer
fixity of expression, towards the opening door.

Dr. Fawcett frowned nervously; Chief Inspector Firth, whose fierce eyes
were set in the same direction, raised his left hand like an orchestral
conductor who subdues the violins; Bluett, as if hypnotised by the
gesture, seemed almost to be holding his breath. The door being fully
opened, to admit that refreshing smell which tells of falling rain, a
sound resembling a sigh disturbed the silence of the lobby. It was
caused by a quartette of concerted inhalations.

In out of the darkness, somewhat wet and dishevelled, a girl entered,
her eyes wide open and frightened, and her fingers still clutching a key
which remained in the lock. Color began to ebb from her cheeks as she
glanced around at the four men who lived and at the one who was dead.

"Fay!"

Lord Marcus pronounced the name, on a queer rising intonation to which
his musical voice lent a sort of elfin beauty.

"Good God! look at that!"

Bluett was the second speaker. He pointed into shadows behind the girl;
pointed to where three cats, a tabby and a black, led by a majestic
persian, formed a phantom escort. Firth came to his senses.

"Huish! be off!" he cried, and swept towards the feline intruders.

They fled, uttering plaintive miaows, as the Chief Inspector, stepping
past the horror-stricken girl, gently removed her fingers from the
doorkey (she did not seem to be conscious of the fact that he was doing
so) and slipped the key into his own pocket, closing the door. He
turned, back to the silver panels, and looked across her head at the
three men. Particularly, his penetrating glance searched the countenance
of Lord Marcus.

"I believe you spoke, sir."

Startled by the voice which came from behind her shoulder, the girl
looked quickly back, and then ran to Lord Marcus, hands outstretched.

"Marcus, my dear--Marcus! whatever has happened!"

He rested his long hands upon her shoulders, giving her a reassuring
squeeze, and his smile was infinitely kindly. "You may well ask, Fay,
but I fear I cannot tell you. This unhappy affair is as much a mystery
to me as to anyone. Let me ask in return whatever has brought you here
at this hour of the night."

Sergeant Bluett glanced suspiciously at Dr. Fawcett. Firth stood quite
still, watching Lord Marcus: the girl, clutching one sleeve of his robe,
was staring aside towards the Roman couch. Perceptibly, she grew still
more pale. She was so delicately pretty that the average observer might
have overlooked her; a beauty for a connoisseur. Almost boyishly slim,
her limbs were alluringly rounded, and her frank gray eyes expressed a
sort of primaeval innocence. She had hazelnut hair, wind-blown, and at
the moment, wet; and her fresh skin might have belonged to a dryad, to a
creature of the greenwood. A light blue cape, which may have formed part
of a uniform, was worn over an evening frock, and her dance shoes were
spattered with mud. She turned from Lord Marcus, still holding his
sleeve, and faced the Chief Inspector.

"Really," she said, "I am afraid I don't understand at all. Please,
won't somebody tell me what has happened?"

"Perhaps, gentlemen--" the interruption came in that singularly calm
voice of Lord Marcus--"I should make you acquainted. Chief Detective
Inspector Firth, Dr. Fawcett, and--er--Sergeant Bluett: my cousin, Fay
Perigal."

The Chief Inspector and the surgeon acknowledged this introduction by
bows. Bluett alone spoke.

"How do you do, miss?" he inquired.

"A tragic and unaccountable thing has occurred here to-night," Lord
Marcus added, "so that your wholly unexpected appearance seems to call
for an explanation, Fay. I am curious on this point myself, and these
gentlemen are professionally interested."

"Yes, of course." Fay Perigal glanced from face to face, glanced at the
couch and then away again quickly: her agitation was pathetic. "It's
really quite simple. Just an unfortunate accident. You see--" she
addressed herself nervously to the Chief Inspector--"I managed to get
leave to attend a birthday party given by a school friend in London. As
I knew I couldn't possibly get back to Otterly to-night--"

"Otterly, miss?" Bluett glanced up from his notes.

"Yes, I am at the Royal Air Force Hospital there. And so I arranged with
Phil--Phillida Wentworth, another friend--to spend the night at her
flat, which is quite near the house where the party was held. Well--"
she smiled unmirthfully--"I can't account for it. But when I got there,
the outer door was locked, and no amount of ringing was any good. Then,
it began to rain--and at last I gave it up in despair. I walked all
along Albemarle Street and into Piccadilly, but there simply wasn't a
taxi in sight. I really had no idea what to do, especially as I had very
little money with me. And then, I thought of you, Marcus."

"I am glad you did. Normally, you would have been most welcome. Indeed,
you are welcome now."

"Oh, I didn't mean to disturb you by going upstairs."

She glanced in the direction of a marble stair which led from a corner
of the lobby to upper apartments. "My idea was to sleep, or try to
sleep--" her eyes turned fearfully in that direction--"on the couch. I
didn't expect to find anybody up, you see."

"Then might I ask, Miss Perigal," the Chief Inspector interrupted, "how
ye expected to get in?"

"Oh!" She smiled again, and this second smile momentarily swept the
horror from her eyes. "That's quite simple. Marcus always hides the key,
or what he calls hiding it, in the flower box outside, you see."

"What!" Firth turned frowningly to Lord Marcus. "Do ye mean to say, sir,
that it is a habit of yours to leave the key outside the door?"

That old-world, dignified inclination of the head answered him.

"I confess to being somewhat absent-minded, Chief Inspector, and
therefore invariably I leave my key in a corner of one of the stone
boxes, as Miss Perigal has told you."

"Good lord!" murmured Bluett.

"What did you say?" Firth inquired.

"I said 'Good lord'!" Bluett, whose pencil had broken, delved in an
inside pocket and produced the evening paper. This he placed in an
outside pocket, then sought, and found, another pencil.

"As you can see from my condition," Fay added, "it was raining quite
fast, and I practically ran here. Truly, Marcus, I didn't know what else
to do."

"There is no occasion to apologise, Fay. My house is always open to my
friends. And now, gentlemen, if you wish to talk further to Miss
Perigal, I would suggest that you use the study. The guest room is
vacant, Fay, and you are more than welcome to it. I will leave a note
for Wake, who will bring your morning coffee and take your orders for
breakfast, at which I shall look forward to joining you. I should be
glad, Chief Inspector, of your permission to retire for the purpose to
which I have already referred."

But Fay continued to clutch the sleeve of his linen robe. It was a
physical expression of a bleak mental loneliness; a quest of sympathy,
of understanding.

"Marcus!" He paused, as he was about to draw back the curtain. "Is _she_
in there?"

"Yes," he answered mildly.

Fay crept closer to him. "But surely, Marcus, you promised me that you
would give this business up?"

"When the experiment of to-night should be completed, Fay; such was the
understanding. I regret to say that Fate has intervened to make it a
failure." He turned to Firth. "My cousin is obviously much overwrought.
I count upon you to spare her unnecessary questioning. She knows no more
than I know. Until breakfast, Fay."

"One moment, Lord Marcus."

Lord Marcus paused, his hand raised again to the curtain and glanced
back at the Chief Inspector, who had addressed him.

"At your service."

"When ye have awakened the lady in yon, I should be glad, wi' the
doctor's consent, to see her for a moment."

"I will do my best."

Lord Marcus pushed the plated panels aside, went into the dimly lighted
place beyond, and reclosed the door.

Silence became so complete that it was possible to hear the pattering of
rain in the street outside. It was broken by a muffled sound of that
musical chanting which the police officers dimly had heard before. The
Chief Inspector frowned irritably. Fay shuddered, turning away and
clasping her hands. Firth looked at the rather forlorn figure and his
frown melted into a smile. This smile revealed a man no criminal had
ever met.

"I am more than sorry to have to ask, Miss Perigal, but--" he nodded
towards the couch--"does it happen ye are acquainted wi' this man?"

Fay Perigal breathed deeply; she was obviously exercising an effort of
self control: she remained very pale. She nodded.

"Yes." Her frank eyes were clouded, and one would have said that either
the condition or the identity of the man who lay there had taxed
endurance close to breaking point. "Sir Giles Loeder."

"H'm!" muttered Dr. Fawcett.

"Would ye be knowing Sir Giles well?" Firth asked.

"No; scarcely at all. He came down to Otterly a month or so ago to
interview some of the patients. He had official permission to introduce
their experiences into his broadcasts. You know he used to broadcast.
That was where I met him. I was detailed to take him round. I never saw
him again until ... to-night."

"I see," murmured Firth. "That doesn'a help us a great deal. He had the
reputation of being a man o' great charm. Did ye find it so?"

"Frankly--" she forced a smile, but it was a wry and tremulous
smile--"it sounds a dreadful thing to say, perhaps, in the
circumstances, but I am afraid I didn't like him at all."

"Aye! is that so? And about Mrs. Vane, now? Ye'll be knowing her, I
doubt not."

"Yes--I know her."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"No--I'm afraid she isn't. You see--" she brushed back a ringlet of
damp hair--"my cousin Marcus believes that he can rediscover all sorts
of lost secrets in some way that I'm sorry to say I don't altogether
understand--"

"And of which you don't altogether approve?"

"Well, perhaps I don't. I mean, if it calls for his association with--"
she hesitated--"queer people."

"Such as Mrs. Vane?"

"All kinds of queer people. Unfortunately, he is quite indifferent to
public opinion."

"So I gather." Firth smiled reassuringly. "Weel--I don't believe there
is any further evidence I want just now, Miss Perigal. And as you
probably know the way to the guest room--nae doubt ye do--my advice is
to turn in."

"Thank you; I will. Good-night." She included all three men in the
words, crossed the lobby to the foot of the marble stair, and went up.

In an awkward and rather puzzled way, they watched the slight figure
until it was lost to sight on a landing. They heard the sound of an
opening door, followed by that of a door being closed; then, once more,
nothing but the pattering of rain in the street outside.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It will be necessary," said the Chief Inspector, a faintly defeatist
note in his voice, "to check up on Miss Perigal's evidence in the
morning. But I am not anticipating that there will be anything wrong
about it."

"Funny thing all the same," murmured Bluett.

"Speaking personally," said Dr. Fawcett, "the more I learn about this
very singular family, the more I incline to the idea of some hereditary
taint. Lord Marcus I regard as definitely suspect."

"So do I," said Bluett.

"I don't mean of the crime," the surgeon added severely, "but of mental
alienation. His custom, which I suppose you have accepted, Inspector, of
leaving the key out in the street, for example, quite apart from his
somewhat unusual studies, would seem to indicate a lack of what is
usually described as common sense. Then, Miss Perigal's failure to make
sure of her accommodation to-night, in these days of black-out and
overcrowded hotels, is rather irresponsible, if I may say so." He shook
his head reflectively, glancing again at the dead man. "The whole thing
is bizarre to a degree."

"Aye! that's a fact," Firth conceded. "Phew! I need a breath o' fresh
air. I don't know how you feel." He crossed and was about to open the
front door when he paused, put his hand in the pocket of his tweed
jacket and drew out the key. He stared at it in the dim light, keenly.
"Aye. It's still damp," he muttered.

He opened the door, so that again a draught of fresh, sweet air swept
in. And almost immediately, he found himself engaged once more.

"Huish! awa' wi' ye!"

A number of cats, their fur diamond-tipped with rain, had entered at the
moment that he opened the door. He shepherded them out and closed it.

"The behavior of the cats," said Dr. Fawcett, in an uneasy way, "is
another phenomenon for which I find myself quite unable to account."

"Speaking pairsonally," Firth confessed, "nothing has occurred here
to-night for which mysel' I am able to account. And so let's get down to
routine business. I greatly regret, doctor, the necessity of detaining
you longer. But I wish to interview Mrs. Vane, if it is possible, and
only yoursel' can tell me if it is possible." Dr. Fawcett sighed
wearily. "Regarding the dead man, nae doubt ye will be prepared to make
out your report?"

"Certainly," said Dr. Fawcett. "There are several details to which I
shall have to draw your attention, but the cause of death is
unmistakable. It is for you," he added with a sly smile, "to explain how
and where it took place."

"As to when," Firth challenged, "what are your findings, doctor?"

"I should say that Sir Giles had been dead not more than twenty minutes
when I arrived."

"In other words, he died at just about the time that Lord Marcus called
up Scotland Yard?"

"Exactly. Such is my reading of the matter."

"H'm," muttered Sergeant Bluett, and made another note. "I've got an
idea."

"It is possible," murmured Firth. "What is this idea?"

"I was thinking about Mrs. Vane."

"I was thinking you might be."

Sergeant Bluett turned to Dr. Fawcett, his ingenuous eyes and upstanding
hair lending him an absurd resemblance to a stout schoolboy. "Has it
occurred to you, doctor, that she may be dead?"

"Dead!" the surgeon echoed.

"That's right."

Firth, brows drawn down so that his tawny eyes gleamed fiercely, stared
at Bluett. His expression changed, and he glanced interrogatively at Dr.
Fawcett. But the doctor was smiling again.

"The idea is not utterly preposterous," he admitted; "but only a layman
could have conceived it. Mrs. Vane is unmistakably alive, but
unmistakably unconscious. You may accept my word for that."

"Oh," murmured Bluett, and taking the newspaper from his pocket, he put
his notebook there, and the newspaper in another pocket. "In that case,
let's get down to business."

"I am hoping," said Firth, "for results from fingerprints. I left orders
for Sergeant Hawkins to follow on, and it's full time he was here."

"The bell push," Bluett began--

"I have it in mind," said Firth. "If it's true that someone rang the
bell immediately after the crime took place, the bell push and the plate
may bear evidence."

"It has been raining since then," Dr. Fawcett pointed out.

"I am thinking of that, and I want to find something to hang over it to
act as a shield. In fact--"

He ceased speaking so suddenly that the effect was that of a
disconnected telephone. Dr. Fawcett, who had picked up his bag and hat,
held them in a rigid attitude; Bluett, who had just bent over the dead
man, came bolt upright as if at the command of a drill sergeant. Distant
awesome chanting arose--and ceased.

For the second time that night the three stood staring towards the
silver-plated door; because, for the second time that night, someone had
gently inserted a key in the lock.




5

Someone Else Comes In


The door opened and a man came in, quickly closing it behind him as if
to exclude some intruder. Then he turned and faced the lobby, and his
dark brown eyes opened wider and wider until they seemed to become
completely round.

He was a short, broad man, having a remarkable span of shoulder, clean
shaven, high colored and with a good head of gray hair, meticulously
groomed. But the high color was gradually filtering out of his face. He
wore light suede gloves, a black morning coat and a winged collar with a
black tie. His trousers were of a discreet gray, his shoes were black.
An umbrella which hung from his arm, allowed drops of rain to fall upon
the mosaic pavement. Slowly, as he watched, he removed a soft black hat,
as one grown conscious that he stands in the presence of death.

"Good evening," said the Chief Inspector ominously. "Who are _you_?"

The man swallowed. His gaze had sought, found, and was now focussed upon
the Roman couch. "My name is James Wake, and I am Lord Marcus
Amberdale's butler."

Bluett was considering James Wake with frank interest. His expression
was that of a punter studying the points of a horse, and deciding
whether it shall or shall not carry his money. Firth's tawny eyes
conveyed nothing other than an interrogation. Dr. Fawcett replaced his
bag on the floor and his hat on top of it.

"You keep strange hours for a butler."

"It may certainly seem so, sir." The man had a punctilious accuracy of
speech which the Chief Inspector found faintly irritating. "But in point
of fact my return at so late an hour is, if I may so describe it, the
result of an after-thought."

"Indeed! Do I take you to mean that you had not intended to come back at
all?"

"I had his lordship's permission to sleep out. And if I don't intrude in
any way, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me who you are, sir,
and what has occurred."

With the unerring instinct of a "gentleman's gentleman," he had placed
Firth in that intermediate class towards members of which one displays a
reasonable respect (as a well-trained butler should do) but not the
peculiar deference which is reserved for social superiority. As if to
discount his studiously calm manner, however, the high color of James
Wake had now filtered away entirely.

"I am Chief Inspector Firth, and what has happened is a murder. Just
step across, Mr. Wake, and tell me if you know the dead man."

Wake, suddenly aware of his wet umbrella, inverted it hurriedly, then,
drawing open a curtain which hung before a cupboard immediately inside
the door, he placed it in a stand which the curtain had concealed and
hung up his hat. He crossed the lobby with short, sturdy steps, and
looked down at Sir Giles Loeder. Then he turned and faced Firth.

"I recognise this unfortunate gentleman, Inspector. It is Sir Giles
Loeder."

"Quite so. A friend of his lordship?"

"Not to my knowledge, Inspector."

"When did he arrive?"

"I have no idea. He was certainly not here when I left."

"At what time did you leave?"

"Immediately after dinner. Mrs. Vane dined with his lordship, and I
understood that the evening was to be devoted to one of his lordship's
occult experiments."

"Do you know where his lordship keeps his key?"

"Certainly, Inspector. It is always in the left hand flower box; but I
use my own." He held up a bunch of keys attached to a chain. "I should
not dream of disturbing his lordship's."

"Where have you been until this hour?"

"I have been balancing my quarterly accounts. My wife usually assists
me. I am responsible for his lordship's household. My wife is
exceptionally good at figures."

"I see. Where does your wife live?"

"At the town house of Sir George Clarking in Grosvenor Square: she was
formerly Sir George's cook, and now acts as caretaker of the premises,
which are unoccupied."

"You have been there, then, since what time?"

"Since a little before nine o'clock. I had permission to remain the
night, as I have mentioned, but I recalled the fact that his lordship
had an early morning appointment, and I thought it better that I should
return."

During this conversation Wake had perceptibly recovered some of his
normal sang-froid, and with it a trace of his normal color. He was
peeling off the suede gloves, which he placed in a pocket of his black
jacket. Dr. Fawcett thought that in many respects he more closely
resembled a City man than a butler. But there was something else about
Wake's appearance, now that hat, gloves and umbrella were discarded,
which taunted the Chief Inspector as a thing familiar, yet elusive. The
wing collar and black tie formed part of this mocking image which he
failed wholly to capture. Suddenly he spoke again.

"Ye were expecting a Miss Fay Perigal, I understand?"

"Miss Fay, Inspector?" Wake's expression of surprise was too sudden to
be simulated. "No, sir. Although I am sure Miss Fay would be very
welcome."

"Nae doubt," said Firth drily. "Well, she is here."

"What do you say, Inspector?"

"She went upstairs some little whiles back. Lord Marcus said he would
leave a note for you; but I misdoubt me if he will remember."

"Thank you, Inspector. I will see that Miss Fay has her early morning
coffee. Can I assist in any way, in this highly unpleasant matter?"

"It is probable. So don't turn in at present. By the way, doctor,
speaking of coffee, if ye would prescribe the same, possibly Mr. Wake
would oblige us. We have much yet to do."

Dr. Fawcett groaned, and glanced at his wrist-watch; at which moment the
telephone rang in the study. Wake moved in that direction, but:

"Sergeant Bluett," said Firth peremptorily, "take the call."

Bluett went out, and his muffled voice might be heard speaking. The
Chief Inspector, watching Wake, seemed to have another idea.

"Do you keep a lot of cats here?" he asked.

"No, Inspector." Wake shook his head. "But his lordship's experiments
result in a number from the neighborhood being attracted here." He
sniffed. "I am told that it is the incense which is used at these
sances. His lordship has informed me that all domestic cats derive from
the temple cat of Ancient Egypt, and that _Kyphi_, which I understand to
be the name of this preparation, has what his lordship terms an
hereditary fascination for them."

"Thank you," said Firth; "a most lucid exposition. Could I trouble ye to
prepare a pot of coffee?"

Sergeant Bluett appeared in the opening which led to the study.
"Assistant Commissioner on the line, sir," he reported ...




6

Misty Morning


Somewhat later the same morning--that is to say, not long after break of
day--an incident occurred which bore no apparent relation to the mystery
of South Audley Street but which, in fact, later fell into its place in
the design of that tragedy. A coffee-stall keeper, named William Sawby,
had established a highly lucrative business during the heavy London
raids by serving coffee to wardens, firemen, police and others whose
duties compelled them to remain abroad. He operated in part of the shell
of a once popular West End public house, which had fallen an early
victim to German bombs.

This astute caterer had fitted up a radio in his stall, so that
customers might listen to the seven o'clock news bulletin, whilst
refreshing themselves after their night's labor. The enterprise had
outlived the blitz. William Sawby's coffee-stall on the morning
following those remarkable occurrences at the house of Lord Marcus
Amberdale, was well patronised at five minutes to seven by workers of
all kinds, who sipped their tea or coffee whilst waiting to hear the
early news.

After a night of intermittent rain, sunrise had produced a steamy mist,
almost meriting the description of fog. Visibility was reduced to a few
yards, and Sawby's stall with its bright urns and lights, around which a
cheerful rattle of cups prevailed, formed a welcome oasis. In once
orderly Bond Street hard by, a street which had come to resemble the
lower jaw of a giant following extensive dental operations (and
extraction by bomb is by no means painless dentistry), early traffic was
just beginning to stir. But wartime London that morning, much of it
still wearing its black-out night cap, possessed a sort of hollow,
echoing quality, vaultlike, cavernesque and alien. The soul of a city is
its people; and Mayfair had lost its soul.

Many of Sawby's patrons were regular customers: Sergeant Roper from Vine
Street, his bicycle resting against the stall; Tom Wilkins, the milkman,
his white pony, forefeet on the pavement, eating biscuits out of his
hand; Smith, the postman, setting forth on his round; a steel helmeted
warden, who in private life was a famous King's Counsel; and Mrs. Ryley,
the charlady who "did for" the silversmiths on the corner. One or two
others stood by; but these were accredited members of this unique early
morning club, good companions between whom no social barriers existed.

"Going to be a hot day, I think," said the K.C. in his cheery forensic
voice.

"It certainly 'as the smell of one, Mr. Corcoran, sir," Mrs. Ryley
agreed.

"Quite so. Don't know what I shall do when I have to give up my morning
visits, Sawby. Always look forward to my spells of duty."

"If you always had to get up in the middle of the night," the milkman
observed, "you'd leave off looking forward to it."

"Hear, hear!" chuckled the postman. "Not that I don't enjoy a cup of
coffee meself."

"It's in the winter you're a boon, Bill," said the police sergeant. "I
reckon it was Vine Street, during the blitz, made your fortune."

Sawby, red-faced, blue-eyed, and wearing a moustache resembling a
gnome's grotto, grinned appreciatively, clearing away empty cups and
plunging them into the washing tub.

"Some o' them mornings was shockin', wasn't they, sergeant?" remarked
Mrs. Ryley reflectively. "I won't never forget standin' at this 'ere
counter one Wen'sday and wonderin' what 'ad become of my offices. Clean
gone they was."

"Nothing left to scrub, what?" said the K.C. "Othello's occupation
gone."

A lorry pulled up. It had come from Southampton during the night, and
the driver and his mate climbed out of the cab, stretching their cramped
limbs, and joined the group at the stall.

"We ain't late for the news, Bill, are we?" asked the driver.

"Two minutes yet," was the prompt reply. "Bread and butter with yours?"

"Bread an' what!" growled the other. "Give it its right name, chum."

"Margarine is good for us, as a matter of fact; Lord Woolton told me
so," said Michael Corcoran. "Got to prefer it to butter, myself."

"Every man to his fancy," muttered the milkman. "But give me the stuff
what I used to bring round in the good old days. Cows makes better
butter than what coconut trees does."

Another customer appeared. He glanced in a doubtful way at the group
about the stall, and then diffidently joined it.

This was a young Royal Air Force officer, a tall slim fellow with the
lines of an athlete. He had dark brown wavy hair and very steadfast blue
eyes, beneath straight brows. But in the group about the stall, there
were two trained observers. The hair which showed beneath the new
arrival's cap was slightly dishevelled; his shoes were dirty; and
palpably he had not shaved that morning. This, in conjunction with the
type of man and the tradition of the Royal Air Force, gave rise to
speculation in the mind of the officer from Vine Street, and in that of
Michael Corcoran, K.C. Charitably, they formed identical, but inaccurate
deductions (a thick night); Corcoran furtively winked at the police
sergeant, and the sergeant winked back. They understood one another.

The young Flight Lieutenant ordered coffee, in a nervous manner,
glancing about him almost apologetically. Learned counsel, who noted his
accent, determined that the officer was a man of culture and a citizen
of the United States. However, as such was the rule at the Sawby Club,
no one paid any further attention to him, except Mrs. Ryley, who said:
"Good mornin', sir. Going to be 'ot, I fancy."

"Maybe you are right," he replied; and his momentary smile was that not
of a rather careworn man but that of a likeable boy.

Sawby turned on the radio. The young airman, making an effort to set
himself at ease, took out his cigarette case, and as Mrs. Ryley stood
immediately beside him, offered it to her.

"Thank you kindly, sir. But I don't 'old with ladies smokin' in public."

"That's too bad." He smiled again and lighted one himself, then returned
the case to his pocket as the announcer began to read the news bulletin.

This was commonplace enough, a brief and uninspiring report. Then,
nearly at the end, the following item occurred:--

"Listeners who are familiar with his popular postscripts will regret to
learn that Sir Giles Loeder was killed in the West End of London last
night in mysterious circumstances."

The effect of this announcement on the group in general was not marked
by any profound sympathy. Someone said, "Poor devil!" and someone else
said: "I heard 'im broadcast only last night." Sergeant Roper shook his
head. "Too many of these thugs getting busy in the black-out," he
muttered. "No news of the case when I left." But to this apathy the Air
Force pilot proved an exception.

He took so large a mouthful of hot coffee that he almost choked. Mrs.
Ryley helpfully patted him on the back. He thanked her, his eyes
streaming. As he had dropped his cigarette, he took out and lighted
another. Then, disposing of his nearly boiling coffee in huge gulps
until he had swallowed sufficient to justify his departure, with a
muttered "Good morning" he walked off.

Michael Corcoran, his distinguished features marked by a puzzled frown,
watched the slim blue figure seemingly dissolve into mist. At one moment
the man was there, then he began to fade; and before he had reached the
corner, he was gone ...

       *       *       *       *       *

Later still on this misty morning Fay Perigal, having changed into
uniform in the nurses' room at Otterly Hospital, looked up with a start,
for she had been in a reverie, as the door opened and the matron came
in.

"Good morning, dear," said Mrs. Maddison. "I expect you are rather
tired."

It was unusual for matron to address any of the nurses in her charge as
"dear," but Fay Perigal, perhaps because she was pretty, or because she
was highly efficient, or because (for these accidents are said to count)
she was related to the Marquis of Ord, had been a great favorite of Mrs.
Maddison's from the first.

She was "Nurse Perigal" in public, but "Fay," or "dear" in private.

"Yes, I am rather tired, matron. In many ways I had a dreadful time."

"Was it such a wild party?"

Mrs. Maddison, her beautiful graying hair never disarranged, her poise
unchangeably serene, permitted a worldly twinkle to animate her eyes
which few had seen there.

Fay shook her head. "No, it was gay enough, as wartime parties go. Julie
and I were at school together: I should have hated not to be there. But
first of all, owing to some mistake, and I am not blaming anybody, I
found myself alone in London with nowhere to sleep! And then--" she
repressed a shudder--"I found myself mixed up in a murder."

"A murder?" The twinkle disappeared from Mrs. Maddison's eyes; her
expression became one of some gravity.

"Yes. You see, in despair I went to my cousin's house."

"Lord Marcus Amberdale?"

"Yes, Marcus. It was pouring with rain, there wasn't a taxi in sight,
and I hoped to be able to slip in and sleep on the couch, or anywhere."

"At what time was this, dear? And how did you propose to slip in?"

"Oh, the door is always practically open--at least, everybody knows
where he keeps the key. But when I did get in, I found the place in the
hands of the police. There was a murdered man lying in the lobby!"

"Fay! whatever do you mean? What had happened?"

"Nobody knows what had happened. At least, no one knew up to the time
that I left this morning. Haven't you heard the news, matron?"

"No, I have not."

"It was Sir Giles Loeder."

"Dead?"

"Yes--murdered; at least they think so."

"Gracious heavens, child! Most charming man! Why, he was here only last
month. You yourself showed him round."

"I know I did."

Fay remembered telling the police that she had disliked Sir Giles. Now
she knew that she must not tell matron why: that in exercising his charm
upon Mrs. Maddison Sir Giles had been endeavoring to serve a purpose.
The reason of Fay's dislike was that Sir Giles had made urgent overtures
to his charming guide, pressing her to dine with him in London the same
night, and undertaking to use his influence to obtain the necessary
leave.

"But how perfectly terrible!"

"I can't tell you what it was like. As though I hadn't been unhappy
enough before."

"Unhappy, dear, about what?"

And now, without warning, as Mrs. Maddison watched, tears welled up in
Fay's eyes. "My dear, what is it?" The matron stooped and clasped the
girl's shoulders. "Whatever is the matter? Can't you tell me?"

"It's sweet of you," said Fay, exercising a tremendous effort and
conquering her weakness. "It is such an old story, and so silly. I
haven't the courage to tell you."

"Knowing you, dear, I am sure it is not silly, although it may be old."

"Well, you see--there's someone I am very fond of."

"Do I know him?"

Fay shook her head sadly.

"No, I don't think so. I don't mean that there was any understanding
between us; I just mean that I am in love with him. We are quite old
friends. We have known one another--oh, for ever so long. Somehow, very
stupidly, I sort of took it for granted that--"

"It isn't your special patient?"

Fay shook her head again. "No, it isn't Dan. Dan and I are old friends
too, as you know. But ours isn't that kind of friendship. I can't
imagine why I should bother you at all--but I just had to. You have
always been so kind to me, matron, always ready to help ... No, this is
someone you have never met, but someone I am desperately fond of. And at
the party, without wanting to know at all, I was just forced to hear the
story of his hopeless entanglement with a quite worthless girl."

"You mean she is not--"

"I believe you were going to say, 'a lady'. No, she is not. Worse than
that, she is not even straight. But he ... wants to marry her!"

"Oh, my dear! I think I understand. I am most terribly sorry. He must be
mad, whoever he is. For his own sake, as well as for yours, something
should be done to save him. Have you spoken to Lord Marcus about it?"

"No, I tried to, before I left this morning, but somehow it couldn't be
done. Besides--think of what happened there last night--"

"Good gracious, dear, of course! Even now, I find it hard to believe. Do
you mean that poor Sir Giles was actually murdered in your cousin's
house?"

Fay shook her head wearily. "No one knows. He was just found there." She
stood up resolutely, and faced the matron. "Thank you ever so much for
listening," she said. "Now really I must hurry along. I am late
already."

Mrs. Maddison observed that Fay's usually clear eyes were heavy. "Under
those circumstances, you poor child, you cannot possibly have slept
well."

"No. I am afraid I didn't sleep at all ..."




7

The Limping Man


In the office of the Assistant Commissioner, Chief Detective Inspector
Firth was making a report. The office of Colonel O'Halloran was a
comfortably furnished apartment, offering a marked contrast to that of
the Chief Inspector. It was more than half a library, having a thick
carpet and rugs on the floor, and pictures (chiefly of horses) on the
walls; a bright room on this sunny morning, its bay window commanding an
extensive view of the Thames.

Colonel O'Halloran, a small, slightly built man, wiry and brown faced,
thinning hair crowning a high forehead, wore an unmistakably horsey
suit. He had also those rather large, square hands which look as though
they were accustomed to managing horses, and he stood beside a slightly
untidy desk, tapping his fingers on the top, and shooting little
interrogatory glances from deep-set gray eyes at the Chief Inspector.
His nervous movements were interminable; for when he was not tapping his
prominent teeth he was tapping the desk, or filling a pipe, or rolling a
cigarette (he made his own) or toying with papers, or staring out of the
window.

"Cause of Sir Giles's death fully established; been confirmed by
specialists." The Assistant Commissioner spoke rapidly, in a high,
staccato, abbreviated manner. "Personal possessions appear to be intact.
Since they include wrist-watch, nearly twenty pounds ready money, may
dismiss robbery as motive."

Now, Firth was prepared to stand by his superior officer to the last
trench and the last shot; but he was not prepared always to agree with
him or even to pretend to do so. "In spite of which, sir," he said, "I
hold to the theory, wi' respect, that robbery _was_ the motive."

"Oh," said the colonel, blinking rapidly, "do you? Well--we shall see.
No discernible fingerprints on bell-push of Lord Marcus' house, or
elsewhere. Inquiries to confirm stories of Miss Fay Perigal and James
Wake, butler, already afoot. Regarding Lord Marcus, must confess my mind
divided."

"So is mine, sir," said Firth.

"Formerly in same regiment in Egypt. We were both with Allenby. Up to
time that he left the Army, knew Amberdale well. Always eccentric. Too
much money for a young man, as he was then. First-rate horseman, better
than myself, and I was pretty hot. Won classic events on his own mounts.
Then, suddenly, gave it all up--same time he gave up the Army."

"If I don't interrupt you, sir, am I right in supposing that he was also
a good boxer?"

"All-round athlete, Firth. All-round man. Oh! I see what you're driving
at. Stupid of me. Thinking of the bruise, described by Fawcett as
'bluish contusion' which he found above Sir Giles's heart? Result of a
powerful blow, he suggests. Don't believe Amberdale would deny it, if
he'd done it. However--where was I? Oh, yes, Amberdale. Well, something
overtook him. Went in for queer studies. Disappeared for years. Told he
was living in solitude, somewhere up Nile Valley. Apart from social
occasions, here and there, seen practically nothing of him since those
days. Of one thing am sure: Amberdale is no liar--but he may be mad."

"That is what I was thinking, sir."

"Keep his address out of it if you can. Tell 'em the body was taken to
house in West End and dumped there."

Firth frowned. "I'll do my best, sir. But you know what Fleet Street is
like! Then there is this Mrs. Vane."

"Whatever his interest in Mrs. Vane, Firth, doubt if of amorous nature.
Never was a skirt hunter, never. Women used to chase _him_.
Astonishingly handsome man in young days. Not so bad now, I believe. But
Mrs. Vane, well--"

"Sergeant Bluett has her record, sir," said Firth dourly.

"Yes, he would have. One doesn't want to be rude, but we are dealing
with a murder charge, and--er--she is very little better than society
courtesan, you know. Mixed up with all sorts of men, as well as poor
Charlie Vane. Mug to marry her. You tell me her evidence was
unsatisfactory?"

"Well, sir--" Firth leaned forward in his chair, resting long, sensitive
hands upon bony knees--"strictly speaking, it wasn'a evidence at a'. She
had joined Lord Marcus that night for the purpose of whatever
mumbo-jumbo they had in hand, and they had dined together ... When I say
'dined,' according to the lady's statement, confirmed by Wake, the
repast consisted of some kind o' specially baked wheaten bread--"

"Dealings with black market," smiled the Assistant Commissioner. "Where
the devil does Amberdale get wheat?"

"Aye, it's a fact, sir. But such was their dinner, wi' fresh fruit and
cold water. Wake left them, and according to Mrs. Vane's account, she
then 'devoted herself to the Rites.' That's what she told me. They both
talk verra freely about the Rites, whatever the Rites may be. She claims
to remember nothing fro' the time these Rites began until she was
awakened by Lord Marcus--that is, more than an hour after the crime was
discovered."

The Assistant Commissioner crossed and stared out of the window,
apparently fascinated by the spectacle of a stream of barges laden with
cement being towed down the river. When he spoke, he spoke over his
shoulder:

"Dr. Fawcett is quite satisfied this state of hypnosis or trance, or
whatever it is, was authentic?"

"Quite so, sir. As far as that goes, speaking unprofessionally, Mrs.
Vane was certainly in a verra queer state."

"Yes, yes. Just run through that part of your report again, Firth. Seem
to recall something--"

The Chief Inspector opened a notebook, glancing across at the check back
of the speaker. "You mean, Mrs. Vane's reference to a limping man?"

"That's it." Colonel O'Halloran turned, and producing from one pocket a
quantity of tobacco which presumably he kept there loose, and from
another a packet of cigarette papers, he began with great skill to
manufacture a cigarette. "Limping man: that's what stuck in my mind."

"Aye, it was certainly queer," Firth admitted, studying his notes.
"Weel, Mrs. Vane was presently produced by Lord Marcus, as I told ye.
She came out wrapped in a fur coat of a verra costly character. Sergeant
Bluett tells me it is chinchilla--"

"Poor old Amberdale," murmured the colonel, biting ragged ends from his
cigarette and snapping a lighter into action.

"Dr. Fawcett made her over, and assured me that she had been under the
influence of drugs--"

"What drugs?"

"On that point he remained uncertain, sir. I questioned her closely, but
her manner was vague to the point o' imbecility. She was like a body
talking in her sleep. Lord Marcus insisted that she must not be asked to
see the dead man, and as Dr. Fawcett supported him, I had the body
removed before she came in. She admitted, however, wi'out any pressure
on my part, that she had known Sir Giles weel at one time. She stated
that she had not seen him for six months or more. Then came her words to
which you refer, sir. She seemed to come over whimsy--kind o' fey; and
she exclaimed:

"'He was there while I was in the shrine! He kept coming between me and
the path. I see him now--there, outside the door!'" Firth was reading
from notes. "'The limping man, wi' blood on his hands ...'"

"H'm," muttered Colonel O'Halloran; "and you say that Amberdale tried to
gather exact details?"

"He did, sir. But Mrs. Vane assured him that she could not see, or could
not remember any more."

"Very odd. One wonders if there's anything in it." The colonel sat down,
but immediately stood up again. "Sir Giles occupied small service flat,
not far away. You tell me the people there have no idea when he set out.
No evidence to show, either, where he was coming from at time he met his
death. Usual calls sent around taxi depts, I take it?"

"Yes, sir; I am awaiting results. I am also checking up on James Wake,
of course. I examined the door of the house, the steps, and immediate
approaches. But it had rained during the night, and quite briefly, I
found nothing. The remarkable custom of Lord Marcus--I mean leaving his
key outside--complicates the matter to no sma' degree."

"Lord Marcus has done almost everything in his life to complicate
matters, Inspector." The colonel turned and stared at Firth, his eyes
bright, restless and continually blinking. "Don't think you need bother
much about Miss Perigal. She will be his second cousin: his first cousin
Geraldine married Commander Stephen Perigal. This girl will be their
daughter. Should be a fine type, but never met her."

"I should say, sir, that as they come nowadays, she is a verra nice
girl."

The Assistant Commissioner nodded. "Well, case in your hands, Firth, and
I wish you luck of it. Most mysterious. May be superstitious: Irish
heritage; but can't help thinking about one thing."

"That being, sir?"

"Limping man, with blood on his hands ... look out for the fellow,
Firth--look out for him."




8

Concerning Taxi Drivers


On regaining his own office, Firth found Sergeant Bluett there. Bluett
was leaning on the mantelpiece staring down at the empty grate. He
turned as the Chief Inspector entered.

"Have ye got in touch with Gaston Max, Bluett, about that sma' matter?"

Sergeant Bluett took out a newspaper and rolled it very tightly: Gaston
Max was a sore point with Sergeant Bluett. "Not in his office. Probably
making inquiries at the Mansion House, disguised as the Lord Mayor," he
said with heavy sarcasm.

Firth stared hard. "Your conception of humor is not mine," he replied
dourly. "Any news fro' the taxi depts?"

"A taximan has come along," Bluett reported. "He is downstairs now. So I
told them to ask him to wait till you came back. I think we had better
have him up."

"Anything to help us?"

"So they say downstairs." Bluett crossed to the desk and indicated a
slip of paper. "He says that he picked up a woman passenger near the
scene of the crime, not long before it occurred. She was seen off by a
man whose description seems to tally with that of Sir Giles."

Inspector Firth sat down and studied the slip, then slowly nodded his
head. He picked up the telephone ...

Less than two minutes later came a rap on the door.

"Come in," called Firth.

The door was opened by a constable in uniform. "The taxi driver you
asked to see, sir."

As the taxi driver entered, the constable went out, closing the door.
Bluett, who had resumed his favorite pose by the mantelpiece, turned,
resting on his elbow, and contemplated the new arrival, whom Firth,
also, was studying critically.

The man wore a rusty blue suit and a muffler in lieu of a collar. His
hands were exceptionally dirty. In one of them he held a peaked cap. He
had an unshaven face, pouchy eyes, and a bulbous looking nose. His
untidy hair might have reminded a gardener of a dying dahlia: it was of
reddish brown color and quite uncombed.

"Good mornin', guv'nor," he said cheerily to the Chief Inspector, and
nodded, grinning to Bluett. One saw that he had brilliantly white teeth,
apparently natural.

"I understand," Firth began, "that your name is Peter Finch, and that
you have a statement to make." He took up the slip from his desk. "The
matter is of no special importance, mark you, but it may have a bearing
upon other matters that are. You say that about ten minutes past one
last night, you picked up a lady at the Berkeley Square end of Bruton
Street?"

"That's right, guv'nor."

"She was accompanied by a man who saw her off. Now--" he laid down the
slip:--"Describe to me verra carefully, first, the lady, then the man."

"Well, the bird was a peach, guv'nor. A bit of dark stuff, with lily
white skin. She was in evenin' dress, so I had a good dekko--see what I
mean? 'Er 'air was black and all beautiful waves, and she 'ad big dark
eyes and a great big smile, and the kind of legs what only grows in
'ollywood. At least, I used to think so. Speakin' for meself, I should
say A.1. with knobs on."

"Well, go ahead."

"The man wore evenin' clothes, too; one o' these 'ere button-over dinner
coats--Tuxedo. Smart 'e was, and likewise very posh, more posh than the
bird. 'E didn't seem to want to let 'er go. But she wouldn't listen to
no argument; and after kissin' 'er with great gusto, 'e shoved 'er in me
taxi and then kissed 'er again. 'Er name was Darling Rita."

"I see. Where did you take her?"

"I took 'er to a block o' flats in King's Road, Chelsea, guv'nor. But
'aving 'ad me little lark, so to speak, I think we might as well discuss
this 'ere matter more on the level."

Whereupon, brushing back the untidy tangle from his forehead, and
apparently by means of relaxing certain muscles and removing some
substance from his jaws, another face, a totally different face, peered
out through the bulbous mask of Peter Finch. This was a notably mobile
face, and its present expression was impishly mischievous. Sergeant
Bluett ran his fingers through upstanding hair, and his boyish eyes
expressed an astonishment so profound that it was comical. Chief
Inspector Firth gave no sign. He sat there, square chin resting in
upraised hands, and merely watched the transformed man.

"Gaston Max!" muttered Bluett. "Well, I'll be--"

"But, Friar Tuck, my old friend! Surely you know me, eh?"

Sergeant Bluett put his newspaper in another pocket, drew out a large
white handkerchief, and blew his nose. It was true that he was known at
Scotland Yard as Friar Tuck, although the origin of this soubriquet had
become lost in obscurity, but its use by Gaston Max represented the last
straw.

"There have been occasions, Mr. Max," said Chief Inspector Firth, and
the strength of his Scottish accent indicated the depth of his
resentment, "when I ha' felt called upon to point out to ye that if the
Paris Service is run on the lines of a Hollywood musical, Scotland Yard
is more consairvative."

"Ah! but Inspector Firth, my old, you do both Paris and myself a grave
injustice."

The speaker's manner, accent (that of a Frenchman speaking English
perfectly, except for unusual idioms, and with an uncommon intonation)
ill-befitted the character which the distinguished investigator had
assumed. It was difficult to understand, now that he had abandoned his
impersonation, how one could have accepted as authentic pouches under
the eyes which were obviously artificial, as well as those other
physical eccentricities which characterised Mr. Peter Finch. Sergeant
Bluett put his newspaper on the mantelpiece without removing a disgusted
stare from the face of the French detective.

"What I don't understand," he remarked, "is why, if you can speak
Cockney (although, mark you, I thought there was something phony about
it) you can't speak proper English."

This deliberate _casus belli_ Chief Inspector Firth scotched
immediately.

"I might point out, Bluett," he said, "that we all have our own ideas
regarding proper English. Aye, man, Max--" a smile softened the severity
of the hazel eyes--"ye're nothing but a monkey. But I confess that your
impersonations astound me. I would only add that I consider them
unnecessary."

"But no, my old, how wrong you are! When the biography of Gaston Max
comes to be written, then you will see that if I had followed the
traditional path which you follow obediently, and I think with such
excellent results, I should not at this moment know so much about the
affairs of the lamented Sir Giles. Ah! no, no, it is an old trick of
mine, that taxicab. It is my shrimping net. Always I have the flag down
when it suits me. Always I am ready for a fare I am looking for. And so
it was last night."

"It is clear to me," Firth admitted, "that you ha' got hold of a clue
which may lead us somewheres. We know that this Rita--"

"Darling Rita," Max corrected.

"We know that this girl was with Sir Giles just before he was killed.
But he may have merely picked her up."

"Not at all--not at all." Max's gestures were eloquent. "She had gone to
meet him at the B.B.C."

"How do you know that?" Bluett asked, his ingenuous eyes very widely
opened.

"I took her to meet him."

"What!"

"This, I admit, was an accident, but it is a fact nevertheless. I picked
her up near Oxford Circus and drove her to the B.B.C. I did not know she
had gone to meet Sir Giles, but I saw them come out together."

"You mean you were waiting outside?" Firth asked curiously.

"But certainly. And they came out together. I was unlucky, however.
Someone, perhaps an artiste, I cannot say, the night was dark, gave them
a lift; and although I tried to follow, a traffic block played geese and
ganders with me. But, you understand, I had an idea roughly, where they
had gone, and upon this idea I acted. I waited at a point d'appui,
always with my flag down, hoping that this loving two would presently
come out again. And they did. That was when I drove Darling Rita to
King's Road, Chelsea. It is strange, is it not, my old? I am working
upon another case altogether--one so important--and I cross yours! Eh?
strange!"

