Death on the Lizard (26 page)

The man gave a mirthless chuckle. “De Forest's wireless ‘thingy'? Well, my girl, the plain, unvarnished truth of the matter is that there isn't any ‘thingy'—at least not one that can be relied on. De Forest's wireless is a flop.”

“I don't believe it!” Miss Chase cried incredulously. “Why, Mr. White is selling stock in the company! Millions and millions of dollars of it! And people all over the world are buying it! I've been planning to buy some myself, as a matter of fact.”

“Then you'd be as big a fool as all the others,” the man broke in cruelly. “You know what they say. There's a sucker born every minute. This wireless mania is nothing but a bubble, that's all. If De Forest Wireless doesn't crash tomorrow or the next day, it'll be gone by next week, or next month, or next year. And all those people who slapped down their life savings, hoping to get rich—well, they'll be broke, I reckon. And so will you, my pretty, if you put any money into it. As for White and de Forest, it'll be tar-and-feather time.”

Bradford braced himself against the door, his head reeling. De Forest's wireless company, a fraud!

“And that's why they hired us to get that tuner,” the man said. “If you can't invent it, steal it, that's their motto. Why, doncha know, de Forest stole that amazing ‘spade detector' of his right off Fessenden's laboratory bench. Hired one of Fessenden's employees, and the fellow brought the gadget with him. Fessenden is suing, o'course. He'll win, too, although little good it'll do him. There won't be a plugged nickel left in the company when White gets through with it. It'll be flat as a busted balloon.”

Bradford's heart was pounding and he had broken into a cold sweat. Was it possible that Abraham White and Lee de Forest had tried to hire Daniel Gerard away from the Marconi Company? And when that didn't work, they had him
killed
so they could steal the tuner? Was he listening to a pair of cold-blooded murderers?

“Well, I don't know anything about those doings,” Miss Chase said airily. “And to tell the truth, I don't give a damn. All I know is that I was supposed to make friends with Mr. Marconi and see if I could get that tuner.”

The man sighed. “Well, the tuner is one thing, Pauline, but all this other business is something else again. People going over the cliff, people getting electrocuted, people stealing the damn thing right out from under our noses. It's been unsettling, I'll tell you that. All I can think is that there's another party involved.”

People stealing the damn thing? Bradford blinked. So this fellow—by now, Bradford was certain he knew who he was— was
not
the thief after all! Someone else had got to it first!

The man sighed again, more heavily. “I even had a look in Gerard's room last night, to see if whoever took the tuner left anything behind. Couldn't find a thing. But I'll tell you, old girl, it gave me a bad case of the jitters to poke around in a dead man's stuff.”

Bradford pulled in his breath. The revelations were coming so thick and fast that he could scarcely field them. So this was the man who had ransacked Gerard's room!

There was the creak of a bed, as if someone had sat or lain down upon it. Miss Chase said, with some sarcasm, “Go right ahead. Make yourself comfortable. Take your shoes off, why don't you?” Her voice became heavily ironic. “Take your shirt and trousers off, too, while you're at it. Nobody's looking.”

“Oh, go to hell,” the man said humorously. “Listen, now that you're here, old thing, and you've got Marconi so neatly twisted around your finger, I've got an idea. I think it's very likely that he's got another one of those tuners, or a pocketful of notes describing it. I can't believe a smart gent like him would let somebody else do his inventing for him. Anyway, I want you to find out.”

She laughed. “Me? And just how do you suggest I do that? Ask him?”

“Don't be a ninny. Search his room. If it's there, take it.”

Search his room? Bradford was taken aback. Why, the nerve of the man! The idea that they could simply—

“Search his room?” Miss Chase's voice had become chilly. “I don't think so. It's too big a risk. What if he catches me? What if—?”

“I'll see to it that you're not caught,” the man said. “I'll cozy up to Marconi while you're having a nice, leisurely paw through his drawers and his wardrobe.”

“And how am I supposed to get into his room?”

“Try this,” the man said.

There was a metallic clink, as if something had fallen on the floor. Bradford's guess was confirmed in the next moment.

“Where'd you get a
key
?” Miss Chase asked, in admiring surprise.

“Where else? Off the key rack behind the desk. There were two, so they'll never miss one. And if they do, they'll think one of the maids took it and forgot to put it back.”

There was a pause. “I suppose I can do it,” she said at last, in a half-doubtful tone, “if you'll guarantee to keep him occupied.” Her laugh was brittle. “Which shouldn't be too hard. Just talk to him about his favorite subject. Himself. Or that damned wireless of his.”

Bradford had to smile. The remark was not far off the mark. Once Marconi began talking about himself and his work, it was almost impossible to change the subject.

“After dinner, then.” The bed creaked again, as if the man had stood up. “I'll keep him talking about wireless— I've learned a thing or two about it from de Forest, you know—while you go powder your nose. Now, old girl, what'd'ya say to a little kiss?”

Since she didn't say anything, and since the silence went on for rather a long time, Bradford could only surmise that Miss Chase had allowed herself to be kissed. After a suitable interval, he stepped softly to the door and eased it open a crack.

In a moment, he heard Miss Chase's door open, and he risked cracking his own a bit wider. He recognized the man who passed in front of him, and was not surprised.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 
 
 
The dinner party at Penhallow was certainly festive enough. The group—Kate and Charles, Jenna and Sir Oliver, and Patsy—was seated at a damask-covered table set with china, crystal, and silver, centered with a loose, tumbling arrangement of roses and ferns and lit with tall ivory tapers. Kate heartily approved of the flowers, which were a pleasant change from the formal floral displays she usually saw on dining tables. She approved, too, of the menu, for it was a comparatively simple dinner of soup (white and brown); salmon; lamb, ham, and veal; salad and vegetables; a charlotte Russe; and crystallized fruit, and cheese—nothing like the much more elaborate meal they would have eaten at the home of one of their London friends. It was served by Wilson, assisted by one of the village girls; the pair of them did an entirely creditable job, Kate thought.