Firth continued to rest his elbows on the desk and his chin in his
hands. "It may be fortunate. We must find out who this girl is."

"I have found out."

"What!"

"I discovered it this morning. She is called Rita Martin. She has a
small flat at the address to which I drove her, and she is employed at
Simone's, the Court hairdressers. One thing I would advise: Be subtle,
be sly. No clumsy interrogations and writing in notebooks. You have
clever women here. Send one to Simone's. For my own sake, also, I ask
it. To frighten Darling Rita might destroy my own case as well as
yours. Eh bien! I leave her to you. I am useful, is it not so? But there
is something else."

"Something else?" muttered Bluett suspiciously.

"But yes, something else, Friar Tuck, my old. When poor Sir Giles saw
off Darling Rita in my taxi, he was constrained, in order that he might
suitably embrace her, to place a small brown leather portfolio upon the
running board."

"A portfolio?" Firth suddenly stood up, a tall, dominating figure. "You
are sure of that, Max?"

"Always I observe with some accuracy, my respected. Yes, he picked it up
and with it he waved, as I drove my taxi away. And now--I must depart."
He made certain rapid adjustments and moved towards the door. "I drive
back to the mews where I keep my cab. I return to my base. I cease to be
Peter Finch. I become again Gaston Max."

"Wait a minute, Max." Gaston Max paused, smiling back at Firth. "There's
one feature of your make-up that quite defeats me. Ye are all of an inch
shorter! How is it done?"

Max stooped and pulled off one very dirty shoe. This he offered to the
Chief Inspector. "The heels of Peter Finch rest almost on the ground.
See! This shoe is made for that purpose. Finch is a short fellow. How
complete is the artistry of this Gaston Max, is it not so?"

The scene possessed elements of the grotesque; indeed, to Firth's
orderly mind, of the indecent. He was about to say as much, when Max,
replacing his shoe, spoke again.

"Be, oh so careful, my old. Something much more important than the
death of Sir Giles Loeder--something, my faith! that may cause the death
of us all!--is concerned; something so difficult and dangerous that I,
myself, am confused ..."




9

Simone's


Simone's world famous establishment to which the attention of Scotland
Yard now became directed, had fallen upon evil days; Simone's was making
heavy weather in wartime waters. Many of those perfectly groomed young
men and expert hairdressers who formerly had waited upon titled clients,
alas, waited upon them no longer. And as for the maestro himself, the
great Simone (who bore so conspicuous a resemblance to Velasquez), M.
Simone had never attended any but princesses of the blood and one or two
highly favored members of the peerage. Lady hairdressers, attractive,
dexterous and possessed of impeccable manners, had largely supplanted
male artists.

Nevertheless, although premises immediately right and left had been
swept from the map of Old London, Simone's was still Simone's. In the
shop on the ground floor, invariably referred to as the Salon, seductive
show cases, their plate glass windows glittering like crystal, enshrined
exquisite vials for containing perfumes of Paris and the Orient. But
(alas again) assuming that they contained anything but colored water
these delicate flasks were not for sale: they were museum pieces,
taunting memories, high lights on a glowing canvas which the vulgar
brush of Hitler had expunged.

The French receptionist, Mademoiselle Dorine, was still at her post;
black gowned, discreet, accustomed to those little commissions from
titled clients which bore no relation to hairdressing or manicure. The
Commissionaire, Sergeant Smith, continued to meet all cars and
carriages; for two grandes dames at least who patronised this long
established business sometimes arrived in Edwardian fashion. But
upstairs, presiding over the cubicles which had accommodated so much
nobility, were the houris whom Smith (his ribbons included the South
African war) described as the Beauty Chorus.

Simone's young ladies certainly were well chosen, possessing both skill
and comely appearance. That they had not been gathered into those
uniformed ranks which had claimed so many of their generation, indicated
that Simone had influential friends, or else, that the young ladies had.

There were, however, slack hours in the famous house which formerly it
had never known, although Mlle. Dorine in making appointments, permitted
no hint of this tragedy to reach a client. And it was during one of
these intervals, when actually there was not a customer in the building,
that the young lady known as Miss Rita, Simone's most trusted
hairdresser, sank down into a charmingly upholstered settee in a lobby
upstairs upon which the cubicles opened.

Recessed between two slender buhl cabinets containing alluring exhibits,
lip sticks, powder puffs, cigarette lighters, sealed and tasselled cut
glass containers, reliquaries for Attar of Rose, of Jasmine, indeed a
hundred and one trifles to threaten a woman's soul (but none of them for
sale), this settee was sacred to clients. Since no client was present,
Rita took advantage of the fact.

She wore a spotless white coat over her frock, and lighting a cigarette
which she took from a pocket in this coat, she then drew out an early
edition of an evening paper, a gesture which could not have failed to
remind one, who had known him, of Detective-Sergeant Bluett. She began
to read an account of the mysterious death of Sir Giles Loeder; and as
she read there were tears in her eyes which a lover might have likened
to dew on brown pansies.

As a matter of fact, Rita had been puzzling over certain problems ever
since she had heard that morning (she listened to the seven o'clock news
bulletin from her bath) that Sir Giles had been killed. Would she be
dragged into it? Who knew that she had been with him? Of those who knew,
which would be likely to say so?

Some slight movement in one of the cubicles was presently explained by
the appearance of another of Simone's young ladies who had been tidying
up after a departing client. Whereas Rita wore her jet black curls in a
compact mass, Miss Dora, an ash blonde, had apparently taken the
Horseshoe Falls at Niagara as her model. One guessed, however, that she
stressed a slight likeness to a prominent film actress. Drawing the
curtains behind her, she approached Rita.

"Move up, dear," she said. "I can do with a flop, myself."

And any client accustomed to Miss Dora's refined accents must have been
surprised to note what a difference occurred off-duty. Rita, still
reading, moved petulantly to one end of the settee, the carved arms of
which each supported a little jewelled ashtray attached by an
embroidered band. Mechanically she knocked ash into that nearer to her,
but made no reply.

Miss Dora, lighting a cigarette in turn, glanced inquiringly at her
friend, who, her reading completed, put the newspaper on the cushions
beside her, and stared vacantly into space.

"Something bothering you, dear?"

"Yes." Rita nodded. In repose, the expression of her full lips was
somewhat sullen. "I'm worried to death and fed up to the teeth."

"Oh, if that's all," said Dora, "we are all fed up. This swell place I'd
heard so much about before I came here ain't all honey, is it? Might as
well be in the army, _I_ say. What with _her_ ("Her" signified Mlle.
Dorine) and _him_ (Monsieur) well--"

"I didn't mean just Simone's. Everything in the world has gone wrong
with me."

"Not much else left to go wrong, then?"

"Don't be funny, Dora. I don't feel a bit comic to-day."

"Your humor's your own business, dear," said Dora brightly. "I was only
being friendly."

"No offence, Dora." Rita turned and patted her friend's shoulder. "But
you don't understand what a mess I am in."

"Mess?"

"Just that: a mess--a bloody mess."

The atmosphere of the lobby, faintly redolent of long vanished
essences, mingled with more antiseptic odors, not, however, displeasing,
seemed to Dora to become charged with menace, as she watched the gloomy
face of her companion. Dora had come from an exclusive establishment on
the south coast, Rita, from a high-class suburban hairdresser's. Both
selected by the unerring eye of the maestro, their friendship had dated
only from their arrival at Simone's, but it had progressed to a point
where they had few secrets from one another. And so Dora thought that
she had divined the cause of her friend's gloom.

"Is it Dick?" she asked. "Has he done the dirty?"

Rita shook her head, so that some of the little tufty curls danced
fascinatingly. "No, but he 'phoned up more than a week ago to say he
expected leave: since then, I have heard nothing whatever about him."

"Perhaps his leave was cancelled."

"Why didn't he write and say so, or call me? No. I believe he got his
leave all right."

"What makes you think so?"

"Well--" Rita hesitated. "I've got an idea, only an idea, mind you, that
I saw him ... one night."

"Up in town?"

"Yes. Of course, I may have been wrong; but I've 'phoned everywhere I
can think of, and nobody seems to know what has become of him."

"Did you 'phone his station?"

"Not likely. I got a proper tick-off last time I tried. But there's
something very funny about it."

"I am sorry, dear. Dick was a snip, and they tell me Americans make
wonderful husbands." She picked up the paper which Rita had dropped,
and, glancing at it, seemed to become inspired. Rita, who possessed
many qualities essential to the set-up of a good little business woman,
had observed a tactful reticence regarding her relations with Sir Giles.
Vanity, however, had prompted her to let Dora know that that notability
took an interest in her affairs.

"Rita!" Dora raised her long, beautifully blackened lashes, and stared
open-eyed at her friend. "What a damn fool I am! It isn't Dick you're
bothering about at all. It's Sir Giles! Oh, I'm deaf, dumb and blind!
Good lord! I should think you are worrying. I should worry, too. That
kind don't grow on gooseberry bushes."

Rita nodded. "No. It's going to make a hell of a difference. I can't
afford to lose Dick, now."

"But, Rita, when did you see Sir Giles last? It says here he was carried
to a house in the West End where the body was discovered later."

"Why--" Rita checked herself--"why, only a few nights ago."

"Not--"

A bell rang, and light footsteps might be heard on the carpeted stair.
By means of minor conjuring tricks, both girls "vanished" their
cigarettes. They were standing facing the staircase when Mlle. Dorine
appeared.

"Lady Huskin is here, Miss Rita. Are you ready?"

It was a formula, and Rita forced a smile--and a "refined" accent.
"Quite ready, ma'm'selle."

Ma'm'selle sniffed suspiciously, and then, "I have just booked a client
for you, Miss Dora," she added, "who will be here at any moment; a Mrs.
Jameson for manicure." She turned, for voices might be heard.

Lady Huskin (wife of the first baron) made her entrance. She had
retained much of that girlish figure for which formerly she had been
celebrated. Her suit was perfectly tailored, the skirt coquettishly
short. As she was on the short side herself, the heels of her shoes were
exceptionally high, so that her cautious gait resembled that of a hen.
Her complexion was radiant, for she made up artistically, and her face
wore a girlish smile, but her brown eyes (she had slightly overhanging
lids, by some said to denote sensuality) did not seem to share in the
fun. As for Lady Huskin's hair, dressed high on her head, it was of
purest guinea gold.

"Oh, Miss Rita!" she exclaimed, breathing rather heavily, "I simply
could not wait another day. My hair is a fright."

"I think your hair looks beautiful, my lady."

Rita's change of voice, of accent, of manner, must have seemed magical
to one who had overheard her recent conversation. To Dora it was a
professional commonplace, which, discreetly effacing herself, she did
not even notice.

As Lady Huskin advanced to the cubicle, one curtain of which Rita
deferentially held aside, a second figure appeared on the stairhead,
that of a smartly dressed chauffeur, a fair young man, spruce and of
good figure. He carried a number of illustrated periodicals, an attach
case, and a toy dog whose golden-brown countenance and protuberant eyes
might have reminded an irreverent critic of those of Lady Huskin.

These properties being suitably disposed in the cubicle, Rita brought a
cushion for the greater convenience of Dandini, the dog; and the good
looking chauffeur, behind Lady Huskin's back, took advantage of this
opportunity to squeeze Rita. Rita responded with a glance from her bold
eyes which might have shrivelled a lesser man: it merely induced the
chauffeur to wink and to contract his lips in the form of a kiss. Having
placed upon a small table within easy reach of Lady Huskin's carefully
manicured plump hand, her cigarette case, lighter, and other small
comforts, the chauffeur retired.

Preparations were made for the ceremony of the shampoo, but before these
were completed, Dandini displayed symptoms of dissatisfaction which
attracted his mistress's attention.

"Oh, the poor little beastie! He is telling me that I have forgotten his
saucer of tea. He so looks forward to his saucer of tea when he comes
here, Miss Rita. Do please get it for him."

"Certainly, my lady; I will ask them to make some tea downstairs. You
would like a cup yourself, no doubt, later."

"No, not yet. Just make a cup for Dandini."

"At once, my lady"; and Rita was about to go when Lady Huskin detained
her.

"Oh, just a moment. Would you give me my notebook and pencil."

A small notebook with tear-out leaves, the cover emblazoned with a
glittering crest, was produced from the handbag, and Lady Huskin
scribbled a note.

"Please ask Sergeant Smith to give that to Payne. He is to deliver it at
once and bring me the reply, here, immediately."

"Yes, my lady."

These matters being arranged, the shampoo actually commenced, very soon
to be interrupted, however, by the appearance of Dora, her blonde
countenance registering strong disapproval. She carried a saucer of tea
and a sheet of newspaper, which she placed on the floor.

"Oh, you are sure it is not too hot?" asked Lady Huskin. "The poor
little beastie hates scalding his wee tongue."

"No, my lady." The girl dipped her finger in the saucer. "It is just the
right temperature."

"Oh, thank you so much. There, Dandini, darling, that is what you
wanted."

As Dandini superciliously surveyed the offering, then walked around it
thoughtfully and with a certain grave suspicion, Lady Huskin's faulty
memory divulged a second oversight.

"Oh, good gracious! I do hate to bother you, my dear. But we have
forgotten the sweet biscuits. How silly of us!"

"I will see what I can do, my lady."

Dora's expression as she retired from the cubicle indicated that several
ideas on this subject had presented themselves to her mind. Further
suggestions were made by Sergeant Smith (instructed to obtain biscuits
from a neighboring store). These suggestions included rat poison. "Some
people don't know there's a war on," he remarked. "There's others--one
of them's upstairs now--who ought to be dropped by parachute on the
Russian front so they can find out."

"Sweet biscuits!" hissed Dora, studying a book of ration-cards. "Bang go
my last three points, bless her!"

However, in due course the shampoo was resumed, and operations were not
again suspended until Payne, the chauffeur, returned with a message
which he delivered personally. This related to dance shoes and coupons,
and was entirely unsatisfactory.

"Oh, but how preposterous!" Lady Huskin exclaimed, raising her head from
the basin, to reveal the fact that under Rita's treatment it now
resembled a large and overblown cauliflower. "Lord Huskin will be
furious."

Payne was despatched with a second message, and the shampoo was resumed
once more. Mlle. Dorine might be heard announcing: "Mrs. Jameson for
you, Miss Dora," her words being followed by movement and voices in an
adjoining cubicle. Then, Mademoiselle, discreetly knocking, entered that
occupied by Lady Huskin.

"Here are the sweet biscuits, my lady. There is a call for you on the
telephone. I said I would inquire."

"Who is it?" Lady Huskin demanded from the depths.

"Mr. Olivar, my lady."

The cauliflower head was raised again. "Bring in the 'phone."

"I regret, my lady, that the extensions are out of order. It will be
necessary for you to use the instrument in the lobby."

"Horror! Preposterous! Oh, very well--put the call through at once to
the lobby. Miss Rita, get me a towel as I must go to the 'phone."

"I am afraid I must rinse your hair first, my lady."

"Not at all--not at all! when I come back! Give me a towel. Please put
the call through at once."

Hurrying footsteps, discreet instructions; and Lady Huskin, her head
enveloped in a vast white towel which lent her the appearance of a
eunuch, hurried as quickly as high heels would permit, across the lobby
to a side-table on which a telephone stood. Mlle. Dorine, making sure
that the caller was connected, placed the instrument in Lady Huskin's
hand, and withdrew. As her ladyship took it up:

"Don't forget to give Dandini his biscuits," she called.

Mrs. Jameson, the only other client present, being manicured by Miss
Dora, was evidently chatting with that somewhat frigid blonde, since the
tones of a more cultured voice from the cubicle became silent as though
the speaker found herself stupefied by a monologue which now began at
the telephone.

"Teddie darling. How simply sweet of you. How did you find out I was
here?... Oh, I see. Are you coming along for me? Oh! What's that,
darling ... Isn't it simply terrible ... Sir Giles was so completely
charming ... Yes, he was a dear ... Oh, I was horrified when I read it
this morning. Whatever can have happened? It makes me simply terrified
to move out after dark ... Yes, Teddie darling ... Must have been a
dreadful shock to that fascinating Mrs. Destre ... They seemed to be
such old friends ... Oh, yes, I realised that, Teddie. I thought she was
most charming to you, too. But then, she's very pretty, isn't she?"

Complete silence reigned in the cubicle occupied by Mrs. Jameson. The
'phone conversation continued.

"To think we were all together last night and having such a good time.
Then, such a horrible thing to happen ... No, I don't quite know how
long I shall be, darling. Miss Rita--you know, the brunette, who is
attending to me--seems a little distrait to-day, I thought. Something on
her mind, yes ... Oh! sure to be a love affair ... What do you say? Good
heavens! really! No, I didn't see her. You think he kept her out of the
way when he found that I was there, you mean?... Yes, I understand,
darling. Poor dear Sir Giles, he was always so tactful."

Lady Huskin's white turban had begun to slip forward, and she had soap
in her eyes; but she persevered, undeterred by these minor difficulties.

"But doesn't he play for terribly high stakes? And wins, too. Oh,
Teddie! listen! It has just occurred to me. Do you think he was
robbed?... Yes, darling, it is quite possible, isn't it ... I did enjoy
the game. Now that one can't get to Monte Carlo, and all that ... Yes,
it was fun. But how his death must have alarmed poor Mrs. Destre. Yes,
of course, it would. They have to be careful, don't they. But there
_will_ be another roulette game, dear?... Oh, that's lovely ... Of
_course_ you can't tell me on the 'phone. I realise that, Teddie
darling. But you will let me know, then we can dine together and go on
later ... Yes, I should simply love it ... Of course I will bring plenty
of money ... Yes, I promise ... Oh, I know there's no fun unless one has
plenty of money ... Very well. In the Ritz Bar, darling, when I have had
my hair done. Good-bye, Teddie darling."

When presently Mrs. Jameson left, which she did some time before Lady
Huskin, one saw that she was a tweed clad, middle-aged lady, with tanned
complexion, who wore sensible shoes and economy stockings; the wife of a
country doctor, or possibly of a clergyman, up in town for the day.




10

Reports and Theories


Sergeant Bluett walked into Chief Inspector Firth's office and placed a
bulky volume upon the desk before the Chief Inspector. Bluett's manner
was abstracted; one would have said that his thoughts were far away. And
that such indeed was the case presently appeared, for Firth, glancing at
the volume, raised his eyes, lids contracted and stared at his
assistant.

"Ye may recall, Bluett, that I asked you to bring me from the library
the latest edition of Burke's Peerage. This is Who's Who."

"So it is!" Bluett stared down at the volume with ingenuous surprise.
"Funny thing of me to do, bringing Who's Who."

"Ye'll never know who's who," said the Chief Inspector, "until ye know
what's what. However, as it happens, I can make do with this."

"You see," Bluett went on apologetically, "I was thinking about
something else."

"A recognised formula for success."

"Well, I've been checking up on Mrs. Vane. You know my theory of the
crime? Well, what I've found out supports it."

"Indeed! is that so?"

"Yes. She used to be Sir Giles Loeder's mistress."

"Are you sure?" The Inspector's tawny eyes challenged him.

"I confirmed it by going through the files of social paragraphs from the
Riviera. Sir Giles took a villa for her at Cannes in 1937. She lived
there during that winter. As I take it she is practically living with
Lord Marcus now, looks as though I might have found something out."

"And it looks as though you might not. If your idea is that Lord Marcus
killed Sir Giles in a fit of jealousy, where does the missing portfolio
come in? Furthermore, where did the struggle take place? There was no
sign of a struggle in the lobby!"

"The portfolio might have been lost between the time that Max saw Sir
Giles, and the time that Sir Giles met Lord Marcus. He had a service
flat not three hundred yards away. It might even have been left there."

"You were there yoursel' this morning. Did you find it?"

Sergeant Bluett took an evening paper from his left-hand coat pocket and
put it in the right. "No," he confessed. "I found nothing in the way of
evidence. There never was such a man for locking things up, I should
think--and until we have authority we can't open his bureau or his
safe."

"We'll get the authority," said Firth, "but I doubt if we'll find the
portfolio."

"H'm!" said Bluett, "you may be right. Have you heard from Lady Loeder?"

"Yes," the Chief Inspector nodded. "It seems that she has been more or
less an invalid for some time. She lived at Llandudno, apart from her
late husband, except when he visited her there, which, I gather, was
verra seldom. It is clear enough, Bluett, that he led a double life."

"That's right," said Bluett; "married to the daughter of a Cabinet
Minister, too."

"Aye, it's a fact."

"There's altogether something too mysterious," continued Bluett, "about
Lord Marcus, and all his friends and relations. I called at the
Clarking's house in Grosvenor Square where Mrs. Wake acts as caretaker,
but she was out. I could get no reply. I am going back again. Wake is as
tight as a limpet, but his wife may spill a thing or two about him."

"You think he knows more than he has told us?"

"Well, he's a sly looking bird, and I am not satisfied that Sir Giles
hadn't been there before. I should like a long talk with Mrs. Vane, but
I don't want to make her suspicious."

"No."

Firth rested his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands in that
characteristic attitude of his. "It would be a mistake."

"Then there's this Nurse Perigal. I thought of looking her up."

"The Chief assures me that she may be left out o' the case. You must
remember, Bluett, that he knows the family weel, and we are skating on
thin ice in dealing wi' them. Go and see if you can find Mrs. Wake;
that might be worth while."

The 'phone rang, and, raising the instrument:

"Yes?" said the Chief Inspector. "Please show her to my office."

And so a moment after Bluett had gone out, Mrs. Jameson came in, and
smiled across at Chief Inspector Firth.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jameson."

"Good evening, Inspector Firth."

"Won't you please sit down?"

Mrs. Jameson did so with a manner of great composure, took out a small
notebook, and began immediately to speak.

"I don't know if I should have found anything out, Inspector, if luck
hadn't helped me."

"Luck solves most of our cases, or such is my own experience," said
Firth.

"You underrate yourself," she smiled. "Well, as I was saying, what
really helped me was a visit from Lady Huskin."

The Chief Inspector raised his eyes. "Wife of Lord Huskin of the Food
Ministry?"

"Yes, quite unmistakably. She referred to her husband several times, and
always she called him Lord Huskin."

Chief Inspector Firth grinned appreciatively, showing his lower teeth,
and Mrs. Jameson laughed outright, a silvery laugh which was most
infectious.

"I listened to a conversation with the girl called Rita, but except that
she was obviously worried about something, I might not have learned much
if it had not been for a telephone conversation which Lady Huskin
carried on with someone called Teddie Olivar."

"You have a note of the name?"

"Yes, I have all the notes. From this conversation, which was not
disguised in any way, I learned that Lady Huskin and Teddie Olivar had
been at a roulette party."

"Roulette!" the Inspector exclaimed, his tawny eyes lighting up.

"Yes; I thought it was a trifle significant, particularly as it appears
that Sir Giles Loeder was there, too."

"Gad!" said the Inspector, bringing one long, powerful hand down upon
the desk. "We are making headway."

"I gathered that this girl, Rita, was actually with Sir Giles at the
party. It seems to have been given by someone called Mrs. Destre."

"Destre! that settles it. That's something we wanted to know. Go ahead,
Mrs. Jameson. I have a quantity o' material about Destre."

"I am glad to hear it," she went on quietly, "because there is to be
another roulette party. I rather thought, but I cannot be sure, that it
will take place on Wednesday night, at a different address. I think it
possible that Lady Huskin's chauffeur (his name is Payne) might be
useful in learning this address: but he would have to be approached
tactfully." She glanced at her notes. "Lady Huskin suggested to Teddie,
the man to whom she was talking, that as Sir Giles played for high
stakes and seemed to win, he might have had money in his possession on
the night of his murder."

"My own theory," murmured Firth.

"It seems to be a fairly good theory, Inspector. Lady Huskin, when she
returned to her cubicle, which adjoined mine, taxed this girl Rita about
her friendship with Sir Giles. Rita had to admit that she had actually
been with him that evening, although Lady Huskin had not seen her. Rita
and Sir Giles left together. Yes--and he was carrying a leather case
when he saw her off in a taxi."

"Which confirms the statement o' Gaston Max. How, in the name o' heaven,
the dead man got into Sir Marcus's house is something the imagination
boggles at, but that he was murdered for his money I think is as plain
as a pikestaff."

"I have made another appointment at Simone's," added Mrs. Jameson, "and,
of course, I may learn more."

"Ye have learned a lot a'ready," said Chief Inspector Firth. "By the
way, Mrs. Jameson, I should be obliged, as you go about, if ye would
keep your eyes open for a man wi' a limp ..."




11

Destre of the Lilies


Lord Marcus Amberdale sat in his darkened study which was lighted only
by the shaded desk lamp. He wore reading glasses with tortoiseshell rims
and was absorbed in a manuscript which contained numerous Egyptian
hieroglyphics and other mysterious signs. He seemed to be checking this
manuscript from a papyrus laid upon the desk beside him, that same
papyrus which had been there on the night of the mysterious crime. One
would say, in fact, that it had never been moved, for it was still held
down by those four unusual paper weights--a piece of quartz, a figure of
Set, a fossilised fish and the mummied hand of a woman.

Lord Marcus wore a double-breasted black velvet coat, his invariable
substitute for the more conventional evening dress. In lieu of the usual
black bow, he displayed a stock which revealed merely the top rim of a
high white collar. It lent to his naturally distinguished appearance an
odd touch of the Regency. In the downcast light, as his long, sensitive,
fingers turned over pages, a spark shone as from the eye of a reptile
out of the heart of a green scarab ring which he habitually wore. The
house with the scarlet door was silent, its atmosphere faintly permeated
by that haunting odor of incense. The sound of a discreet rap
interrupted the reader.

"Come in," said Lord Marcus, without raising his eyes from the
manuscript.

The door opened and Wake entered. "An apritif, my lord, or are you
still fasting?"

"No," murmured Lord Marcus absently; "I mean, Wake, I am no longer
fasting. Angostura and soda."

"Very good, my lord. You are dining out, I believe."

"I am dining at the club. You need not wait up."

Wake withdrew as silently as he had entered, and Lord Marcus continued
his studies. The mummy in its case just inside the door seemed to be
watching him, and sometimes a chance reflection caused by the turning of
a page might have suggested to a nervous onlooker that the highly
varnished brown hand which lay so near to Lord Marcus's own slender
white hand edged every now and again a little nearer.

If Lord Marcus had dismissed, as apparently he had dismissed, memories
of those gruesome happenings which had disturbed his household, clearly
this was not the case with Wake. For as Wake went about his duties,
passing between the kitchen quarters and the study, rarely did he fail
to glance at the Roman couch. Nevertheless his manner when presently he
returned, bearing a long necked Venetian glass upon a silver salver, was
irreproachably correct. With a slight premonitory cough, he placed the
glass conveniently within reach of Lord Marcus, and, the salver under
his arm, stood for a moment beside the polished desk.

"Will there be anything further, my lord?"

"Nothing further, Wake. You may go out if you wish."

"Good-night, my lord."

"Good-night, Wake."

Wake withdrew, glanced at the vacant couch, and retired to what he
called his pantry, a square alcove curtained off from the kitchen. Here
were shelves well laden for war days, and uttering a profound sigh, Wake
brewed himself an apritif, somewhat more stimulating than that which he
had recently placed before his employer. Fortified with this and the
smoke of a cigarette, which he inhaled luxuriously, Wake took stock of
events; and in his rather small, speculative eyes it might have been
read that he detected breakers ahead.

Accustomed to the ways of this orderly household, he was aware that Lord
Marcus would never set foot in the kitchen. Therefore, when presently he
heard his lordship preparing to go out, he merely placed his cigarette
in an ashtray, his drink beside it, and tentatively showed himself at
the end of the passage.

Lord Marcus, wearing a black French cape, and a wide brimmed soft black
hat, was selecting an ebony cane from the cupboard inside the front
door. His hand on the latch, he spoke over his shoulder:

"Don't disturb yourself, Wake; I have all I want." He went out. The
scarlet door closed.

The evening was somewhat dull and cloudy, so that although nearly half
an hour remained before black-out time, South Audley Street, to which a
few long strides led him, appeared to Lord Marcus already partially
cloaked in night. A taxicab stood at the corner, a well-groomed vehicle
in charge of a particularly dirty looking driver.

"Taxi, sir?"

"Thank you, no."

The refusal was courteous but definite, and Mr. Finch, his peaked cap on
the back of his reddish brown hair, accepted it with a grin, which
revealed those glittering teeth. Had Lord Marcus lived fully in the
conscious world, he might have noticed that the flag was down, although
the man had offered his services. However, Finch lighted a cigarette and
leaned back in his seat, continuing to leave the flag down. Either he
was engaged or expected by waiting there to pick up another fare.

South Audley Street presented few evidences of habitation. Two taxis and
perhaps three cars passed in the semi-darkness, possibly bound for a
near-by hotel, but pedestrians were rare. Presently a constable strode
up, surveyed Finch, studied the vehicle, walked around to look at the
number, and then addressed the driver.

"Waiting for somebody?"

"Gent 'phoned from Number 9A; asked me to wait 'ere. Sha'n't wait much
longer, though."

"H'm," said the officer. "9A--that's Lord Marcus Amberdale's. H'm!"

He passed on, the squelch of his wet soles dying away in the distance.
The sound of a closing door, a few minutes later, seemed to decide
Finch's next move, for he put his flag up, moved the clutch and slid
into slow movement. He was overtaken by a short, broad figure; a man
who wore a square pointed collar and black tie, black coat and gray
trousers, the outfit crowned by a discreet black hat. A carefully rolled
umbrella and suede gloves completed the ensemble.

"Taxi, sir?"

"Yes." The man opened the door and got in. "Gatacre House."

The address was that of a block of modern luxury apartments, presenting
to the world a flat, grayish faade encrusted with square protuberances
in the form of balconies, and resembling the sort of building which is
run up temporarily at exhibitions. It contained, however, some of the
most expensive suites in London, although many of them were now sublet.
Paying off the taximan, Wake walked in.

Where formerly in Gatacre House there had been a hall porter (with top
hat) and two lift attendants, there was now nobody; the marble atrium
sounded a note of echoing desolation, which was odd, perhaps purely
psychological, for all the flats in fact were occupied. The elevators,
however, had been equipped for the convenience of residents and were
provided with numbered buttons each corresponding to a floor. Wake
stepped into that on the left of the hall and pressed a button numbered
four.

Arrived at the fourth floor, he reclosed the elevator gate as he stepped
out, and proceeded along a carpeted corridor to a door numbered 32. He
applied a gloved finger to the bell push and dim buzzing sounded from
within. Otherwise, the long shadowy corridor was silent. Presently, a
man opened the door of No. 32. He wore evening dress, and at a glance
one might have been undecided as to whether he was a superior servant
or a gentleman dressed for dinner. Clean shaven and sallow, with heavy,
flexible--one might almost have said, rubber, features--he had light
blue dancing eyes, heavy dark brows and close-cut graying hair. A
sardonic smile, conveying an impression that he found most people
ridiculous, caused a dimple to appear and disappear upon his heavy chin
in a queerly intriguing way.

"Hello, Wake," he said, "you are prompt." And his accent possessed a
faint transatlantic flavor.

"Yes, Mr. Francis. I came along as soon as possible." Wake entered,
removing his black hat and peeling off his suede gloves.

"We might as well go down right away," said Mr. Francis.

The rooms through which he led Wake were notable for a luxury which was
almost magnificence; even the kitchen, which presently they reached,
although small, was unexceptionally equipped. Mr. Francis, for all his
heavy build, had a cat-like gait; he seemed to rest his weight in
walking, on the ball of his foot and not on the heel. Opening a door,
the two men stepped out onto a fire ladder. They found themselves on one
side of a narrow courtyard, around which Gatacre House was built.
Descending the iron steps, they entered a flat immediately below that of
Mr. Francis, by means of a door which also communicated with a kitchen.

"Wait a moment," muttered Mr. Francis.

Leaving Wake in the kitchen, he retired, but was absent no more than a
minute or so.

"All clear," he reported. "Mrs. Destre is expecting you."

Again he led the way with that feline stride, along a corridor closely
corresponding with that above, to a door at the end upon which he
knocked.

"Come in," said a bell-like voice.

Wake, who seemed suddenly to have become far less composed, entered a
room, Mr. Francis holding the door open, which in many respects might
have reminded readers of Coleridge of something conceived by Kbla Khn.

Reclining on a settee and watching the doorway, was a woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room contained an unusual quantity of lacquer and ivory. Two
particularly fine ivory chests, silver mounted and having inlaid designs
in semi-precious stones, were undoubtedly museum pieces. Wake suspected
that, otherwise than at Warwick Castle, he had seen nothing like them.
There was lacquer furniture, and a tall lacquer screen enfolded a couch
upon which the woman was lying. Ivory and jade ornaments materialised
out of purple shadows; for heavy silk curtains were drawn, and the only
light was that cast by a lamp with a purple shade. It was in the form of
an ivory serpent, poised to strike.

On a number of low tables rested porcelain bowls in which floated water
lilies of a great variety: green-gold, pink, mauve and yellow; and in
tall vases bloomed a profusion of white arum lilies, so that the
atmosphere was laden with their rather sickly perfume.

But although Wake noted these things, they formed no more than a hazy
background for the figure of the woman who reclined among many cushions.
She was smoking a cigarette in a tortoiseshell mouthpiece ornamented
with small emeralds, and she wore a clinging robe, having full, open
sleeves, a robe which displayed all those variegated tints of the
Californian poppy. Her skin possessed a peachlike quality, and her arms,
freed by the silken garment, were rounded, slender and girlish. Indeed,
her tiny figure, from glossy black head down to toes peeping like lotus
buds out of sly sandals, was of rare perfection.

Features, delicate with the delicacy of a jade cameo, so that even
slightly distended nostrils failed to mar their calm serenity, were
almost overpowered by dark eyes, magnificent in a slightly oblique
beauty. They were the eyes of a sorceress, and in them, when she smiled,
that image of a beautiful child faded, and became altogether effaced. A
soul steeped in experience, a soul which Flaubert might have thought to
have shared secrets with Messalina and strange loves with Thais, a
spirit old as the lost magnificent sins of Alexandria, shone out through
those brilliant eyes, to seduce, but to terrify.

Although he had seen her many times, this was the first occasion upon
which Wake had actually spoken to Ysolde Destre--and he stood before
her tongue-tied. A man of some resource and of no little cunning, a
vague fear which he had always recognised, threatened now to betray him.

Yet, she was smiling, and so of what had he to be afraid? Perhaps of her
smile ...

"Please sit down, Mr. Wake."

He fumbled for the nearest lacquer chair, looked for his hat, and
remembered that he had left hat, gloves and umbrella in the apartment
above. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the door partly
close. Mr. Francis had gone. He sat down.

"Good evening, madam," he said.

Destre watched him for a time in silence, and he found himself to be
reviewing all his sins, major and minor, and trying to make sure that he
had overlooked no loose ends which this woman might have picked up. A
certain assurance with which he had come to the interview, an assurance
based upon what he believed to be a mutual danger, was deserting him,
and deserting him so rapidly that he sought to account for it in another
way. A man of full habit, he decided that the atmosphere, the
overpowering perfume of lilies, was making him begin to perspire. Above
all he wished, now, that Destre would cease to smile.

"Well, Mr. Wake--" she spoke with no identifiable accent, but with a
quaint intonation, her childlike voice caressingly pretty--"I asked you
to call and see me this evening, because I wished to make quite sure
that you realise in how grave a position we find ourselves."

"Er--" Wake cleared his throat--"you refer, no doubt, madame, to
the--er--regrettable incident."

"To the death of Sir Giles Loeder." The lancet of her contemplation
pierced him inexorably; he could not escape it. "But, of course! what
did you think I meant?"

"You fear, madam--" Wake was fumbling badly for words--"that this
unfortunate incident, happening at a time when he was actually leaving
one of the games ..."

"The game at Mrs. Sankey's flat, to be exact, Mr. Wake--yes. You were
acting for us that night."

"Yes, madam. I have been happy from time to time to place my services at
your disposal, or rather at the disposal of Mr. Francis."

"No, no." She laughed, and her laughter was like a peal of fairy bells.
"Leave it the first way, Mr. Wake. You are a citizen of the world, I
think, and you know that Mr. Francis is merely my agent. You know that
I, Destre, control roulette in Mayfair."

"Well, madam--" his pointed collar began to bother him--"I may--er--have
suspected it, but I assumed that you wished to remain incognito, if I
may employ that word."

Destre continued to smile. "That was so wise of you. Because your
employment was satisfactory? Yes? Ten guineas a night, I believe we paid
you?"

"That is correct, madam."

"Well--" she dropped ash into a little jade bowl--"what I have to say to
you, Mr. Wake, is that on Wednesday night, when there is to be roulette
here, in my own flat, although it was arranged for you to act as second
croupier, I think it would be wiser--" the words ended on that
enigmatical smile.

"I quite agree with you, madam." Wake spoke eagerly: Destre's smile
became more pronounced, became almost voluptuous. "You mean that should
police inquiries associate my employment by Lord Marcus with my
employment--"

"Just so. That is what I mean."

"Then, madam, I agree with you, the consequences indeed might be
disastrous."

"Quite so, my good Mr. Wake. How quickly you grasp things. You will be
difficult, of course, to replace, but this will be only temporary, I
trust. Good croupiers are rare in London, and you are very good."

Wake bowed gratefully. He began to feel slightly more at ease. "I
sometimes accompanied one of my former--employers, Sir Guy Warberly, to
Monte Carlo, and he permitted me to play an occasional game on my own
account. I--er--" he cleared his throat again--"acquired some knowledge
of the subject by watching the croupiers in the Casino."

"The best school in the world," smiled Destre. "And so Mr. Wake--" she
took up an envelope from a lacquered table beside her and handed it to
him--"here is your fee for Wednesday night. It is not fair that you
should suffer because of this small accident."

"But, madam!"

"No, no, I wish it. And we shall continue to--keep in touch with you,
Mr. Wake, at all times."

Now there was something in the way these words were pronounced which
served to destroy Wake's growing confidence and to plunge him back again
into a state of acute discomfort.

"Certainly, madam," he muttered. "Thank you."

"I suppose--" Destre stretched herself luxuriously, so that one perfect
satiny knee peeped out for a moment through a gap in her silken robe:
she was like some beautiful Persian kitten in her lithe movements--"I
suppose there is nothing, nothing that has not appeared in the
newspapers about the mysterious death of poor Sir Giles, which you know
and would care to tell me?"

"I, madam!" exclaimed Wake, almost dropping the envelope. "I assure you,
madam, no one was more surprised than myself when I returned and found
him lying there."

"He left just before you--if I remember rightly," murmured Destre.

"Possibly, madam. For my own part I did not actually see him go. I
was--balancing my accounts. As no doubt you recall, the table had done
badly that night."

"I recall it very well. It is to endeavor to recover some of our losses
that we are playing again so soon. I am not sure that we are wise."

"I see, madam."

"In other words, Mr. Wake, you can throw no more light on this mystery?"
She rolled indolently onto her back, the tortoiseshell mouthpiece
drooping from full lips, and stretching up her arms, rested her head
upon pillowed hands.

"Nothing at all, madam, I assure you."

"I am sorry," she murmured, watching him through a screen of lowered
lashes. "He was an old friend and I am deeply concerned."

"I quite understand that."

"I thought, but I may have been wrong, that when I left Mrs. Sankey's
you were already gone. In that case, it occurred to me that you must
have been a long time in reaching South Audley Street--yes?"

Wake became aware, again, of that unaccountable perspiration. "I see
what you mean, madam. But it is quite simple. I had left my household
accounts in Grosvenor Square and I knew I should require them in the
morning. I called there and knocked up my wife--who acts as caretaker
for Sir George Clarking, as I believe you know."

"Yes, I know." Destre's eyes were nearly closed; but she continued to
smile. "The newspapers are so small nowadays. So little space is given
to so great a tragedy. I suppose you told the police that you had been
at Grosvenor Square?"

"I did, madam."

"It would be a great misfortune for you if they should find out that you
had been acting as croupier--"

"Indeed, madam--"

"Yes." She sighed. "It would, indeed. However, Mr. Wake, we quite
understand one another, I am sure. We shall make a point of keeping in
touch with you." She pressed a bell. "Mr. Francis will take you back to
his own flat, as no doubt you have duties at Lord Marcus's house."

Wake stood up. "Thank you, madam. I am sure I am deeply obliged. At any
time--any time, I mean, which synchronises with suitable leave from Lord
Marcus--please regard me as entirely at your service."

"Thank you, Mr. Wake."

The door had opened quite silently, and Mr. Francis had entered. One
might have guessed that he had never been far away. Wake bowed to the
seductive, inscrutable creature reclining on the settee, saw that she
was still smiling, and nearly overturned a low stool supporting a bowl
of lilies as he made his way out into the corridor.

He had just grasped a highly alarming fact. Unless she possessed private
sources of information, Mrs. Destre had tricked him into an admission
that Sir Giles's body had been found in Lord Marcus's house ... for no
newspaper had reported this!




12

M. Gaston Max


Later the same night, Colonel O'Halloran remained at work in his
book-lined office in Scotland Yard. He was industriously initialling a
pile of chits with the letters J.N.G.O.'H. which had earned him the
soubriquet of "Jingo." A tin of tobacco stood at his elbow, and he
smoked a notably clean looking briar. Indeed it was his custom directly
a pipe demanded cleaning to cast it aside and to buy a new one. As he
was a heavy smoker, this custom, in view of wartime prices, represented
an outrageous outlay. One of several telephones on the desk buzzed
discreetly. Colonel O'Halloran took up the receiver.

"Yes, at once; expecting him."

He replaced the receiver and went on signing chits. He was still engaged
in this way when someone might have been heard coming along the
corridor, someone who whistled that old English song, "Up in the morning
early". The door opened, the whistle ceased, and a man entered,
reclosing the door and then rapped upon it. The Assistant Commissioner
looked up.

"Hello, Monsieur Max," he said, not taking the pipe from between his
teeth--"sit down. Sha'n't be a jiffey."

Gaston Max smiled. "Always I knock after I come in," he explained, "in
case I have the bad luck to intrude."

He crossed and sat down in a padded armchair set before the Colonel's
desk; and anyone who had chanced to meet Peter Finch, taxidriver, would
almost certainly have declined to believe that Peter Finch and Gaston
Max were one and the same.

The celebrated French investigator, in his proper person, was a man of
about medium height. In his youth he had inclined to corpulence, but in
middle life had conquered the tendency, possibly by dieting. At his
present age his hair was touched with silver at the temples, but heavy
eyebrows remained obstinately black, shading large intelligent eyes of
so indeterminate a shade that few observers would have cared to put a
name to it. A blueness of lip and jaw (a rather heavy jaw) indicated
that he was called upon to shave closely. This he did, and was in every
respect a model of good grooming. His abundant hair he kept carefully
brushed and trimmed, and if his taste in shirts and suits was perhaps a
trifle spectacular, at least these garments were distinctive and well
tailored. To-night he wore a blue suit with a determined red stripe, a
dark blue shirt and a green tie relieved by black spots. A handkerchief
of similar design drooped gracefully from his breast pocket. He carried
a soft brown hat, and a monocle on a thick silk cord swung to and fro, a
glittering pendulum, whenever he moved. But despite this slight
bizarrerie of toilet, no one would have given a second glance at the
man's attire: his pale face must have commanded one's whole attention.

Gaston Max's features possessed a mobility rather bewildering. In
collaboration with his eyes, they seemed to respond to every passing
thought; even in repose, or the nearest approach to repose which he ever
achieved, his flexible lips almost rippled in sympathy with his mental
impressions. One sympathised with Sergeant Bluett's opinion that this
was the face of a comedy actor, but it was that of a comedy actor
supremely endowed.

He took out a cigarette case bearing his initials in small diamonds,
selected a cigarette, lighted it with a gold lighter, and replaced the
case in his pocket as the colonel, a final chit signed, pushed the pile
aside and looked up, blinking furiously as was his wont.

"Well, M. Max--shall we talk French or English?"

"To me, colonel, it is a matter of indifference." Gaston Max shrugged:
"I speak all kinds of English. Tell me which kind you prefer. Or French
(which you speak with the fluency of a Parisian) I also command to no
small degree. Choose, then, my colonel, and let us begin."

The Assistant Commissioner stared at him for a while, replacing the
mouthpiece of the pipe between his teeth, and holding the bowl with a
square muscular hand which seemed too large for a small man.

"You're a bit of a responsibility, Max, you know," he said in his
staccato fashion. "No more sense of discipline than a Spanish mule. So
far as I'm aware, you have no rank--at Scotland Yard, anyway. You were
sent here by the Home Secretary and I was glad to see you. Reputation
familiar to me for years. Didn't know what to do with you, so lent you
to the Special Branch. We get on well; I like you; but if any of your
antics land you in the soup, I'm responsible."

"I shall land in no soup," Max assured him. "To my regret I must avoid
soup--it is bad for my figure."

Colonel O'Halloran grinned. "To-date, I'm told, you have done uncommonly
well; but I won't disguise from you, Max, that you have more rope than
any other officer here."

"I acknowledge this with gratitude, Colonel O'Halloran, my friend; I am
grateful--but, yes."

"I engineered your taxi license, for instance; madly irregular, you
know."

"Ah! my taxi? But think what I have learned with this taxi! A London
taxi is like a shrimping net. One gathers many shrimps, and sometimes a
small octopus. But there is a matter which troubles me. I should like to
discuss this."

"Good," said the colonel, "go ahead."

"In the first place the inquiry upon which I have now been at work for
several months recently crossed a case of our good friend, Inspector
Firth."

"So I believe."

"I am dramatic, I am the sensationalist; and because this is the first
big inquiry which has been entrusted to me since I joined Scotland Yard,
I am anxious to present it complete, garnished, piping hot, on a gold
plate. Name of a name! I am made that way--I cannot help it. It was, oh,
so long ago that I last worked with Scotland Yard. I have worn well, eh,
my colonel? I carry the burden of heavy years with some grace, is it not
so? But no matter. This time I look for a very big fish indeed; and I
have not yet learned the name of this fish. But he is one who snaps up
secrets known only to the War Cabinet, and transmits them to Berlin in
time to make of himself a bloody nuisance. Sometimes I have wondered if
my fish is a Jack pike or a mermaid."

"A mermaid? meaning what?"

"A woman fish. Women to-day are permitted to play a very large part in
the troubles of the world. Sometimes they bring about a thousand deaths
because one poor fool kisses another. However, _ma'lsh_, as the Arab
says. What I am anxious to settle is this: I have certain information
which strictly belongs to Inspector Firth; and this information I wish
him to have."

"Quite proper. What is it?"

"One of my fish has been netted by someone else, and I am angry, but
yes--furious. It is Sir Giles Loeder. Understand that I am interested in
Sir Giles, and for someone to murder him is inconsiderate to a degree.
It is Inspector Firth's business to discover this poacher upon my
preserves, and it is my business to help him."

"Yes, that's so." Colonel O'Halloran gripped his pipe so tightly that
his jaw muscles protruded. "Do you mean there was something fishy about
Loeder?"

"It may be. Who knows? I have much to learn. One must not jump to
conclusions; but some small points come to my knowledge. Item: Sir Giles
was a confirmed gambler."

"Sure of that?"

"But certain. He was a regular visitor to the underground roulette games
which are played in Mayfair. I think it very likely that he was coming
from one of these when he met his death. He carried a portfolio which
may have contained winnings--"

"Portfolio? Firth didn't tell me that."

"The Inspector must have forgotten to do so. He knows. This portfolio
has not been found. Very well. Now, to-night, I make another discovery.
Wake, the butler who has been questioned about the death of Sir Giles,
is perhaps connected in some way with roulette, also. Here, I think, is
a link which Inspector Firth should test."

"Entirely agree with you."

"Because it is necessary for me to find out if any association existed
between the late Sir Giles and Lord Marcus, or Lord Marcus's butler, I
have been watching them both, you understand? To-night Lord Marcus dined
at the Athenaeum. I believe he is still there. But Wake, his butler,
went to Gatacre House. I drove him. And when at the end of half an hour
or so he came out again, he was so disturbed, this poor Wake, that he
failed to observe that he was getting into the same taxi. I then drove
him to Grosvenor Square, to the house at which his wife acts as
caretaker."

Colonel O'Halloran grinned appreciatively, his eyes blinking more
rapidly than ever. "You know the right moves in this game, Max," he
said. "What's the point about Gatacre House?"

"The point is, my colonel, that a woman called Destre lives at Gatacre
House, and I believe that it was Destre that Wake went to call upon."

"H'm!" mused the colonel. "Believed to be back of roulette racket. But
never got clear evidence. They use different addresses. Very cunning.
Lot of money behind it. What makes you think Wake called on Destre?"

"I followed him in. As the elevator ascended I checked it on the
indicator. He got out on the fourth floor."

"Does Destre live on fourth?"

"No, no--on the third."

Colonel O'Halloran removed his pipe. "Talkin' rot, aren't you? Don't
make sense."

"But not at all. On the fourth floor there is a Mr. Julian Francis. He
is an associate of Destre's. Behold! it is sufficient?"

"Yes--I see. What I don't see is reason you're interested in these
people."

Gaston Max shrugged. "Destre is ground bait for my fish. But tell the
good inspector, if you please, carefully to watch Wake. For if Wake is
connected with Destre, as I believe, he may know more about what
happened to Sir Giles than he has told the police."

Colonel O'Halloran lay back in his padded armchair, an unusual
relaxation which possibly indicated fatigue. "Are you suggesting Destre
had anything to do with Sir Giles's murder?"

"But not necessarily. Also, it is not my case. But I think it only fair
to Inspector Firth that he should know these things. I think it, also,
only fair to me, that there should not be clumsiness. I want no shrimps,
I want no cockles; it is my king fish I am seeking to net."

The Assistant Commissioner laid his hot pipe aside and began to roll a
cigarette. "Devil of a lot of information leaking, Max. Sooner you hook
king fish the better. Can't think where they collect it; can't think how
they get it through."

Gaston Max watched him, and the usually mobile features had become
still, almost sombre ... "There is a raid by Combined Operations
pending, my colonel, as you know--"

"But I don't know when it starts. I bet your king fish doesn't know
either."

"I pray you may be right." Max stood up, casting the brief, sombre mood
aside and displaying his brilliant teeth in a quick smile. "To-morrow I
have a small investigation to make. You are aware that I hold a medical
degree of the Sorbonne--for how can one hope to gain the heights of our
difficult profession lacking a knowledge of forensic medicine? Eh bien,
as I have reasons for remaining incognito, I become then a respectable
professional man, a fugitive from Paris." He extended his palms.
"Behold!"

"Do you think you look like a respectable professional man from Paris?"

"But certainly."

"Well, you don't. Good-night."

       *       *       *       *       *

Early on the following morning, Nurse Perigal was about to leave Otterly
Hospital when she was recalled by the matron.

"Oh, nurse," cried Mrs. Maddison, standing at the door of her office
(this formality of address was occasioned by the presence of two
orderlies), "I must detain you for a moment. Will you please come in."

Fay stopped nervously. Moods of preoccupation latterly had possessed
her, a fact which had not escaped the vigilant eye of the matron and
which that observant lady knew to be due to the tangled affairs of Fay's
unknown friend who evidently engaged so much of the girl's affections.
However, forcing a smile, Fay walked into the office and found standing
there by the matron's desk a man of striking appearance.

The visitor wore a blue suit with an undeniably red stripe, a green,
spotted tie, and a conspicuously blue soft collared shirt. A wide
brimmed hat lay upon the desk, and its owner was swinging a monocle upon
its cord around and around one extended forefinger. Fay thought that he
looked like an actor, particularly noting his beautiful hands.

"Dr. de Brion," said Mrs. Maddison--"this is Nurse Perigal, who will be
glad, I know, to act as your guide to the ward where we are taking care
of the French boys." She turned to Fay: "This is Dr. de Brion, from
Fighting French headquarters, nurse, and he would like a chat with some
of our patients."

Dr. de Brion revealed glittering teeth in a smile of frank admiration.
Raising Fay's hand, he stooped and kissed it. "A beautiful morning,
matron," he said, "and you find me a beautiful guide."

"I shall be glad if I can be of any service to you, doctor," Fay
replied.

"But you have been of service already," he assured her; "your smile
would lift its load from the heaviest heart. I am obliged to you,
matron." He bowed to Mrs. Maddison, "I shall try not to detain Nurse
Perigal longer than necessary, although the temptation to do so will be
great."

On their way upstairs to the ward at the end of the south wing which
accommodated the French pilots, Dr. de Brion succeeded in putting Fay
completely at her ease, so that she felt as though she had known him
all her life. Even before he had plunged into voluble conversation with
the first of the patients whom she introduced, Fay had decided that he
was brilliantly clever. He discussed symptoms and made suggestions of so
shrewdly practical a character that he clearly understood his
profession. The reaction of the wounded airmen, all of whom he left
laughing happily, paid vital tribute to his bedside manner.

He distributed cigarettes with a lavish hand, from a case emblazoned
with a diamond crest, which particularly attracted Fay's attention. He
told funny stories and he performed sleight of hand tricks. Before
leaving the ward, he promised to come again, a promise which produced
cheers, physically feeble but heartfelt, from the occupants. As they
walked down the stone stairs together on their way to the ground floor,
Dr. de Brion took Fay's arm in his affectionately friendly manner, and
began to speak with sudden seriousness of her own affairs.

"My friend Dr. Fawcett," he said, "reported to me about you. You
remember meeting Dr. Fawcett?"

"Oh, good heavens, yes!" Fay's eyes opened in a startled way. "You mean
the doctor who came with the police to Marcus's house?"

"Yes, yes, to the house of your cousin Marcus. He has been talking to
me, you understand; and when he heard that I was visiting here, he asked
me to talk to _you_."

"That was very kind of him, but what about?"

"Well, what more fascinating subject could there be than yourself?"

"Oh, but you are joking again."

They had regained the frigid lobby, and Fay stood facing the visitor,
trying to read some message in those vivacious eyes, but reading nothing
save good humor and admiration. She supposed that Dr. de Brion's rather
colorful style of dressing must be professionally correct in Paris; it
was certainly unusual in England. Hearing their voices, the matron came
out, and Dr. de Brion turned to her.

"Have I your permission, dear madam, to see Nurse Perigal upon her way?"

"But, of course, doctor. How charming of you."

He took the matron's hands and kissed them gallantly. "Soon I shall be
coming to see those dear fellows again, and to see you, madam ..."

Outside the gray building and clear of ambulances which stood in its
courtyard, they walked on in silence through the outskirts of Otterly;
and soon (for Otterly was little more than a village) gained the open
country. Dr. de Brion inhaled fragrant morning air and looked about him
with unconcealed delight. Once, he paused, and stared up into a clear
blue sky.

"Wild geese!" he exclaimed--"like a flight of planes! Ha! There is water
in the neighborhood?"

"Yes, Umley Mere, quite near to Rosemary Cottage, where I am going now,
doctor. I sometimes watch a kingfisher working there."

"A kingfisher! turquoise with wings! A fairy jewel wearing a robin's
waistcoat! Ah!" His eyes seemed to dance as he turned to her, in
recognition of her kinship with the fairyland of nature. "You, too, love
the wild things."

"Yes, I suppose I do, doctor," said Fay, and spoke a little sadly.
"They seem so much more free and so much happier than we do. But
perhaps, if we knew more about their lives--"

"Yes, yes, they may have their small bothers, too. Name of a good little
man, but certainly. There will be Mrs. Kingfishers who are jealous of
Miss Kingfishers. There will be angry geese, and misunderstood geese.
Robins fight like the very devil: I have seen them. And the
starlings--well, well, those gluttonous starlings! Why don't they get
fat? Oh, I know them all."

"Evidently you do," said Fay; and she laughed for the first time that
morning, a laugh so young and so fresh that the man who studied her
found himself wondering, again, what cloud had cast its shadow over her
life: he had instinctively detected the presence of such a cloud.

Illumination on this point was soon to come; for, following a brief
silence, Fay suddenly asked, "Do you ever visit the R.A.F. hospital at
Ashbrown, doctor?"

"Ashbrown in Hampshire? But, yes--I was there only a week ago. Why do
you ask?"

Watching her face, he detected a faint shade of embarrassment, and
mentally answered his own question.

"A--very old friend of mine was there until recently--"

"But French?"

"No, not French. He is an American: Flight Lieutenant Hawke Kershaw."

"Hawke Kershaw? Of an Eagle Squadron?"

"Yes. I only wondered if you had happened to meet him." She spoke with
complete calmness, but looked straight ahead.

"I cannot recall the name, Nurse Fay. I went to visit a French officer
who was formerly a colleague, but I met some others also. Describe, if
you please, this fortunate Hawke Kershaw."

"Oh, I don't think I can, really. He is tall and slim, and has dark
brown hair--"

"Dark brown hair? And gray eyes?"

"No--blue eyes."

"Blue. He is a handsome fellow?"

Fay, who had flushed momentarily, now seemed to grow more pale than
usual. "Yes, I suppose he is rather good looking, doctor."

"I fear I cannot have met him, Nurse Fay. Was he a--dangerous case?"

"No." Fay shook her head. "That's what puzzles me. He was shot down and
wounded in the foot. At first, they were afraid he might be crippled,
and walk with a limp--"

"With a limp, you say?"

"Yes. But he wrote to tell us that although he actually did limp
slightly, with rest and massage this would disappear. We expected him
down here, but--well, he seems to have vanished!"

"He has vanished, eh? A strange fellow. But his station will tell you
where he is--yes?"

"There is so much official secrecy, doctor. Beyond finding out that he
is on sick leave I haven't been able to learn a thing. But as you don't
know him, why should I bother you about it. Please tell me what it was
that Dr. Fawcett suggested you should ask me?"

They had paused in a narrow, winding lane. A lime tree towered above a
briar hedge gemmed with rubies, its leaves a furtive gold as if
reluctantly yielding to the spell of autumn; and Dr. de Brion seemed
temporarily to have forgotten his companion.

"But, yes." He turned suddenly and that glittering smile brushed a
shadow magically from his face. "But, of course! He is much concerned,
my faith, the good doctor, about your cousin Lord Marcus."

"I suppose he thinks he is mad?"

"But no, name of a name, not mad--eccentric."

"Is there any difference?" murmured Fay.

"A distinction. Or so they used to tell me at the Salptrire, Paris,
where for a time I studied such matters. But he thinks, Dr. Fawcett,
that your cousin is so lost in his studies that perhaps advantage is
taken of him."

As they began slowly to walk along again: "I am afraid that may be
true," Fay admitted. "He is, of course, quite unworldly. Perhaps Dr.
Fawcett was thinking about--" she hesitated--"Mrs. Vane."

"Yes, perhaps it may be that he had in mind the beautiful Mrs. Vane. But
also, perhaps, the butler, Wake."

"Oh! don't you trust Wake?"

"He looks in every way completely the perfect butler. I fear such
characters. But you, my dear, no doubt you have known him for a long
time. So tell me, please. What do you think of this Wake?"

"Well, since you ask me," Fay replied, "I don't know that I have ever
felt quite sure about him, myself. But then, do you think anybody ever
did understand butlers?"

One would have said that Dr. de Brion's mobile features reacted to a
hundred and one amusing thoughts, presumably relative to butlers. "All
butlers terrify me," he assured her. "But you can tell me, no doubt,
how long Lord Marcus has had this butler?"

"Oh, for more than three years--since before the war."

"For more than three years, eh? If there had been something wrong with
him, anyone could find this out in three years, I think?"

"Anyone but Marcus," Fay amended. "So far as I am aware, Wake is a model
servant. No doubt he expects his perks--"

"Perks? what is this, perks? I must conquer this word, perks."

Fay laughed outright again. "It is argot, a vulgarism, an abbreviation,"
she explained. "It means perquisites, and I understand that all butlers
expect them."

"Oh, yes, name of a name! I understand. I shall add this word to my
repertory. The odd cigar, the half decanter of port, this and that no
doubt? Perks. It is a delightful word. And this Mrs. Vane you know but
slightly, I suppose?"

"Very slightly." Fay made a tiny grimace. "She is not living with
Marcus, or anything of that kind, although I understand she has the run
of the house. But he really believes that she possesses psychic powers."

"A medium, shall we say?"

"Yes, a medium, or so Marcus has assured me. Of course, she may be, but
she has a suite at the Barchester and dresses better than almost any
other woman in London to-day, so that I suppose--"

"You suppose that she must be a very good medium? Well, well, my dear--"
he patted her shoulder--"the laborer is worthy of his hire. It is
perhaps that we are unenlightened. Ah! the beautiful prospect. Let me
see--what house is that?"




13

Treasure Island


The lane crossed an old stone bridge over a meandering stream. Looking
down, one could see roach and carp in clear water which moved lazily
over a pebbly bottom. Northward of this bridge the ground rose through
parkland to a wooded bay which enshrined a red brick mansion.

"That is Huskin Court," said Fay, "and the cottage there in the
hollow--look, you will see it if you follow the stream--is Rosemary
Cottage, where my patient is convalescing. It is on the Huskin Court
estate, and has been made over to us by Lord Huskin."

"But how intriguing," Max commented, surveying Huskin Court
appreciatively; "a stately home of England, yes?"

"Yes, part of it is certainly stately, and very old. But Lord Huskin,
who is reputed to be a millionaire, has made a number of changes, I
believe. He is very much liked and respected about here. His generosity
is wonderful."

"That is nice:--to possess wealth and to use it. That is also wise. For
what is money but a golden key? How great a fool is the man who hides
the key and never opens the door that it fits! And now, Nurse Fay, the
morning is so beautiful that I am reluctant to return to London--that
poor patient old London. May I come to your cottage with the romantic
name, and make the acquaintance of your case?"

"Oh!" Fay assured him, and there was no mistaking the warmth and
sincerity of the invitation, "I wish you would. He has been rather badly
knocked about, and he is subject to moods of terrible depression. That's
really the worst we have to contend with, now. You are--well, such a
tonic--"

"No man should require a tonic who has you near him," said Dr. de Brion.
"But I have forgotten your patient's name."

"Squadron Leader Dan Corcoran."

"Ah! the great Dan Corcoran, the pride of Fighter Command, is it not so?
Of course, certainly, but yes. I must meet him. He suffers from
depression, you say? But pilots must never be depressed. They must be
exalted."

"You see, it's so difficult to make him relax. He has such a restless
spirit. For instance, he works at night, when he should be asleep, on
what he calls 'Flint's Fist'."

"Flint's Fist? But this intrigues me, yes. Acquaint me with the
character of Flint's Fist."

"Well--it's a meaningless sentence which he found on the back of an old
envelope. Dan is crazy about 'Treasure Island', and he pretends that
this thing is a clue to Captain Flint's buried treasure. I should think
he has wasted a whole writing block trying to work it out! He pesters
everyone who calls with it."

"And what is this sentence?"

"It consists of several odd words--I can't quite remember them; but it
has no apparent meaning."

"But the envelope, eh?"

"Oh, the envelope." Fay reproduced that tiny grimace first inspired by a
reference to Mrs. Vane; it made her straight nose wrinkle in a really
delightful way. "I know I am rather uncharitable, but the envelope was
given to me by poor Sir Giles Loeder on the day he visited Otterly. He
had no cards, apparently, and he ... wanted me to 'phone or write. It
was addressed to him, and he scribbled his number in the corner. This
queer sentence is written in pencil on the back."

"Mon dieu!" Dr. de Brion's swift change of manner, of voice, was
electrifying: he stood quite still, watching Fay. "If it could be! Nurse
Fay, it was your Shakespeare who said 'There is a tide in the affairs of
men--' If it could be! Yes--let us go to Rosemary Cottage."

Fay stared at him in a way which reminded Dr. de Brion of a startled
deer. "I am of crossword puzzles the expert," he explained gaily.
"Perhaps I shall enable Squadron Leader Dan to relax!" And he grasped
her arm in his irresistibly affectionate way and led her on, insisting
that she march in step with the strains of "Up in the morning early,"
which he whistled for that purpose.

So, entering a tree-shaded path which did its best to follow the
erratically winding stream, they presently opened a white gate, and
walked under a pergola smothered with roses, many still in bloom. It led
to the porch of Rosemary Cottage, a typical workman's cottage,
modernised no doubt by Lord Huskin. In this porch a very small corporal
stood smoking a cigarette, which he immediately extinguished at sight of
the visitors, dropped and trod on. He had gray hair, a neat gray
moustache, walked with one shoulder higher than the other, and in fact
presented much of the appearance of a gnome. It presently appeared that
he was Squadron Leader Corcoran's batman, and that he was an Irish
Canadian.

"The top o' the mornin', nurse," said he, "and a fine mornin' it is,
too."

"Splendid, Toby--and how is our patient? This is Dr. de Brion to see
him."

"Good mornin', your honor. Sure the boss is in fine fettle."

And, Fay tripping lightly up an open staircase which began almost
immediately inside the door, Toby followed with slower steps.

Dr. de Brion smoked a cigarette, taking almost photographic note of the
appointments of this small but cosy room, and listening delightedly to
the song of birds in a shrubbery outside the windows. The place was so
restful, fragrant, and far, far removed from that world in which much of
his life was passed. He turned at the sound of voices and footsteps.

The patient, rather carelessly dressed in mufti, was coming downstairs,
assisted by Toby and Fay Perigal. He was a slightly built fellow with a
shock of fair brown hair, which evidently defied both brush and comb,
for it could not have been described as well behaved; it was not that
kind of hair. The clean shaven, rather freckled face in all probability
normally displayed a healthy color; at present it was rather pale.
Corcoran had steadfast hazel eyes and shaggy brows, and would have been
better looking if his nose had not assumed a perpetual expression of
surprise on finding itself (at birth no doubt) tip-tilted, slightly, but
unmistakably.

"Normal this morning," cried Fay in a gay voice. "We shall have you
about again in a week, Dan."

Dan grinned boyishly and squeezed the shoulder upon which he leaned. He
wore slippers, and his fumbling gait indicated that he was far from
strong, yet.

"So there's no news from old Dick," he said to Fay.

Again that cloud shadowed her expression, and the watchful visitor knew,
now, that "old Dick" must be Flight Lieutenant Kershaw. She shook her
head. "Not a word, Dan! But I suppose he will turn up, sometime." As
they reached the foot of the short stair: "And here is Dr. de
Brion--Squadron Leader Corcoran."

"Ah!" exclaimed Dr. de Brion, pushing forward an armchair which
evidently had been prepared for the invalid. "Be seated, my dear fellow.
How lucky you are to have crashed in so lovely a spot!"

"Yes, I am," grinned Corcoran, raising the steadfast but shy eyes to the
speaker. "It would be sheer ingratitude to want to get well too soon."

"It would be sheer folly," cried Dr. de Brion. "Oh, but so stupid."

"Do you want to make me over, doctor? I don't really think there is any
need."

"But certainly not! I came to see you, not to vet you. It is a pleasure
and a privilege."

"I'm sure you are very welcome."

Dr. de Brion's ornamental case made a flashing appearance. Corcoran
accepted a cigarette reluctantly, saying that he had a large supply of
his own, and the doctor urged Fay to follow his example in spite of
protestations that she was officially on duty. "It is a prescription,"
he declared, "medical orders."

"You are just the kind of M.O. everybody is looking for," said Dan
Corcoran.

"This place is better than any physic. Here is nothing pathological,
nothing ugly, nothing deformed. Ah!"--he inhaled the sweetness of the
air: "Why do fools herd in towns?"

"Some towns, once, were very good fun," said Fay wistfully. "For
instance, doctor, how you must miss Paris."

"Yes." A shadow crossed the smiling face, but was gone again
immediately. "Yes, I miss Paris--poor Paris. But one day, Miss Fay,
Paris will be herself again. Paris has known many terrors, many sorrows,
but Paris is old in strength, in wisdom, in patience--like London. Soon,
very soon, you will see."

"Can't you stay to lunch, doctor?" Dan asked, looking up at him. "Then
we will take you out to Treasure Island--won't we, Fay?"

Fay laughed, but even her laughter was rather wistful. "Treasure
Island," she explained, "is a tiny island in the stream, connected with
the garden by a wooden bridge. Dan spends fine afternoons there. A mound
in the middle is called Spyglass Hill, and an old wooden barrel in the
water is Skeleton Island. Then there's Cape of the Woods, isn't there,
Dan?"

"There's everything," Dan assured her firmly, "which appears on Flint's
map--except the treasure."

"Here is the treasure," said Dr. de Brion, resting his arm lightly on
Fay's shoulder, and he was delighted when she blushed.

"Which reminds me," Dan added: he raised his voice: "Toby!" Toby
appeared in the doorway, winking significantly at the visitor. "Bring
down Flint's Fist--and all the notes. They're right beside my bed."

"Very good, sir."

Toby proceeded upstairs, and Fay glanced smilingly at Dr. de Brion. "I
warned you!" She turned to the convalescent. "Dr. de Brion is a
crossword expert, Dan, so perhaps he can help you."

"I need help," Dan declared pathetically. "Because it stands to reason
that the words must mean _something_."

Toby returning with a writing block and a bundle of loose sheets, Dan
detached an envelope clipped to the block and handed it to Dr. de Brion.
Dr. de Brion read the typed address aloud:--

"'Sir Giles Loeder, 90, Mount Street, Mayfair, W.1.'--h'm! 'Mayfair
30031' in pencil." He reversed the envelope. "Ah! the same writing! What
have we here, my infants! Name of a name, what have we here!"

"Well," grumbled Dan, "we have the remarkable words, 'Pythagoric buds'
written in capitals. I can't find pythagoric in my dictionary. That's
bad enough. But in between the capitals a lot of small letters have been
added. That makes it worse." He looked up from his armchair--and became
silent.

Dr. de Brion's face was transfigured; indeed, his entire body seemed to
radiate energy and his eyes to be on fire.

"What is it, doctor?" Fay asked in a hushed voice.

Dr. de Brion turned to her. "It is the answer to an enigma! It is a
reproach to my stupidity!" He returned the envelope to Dan. "I can
remember it. Take, oh, great care of this! Heaven is on our side after
all--" and he extended his hand. "Forgive me! I must go. Au revoir, Dan
Corcoran, my friend. I must go."

"Now?" exclaimed Fay with such unconcealed disappointment that he came
about in a swift turn, grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"My car I left at the hospital. Even now, I may not be too late. Au
revoir, Miss Fay. I believe your troubles will pass like a summer cloud.
God bless you both."

He snatched his hat and darted from the room. Faintly, they heard the
tinkle of a cowbell attached to the white gate. Toby crossed to a window
and looked out.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed Dan, in a voice denoting stark
amazement. "Can you see him, Toby?"

"Sure."

"What's he doing?"

"He's running, your honor."

"D'you hear that, Fay? He's running." Corcoran turned in his chair,
looking back at her. "Hullo, what is bothering you?"

Fay was staring into vacancy, and the gray eyes were speculative. "I was
only wondering, Dan, why a man whose name is de Brion should carry a
cigarette-case with diamond initials G. M...."




14

Pythagoric Buds


That gray building known to some as the War Shop, to others as the Stone
Jug, and to others (the majority) as the War Office, presented its usual
yawn of somnolence to Whitehall when dusk fell. At 'bus stops, jaded
looking workers queued up; others hurried towards Tube stations; Naval
officers from the Admiralty, near-by, and military officers from
Headquarters sought, and sometimes found, taxis. The Naval officers all
carried paradoxical walking sticks: for who ever saw a sailor pacing the
deck with a walking stick? And in a submarine such a thing would be
worse than superfluous--it would be in the way.

As darkness, accompanied by a threatening ground mist, extended its hold
on Whitehall, two by two weary workers found their way into arks green
or red, that is, into those 'buses for which they had waited so
patiently. The human stream being sucked into plugs of the Underground
decreased in volume. Officers had found taxis, or had been absorbed by
the Tube. The pall of black-out fell upon London.

This phenomenon, this mass disappearing trick, had nearly achieved its
nightly purpose when a car came racing to the main entrance of the War
Office, and a man jumped out, spoke rapidly to the driver, and ran up
the steps. Some slight delay occurred, and this he suffered impatiently.
However, he was admitted.

Three minutes later, a staff captain rapped on a door upstairs, opened
it and looked across an office the walls of which were almost entirely
covered with maps, to a desk whereat Lieutenant General Sir Aubrey
Bulwer (in his youth accounted the most handsome officer in the British
Army) was seated.

"Mr. Gaston Max is here, sir."

"Please show him in."

Gaston Max entered so promptly that evidently he had been immediately
behind the captain, who retired and closed the door. One who knew the
Frenchman well would have perceived that his glance had lost some of its
vivacity, that he was less spruce than usual, that, in short, he was
laboring under the influence of a powerful emotion.

"Sit down, Mr. Max. What can I do for you?"

But Gaston Max did not sit down; he crossed the room and stood before
the speaker. "I have a question to ask, General. I beg that you will not
hesitate to answer it--to relieve me of a terrible anxiety. The raid by
Combined Operations ... has it started?"

He leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk, and searched the
lined, somewhat tired looking face of the soldier, who met this strange
regard and who seemed to hesitate. "I don't know that I'm at liberty--"

"General! I have made a request. Grant it, I beg! I know the entire
composition of this force, the ships engaged, the names of the
officers, the armaments and vehicles employed. I will tell you all this,
in a minute. But I ask--has the expedition started?"

General Bulwer, manifestly much disturbed, seemed suddenly to make up
his mind. He looked at a rather elaborate timepiece which stood before
him. "The convoy with its escort left port almost exactly forty-nine
minutes ago."

Gaston Max fell back; one might legitimately have said that he
staggered: his normally pale face grew even paler, and he clapped an
open palm to his forehead in a gesture of anguish melodramatic, Gallic,
but passionately sincere.

"My God! I am too late!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten minutes after Gaston Max had uttered that cry of despair, it would
have been difficult to decide whether he or General Bulwer presented the
more haggard appearance ...

"The details you have given me, Mr. Max, are correct in every
particular. The plan of operations is almost equally so. I am appalled.
All that can humanly be done I have done; but I fear that recall is
impossible. The mere idea that this information is in enemy hands is
nearly unendurable. They have gone--"

"To destruction, general--many of them, yes. For this information _is_
in enemy hands. For hours I have been at work, but not until an hour ago
did I find myself in a position to produce definite evidence--and it was
an hour too late. I will show you."

He spoke, and moved, in the dull manner of a dispirited man. The general
watched him feverishly: he had abandoned his desk and was pacing the
office like a wild thing trapped. From an attach case Gaston Max drew
out a bundle of papers.

"First, the key. For this key I have sought for months. No wonder I
failed. See." General Bulwer halted in that febrile promenade, stood
beside him and studied a typewritten sheet. "Observe the top line, in
capitals, with wide spaces:--

"PYTHAGORIC BUDS"

"Yes, yes. What does it mean?"

"It means, my general, that fourteen letters of the twenty-six contained
in the English alphabet are represented here. In their proper order,
those omitted are: e, f, j, k, l, m, n, q, v, w, x and z. Now, regard
the second line, in which I have filled in these missing letters, in
that order, between the capitals:--

"PeYfTjHkAlGmOnRqIvCwBxUzD S"

"Very well. What now?"

"Now, the third line, above which I have written the alphabet:--

"A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

"p e f t j h k a l g m o n r q i v c w b x u z d s"

"And what does that convey?"

"It conveys, with one small flaw represented by the letter N, a
scientifically shuffled alphabet! No letter, except N, is in its usual
place! If you knew how difficult this is to do, you would appreciate,
but yes, the cleverness of these scoundrels; for the formula has to be
one that can easily be _memorised_: no code book is carried to
incriminate. Hence, 'Pythagoric buds'. One remembers that: the remainder
is automatic."

"And the information?"

"Messages, decipherable only by those acquainted with this key, have
been cunningly, so cunningly, hidden in speeches openly broadcast from
England--and listened to and transcribed in Berlin! It was the sometimes
strange language--sentences, oh, so tortured--in these broadcasts, which
first attracted my attention. But the code defied me. Yes, I, Gaston
Max, was at a loss. A divine accident--perhaps the presence of an
angel--put the clue in my hands. All those details which I have given to
you have been transmitted to Berlin from time to time in this way. I
have records of those speeches; but it has taken me all day to decipher
the coded passages. Mon dieu! it took me an hour too long!"

A 'phone buzzed, and General Bulwer literally sprang to the instrument.
His expression, as he listened, was tragic; he seemed to age before the
eyes of the one who watched, a gray shadow to creep over his fine
features. He said simply, "Very good," hung up the receiver and dropping
into his chair buried his face in his hands.

"No hope?" whispered Gaston Max.

The stricken man looked up. "They are just approaching the French
coast."

Gaston Max sank slowly down into a well worn leathern armchair; and he,
too, buried his face in his hands. The blacked-out War Office admitted
no sound from a semi-deserted Whitehall. It was the soldier who broke
that oppressive silence.

"You have one thing more to tell me:--the name of the man for whom a
firing party is waiting at the Tower."

Gaston Max looked up. "It is the name of a clever man; a dangerous man;
an evil man--but a man who ceased to be clever or even dangerous, when
under the influence of his ruling passion--women. He forgot, this poor
fool, that he had (or so I suppose) been actually coding sentences for a
broadcast, in his car, on the back of an envelope, when he met a girl so
beautiful, and so sweet. He gave her this envelope because it bore his
address. He may even have remembered the scribbled notes, but have
thought that they could mean nothing to her."

"And his name, Monsieur Max?"

"Sir Giles Loeder."

General Bulwer came to his feet as though the seat of his chair had
suddenly become electrified. "What do you say?"

"I said Sir Giles Loeder. Perhaps I should have said, the late Sir Giles
Loeder."

General Bulwer, clutching the edge of his desk, glared at Gaston Max as
though, even now, he doubted if he had heard aright. "But, good God,
sir! _Loeder!_ Damn it! he knew _everybody_! The last time I met him
(not long before his death) was at a luncheon where there were two
Cabinet Ministers and another officer of the General Staff as well as
myself! Are you mad?"

Gaston Max forced a wan smile: he shrugged. "Would you like to see the
original envelope, my general? It is in safe keeping; but I can borrow
it if you wish. It is because Sir Giles Loeder knew everybody that he
was one of the most dangerous Axis agents in England. But I have yet to
learn, first, who killed him, and second, who was his chief ..."




15

Messieurs, Faites Vos Jeux!


A large Chinese vase rested on a lacquer stool. It contained a quantity
of arum lilies and had the effect of dominating the square, thickly
carpeted lobby of Destre's apartment. Shaded lights were so disposed
that this vase and the waxen white petals acquired startling prominence
against a background afforded by the rose tints of a Persian prayer mat
which hung upon the wall.

In an oval niche a green Buddha crouched contemplating these lilies; a
tiny, shaded lamp burned before him. There was a note of baroque in all
the appointments. A Burmese gong poised in a wooden support gleamed
mysteriously from a shadowed corner, and near it, on a ledge, stood a
violet lacquered telephone. Facing the entrance, so that it occupied
much of the space between two doors, was a Madonna by El Greco; a
beautiful ivory crucifix hung above the massive frame. But of all these
strange, indeed incompatible, elements, it was the lilies which
dominated the lobby.

There was no sound, until this perfumed silence was broken by a faint
buzzing. A door opened immediately, and a man came out and went to the
instrument. It was Mr. Francis, with whom James Wake had had some
conversation recently; Mr. Francis of the cat-like walk, the clean
shaven, heavy, expressive face, the dimpled chin. To-night he wore
"tails" and presented a notable figure, since many men had given up
"dressing" altogether. The telephone conversation was brief.

"O.K. Bring him right up."

Mr. Francis adjusted his white tie before a mirror in a lacquered frame
immediately above a dainty bureau. That magnified mosquito note of an
ascending elevator proclaimed itself, perceptibly increased and then
stopped. The sound of a distant clanging gate, a resumption of the
whine, this time diminuendo, and Mr. Francis opened the door, just as a
fair young man who wore the uniform of a celebrated infantry regiment
was about to press the bell.

"Ah, good evening, Captain Fyne," said Mr. Francis, his chin dimpling.
"I was expecting you. Mr. Olivar told me you were coming along."

"Wasn't sure if I'd come to the right spot. Is Teddie here?"

"I am expecting him. My name is Francis."

Captain Fyne, a distrait young man, accepted the outstretched hand. As
they entered the lobby and Mr. Francis closed the door, Captain Fyne
sniffed, and looked about him in growing bewilderment.

"Let me take your cap and cane."

These being surrendered, Mr. Francis flung another door open and ushered
the visitor into a small room evidently designed purely for the
alleviation of thirst. A man in a white jacket presided over a red bar,
and there were several armchairs and small red tables disposed here and
there. Actually, only one customer was present; he wore a dark lounge
suit, had iron gray hair perfectly groomed, a brief military moustache,
and a cordless monocle which presumably was retained in place by means
of hypnotic suggestion. A stiffly upright figure, a slow, easy manner
and an ironic savoir-faire recalled the older diplomacy. Mr. Francis
performed introductions:

"Ah, Mr. Michaelis, this is Captain the Honorable Peter Fyne, a friend
of Olivar's. You may not have met."

"How do you do," said Mr. Michaelis, bowing formally. "Please let me
offer you a drink. As an old frequenter of these haunts of vice,"--he
smiled indulgently--"I believe the honor is mine."

"Oh, thanks," said Captain Fyne vaguely. "I could do with a drink."

The barman being given instructions: "I know your brother, Lord Abthorp,
quite well," said Mr. Michaelis. "Still out East?"

"Yes." Fyne nodded in his puzzled way; "as a matter of fact, in Cairo at
the moment. Hope he doesn't push on before I arrive."

"Oh, I see. Enough soda? Good." Mr. Michaelis handed a tumbler to the
new arrival. "You expect to be joining him, then?"

"Yes, rather; sailing next week."

"Well, well, here's the best of luck. If, which I trust will not be the
case, I should miss seeing you again, please give my warm regards to
your brother."

A tiny red light glowed just above the red bar. Mr. Francis went out,
closing the door behind him. He returned in less than a minute
accompanied by a slender young man of willowy figure, who carried his
clothes with an almost feminine grace. His handsome features were so
evenly tanned that, since the Riviera was no longer available to
Londoners, one suspected sunray treatment or even some preparation in a
bottle. His dark hair presented a series of glittering waves and his
dark eyes were really beautiful, or would have been considered so if
they had belonged to a girl. He wore a dinner suit, but a companion, who
followed him, was attired as a City man (or, alternatively, disguised as
a stockbroker).

The striped trousers worn by this second visitor any competent stage
producer would have condemned on sight as taken off the wrong hook. He
had his depressed hair parted in the center and had cultivated probably
the smallest moustache in Europe: it looked like two full stops. He wore
black-rimmed spectacles, and in profile his figure suggested that a
finely developed torso had slipped down in some way to the neighborhood
of the waist line.

"Hello, Teddie," called Captain Fyne, as the immaculate young man
entered; "you have turned up then?"

"Of course I have. I never miss a game when there is one going."

Teddie's modulated tones were marred by a slight lisp which, however,
some women had found fascinating. Mr. Francis entered behind the pair,
and closed the door again.

"As this is your first visit, Mr. Bernstein, let me make you at home.
This is Captain the Honorable Peter Fyne, and Mr. Michaelis. Mr. Olivar
I guess you know already."

"Glad to meet you, captain," said Mr. Bernstein. "How d'you do, Mr. M."
He looked about him appreciatively. "Posh little place, ain't it! I'll
say so."

He rubbed his hands together, hands which, in marked contrast to his
rather pasty features, were distinctly red. He laughed on three rising
notes of appreciation, "Ha! ha! _ha!_" revealing yellowish teeth, two of
which were redeemed by gold coverings. Mr. Michaelis, who had stepped to
a side-table to light a cigar, rejoined the group. Mr. Bernstein, in
reply to a courteous inquiry, suggested a double whisky and soda, which
was promptly forthcoming.

"Ah! that's the stuff," he declared, sampling it and smacking his lips.
"Goes down very well, that does. Not half!"

He took another drink. "A drop of good stuff, that. What ho!"

Captain Fyne drew Teddie Oliver aside, and: "I say, Teddie," he began,
and looked more bewildered than ever, "where did you find it?"

Teddie Olivar rolled his eyes, shrugged gracefully and accompanied the
gesture with a movement of his shapely hands. "Really, Peter, one has to
do it nowadays. I agree that the man is somewhat ungarnished, and his
suitings are always shocking, but just look at my Tuxedo, for instance.
How could I possibly be turned out as I am if there were no Mr.
Bernsteins? And my wine cellar, Peter! Positively pre-war. Mr. Bernstein
again."

"Oh, I see. Black market king?"

"Black market emperor, Peter. A really wonderful fellow. Old Huskin
would be delighted to meet him, I am sure."

"So would the police, no doubt. But that reminds me. You said Lady
Huskin was coming."

"My dear Peter, it is an old story--the jealous husband. Of course Poppy
Huskin is simply prostrated, but the old man insisted upon her going
down to Huskin Court to-night for one of those unendurable political
dinners. Poor Poppy! she is so good to me, too."

Mr. Bernstein had now more or less assumed command of the gathering,
however. His ripe and rolling tones possessed great penetrative powers.

"Between ourselves, Mr. Francis--just as one pal to another, like, see
what I mean?--What do they rush you for this line of Scotch?"

"Well," Mr. Francis replied, his chin dimpling, "I could look up the
account."

"I'll lay you an even fiver--and here's me money." Mr. Bernstein
produced a pregnant wallet, and from it took out a five pound note.
"Cover that, old cock." He slapped it down on the counter. "An even
fiver I'm layin' you, that I can do you three cases of the same stuff at
a fifteen per cent reduck."

"Take back your money, Mr. Bernstein." Mr. Francis smiled, and handed
him the note. "I accept your word right now; and I shall be real pleased
to have the three cases on the understanding you have mentioned, and at
that price."

"They are yours." Mr. Bernstein replaced the wad, produced a small
notebook and a pencil and made an entry.

"I can see we shall do a little business. Yes, thanks--" in reply to a
mute interrogation from the solicitous Mr. Michaelis. "The other half
would go down very well. I never say no to a drop o' good stuff."

Another door communicating with the bar was thrown open and a subdued
murmur of conversation suggesting the presence of a number of people
became audible. Above it rose a single voice: "Messieurs, faites vos
jeux!"

Sounds of movement followed, ejaculations, muttered instructions, then
the whirring of a wheel, the rattle of an ivory ball. As the woman who
had opened the door entered the bar and closed the door behind her, one
heard the voice of the croupier again: "Rien ne va plus ..."

Destre smiled around upon her guests.

Mr. Michaelis, who stood nearest to the door, raised her tiny fingers to
his lips, with continental chivalry. Teddie Olivar dragged Captain Fyne
forward.

"The loveliest and cleverest woman in London," he lisped. "This is my
friend, Peter Fyne, dear. Needless for me to add, Peter, that this is
Ysolde Destre."

Captain Fyne's bewilderment became something like hypnosis, as he bowed
over the extended hands of his hostess. She wore a frock which appeared
to be composed of gold tissue, the back of which its designer had left
wholly to the spectator's imagination to sketch in; so that there was
nothing to mar the beauty of her arms and shoulders. A floral ornament
composed of rubies, peeped out from the blackness of her gleaming hair,
and red sandals with golden heels seemed, so lightly did she tread, to
make no impress upon the carpet. As a model of wartime economy Destre's
frock could not well have been improved upon with propriety, since it
terminated not far beneath her gracefully modelled breasts and only
resumed its duties where the curve of slender hips began, exposing the
powdered satin of her tiny waist. She was dainty as a fairy and alluring
as a secret vice; her eyes gave no hint of reward or punishment, but
merely beckoned.

Mr. Bernstein rubbed his red hands together, and nudged Mr. Michaelis.
"Do the honors, old boy," he murmured, "what ho! Bit of all right."

Mr. Michaelis presented Mr. Bernstein, adding, "A friend of Teddie
Olivar, and one who is reputed to be a very daring player. So to-night,
dear Destre, you must be on your mettle."

"I love those who are daring," she smiled, and the fairy bell voice was
in harmony with the fairy figure--"in love and in play."

"That's O.K. by me," declared Mr. Bernstein, and his gold teeth added
their tribute. "I can see we are going to get along fine. Ha, ha, _ha_!
What about a short one on me, everybody, as I've had two on the house."

"No, no," Destre laid a tiny ivory hand on his sleeve. "You are my
guest, Mr. Bernstein--but sometimes I go out to lunch and even to
dinner."

"That's a bet." Once more the small notebook appeared. "Let's make a
date, now. What about Friday?"

"Alas." She shook her head, looking up at him. "All this week I am so
popular that my luncheons and dinners are provided."

"Next Monday, then. The Berkeley at one ack emma. Leave the wine to me."

"That is very nice of you, Mr. Bernstein. I shall be most happy."

"I'll see you're happy." The notebook disappeared. "And now what about a
spot of gambling?"

"But, of course," cried Destre, throwing open the door behind her. "By
all means let us gamble. To-day in this dull London, what else is there
to do?"




16

The Ivory Ball


The gambling room was a long, rectangular apartment across one end of
which a roulette table extended. The remainder of the room contained
card tables, armchairs and settees; it was softly carpeted and dimly
lighted, since most of the light had been concentrated on the roulette
table. A few pictures lurked on shadowy walls, and in contrast to the
Madonna of the lobby, these appeared to consist largely of modernistic
nudes. Some fourteen people, men and women, were seated or standing
around the roulette table when Destre entered with her new guests.

To one familiar with Monte Carlo it would have appeared, at first sight,
noting its circular pit in the centre to accommodate a regulation wheel,
that this table had been constructed for roulette. It was of similar
size to those used in the Casino, covered with green baize, marked out
in the usual way. Croupiers faced one another on either side of the
wheel, stacks of colored stakes ranged neatly before them, and two
others officiated, one at either end of the table. Play was not
particularly high at the moment, but counters were marked in sterling
values and not in francs; so that Mr. Bernstein, peering over the bare
shoulder of a stout and elderly lady who watched the wheel through
raised lorgnettes, saw that the highest single stake exposed represented
about five pounds.

He waited for the ball to fall and listened to the monotonous intonation
of the croupier: "Trente-deux, rouge, pair et passe."

Remorseless rakes swept stakes away, those of a few lucky ones remaining
to be paid out. Mr. Bernstein, glancing aside for a moment, noted a
billiard marking-board with cues in a rack, attached to a wall behind
the first croupier. He turned to look for Destre; but Destre had
disappeared.