The conversation was as pleasant as everyone's efforts could make it. Patsy was animated and amusing, full of tales of her travels in the Arabian desert; Charles and Sir Oliver said nothing at all about wireless or other such scientific wizardry, and conversed on any number of agreeable subjects of general interest; and Kate joined in with enthusiasm. But while Jenna did her best to participate, she seemed abstracted and quiet, and rather paler and more delicate than usual, Kate thought, as if the prospect of the after-dinner séance had already depressed her spirits.

After the meal, the entire group (not just the ladies) adjourned to Penhallow's small library, a book-lined room with an oriental carpet laid over the stone floor and comfortable leather furniture, where Wilson served coffee and port. The blazing fire was especially welcome, for the long-delayed rain had begun to fall at last, and an occasional rumble of thunder rattled the windows.

Kate had already explained to Jenna that Charles would not be staying for the séance, and when he rose to leave, his thanks and apologies were accepted without offense. Thankfully, Kate was not asked to explain where he was going, and Jenna's only concern was for his comfort.

“It's raining,” she said. “If you're in need of a mackintosh and umbrella, I'm sure we can find them.”

“Thank you, but I have mine with me,” Charles said, “and the gig has a folding hood and side curtains. It is July, after all, and I shall be dry enough.” He bowed to Lodge. “Good night, Sir Oliver. I trust that you will enjoy the remainder of your visit.” And with a smile at Patsy and a quick kiss for Kate, he was gone.

Well, then,
Beryl said with satisfaction, as Charles left.
Now that His Nibs is gone, we can begin
. Beryl always confessed to feeling somewhat diffident in Charles's presence, a little intimidated by his sometimes stern countenance.

“I'm sorry Lord Charles could not join us for the séance,” Sir Oliver said. “But perhaps it is just as well. One never knows, of course, but it has been my experience that overtly skeptical people have a dampening effect on the spirits.”

Dampening,
Beryl said with a chuckle.
That's it, exactly. His lordship can be dampening
.

“Then we are well rid of him for the evening,” Kate remarked lightly. “There was never a more skeptical man than Charles Sheridan. If I were a spirit, I should be totally dampened in his presence.” She stretched out her hands to the fire. “Are we having our séance here in the library, Jenna? I do hope so—the fire is awfully nice.”

“I thought it would be a good place, if Sir Oliver agrees,” Jenna said. “Since there are only four of us, we can all sit at the library table.”

The table in question, round and substantial, was made of dark oak, with thick legs curving out from a center pedestal.

“Oh, but it's such a
heavy
table,” Patsy objected, regarding it with a mock frown. “It would take an abominably strong spirit to thump it.” She looked at Sir Oliver. “I say, Sir Oliver, not to disparage Jenna's table, but shouldn't we have something . . . well, rather lighter in weight?”

Oh, by all means,
Beryl put in.
We want a jolly good table-thumping
.

“I wish,” Jenna said quietly, “that you wouldn't make light of this, Patsy. It's hard enough without—” She bit her lip and turned away. “I already feel terribly foolish, you know.”

Sir Oliver pulled his thick brows together. “If I may be forgiven for saying so, Miss Marsden, the more serious we are about tonight's endeavor, the more likely we are to succeed.” He opened a small leather briefcase and took out a stack of paper and several pencils. “Unfortunately, humor can be just as dampening as skepticism.”

Patsy raised her hand in a pledge. “No more tomfoolery, I promise. I shall be as sober as a judge. But not judgmental,” she corrected herself hastily. “I shan't offer any judgments at all. I shall just—”

“You shall just hold your tongue,” Kate said, with a smile, “or the spirits will never be able to get a word in edgewise.”

“It's only nervousness,” Patsy replied in a whisper. “I really am a little afraid, Kate.”

Patsy? Afraid?
Beryl exclaimed.

“After all your wild desert adventures?” Kate asked. “I must say, I'm surprised.”

“I know,” Patsy replied candidly. “It is rather extraordinary, isn't it? But I have a nasty, nagging sort of feeling, you see, and—” She stopped and shook herself. “Oh, I'm just being silly, that's all. Let's get on with it, shall we?”

Yes,
Beryl said smartly.
The spirits are eager. Let's get on with it.

Jenna was clearing the framed photographs, books, and other items from the library table. “Shall we want a cloth?” she asked.

“No need for it,” Sir Oliver replied. “The less on the table, the better. Except for—” He picked up a photograph of a small girl in a soft white dress, white stockings, and white slippers, her hair drawn up and secured by a large white bow at the back of her head. “Except for dear Harriet's photograph. We shall put it just . . . here.” He set the photograph carefully in the center of the table, and beside it arranged the paper and pencils.

“The lights, Sir Oliver,” Jenna said. “What shall we do about the lights?”

“Oh, let's leave them on, by all means,” Patsy said hastily. “Otherwise, Jenna won't be able to see to write.”

I don't think light is required for spirit writing,
Beryl said.
I think the fingers do it all by themselves.

Sir Oliver gave Patsy a reproachful look, as if to reprimand her for being humorous again. “We must dim the lights at least a little,” he said. “If you will allow me, Jenna, my dear.”

He took a red silk handkerchief out of his pocket and draped it in front of the lamp which sat on a nearby table, and then extinguished the other two lamps in the room. Now there was just the flickering fire and the ruby-shaded light, which cast an eerie play of shadows in the darkened corners.

Ah,
Beryl said.
A perfect setting. Perfectly mysterious
.