Mr. Michaelis was obligingly cashing twenty pounds into one pound and
ten shilling counters for Captain Fyne. Teddie Olivar had taken an
unoccupied chair next to a titled lady whose beauty had created
considerable stir at Court during the later years of Edward the Seventh.
An addict, banished from Monte Carlo, she was prepared to risk a scandal
which might tarnish her ancient name rather than to forego that feverish
excitement which can be born in the human breast by the antics of a
little ivory ball.

Peter Fyne was the only officer present, or the only officer in uniform.
Except for one rather pretty girl who seemed to be a novice, and who was
receiving loving instruction in the intricacies of roulette from her
companion, a short, lean City magnate, with a long, stout purse, the
players were middle-aged to elderly.

Left to his own devices, Mr. Bernstein evidently determined upon a line
of conduct. He produced his fat wallet. The slightly amused voice of Mr.
Francis spoke almost at his elbow.

"As I believe you have not played here before, Mr. Bernstein, the chips
are valued from half-a-crown to ten pounds, and fifty pounds is the
maximum on the even chances. What would you like to start with?"

"Here's twenty quid," said Mr. Bernstein. "Lay it out for me like this:
ten one pounders; ten ten bobs; ten five bobs; and the rest in half
dollars."

"With pleasure." Mr. Francis handed the money to one of the croupiers
dealing in cash and indicated to Mr. Bernstein that he should dispose of
several mounds of chips delivered, in suitable pockets, or elsewhere.

"Messieurs! faites vos jeux!"

The game went on ...

       *       *       *       *       *

In that dimly lighted room where miniature lily pools stood upon
lacquered tables and waxen blooms loaded the air with their heady
fragrance, Destre lolled on her divan. She smoked a cigarette fitted
into the little jewelled holder, and her lips were parted in that
enigmatic smile. No echo of the play reached this room. Its silence was
almost stupefying; indeed, it was disturbed once by a sound resembling
the fluttering of a butterfly, but actually occasioned by a petal
falling from a lily onto the lacquered surface beneath. At last,
however, a faint tap sounded upon the door. The tinkling voice of
Destre spoke the one word: "Enter."

Mr. Michaelis came in, closing the door behind him. He crossed
noiselessly, his footsteps deadened by the Chinese carpet, and stood for
a moment looking down at her. She watched him with those sleepy eyes in
which no message could be read.

"I am not sure that I am glad," he began, "that Olivar should bring his
friend Bernstein."

She dimpled her satin shoulders. "What does it matter so long as he
plays. Is he playing?"

"Yes." Mr. Michaelis, who was smoking a cigar, contemplated the cone for
a moment, thoughtfully. "I saw Francis cash twenty pounds for him. But
it is not always good policy to think only of the money. Your parties
have been justly celebrated for a certain bon ton. It would be
regrettable if vulgarity should be permitted to intrude."

"My dear Hugo--Teddie, who is so beautiful but so brainless, has his
uses all the same; and his demands are not high. He brought us Poppy
Huskin. Even you will admit that she was welcome. Others, too. He
brought Mr. Bernstein at my own request. Our wine bill is excessive. Mr.
Bernstein is said to be more--considerate." Destre closed her eyes
entirely, or seemed to do so.

Mr. Michaelis contemplated his cigar again. "You admit that Olivar is
brainless. This fact has its advantages--but it may prove destructive."

"You cannot possibly have forgotten," murmured Destre, "that Giles had
taken the bank with him on the night that he came to an end so
regrettable."

"I have not forgotten," said Michaelis quietly.

"Our--official resources are by no means unlimited." She dropped the
cigarette into a little jade bowl. "And so"--she moved her shoulders
again--"we must economise as best we can. The loss of so much capital is
serious."

"But I pointed out to you at the time, when the arrangement was made,
Ysolde, that a man who obeys two masters is the servant of neither."

"Precisely what do you mean, Hugo?"

"Well, I mean that what I may describe as our common fund should have
been employed for the game. Loeder, in accepting a portion of the
financial responsibility, admittedly was a welcome partner, at the time,
as our resources were somewhat depleted. But in proposing himself as a
backer, he was no doubt thinking primarily of his own profit."

"No doubt," murmured Destre lazily.

"That--unfortunate misunderstanding, which led him to insist upon
withdrawing his capital before the close of play, resulted in a
dangerously awkward situation. As you remember, a run on the table after
he had gone very nearly broke the bank."

"That is why we play again to-night. We must restore our fortunes."

"A perilous procedure. A link between Loeder and roulette is almost
certain to be established by the police. It was my advice, and it
remains my conviction, that we should lie low until the activities of
Scotland Yard in this matter have worn themselves out a little.
Normally, our risks are negligible, but if we should find ourselves
called as witnesses in a murder case--this would be a different affair."

"It would be a truly unpleasant affair. But the situation was one for
which I confess I had not provided."

Michaelis frowned. "It is our duty to foresee every eventuality. We know
what to expect if we fail. There are circumstances concerning that
unfortunate night which I find disturbing. I am not even sure that I
enjoy your entire confidence in this respect."

Destre stretched out her hand in a gesture of appeal. "Hugo, why are
you so distrustful?"

Michaelis clasped the tiny hand, stooped, and seemed to feast his eyes
upon its delicate ivory and coral. He pressed the slender fingers to his
lips for lingering seconds, his gaze fixed, now, upon Destre's
provocative face. She made a petulant moue, withdrawing her hand. "Tell
me what you are thinking."

"I was thinking that I would sacrifice everything in the world--if I
were sure of you."

"But what else? You were thinking of something else."

He placed his cigar in a bronze bowl, and seating himself on the divan,
passed his arm lightly around her shoulders. "I was thinking that many
men have loved you, and wondering how many of them you have made happy."

She snuggled her glossy head against his sleeve, like a contented
kitten, closing her eyes. "What does it matter," she murmured. "I have
always had greater interests: they have left me little time for love,
and so--" That expressive dimple appeared upon one shoulder, the dimple
which came to life when she shrugged: his arm tightened around her.

"You are so utterly maddening, Ysolde, that sometimes I am afraid--"

"Afraid of what, Hugo?" the drooping lashes were partly raised.

"It would be difficult to express." He spoke with icy coldness. "Afraid,
perhaps, that I might be tempted to--"

"Yes?"

"To tell you the truth."

"About what?"

"About yourself."

Destre fully opened her dark eyes, but otherwise did not stir. "Do you
think it would be news to me?"

"No; but it would make you angry. There is no place for anger in our
friendship. I watch you as every man watches the woman he loves. Your
self-command is perfect--it is wonderful; but I was not alone in
detecting your temporary loss of poise when Loeder brought the little
brunette to Mrs. Sankey's. Before, I had doubted: then, I knew."

"What did you know?"

"I knew that he was your lover. You were unable to hide your
jealousy--from me. I am not reproaching you. Your life is your own."

Destre lay almost perfectly still, reclosing her eyes. "Perhaps, Hugo,"
she said, so softly that her voice sounded like an echo of fairy bells,
"you may jump to conclusions--yes? But what does it matter? Tell me who
else thinks as you do."

"Francis."

"Oh!" she smiled. "As Giles is dead, you find another to be jealous
about. Poor Julian! Have you talked it over with him, Hugo?"

Michaelis withdrew his arm, gently, and stood up. "You are angry. It is
my fault, and I am sorry."

"Truly, Hugo, truly, I am not angry. I know how much you care, and so,
how could I be angry?"

"Yes--I care deeply, and so, I am always watching over you. It is why I
am anxious to-night. After all, this man Bernstein is a stranger."

"And if the police should become rudely inquisitive? Well--" Destre
again extended that tiny hand, curling the fingers upward so as to
resemble a half opened lotus--"our arrangements have always worked
perfectly. Why should they fail us now?"

Michaelis picked up his still smouldering cigar and considered the cone
of ash. His urbanity was in no way disturbed, but a slight frown
remained between his brows.

"I hope you may be right, Ysolde."

       *       *       *       *       *

Around the roulette wheel excitement was rising.

The room, closely blacked-out, began, in spite of its spaciousness, to
grow stuffy; but this is not to say that it had approached the state of
almost solid fug which characterises "The Kitchen" at Monte Carlo. Its
atmosphere had become psychologically tense, and play was evidently more
serious. Teddie Olivar, gallantly investing the capital of his lady
partner, was losing heavily on her behalf. Captain Fyne cashed another
twenty pounds. Spin after spin swelled the bank's coffers at the moment
that Mr. Michaelis returned and strolled up to the table. To this
slaughter of the innocents, however, there was one exception; and the
exception was Mr. Bernstein.

A Babylonian mound of winnings lay within reach of his left hand. He
occupied a chair behind which two or three spectators stood watching his
method, and occasionally they endeavored to follow it in a sporadic
fashion.

Mr. Michaelis exchanged glances with Mr. Francis across the table, then
strolled around to join him. "A run of bad luck for you, my dear
friend."

"Others are losing; that will level it up a bit. Teddie Olivar has
earned his rake-off. I don't think he tries to lose; in fact, I doubt if
that's possible. But he hardly ever wins. He has presented us with a
hundred pounds of Lady Keffington's money. That's ten pounds for a
night's work, plus his cut on whatever Fyne loses."

Teddie Olivar, using a rake, at this moment pushed five ten pound notes
across the cloth to a cashier, demanding, with an accompanying flick of
his long lashes, "Ten fives, if you please ... and that sees me right
out."

Mr. Bernstein's forehead displayed a dew of perspiration. He frequently
mopped it with a Cambridge blue handkerchief. Through his spectacles his
eyes gleamed triumphantly. Rubbing his red hands together and surveying
the cloth with the air of a field marshal planning a battle, he began to
toss stakes on to selected numbers, calling out to the croupier:

"Nineteen ... twenty-one ... Shove over that onto eleven, old cock ..."

These arrangements being completed, the officiating croupier seized the
cross-bar and slowly reversed the wheel into a new spin, at the same
time flicking the ivory ball into play. He had set it on its course
somewhat too vigorously, however, for from the very first stud with
which it came in contact the ball leapt high in the air, dropped on to
the green baize, and bounded from there to the carpet. Here, silently,
it rolled away into shadow.

The man responsible glanced with a rather guilty smile towards Mr.
Francis; and Mr. Bernstein became even more voluble than usual.

"That's done it!" he declared. "There goes me run o' luck. That's torn
it! Blimey! not half it hasn't!"

Mr. Francis rang a bell, and the white-coated barman came in. "The ball
has been lost. Try to find it."

As the man, using a torch, began to peer under chairs and other pieces
of furniture: "Who is that croupier?" Mr. Michaelis directed his monocle
upon the offender. "Rather a clumsy fellow."

"Oh, no, I have always found him quite efficient. It's not an uncommon
accident. He plays for Mrs. Sankey. Wake is a better croupier, but we
thought it advisable to dispense with his services at present."

"That was wise."

"Here! what about my blinkin' stakes?" Mr. Bernstein demanded. "What
happens now?"

Several people had joined in the hunt for the ball. It could not be
found.

"Put another ball into play," said Mr. Francis. The croupier, taking one
from a little box, hesitated for a moment, apparently uncertain whether
he should reverse the wheel or let it pursue its present course. "An
entirely new spin," added Mr. Francis rather irritably. "The stakes
remain."

Some few players made hasty readjustments before the words "Rien ne va
plus" were spoken. The new ball rattled into a number and came to
rest ... "Trente-cinq, noir, impair et passe."

Mr. Bernstein's misgivings were fulfilled. He had lost every piece he
had on the table.

"What did I tell you?" he inquired, extending both palms in a general
appeal. He glared at the croupier responsible. "See what you've done for
me? Broke the sequence. Lo' lumme!--that's torn it, that has."

However, he renewed his stakes; the hunt for the missing ball was
abandoned, and the game went on ... "Messieurs! faites vos jeux!"

A bell rang: it continued to ring--and a red light glowed immediately
above the billiards marking-board.

"Here!" cried Mr. Bernstein, mopping his moist brow--"what's up now? A
blinkin' air raid?"

Many of the players stood up. The bell ceased to ring; the red light
went out. A door behind one of the croupiers opened and Destre came in,
languid and smiling as usual.

"Will you please all be so good as to take up your stakes, and any
counters you have before you. Put them in your pocket or handbag."

Mr. Bernstein was first to obey. "Lumme! it's the cops!" he exclaimed,
transferring mounds of pieces from the cloth to his pockets with
astonishing dexterity.

Teddie Olivar obligingly opened Lady Keffington's handbag which lay
beside her, and bundled all the remaining stakes into it. "Safer with
you than with me, dear."

"Will you please all come out by this door," the bell voice of Destre
ordered. "Don't make unnecessary noise, and you have nothing to worry
about. The counters Mr. Francis will redeem later."

In a retirement which threatened to become a rout, the gamblers obeyed,
to find themselves in a short passage, led by Destre who carried a
torch. This passage terminated in a tiled kitchen where the
white-coated barman stood by with wraps, furs, hats and other
belongings, which he returned to their several owners. A door was opened
to admit the tang of chill night air, as four croupiers joined the
party.

"These gentlemen will lead the way," said Destre quietly. "You will go
up the fire ladder to the flat above; and provided you make no noise,
there is nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Francis will join you in a few
moments."

"I say, Teddie," remarked Peter Fyne, "this will break me if I'm
caught."

"Don't be so pettish, Peter," Teddie implored: "you are such an amateur
of life ..."

Reclosing the door behind a final departing guest, Destre returned to
the gaming room. It was transformed. The table had been dismantled with
the speed of a stage illusion; the wheel, the bank and the rakes had
been packed into a wicker basket; the green baize cover, which was in
two sections, each of these folding screen-wise into three again, had
been removed. The barman, his white coat discarded in favor of a black
one, already was carrying the wooden sections off to some other room.
Mr. Francis rearranged chairs. The roulette table had become again what
it was in reality--a billiard table. Mr. Francis shouldered the laden
basket and made for the kitchen passage: despite the burden his gait
remained feline, almost that of one who moves on tiptoes. Mr. Michaelis
opened the door for him and closed it behind him. Then, stiffly upright,
he focussed his monocle upon the figure of Mr. Bernstein, crawling
beetlesque about the carpet; but it was Destre, hands on hips, who
spoke.

"May I inquire what you are doing, Mr. Bernstein?"

"I have dropped a chip."

"Oh!" murmured Mr. Michaelis--"that is important. Let me help you to
find it. I may add that it is too late for you to leave."

"I'll take my chance. Ah! got it!"

He stood up, holding between finger and thumb a five shilling counter,
which, with a golden grin, he slipped into his pocket, watched by the
imperturbably smiling Destre. The whine of an ascending elevator became
audible, for all doors were open. Then, followed the metallic clang of
lift gates.

"Let us go into the bar," suggested Destre. "Will you take a drink with
me, Mr. Bernstein?"

"Not half! Just what I need. Go down very well, that would."

The doorbell rang. Following a suitable interval, the ex-barman opened
the door. Chief Inspector Firth and Sergeant Bluett stood outside.

       *       *       *       *       *

When, the door being closed, Firth and Bluett were left alone in the
lobby (for the man who had admitted them had gone to inform Destre of
their arrival) those spiritual discords which it symbolised impressed
themselves on both in a different way.

Sergeant Bluett sniffed the lilies--which he could not believe to be
real--and with difficulty repressed a sneeze. Firth, his hazel eyes
narrowed, stared at the painted Madonna, at the crucifix above it; and
they spoke to him with the voice of blasphemy; they shouted obscenely in
raucous merriment. He turned away, tight lipped. A door opened and
Destre joined them. She wore a lace wrap over her evening frock, and
her languor, her smile of Eleusis, had not deserted her.

"Good evening, Inspector." She glanced down at a card which she held and
then up at the Chief Inspector, who towered above her tiny figure,
perhaps wondering if he had grown out of his tweed suit or if it had
always been too small for him. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Do I address Mrs. Destre?"

"I am Mrs. Destre. Is anything wrong?"

"Weel--that remains to be seen, madam. In fact, I would wish, if it will
no' inconvenience you, to take a look around."

Destre continued to smile, soundlessly tapping the toe of one red
sandal upon the carpet, and her fairy-bell notes fell like enchanted
music on the ears. "Can this be, Inspector, what is known in Axis
countries as a domiliciary visit?"

The Chief Inspector's frown, created by the painted Madonna and the
crucifix, grew more severe; Sergeant Bluett coughed.

"The Defence of the Realm, madam, slightly extends, it may be, the
powers o' the police. If ye mean have I a search warrant, I have none.
But acting upon information received, I thought it might be wise if I
just took a look around the premises."

"You are welcome, Inspector, although I cannot think what you expect to
find. Where would you like to begin, please?"

"Weel, while Sergeant Bluett remains here in the lobby, suppose you and
I go along this way and see what we find."

"I am entirely at your service, Inspector--except that if we had gone
the other way we might have found a drink."

Firth smiled, but it was a fierce smile, which displayed his small, even
lower teeth. The aura of this woman dismayed him. He knew her by repute,
but hitherto had never seen her. A man of uncommon probity and by nature
religious, he sensed the fact that her beauty was a snare, that indeed
she was insidiously evil. But coolness in face of danger always appealed
to Firth, so that Destre's charming nonchalance won his reluctant
admiration. With no trace of hesitancy, she showed him her own
sitting-room where miniature lily pools glittered under purple lamps.
She showed him two bedrooms, voluptuously appointed, and a more Spartan
sitting-room and bedroom, apparently those of a man-servant; then, a
room allotted to a maid. This maid (wife of the man-servant) was out.
Even bathrooms were explored.

"That is all at this end, Inspector. Let us see what we can find at the
other." Her upcast glance was taunting; her full lips were slightly
parted.

They walked back along the carpeted corridor, and across the lobby where
Sergeant Bluett sat reflectively tapping his knee with a tightly folded
copy of an evening paper. They entered the gaming room.

"Hello," said Firth suspiciously, "what have we here?"

"It is the billiard room," Destre explained naively.

Firth's fierce eyes swept around as he took in every detail. "A queer
feature in a lady's flat," he commented.

"I quite agree, Inspector." Destre gave a trilling little laugh. "But I
didn't trouble to disturb it, you see, when I took the place over. I
found it so useful for bridge parties. My flat really belongs to Colonel
Lexinham: I am only his tenant. It was too much trouble to take down his
billiard table; also, some of my friends like a game of snooker."

"Some of your friends seem to have been here to-night!" Firth inhaled
vigorously.

"Yes, they left just a while ago: a small party who came on from a
theatre. In fact, I am not sure that they are all gone." She raised her
tinkling voice. "Mr. Bernstein, Mr. Michaelis--have you gone?"

The bar door opened, and Mr. Bernstein, wetly hot, came in followed by
Mr. Michaelis; both gentlemen carried tumblers.

"Oh!" Destre clapped her hands like a playful child. "I thought we had
thirsty stragglers! Chief Inspector Firth has just called. I am sure he
would like a drink, too."

Mr. Bernstein, in nodding acknowledgment of this introduction, spilled
some of the contents of his tumbler. With a murmured apology, he pulled
out the Cambridge handkerchief, dropped on one knee and began to mop the
carpet. He stood up less hurriedly, for his earlier movement had created
a suspicious chinking sound traceable to the counters which loaded his
pockets. However, he conquered any embarrassment which may have
threatened him.

"Wonderful how the police get to know where they keep a drop o' good
stuff!" He smacked his lips. "Anything wrong, Inspector? Mrs. Destre
been slackin' off on her fire-watching, or something?"

"I confess that I cannot imagine," said Mr. Michaelis coldly, "to what
circumstance you are indebted for the pleasure of this call, Mrs.
Destre."

Inspector Firth studied the stiff, monocled figure reflectively.

"I gather that your name is Mr. Michaelis?"

"That is my name."

"I would say, sir, that the police ha' many duties to perform which are
no' necessarily pleasures." He turned again to Destre. "What lies
through yon?"

"There are two more small rooms, a pantry and a kitchen. Would you like
to see?"

"I would wish to do so." Led by Destre he soon completed his tour and
returned. "And in yon, where these two gentlemen were?"

"That's the place you're looking for, Inspector!" cried Mr. Bernstein.
"That's where police investigations are leading to. Not half! Follow
me."

Frowning ominously, Firth walked into the little red bar, glanced at
shelves of expensive bottles and stared at Mrs. Destre. "Ye keep a good
cellar," he commented.

"I do my best, Inspector. You must not think, please, I am angry with
you for bursting in on me like this. No doubt you had a reason, and you
must do your duty."

"What about one for the road?" Mr. Bernstein suggested. "Just a wee
doch-an-doris?"

Firth shook his head, narrowing the tawny eyes. "I am much obliged, Mr.
MacBernstein, but I must say no, and wish you a' good-night."

"This door leads to the lobby." Mr. Michaelis opened it; and there was
Sergeant Bluett still seated in his chair, tapping his knee with the
evening paper, Destre rang a bell, and the man-servant reappeared.

"These gentlemen are leaving, Markham."

Markham opened the front door and stood aside.

No word was spoken in the bar until a clang of distant lift gates came,
followed by the fading whine of an elevator. Then, Mr. Bernstein,
chuckling unctuously, produced from his pocket a small, round, white
object which he threw in the air and caught as it fell ... It was the
missing roulette ball.

Mr. Michaelis glanced uneasily at Destre.

"I picked it up," chuckled Mr. Bernstein, "just a tick before the
Inspector stepped on it. See me spill me drink? That would have mucked
things up, dear. That would have spoiled the party!" He handed the ball
to Destre. "Kiss your uncle Barney."

Destre tossed the ball to Mr. Michaelis, and clapped her hands in
childish glee. A peal of musical laughter rang out ... and was checked
as suddenly as though a hand had been pressed over Destre's red mouth.
Her eyes seemed to change, so that their slightly oblique beauty became
annulled, swiftly, oddly, and they resembled the eyes of a hunted wild
animal. A dull pallor struck all the youth from her face.

"Hugo! Hugo! _listen!_" She clutched Michaelis convulsively. "Oh,
no--_no!_" The banshee wail of a siren rose and fell, rose and fell, to
give warning of the approach of German raiders. "Hugo! promise you won't
leave me! Please hold my hands ... Don't leave me ..."

And Mr. Bernstein, a man amazed, watched an uncontrollable terror
claiming this suave woman whose whole life was lived in smiling
defiance, whose spirit he had thought to be unconquerable. He glanced at
Michaelis, who nodded.

"Strange? It is always the same. Come and lie down until the all-clear,
Ysolde--"

"I am afraid--Hugo--I can't walk ... Oh! stop those sirens--stop those
sirens!"

Michaelis lifted Destre in his arms as one who soothes a frightened
child, and carried her to her room.




17

Covering Mr. Bernstein


The tall figure of Chief Inspector Firth was indistinguishable from the
shadows of a boarded up doorway, but nevertheless Sergeant Bluett,
coming around the corner, stepped in without hesitation, and was
immediately swallowed up, too. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky from
a southwesterly direction, obscuring the moon, and so still was Mayfair
in those small hours that the police officers heard a clock chiming
somewhere inside the building above them.

"Ye dismissed the squad?" The breadth of Firth's Scots denoted the depth
of his annoyance.

"That's right." Bluett's tones sounded preternaturally gloomy. "I know
where their scout was posted."

"Is tha' so."

"In the one-way street leading to the front of Gatacre House there's a
call-box, right on the corner."

"I mind me of it."

"Well, that's where he was. He must have put a call through the moment
he saw us drive up. He's only just gone: slipped through my fingers."

"It doesna' matter. We had nothing on him."

"I should have liked a dekko at his grid."

"And I should like to point out, Bluett, that thieves' slang is highly
objectionable to me--and to the Chief. It recalls some of the lowest
characters we have known. I am thinking of Painter, the Hoxton
murderer."

"I was thinking of Gaston Max."

"Is tha' so? Weel--we both ha' much to learn from him."

Silence fell. A car or a taxi passed along a neighboring street. Doors
opened and closed; one heard footsteps and distant voices. Wardens,
fire-watchers and others whose duties began when the sirens sounded,
were afoot. A searchlight beam shot up over the dark bulk of Gatacre
House and seemed to be nosing a bank of cloud like a questing sword ...
It was switched off.

"Nae doubt ye know where the gambling party went? But it would ha' been
straining our authority to follow."

"Where was that?

"To another flat, either up or downstairs; like enough by the fire
ladders, and taking the evidence wi' them. There's little doubt that Sir
Giles was associated wi' this gang, and if we could ha' got them inside,
there would be time for a little investigation of their private affairs.
However, we haven't."

"They'll come out in one's and two's," murmured Bluett. "If some of them
have cars, they are parked a long way off. I can see none."

"That doesna' matter. We know that Destre is in on it, and I'll find
out when I get back to the office where Mr. Michaelis lives. By heaven!
but there's a woman for ye!"

"Destre?" came Sergeant Bluett's voice out of the darkness. "I know.
Got the nerve of a man."

"The nerve o' three men. I canna' imagine that woman weakening for a
moment, Bluett. There's sma' doubt that those who stayed are her
associates; and the one I should like to know more about is Mr.
Bernstein."

"That's right."

"He will be awkward to check up on; there are many Bernsteins; and so I
am thinking, Bluett, that you must do your best to cover him when he
leaves."

"Oh," murmured Bluett, without discernible enthusiasm.

"I am going back, and I'll be leaving this job in your hands. I know I
can count on you."

"That's right," said Bluett hollowly. "Do you want me to report
to-night, or are you thinking of going home at any time?"

"Report in the morning. Good-night."

"Good-night, Inspector."

As the light footsteps of the Chief Inspector, who had a walk cat-like
as that of Mr. Francis, died away in the distance, Sergeant Bluett
changed his position for another which he had in mind, and which would
enable him better to see anyone leaving Gatacre House. He listened
intently, questioning the darkness, for now the sky was heavily
overcast, and there was threat of rain. Satisfied that no one was about,
his new strong-point gained, he sighed deeply and lighted a cigarette.

This cigarette had been smoked, and another as well, before his patience
was rewarded. An elegant young man who wore no hat, and whose wavy hair
gleamed effectively in dim light cast by the opening of the door, came
out escorting an elderly lady who carried a large handbag, a lady to
whom the young man displayed most courteous attention. A car, presumably
summoned by 'phone, and in charge of a smart chauffeur, rolled up a few
moments later. The cavalier, having arranged the lady comfortably in her
place, stepped in beside her and the car was driven away.

Bluett succeeded in discerning the number, wrote it blindly in his
notebook, and then resumed his vigil. He was about to light a third
cigarette when at last came the signal for action.

The door of Gatacre House swung open once more and a man came out alone,
walked briskly down the steps, and looked about to right and left. He
wore a black overcoat and a rather narrow brimmed bowler hat. The
glitter of his spectacles was visible in the darkness. It was Mr.
Bernstein. Apparently despairing of a taxi, he set off with springy
step, swinging a tightly rolled umbrella in the manner of a walking
stick.

Sergeant Bluett replaced the unlighted cigarette (his stock was getting
low) and wearily set out in pursuit. The odds against Mr. Bernstein
finding a taxi at that hour, Sergeant Bluett put at a hundred to one.
Should he succeed in doing so, Bluett, once he had taken its number,
would be entitled to abandon his tedious duties and to question the
driver in the morning.

He was visited by a vision of an armchair with a pair of slippers set
beside it; of a white cover displaying half an admirable veal and ham
pie prepared by his wife the day before. There would be a nice bit of
cheese, and there would be a bottle of stout. These blissful images
danced before him as he strode resolutely on along Grosvenor Street,
across New Bond Street, and, presently, with many twists and turns
across Regent Street, too. Mr. Bernstein, not once employing a torch,
moved through the black-out mystery of London with all the insouciance
of a town cat. Except for police and wardens brought to attention by the
alert, normal pedestrians were few; and as Mr. Bernstein wore creaky
shoes and those of the sergeant were rubber-soled, the pursuit was a
simple matter. On the frontiers of Soho an all-night taxi hove in sight
and Bluett drew up eagerly towards his quarry.

"Taxi, sir?"

"No, thank you--" and Mr. Bernstein walked on.

"Economy is all very well in wartime," muttered Bluett, crossing the
street behind the cab, so that his presence should not be betrayed by a
challenge from the driver, "but to my mind it can be overdone."

A moment later, doubling like a hare, he was racing back to overtake the
taxi ... He had seen Mr. Bernstein approach a man who stood beside a
stationary car waiting immediately beyond the next corner!

He overtook the taxi and jumped on the running board. "Scotland Yard,"
he said breathlessly. "Pull round like lightning, and try to keep that
car in sight--one back on the next corner."

"Blimey!" remarked the driver. "Want a bit of doin' on a night like
this!"

"You can do it." Sergeant Bluett got in, having satisfied himself that
the driver bore no resemblance to Peter Finch.

The unforeseen pursuit began; and it took an equally unforeseen
direction, leading down the Haymarket and into Pall Mall, past
Buckingham Palace guarded by phantom sentries, and out into Buckingham
Gate. A theory that Mr. Bernstein was making for Victoria Station
(although for what purpose, at that hour, Bluett could not imagine)
proved to be wrong. In Buckingham Gate the car ahead was pulled up.

"Stop!" said Bluett. "Wait here."

He jumped out and moved cautiously forward. He was just in time to see
Mr. Bernstein enter one of those large, grimy and somewhat threatening
buildings which distinguish this thoroughfare. He pulled up with a
muffled, "Well, I'll be damned!" The building, taken over by the
Salvation Army, was the Buckingham Gate hostelry for stranded Service
men!

But Detective-sergeant Bluett was an officer of some resource. In thirty
seconds he had rejoined the taxi driver. "Listen. I'll stand by the cab.
The man I'm watching has gone into the Salvation Army hostelry. Cut
inside to inquire if they have room for two Canadians who've missed the
train. That is, if anybody asks what you want. But look out for a stout
Jewish bloke; black overcoat, specs, bowler hat and umbrella. Let me
know what he's doing. Get back in time. We have to follow him."

"Right-o!" said the taximan, imbued with the spirit of Sherlock Holmes
and only too happy to find himself confidentially employed by "The
Yard."

He was absent no more than three minutes, an interval which Sergeant
Bluett employed for the purpose of taking the number of Mr. Bernstein's
car. Bluett also noted, but attached small importance to the
circumstance, the presence of another car stationed a hundred yards
behind the taxi. When the man reappeared he came doubling back with some
appearance of urgency.

"Just comin' out! That place is full up. Told me to try Great Peter
Street. Blimey!"--as he climbed to his seat--"that's a queer bloke!"

"What's he doing?" Bluett got in, opening the small window in front.

"Distributin' big cigars to a bunch of Yanks what's lost theirselves.
And I see him hand a envelope to the Salvation Army captain in charge
and take a receipt for it. Then I see he was comin' out, and--hullo!
here he is!"

The chase was resumed. Sergeant Bluett, deep in thought, was not so lost
to externals as to fail to note that Mr. Bernstein's car seemed to be
returning to its starting point. In fact, this was exactly what
happened. At the same spot on the frontiers of Soho, Mr. Bernstein
alighted. So did Sergeant Bluett, close behind him. The car moved off.

"Take this card. Stand by for five minutes, and then don't wait. Call at
the Yard in the morning."

"O.K., Sergeant--and here's a tip. I think, I only think, mind you, that
a car followed us back."

"Oh," said Bluett. "I can't hear anything."

       *       *       *       *       *

And now came the rain. For Bluett, who wore no topcoat, it meant a
drenching but the prospect did not deter him. As Mr. Bernstein plunged
into dim mazes of Soho, the dogged man from Scotland Yard followed.
Furtive figures crossed his path every once in a while, coming out of
secret cafs and merging into shadow again. Mindful of the taxi driver's
words, he paused on turning corners, but failed to detect the sound of
a pursuer. Near the corner of Windmill Street, a sudden cessation of
shoe creaks caused a momentary doubt, until he grasped the fact that Mr.
Bernstein had actually turned into this thoroughfare. Here, he overtook
him without difficulty, but fifty paces onward, lost him again. That
zest of the chase inherent in the human breast having now possessed
Sergeant Bluett, he hurried eagerly forward through drizzling rain,
questing about like a hound at fault. At the entrance to a narrow
courtyard he paused, stood stock still, and listened ... Creaky shoes
were moving at its further end.

Sergeant Bluett put himself through a knowledge-of-London test, and
presently formed a mental picture of the terrain. Straight ahead was a
blank wall, broken by a gateway which communicated with a mews. A once
celebrated night club occupied all premises immediately on the left,
except for a narrow block of cheap offices adjoining. On the other side,
he recalled an indifferent Greek restaurant (closed now) with apartments
above it; and this, so far as Sergeant Bluett could puzzle out,
completed the picture. Into which of these had Mr. Bernstein gone?

This problem was almost immediately solved. A faint light, that of a
shaded torch, appeared behind a first-floor window, slightly left of the
restaurant, revealing criss-cross paper strapping attached to dirty
glass; so that evidently no black-out was in use. The light faded and
the window became blind again. A moment later, one immediately above it,
and of almost identical appearance, awakened in turn. The mystery was
solved. Mr. Bernstein had entered by a side door which evidently gave
access to the apartments above the restaurant. There was only one more
floor, and this Bluett watched intently, so intently that presently he
discerned a silhouette of the roof against a temporary rift in the
clouds.

Two tiny streaks of light appeared, right and left of another window
high up under the tiles. He knew what this portended. The light was
shining through crannies of a black-out curtain. And now, zest of the
chase strong upon him, he determined to explore further; for one
possibility remained. Rain had ceased but the night was clammy, the
paving slimily wet. Did the lower door stand open for the convenience of
tenants, or did each of these hold a key? Upon the answer to this
question his future operations depended.

Bluett approached the door and shone a ray from his torch upon it. He
saw an ordinary looking house-door, neglected by the paint brush for
many years ... and it stood ajar!

Passing along a short passage he began to mount an uncarpeted stair; its
ancient treads, well seasoned, did not creak as he had feared: the
handrail he avoided touching. Two doors opened upon the first landing.
On one a card was pinned which said: "Sales Transport Company"; the
other was blank; and the window with criss-cross strapping confronted
him for a moment as he walked on, turned, and mounted the next flight.
Here again he found two doors, besides one of which a grimy brass plate
was fixed bearing the name: "Paolo Moroni." It contained no clue to the
nature of Signor Moroni's trade or profession. The opposite door showed
a newly painted board which announced "Wardens." Bluett paused for a
moment, listening.

Movements became audible directly above his head, and he deduced that
these were made by Mr. Bernstein. He stole on past the second
criss-cross window and mounted to the top floor. Here, he paused again,
and then shone light upon one of the doors. It proudly offered on
polished mahogany with gilt lettering: "Bernard Bernstein & Co." But
Bluett's impression had been that the room he was looking for was not
this one, but that opposite. He directed a ray upon it. The second door
bore no inscription of any kind. He extinguished his torch, and stood
there, keenly alert, and thinking hard.

Now, to the best of his knowledge, and he was no amateur, he had
proceeded thus far without making any perceptible sound. Yet, at this
moment someone began to whistle "Up in the morning early"; the blank
door was thrown suddenly open, casting light onto the dingy landing, and
Mr. Bernstein stood before him!

But what he saw in a lighted room behind the burly figure astonished him
even to a higher degree. He saw dilapidated walls, an uncarpeted floor,
a dirty ceiling. He had a glimpse of an expensive radio set, of brightly
upholstered chairs; but, and this commanded most of his attention,
directly facing him stood a large dressing table which had wing mirrors,
a table littered with all sorts of toilet articles, and reminding him of
that in an actor's dressing room. The only light, a very bright one,
hung immediately above this mirror.

The incompatibility of room and occupant, the mystery of the whole
thing, induced in Bluett's mind a sort of momentary amnesia; he felt
swimmy. Then, removing his spectacles and smiling that golden smile,
Mr. Bernstein ceased to whistle, and spoke:

"Ah, Friar Tuck, my old! but how wet you are! Come in, my friend. I have
some good Scotch here!"

Mr. Bernstein was Gaston Max.




18

"Who Is This Limping Man?"


"Name of a name, Sergeant Bluett, it is annoying! But do not blame me,
for I think our old friend the Chief Inspector has been somewhat
headlong."

Sergeant Bluett, seated on a gilt chair, smoking a cigarette and from
time to time sampling whisky and soda of a quality with which of late he
had become painfully unfamiliar, was in many respects a man chastened
and changed.

"That's right," he said.

"I, myself, have been not headlong enough--and so I have the misfortune
to kill a thousand men--"

Sergeant Bluett, who was swallowing appreciatively, almost choked: he
set his glass down. "What did you say?"

"I said that I was one hour too late to save I cannot tell, yet, how
many poor fellows. Not by my own wit, oh, no, but by a divine accident,
I found a clue I was looking for--an hour too late. Listen, my friend:
Sir Giles Loeder, who has been murdered, was a German spy. I have known
it for ever so long, but I could not _prove_ it. Now that I have proved
it, he is killed." He extended his hands. "_Ma'lsh!_"

"Sir Giles Loeder ... _a spy_?"

"But exactly."

Seating himself before the dressing table, Max dipped a small brush in
some liquid which he had poured into a saucer, and began to remove gold
paint and yellow paint from his teeth. Sergeant Bluett had been reduced
to awed silence by that singular revelation: he watched the Frenchman,
as, once, audiences were wont to watch Houdini; astounded. Cleaning off
the preparation with cotton wool, Max crossed to a washbowl and rinsed
his mouth, previously extracting certain pads, attached with gold wire.

This operation resulted in the fat face of Mr. Bernstein becoming the
leaner face of Gaston Max. He had already discarded collar, tie and
shirt, and now, returning, he dipped his fingers in cream and proceeded
to deal with his complexion, talking to Bluett as he worked.

"Grease paint is useless except for the stage, and this watercolor is so
difficult to get off. I make my colors with pastel which I crush myself:
French pastel, pre-war--very good."

With a towel he removed final facial traces of Mr. Bernstein, including
the brief moustache, blinking his lids as if his eyes were smarting.

"Those spectacles--" he indicated them where they lay upon the
table--"are slightly tinted. The effect is to change the color of the
eyes, but it is very trying to see through them. With spectacles (I have
many) I can make my eyes to seem of any color. It is more difficult for
the characters which wear no spectacles. And look at my hair!"

"Very limp," commented Bluett.

"But, of course! It is a kind of flat varnish. I must wash it out before
I go to bed."

He removed his prominent abdomen, revealing the torso of an athlete.
From an elastic girdle, his artificial corpulence extended down
somewhere below the trouser band. Bluett watched with wide open
ingenuous eyes, whilst Gaston Max detached this singular object, the
lower end of which proved to be fastened to his thighs. This
accomplished, all that now remained of Mr. Bernstein were his red hands,
his baggy trousers and his lank hair.

"You see--" Max extended his fingers--"it might be necessary to wash in
public and so this color and that on the nails call for special
treatment."

He poured another preparation into a saucer, took some cotton wool, and
patiently reduced his hands to their characteristic whiteness, finally
returning to the bowl and washing them. He rapidly recombed his hair.

"You are a disbeliever, my old, but no matter. I will show you all the
tricks of my trade." He removed his shoes. "Finch, the taximan with whom
you are acquainted, is a thin, short fellow. He wears thin clothes, my
Bluett, and there are no heels to his shoes. He is an inch shorter than
Gaston Max. Mr. Bernstein is a big fellow; he is an inch taller than
Gaston Max. How is this, I demand. Regard the shoes of Mr. Bernstein."

Sergeant Bluett regarded the shoes. They were specially made to
accommodate elevators. He heaved a sigh and finished his whisky and
soda.

"Tiring to the feet," Max commented, "but what does it matter." He
laughed gaily, showing glittering teeth. "I love this game. I make of it
an art. Mr. Bernstein's coats are padded. Mr. Bernstein's blue
handkerchief has oil on it, to make Mr. Bernstein sweat. Help yourself,
my friend. The bottle and the syphon are on the side table. One for me
also, if you will be so good."

And whilst Sergeant Bluett, dumbfounded, as he was always dumbfounded by
this man, acted as butler, Gaston Max went on talking.

"To-night you were clever. I confess that, to this present moment, I do
not know how you succeeded in tracking me to Buckingham Gate and back."
Sergeant Bluett handed him a sizzling tumbler and chinked it against
another which he had prepared for himself. "My compliments, my old, and
your very good health."

"Thank you," said Bluett, and flushed like a schoolboy. "The same to
you."

"I detected no sign of you until you actually followed me into the yard.
Therefore, I left the door open in order to learn if you would come in."

"Oh, I see. It isn't open as a rule?"

"My faith, no! Too many of me use this address. Peter Finch has a small
room, and Sales Transport Company is also myself. Mr. Bernstein occupies
an office, and below is Paolo Moroni. This rascal is in the wardrobe
cupboard, there, with the rest of them. Paolo I consider to be one of my
best characters."

Opening the cupboard in question (an exceptionally large one) he hung up
the garments of Mr. Bernstein and selected a blue suit with red stripes,
which he particularly favored.

"You're a knock-out," said Sergeant Bluett. "You might tell me, by the
by, what you were doing in the Salvation Army hostel."

"Ah! name of a good little man!" Gaston Max, who was buttoning a blue
shirt, displayed something which vaguely resembled embarrassment.
"To-night, you understand, I had won at roulette--over a hundred
pounds--"

"Phew!"

"Yes, indeed. This money I do not wish to keep. I am particular. Very
well. It is all in notes, and so I go to the only Salvation Army depot
which I think is open all night, and make them a present of it. You see,
Sergeant Bluett, my dear, I sometimes pick up these illicit profits: it
is unavoidable; and what am I to do with them, eh?"

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"No, no--you do not deserve to be. True, I am always hard up, for my
pittance from Scotland Yard would not suffice. But the Fighting French
make up my salary to that which I formerly received from the Service de
Sret. In other words, I am like your London hospitals: entirely
supported by voluntary contributions! Colonel O'Halloran is my Scotland
Yard godfather, and I enjoy many privileges. I am almost a freelance."

"But you surely don't live here?"

"No, no, I do not live here. An old friend, so beautiful and so fervent
a patriot, but, alas, a prisoner in her villa at Cap Martin, permits me
to occupy her charming flat in Sloane Street."

He had dressed with the speed of a quick-change artiste. Now, draping
the monocle cord about his neck, he sat down and lighted a cigarette.

"You're a knock-out," Sergeant Bluett reaffirmed with conviction. "I
suppose we butted in on you, coming to Destre's flat?"

"No, no. I butted in on _you_. When I heard what the Chief Inspector had
arranged, I rushed to a friend of Mr. Bernstein and asked to be taken to
play roulette. But how fortunate! The good Inspector nearly trod on a
ball which had been lost. I recovered it in the chink of time."

"Oh, did you?"

"But of course! I do not wish those people to be arrested. They are part
of my fishery. Myself, I care not who killed this Loeder. He was what
you call a twirp."

"That's right," murmured Bluett admiringly. "I got the same idea myself.
But I didn't know he was a dirty spy. That beats me!"

"But, yes, undoubtedly. We shall find out who killed him, all in good
time. Let us not by hurry disturb my beautiful case."

"There's something very big in the wind?"

"But, yes, something very big. Name of a name! larger than all other
cases put together! The good Lord Marcus seeks for a great truth to help
everybody: so likewise do I. A little murder--" he snapped his
fingers--"is no more than that. Besides, he was a twirp."

"It's a miracle to me," said Bluett, emboldened, perhaps, by the merit
of his second whisky, "how you can talk English slang. You almost
deceived me as a taxi driver."

"Almost?" smiled Max. "My friend, it was a case of quite."

"Well--" Bluett hesitated--"that's right. I must hand it to you. But if
you can talk like that when you want to, how is it that you speak
English like a Frenchman--or a sort of Frenchman?"

"Ha, ha!" Max's teeth glittered brilliantly. "Ha, ha, ha!" He roared
with laughter. "Again, this is the artist in me. Even the Gaston Max you
know, my old, is only another character; one of my many rles. For who
in the criminal world, having spoken to me, could suppose that he would
not detect my French accent under any disguise?"

"You mean you can really talk straight English if you want to?"

"One day I shall endeavor to convince our old friend, the Chief
Inspector, that I can talk straight Scotch!" Again Gaston Max roared
with laughter. "But Bluett, my old, how is the little girl to-day?"

"Eh!" Bluett ejaculated; "do you mean my kid? Who told you she'd been
sick?"

Gaston Max's mobile lips twitched. "I am the magician. I know all."

"Well, thank you kindly, Mr. Max; she's bucked up no end. All's well. A
bit dull eyed, but nearly her old chirpy self again."

Max stood up, crossed to a large and ornate cabinet, opened it and
revealed to the reproachful gaze of Bluett, rows of bottles, boxes of
cigars and cigarettes, jars of preserves, and stacks of festive looking
candies, chocolates and other sweetmeats. One of these he took out, and
reclosed the cupboard.

"This will make her eyes to sparkle. Black market, but good chocolate.
Tell her it is from her Uncle Barney ... _ss!_"

Abruptly, on that warning hiss, he fell silent, grasping Bluett's arm.
He stepped to the dressing-table and pressed a switch. The room became
plunged in darkness. "Listen!" he whispered.

Sergeant Bluett, aware of a hastened pulse, stood up and listened;
indeed, he held his breath. From Gaston Max, somewhere near him in the
blackness, no sound came. And, as he waited there, nerves taut, Bluett
became conscious of, rather than heard, some presence outside on the
landing--and he remembered that the door below was open. He remembered
something else: the taximan's impression that a car had followed his cab
from Buckingham Gate. He was about to speak, when Max, as if divining
this intention, grasped his arm again in warning.

Their conjoint efforts seemed to impose a sort of super-stillness on the
room; and then it was that both detected that faint sound which had
first arrested Max's attention.

Creaking ... and Sergeant Bluett knew immediately what occasioned it:
someone who groped on the stair, and clutched the handrail, that
handrail which Bluett had so urgently avoided. This sound receded.

"Stealing down," whispered Gaston Max. "I wonder what he heard. I, as
myself, must not be discovered here."

"What about _me_?"

"Rush, my old! Try to capture this stealthy prowler!"

He flashed a ray momentarily, throwing open the door, and Sergeant
Bluett, welcoming action, went out like something expelled from a
mortar. "Who's there?" he shouted, directing light down the stair. "I
want a word with _you_!"

No response came; only a sort of padded scuffle. Bluett went recklessly
down all three flights. He found the door wide open, and sprang into the
yard. A southwesterly wind drove clouds across the face of a waning
moon, and a rent in the flying vapor allowed light to spill out for a
period of seconds. In this brief light he saw the fugitive.

A bent, indefinite figure scudded around the corner into Great Windmill
Street. Bluett raced to that point and stood stock still, listening.
Darkness had fallen again: he could see nothing--nor could he hear a
sound until a heavy truck laden with milk churns came roaring and
rattling along. When it had passed, he remained there, listening. But,
excepting a vague murmur, which he knew to come from Covent Garden, Soho
had no message for him.

"My old, he has escaped!"

Sergeant Bluett physically jumped. Gaston Max stood at his elbow.

"Phew! that gave me a start! Did you see him?"

"I saw him. What did _you_ note?"

"He ran like a sprinter--but he had a funny run."

"He is as active as a cat, although he has some injury, some deformity.
He is a limping man, my respected--he is one who limps ... Who is this
limping man?"




19

Counsel's Opinion


In the gray light of a misty morning, William Sawby's coffee-stall
glittered like a beacon. Enshrined in that backwater of shattered
masonry beside the main stream of Bond Street, it issued a cheery
invitation to early travellers, urns shining, cups rattling, with the
beaming countenance of Sawby, a rosy sunrise, to bestow benediction upon
all.

Tom Wilkins, the milkman, was there, and his pony, white forefeet on the
broken paving, had his head overhanging the counter, inspiring visions
of Bottom the Weaver. Mrs. Ryley, the charlady, another "regular,"
occupied her usual place; and now, up came Michael Corcoran, K.C., the
warden, his steel helmet slung on his back.

"Good morning, everybody! that alert kept me out all night, although I
never once heard a Jerry."

"Good morning, sir," Sawby replied, and automatically filled a cup with
steaming coffee. "They brought one down on the coast, I'm told."

"Good morning, Mr. Corcoran, sir," said Mrs. Ryley.

"I didn't 'ear neither the warnin' nor yet the all-clear, meself. Got
quite out of the 'abit of expectin' 'em."

"Beginnin' to form them habits in Germany now," remarked Tom Wilkins,
sharing a slice of bread and jam with the pony. "Ain't half koppin' it
from the R.A.F., bless 'em."

"Bless 'em indeed," said the K.C. "My boy's with Fighter Command, you
know."

"We all know Squadron Leader Dan Corcoran, sir," Sawby assured him.
"You've good cause to be proud of a boy like that. How's he getting on,
sir?"

"A. 1, Sawby, thank you. First day I can tear myself away from the
Courts I'm going down to see him."

Tom Wilkins, his mouth full of bread and jam, was understood to mumble
something about "another bar."

"That's correct, Wilkins," Corcoran nodded. "Second bar to his D.F.C.
The young devil's a killer right enough!"

A taxi crept out of the mist, was pulled up, and its driver crossed to
the stall, rubbing mittened hands.

"Hullo, Fred," said Sawby. "You're an early bird. Chucked night work?"

"Yes." The man, whose purple face wore an expression of permanent
disapproval, scowled darkly. "Don't pay for the petrol. Our gov'nor's
laid us off it. Too many pirates at the game."

"What, exactly," inquired Michael Corcoran, in his well known
cross-examination manner, "is a pirate?"

"A driver that don't belong to no garage," Fred replied promptly. "A
bloke that runs his own taxi and can get hold of more petrol than what
we can."

"But he is properly licensed no doubt?"

"Oh, he'd have to be licensed."

"Therefore, I would suggest, the term 'pirate' is less suitable than,
shall we say, 'privateer'?"

"Give 'em any name you like, sir. They don't do us no good."

"One of 'em done me a bit o' good the other night," said Mrs. Ryley
reminiscently. "I'd been over to see me daughter, what's in munitions,
and some'ow I missed me last bus. I admit she 'ad a nice drop o' gin,
and that may 'ave 'ad something to do with it. But 'ere was me in the
black-out let in for a walk from Battersea to South Kensington. I got as
far as Chelsea and wasn't feelin' any too spry, when a taxi draws up
alongside me and the driver says, 'Which way you goin', ma?'"

Michael Corcoran experienced some difficulty in swallowing a mouthful of
coffee, but overcame it, and winked at Sawby.

"I should 'ave took it up with 'im pretty sharp, callin' me ma, if I'd
been meself, and told 'im which way 'e could go; but I was that whacked
I answered 'im civil. 'Jump in, ma,' 'e says. ''Ave you there in two
ticks!' which 'e done. I says, 'Thank you kindly, mister--' 'Finch,' 'e
says, 'Mister Finch--'"

"Oh, him!" spluttered Fred, whose mouth, also, was full. "He's barmy!
You can't tell me nothing about Finch."

The conversation was interrupted by Sawby, who switched on the radio in
order that patrons might listen to the seven o'clock news bulletin. It
was an unwritten law that no one should interrupt this ritual;
therefore, Fred reserved any further remarks which may have occurred to
him relative to Peter Finch, and listened with the rest.

There were two items of news which provoked some interest. One was a War
Office announcement that Combined Operations units had landed in force
at a French port, destroying valuable installations and blowing up
stores and workshops. "All objectives were achieved," said the
communique. The other related to the death of Sir Giles Loeder.
"Scotland Yard is working upon a new clue which points to the
probability that robbery was the motive of the crime."

A swift, light footstep attracted Michael Corcoran's attention, and he
turned as a tall man whose tweed suit created an impression that it had
shrunk, walked up to the stall, his tawny eyes rapidly taking stock of
Sawby's customers. "Good morning, Inspector," he murmured.

The bulletin being ended, Sawby switched off and nodded to the newcomer.

"Coffee, please," said Firth.

"You are early afoot, Inspector?" Corcoran suggested: he knew the senior
detective officer of the C.I.D. quite well, as he had practised at the
Criminal bar.

"I haven't been to bed yet!" Firth replied dourly.

"Great Scott! Loeder case?" The barrister modulated his long range
voice.

"Yes, sir. A constable on patrol has found a leather folder--a sort of
portfolio--in the area of a blitzed house in Mount Street; empty. It has
been identified as the dead man's property."

"Mount Street. That's near where the body was found, isn't it?"

"Quite near," said the Chief Inspector, a reply laconic and
non-committal which Michael Corcoran, an enthusiastic criminologist,
accepted as a hint that further inquiries would not be appreciated.

       *       *       *       *       *

On "Treasure Island," Dan Corcoran, in a deck chair, and Fay Perigal,
seated on a bank of velvet grass, watched a kingfisher work the little
stream, poised upon an overhanging branch. It was conveniently shallow
here, cascading over clean pebbles, and its progress made a noise which
resembled the gurgling laughter of a child. Sometimes, the kingfisher
would turn, exposing his robin waistcoat and seeming to be listening to
their conversation. Then, he would twist about again to dart, a
shimmering gem, over the mirror of the water, as swiftly returning to
his watching post.

The wheeled chair, which Toby had navigated down from the cottage, stood
by, a basket which was strapped to it laden with magazines and
periodicals. Corcoran, pipe in mouth, lay back, hands folded behind his
head, alternately looking at the brilliant plumage of the bird and up
into a dazzling blue sky. Fay was knitting a woollen pullover. She was
off duty for the afternoon, but had chosen to spend it here on "Treasure
Island."

Insects hummed soothingly and thrushes searched for tit-bits at no great
distance from them. A robin, who sometimes received donations (he had an
especial weakness for milk chocolate) made a third in the party, and an
emerald green dragonfly, fully three inches long, hovered by the bank,
so that they could hear the curious crackling of its fairy wings, which,
unromantically, reminded Dan, he said, of "someone fingering a wad of
fivers."

"How did Dick come to be up at Oxford with you, Dan?" Fay asked,
breaking a long silence. "I mean, he is an American."

"Dick was a Rhodes scholar, Fay. That's how it happened."

"You were great friends there, weren't you?"

"Well, yes, rather. Our rooms were on the same stair. We went about
nearly everywhere together; had similar tastes in sport. I was reading
law, but I think I should have chucked it in any case."

"Why? Didn't you want to be a barrister?"

"Not particularly. The Learned Parent's idea. But then he has a flair
for it; something I never should have had. Any damn fool of a witness
could tie _me_ up in knots."

Fay laughed, a burst of that happy laughter which belonged to her true
self. But a moment later her gray eyes grew clouded.

"What was Dick going to be?"

"Oh, he was undecided. His people haven't got much money, apparently;
and he couldn't bear the idea of going into business. I don't quite know
what he would have done, if Hitler hadn't settled it for him."

"You joined the Air Force together, didn't you?"

"Absolutely--hand in hand. But, you see, I had a pilot's certificate
already. I'd been flying during my last year. Consequently, I pushed
ahead rather quicker than Dick."

"He's a good pilot, though, isn't he?"

"First class. He's the right type, and he has the kind of cool nerve
that doesn't take unnecessary risks: level headed, which is more than I
can say for myself."

There was another long silence, of which the robin took advantage to
extract a morsel from the grass close to Fay's foot.

"Was Dick popular at Oxford?"

"Yes." Corcoran transferred his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the
other by means of some conjuring trick performed with his teeth. "Girls
could never quite understand him."

"Why not?"

"Well--that straight steady look of his. They always felt he was sizing
them up."

"They were probably right." Fay spoke in a wee, small voice.

"So I used to think, until you told me he had gone and made a fool of
himself with some wench from a hairdresser's. He doesn't seem to have
done a lot of sizing up in that case, does he?"

"No," Fay said miserably. "Has he had much experience of women, Dan?"

"Well--" Corcoran seemed to reflect--"I don't really believe he has. He
is what is known as a New Englander. I'm not quite sure, myself, what a
New Englander is; but Dick is one. I gather that they take women rather
seriously."

"That's a pity."

"Well, it depends on what sort of women they take seriously. Oh! it's
all beyond me. Cheer up, Fay." He reached out and patted her arm.
"There's a wise old saying which may be new to you: 'Every cloud has a
silver lining!'"

Fay burst out laughing again, and laid her knitting down. "You are a
clown, Dan," she cried--"but a perfectly dear clown. How did Dick get on
with your father?"

"Oddly enough, they have never met. Whenever the Learned cropped up at
Oxford, somehow he always missed old Dick, and Dick would never come to
stay, on vacations, because he said he hadn't the means to return
hospitality. A queer fish. But I'll bet my boots they get along like
anything when they do meet."

"I simply cannot make out what has become of him, unless--" Fay drew a
long breath--"he has gone off and married her."

"What! the hairdresser? Oh, chuck it! I can make a better guess than
that. He has found out, as you found out, that she is something of a
jumble sale, and he's too much ashamed of himself to ... Hullo! who
approaches?" He sat upright, staring in the direction of Rosemary
Cottage. "The station taxi, unless these old eyes deceive me."

Fay sat up, too, a heightened color discernible in her cheeks; then was
heard a masterful, penetrating voice: "Come back and collect me sharp at
five. I count on you."

"Ye gods!" said Dan, "it is the Learned Parent!"

And indeed it was Michael Corcoran, K.C. in person. Towering, mentally
and physically, over Corporal Toby, who presently appeared in the
capacity of guide, saying, "This way, your honor," he approached
"Treasure Island," arrayed in flannel trousers, a brown check coat, and
other units of a sporting character.

"Hullo, Dan! I've left a big dull case to my junior and dashed down to
inspect."

"Hullo, dad! Glad to see you."

"Hullo, Nurse Fay!"

"Hullo, Mr. Corcoran!"

"I count myself worthy to be called Mike."

"I simply wouldn't dare!"

Michael Corcoran, away from Court and chambers, exhaled an infectious
gaiety which reminded Fay of the mysterious Dr. de Brion. They were firm
friends, and Corcoran senior from the first had entered with boyish
delight into the mapping out of "Treasure Island."

"Couldn't we have tea here on Cape of the Woods?" he presently
suggested. "I'll lend Toby--Ben--Gunn a hand." He stooped and picked up
a newspaper open at a page which bore the headline: "Sir Giles Loeder
Mystery." "Which reminds me, while we are on the subject of pirates and
other criminals, I've got a tip straight from Scotland Yard about the
Loeder murder. Shall we talk about murders? I love 'em."

"Yes, if you like," said Fay, but her smile was a pretence.

"The police have found a leather case, belonging to Sir Giles, empty, in
a damaged house in Mount Street. They are practically certain, now, that
he was murdered for his money."

"Poor man," Fay murmured. "I wonder why he was carrying money about like
that?"

"My own idea," said Corcoran, "but I stand to be corrected, is that
Loeder was on his way home from a gambling party. I knew him only
slightly, but I feel sure he was addicted to that sort of thing. Used to
be a keen patron of the Turf, and there were rumors at one time that he
was riding for a cropper ... Well, Dan, it's good to see you looking
more like the old bonny boy."

He dropped down on the grass beside his son, squeezing Dan's arm. Fay
quietly crossed the little bridge, intending to make preparations for
tea. Half way over, unseen by either, she suddenly stood still. A tall,
slim figure in Air Force blue, that of a man who had not come through
Rosemary Cottage but who had entered by the side gate, was approaching
"Treasure Island." He saw Fay at the same moment that Fay saw him. He,
too, stood still.

An intuitive observer--and Fay, as her cousin, Marcus, maintained, was
acutely intuitive--would have judged that the steady eyes beneath
straight brows which watched Fay, were the eyes of one who saw, and
recognised, The Promised Land, one who had grasped a stupendous, a
dazzling truth--too late.

Certainly, as she stood there on the rustic bridge, wide-eyed, pale, but
a vision of perfect youth, any man possessed of common discrimination
must have paused to pay homage. Yet there was more than this in the face
of the man who watched her: there was a yearning tenderness, there was
despair. Fay broke the silence with one word:

"Dick!"

He answered with another monosyllable: "Fay!"

The spell was broken. Fay's glimpse into a tortured soul had made her
heart beat almost suffocatingly; Dick was fighting with emotions more
complex than any he had known. A shout from Dan Corcoran brought those
two troubled spirits to earth.

"Dick, by all that's wonderful! Ye gods, man! Where have you been? Come
over here and explain yourself!"

Dick Kershaw managed to smile. He stepped upon the bridge and grasped
both Fay's hands. "Fay, my dear," he said, looked into her eyes, and
passed on.

Dan was standing up, pipe still between his teeth, and Michael Corcoran
had risen also. He stared hard at Kershaw: he was striving to remember
where he had seen him.

"I'll take no excuses," Dan shouted. "We want a detailed account of your
movements, Flight Lieutenant Kershaw, since you left Ashbrown. My father
will conduct the examination."

"So this is Dick," said Michael Corcoran.

"I am very happy to meet you at last, sir."

And as their hands clasped, Michael Corcoran remembered that morning at
Sawby's coffee-stall, remembered the disorder which had marked Kershaw's
appearance, and buried the memory deep. He was proportionately astounded
when Kershaw, meeting his regard steady eyed, added: "I have seen you
before. But you may have forgotten."

"Indeed--where was that?"

"At a coffee-stall somewhere near Bond Street, very early one morning,
sir--the morning following the death of Sir Giles Loeder, to be exact."

"Oh, yes, let me see, I do seem to recall--"

"I had no idea who you were at the time, or I might have asked your
opinion."

"My opinion of what?"

Fay stood just behind Dick Kershaw, listening. A tense note in his
voice, a quality in his bearing, warned her of something to
come--something of which she was afraid. Dan, facing Kershaw, had
recognised this, also.

"Well, sir--your legal opinion. You see, I killed Sir Giles Loeder ..."




20

Murder Confessed


"Fay, dear, can I hope you will understand if I ask you to leave me with
Dan and Mr. Corcoran for a few minutes?" Dick Kershaw's voice was steady
but his hands were tightly clenched--"I mean, for _your_ sake."

Fay had grown ivory pale, pale as on that night when entering the lobby
of Lord Marcus's house she had found a dead man on the couch. "I
believe, Dick," she replied quietly, "it might be better if I stayed.
What you have just said, of course, came as an awful shock ... But I
think I know quite a lot of the rest."

Michael Corcoran, one difficult to surprise, stood amazed, looking from
face to face. It was Dan, whose tones betrayed how profoundly this news
had staggered him, who intervened.

"It's true, Dick. There isn't time to explain; but I think Fay knows why
you did this thing."

"What's that?" Kershaw's clear eyes were turned in Fay's direction. "You
know? How do you know?"

"Well, Dick, I suppose it was fated that I should know. An Air Force
officer (I was never introduced to him) was talking to someone just
behind me in a crowded corner at Julie's party on the very night that it
happened. He seemed to know quite a lot about--" she paused before
pronouncing the name--"Rita Martin. I simply couldn't avoid hearing. I
didn't want to listen a bit, but I had to. And he said that you
were--entangled with this girl, and that she--"

"Yes?" Dick prompted gently.

"That she was Giles Loeder's mistress, and was--" she made a tiny moue,
a mere ghost of its true self--"just playing you up. He said, if you
ever found out, he didn't know what would happen. He meant if you ever
found out that Loeder was keeping her. It was late by this time, and as
soon as ever I could get away, I did. So, although I wasn't prepared for
this, I don't think you can have anything to say that I shouldn't hear.
Of course, it was a blow, Dick, because--well, I hated to think that you
might ruin your life. And when, right on top of it, I found Sir Giles
lying dead--"

"_You_ found him!" Kershaw exclaimed, and took a step towards her.

"Yes. I know it hasn't been in the papers, but--well, what's the good of
talking about it now?"

"No good at all, Fay," Dan Corcoran said. "Also, quite beyond the point.
Don't you agree, sir?"

"I am afraid," replied Michael Corcoran, "that I am not at the moment in
a state of mind nicely to judge of the value of what Fay may have to
tell us. I know very little of the facts. The papers have been unusually
reticent, even for war time. But if, as I understand to be the case," he
turned to Dick Kershaw--"you require my legal advice, I am at your
service."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Dick Kershaw. "Thank you, sir."

"But not at all. You have appealed to me. And I am quite sure that your
astounding statement must conceal other facts which have an important
bearing upon the case. But I certainly agree with my son that your own
account should come first. Do you insist on remaining, Fay?"

"If you please," said Fay, and thanked him with the faintest of smiles.

"In that event, let us all sit down. Perhaps, Kershaw, you would give us
your story from the beginning."

Fay, rarely removing her glance from Dick Kershaw's face, resumed her
former place on the grass. Michael Corcoran sat down beside her, and
appreciating, for he had a profound knowledge of human nature,
something, if not all of the situation, put his arm around her shoulders
and gave her a reassuring hug. Dan settled himself in the wheel chair,
and Kershaw, leaning back upon a rail of the bridge, faced them,
clasping the woodwork on either side of him tensely, so that his
knuckles showed white. Toby, holding one shoulder higher than the other,
had retired.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Maybe it makes it a bit easier," Kershaw began, "to find that you, Fay,
and you too, Dan, know something about what a fool I have been. How you
came to be mixed up in this thing, Fay, is beyond me. I don't think--"
he lowered his eyes for a moment--"I would have dared tell you any of
this, if you hadn't heard about Rita Martin. There is no need to go into
the dreary business of how I met her, and all that, and I can't explain
to you any more than I can explain to myself why I so completely lost my
head over her."

He bit his straight underlip and stared down into the water. For a few
moments there was no sound but that gurgling laughter of the little
stream.

"Anyway, although I don't believe it seems reasonable, and perhaps it
isn't, the whole fabric I was building crashed in a single night, in
fact, in a single hour. I can't say who the man was whose conversation
you overheard, Fay, but I have since found out that quite a number of my
brother officers who go around town rather more than I do, knew I was
being led up the garden. I suppose I am one of those fools who needs to
see a thing with his own eyes before he can believe it. Well, that proof
came my way."

He paused again, as if to collect his ideas, or it may have been to
recover control of himself.

"Various rumors had reached me: I expect they were intended to reach me.
I had been rather under the weather; nothing serious, as I told you, but
the fear of going limping around for the rest of one's life is rather a
nervous ordeal; so perhaps it's likely I was a bit on the morbid side.
At any rate, when I got sick leave, I made up my mind to settle these
doubts once and for all."

In a casual way, but none the less obviously as a prop to his composure,
Kershaw took out his cigarette case, automatically offered it, but was
met with shaken heads. He selected and lighted a cigarette. The picture
in Michael Corcoran's mind was completed. It was thus, almost exactly,
that Dick Kershaw had acted that morning at Sawby's coffee-stall.

"I was to have met Rita directly I got away from Ashbrown, but I had
formed another plan. I didn't go to any likely hotel, and I kept out of
your way, too, down here; I avoided the club as well. I went to a cheap
and dreary place at the back of Lancaster Gate, which one of our fellows
had told me was the dullest pub in London, where one simply never met
anybody but dead-beats and has-beens. He was right. That didn't matter:
I only wanted some place to sleep. There's a caf in King's Road,
Chelsea, and I remembered that from the window tables it was easy to see
the door of the apartment house in which Rita lives. Sitting there, I
waited for her to come back from Simone's. She came in a taxi. If I had
not been what I am--a blind fool--I should have wondered before about
her way of life. She always travelled in taxis, and her apartment, now
that I began to think about it, could hardly have been kept up on a
hairdresser's salary. Anyway, I waited there, drinking more cups of
coffee. It was getting dark, but I knew I couldn't miss her."

Memories of the ordeal through which he had passed were beginning to
influence his voice, his bearing. Fay had been thinking how tired he
looked; now, she thought with great poignance and distress that he
appeared positively haggard.

"When she came out again, she was in evening dress. She stood on the
other side of the street for a while, looking right and left. She was
evidently in a hurry, and as no taxi appeared, she began almost to run
towards Sloane Square. I paid my bill quickly, dashed out and followed
her. Quite a few people were going by Underground but all the same I saw
that I couldn't risk travelling in the same elevator. I took a ticket
at random and rushed down the stairs. She had got there ahead of me, but
just as I reached the platform a train pulled in, and I was in time to
see her get on board. I took a seat in the next coach.

"No need to bore you with details. I nearly lost her when she changed at
Charing Cross; but when she got out at Oxford Circus I ran up the stairs
there as I had run down at Chelsea. It was black-out by now, and I knew
that once she got outside, I should lose my chance. But I had made good
time on the stairs, and I picked her up again.

"Once out on the street, I kept close behind her. She was trying to find
a taxi. Presently, during a traffic hold-up, she darted right out and
jumped into a cab that was pulled up by an island in the middle. I
didn't know what to do. I thought all my trouble was going to be wasted.
But it was quite dark, and I ran across just as the cab pulled off. I
stood there looking after it, right on the island, when a man driving a
private car slowed up, and said, 'Can I give you a lift?'"

Kershaw paused, looking from face to face. "That seems like Fate at
work, doesn't it? 'I have just missed my friend,' I told him; 'she is in
that taxi just ahead. If you could manage to keep it in sight--'.

"He said: 'Jump in. That's in my direction.' Then, only a few minutes
later, he sang out, 'The taxi is pulling up outside the B.B.C.'

"That settled it. I thanked him and jumped out just in time to see Rita
go into Broadcasting House. When I say that settled it, I mean it
confirmed the rumors which had reached me about Loeder. I was certain
now that she was going to meet him, because I knew that he was
broadcasting after the nine o'clock news. So once more I settled down to
wait."

The dull, flat voice of the speaker, accompanied by a harmony of bird
notes, the serenity and beauty of an English countryside, served to
strengthen, in the minds of those who listened, this drama of tormented
jealousy enacted in darkened London.

"There is a rank outside Broadcasting House, just around the corner, and
I reserved a taxi. I hadn't very long to wait. I stood on the steps,
beyond the doors which open into the big entrance hall. Rita came out
with a man. I wasn't three yards from them. I might not have known who
he was, if someone else who came out at the same time had not asked,
'Can I give you a lift, Sir Giles?'

"I knew then; I knew that I had been right; and I knew that I was a
fool. But I couldn't condemn her, yet. I had no claim whatever to deny
her anyone's friendship. I listened, and I heard Loeder reply, 'If it
isn't taking you out of your way, I want to go to Hay Hill, Mayfair.'

"When the car pulled off, I worked my old trick. I said to the taxi
driver, 'Those are my friends, ahead there. Someone has given them a
lift. Do you think you can follow on to Hay Hill, Mayfair?' We arrived
just in time to see them get out, and go into a big block of apartments.
I watched them step into the elevator, then I read all the names on the
board, but Loeder's wasn't there. I knew, though, that a lot of London
flats were sublet, and I had little doubt that Rita had gone to his
apartment. I had to keep walking away as though I was making for some
place on the ground floor, because quite a number of people began to
arrive and go up in the elevator. There was no attendant, but it was
self-working. It occurred to me that maybe there was a party and that
Rita's doings so far were innocent enough.

"I made up my mind to wait, if necessary all night. If she didn't come
out again, that was good enough. If she did, I would follow her. I'm not
going to describe my frame of mind, but I'm afraid it was pretty ugly.
After a time no more people arrived, and I just walked up and down the
steep, deserted street outside, wondering if I had misjudged her,
wondering which apartment she was in; feeling I wanted to find out, to
stand in front of her and to ask her outright what she was to Sir Giles
Loeder.

"A full moon kept bursting through the clouds and shining on blacked-out
windows so that they looked all lighted up from inside. I never knew
that London was so silent at night, so lonely. A warden and a policeman
were the only people who passed during the next hour, and I found myself
counting the barrage balloons I could see from the top of the street.
Well, between eleven and midnight, some of the people I had seen go in,
came out again, which confirmed my idea that there had been a party. But
still, there was no sign of Rita. More than once I weakened: I was
getting very tired, and thirsty, and I was not really quite fit. But I
had made up my mind to see the thing through, so I clenched my teeth,
and stuck it.

"At last, someone rang up the elevator again. Then, from above, I heard
her voice. I ran outside before she could reach the hallway. There was
no car, and no taxi anywhere about, so that wherever she was going she
would have to walk for a time, at least. It was getting darker with
fewer patches of moonlight. I reckoned on following without being seen.
When they came out they passed within a yard of me--Loeder and Rita. And
right then, from their conversation, I knew there was no more room for
doubt."

Kershaw, now, was exhibiting distress signals; he spoke rapidly,
tensely. He had discarded his cigarette and clutched the rail of the
bridge again with both hands.

"I felt completely sick. I can't explain that feeling, that wave of
nausea which swept over me. But I cursed myself for a poor fool, and
conquered it. And when they moved off down Hay Hill, arguing, I was
close behind. They had been to a party of some sort; so much I gathered.
And now he was trying to urge her to spend the night at his flat, which
it seemed was quite near. The very way she declined would have been
evidence enough. They walked on; he had his arm around her, and was
kissing her. He was carrying some sort of portfolio. Suddenly, on the
next corner, a taxi appeared, slowed up and the man called out, 'Taxi,
sir?'

"Rita seemed to jump at the chance of getting away. 'Really, Giles,
dear,' she said, 'I have a hard day to-morrow, and I must go home.' He
tried again to make her change her mind, but she insisted on getting
into the taxi. I stood there watching him kiss her, long, possessive
kisses. It made my blood boil like mad. Then, picking up his portfolio,
he waved as the taxi drew off, and Rita blew a kiss to him. I was
standing back in the shadow of a doorway. It was a moment of pitch
darkness, the moon was quite obscured; when Loeder, as a sort of
parting gesture, maybe, shone his torch and waved its beam in the
direction of the taxi.

"A reflection, or something, must have shone upon me for a moment,
because I saw Rita, her face white and frightened, leaning out of the
window staring back--not towards where Loeder stood, but towards the
doorway in which I was hiding."

"Let me be quite clear on that point," Michael Corcoran interrupted.
"Are you sure, or moderately sure, that this girl saw you?"

"I think I can say that I am absolutely sure she saw me."

"H'm! Go ahead."

"Although I knew that I was in no proper shape for an interview, I made
up my mind all the same that I would have it out with Loeder. I knew he
was a married man, because when first the rumors began to reach me, I
had made inquiries, and I was not going to miss this chance of telling
him what I thought about him. He moved on briskly as if sure of his way.
For my part I have never known London very well, and I can't say with
any certainty just where we had arrived, except that I think we crossed
Berkeley Square. But I followed him until he turned into a side street
and I could be sure there was not a soul about. Hearing me overtaking
him, he stopped, spun around, and flashed a light in my face.

"'Oh!' he said, 'an Air Force officer. I thought it was a pickpocket.'

"Naturally, I don't remember my exact words in reply, but I told him my
name, and said that maybe he had heard it from Rita. He said, 'No, I
don't recall it,' and walked on. Then I grabbed him by the shoulder and
twisted him around to face me. He said, 'What the hell are you up to? Do
you want to spend the night in gaol?' So, keeping my hand on his
shoulder, I told him all I had to say. I held myself in check; I used no
violent language; I stated the plain facts as I saw them:--that he had
used his money and his position to seduce a girl who likely enough would
have gone straight if she had never known him, a girl who had to live on
whatever she could earn, and in times such as these was to be pitied if
she fell for smart clothes and entertainment. Not a soul came near
during all this time. I never heard a sound except once or twice that of
distant traffic. Finally, I said to him, 'There is just one thing I am
going to ask. You have a wife, but I know you are separated. If you mean
to get a divorce and marry Rita, that lets me out: I have no more to
say; the choice is hers.'"

Kershaw stood up and clenched his hands in an effort to retain control,
an effort which he was unable to conceal.

Fay, biting her lip fiercely, stared intently down at the grass.

"His reply was what led to the tragedy. I hold no brief for Rita Martin;
I know, now, that she's a little twister. She has no more sense of
morals, much less of comradeship, than I would expect to find in a
barnyard. That is beside the point. He laughed in my face. What he said
about Rita I am not going to repeat. Then, with the portfolio which he
carried, he struck my hand from his shoulder, and turned away. By this
time, although I had fought hard, I had begun to see red. I tore the
thing from him, threw it down on the sidewalk, and said, 'Put up your
hands, because I am going to thrash you until I am tired.'

"He did--and he took me by surprise. Dan will tell you that we both
worked pretty hard at our boxing. In fact, if the war hadn't come, I
guess Dan would have got his Blue."

"You would have got yours first, Dick."

"That's as may be. But I am not entirely useless, anyway. Well, neither
was Loeder. Fighting in the dark was a novel experience for me, and he
registered one or two hard knocks before I got his measure. Then, the
moon shone out, suddenly, just as he gave me an opening, and I caught
him with a straight left, over the heart. The weight I put into it gave
my groggy foot a sharp twinge; in fact, I almost fell, too. But Loeder
went down for the count, rolled sideways, and then lay still."

"Stop there!" Michael Corcoran broke in. "Where was his portfolio?"

"I don't know. I had snatched it away from him and thrown it aside."

"Was he wearing a hat?"

"No."

"Is it possible that his head struck the pavement so hard that he died
of concussion?"

"That was not my impression, sir. Although it was a fairly strong blow,
I don't believe, when I consider that my ankle let me down, how it could
possibly have been a knock-out." After a moment Dick added: "But he
seemed to me to fall, for the moonlight was quite bright for a few
moments, as a man would fall who knew the game."

"Was the pavement wet?"

"No; the rain came later. Anyway, as he didn't get up, I bent over
him--pretty cautiously, because I was expecting a trap. But when I moved
him he just went limp, and lay flat with his arms stretched out."

In their excitement, none of the three men had noticed Fay. Now,
suddenly, Dick Kershaw noticed her. She was supporting herself
unsteadily, one hand resting upon the grass.

"Fay!" he cried, and sprang from the bridge to her side, dropping to his
knee and throwing his arm around her. "Fay, dear! don't let it hurt you
so much. I know it's horrible, but it was a fair fight."

"I know it was, Dick," she whispered, and looked up at him. "Don't
worry, dear. Nurses know how to take care of themselves. But somehow, as
you were talking--I could see it all."

"Are you quite sure?" He stood up.

"Quite sure."

He stayed where he was, standing beside her, and went on: "I concluded
that he was out right enough, and I may as well admit that I rather lost
my head. It came to me in a flash that if the affair led to a police
court, I should be kicked out of the R.A.F. and I knew, beyond any
shadow of doubt, that Rita wasn't worth it." He stared down at Fay
during another long pause. "Then I heard footsteps, coming up rapidly.
Well, the rest is easy ...

"I bolted. I have told you that I don't know just where this took place,
and I may add that I don't know which way I went. I just tramped on and
on, along dark streets and across squares, with the whole beastly
business going round and round in my head like a crazy circus. It made
me sick to think about Rita, and even then, long after I had left him
lying, it made me coldly, murderously angry to think of Loeder. He's
dead, and I shouldn't say it--but that man was a dirty outsider. I sat
for awhile on a seat in some large open space. It may have been Hyde
Park, but I couldn't be sure. Whenever I heard a policeman coming, I
moved on. You see, Loeder knew my name; I was quite sure he would report
the matter to the police when he came to, and I hadn't made up my mind
what my defence was going to be.

"In the meantime I didn't know what to do. The little hotel I have
mentioned locks its doors about eleven, and to get in I should have had
to ring and so attract attention to myself. I thought it better to stay
out. I must have walked for miles. Sometimes I wondered if I was going
mad, or had already gone mad. Then it rained, as it rained several times
during the night. I sheltered under trees, or in doorways--anywhere, but
still kept on walking. I went right on like that until daylight came.
Then I found myself in Bond Street. As it began to grow light, I
recognised where I was. I saw a coffee-stall amongst a lot of wreckage
in a corner, and I walked over there." He fixed his steady glance on
Michael Corcoran. "That was where we first met, sir."

"Yes," said Michael Corcoran, looking anxiously at Fay. "That was where
you heard on the radio--"

"That Loeder was dead. When I heard that, I lost control again. You see,
I had been in hospital for some time and I was not quite myself, I
suppose. I went back to my hotel at Lancaster Gate, and managed to get
in, so early in the morning, without being noticed. I was scared; I
admit that. But above all, I was wretchedly ashamed of myself--ashamed
of the motive which had led me, although unintentionally, to take a
man's life. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know in whom to confide.
I had left the club as my address in London, and I used to send a boy to
collect correspondence and messages. I took long walks in Kensington
Gardens. I told the hotel people I was convalescing--they were very
decent to me--and took meals in my room.

"There were only two people I could think of whose advice I would dare
to ask. For long days and nights--oh, such dreary, sleepless nights--I
tried to whip up courage to come down here. I read every scrap of news I
could get hold of. But it was little enough. I realised that for some
reason the police were suppressing many of the circumstances; and that
was worse than ever. I began to feel like a hunted criminal. Every time
a constable came along Craven Terrace I thought he was coming for me. I
can't explain this mood: I know it was contemptible; I wouldn't have
believed it possible. Fay--" he dropped on his knees beside her
again--"I knew how it would hurt, but I came to tell the whole story to
you and to ask for your advice." He reached out his hand. "And for
yours, Dan."

"There are two things you have to do," said Michael Corcoran briskly.
"First, is to stay here. Can he stay here, Nurse Fay?"

"Of course," said Fay. "I can easily arrange it with matron."

"The second," Corcoran went on, "is to make quite sure that no living
soul, except the four of us now present, hears a single word of this. I
don't want you to go back to London, Kershaw. Arrange in some way to
have your things sent down. For the rest--well, I shall have a number of
questions to ask ... but leave the rest to me."




21

The Quest of Lord Marcus


An interview which had some bearing upon the astonishing discovery in
South Audley Street, or, more exactly, upon a subsequent development in
the mystery, took place one morning at the Assistant Commissioner's
club. Lord Marcus Amberdale was lunching with Colonel O'Halloran.

They sat at a side table in the lofty bar, an apartment impregnated with
that Service aroma peculiar to clubs whose membership is almost entirely
confined to officers. The club was noted for its dry sherry, and a small
carafe of this stood between them. Lord Marcus, who wore a blue suit and
a blue stock with a small white spot, looked more than ever like a
hangover from the Regency; his handsome, lined face was troubled as he
stared across the table at his old friend, and the colonel's little eyes
were blinking furiously.

"I find it peculiarly difficult to state the facts, O'Halloran. I am
regarded in many quarters as suspect--an unhappy atmosphere in which to
spend one's days. Even here--" he extended a long sensitive hand--"I am
conscious of it. Furthermore, I have reason to believe that officers
from Scotland Yard are actually covering my movements. I think I have
detected this on more than one occasion. I am not complaining: I have no
right to complain: but, at its best, it is a waste of your fellows'
time, at its worst, an intolerable implication."

"Quite see what you mean," rattled the Assistant Commissioner. "Follow
entirely. Must agree. As a matter of fact, wanted to talk to you about
it all. Glad to see you in any event. Haven't seen enough of each other
in recent years."

"It is a great pleasure to me," Lord Marcus declared, and raised his
glass with old fashioned courtesy. "This consciousness of a sleepless
surveillance is prejudicial to my work. As you know, I have placed my
knowledge of the Near East at the disposal of the Ministry of
Information, and my employment is of a highly confidential character. A
mere whisper would be sufficient to destroy my usefulness."

"Don't misunderstand me," said the colonel. "Haven't agreed you're being
watched in any way. Contrary to my orders if you are. But frankly, one
can sympathise with Chief Inspector Firth. Rather groping in the dark;
and after all, Amberdale, damn it, dead man was found on your premises.
Can't get away from that."

"It is inescapable: but I have no more idea how he came to be there than
if he had been found in Buckingham Palace."

"Fully appreciate that. But plain fact remains that man wasn't found in
Buckingham Palace; he was found in your house. Infernal
eccentricities--" he held up his sherry glass, blinking at it
viciously--"key in flower box outside door, that sort of thing, all
make it more difficult to investigate. Then, your friend Mrs. Vane knew
Loeder."

"Yet I cannot recall that she ever mentioned him. I was, of course,
aware of the fact that he had been her lover."

"H'm!" The colonel took an appreciative sip and set his glass down.
"Relations with women friends quite beyond me, Amberdale; always were.
They used to say in the old days, something to do with a woman led you
to chuck up the army."

"I know they did." Lord Marcus spoke wearily but patiently. "And they
were right."

"What!"

"Yes, O'Halloran. Something occurred, in Egypt, which radically changed
the current of my existence. A woman (I shall not mention her name)
died; and it was the end of life for me in that sense in which most men
regard life. In another sense, it was the beginning."

The Assistant Commissioner was watching him fixedly, and
sympathetically. "Don't tell me if you don't want to."

"I have no more to tell you, O'Halloran--about her. I am merely trying
to explain why I went in for those somewhat obscure studies which, from
that day onward, wholly enthralled me. You may recall that I was
traditionally a religious man, but up to that time religion had meant
little to me. I suddenly determined that it meant everything, but not in
its accepted form. I proposed to prove, scientifically, as one proves a
thing in the laboratory, that the human spirit survived death. Once,
there were schools in which this subject was systematically expounded.
To-day, it is in the hands of impostors. I set out to endeavor to
recover some of that older, true knowledge; and in a measure,
O'Halloran, I have succeeded."

Colonel O'Halloran continued to watch him speculatively; there was an
unspoken doubt to be read in his little blinking eyes, but deep sympathy
remained.

"Sure you're not deluding yourself?"

"Quite sure." The musical voice was calm, expressing finality. "Some day
I hope to prove this to the world. If I were to tell you where my
explorations have led me, since those years in which we served together,
when I was so keen on polo--" he smiled without sadness--"when I rode my
own horse in the Grand National, I doubt if you would believe me,
O'Halloran, or credit the cost."

"In terms of cash?"

"In terms of sacrifice. My friends accounted me mad, but I had come to a
state of philosophy which, under guidance, rendered me immune to
uninformed criticism. I followed my chosen path. Mrs. Vane, with whose
record I am familiar, is peculiarly endowed. She possesses, in an
unusual degree, a power cultivated by certain priestesses of Ancient
Egypt, that of releasing the spirit, which is deathless, from the body,
which commonly trammels it throughout earth life. Many such priestesses
of the past, whose powers exceeded anything we can well imagine to-day,
were in no sense models of physical purity."

Colonel O'Halloran began to roll a cigarette. "Frankly, all rather
beyond me."

"Naturally. One is strangely alone in such pursuits; it is part of the
price one has to pay. Fortunately, my financial resources, and my family
name up to a point, enable me to defy prejudice and to ignore
misunderstanding." He raised his hand to his high brow so that the green
scarab which he wore twinkled like the eye of a reptile. "But I
recognise the fact that when homicide intrudes upon my studies I have no
armor against malice."

Colonel O'Halloran bit ragged ends from his cigarette and taking up the
carafe refilled both glasses. "Quite satisfied about your man Wake?"

"Yes," Lord Marcus replied, prolonging the word in a meditative way. "He
juggles with the household accounts, steals my wine, my whisky and my
cigars. I believe he goes in for dog racing, and no doubt the
housekeeping allowance is employed to make up his losses. In every other
respect, he suits me well."

Colonel O'Halloran grinned: it was a cheerful mischievous, rather boyish
grin. "Wouldn't suit me."

"A more honest man would be less competent."

"Might be. Less expensive, too. Fact is, Amberdale--might as well get
down to it--you have some queer acquaintances. Wake and Mrs. Vane are
only two of 'em. The interest of my department begins and ends, more or
less, with the Loeder case; but Loeder case overlaps much more urgent
job. There's a spy ring in London. Must know that through M.O.I. It's a
big show; serious menace to war effort. These people are believed, in
certain quarters, to use the underground gambling racket as a means of
getting information."

"Might I ask in what way this concerns my queer acquaintances?"

"Well--saw you lunching with Mrs. Destre the other day at the Grand
Marnier. She's up to her neck in the racket, although we can't catch her
out. See what I mean?"

"I take it to mean that these associations lend color to the suspicion
that I am an undesirable character."

Colonel O'Halloran grinned again. "Not by me. But the average working
police officer to be excused if tries to add up two and two to make
four. Destre is a pretty woman, and goes nearly everywhere; Eurasian, I
should say, but attractive. Thing is, Amberdale, why have _you_ taken
her up?"

Lord Marcus raised his sherry glass, twirling it slowly and watching the
amber liquid as a seer watches his crystal. Scraps of Army "shop"
floated to them from the counter ... "Hullo, Tinker! how's Tobruk
looking?... Don't agree, McAndrew. A first class regimental officer,
yes; but ..."

"I am trying--" Lord Marcus's effortless oratory was audible above all
other sounds--"to assemble a psychic chain. The spiritual core within a
man is much older than his body, O'Halloran. Some of us have shared
common experiences when the world was young. Those of us who are
peculiarly sensitive recognise these associations: in this way groups
are formed, groups brought together by old love and by old enmity. The
seven deadly sins turn us aside from our true destiny and have kept us
on the treadmill of mortal life all down the centuries. Now, the
significance of seven is a subject which I have no time to discuss, but
I am trying to assemble a group of seven people whose paths have crossed
one another in past lives."

"What for?" asked the Colonel.

"To strengthen my individual power. The _force_ which I could generate
in this way might achieve miracles. Mrs. Vane, in trance, is able to
recognise those who belong to the same cycle as ourselves. She might
identify you--correctly, I have no doubt--or she might point to a
complete stranger."

"New kind of hunting, Amberdale."

"No, O'Halloran; very old. I make it my business to seek out those whom
she has recognised in order to learn if they are in other respects
suitable. In this way I recently made the acquaintance of Mrs. Destre.
She is a woman steeped in evil; her spirit is old as Atlantis; but it is
a spirit of power. In such an experiment as this which I contemplate,
the positive and the negative, good and evil, must be nicely adjusted.
My cousin, Fay Perigal, will, I hope, consent to join us. She will help
to adjust the scales."

"She isn't keen, I take it?"

"It frightens her," Lord Marcus replied simply. "But since the time when
she was a little girl, when during her holidays I used to take her to
Hampton Court, to the Zoo, to matinees, and so forth, I have known that
her spirit was a white flame, a spirit older and wiser than mine." He
sipped his sherry, and, as if he feared that he had transgressed, smiled
his disarming smile. "I must apologise, O'Halloran, for this sermon; but
you are partly to blame."

"Not a bit of it. Extraordinarily interested." The Assistant
Commissioner emptied his second glass. "Suppose we go in to lunch?"




22

Ivory and Powdered Satin


Rita Martin set out at three o'clock from Simone's upon an assignment
booked for her that morning by Mlle. Dorine. As she came down the
carpeted stair, wearing a discreet but well cut suit and a raffish
little hat, her shapely legs gleaming through American silk stockings,
elegant insteps displayed to some advantage by suede shoes from a Paris
last, she presented an undeniably attractive figure. Rita had poise. Her
beauty, though bold, was not vulgar, and she made up with discretion.
But her dark eyes were cloudy and apprehensive.

The familiar glass cases with their unobtainable exhibits, those mingled
perfumes of the shop, the boxes of powder, lip sticks and implements of
manicure alluringly arranged upon the counter: to-day, they all looked
different; her nostrils rejected once familiar scents, for something
alien seemed to have crept into them.

Recently, her associates had noted this change creeping over Rita, but
only one had succeeded in discovering its cause. Sadness was in it, and
her friend, Dora, fully understood its origin, since she guessed rather
than knew that Rita's smart clothes and comfortable apartment had been
due to the munificence of the late Sir Giles Loeder. But there was
something else.

Rita seemed to become apprehensive every time the telephone rang; seemed
to mistrust any new client who entered the place. Dora understood this,
also. She had overheard Lady Huskin cross-examining Rita about her
friendship with Sir Giles; she knew that Rita had been with him on the
night of his death. Rita, however, had not confided in Dora, who only
that morning had said to her: "You are as restless as a cat. What's up
with you?"

But Rita had shrugged her shoulders irritably, and had made no reply.
Now, as she passed through the shop:

"You can go home when you have finished, Miss Rita," said the
receptionist; "you need not return to the Salon."

"Thank you, Mlle. Dorine. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

She opened the door and stepped into the street, then hurried on around
the corner. A young auxiliary policeman (in private life a screen
juvenile) who stood there, smiled appreciatively, but his smile seemed
to frighten her. He scratched his chin reflectively, looking after the
trim figure and wondering if he had lost his sex appeal. In fact, she
had barely noticed the man but had merely noticed the constable, and
members of the police force had become objects of dread to Rita. There
was not an hour of the day and there were comparatively few of the
night--those haunted, sleepless nights--when she did not check up in
every memorable particular upon the events of her final parting from Sir
Giles. Over and over again, a maddening iteration, she had reviewed
those persons who knew, or who might know, that she had been in his
company just before his murder.

There were the people who had been at the roulette party in Hay Hill.
Actually, Sir Giles had introduced none of them: he never did on such
occasions. He had contrived to keep her well in the background, so that
even Lady Huskin had failed to see her. Teddie Olivar had invited her to
a drink in a side room, and there might have been others who knew her by
sight. Now, of course, that old cat Lady Huskin knew.

She found herself avoiding the glances of all taxi drivers; for the man
who had driven her home on that fatal night would certainly be able to
describe her. By an unfortunate coincidence, she had been twice in his
taxi, first on the way to the B.B.C., and later from Berkeley Square to
her own apartment in King's Road.

Why had the police not asked for her evidence?

Then, there was someone else--someone else whom she knew in her heart
had seen her, and had seen her with Sir Giles:--Dick Kershaw.

Why had he not come forward, demanded an explanation? Had he too gone to
the police?

This was the menace which overhung Rita Martin, haunted her by day and
by night. It was beginning to take inevitable toll of her good looks. As
if, she reflected, fortune had not hit her hard enough already; for
where could she hope to find the quarterly rent of her snug little
quarters in Chelsea? In fact, failing one man, the man upon whom she
had counted and who unaccountably had disappeared, what did the future
hold for her? And now, this assignment.

It was with Mrs. Destre at Gatacre House.

She dreaded the interview beyond measure, but it was impossible that she
should avoid it, and she could no longer afford to lose her employment:
this would mean going straight into the army. Furthermore, it would
mean ... Her thoughts made her feel quite dizzy. In fact, she stood
still on the corner of Clarges Street, endeavoring to regain command
of herself.

Destre ... who was Destre? Destre's name she had often heard spoken,
but hitherto Destre had not been a client of Simone's; then, on that
evening, Rita had seen her glittering in the shadows like a brilliant
night moth. Rita, a brunette herself, admired dark beauty, and she
thought Destre was exotically lovely. But even if Sir Giles had offered
to introduce her, which he studiously avoided doing, Rita would have
refused the honor. Rita was a realist and did not shirk facts. She
feared Destre as the average woman fears an adder. It was
unaccountable, but during the time that she had been there at the
gambling party she had divined rather than detected glances from those
dreamy eyes directed upon her. In the solitude of her own room she had
tried to analyse this dread, but she had failed to find any solution to
the problem. She was unaware of the fact, but it was a profound
psychological problem calculated to defeat a brain more highly trained
than that of Rita Martin.

When she arrived at Gatacre House she was almost sick with
apprehension.

"Lady Huskin mentioned your name to me," said Destre. "You know Lady
Huskin?"

"Yes, madam, I dress her Ladyship's hair regularly."

Her voice was toneless but not altogether steady. The lobby had
frightened her, with its perfume of lilies; the eyes of the Madonna had
seemed to accuse her, and Buddha to smile ironically: now, this
remarkable bedroom, with its low pedestal bed, its silken coverings of
palest lavender. There were lilies here, too: water lilies in bowls;
long stemmed lilies in vases; pieces of Chinese tapestry framed upon the
walls. And there were some singular modern statuettes which frightened
her even more than the Madonna had frightened her.

Destre sat in a cushioned chair which more nearly resembled a throne.
Rita thought that it was some kind of Arab work; the pale lemon colored
wood was inlaid with ivory and mother o' pearl. Destre wore a white
swansdown wrap having long sleeves, and she sat before a wonderfully
equipped dressing-table, watching her own and Rita's reflections in the
mirror.

Rita thought that Destre had the most beautiful eyes that she had ever
seen. She envied her the curled lashes, told herself that the way she
had of drooping her lids, so that her eyes became mere slits draped with
black lace, must have proved fatal to many men. But she knew, of course,
that Destre was not English, and she had hoped, jealously, that her
luxurious hair would prove to be coarse. It was not coarse. It was like
silk, and had a slow, natural wave, which made it very easy to dress.
Her own lips, Rita considered, were at least as desirable as Destre's,
her teeth as white; but little furtive glances at the two images in the
mirror forced upon Rita's rebellious mind the fact that compared with
the delicate loveliness of Destre, her own beauty was commonplace.

"My maid has gone to visit her family," Destre explained. "She usually
dresses my hair for special occasions. You see?"

"I see, madam. She must be very skilful."

"Yes, she is quite good." The silvery voice sounded almost playful. "You
have seen me before, sometimes, I believe, Miss Rita?"

Rita swallowed rapidly and stooped to pick up a brush from the small
table beside her. "Yes, madam, I believe I saw you once--in the
distance."

Destre sighed contentedly as the brush was passed through her hair, and
closed her eyes entirely, or seemed to do so. "At Mrs. Sankey's?" she
murmured.

"Well, madam, I believe that was the name of the lady to whose flat I
was taken one evening. Mrs. Sankey herself was not there."

"No. She lives out of London. She lets her flat for parties ... Yes, I
remember now," Destre murmured. "You came with poor Sir Giles Loeder."

"Yes, madam."

Rita knew that her hands were slightly unsteady and didn't know what to
do to correct this fault. She had always been proud of her hands, but
the hands of Destre, loosely folded upon white draped knees, resembled
exquisite ivory carvings, tinted by the brush of a master. Little by
little Rita's self-confidence, a quality by no means lacking in her
make-up, began to desert her. She felt plain and common, and once,
detecting a reflected glance flashed through the grille of Destre's
lashes, experienced again that unaccountable fear.

When Destre next addressed her, the silver bell voice sounded even more
childish. "Poor Sir Giles was rather fond of pretty girls, I am afraid.
Yes? His choice was--most democratic."

Perhaps there was nothing in these words but a sort of playful sadness,
yet they acted sharply upon Rita; in fact, they stimulated a spirit of
bravado which sometimes irrationally took charge of her behavior.

"Really, madam, I am afraid I know very little about that. I have always
lived in the country, with my father, a retired Civil Servant."

This statement, which Rita thought necessary in order that Destre's
mind should be disabused of any false idea implied by the word
"democratic" was strictly true. Her father was a postman whose
enthusiastic patronage of all the bars in his territory had led to his
premature retirement.

"You met Sir Giles when you came to London, I suppose?"

"Yes, madam."

Destre sighed again and was silent for some time, when: "Did he bother
you a lot with questions about the clients at Simone's?" she inquired,
fully opening her eyes so that Rita, who was watching her reflection in
the mirror, met their fixed regard and became conscious of an almost
physical effort as she turned her head aside.

"Simone's clients, madam?"

"Yes, of course. Little tit-bits for his articles and broadcasts. Women
are so indiscreet at their hairdresser's, and poor Sir Giles was such a
student of life and sometimes so boring."

Rita's heart was thumping with such violence that she was afraid to
stand too near to Destre in case Destre should hear it.

"I don't remember that he did, madam."

"Oh, well, I only wondered. He had such an inquiring mind. How tragic
that you should be with him on the very night of his death."

The long expected moment was here. This woman whose silky hair swept
through Rita's fingers was going to cross-examine her; perhaps to inform
the police, secretly, so that her own association with the gambling
parties should not be compromised. Hurriedly, Rita tried to prepare a
line of defence, but could think of none. She replied, almost in a
whisper:

"It was terrible, madam."

"He had a large sum of money with him, I believe?"

Good heavens! that was a line of attack which Rita had not anticipated.
If it were true, and she didn't know if it were true or otherwise, she
might find herself arrested for the theft!

"Is that so, madam?" was all that she could think of saying.

Destre closed her eyes again; she had seen all that she wanted to see.
"So I believe. Sir Giles and I were old friends, and the idea that
someone killed him for his money is terrible--too terrible! Perhaps you
can throw some light upon what became of the case he was carrying?"

"I, madam!" Rita dropped a brush, stooped and picked it up. "Pardon me.
How clumsy I am. Really, I know nothing about it."

"But surely, you left together?"

"Well, yes, madam, we did. And I think he was carrying a case, as you
say."

"Yes, I think so," murmured Destre, "and the police seem to be sure. In
fact, I think I read that they had a clue to the theft."

"Yes, madam, I believe I read something of the kind."

"A man so--democratic, in his acquaintances, might easily be made the
victim of a plot. You see? Such dreadful things are happening all too
often in the black-out in London, just now, don't you think?"

Rita stooped over the side table arranging bottles, brushes, combs, and
other implements of her profession. "I believe it is so. Nothing
happened, madam, while I was with him."

"For your sake, I am glad to hear it. In fact, I am so surprised that
you have not been questioned already."

Rita thought rapidly. "I could tell them nothing that would help in any
way," she said, hesitantly, "or I should, of course, have come forward.
And I suppose that no one who knew me saw me with Sir Giles during the
evening. That is, except yourself, madam."

"And Lady Huskin? And Mr. Olivar, too. I know he sometimes went with
Lady Huskin to Simone's. Surely he knows you?"

"Yes, madam, I spoke to Mr. Olivar."

Again those frightening, sleepy eyes opened widely. Destre began to
smile, which for a moment reassured poor Rita, so that she tried to
smile back at the bewitching image in the mirror, and then forced
herself to resume her duties.

"All was well with my poor friend, then, when you saw him last--yes?"

"Certainly, madam." Rita experienced increasing difficulty in retaining
her professional refinement of speech. "We simply walked away trying to
find a taxi, and we had not gone far, not further than the next corner,
in fact, before one came up. I said good-night to Sir Giles and was
driven home."

"That is simple enough," smiled Destre. "He had his case with him, I
suppose, when he left you?"

"Certainly, madam, yes, I remember distinctly, now--he did."

"That, of course, is the point in which the police would be particularly
interested. If they should get in touch with you, Miss Rita, what you
have told me may help you, so that I should be glad if you would let me
know if there is any development."

"Certainly, madam. Thank you."

Rita worked rapidly, trying to forget herself in her task, trying to
overcome a sense of faintness which she ascribed to the atmosphere of
the room, laden as it was with the perfume of lilies.

Destre, whose eyes appeared to be closed again, spoke suddenly.

"I understand Sir Giles's interest. You are quite pretty. Poor fellow!
he was trying to console himself. In time he might have found someone."

"Console himself, madam?"

"Yes, although he was so charming, he was not always fortunate in love.
Some women are very capricious, very critical, you know. I have seen
much of the world, and I have found that wealthy men who toy with any
girl who happens to attract them for a time and then cast her aside, are
almost always men who have been cheated of the woman they really
desired." She sighed voluptuously. "Poor Sir Giles."

Rita's brain, never capable of close reasoning, began to swim. A curious
hush which characterised Destre's flat was having its effect upon her
nerves. This perfumed tranquility for some reason suggested to her that
soft-footed creatures who listened, hovered secretly just outside the
room, watched, and waited. She believed that Destre suspected her of
being concerned in robbing Sir Giles. She believed that Destre knew, as
she, Rita, had often suspected, that Sir Giles had treated her as a mere
convenience, as a concubine rather than a mistress. He had certainly
made her recall the conversation of some of Simone's clients, almost
word for word. In fact, Destre, without apparent intent, had thoroughly
humiliated her, so that she doubted her good looks, doubted her cunning,
and doubted her safety; she was whirling with doubts.

When at last, hairdressing operations were completed to Destre's
satisfaction (and Rita was forced to admit to herself that she was not
exacting) Destre stood up, closed her eyes and stretched her arms. She
wore white shoes, lined and trimmed with fur.

"I must rest awhile," she murmured, "before I dress. Please be so good,
Miss Rita, as to bring me the wrap hanging on the screen, there."

"Certainly, madam."

Rita crossed the thickly carpeted floor, and took down that remarkable
robe displaying all those variegated tints of the Californian poppy,
arrayed in which Destre loved to take her ease. As she turned, having
it draped over her arm, Destre dropped the garment of swansdown, and
the powdered satin beauty of her body was so perfect that Rita inhaled
sharply and stood quite still for a moment. Recovering herself, as
Destre extended rounded arms Rita draped the silken robe over her
shoulders.

"Remember to let me know," she murmured, "if anything should occur."




23

Dossier Destre


When Sergeant Bluett entered the office of Chief Detective-Inspector
Firth he found no one there. He looked about him and began to whistle
"Up in the morning early," beating time with a newspaper which he
carried. Then a frown crossed his features, and he ceased whistling
abruptly. He went over to the desk. Upon that monument of orderliness
lay an official envelope bearing the address: Chief Detective-Inspector
Firth. "Ah!" said Bluett, picked up the envelope and then laid it down
again. He knew that it contained photographs.

He crossed and stood staring out of the window. The day was bright and
clear; he could see no barrage balloons, those floating fungi of a
wartime heaven. The opposite bank of the Thames, or that part of it
visible from this window, engrossed his attention: he studied it with
the puzzled expression of one who contemplates a thing unfamiliar. The
truth was that Bluett, who possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of
London, had never quite succeeded in re-arranging to his satisfaction
the former layout of the Surrey bank. Where certain buildings had stood,
there were blank spaces, and it had become his almost daily custom to
endeavor mentally to complete the original outlines. He began to whistle
again, checked himself, and turned as the door opened.

Chief Inspector Firth came in carrying a bulky volume under his arm.
"Ah! there you are, Bluett. I thought likely enough ye had resigned."

He crossed to his desk and placed the volume upon it. Bluett returned to
his favorite leaning post, the mantelpiece, as Firth sat down.

"Verra difficult these days," said the Chief Inspector, "to establish
contact wi' sources of information overseas. It means a lot of putting
two and two together." He opened the big book, which had a thumbhole
index. "There she is," he muttered. "But although I would recognise her,
the woman hersel' is both better and worse."

Bluett, his ingenuous features displaying a shade of interest, came over
and stood behind the Chief Inspector, looking down at a page upon which
various items, some typed, and some in small, neat handwriting, were
pasted. The page was headed:

     _Destre, Mrs. Ysolde._

A paragraph in small manuscript which had been stuck on, read: "Place of
birth, nationality of parents, unknown. Unable to trace prior to
residence in Madagascar." This paragraph was initialled illegibly, and
the hieroglyphics were followed by several reference numbers.

Another paragraph, typed, began with a date. It said:

"Married at Diego-Suarrez, Madagascar, by special licence, to Commander
Franois Louis Destre of the French Navy." Underneath, was added, again
in manuscript, "For details see J.B. pp. 19-21." According to other
items it appeared that Commander Destre had died in Algiers in 1928,
having then been separated from his wife for some time. There was a
further paragraph headed: "New York State Troopers." This said:
"Destre, Mrs. Ysolde: French, formerly lived in Madagascar; filed
naturalisation papers as United States citizen, May 3rd, 1931."

Underneath, and presumably from another source, appeared a brief note:
"Party in question residing in Hollywood." Below it, and bearing a date
later in the same year, came the statement: "Left Hollywood February
15th of this year: present whereabouts unknown."

Under a date late in 1938, there was a manuscript entry: "Mrs. Ysolde
Destre occupies a suite at Claridge's Hotel. Has accounts at Fifth
Avenue Bank, New York; Hambro's Bank, London. Funds apparently ample.
United States passport. Social contacts good; credit good; moves in
international circles."

"Ye note that?" said Firth, looking up over his shoulder at the
ingenuous countenance of Bluett: "that big gap? There's nothing here--"
he rested a long sensitive forefinger on the page--"for close on seven
years. Nothing between the time that she left Hollywood and turned up at
Claridge's."

"That's right," said Bluett. "And I should say from the look of her flat
she's still in funds. A beautiful woman--and a widow, too."

Firth, who had redirected his attention to the page, looked up again,
and glared at his subordinate. "There are times," he said, "forby, when
ye're sense o' humor becomes almost funny."

His eyes half closed, he regarded the smooth, fresh face and upstanding
hair with marked disapproval. He returned to his reading. There was a
sort of summary:

"Mrs. Ysolde Destre for some years has spent every season in London,
but has travelled extensively, formerly wintering abroad at Monte Carlo
or elsewhere in the South. She appears to have plenty of money, but the
source of this is unknown. She is believed to have shares, although not
held in her own name, in the Green Spider night club, the restaurant
Grand Marnier, and also, but this cannot be confirmed, in the Mayfair
roulette group. No serious investigation of her affairs has so far been
undertaken, since she has never openly transgressed the law. She almost
certainly has black market contacts at present--associated with the
above enterprises. Her mode of life is bohemian to a degree, but she is
received in good social circles; undoubtedly has influential friends."

Firth glanced up again. "Ah!" said he. "Ye weren't reading, I see. Ye
were staring at the photograph on the opposite page."

"That's right," Bluett admitted. "Something funny about her eyes, isn't
there?"

"That may be, but particularly what are ye thinking?"

"Well, of course, she isn't English, nor American. I was thinking,
Inspector, that she's probably a half-caste. What do you think?"

Firth turned his gaze upon the left hand page, and studied a photograph
which was pasted there, a head and shoulders of Destre, depicting her
wearing a tightly fitting suit and no hat; in fact, obviously an
enlargement of a passport picture. "I wonder," he murmured--"That's a
formidable woman, Bluett. I'm open to believe she knows more about the
death o' Sir Giles Loeder than anybody suspects."

Bluett meditatively returned to the mantelpiece, where he had left his
newspaper. "It's getting a bit beyond me," he confessed. "You more or
less wasted a whole night checking up on Mr. Michaelis, after you'd
watched his rooms in St. James's Street to make sure that he really went
back there. I wasted my time following Gaston Max--"

Chief Inspector Firth closed the large volume with a sigh, and looked
up. "What's that ye say?"

"I say we've been wasting our time."

"Is tha' so? What about the man who--according to your report--came
upstairs and listened outside Mr. Bernstein's door?"

"Mr. Max had good reasons not to return, in propri person, but you
went back and called up for instructions. As I was still here in the
office, working on the Michaelis data, I came along to Windmill Street
and brought Sergeant Hawkins wi' me."

"I know you did." Sergeant Bluett stared. "You told me to go home, but
stayed behind yourself."

"Now," continued Firth, fingering the envelope, "ye may recall that ye
heard this man because he guided himself i' the dark by holding on to
the handrail. Later, ye both obsairved he had something wrong wi' his
foot when he ran. That was the point o' interest. Weel--Hawkins and I
had a good look at that handrail."

Firth, his tawny eyes narrowed, his chin resting in his palm, fixed a
meaningful glance upon his subordinate.

"Oh, did you?" said Bluett. "Funny I didn't think of that."

"The rail was verra dusty, as you might expect, and the fingerprints,
although a lot o' them were smeared, could be seen as plain as a
pikestaff. Weel--" he picked up the envelope. "We got some promising
impressions--and here are the photographs."

"I saw they were photographs when I came in."

Sergeant Bluett returned to the desk. They both bent over a number of
prints which the envelope contained. "Look here," said Bluett; "a beauty
of his palm."

"And here are all four fingers," exclaimed Firth, "verra clear. Another
o' the thumb. That's plenty to go upon."

He took up the telephone. "We'll have them sent in right away," he said,
an unfamiliar note of excitement in his strident voice. "If they belong
to the limping man, it is possible we have his record in the files." He
paused, and replaced the instrument without making a call. "What's on
ye're mind, Bluett? Is something puzzling the intellect?"

"Yes," Bluett confessed; "there is something I wanted to ask you."

"What would it be?"

"I wanted to ask you why you stood by waiting for Michaelis to leave
Destre's flat. You said yourself he was easy to check up on. That's
what I don't understand."

Chief Inspector Firth showed his lower teeth in a grim smile. "Then
I'll tell ye. I wanted to find out if he _limped_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Restaurant Grand Marnier, a reference to which appeared in the dossier
Destre at Scotland Yard, had become, under the guidance of Louis
Marnier, internationally famous matre-d'htel from whom it derived its
name, _dernier cri absolument_. Situated in the heart of Mayfair, it was
possibly the most fashionable luncheon establishment in the West End,
and quite the most expensive. Admittedly, the food was good (what there
was of it); Colbert, the chef, had come from the Meurice in Paris; its
cellar was excellent. To say that it became thronged daily with elegance
would be untrue; it is a wartime axiom that the best people are the
worst dressed. But it was smart to lunch at the Grand Marnier looking
like a tramp.

Colonel J.N.G. O'Halloran pushed open revolving doors and entered its
crowded lobby. He was lunching with his sister, who loved the place, and
praying that she wouldn't turn up in uniform: the colonel disliked women
in uniform.

"Makes me feel a damn fool," was the only explanation he had been heard
to offer of this.

He saw that every one of many small tables was already in service; the
wall seats were crowded; a queue blocked the entrance to the restaurant.
He peered around, blinking rapidly, nodded to one or two acquaintances
and then went to leave his hat in the cloakroom.

Coming out again, he elbowed a way into the bar, and, dodging through
uniforms of many colors (most of the customers were officers) he
ordered a pink gin. If he remained near the door, he knew that he could
watch arrivals. Jules, the head waiter, approached with a ten shilling
smile.

"Your table is ready, sir. The second alcove."

"Good. Hang on to it. Lady not turned up."

"Why do we suffer this infernal lack of punctuality, sir?" inquired a
breezy, white haired sailor who stood wedged beside O'Halloran. He wore
mufti, but as he was an admiral he never hesitated to express his views
to anybody. "Wouldn't do at sea."

"Quite agree," said the colonel. "Miracle to me women done so well.
Sense of discipline--nil."

"Damn nuisance; all of 'em; God bless 'em," the admiral summed up.

It was a notable fact that the Grand Marnier had attracted a clientle
representative of all the services. As many distinguished officers were
to be seen there almost any day wrestling for victuals as one would meet
at a Royal leve. The wise ones booked tables, and there were four
tables especially popular with _parties intimes_. These occupied alcoves
in the wall facing the windows, and whilst they afforded a view of the
room, they insured also a certain privacy. One of these his secretary
had booked that morning for the Commissioner, whose sister rather
overpowered him. She was addicted to bawling embarrassing domestic
matters in tones better suited to addressing a Boy Scout rally; in her
brother's words, she had a voice like a fairy fog-horn.

Carrying his cocktail, the colonel went out to look for her. Failing
interception, he knew that she would yell at the first waiter whom she
sighted, "Has Colonel O'Halloran arrived?"

He failed to see, or hear, her in the lobby, and accordingly bye-passed
the waiting queue and looked into the restaurant, wondering if she had
asked for, and gone to, the table. However, the second alcove remained
unoccupied. He noted, idly, that a Cabinet Minister and a woman who
might have been his secretary (she was making notes) sat in the alcove
beyond. He couldn't see who was in the one nearest to the door; but the
third was occupied by a French Naval officer whom he knew by sight and a
deeply tanned major wearing the romantic uniform of the Chasseurs
d'Afrique.

O'Halloran, turning back, met a smile from the lady receptionist whose
desk stood beside the door. "If you care to go to your table, Colonel
O'Halloran," she said, "I will direct your friend when she arrives."

"Thanks," he replied. "Obliged. But I think I'll wait outside. Hullo!
here she is!"

His sister, Catherine, by name Mrs. Mallory, came striding across the
lobby glaring rather than glancing at its occupants. The family
resemblance was unmistakable, except that Mrs. Mallory was conceived on
a larger scale: larger eyes, larger frame, larger voice. To his relief,
she did not wear uniform, but was dressed in what he called a "sensible
way"; that is in a heather tweed suit and a plain felt hat. She greeted
him with, "Hullo, Jimmy," spoken as though it had been "Slope arms!" so
that everybody in the lobby jumped nervously.

"Hullo, Kit! Let's go in. Have a cocktail at the table. How's Bill?"

"Terrific," replied his sister; and an inexperienced waiter balancing a
tray of sherry glasses nearly ruined his prospects.

Louis Marnier in person took charge as they entered, and piloted them to
the vacant alcove. Colonel O'Halloran, following his sister, was
surprised when the major of chasseurs raised his hand in salute.
O'Halloran nodded brusquely and passed on. As he sat down:

"Who," Mrs. Mallory inquired in trumpet tones, "is the singing juvenile
from 'The Desert Song'?"

"Don't know," snapped her brother. "But as duelling is out of date,
kindly shut up, Kit."

"Oh," said Kit. "Then I will have a Scotch and soda--but I want to see
the bottle."

And so luncheon began. It was proceeding amicably when a waiter brought
a folded note for Colonel O'Halloran. He apologised to Kit, unfolded the
message, and read: "Forgive me, my dear friend, for bad artistry. I know
you are so critical: my salute was an impulse. I am to-day an officer of
chasseurs for most important reasons. Guard your conversation--even
though you seem to be so private. This note will reach you by a route
roundabout. Please do your best to make peace with your charming friend.

     "Gaston Max"

"H'm!" muttered the colonel. "You don't have to be mad to work at
Scotland Yard--but it helps."




24

The Wheel Rolls On


"Messieurs! Faites Vos Jeux!"

Roulette was in full swing; not in the lily haunted flat of Destre, but
in that almost equally luxurious apartment on the floor above, occupied
by Mr. Francis, a suite which, also, contained a billiard room. Possibly
Scotland Yard remained unaware of these matine performances: the powers
that be are prone to bracket gambling with strip dancing, cocaine
sniffing, and other midnight vices; but in point of fact Mr. Francis had
quite a "good house."

In a room somewhat smaller than that used by Destre, a typical private
billiards room, its walls decorated with sporting prints, nearly a dozen
players were assembled around the table, at which, however, only two
croupiers functioned. It was one of those gay young autumn days dressed
in the finery of summer, and since windows which commanded a distant
view of a verdant square were opened, permitting sunshine to enter
freely, it was altogether more pleasant in every way, and certainly more
healthful, than the blacked-out stuffiness of the larger casino below.

Mr. Francis personally took care of his guests, his eyes twinkling
ironically and his chin dimpling, as he moved with that cat-like stride
from chair to chair, condoling here, congratulating there. Nobody ever
heard his approach: he appeared. A difference one might have noted in
the assembly; it was caused by the predominance of women players.
Presumably, male habitus were otherwise engaged during the afternoon.
Lady Keffington was there, her large handbag upon the table beside her,
and so was Mrs. Delarusse, the stout lady who surveyed the gyrations of
the wheel through lorgnettes. Her expression, one of keen disapproval,
was traceable, no doubt, to the dwindling majesty of a once imposing
mound of chips now disintegrating before her on the green baize.

Mr. Michaelis was absent, but presently that white coated barman, who
sometimes officiated for Destre, opened the door to usher in Lady
Huskin and Teddie Olivar. One might have surmised (correctly) that he
was Mr. Francis's man, and that he lent a hand to Mrs. Destre only when
play took place below. Mr. Francis, who had been talking in an undertone
to one of the croupiers, immediately looked up, and then strode across
to meet the new arrivals.

"My dear Lady Huskin, this is a real surprise and a real pleasure. Glad
to see you, Olivar."

"Dear Mr. Francis," said Lady Huskin, "I have just come from Simone's.
Teddie picked me up and told me there was a game on here. I have left
Dandini in charge of your man. You don't mind, do you?"

"Certainly not. It's a real pleasure." The elusive dimple appeared and
disappeared upon the speaker's chin.

"Would it be asking too much in these days of points and rations, to
make him a cup of tea and give him a few sweet biscuits? Something went
wrong at Simone's to-day, and he does so miss his tea, poor wee
beastie."

"Leave the matter in my hands, Lady Huskin. Would you like tea,
yourself?--or a drink? Or do you want to begin play right now?"

"Oh, I think I am too excited to have tea until I have played a little
while. What do you think, Teddie?"

"I am fully in favor of play," declared Teddie. He performed an elegant
sweeping movement with his left arm, and consulted a jewelled
wrist-watch. "Besides, Poppy dear, you haven't long to stay. You told me
you had to meet your husband at six."

"Ah!" sighed Lady Huskin, rolling her eyes beneath heavily blued lids, a
trick that she may have acquired from Teddie.

"Duty calls, as you remind me, Teddie dear. Yes, let us play."

As she advanced with her oddly mincing gait to a chair which Mr. Francis
drew out for her, Teddie stayed behind for a word with Lady Keffington.
"Oh, my dear, don't tell me you are losing?"

"I have been here exactly sixty minutes, Teddie, and I have lost exactly
sixty pounds."

"Poor darling! Shall I change some more money for you?"

"The odd forty, if you will be so sweet. If I lose a hundred pounds this
afternoon, I sha'n't be able to play any more this week."

"Hullo, Lady Keffington!" called Lady Huskin across the table. "Here we
are again!" From her handbag she produced a leather wallet, supercharged
with notes, and held it out helplessly in Teddie's direction.

"My dear," said he, in Lady Keffington's ear, "when I have cashed this
forty for you I must rejoin Poppy Huskin. But I will keep an eye on your
play--and perhaps, as I am free this evening, you and I might have a
bite somewhere later."

"That would be sweet, Teddie," Lady Keffington replied, with an upcast
glance, "I am free, too."

Teddie Olivar performed his duties as cashier, and took a chair beside
Lady Huskin, grasping the extended wallet as he sat down. "How much
shall we begin with, Poppy?"

"Say a hundred each, Teddie. We really mustn't risk any more."

"Messieurs! faites vos jeux!" The wheel rolled on ...

In that pleasant airy room, appreciable sums of money lightly changed
hands, but as a rule in the end remained in the hands of the bank.
Several other visitors arrived, amongst them Mr. Michaelis, who in his
ambassadorial manner, gravely saluted the ladies known to him, but did
not play. In fact, one familiar with the gambling parties carried on at
Destre's, Mrs. Sankey's, Mr. Francis's and elsewhere, could not have
failed to note that although Mr. Michaelis was a regular visitor he
never did play. Impeccably groomed, straight as a rod, his geometrical
bows could be accounted for only by the presence of a hinge, and
suggested that at some time he had been folded in half.

Lady Huskin's mink wrap Teddie Olivar had draped respectfully over the
back of her chair (he had a deep respect for mink), so that a pearl
necklace which surrounded her well-preserved throat became peculiarly
noticeable. Lady Huskin began by winning, and her plump hands with their
abnormally long nails and superfluous rings, twitched quite nervously as
she fingered a growing mound of chips. Probably she had more money than
that possessed by everyone else in the room added together; but she
loved to win. Her eyes sparkled beneath those heavy lids; her gaiety was
almost infectious. But it failed to disturb the graceful boredom of
Teddie Olivar, her partner. Indeed, although discreetly, he yawned once
or twice; when suddenly Lady Huskin stood up. She had begun to lose. Mr.
Michaelis bent over her chair.

"Mr. Francis has asked me, dear Lady Huskin, if you would join him for
tea."

Lady Huskin, flattered, indeed, fluttered, by being singled out in this
manner, almost immediately turned, drawing her wrap about her shoulders.
"Stay where you are, Teddie, and go on staking for both of us, until you
recover what I have lost; there's a darling. I sha'n't be many minutes."

In a cosy room which Lady Huskin found pleasantly mannish, she took tea
with Mr. Michaelis and Mr. Francis. The walls presented a mosaic of
valuable old prints; heavy oak bookcases were laden with works on all
sorts of sporting subjects, ranging from African game to ice hockey. A
thick blue carpet covered the floor, and leather upholstered furniture,
although well worn, had substantial dignity and character.

Mr. Francis presently wheeled in a three-deck wagon containing an
assortment of sandwiches and pastries which transported Lady Huskin to
the Htel de Paris at Monte Carlo. Porcelain teacups, fragile as shells,
were used, and the tea was not the sort of tea to which one becomes
accustomed in wartime. To complete this soft illusion, a hidden
gramophone, discreetly pianissimo, imposed insidiously the magic of
Kreisler's playing.

"How divinely restful," murmured Lady Huskin, manipulating a meringue
liberally charged with real, rich cream. "Is this delightful room your
study, Mr. Francis?"

"It is. I have changed its character somewhat since I came to live here.
This apartment formerly belonged to Horace Bagshott, the sporting
writer."

"It is too, too charming!" She regarded him coyly. "I am simply
thrilled. Shall I tell you why? Teddie has revealed to me that you are
Francis Batt, my favorite radio comedian!"

"Really!"

Mr. Francis exchanged glances with Mr. Michaelis. "Well--that's a sort
of state secret, Lady Huskin. I don't mean that I'm ashamed of it--"

"Ashamed! I should think not!"

"But as London correspondent of the Transcontinent News Service of New
York, it's what might be called a side-line. Do you get me? I was on the
stage at one time, and I thought, maybe, I could liven up some of the
boys if I returned to my old tricks. Thanks a lot. I appreciate your
approval very much."

"Oh, I simply adore your performances."

Mr. Francis bowed as an actor takes a curtain, and busied himself with
teacups.

"I was at luncheon at the Mansion House to-day, Lady Huskin," said Mr.
Michaelis, standing at her elbow and balancing three biscuits in his
saucer with the ease of a professional juggler. "Your husband's speech
was remarkably sound."

"Oh!" said Lady Huskin, with her girlish laugh, "John can put it across:
I grant you that."

"He is indeed a man of varied talents, and fortunate in possessing a
charming and tactful wife. We had a chat, later. He is terribly worried
about the big convoy, is he not?"

"Worried!" echoed Lady Huskin, setting down plate and teacup upon an
Arab coffee table which Mr. Francis had placed for her convenience,
"worried isn't the word. I really have to be very patient with him."

"And I am sure you are," murmured Mr. Francis.

"It is really most trying. Of course, it is the biggest convoy they have
ever tried to get through to Malta, and it is simply essential that it
should safely arrive there."

"So he was telling me," murmured Mr. Michaelis, bending solicitously
over her.

"Some of the things they are sending, we are terribly short of here, you
know. That's what bothers John. But the poor dear brave people of Malta
are even shorter. So what can we do? They quite expect to lose a lot of
the ships, you know. All those brave, wonderful mercantile sailors!"

"Yes," sighed Mr. Michaelis, his monocle focussed apparently on space.
"Twenty-five ships, he told me, and a veritable fleet to convoy them."

"Twenty-five, Mr. Michaelis!" exclaimed Lady Huskin. "Thirty, if you
will excuse me." She attacked her meringue with renewed vigor. "And
practically two fleets to escort them. Both in charge of admirals!"

"Yes, he explained that. The second fleet takes over at Gibraltar, of
course, convoying them through the Sicilian narrows. Birkenhead is
chock-a-block with stuff, he was saying."

"Chock-a-block!" Lady Huskin's mouth was full of cream. "There's such a
jam there they can't get the convoy to sea." She disposed of her cream.
"I'll let you into a secret. Poor John is so worried that he has begun
to talk in his sleep!"

"Oh, gee!" said Mr. Francis, "that must be real trying for you!"

"Trying! I had to insist that he slept in his dressing-room. Even there,
I can hear him." She glanced coquettishly at Mr. Michaelis. "Don't you
think I'm very wicked to run the risk of being arrested at such a time?
Oh, I'm sure I must be! Think of the scandal! Yet, do you know, I never
had such a thrill in my life as on the night the police came to dear
Mrs. Destre's flat!"

"A gay and adventurous spirit, Lady Huskin," smiled Mr. Michaelis. "Your
husband gave me to understand ..." And the conversation was tactfully
steered back into its former channel.

Some time after Lady Huskin had returned to the roulette table, Mr.
Bernstein arrived. He was admitted to the lobby by Mr. Francis in
person, and proved to be laden with two heavy suitcases. His brow was
dewy.

"There you are," said he, dumping the cases on the floor. "Hennessy
Three Star. The real thing, pre-war, as arranged. Put your shirt on,
Barney."

"That's fine," said Mr. Francis, chin dimpling. "Did you manage the
three dozen?"

"Three dozen was the order--three dozen is here. I don't let it out of
me hands; so where shall we dump it?"

"Temporarily, I think in the kitchen."

"Lead on, old cock. Your obedient follows with the booze."

So presently, laden with his suitcases, Mr. Bernstein entered that
faultlessly appointed kitchen which once had attracted favorable
attention from Mr. Wake. It was at the moment in use as a service room
for the gambling party, and Markham, white coated, hovered about with
trays, cups and pots of tea. A pair of highly polished black shoes
standing in a corner struck a discordant note, having, presumably, been
newly cleaned. Mr. Bernstein dumped his suitcases down beside them,
opened the first, and began to cast out crumpled sheets of newspaper
used as packing.

Then, from amid this rustling dbris he extracted bottles of brandy, and
ranged them in orderly rows upon the table behind him. "None of your
bootleg muck, old cock. Real French. Smells of the grape. Goes down very
well. In fact, we'll sample a spot with your kind permish, when I've
finished unpacking."

"That's O.K. by me," smiled Mr. Francis. "Lady Huskin is here this
afternoon. I'm sure her husband would be glad to meet you."

"I wouldn't mind meeting Lord Woolton himself. He'd get nothing over me.
Old John Huskin is a white man, a man I respect; but I'm an honest
tradesman, same as you are. You supply the sport; I supply the booze.
People ain't Egyptian mummies. They've got to live! See what I mean? Not
half they ain't. We help 'em."

During the sampling of the brandy (which Mr. Bernstein interrupted to
return heaps of newspaper to the suitcases) Mr. Francis might have been
observed watching the stooping figure with a fixity of expression which
wholly changed the character of his face; nor was a dimple present in
his heavy chin. Mr. Bernstein closed the last case and stood up.

"As a matter of fact," he said, confidentially grasping the lapel of Mr.
Francis's coat, "Lady H. has become one of my best customers. The old
man runs his establishment on the same lines as the King. See what I
mean? If you want to live like the poor live, go and live in Buckingham
Palace--or down at Huskin Court. I'm telling you, they get nothing to
eat. And Lady H. don't like it. She's a good customer of mine. Do quite
a nice little business together."

"That's fine," smiled Mr. Francis. "She certainly looks well nourished.
You will stay for an hour, of course?"

"Not to-day, old sport. Business is business. I got me car outside, and
another customer to oblige. To-night, perhaps. Is there a game
to-night?"

"No ..." Mr. Francis drawled the word reflectively. "We are being extra
careful. Mrs. Sankey's flat, as you are aware, is closed."

"What about Ysolde? I had lunch with her a few days ago. Boy, oh boy!
What a star turn!"

"She, also, is going easy. But to-morrow, maybe, I can let you know."

"Always find the old firm at the same address. Bernard Bernstein & Co.
Make your own price. Terms, cash. Distance no object ..."

Some little time after Mr. Bernstein's departure, in fact not long
before Lady Huskin also was called upon to leave, Markham sought out Mr.
Francis in the gambling room, waiting discreetly until he could catch
his eye.

"I am very sorry, sir," he said, "but I think Mr. Bernstein must have
made a mistake."

"Made a mistake?" Mr. Francis's light blue eyes grew hard. "What kind of
a mistake?"

"Well, sir, you remember I had cleaned your dress shoes for to-night.
They were on the kitchen floor, and Mr. Bernstein threw all the
newspapers on top of them. I believe--I can account for it in no other
way: he is rather an impulsive gentleman--that he must have picked them
up with the paper and put them into one of the suitcases."

"You mean they are not there?"

"I do, sir. I am sorry; but I can find them nowhere."




25

Kyphi


A constable passing down South Audley Street at about midnight, turned
into that little bay which embraced the house with the scarlet door, and
in accordance with instructions shone his light upon it. He pressed
against the panels to make sure fastenings were secure, glanced up at
shaded windows and was about to pass on, when something brushed against
his leg. He started, directing the ray downward, and it illuminated a
number of brilliant eyes upturned to him from behind low parapets. These
eyes belonged to a company of cats.

"Be off with you!" growled the constable, and flashed his light
threateningly amongst them.

They scattered in many directions, so that except for two fiery circles
which remained focussed upon him from the darkness of a near-by corner,
the eyes of a large, gray Persian, night swallowed them up. He flashed
his light again upon the door. "Funny business," he muttered.

The constable hesitated, sniffing suspiciously: he thought that he
detected a faint church-like odor. However, he could not quite make up
his mind on this point, and so, switching off his light, he went
tramping on. He wondered if the incident called for reporting, but
secretly feared the ridicule which such a report was calculated to
invoke. He had been told about the cats which haunted the vicinity of
Lord Marcus's house, and as he went on through dark, deserted streets,
under a leaden sky, he found his mind constantly reverting to that
feline assembly before the scarlet door, trying in vain to account for
the presence of those cats.

Explanation lay in that miniature temple, behind silver panels which
opened out of the Roman atrium of Lord Marcus's house. The shrine, or
altar, with its throne and fantastic procession of Nile gods, was
veiled; a tall screen stood before its golden curtain. The only light
was that concentrated in some mysterious way upon this screen. It
produced the image or illusion of a crystal globe, an image more than a
foot in diameter, which alternately cleared and clouded in a manner to
suggest that it was hollow and contained moving vapor. It seemed to
revolve slowly upon an invisible axis.

One present, and grown accustomed to darkness, would have observed a
silver censer placed immediately inside the door, from which arose
almost straight pencils of odorous smoke. The air of this secret chapel
was laden with the perfume of _kyphi_; and seated stiffly upright facing
the screen was Mrs. Vane.

She wore a severe black dinner frock cut square at the neck. None of the
raiment of a priestess of Isis adorned her to-night, but her pose was
the same: her hands, fingers extended, resting upon the arms of the
chair, her knees pressed together, and her green flecked amber eyes
widely open and fixed upon the revolving image. Beside the screen, so
that he faced her, Lord Marcus Amberdale, wearing his characteristic
evening dress, with black velvet jacket, stood motionless, watching.
Mrs. Vane's lips moved slightly; she uttered a sound resembling a faint
moan.

"Look for the guiding ray." Lord Marcus's melodious voice, low pitched,
held a note of absolute command.

"I cannot find it ... I am so tired."

Reflected light touched her flamboyant hair without creating any
semblance of passionate humanity; hers was the beauty of one of those
chryselephantine goddesses fashioned by the genius of Phidias.

"Search for the ray. I order you to find it."

A brief spasm of pain passed over Mrs. Vane's features. It was gone
immediately, to leave them placid, dehumanised. "I am searching," she
murmured.

Silence became complete again. The image revolved, grew clear, grew
cloudy, pencils of smoke wavered tremulously, as if in that still
atmosphere even speech disturbed the air.

"I see it!"

Her lips opened slightly in a rapt smile; otherwise she did not stir.

"Follow where it leads."

"It is so hard," she whispered. "Why must I go?"

"I order you to go."

The smile disappeared, and that pathetic suggestion of pain flashed
across her features. Following some moments of silence, Lord Marcus
spoke.

"Where does it lead?"

"Away--far away. I cannot say where, but I have left streets behind."

"Look up. Where is the moon?"

"I cannot see it; only clouds."

"Look until you do see it. Look beyond the clouds."

"It is on my right, above a wood. The ray is moving over this wood."

"Follow it."

"I am afraid. It is very lonely."

"There is nothing to fear. Do as I tell you."

She moaned again faintly, and once more that expression crossed her
face, that of one who toils with failing strength, who fears greatly,
but who presses on ...

"Ah!" It was an exclamation of horror. "The wood is full of great cats!
They are all about me! I can see their eyes--everywhere ..."

"They cannot harm you. Go on."

Life, now, might have been detected in the body of the entranced medium.
Her breast began to rise and fall; her lips were slightly opened. "I am
beyond the wood. I can see a large house."

"Describe it."

"I have been to this house. It is the house of Lord Huskin."

"We fail!"

A note of disappointment crept into Lord Marcus's imperious voice.
"To-night we fail again."

"May I return? I am afraid, and I am very tired."

"Does the ray rest above the house?"

"No, it moves on."

"Follow it."

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot! I can do no more."

"Follow it."

Violently, now, that unnatural stillness of Mrs. Vane became disturbed.
She began to breathe as one who is all but exhausted. Spasms of pain
plucked at the corners of her lips; her fingers, which had rested so
placidly on the chair arms, twitched, cluching them for support.

"Where do you find yourself? Speak."

"I can see a cottage."

"Describe it."

"It has a low wooden porch on which roses are growing ... A small stream
runs through ... the garden."

Mrs. Vane was now panting for breath as one in the last extremity of
exhaustion, but the inexorable voice commanded: "Go on."

"I cannot ... I am falling, fainting ... dying."

"If I call you back, you must return again, later."

"Call me back ... I beg you ... call me back!"

For a moment more Lord Marcus remained in that motionless pose, then
stepped forward and rested his hand, the hand upon which he wore a
scarab ring, lightly on the woman's head. "Wake! I order you to
awake ..."




26

Michael Corcoran Calls


Chief Inspector Firth had been writing busily for more than an hour when
Bluett came in. He screwed the cap onto his fountain pen as the Sergeant
entered, and replaced it in a waistcoat pocket, raising his tawny eyes.

"Which would you say, Bluett," he demanded, "is the most fashionable
night club in London now?"

"Green Spider," Bluett replied promptly.

"Is tha' so? And for luncheon?"

"Grand Marnier."

"Aye, I'm thinking ye're no' far wrong. Now--" he leaned back in his
chair--"I have some particulars concerning the shareholders in both o'
them. Destre is almost certainly one."

"That's right. She's got the knack of being in on a good thing."

"I'm thinking so. Roulette in Mayfair is a good thing."

"Ah," murmured Bluett, "but we can't pin that to her." He rested his
elbow on the mantelpiece, then, with a startled look began to search
all his pockets. "I've left my newspaper behind," he muttered.

"That will be a serious blow. Was your dinner wrapped in it?" Firth
showed a row of small, regular lower teeth, in one of his rare smiles.
"I ha' been making a summary of the Loeder case to date." He tapped the
writing-block. "Maybe you will check it over wi' me. I ha' notes here o'
the principal parties so far concerned in the matter, wi' what we know
about them." He glanced down:--"Lord Marcus Amberdale: We ha' failed to
prove any association between him and the murdered man, or to think of
any motive which could have prompted the crime."

"Unless he's mad," muttered Bluett, who, in the absence of a newspaper,
didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

"A fact which is duly noted. Mrs. Vane: Observation has been kept on
this lady, but nothing has come of it. Medical evidence and the evidence
o' my own eyes suggest that she knows nothing more than she has told
us."

"The limping man," muttered Bluett, absently.

"As such, he doesna' appear in my summary. We may be in a poseetion to
put a name to him when fingerprint files have been searched. Next: Miss
Fay Perigal. I dismiss her from the case. Wake, the butler: I ha'
serious doubts o' this man, but we can get no direct evidence against
him. You have interviewed his wife, and you tell me she seems a decent
body, and that her story of what Wake did on the night of the murder
corresponds entirely wi' his own."

"That's right."

"It is a matter into which I am minded to go further. I had him closely
covered, as you know, and reports are curious. More o' this later. Mrs.
Sankey, at whose flat in Hay Hill it is practically certain Loeder was
playing on the night o' the crime."

"Left town," said Bluett; "flat shut up."

"I am aware of it, and the fact in itself is suspeecious. This woman is
the widow of an Indian Civil Servant, and I believe she sublets her flat
to the roulette gang for a high figure. She is just a stooge, and likely
innocent enough as they come. It is Mrs. Destre who could tell us
whether Sir Giles had money in his possession on that night when he
left. I think he did."

"The empty case certainly points that way," admitted Bluett.

"It a'most confirms it; but the leather carries no fingerprints. Mr.
Michaelis: He is a naturalised British subject, a man o' means and
director of a number of City companies, including a concern called
'Mayfair Caterers' which controls The Green Spider and The Grand
Marnier. I am wondering if another of his companies is the roulette
racket?"

"In my opinion," said Bluett, "he is in on everything that Destre is in
on. I mean, he represents her on The Green Spider, The Grand
Marnier--and like enough on roulette as well."

"Then there is a man called Francis, who occupies a flat immediately
above that of Destre. According to Max, they are associated. This
Francis is an American. I have had no chance to check his papers, but,
if he's crooked, his papers will be in order. We know that game. I ha'
found out, though, that he's London correspondent of the Transcontinent
News Service of New York. That's O.K., so far as it goes. In his spare
time he is a radio comedian--"

"That's right: Francis Batt. Dam' good, too. _I_ found that out."

"_You_ did?" The tawny eyes half closed from the bottom upward. "It's
just possible, Bluett, that someone told ye? I was thinking about Gaston
Max."

"So was I. That's funny. I was thinking he might have mentioned it to
_you_."

"Ah." The Chief Inspector frowned thoughtfully. "We know that Loeder was
a German agent--one o' the dirtiest villains who ever escaped
hanging--and so we have to bear in mind that his murder may have been o'
a political character."

"Gaston Max treats it as a sort of side-show," said Bluett gloomily;
"but we have got to solve it, haven't we? I mean, whether it's a gang
murder or not. But I think your own theory is the right one: that
robbery was the motive."

Chief Inspector Firth sighed and lay back in his chair again. "Weel, we
had powers some days ago to investigate Sir Giles's affairs and to open
his safe. I left it to you. What did you find?"

"Nothing much," Bluett admitted, "except evidence that he paid Rita
Martin's rent, and, of course, that curious matter of his drawing five
thousand pounds in small notes from his bank about two weeks before his
murder. The bank gave me the numbers of the notes, but they haven't
traced any yet."

"It wouldn't help us much if they did," said Firth despondently; "at
least, not that I can see. Of course, I should like to know what he
wanted that money for. It's a large sum to draw out in cash. If only we
could ha' got the gambling gang inside for a day or two, maybe an
investigation o' their affairs might have shown if he had money on him
at the time--"

He ceased speaking as the 'phone buzzed. Taking up the instrument:
"Yes," he said sharply, "who is it? Mr. Michael Corcoran?" He glanced up
at Bluett through half-closed eyes. "Michael Corcoran, K.C. Oh, very
well--please show him up." He replaced the receiver. "That's verra
queer," he muttered. "What in the name o' glory can Michael Corcoran
want to see me about?"

"Shall I go?"

"No, wait. I'll give you the tip if necessary."

A few moments later Michael Corcoran entered, a portfolio under his arm;
his air, one of professional briskness, and his attire, professionally
correct.

"Good afternoon, Inspector."

"Good afternoon, sir. This is my assistant, Detective-sergeant Bluett.
Would you wish this to be a private interview?"

"Not at all--not at all." Corcoran laid his portfolio on the desk, and
turned to Bluett. "My business concerns a case upon which I presume you
are both working. In short, I am here on behalf of a client."

"Indeed, sir," said Firth, a puzzled frown between his brows. "How does
your client's business concern me?"

"It concerns you very intimately, Inspector, for the simple reason that
my client killed Sir Giles Loeder."




27

Gaston Max Wears Pearl Gray


Colonel O'Halloran stared from the bay window of his office. He was
busily rolling a cigarette, and his upcast gaze appeared to be fixed
upon barrage balloons, oily bubbles in an azure bowl, for the afternoon
was a brilliant one. In a leathern armchair near the large and somewhat
untidy desk, Gaston Max sat, watching the check coated back of the
Assistant Commissioner. Max wore a pearl gray suit, smartly tailored,
dark blue soft collared shirt, and a dull red tie with black spots. A
handkerchief of similar design drooped from his breast pocket, and he
was twirling a heavy-looking monocle by its cord around and around one
extended forefinger.

"I am obliged, Colonel O'Halloran, my friend, for your interest. My case
against the spy ring is making famous progress. Thanks so much, oh so
much, for those facilities which I owe to you. But yes, sacred blue!
certainly. Lacking my base in Soho, freedom from those regulations which
shackle my confrres, I could have done little. Bernstein & Company are
highly respected in the black market. We do a spanking trade. In fact,
the good Lord Huskin, a worthy and clever man, acting on behalf of Lord
Woolton, of course, has been inquiring about us lately. If I am
arrested, you must get me out."

"Thanks," snapped the Assistant Commissioner without turning; "don't
count on it. Waiting to hear why you sent me that extraordinary note at
the Grand Marnier."

Gaston Max smiled. "As Mr. Bernstein," he said, "I do some small
business with the Restaurant Grand Marnier. I make my deliveries at
night. Marnier, the celebrated matre-d'htel, is an employee of the
proprietors--no more. He is not acquainted with the secrets of this
place, nor is Jules, his head-waiter. But the second waiter was placed
there by the controlling company--Mayfair Caterers; the charming lady
receptionist also. Very well. There is a private office of Mayfair
Caterers, a small room upstairs, which always is kept locked unless a
director should come. Eh bien! those four cubicles _intimes_, so
popular, I believe them to be no more than sound boxes connected by
microphone with this room upstairs! All that is spoken in them can be
heard, you understand? If I am right, we shall see, we shall know."

"So that's why you were there dressed up like an African chasseur?"

"But of course! My case approaches a climax. I must make no mistakes.
You saw that I had with me an admiral of the Free French? He is my good
friend. Together, we had rehearsed our rles. We were discussing
important details concerning the big convoy to Malta--"

"What's that!" Colonel O'Halloran snapped.

"Such interesting details, my colonel, details known to nobody else,
because I invented them! I am spreading such bait in all sorts of places
where I think my spy-fish seek their prey--at the Grand Marnier, at the
Green Spider, among those who frequent Mayfair roulette parties. The use
of this information I can trace--for it is my own copyright!"

"Damn it!" said the Assistant Commissioner, "always startling me to
death, Max. D'you mean to say that when I, for instance, book a table at
Grand Marnier, that wench at the desk tips somebody off, and he cuts
upstairs to private office and listens in?"

"But certainly!"

"Good God!" The colonel looked seriously disturbed.

"For the ordinary, those tables are never available. But for a
Commissioner of Scotland Yard, an admiral of the Fleet, a member of the
War Cabinet--oh, l, l!"

"This is a hell of a thing, Max! Hope you'll rope those scoundrels in
pretty soon. Feel disposed to shut the place."

"No, no, I beg! This would ruin all. Already dangerous elements, yes,
malevolent people, you understand, have become suspicious of me."

"Indeed!" the colonel blinked rapidly. "Mean the enemy agents?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And these are very dangerous people. Whilst I have
almost obtained my conclusive evidence against them, I believe they have
failed to obtain any against me. But let me tell you this: only a few
nights ago I was followed to Windmill Street by Detective-sergeant
Bluett, a highly efficient officer. This did not matter. To him I
revealed myself; we are all for one and one for all: but someone else
followed me, also."

"Eh! what's that?" said the colonel, completing the manufacture of a
cigarette and snatching out a lighter. "Weren't spotted, were you?"

"I hope not, and I believe not. But I am sure this will interest you: he
who followed me had a limp."

"A _limp_?" Colonel O'Halloran's small eyes grew even smaller, so that
their piercing pupils might have been likened to twin gimlets. "Know the
story about Mrs. Vane, don't you? May be tommyrot, but somehow stuck in
my mind. Limping man, eh?"

"Yes, he limped, this one. But when I departed, for it was unwise that I
should return, Sergeant Bluett remained on the premises, hoping that the
one who limped might come back. It made me to think furiously. I knew,
for the good Bluett had told me, that he suspected a car to have
followed him. But this I dismissed as a coincidence or a myth, and I
worked out patiently, by deduction and by inquiry, what actually had
occurred."

"And what had occurred?"

"I learned that someone, a man called Olivar--oh, without malice, quite
innocently--had told some of the people connected with the gambling
racket (which is part of my fishery) that when detained late I slept at
my office. They spoke, of course, of Mr. Bernstein--"

"Of course!"

"I concluded that what had occurred was as follows:--On my departure
from the flat of the charming Mrs. Destre, someone had gone ahead,
perhaps in a car--for these people, under various pretexts, all seem to
be able to run their cars in spite of petrol allowances and
regulations. This person, I believe, had waited in the yard until I
returned, then had crept up the stairs hoping to learn what I was doing
and to whom I was speaking."

"I see," said the colonel. "Did he discover anything?"

"I have said that I hope not. But I feel that I again may have aroused
their suspicions."

"Again--and in what way?"

"This limping man has become with me, also, an obsession. It is the same
with our good Inspector Firth. It is a plague, I think. As there is one
mixed up with Madam Destre who walks like a cat, so lightly, so much on
the toes. I wonder if this conceals a--not impediment, but yes,
impediment will do--in his feet. By accident, you understand, I remove a
pair of shoes."

"Good lord! how the devil did you manage that?"

"I brought them away in a suitcase which had contained bottles of
Hennessy's brandy, mixed up in the packing; it was easy. I returned them
an hour later with apologies, but I had made a discovery."

"Yes?" the colonel took a step forward, blinking so rapidly now that the
movement of his lids became almost continuous.

"One of those shoes had an interior double sole. This man has one leg
half an inch shorter than the other!"

"The limping man!"

"We do not know, my colonel. _A_ limping man, yes; but _the_ limping
man--my faith! we have to see. Even when we have seen, what do we know?
The dreams of a medium, they may mean nothing!"

"But to whom did these shoes belong?" The colonel displayed definite
excitement. His home-made cigarette had gone out. He snapped the
lighter into flame again.

"To a man called Julian Francis, who occupies a flat above that of
Destre."

"Yes, yes; mentioned him before. Go on."

"Yes, her first lieutenant at the roulette racket. Wherever play takes
place, and they use many addresses, sometimes Destre is not there, but
always Mr. Francis is."

"Have we got his record here?"

"I think not. He is a citizen of the United States, domiciled in London.
He is correspondent of a well-known news agency, and he is also a
talented radio entertainer."

"Radio entertainer?"

"Surely you have heard him. He sings and plays and makes an occasion. He
is called Francis Batt."

"Francis Batt! Yes, believe I heard him only a few nights ago. Wasn't he
on program called 'Harry Dean's guest night'?"

"But, yes, certainly. He travels here and there to entertain the Forces.
He is very good; oh, very good."

"Interests a bit mixed--what! Keeping something up your sleeve, Max."

Gaston Max revealed gleaming teeth in that smile which dispossessed the
thinker and substituted the comedian. "Yes, yes. I know so much and yet
so little. I have no evidence, you see, that Francis was the man who
stole up Mr. Bernstein's stairs that night."

"H'm," muttered the colonel, doubtfully. "Well--your affair. What about
Mrs. Vane. Take it you haven't lost sight of her?"

"But not at all. I called upon her in a so charming suite at the
Barchester Hotel one day last week. She received me with great
amiability."

"Pretty woman, or used to be. Haven't seen her for some time."

"But delightful. And her hair!--of that wonderful tint adored by artists
who paint fire engines. But, yes, but she is beautiful, of course. She
is--" Max shrugged, extending his palms--"of no very deep intelligence.
No, but not clever enough to be a good criminal. I think Lord Marcus is
right about her; she has psychic qualities."

"He seems sure of it," murmured the Assistant Commissioner.

"But, yes, so am I. It seems that she climbs the staircase of the
planets, which I suppose is a path which can be mounted only by the use
of great force. The Ancient Egyptians, so the charming Mrs. Vane informs
me, knew how to generate this force and Lord Marcus has tried, but
failed. Now, he is endeavoring to assemble it."

"Told me so." The Assistant Commissioner, whose cigarette had gone out a
second time, threw it in a waste basket and began to fill his pipe.

"It seems we have all lived before, oh, ever so many lives, and it is
the kindred souls, although they may not now belong to those who are our
present friends, which can generate this force. If he can find seven in
what he calls 'the same cycle' he believes that he can propel this
wandering spirit of the beautiful Mrs. Vane right up to that high place
where the secrets of the Universe are hidden."

"H'm!" said the Assistant Commissioner, returning loose shreds of
tobacco to his coat pocket and pulling out the lighter. "Her story
certainly corresponds with his own. Accounts for queer company he keeps.
Saw him at Grand Marnier the other day lunching with Destre."

"But, yes!" This news seemed to startle Gaston Max. "With Destre, you
say?"

"Yes. I confess I was surprised. Interest purely psychic, so he told
me." His expression grew abstracted ... "Tremendously disturbed about
Grand Marnier. Wondering what I may have given away there ..."




28

"Up in the Morning Early"


James Wake in these days was a long remove from that chimera, a happy
man; and for his uneasy frame of mind a number of things were
responsible. In the first place, it was not every butler of his skill
and experience who would have accepted the responsibility for such an
establishment as that of Lord Marcus Amberdale. Its mysterious
atmosphere, the strange experiments which took place there, queer people
who called, and the fact (to which Wake was not blind) that the house
with the scarlet door remained under police observation: these
inconveniences did not add to the gaiety of life; but there was
something else.

Now and again, upon his lawful occasions concerning household catering,
Wake would drop in at a discreet public house, extensively patronised by
upper servants of Mayfair, at about opening time in the morning, for a
glass of bitter beer. On two separate occasions, recently, Mr. Francis
had joined him.

Possessed of a chronically suspicious mind, Wake associated these
meetings, seemingly accidental, with Mrs. Destre's smiling promise to
keep in touch with him. The truth was that he had conceived a horror of
the gambling racket which urged him in future to keep well away from it,
and from those associated with it. But, unhappily, he appreciated the
fact that these people knew too much about his affairs to entitle him to
take a high hand.

At the first of these meetings, a reunion so unexpected that Wake had
felt his treacherous temperature rising, Mr. Francis had been most
charming. After asking about Mrs. Wake, he had insisted upon ordering a
whisky and soda for Mr. Wake. He finally suggested that, since Scotland
Yard's interest in roulette seemed to have slumbered again, he might
care to resume his duties from time to time as croupier.

"It's very good of you, Mr. Francis," Wake had replied, "but with that
other matter still, if I may so express myself, hanging over the house
of Lord Marcus, I doubt if it would be wise."

Although from first to last no publicity whatever had been given to this
fact in the press, Wake was aware that Mrs. Destre knew where the body
had been found.

"Oh, I see; you mean the Loeder murder?"

"Exactly, sir. Police interest in the matter might lead them to the
other, I thought."

"Well, we're short of croupiers, and I guess we wouldn't mind raising
the fee to fifteen guineas a night. Would that interest you?"

"Indeed, sir, it is a handsome offer; and if you should feel justified
in renewing it, shall we say early next month, it is one which I might
be disposed to accept."

The purely business part of the conversation had ended there, but this
meeting with Mr. Francis left Wake in an uneasy frame of mind. It was
not improved when his wife informed him a few days later that Mr.
Francis had called at Grosvenor Square, under the impression that Wake
was there, and had had some conversation with her.

This disturbed Wake very much indeed, and possibly to relieve his
doubts, Mr. Francis dropped in again at Wake's house of call when he
chanced to be present. "We were stumped for a croupier on Wednesday
night," he explained. "I could get no reply on your line, and so I
figured you had very likely gone around to your wife's. But I drew a
blank there, too."

"Oh, I see." Wake experienced a measure of relief. "Did you find a
substitute, Mr. Francis?"

"I took a hand myself." The dimple appeared in his heavy chin, his
whimsical regard hovered on the brink of laughter. "But it was awkward.
The offer for next Friday is twenty guineas, Wake. Are you free?"

"I am not, sir." The reply was quite firm. "Lord Marcus is
entertaining."

"Bad luck!" And again they had parted, on the best of terms, but Mr.
Francis was obviously disappointed. Then, only twenty-four hours later,
had come another blow, and from an unexpected quarter.

Lord Marcus was dining out and had given Wake permission to spend the
evening away from home; he had therefore joined his wife, as he had done
much more frequently of late, and from her had learned the news. An
official from the Ministry of Supply (Mrs. Wake showed her husband his
card) had called only an hour or so before, to announce that Sir George
Clarking's house was to be requisitioned and converted into offices.

"So that means the sack for me, Jim," she concluded sadly, "unless, of
course, Lady Clarking can find a place for me in Scotland."

Mrs. Wake, a comely, gray-haired little woman, who feared no one in the
world except her husband (whom she regarded as a super-mind) was
sincerely distressed.

"Have you written to Lady Clarking?"

"Yes; I posted the letter just before you came."

"When are they going to take over?"

"The gentleman said the premises would be inspected early to-morrow
morning. The vans will be here in the afternoon to remove the
furniture."

James Wake looked around that cosy sitting-room in the basement which
had been his wife's home and his own second home for so long, a pathetic
expression upon his florid face. "Phew!" he muttered, dropping into an
armchair. "That's the very devil."

It did not occur to him to ask any questions regarding this
representative of the Ministry, that is to say, regarding his personal
appearance. Had he done so, possibly the line of conduct which he
adopted might have been discarded in favor of another.

       *       *       *       *       *

Chief Inspector Firth was bending over a double sheet of foolscap spread
out upon his desk, on either side of which certain photographs were
pasted, when he heard someone whistling "Up in the morning early," and
the door of his office opened. He did not look up until the man who had
entered closed the door behind him and rapped upon it. Firth raised his
head.

"Ah, Max," he said, for indeed this pearl gray figure was that of the
celebrated Frenchman. "Ye come at a good moment."

"Any moment is a good moment when I see you, my friend." Max advanced,
extending the jewelled cigarette case.

Firth took a cigarette, and this the Frenchman lighted, then lighting
his own, dropped down into a chair facing the Chief Inspector.

"How is the big case shaping?" Firth inquired. "I gather that for some
reason the death o' the man Loeder set ye back."

"Oh, but most seriously. Loeder was their mouthpiece. It was Loeder who
told the news to Berlin. At his death, I had to begin all over again. My
faith, yes! If you would tell me who killed him, my friend, it might
help a little."

"Is tha' so?" said Firth slowly. "Weel, I have here--" he rested a long,
sensitive hand upon a document which looked like a legal brief--"a
confession witnessed in the presence o' Michael Corcoran, K.C., of the
man who claims to have killed Sir Giles Loeder."

Gaston Max sprang to his feet, pushing the chair back. His strange eyes
might have been thought to emit sparks; his mobile mouth became
contracted into a still, straight line. "What! _what_ do you say?"

"This is the confession, no word of which I doubt, of a young American
airman, Flight Lieutenant Richard Hawke Kershaw."

"Richard Hawke Kershaw!" Gaston Max raised his hand to his brow, a man
bemused. "Where have I heard that name?"

"I canna say, but here is his confession."

"And you believe it?"

"Impleecitly."

"But explain to me, Inspector Firth, my old, relieve me of this great
bewilderment: why should this Kershaw kill Sir Giles Loeder?"

"I didna' say he killed him."

Max dropped back into his chair, and the mobile lips began to twitch
again so that one might have supposed a hundred conflicting ideas to be
passing through his brain at the same moment. "You puzzle me, my friend;
but yes, I am puzzled."

"I said it was the confession of a man who _claims_ to have killed him."

"Claims, you say?"

"Beyond doubt."

"And to have broken his neck?"

"Tha's the point," Firth replied deliberately. "We ha' been so careful
wi' the press that the exact spot where the body was found and the
precise nature of the injuries have never been published. This young
fellow didn't know that Loeder died of a broken neck."

"But you say that you accept the statement of Kershaw?"

"Most certainly; in every particular. But judging from inquiries which I
ha' been making, Loeder lost his life after his encounter wi'
Kershaw--and also lost his money."

"You hold me in dreadful suspense. A theory of my own is at stake. Whom
do you suspect?"

"With your permission, Mr. Max, I would prefer in words which I ha'
heard you use, to serve up my results piping hot on a gold platter."

"But this is confusion. It is contrary to all my beliefs, all my
deductions, all that I am building upon!"

"Tha's regrettable. But some time to-night I expect to ha' more facts,
and I shall be willing to share them. Indeed, there's a favor I'm going
to ask ye."

"Consider it granted, my friend."

"Would it be putting ye out unduly to become Peter Finch for an hour or
two to-night?"

"But not at all!" Max cried eagerly. "Give me my instructions."

"I am obliged. We can arrange details later. And now, I would like ye to
examine these fingerprints."

Gaston Max stepped around the desk, raised his heavy monocle and through
it studied the photographs pasted upon the paper. It became evident to
Firth, who had been unaware of this fact, that the monocle was not an
ornament, but a powerful magnifying glass, a lens which no doubt the
French investigator frequently found useful. His inspection completed:

"These two sets are identical," he pronounced. "Both belong to the same
person. May I know his name?"

Firth smiled. "When I ha' all the facts," he replied. "But this much I
can say: the prints on the right are those of a man called Johann Fritz
Brandt. They came over in a big consignment from the United States. All
I know, so far, is just that. The set on the left are from the handrail
of your office in Great Windmill Street."

"The limping man!"

"The limping man, exactly! For particulars, I have had to send a long
code cable to New York, quoting the name and reference number, and I am
awaiting a reply."

"Mon Dieu! But it is wonderful. It is Kismet. You, my friend, have the
fingerprints, and I--"

"Weel, what have you got?"

"I have the footprints."

"The _footprints_?"

"But yes, the footprints of a limping man! If it should prove to be the
same, name of a little dog!--if it should prove to be the same! How
excited I am, how confused. Yes, my faith, I am in a whirlwind!"




29

Wake Takes a Taxi


When James Wake came out of the house in Grosvenor Square, he carried a
small attach case which he had borrowed from his wife. The night was
clear but moonless, and he felt disinclined to walk. A taxi which glided
up beside him provoked a nervous start.

"Taxi, sir?"

"Yes," Wake said jerkily, and looked surprised when the man climbed down
from his seat. "South Audley Street. I will direct you when we get
there."

"Right-o." The driver, whom he seemed to have seen before, opened the
door for him, and closed it carefully when he had got in.

Less than five minutes later Wake was banging on the glass in front,
having tried in vain to open the shutter window. "Hello, there!" he
cried, and banged ever more furiously. "Where are you taking me? I said
South Audley Street."

But the man, whom he now concluded to be stone deaf, paid not the
slightest attention, merely driving on. Wake was too angry and too
disturbed to be quite sure of their direction, but an impression that
they had crossed Piccadilly and were proceeding down St. James's Street
was presently confirmed when the cab swung left into Pall Mall.

"Stop!" shouted Wake at the top of his voice, "stop!" And although this
deep chested butler had a voice like that of a sergeant-major, it
produced no effect whatever upon the driver.

Thereupon, Wake determined to open the door and to grab the man by his
coat collar. But the near side door would not open. Evidently it was
jammed. He tried the other with no greater success. He had heard that
London was infested with footpads during the black-out, but a pirate cab
was something which he had not anticipated. They were proceeding, too,
at a dangerously fast speed. At the bottom of Cockspur Street, Wake in
despair began to flash rays from his pocket torch, right and left,
through the windows, with some faint hope of attracting the attention of
passers-by.

He was determined, now, that he had been kidnapped. He was being hurried
over to some thieves' den on the Surrey bank. Desperation possessed him,
and taking up the attach case, he dashed it against a window; but
again, without result. The window was fitted with unbreakable glass. A
few moments later, the real explanation dawned upon James Wake. That
unpleasant sense of rising temperature which always disturbed him in
emergencies, assailed him now.

Wake knew that he was being taken to Scotland Yard ...

Before a door from which a cavernesque blue light shone out, feebly but
threateningly, the taxi pulled up. Two tall figures, those of
constables in uniform, came forward, accompanied by a smaller, stoutish
man in plain clothes. Again the taxi driver descended from his seat and
coming around unlocked the door, which, as Wake realised, he must have
locked upon him in Grosvenor Square. James Wake summoned all his
fortitude.

"May I inquire the meaning of this?" he demanded, stepping out.

"You are Mr. James Wake, I believe," said the short man.

Wake peered into darkness in an endeavor to discern the speaker's
features, and presently succeeded. He recognised the Detective-sergeant
who had come to Lord Marcus's house on the night of the tragedy.

"I am James Wake." He spoke hoarsely.

"Just give your case to this constable, Mr. Wake, and we will go
upstairs." Then, over his shoulder to the taxi driver: "Go round and get
your fare, now, Finch."

"Right-o, guv'nor."

Peter Finch jumped back to his place, and Wake heard the cab being
driven away as he turned and entered a small ante-room: Bluett led, and
the constables brought up the rear, one of them carrying the attach
case. Bluett picked up a telephone, and made a call.

"James Wake is here, Inspector. Shall I bring him up?"

Evidently the reply was "Yes," for the fresh colored man with upstanding
hair turned to him again. "Be good enough to come this way, Mr. Wake."

"One moment, sergeant: I remember you now." He tried to speak firmly. "I
am entirely within my rights in asking why I have been brought here."

"That's right," Bluett agreed, picking up a newspaper which lay on a
desk.

"Excuse me, sergeant," said one of the constables; "but that's my
paper."

"Sorry," Bluett put it down again. "Quite correct, what you say. Well,
the Chief Inspector, who is waiting for a chat with you, will give you
all the information you want."

A few moments later, Bluett ushered Wake into the severe office of Chief
Detective-Inspector Firth to find the Chief Detective-Inspector seated
at his desk, chin in hand, eyes narrowed.

"Good evening, Inspector," said Wake.

"Good evening, Mr. Wake; won't you sit down?"

Wake, removing his light gloves, put them beside his black hat on the
floor, and sat down, with a side glance at an attach case which
Sergeant Bluett had placed upon the mantelpiece, the constable having
retired. Firth regarded him in silence; his pointed collar, his black
tie, his neat hair, and seemed to be satisfied with this inspection, for
he nodded.

"I have been promised an explanation, Inspector."

"Ye shall have it. It's this way, Mr. Wake: I ha' had two officers
employed--two men wi' whom you are not acquainted--checking up for some
time past. Now, it seems to me, fro' reports, that expenditure has
exceeded income, a subject upon which, if I mind me correctly, Mr.
Micawber had something to say. Ye're losses at the dog races ha' been
heavy o' late, and ye spend quite a lot o' money on football pools
foreby. Ye see, I ha' been studying your mail, Mr. Wake. There ha' been
other extravagances which I need no' mention, for indeed they don't
concern me. But when I first saw ye, your appearance suggested something
to my mind that I just couldn'a pin down at the time. Later, I placed
it. Some whiles back a case took me to Monte Carlo."

Wake started quite visibly, and began to adjust his stiff collar.
Bluett, leaning on the mantelpiece beside the attach case, appeared to
be no more than mildly interested.

"Weel, the impression to which I refer was this: ye reminded me of a
croupier. And before we go any further, in your own interest, Mr. Wake,
I am going to ask a question: Have ye ever been a croupier?"

Wake hesitated for seven dreadful seconds, then nodded his head. "Yes."

"I am glad o' that answer, Mr. Wake, because one o' my officers has
twice seen ye in conversation wi' a man called Francis, in a certain
bar. We know this man Francis to be associated wi' roulette in the West
End of London, and it was this report which freshened my memory. On the
night o' Sir Giles Loeder's death, he had been playing roulette at the
flat of a woman called Mrs. Sankey. I don't want ye to answer my next
question, until I ha' warned ye that anything you say may be used in
evidence. But you are not compelled to say anything. You can take legal
advice if you want it. But here is the question: Were ye acting as
croupier at Mrs. Sankey's flat on the night o' Sir Giles Loeder's
death?"

Sergeant Bluett sighed and took out a notebook, at which he stared in a
puzzled way for a moment, so that one might have supposed that he
expected to find a newspaper there. James Wake moistened his lips,
staring down at the floor. His hands were moist with perspiration and
he raised them protectively from the knees of his perfectly creased
trousers.

"Do ye wish to answer?" Firth asked.

"Yes." Wake cleared his throat. "I was playing that night and I saw Sir
Giles at the table."

"Good. Did he win?"

"No more than he lost. He was a heavy player."

"But we have evidence that he had money in his possession at the time of
his death."

"That may be true, sir," Wake replied, and his use of the word "sir" was
an indication, not missed by Firth, of the depths to which he conceived
himself to be falling. "But it may not have been winnings."

"Possibly I don't know what ye mean, Mr. Wake."

"Well, I have reason to believe, I don't know how else to express
myself, that the late Sir Giles had a financial interest in Mayfair
roulette, at least for a time."

"Is tha' so? Did he foresee a crash and take his money out?"

"That I couldn't say. It is mere conjecture on my part."

Chief Inspector Firth narrowed his eyes still more, so that in upcast
light from the desk lamp they glittered like amber beads. "It might ha'
been of some small assistance to the police, Mr. Wake, if you had
divulged these facts at the time. Also, it might ha' been better for
yoursel'. Illicit roulette is not a hanging offence, and Lord Marcus is
a singularly broad-minded man."

"I entirely agree, Inspector."

"It has been pointed out to me by those who have reason to know that
when visiting the dogs, or other expensive forms of amusement, ye always
went first to the house in Grosvenor Square. Correct me if I am wrong."

"You may possibly be right, Inspector."

"Ye agree on that point?"

Wake, speaking like a man whose mind is so closely concentrated on a
problem that his utterances are automatic, went on: "It was my custom to
keep my savings at that address. I distrust banks, and indeed,
governments, in times of stress such as these; and so, I had a certain
amount of ready cash available there."

"I see," said Firth. "A private bank of your own? Weel, while you were
in the roulette racket, I ha' no doubt ye made quite a lot of money. But
it has been noted, Mr. Wake, that you seem to ha' given it up of late."

"Yes, I thought it was hardly fair to my employer; that if I should be
caught in a raid and his name brought into the matter--"

"Quite! quite. But although your income decreased, your expenditure
didn't. A lot may depend upon what I am going to ask ye now. What have
ye in yon bag?"

Wake clenched his hands, his high color deserted him, a drop of
perspiration trembled on the end of his nose. "Things I kept at my
wife's place, where I sometimes spent the night."

"In that case, let's have a look. Open it, Bluett."

Sergeant Bluett, uttering a blowing sound, placed his notebook on the
mantelpiece and opened the attach case. If Chief Inspector Firth
experienced any disappointment, he showed none. But the case contained a
shaving set, comb and brushes, pyjamas, soft slippers, a tin of tobacco,
two smoking pipes, a towel, a box of soap, and other odds and ends such
as a man might deposit at an address where he spent an occasional night.
Bluett, kneeling on the floor and exhibiting article after article,
looked up when the case was empty, his ingenuous eyes widely opened.

"I see," murmured the Chief Inspector. "Am I to take it ye were moving?"

"Yes, Inspector." Wake dried his forehead with a white handkerchief. "I
heard that the authorities were about to requisition the house."

"Is tha' so? Surely your wife could ha' left these bits and pieces at
Lord Marcus's to-morrow. Why the hurry?"

"Possibly that had not occurred to me."

"Evidently it had not, Mr. Wake."

There was nothing in the Chief Inspector's tone to betray the fact that
he had staked everything upon Wake's acting in just the way that Wake
had acted. Using the card of an acquaintance from the Ministry of
Supply, he had himself called at the house in Grosvenor Square and had
informed Mrs. Wake that the premises were to be requisitioned
immediately. His knowledge of human nature told him that if his theory
concerning Wake had any concrete foundation, the outcome would settle
the matter.

"Perhaps I acted hurriedly."

"Like enough. However, I am sure you would be wishful to remove any
doubts that may remain, and so would ye be good enough to empty ye're
pockets, and place their contents here on my desk."

Wake stood up, displaying every appearance of disability. His expressive
changes of complexion may have indicated a faulty heart, but he advanced
to the desk, and complied with the Chief Inspector's order. There was
nothing in his possession one might not have anticipated finding there,
with the possible exception of an elastic band which seemed to perform
no duties. At this Firth gazed with a puzzled expression, and then,
raising his head: "Sergeant Bluett," he said crisply, "feel the
witness's person, wi' particular attention to his legs."

At that, suddenly, without warning, James Wake collapsed, morally and
physically. He stood up, swayed, and saved himself from falling only by
clutching the chair.

"Listen!" he whispered, "I'll tell you everything--the whole story from
beginning to end. But before I say another word, one thing I swear: I
didn't kill him."

       *       *       *       *       *

Four thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds in ten and five pound notes
were strapped in rolls to James Wake's legs by means of strong elastic
bands. Fortified by a brandy and soda which the compassionate Chief
Inspector ordered and the ruffled Sergeant Bluett fetched, Wake had
slightly recovered himself. But he sat there before them, a stricken
man, watching the Chief Inspector checking the numbers of notes against
a list which he had on his desk. Presently, Firth looked up.

"A fair number o' these notes," he said, "were drawn out of his bank by
Sir Giles two weeks or so before the tragedy. So we have to suppose that
this was his own money. I'm making no charge and I won't even make any
suggestion. I shall merely ask ye, James Wake, to tell me your story in
your own words."

And this is the story which James Wake told.

He had been introduced to the roulette group by Mr. Francis, who seemed
to recall that he, Wake, had some experience of Monte Carlo. The terms
were attractive: ten guineas a night. After a little practice he became
quite proficient. He knew that he was placing himself outside the law,
but he did not consider the offence to be a serious one. He admitted
that, although a careful man in other respects, he had been addicted to
gambling since his youth.

On the night of the tragedy he believed, but could not be sure, that an
altercation had arisen between Sir Giles Loeder, Mr. Michaelis and Mrs.
Destre. His duties at the table did not enable him to pay much
attention to what was going on elsewhere. But at a later stage in the
evening, Mr. Francis, who, he said, looked white and angry, came to one
of the cashiers and withdrew a sum which he, Wake, estimated to have
represented the greater part of the roulette bank. With this he walked
out of the gaming room.

A run of luck on the part of certain players followed, and nearly closed
the table. Mr. Michaelis, who had gone out, returned, and announced the
end of play on behalf of Mrs. Sankey, who was not present. Otherwise,
the bank would have been broken.

Wake, having balanced accounts with the other croupiers, set out for
South Audley Street. The night was uncomfortably dark in patches, but he
was familiar with the route, and within twelve or fifteen paces of that
masonry bay which embraced the house with the scarlet door, he became
aware of a fierce altercation in progress somewhere just ahead. He
pulled up, and in his own words, heard a sound like that of a wolf or an
alsatian attacking. Then, he heard a strangled voice which he thought
he recognized as that of Sir Giles Loeder. This voice cried out: "You
swine!--you are strangling me!..."

"Then there was a sort of sobbing sound, a crashing thud. This all
happened in a matter of seconds, and I dashed forward to see what I
could do--to find out whatever was happening. As I ran up I could hear
someone else running away. I flashed my torch and called out, but I
could see nothing and no one replied. Then, right on the step of Lord
Marcus's house, I saw him."

Wake was so overcome by his recollections, that Firth began to believe
he might be telling the truth. He exchanged a significant nod with
Bluett, who was writing busily.

"Sir Giles Loeder lay there, all in a heap. I couldn't try to describe
his position. He was just crumpled up. And I could see that he was
unconscious. I slipped my key in the lock, put my torch in my pocket,
stooped and lifted him. I am, for my age, a fairly strong man."

"So I ha' noted," said Firth dourly.

"There was no one in the lobby, but I could smell the incense, and I
knew that his lordship and Mrs. Vane were in what he calls The Shrine.
There wasn't much light, and I laid Sir Giles on the couch. He looked
gray; his face was bruised and twisted; but I want to make it quite
clear that the fact never crossed my mind that he was dead. I thought he
was just unconscious. As I carried him in, my foot had kicked a case
which lay half under him, so I went back and picked it up, closing the
door." He paused, licking his dry lips. "There was five thousand pounds
in five and ten pound notes in it.

"I can only say that temptation was too strong for me. What else can I
say? I thought quickly, and it seemed to me that he had been attacked by
a thief for his money, that hearing me come up the thief had bolted
before he could drag the case from under Sir Giles. I worked out that if
I stayed to revive him, as at first I had meant to do, that would be the
end of the matter for me. I dare not carry him out again; someone might
come along at any moment. That was when the idea came to me upon which I
acted. I stuffed the money into my pockets, stood and listened awhile,
but could hear nothing from The Shrine. Then, I looked out into the
street. There was no one there. So, carrying the empty case, I closed
the front door, and rang the bell."

"Why?" asked Sergeant Bluett, with an air of childish curiosity.

"I think it was an impulse. I didn't want to leave him there
unconscious, and I hoped that his lordship hearing the bell, would come
out and attend to him."

"Ye were wearing gloves?" asked Firth.

"I was. I knew there would be no fingerprints. I had a plan in my mind
by now, which as far as I could see would work very well. I was afraid,
though, that the thief might have seen me carry Sir Giles into the
house. But the chances were against it. At that moment the night was
pitch black, and I had heard the man running around the corner before I
opened the door; so that if he came back to recover his haul, he
wouldn't have any idea what had happened. I was afraid, though, that he
might be hanging about. I ran round quickly into Mount Street, and threw
Sir Giles's case down the kitchen steps of an empty house which I knew
of there. Then I walked on to Grosvenor Square and knocked my wife up."

He paused again, inserting two forefingers between his neck and his
linen collar, which now was limp and clinging clammily.

"I knew I should have to make sure of her evidence, so I took a chance.
She had never approved of my racing, the dogs, and other amusements that
I went in for, but, now, I thought it best to tell her that I worked for
a roulette syndicate. I did this--and she took it very badly. I told her
I believed the place was going to be raided a few minutes after I had
left, and that the police might make inquiries. If they went to South
Audley Street it would mean the sack.

"She understood that well enough, and so she agreed to do what I asked.
This was to say, if she should be questioned, that I had spent the
evening with her, going through Lord Marcus's accounts, which, in fact,
it was my custom to do. That's all my wife knows about the matter; and
the only thing she has done in any way wrong, is to do what I asked her
to do.

"I said I had been paid for my night's work, and as the numbers of the
notes might be traced, I would hide them upstairs in one of the empty
rooms. She didn't like the idea, but I had my way. I put all the money
from the case into a secret drawer in an old bureau, a bureau which I
had discovered one day, under the dust sheets, and of which my wife
didn't know the trick. When I had made everything safe, I returned to
South Audley Street.

"No need to say what I felt like when I discovered what had happened and
found police in the house. What I had thought was a case of assault and
robbery had turned out to be a case of murder. I knew, then, that I was
in it up to the neck. I knew there were people connected with roulette
who could be forced to say that I had been there on that night. This
would prove that my wife was not telling the truth--and the crime would
be pinned to me."

Wake leaned forward in his chair, and Chief Inspector Firth would not
have been surprised had he slumped to the floor. His features were
leaden, his eyes had the watery glare of those of a dead fish. Bluett
looked up from his notes.

"Could you give any description of this man, who, you say, ran off as
you came up?"

"I never had a glimpse of him," Wake whispered. "I only heard that cry
from Sir Giles, then the thud of his fall."

"Ye heard no word of the altercation which you state was taking place
before that?" Firth interjected.

"No--just words here and there, mostly cursing and growling--a dreadful
sort of growling. I have no more to say, sir, no more that I can think
of. I know I'm for it. It was robbery. Being used to gambling circles, I
may not have as much respect as other people for money of that kind. Ask
me anything you like. For God's sake ask me something which will help me
to prove I am innocent of murder ..."




30

Malta Convoy


"This is the most singular case upon which I have been employed," said
Gaston Max; "but yes, the most singular. Twice, I have gathered my
evidence: first against Sir Giles Loeder, and some clumsy fool murders
him; second, against his associates (I believe, his employers), and this
will be completed to-night. I hand my plate of fruit over to Military
Intelligence--and become a free man."

The Assistant Commissioner, standing in his bay window, was counting
cars passing along the Embankment: he had estimated that private traffic
was roughly five per cent of pre-war normal. Behind him, Gaston Max
began to whistle, or hiss through partly closed teeth, "Up in the
morning early."

"But who murdered Loeder? That's what Firth wants to know."

"Alas!" Max looked up as the Assistant Commissioner turned and stared
across at him, small eyes twinkling keenly. The Frenchman began to twirl
his heavy monocle, which was really a lens, about an extended
forefinger. "For the poor Inspector my heart bleeds. His case is worse
than mine. Indeed, they are inseparable. He has now two candidates for
the jury: he has Flight Lieutenant Kershaw, who confesses to the crime;
he has also James Wake, the butler, in whose possession was found the
stolen money. Eh bien! Two should be sufficient."

"Not if neither of 'em did it."

Gaston Max extended talkative hands. "That Kershaw's story is true in
every particular I accept as a fact. I have had some conversation with
him, you understand. Very well. He did not break the man's neck; he did
not make that big bruise on Loeder's forehead which I examined in the
mortuary. If Wake is lying about what happened to cause death, he is not
lying when he says that Loeder fell outside Lord Marcus's door. Wake
could not have carried a heavy body much further; and we can accept, I
think, his statement that he, and no one else, placed Loeder in the
lobby. No, no, I believe that Wake's story is true."

"Any jury would hang him, all the same. Top marks to Firth for working
out that if Wake had the money he wouldn't hide it at Amberdale's.
Requisitioning trick worked like a miracle. Caught red handed."

"I salute the Chief Inspector," said Gaston Max gravely. "He is a clever
one, this good Firth. I have never done a better thing myself."

Colonel O'Halloran cleared his throat. "What happens to-night?"

"To-night, Colonel O'Halloran, my old, it is the grand jamboree. Luck,
or that Kismet of the Arabs, put into my hands a key which enabled me to
read messages wrapped up in postscripts, and other broadcasts of the
late Sir Giles. Eh bien! these people have no suspicion that I have
discovered this key, and so they are using it again! This time it is
Francis Batt, the popular comedian, who is craftily broadcasting
information to Berlin."

"You have confirmed this, of course?"

"But of course! To-night he will broadcast details concerning the Malta
convoy--details which he has learned at the Grand Marnier, at the Green
Spider, and from the fools who play roulette."

The Assistant Commissioner crossed to his desk and began to fill a new
briar, stuffing it with that tobacco which he kept loose in his coat
pocket, and from time to time shooting side glances at Gaston Max.
"Green Spider?"

"But yes; ultra smart, undress, most expensive; popular with the very
young and the very old."

"Shouldn't expect to find anybody there who counted."

"A man is only as old as his experience. There are Peter Pans with
whiskers. But yes. Those political parties given by the late Sir Giles
formerly served the Axis also very well. Contacts were numerous and
important." Max shrugged. "Why, he, an Englishman--although I believe
his father was a naturalised subject--should have worked against his
country I know not. Perhaps I shall never know. Perhaps I shall."

"Firth has been checking up on this man Francis, or Batt, or whatever
he's called; also on a bird named Michaelis. Anything new in that
quarter?"

"Name of a name! who is this Mr. Michaelis? He is a friend of Madame
Destre, and is almost certainly connected with the roulette racket. He
is also a big man of business; much respected in the City, a director of
several other companies as well as that controlling the Grand Marnier,
and the Green Spider. Alas, it is easy for a clever one, who cares to
establish himself for a long time in a country before he commits any
subversive act, to lose his real identity. We learned this in France! He
is supposed to be a native of Belgrade, or of some place just outside
that city. He belongs, then, to a friendly nation. His papers,
doubtless, are in perfect order. Such papers can be obtained so easily
when the German Foreign Office is behind the candidate. His roots in
Yugoslavia, if he ever had any, are torn up, burned in the ashes of
Belgrade. It is clever, because it is very simple. And so I ask, also,
who is this Mr. Michaelis?"

Colonel O'Halloran experienced some difficulty in getting his pipe
going: his lighter lacked petrol. "The man Batt, of course, is booked
for a firing party. But who the devil _is_ he?"

Gaston Max produced his cigarette case, selected and lighted a
cigarette. "He is a musician, this one, most talented. He calls himself
an American. He sends to Berlin information by word of mouth, and also
uses their 'Pythagoric' code in the form of notes on a piano. He, too,
is associated with Madame Destre. There are others; they are small fry;
but above all, there is Destre. Who, you demand, is Destre?"

"Got her dossier here."

"True--I have studied it. In normal times I could perhaps have filled in
the missing parts. To-day--" he made a clicking sound with his
tongue--"impossible. Information regarding our raid on the French coast
was broadcast to Berlin by the late Sir Giles Loeder, and now this man
Francis is up to the same game."

"Why hasn't he been arrested before?"

Gaston Max smiled; his teeth flashed brilliantly. Then he laughed: "Ha!
ha, ha, ha! Listen, Colonel O'Halloran, my old. I, too, am cunning like
the good Firth, and when I have found from whom they are obtaining this
information, I act. Now, the Malta convoy concerns the Food Ministry.
Yes? For we must be rationed here, in order that those poor Maltese are
fed. Very good. I suspect Lady Huskin."

Colonel O'Halloran, who had sat down, jumped up again. "Draw the line,
Max! Silly woman, I grant--but no spy, I'll swear."

"So, too, will I. But how dangerous can a silly woman be! In the past
she has spilled vital information. I made some tests, no matter what,
and I became sure of this. I called upon Lord Huskin--"

"In what capacity, might I ask?"

"Oh, just as myself."

"Novel behavior."

"He is a clever man, this one, as you know; a small lump of Yorkshire,
four square like a gin bottle, with clear gray eyes which tell nothing
but the truth. It was by telling the truth that he became Baron Huskin,
although he began as a grocer. Very well; a clever man. His wife is his
only indiscretion. With such a man I know how to speak, for such a man
has no illusions. I told him that Lady Huskin was indiscreet, that she
failed to understand the importance of matters which came to her
knowledge. He did not throw me out. He did not even frown. He smiled;
it was acceptable: he knew. And so we made a plot. I said to him:
'Become so worried over the matter of this great convoy, that you are
constantly speaking of it in the hearing of madame. Let it get on your
nerves, my faith; talk about it in your sleep. Speak of the tonnage of
the ships, of the strength of the escort, of the date of sailing from
Birkenhead, the date of arrival at Gibraltar. Speak, my Lord Huskin--and
let every word be a lie.'"

The Colonel chuckled horsily. "Did that make old Huskin laugh?"

"Certainly. I said to him: 'As a reward, presently, very soon, I, Baron
Bernstein of the black market, will hand over to your Ministry
information about this traffic which you will find of superlative
interest.' This was agreed, then. But as I could not know what nonsense
Lord Huskin might impart to his wife, in a seemingly accidental manner,
I prepared some items--marked coins, you understand--and imparted these
myself."

"And the balloon goes up to-night?"

"To-night, Francis Batt is to appear in a star program for Canadian
troops, at a camp not many miles from the South coast. The Army
entertainment authorities always provide him with a car for such
occasions, and a special pass. This performance will be broadcast. The
case will then be out of my hands, and in the hands of Military
Intelligence."

"This side of case no concern of my department; but I'll listen in,"
said the colonel, little eyes twinkling and lean, square jaw set very
grimly. "Cancel everything else. Is he going to be arrested in camp?"

"No, no--on his way back through Farnborough ..."

Some ten minutes later, Sergeant Bluett rapped on the door, came in and
looked around the Assistant Commissioner's office as if in search of
somebody. "Sorry, sir," he said. "I thought Mr. Max was here."

"Just gone. What is it, Sergeant?"

"It's a cabled report from New York, sir, which the Chief Inspector
promised to show him."

"Let me see it."

"Yes, sir."

"Brandt, Johann Fritz," O'Halloran read aloud: "Born Cologne, August
27th, 1897. Adopted U.S. citizenship, March 23rd, 1930 (New York City).
Visited Germany, 1931-32, and again in 1936-37. During these periods
received training at Nazi Gestapo headquarters and became a group Leader
in N.Y. Speaks fluent English. Arrested at Buffalo, January 11th, 1939,
on information laid by the convicted German spy, Adolf Wesser. Later
escaped from custody, killing two police officers, one by strangulation,
and is believed to have crossed into Canada where tracks were lost.

"Brandt is a powerful man and a trained killer; height 5 ft. 10 inches;
weight 176 pounds; hair, dark brown, eyes, light blue. At time of arrest
had a short moustache, and habitually used spectacles. Peculiarities:--
a dimple on his chin; left leg 3/8ths of an inch shorter than right.
(Wears a special shoe).

"He is an accomplished musician. For three years toured with Kit
Harkaway's Band as arranger, pianist, and comedy vocalist. Probably
using forged passport. A dangerous Nazi agent."




31

In Berkeley Square


As their taxi pulled out from the darkness of Victoria Station to an
even greater darkness beyond, Dick Kershaw nervously sought, found and
grasped Fay's fingers. She twined them in his, uttering a contented
sigh; for it seemed to her at this moment that a hideous black barrier
had been raised and that beyond the gloom of wartime London a white
sunny road stretched on into infinity.

Neither spoke for a long time. Perhaps each wondered (as many had
wondered) what extra sense came to life in London taxi drivers with the
institution of black-out; marvelled at the ease with which these experts
found their way through streets possessing no visible characteristics to
distinguish one from another. More probably, they were thinking of the
man whose death had raised the barrier, that gate of folly, of lies.

"I sometimes feel as if I had lived right through one life," said Dick
Kershaw, "died, and gone straight on into the beginning of another. The
first life ended at the very moment I walked out to 'Treasure Island'
and saw you standing on the bridge. I didn't believe then, that the
second life could ever begin ... I wonder what made me so blind to plain
facts, so blind that I wouldn't even admit to myself that I had made a
frightful mistake."

"You weren't really sure of her?"

"Never. It was a kind of misplaced sympathy, at first, and after that
just self-love. She was all alone, and had to fend for herself, or so
she made out. Of course, she attracted me at the beginning, and, as I
can see now, made all the running. I knew her refined ways were a pose,
but I didn't blame her. There is nothing against a girl trying to climb
to a better position than she was born in. But I was practically sure
she hadn't told me the truth on many occasions; and I was beginning to
realise that if I didn't trust her, there must be a mistake somewhere.
Because two people can't roll on together like that. Then, all the
rumors. In fact one of our fellows gave me a pretty direct tip, so that
I was half prepared for what I found out. At the time, it was a nasty
jar, all the same: but as I see now, it was nothing but self-pity. It's
hard for a man to face the fact that he has been run for a sucker."

"You don't know what I suffered, Dick," said Fay, "when you told us the
story ..."

Dick Kershaw released her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. His
voice was very tender. "Fay, darling, I have hurt you so much that I
think only an angel could ever forgive me."

She did not answer, but very contentedly rested her head on his
shoulder.

"The way I was received by Colonel O'Halloran," Dick went on, "his
assurance that whatever I might say to the contrary, I had not killed
Sir Giles Loeder, simply stupefied me. Certainly, I didn't cause the
bruise on his head which you described, and even you didn't know that
his neck was broken, did you? He must have revived as I ran off, and,
poor devil, been set upon a second time by the man I heard coming up."

"Wake," murmured Fay.

"Yes! think of it being your cousin's butler! And think that we are on
our way to the house now, the house where his body was found."

"Wake denies murdering him," said Fay. "But he can't deny having the
money, because it was actually in his possession."

"It seems a perfectly clear case to me."

There was another silence, which was broken by Fay.

"Have you ... written to ... the girl, Dick?"

"Rita Martin? Yes. I didn't reproach her or anything like that. I have
no one to reproach but myself. In fact, I told her I was sorry she had
lost her friend and took it for granted she would understand that
everything was off between us. Fay?"

"Yes, Dick."

"Have you any idea what this invitation to your cousin's house means? I
am naturally glad to have an opportunity of meeting him, but at the same
time I am terribly nervous."

Dick Kershaw fingered an invitation card which he had in his pocket. It
bore the word "informal" and gave the purpose of the occasion as
"Supper, and a psychical experiment."

"You'll love him, Dick. He is simply charming. Yes, I know why we are
going, but I don't know who else is to be there. In fact, he had to get
my consent."

"Your consent to what?"

"To the sance he is going to hold. You see, he had promised me to give
it up, after the night that the body was found in his lobby."

"And after the sance?"

"You can count upon a really good supper, Dick," said Fay dreamily,
"although I don't know what arrangements Marcus has made since the
arrest of Wake. Have you any idea where we are?"

Dick, without moving his arm, bent to peer out of a window. "We seem to
be crossing a square. Would it be Berkeley Square?"

"If it is," said Fay, "we are nearly there." He had drawn very close to
her in looking out of the window. "Dick."

"Yes, Fay?"

"Did you ever hear the song 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley
Square?...'"




32

The Man and the Mummy


"It may be somewhat difficult," said Lord Marcus, "to make clear to
those of you who have neither sympathy with, nor knowledge of, a subject
to which I have devoted much study, the purpose which inspires me
to-night."

He stood before the open hearth of that room which also housed an
Egyptian mummy. His guests were seated, some on chairs, others on a deep
settee, facing him. A standard lamp, in addition to that on the desk,
was alight, so that this study, reliquary of queer treasures from an
earlier civilisation, presented a somewhat less sombre appearance than
usual. Lord Marcus wore a dark suit with a blue stock, and these seemed
at once to accentuate his pallor and his peculiar fairness, and to
stress, also, the ascetic beauty of his features.

One might have noted that the mummy in its gaily painted sarcophagus
(which stood in a recess beside the hearth, and on the right of Lord
Marcus) was that of a man at least equally tall. Refreshments of all
kinds were set out on a mobile buffet; and except for the singular
appointments of the house, and more particularly those of the lobby,
nothing overtly mysterious had so far intruded upon the gathering. Nor
had anything been said by their host to account for his assembling these
persons together.

"I believe," said Mr. Michaelis, his monocle focussed upon the speaker,
"that we are all anxious to learn more about your studies, Lord Marcus.
For my own part, I count myself privileged to be present: it would be a
privilege at any time. But I am frankly curious to learn to what happy
circumstance I owe my pleasure this evening."

Admittedly, the guests seemed oddly chosen. These were: Mr. Michaelis,
Lady Huskin, Dick Kershaw, Fay Perigal, and Mrs. Vane. Lady Huskin had
come in a spirit more proper to a studio party; to see a daring new
picture and to meet the model. She was vastly flattered, nevertheless,
to have been singled out by this aloof and exquisite aristocrat. She
regretted the "informal" note; but she was wearing her pearls. "I am
delightfully and frightfully excited," she declared.

Mrs. Vane, her wonderful hair a fiery halo, had selected that discreet
black gown, square cut at the neck. She looked remarkably beautiful but
unusually pale. She was acting as hostess, and approaching Fay, seated
beside Dick Kershaw on the deep settee, she offered sandwiches. "I am
used to these strange ordeals, and you are not. I hope it will be worth
while, but I warn you it may be midnight before we get any supper."

"What about yourself?" said Dick Kershaw, with his charmingly boyish
smile, jumping up and taking the plate from her. "You are looking after
everybody else, and--"

"Unfortunately, I have to officiate," she replied; "I have to fast like
a priest before the Mass." She possessed a slightly husky contralto
voice, a dramatic voice, suggesting deeps which in fact were not there.
Lady Huskin, who had met her on the Riviera but had decided that she was
not the sort of woman one takes up, performed a silent volte face,
forming a mental determination to cultivate the beautiful friend of Lord
Marcus.

Dick shook his head in bewilderment, glancing aside at Fay. "I don't
know what it's all about," he admitted.

Fay, gazing in a troubled way at Lord Marcus, shook her head, so that
hazelnut hair shimmered like autumn leaves: her frank gray eyes held no
reproach; rather, they sped a message of appeal. In her simple walking
suit she looked slim with the lissom slimness of a dryad, and, when her
glance rested on Dick Kershaw, delicately and radiantly lovely.

"I believe I overheard a thought of yours, Fay," Lord Marcus smiled,
clasping his hands behind him. "But I hope to convince you by a palpable
demonstration that my beliefs do not rest upon sand." All, now, were
listening to him. "My butler, James Wake, was arrested recently in
connexion with the death of Sir Giles Loeder. This may be news in some
quarters, for the name of the man detained has not appeared in the
press. However, I hold my own views regarding Wake. A thief I had always
known him to be: that he is a murderer, I deny. Let me, therefore, give
you an outline, necessarily incomplete, of an experiment in which I ask
you to co-operate with me to-night."

Lady Huskin, thrilled but slightly frightened, moved from her armchair
to the settee, where she joined Dick and Fay. Mr. Michaelis leaned
against a bookcase, motionless: his monocle catching the light from a
standard lamp glittered statically. Mrs. Vane had retired.

"We live in a machine age. Tied to the wheels of a giant Juggernaut, we
are swept on, deafened and blinded to eternal Truth, crushing all beauty
in our path. The horrors of this war merely illustrate my meaning: as
the machine advances, God recedes, so that in time all the world would
be plunged into darkness: those lamps laboriously lighted by followers
of the great Masters be obscured, indeed, become buried and lost. In
humility and deep consciousness of my own limited powers--as well as
spiritual--I have endeavored to preserve some of those lamps from
destruction."

Lady Huskin was holding Fay's hand. The music of the speaker's voice
seemed to be touching chords deep within, chords which rarely
sounded ...

"I have failed in a large measure. I have achieved nothing to enable me
to place results before the world in a manner calculated to serve any
useful purpose. Yet, I have learned much; notably, that it is wrong to
work alone. There is an unsuspected power latent in all of us. Few
possess a sufficient quantity of this force, or, possessing, know how to
direct it, to be able to employ their gifts as the high priests of
Ancient Egypt formerly were able to do."

He paused, and the regard of his strange eyes rested upon one after
another of his listeners. But no one spoke.

"If the collective resources of seven suitable persons could be
concentrated, however, this, as my inquiries have shown me, might under
suitable direction achieve remarkable results. Now, regarding this
age-old science which modern science ignores, it will be enough for me
to say that the power I have mentioned varies in quantity, quality, and
character in each individual. Only those within the same psychic cycle
can hope to co-operate successfully. Blood transfusion offers a slight
parallel. The symbolism of seven is familiar to everyone. There are
seven days in the week, seven deadly sins; and for this symbolism of
seven there is a strictly scientific reason. Therefore, I have sought
for six persons whose spiritual forces are attuned to my own. I have
found them, with the aid of Mrs. Vane, who is in my own cycle and is
also a sensitive and a trained explorer of the borderland. Four others
and myself are present; Mrs. Vane is the sixth; and we await the
seventh, Mrs. Destre, who is returning to London this evening, as Mr.
Michaelis informs me, and will be present in time for our experiment."

Mr. Michaelis, now referred to, asked a question. "Do I gather that, in
your opinion, all of us now present are associates of some former
existence?"

"Not necessarily, sir. That we have had common experiences is certain,
as that we have lived in former times and at identical periods. One of
those periods, and the fact that I was then alive, I could establish
quite easily by means of unwrapping the mummy which stands beside
me--that of a high priest who held office at Thebes some one thousand
three hundred years before the birth of Christ."

Lady Huskin's hold on Fay's hand tightened.

"No further evidence on this point would be demanded of me. But since my
present purpose is not your conversion, but merely your co-operation,
let me pass on to the object of to-night's experiment. This is, quite
simply, an attempt to settle a mundane problem: namely--who was
responsible for the death of Sir Giles Loeder."

This remarkable anti-climax to a discourse so strange, yet so
unmistakably exalted, this descent from the spiritual to the physical,
produced a strange effect upon Lord Marcus's listeners, notably upon Mr.
Michaelis.

"Might I point out, Lord Marcus," he said, "that the inquiry in which
you are asking us to take part is already in the competent hands of
Scotland Yard?"

"I am aware of the fact, sir, but even Scotland Yard is fallible. Unless
my subjects are ill-chosen, I shall have around me to-night
examples--all, I trust, upon their ascending journey--of some who in the
past have looked up to the same stars and breathed the same air as I,
who have fallen with me, as the angel fell, through one of the seven
deadly sins. Directly Mrs. Destre arrives to complete our circle, the
experiment can begin. Mr. Michaelis tells me that urgent business called
her out of Town ..."




33

Destre Closes Her Eyes


The nature of the urgency of that business to which Mr. Michaelis had
referred would have become apparent to anyone secretly present several
hours earlier in Destre's room where lilies floated. Only one sound
disturbed its scented silence, that of almost uninterrupted movement of
a fountain pen over rough paper. At a feminine little bureau, the upper
part displaying behind plate glass several arresting pieces of jade, Mr.
Francis sat writing. He wore evening dress, with a double-breasted
tuxedo, which, since sunshine flooded the room, looked oddly out of
place; he wore, also, black rimmed glasses, which queerly changed his
appearance. He had before him a B.B.C. script typed on foolscap sheets
secured with pink tape, and he appeared to be re-writing part of it.
Destre, attired in a tightly fitting fur-trimmed suit which resembled a
Cossack uniform, an astrakhan hat upon her gleaming hair, earrings of
pearl-shaped emeralds, watched him.

Gauntlet gloves lay on the floor beside her; her feet were shod in soft,
high legged boots which perfectly fitted the curve of her calf. Destre
dressed like no one but Destre. She occupied her favorite place on the
settee, smoking a cigarette in a tortoiseshell holder, and sideways,
through lowered lashes, studying the writer.

"This is a tough proposition. I just don't see how I can do it," Francis
said suddenly, and laid his pen down. "The B.B.C. will stand for a
certain number of alterations, slipped in neatly, but if I try to spill
this load--"

"Giles spilled even heavier loads," Destre's tinkling voice reminded
him. "Often, he wrote in his own messages."

Mr. Francis's heavy jaw, for she viewed him in profile, jutted out
truculently. "That's none so hard to do in a political speech. It's a
different matter to have to get laughs with loaded material. This is
dull stuff, even for the Troops."

"Then write it in your own way ... but leave out none of the essential
words. The names of all the ships must go in," Destre smiled.

"You know I can't do it. I'm no cryptographer. You invented the
Pythagoric code, and writing messages is your pidgin. But if I try to
crack a gag like this, I shall arouse suspicion; I shall also get the
bird."

"Oh!" she laughed, that childish, trilling laughter, "you are suffering
from cold feet--yes? I see what it is. You have read in the papers that
a man has been detained by Scotland Yard. It is so?"

"Yes." He swung around to face her. "And we don't know who that man is,
how much he knows, how much he may tell."

"I can venture a guess, Francis, about who he is--and I am rarely wrong.
You can confirm it if you wish by lifting the telephone. It is Wake,
Lord Marcus Amberdale's butler. That was why I sent for him and talked
to him. But he is very cunning. You think so?"

"I do. I have suspected this man all along, kept him under observation,
as you know. I figured he had the money when he turned down twenty
guineas for one night's work. To save himself, he may say anything. We
can look for a visit from the police at any moment."

A discreet rap preceded the appearance of a grim looking elderly maid.
"The car is here, madam ..."

The car which ENSA had always provided to transport Francis Batt to
out-of-Town concerts stood at the entrance to Gatacre House. Its driver,
one of those elderly chauffeurs who have been coachmen, so that they
might at any moment say "Gee up" to the engine, touched his cap
respectfully, gazing into a clear sky pastel led with high white clouds.

"Looks like keeping fine for the drive down, sir."

"That's so," shouted Francis.

He had grown accustomed to shouting at this man, whom privately he
regarded as a public danger when in charge of a vehicle, since he was
nearly stone deaf, and indeed wore an earpiece to rectify this
disability. Otherwise, in spite of his years, he was a competent driver.
Francis placed a portfolio inside, and settled Destre in the other
corner before he got in himself. As the old chauffeur was about to close
the door: "You know your way to Bidchurch, I guess?" he bawled.

"Oh, yes, sir, I have been there before. We go through Farnborough."

"That's right," yelled Francis; then, lowering his voice, "A fine old
British institution!" he added.

They set out. Destre lay back with closed eyes as Francis opened his
portfolio, adjusted reading glasses and set to work on his notes. The
commodious saloon car ran smoothly.

Destre broke a long silence. "You are afraid that if Wake was the man
who ran up (I am sure of this, myself) he may have recognized your
voice?"

Mr. Francis removed his glasses and looked aside at her; she presented
an engaging picture. "Wake, if it was Wake, ran up from the other
direction. I left 'way ahead of him, remember. It's true I had to stand
by and see Loeder petting his girl friend for quite a while before she
quitted in a taxi." He watched Destre's profile fixedly, but her
features remained placid as a cameo. He went on:

"The mystery man in Air Force blue cut in on me just as I was coming up
with him. I took cover and so didn't hear what happened until a scuffle
started. I moved up just as Loeder went down. The Air Force guy ran off.
Of course, Loeder was bluffing. He had stopped a hard one and got wise
to the fact that the other fellow was too hot for him."

"So you tell me," Destre murmured.

"I'm telling you again. He stood up, took off his tuxedo, and shook it,
brushed himself down, picked up his portfolio and walked right on. I
watched him do all that, and I overtook him just as he turned into South
Audley Street. There was no sign of Wake before or at that time."

"He may have been near, all the same."

"No; he had gone the other way. You know croupiers always leave by the
tradesmen's entrance. I'm sure of it. No one saw me. There is something
I want to say. I'll say it now, whether it offends you or not. You think
too much about the money. It was Loeder's damned money that led to all
the trouble--that, and the girl."

"I see." Destre's voice, although it remained silver, was frozen
silver. "Is there anything else you want to say?"

"Plenty. I am by no means sure you believe that I don't know what became
of this money. I can only guess just what happened between you two on
that night, but I know you lashed out at Loeder because of the girl, and
I know he claimed the return of all his capital--five thousand pounds.
God knows what was in your mind when you sent me after him. All you said
was 'Bring him back!'."

"Instead of which, you strangled him."

"That's a lie! But it's true because of what he was to you, that I hated
him. I knew he wasn't worth it."

"Oh, oh!" Destre smiled: there were times when this man frightened her.
"I can see that little vein throbbing above your eyebrow, even when you
think of him."

The dimple in Francis's chin had become static; it resembled a healed
gunshot wound, and the vein to which Destre referred was unpleasantly
evident. He glared at her for a moment, his cold blue eyes shining
metallically. "God knows why I should trouble myself. Michaelis (or
maybe it's more respectful to call him Major Felsenhayn) is the only man
who really counts. He's always with you."

"Indeed, and why not? Major Felsenhayn is a distinguished officer,
and--"

"A gentleman? While I'm just a common agent, and neither. But my neck
means as much to me as his means to him. The main difference is that he
doesn't leave your apartment until three or four in the morning. Some
nights, I never hear him leave at all."

"Even so, what of it? If it were true, it would be the concern of
himself and of me, but of no one else. Yes?"

"Maybe. It the major were the only one I'd have no case. But what about
Loeder?"

Destre leaned back and closed her eyes again. "I sometimes think of the
cause for which we all risk our lives. It may count for little to you,
but to _me_ ... Perhaps I have never known love, or perhaps I have. What
is sometimes called love is simply a natural appetite, and to gratify it
is no more than to eat a peach or drink a glass of wine. If I have had
lovers I have given them little. My attraction--_agacerie_--brings
nothing to me except a means to achieve my end when other means fail.
Giles Loeder was a bad man, a man of poor extraction; but he was
strong--except in one respect. So, I played upon this weakness. I told
him that he could be of great value to us. I told him that every woman
has her price--and that this was mine. Very well. He _was_ of great
value to us: we may never be able to replace him. The price I had to pay
in return was a small one, I think."

"While you had him under your thumb, maybe it seemed that way," said
Francis. "But the night he brought that girl along, it seemed different,
or so I imagined."

"Ah! so!" Destre widely opened her eyes and glanced aside at him. "My
woman's vanity really betrayed me?"

"Really betrayed you!" Francis mocked. "What did you say to me?--and you
knew the man you were talking to. You said: 'Loeder has insisted on
withdrawing his capital to-night. I have paid him all we have in
reserve. Go to the table and get the rest.'"

"I remember saying something like that."

"I went to the table to draw out the balance. As I have already remarked
I don't know how the quarrel had come about, but I can guess. The girl
was in the bar talking to Olivar. I just brought the notes to your room
and walked right out. After Loeder had left, do you remember what you
said to me? I have told you once. Let me remind you. You said: 'Bring
him back!'."

Destre laughed, that tinkling laughter like an echo of fairy bells.
"Well, you did not bring him back. If I seem mysterious, it is because
you are mysterious. There is something you have never told me."

The vein which throbbed on Francis's brow grew darker. "Listen--I never
told you what that man said to me, did I?"

"No, you merely told me that there was a scuffle, and--an accident."

"Well, when I clapped him on the shoulder (he hadn't heard me coming up)
he turned around like a shot. I could see he was all tensed up--and I
don't wonder. I said: 'Listen, Loeder, I want to step into your
apartment and explain to you that you have left us in rather a fix'. He
said: 'I suppose that woman sent you after me?'"

"That woman," murmured Destre.

"I told him I didn't know what had happened and that I didn't care, but
if he would be reasonable everything could be settled in the morning. He
said: 'Nothing will be settled in the morning; I sha'n't be there. I'm
through with the whole business. When I'm sick of a woman I walk
out--and I have walked out'."

Destre laughed.

"Is that really what he said?"

"Just that. He moved on, the portfolio under his arm; and I felt a
buzzing in my ears. I had one of two choices: to let him go, or to have
it out ... I went after him, grabbed him, and swung him around. It had
become very dark. I wasn't just sure where we were standing. But before
I knew what had happened, he led off and registered hard on my jaw. He
said: 'Take that back to Ysolde with my compliments.' I didn't
answer--just reached out for him ... What?"

"I did not speak," Destre whispered.

"Oh--I thought you did. I pulled him forward and jerked his chin up:
routine stuff. He went over backwards. That wouldn't have caused any
great damage; I wasn't trying for a kill. But how could I know he was
standing right in front of a stone flower box screwed down to a low
parapet? He gave a sort of scream as he realised what had happened--not
very loud. He tried to save himself, but it was too late. He pitched
back, half sideways, onto his skull, and toppled right over ... The
weight of his body did the rest: a thing that's happened many a time,
but a thing I hadn't planned. There's no doubt he broke his neck. Even
then, although he was so still, I didn't know he was dead. I was afraid
to use a torch, and the night was black as Hell. I began to feel around
for the portfolio, but he was lying on it. I couldn't pull it out. Then,
I heard someone running up ..."

The car was passing through Farnborough, and Mr. Francis had completed
his notes, when Destre said, "It will be dark going back."

"That's true. Thinking about your date with the new boy friend?"

There was savage irony in his words, but she gave no sign. "If Lord
Marcus is interested, why should I not be interested too? He has
influence, and he does important work for the Ministry of Information,
so Hugo has found out. Do you want to quarrel with me again?"

"It would be no use. _Major Felsenhayn_ is going with you, I believe?"
(He stressed the name.)

"Hugo, also, is invited--yes. It is a new contact, and a welcome one.
Don't you think so?"

"What I think," said Francis, "I prefer not to say ..."




34

At Scotland Yard


In the Assistant Commissioner's office, Colonel O'Halloran switched off
his radio on sustained applause of a wildly enthusiastic character which
had crowned the final exit from a military concert "somewhere in
southern England" of that popular transatlantic artiste, Francis Batt.
Chief Inspector Firth stood before the blacked-out bay window; Sergeant
Bluett sat at the sacred, if untidy, desk of the Commissioner, where his
dexterity in shorthand had been taxed by the comedian's rapid delivery.

"Got it all, Bluett?" asked Firth.

"I think so."

"Try your hand, Firth," the Assistant Commissioner directed. "You have
the key there--'Pythagoric buds,' and so on. Extraordinarily rambling
story, that one he wound up with. Sounded phoney to me."

Sergeant Bluett stood up, ingenuously apologetic. "I couldn't take down
the music, sir. That can't be done in shorthand."

"Being looked after by another department, Sergeant. Musical code, I
understand, can be solved with same key if one knows music." The Colonel
knocked out his pipe in a large ashtray on a side table, then delved in
that pocket in which he kept loose tobacco. "Sing out last bit to Chief
Inspector. See what you make of it, Firth."

And so, whilst the Assistant Commissioner stamped up and down, busily
charging the hot bowl of his pipe, Sergeant Bluett in tones much subdued
by awe of his surroundings, dictated from his notes to Chief Inspector
Firth.

Firth wrote the shuffled alphabet at the top of a page, with the
conventional version underneath it, and then industriously set to work.
Clearly enough, he was baffled for a time, his tawny eyes narrowing as
he studied the words. His lower jaw protruded and his brows were drawn
down. Then, evidently, and suddenly, came enlightenment.

"Ah! it begins here!"

"What begins?" asked the Assistant Commissioner.

"List of warships, sir."

"Good Lord!"

"It's child's play once ye grasp the method. Now--here is the name of an
admiral."

One of the several 'phones rang. The Assistant Commissioner crossed and
took up the instrument ... "Yes," he snapped; "he's here." He leaned
across, extending the receiver to Firth. "Your department."

Firth said, "Chief Inspector Firth speaking," and a voice replied: "Mr.
Michaelis has gone to the house of Lord Marcus Amberdale. There seems to
be some sort of party there. Officer in charge awaits instructions."
Firth nodded: "Do nothing until I arrive, unless Michaelis leaves--in
which event bring him here." He replaced the receiver.

"Hasn't slipped away, has he?" asked the Colonel.

"No, sir. He is at Lord Marcus's house."

"What! Great Scott! what on earth can he be doing there! House covered?"

"Yes, sir; he's safe enough." Chief Inspector Firth returned to his
studies ... "Here is Birkenhead," he reported presently. "May be the
name o' a ship or a port. Ah! this looks like a date."

"Date the Malta convoy sails!"

Bluett, who had stood up deferentially when the 'phone rang, now began
excitedly to walk up and down in the constrained space behind the desk.

"Take a cigarette, Sergeant," said the Assistant Commissioner, pointing
to a large box. "Relax--relax, man. Go ahead, Firth."

There was silence for some minutes as the Chief Inspector bent over his
task. Bluett sat on the extreme edge of a chair smoking a cigarette as
if he expected it to explode. The Assistant Commissioner blinked and
walked up and down continuously. Again a 'phone buzzed. He crossed and
took it up, listened for a few moments and then said, "Thank you.
Good-bye," and hung up.

"Usual nightly token raid on south coast," he explained. "Nothing
serious. Three or four of 'em over."




35

The Voice in the Shrine


That miniature temple in South Audley Street, black ceiling painted to
create an impression of infinite space, had undergone yet another
change. The shrine was veiled, and a screen stood before it. A circular
ebony table occupied much of the available floor room, seven high backed
chairs being set at regular intervals around its circumference. In one
corner of this otherwise unfurnished apartment, a silver incense burner
sent up tenuous wavering columns of smoke from its perforated lid.
Already the atmosphere was laden with fumes of _kyphi_.

Its insidious appeal, at once to the senses, to the brain and to the
spirit, reacted strangely upon those present. If any element of levity,
however suppressed, had lingered amongst them, it disappeared as they
entered, led by Lord Marcus. Mrs. Vane already had taken her seat--that
directly facing the hidden shrine. She sat upright, slender white hands
palm downwards upon the table before her; and at sight of the enraptured
face, awe entered into the minds of those who saw her. Indeed, Lady
Huskin hesitated on the threshold.

"The traveller is preparing for her journey," explained Lord Marcus. "In
fact, she is already on her way. When the circle which I seek to form is
completed by the arrival of Mrs. Destre, we will take our proper
places, which I shall point out, resting our hands upon the table in
order that power may be concentrated amongst us. We have some time to
wait, but I thought it better to acquaint you with the conditions under
which the experiment must be carried out. With your permission we will
retire again, leaving the door open. Air too heavily impregnated with
_kyphi_ to those unaccustomed to it is sometimes overpowering."

He stood by the entrance, his head gravely inclined, intimating that his
guests should pass into the lobby. Last of all, he came out and joined
them. There were those, it is true, to whom the thing smacked of a stage
illusion, but there was none who had not come under the influence of
Lord Marcus's singular personality. Lady Huskin, avid for fresh
experiences, decided that she was really frightened. Mrs. Vane, an
experienced woman of the world, had stood for a link with things normal
and amusing, but her present condition completed Lady Huskin's alarm.

Crossing to the Roman couch, she seated herself, and beckoned to Fay
Perigal with whom she had become well acquainted since Fay had taken up
her duties at Rosemary Cottage.

She liked the look of the young Air Force officer too, although this was
the first occasion upon which they had met.

"Come and sit down beside me, you two." Lady Huskin patted the cushions
to right and left of her. "I must really have a serious talk with you."

Fay hesitated, but at last: "Oh, well," she murmured, "I suppose there
is no reason why not ..." And so she and Dick Kershaw sat down right and
left of Lady Huskin upon the couch which had supported the body of Sir
Giles Loeder.

Mr. Michaelis and his host had returned to the study. Lord Marcus
courteously placed an armchair, and himself took a seat behind the
mahogany writing-desk, leaning back so that light reflected upward from
its polished surface lent to his features an appearance which might have
inspired a painter to attempt a head of John the Baptist.

"There are cigars beside you, Mr. Michaelis; cigarettes also. Would you
care for a drink--or some coffee perhaps?"

"Thank you, no. I am deeply curious about this queer business, Lord
Marcus. It is by no means clear to me what you hope to achieve, nor do I
observe anything which I might describe as personal sympathy between the
persons you have assembled here to-night."

"That," replied Lord Marcus, "is not surprising. Our bodily ages and
mannerisms are no more than remotely related to our spiritual identity.
No one in these rooms to-night is younger than Neb-neteru--" he pointed
directly over Mr. Michaelis's shoulder to the mummy in its sarcophagus.
"All of us, yourself included, were contemporaries of Seti the First."

"Indeed," murmured Mr. Michaelis--and the immovable disc of his small
monocle indicated that his gaze was fixed upon the face of Lord Marcus.
"You speak with a conviction which I am compelled to respect, but which
I am not bound to accept."

"I ask you to accept nothing, Mr. Michaelis, except my hospitality."

"I do not presume to dispute your knowledge; you are unmistakably a
scholar possessed of deep and unusual learning; but I wonder if--"

"Much learning has made me mad?" suggested Lord Marcus smiling.

"Not at all. I beg you will not misunderstand me. My reservations go
deeper than that. You maintain that the human spirit can, and does,
operate away from the body which normally it occupies?"

"Certainly."

"Then on this rock, Lord Marcus, our courses split. I have no idea
what mysterious significance may attach, in your estimation, to this
mummy, but I think I should make it plain that I dispute even the
possibility ..."

He was interrupted. This interruption took the form of a wailing cry:--

"No, no! stop those sirens! Hold my hand ... don't leave me!"

Mr. Michaelis came to his feet as if propelled upward by a powerful
spring. A muscular spasm swept that ironic urbanity from his face. His
monocle dropped, and rolled silently across the carpet.

Out in the lobby Lady Huskin exclaimed, "Oh my God! what's that?"

As Lord Marcus stood up and moved with long strides towards the study
door, from the temple came a piercing scream, the scream of a woman in
dire agony, and a babble of sobbing words: "Hugo!... Hugo!... where are
you?"

Michaelis grasped Lord Marcus's arm as he was about to pass. "Lord
Marcus!"--he spoke strangely, wildly, gutturally: "Listen to me. That
voice was not the voice of Mrs. Vane!"

"No," Lord Marcus replied; his tones were calm but grave, "it was the
voice of another speaking through her lips."

"It was Ysolde! it was Ysolde!"

"It was the voice of Mrs. Destre--yes. I recognised it."

       *       *       *       *       *

A country road in a southern county stretched wide and empty under the
moon. A German plane which had traversed some miles of its length at
tree-top height might be heard droning away in the distance. At one
point, this road swung eastward and was overhung by trees in such a way
that a bay of shadow masked the bend. Here, at an angle of forty-five in
a wide ditch, a car lay, a commodious saloon, its roof riddled with
machine gun bullets.

One might have supposed it to be deserted, have assumed that its
occupants were dead, or unconscious. The hawklike shape of a Spitfire
streaked by, high above, on the tail of the German raider, as a sound of
tearing and wrenching came from the forward part of the overturned car.
Presently, a near side door was forced open, and the driver, clutching
at a weed grown bank, hauled himself free of the wreckage and stood
poised, one foot on the bank, the other on the upturned running board.

He was that elderly, grey-haired chauffeur who resembled an ex-coachman,
the driver provided by ENSA to convey Francis Batt to a military concert
and back to London again. The man stood there for awhile, inhaling
deeply and evidently trying to steady himself; then, struggling back to
an uptilted door of the saloon, he succeeded by sheer force in wrenching
it open. He shot the ray of a torch into the interior of the car,
stooped, and examined what he found there, then hauled himself out
again, and climbed the bank looking up and down the deserted road. He
had lost his cap, and a slight breeze disturbed his thick grey hair.

A rattle of distant machine gun fire came, and died away again. A far
off shouting arose, and almost immediately subsided. High puff-like
clouds seemed to powder the face of the moon. He could detect no sound
of traffic. Removing that earpiece which, habitually, he wore, he began
to run back in the direction from which he had come. He was making for a
Police call-box which he remembered to have passed.

As this was two miles off, some little time elapsed before Colonel
O'Halloran, still walking up and down his office in Scotland Yard,
rolling and lighting cigarettes, smoking and re-loading his pipe,
blinking, snapping his fingers, and generally exhibiting every evidence
of suppressed nervous energy, received the call, which was intended for
him.

Chief Inspector Firth was busy with further transcriptions of Sergeant
Bluett's shorthand notes, and had become involved in a mass of names and
figures to which no clue could be found. Sergeant Bluett, who realised
that he was listening to a condensed but detailed account of the
constitution, personnel, times of sailing and ports of call of a huge
convoy bound for Malta--and that this information had that night been
placed in enemy possession--sat on the extreme edge of his chair wearing
the look of a bewildered schoolboy. Having forgotten his evening paper,
he tapped his knee with a notebook.

The telephone buzzed, and in two strides the Assistant Commissioner had
reached the instrument ... "Yes, at once. Put him through." He turned
and spoke two words: "Gaston Max!"

"Is that you, Colonel O'Halloran, my old?" came the voice of the
Frenchman. "Heaven be praised that I live."

"Where are you? What has happened?"

"I am in a Police box on a country road, six miles from Farnborough.
Always, Fate snatches my prisoners out of my hands. Wake was the only
one I have safely delivered. But I am alive. Yes--I have much to be
thankful for. You understand, I was driving Destre and Francis."

"Don't understand at all," rapped the Commissioner. "You were driving
them?"

"But certainly. I have driven them several times, now. I arranged this
with ENSA, who provide the troop entertainments as you know. The car is
wired, and I wear an earpiece. I learn much in this way, and to-night--I
learned all."

"What did you learn?"

"The man we have known as Julian Francis, and also as Francis Batt,
murdered Sir Giles Loeder. I was bringing him back to you, with Madame
Destre. She was the leader of the gang and the brains which guided
it!"

"Well! where are they? what happened?"

"A German raider swooped down on us in the moonlight. I heard him coming
and ran the car into a ditch where there was shadow. Alas, too late! He
plastered us with machine gun bullets. My friend, it was terrible!
Francis threw himself on the woman, to try to shield her body. One
bullet killed them both. She was shot in the throat--screaming for
Hugo."

"Good God! who is Hugo?"

"Major Hugo Felsenhayn, of the German Intelligence. We know him as Mr.
Michaelis. He was her lover, I think; or at least, her favorite lover.
Is it not Fate, Colonel O'Halloran, my old, that never can I make an
arrest after so much work? Fate steps in and fools me. You have the
worthy Michaelis covered, I trust?"

"Certainly. Know where he is at present moment."

"Send my old friend the Chief Inspector at once to arrest him. Seize him
as accessory to the murder, before Military Intelligence can act. Let
your fellows at least have _one_ worthwhile prisoner to show; a mere
thieving butler is not good enough ..."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the lobby of Lord Marcus's house an atmosphere of nervous tension
prevailed. Mrs. Vane, whose condition for a time had caused some
anxiety, was now resting upstairs in the guest room: she retained no
memory of what had occurred. Lady Huskin had requested permission to sit
with her; so that only Dick Kershaw, Fay, Lord Marcus and Mr. Michaelis
remained.

Mr. Michaelis was strangely disturbed. He had recovered his monocle and
had returned it to its place, but he had not succeeded in recovering his
characteristic composure. Frequently, he consulted a wrist-watch. Fay
was lying in a deep armchair brought from the study, and Dick perched
beside her, one arm thrown across the back of the chair. "Do you feel
better, Fay?" he asked in a low voice.

She looked up and nodded. "There is nothing the matter with me, Dick,
except that I always hated these occult experiments. They frighten
me ... Somehow, I don't think they--are right."

"I don't quite know _what_ I think," said Kershaw; "but I know the voice
we heard wasn't the voice of Mrs. Vane. There's something else, too:--a
sort of foreboding, as though--"

"You were expecting something else to happen? I know. I have it, too.
Oh, listen!"

Muffled, for the house with the scarlet door possessed a quality of
peculiar silence, the wailing of sirens became audible. One of the
coastal raiders was approaching the London area. Mr. Michaelis glanced
at his watch, and then turned to Lord Marcus, who stood, seemingly lost
in thought, before the silver plated door of the temple, now closed.

"I begin to fear, Lord Marcus, that Mrs. Destre has been detained.
Perhaps, in the circumstances--"

The door bell rang. Its sound, for some reason, electrified the
listeners. Fay jumped up and grasped Dick's arm. Mr. Michaelis strode
across. But Lord Marcus overtook him, resting a restraining hand upon
his shoulder.

"Permit me, sir."

Lord Marcus himself opened the door--and Chief Inspector Firth stepped
in. Behind him, indistinct in shadow, two uniformed figures might be
discerned.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening, Chief Inspector."

Firth fixed the regard of his tawny eyes upon Mr. Michaelis. "Major
Felsenhayn--I ha' a warrant for your arrest."

Mr. Michaelis grew visibly pale as he met that set regard of the Chief
Inspector. Then, drawing his heels together, he bowed. "Mrs. Destre?"
he asked quietly.

"Mrs. Destre and Johann Brandt were killed in an air raid near the
coast less than an hour ago ..."

       *       *       *       *       *

BOOKS BY SAX ROHMER


    THE FU MANCHU STORIES

    The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu
    The Return of Dr. Fu Manchu
    The Hand of Fu Manchu
    Daughter of Fu Manchu
    The Mask of Fu Manchu
    Fu Manchu's Bride
    The Trail of Fu Manchu
    President Fu Manchu
    The Drums of Fu Manchu
    The Island of Fu Manchu
    The Fu Manchu Book (_Omnibus_)


    STORIES OF CHINATOWN AND THE ORIENT

    Dope
    Fire-Tongue
    She Who Sleeps
    The Golden Scorpion
    Tales of Chinatown
    Tales of Secret Egypt
    Tales of East and West
    The Green Eyes of Bst
    The Quest of the Sacred Slipper
    Brood of the Witch Queen
    The Yellow Claw
    Yellow Shadows
    Yu'an Hee See Laughs
    The Bat Flies Low
    Egyptian Nights


    OTHER MYSTERY STORIES

    Grey Face
    Moon of Madness
    The Day the World Ended
    The Dream Detective
    The Emperor of America
    White Velvet
    The Haunting of Low Fennel
    Salute to Bazarada
    The Orchard of Tears
    The Exploits of Capt. O'Hagan


    NON-FICTION

    The Romance of Sorcery




[End of Seven Sins, by Sax Rohmer]
