The Seven Dials Mystery (15 page)

“Take George Lomax, for instance, can you imagine him being amorous with beautiful foreign women?” said Bundle with a laugh.

Jimmy agreed with her criticism.

“And now about the man of mystery—No 7,” went on Jimmy. “You've no idea who he could be?”

“None whatever.”

“Again—by book standards, that is—he ought to be someone we all know. What about George Lomax himself?”

Bundle reluctantly shook her head.

“In a book it would be perfect,” she agreed. “But knowing Codders—” And she gave herself up to sudden uncontrollable mirth. “Codders, the great criminal organizer,” she gasped. “Wouldn't it be marvellous?”

Jimmy agreed that it would. Their discussion had taken some time and his driving had slowed down involuntarily once or twice. They arrived at Chimneys, to find Colonel Melrose already there waiting. Jimmy was introduced to him and they all three proceeded to the inquest together.

As Colonel Melrose had predicted, the whole affair was very simple. Bundle gave her evidence. The doctor gave his. Evidence was given of rifle practice in the neighbourhood. A verdict of death by misadventure was brought in.

After the proceedings were over, Colonel Melrose volunteered to drive Bundle back to Chimneys, and Jimmy Thesiger returned to London.

For all his lighthearted manner, Bundle's story had impressed him profoundly. He set his lips closely together.

“Ronny, old boy,” he murmured, “I'm going to be up against it. And you're not here to join in the game.”

Another thought flashed into his mind. Loraine! Was she in danger?

After a minute or two's hesitation, he went over to the telephone and rang her up.

“It's me—Jimmy. I thought you'd like to know the result of the inquest. Death by misadventure.”

“Oh, but—”

“Yes, but I think there's something behind that. The coroner had had a hint. Someone's at work to hush it up. I say, Loraine—”

“Yes?”

“Look here. There's—there's some funny business going about. You'll be very careful, won't you? For my sake.”

He heard the quick note of alarm that sprang into her voice.

“Jimmy—but then it's dangerous—for
you.
”

He laughed.

“Oh,
that's
all right. I'm the cat that had nine lives. Bye-bye, old thing.”

He rang off and remained a minute or two lost in thought. Then he summoned Stevens.

“Do you think you could go out and buy me a pistol, Stevens?”

“A pistol, sir?”

True to his training, Stevens betrayed no hint of surprise.

“What kind of a pistol would you be requiring?”

“The kind where you put your finger on the trigger and the thing goes on shooting until you take it off again.”

“An automatic, sir.”

“That's it,” said Jimmy. “An automatic. And I should like it to be a bluenosed one—if you and the shopman know what that is. In American stories, the hero always takes his bluenosed automatic from his hip pocket.”

Stevens permitted himself a faint, discreet smile.

“Most American gentlemen that I have known, sir, carry something very different in their hip pockets,” he observed.

Jimmy Thesiger laughed.

Sixteen

T
HE
H
OUSE
P
ARTY
AT
THE
A
BBEY

B
undle drove over to Wyvern Abbey just in time for tea on Friday afternoon. George Lomax came forward to welcome her with considerable
empressement.

“My dear Eileen,” he said, “I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you here. You must forgive my not having invited you when I asked your father, but to tell the truth I never dreamed that a party of this kind would appeal to you. I was both—er—surprised and—er—delighted when Lady Caterham told me of your—er—interest in—er—politics.”

“I wanted to come so much,” said Bundle in a simple, ingenuous manner.

“Mrs. Macatta will not arrive till the later train,” explained George. “She was speaking at a meeting in Manchester last night. Do you know Thesiger? Quite a young fellow, but a remarkable grasp of foreign politics. One would hardly suspect it from his appearance.”

“I know Mr. Thesiger,” said Bundle, and she shook hands solemnly with Jimmy, who she observed had parted his hair in the middle in the endeavour to add earnestness to his expression.

“Look here,” said Jimmy in a low hurried voice, as George temporarily withdrew. “You mustn't be angry, but I've told Bill about our little stunt.”

“Bill?” said Bundle, annoyed.

“Well, after all,” said Jimmy, “Bill is one of the lads, you know. Ronny was a pal of his and so was Gerry.”

“Oh! I know,” said Bundle.

“But you think it's a pity? Sorry.”

“Bill's all right, of course. It isn't that,” said Bundle. “But he's—well, Bill's a born blunderer.”

“Not mentally very agile?” suggested Jimmy. “But you forget one thing—Bill's got a very hefty fist. And I've an idea that a hefty fist is going to come in handy.”

“Well, perhaps you're right. How did he take it?” “Well, he clutched his head a good bit, but—I mean the facts took some driving home. But by repeating the thing patiently in words of one syllable I at last got it into his thick head. And, naturally, he's with us to the death, as you might say.”

George reappeared suddenly.

“I must make some introductions, Eileen. This is Sir Stanley Digby—Lady Eileen Brent. Mr. O'Rourke.” The Air Minister was a little round man with a cheerful smile. Mr. O'Rourke, a tall young man with laughing blue eyes and a typical Irish face, greeted Bundle with enthusiasm.

“And I thinking it was going to be a dull political party entirely,” he murmured in an adroit whisper.

“Hush,” said Bundle. “I'm political—very political.”

“Sir Oswald and Lady Coote you know,” continued George.

“We've never actually met,” said Bundle, smiling.

She was mentally applauding her father's descriptive powers.

Sir Oswald took her hand in an iron grip and she winced slightly.

Lady Coote, after a somewhat mournful greeting, had turned to Jimmy Thesiger, and appeared to be registering something closely akin to pleasure. Despite his reprehensible habit of being late for breakfast, Lady Coote had a fondness for this amiable, pink-faced young man. His air of irrepressible good nature fascinated her. She had a motherly wish to cure him of his bad habits and form him into one of the world's workers. Whether, once formed, he would be as attractive was a question she had never asked herself. She began now to tell him of a very painful motor accident which had happened to one of her friends.

“Mr. Bateman,” said George briefly, as one who would pass on to better things.

A serious, palefaced young man bowed.

“And now,” continued George, “I must introduce you to Countess Radzky.”

Countess Radzky had been conversing with Mr. Bateman. Leaning very far back on a sofa, with her legs crossed in a daring manner, she was smoking a cigarette in an incredibly long turquoise-studded holder.

Bundle thought she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her eyes were very large and blue, her hair was coal black, she had a matte skin, the slightly flattened nose of the Slav, and a sinuous, slender body. Her lips were reddened to a degree with which Bundle was sure Wyvern Abbey was totally unacquainted.

She said eagerly: “This is Mrs. Macatta—yes?”

On George's replying in the negative and introducing Bundle, the countess gave her a careless nod, and at once resumed her conversation with the serious Mr. Bateman.

Bundle heard Jimmy's voice in her ear:

“Pongo is absolutely fascinated by the lovely Slav,” he said. “Pathetic, isn't it? Come and have some tea.”

They drifted once more into the neighbourhood of Sir Oswald Coote.

“That's a fine place of yours, Chimneys,” remarked the great man.

“I'm glad you liked it,” said Bundle meekly.

“Wants new plumbing,” said Sir Oswald. “Bring it up to date, you know.”

He ruminated for a minute or two.

“I'm taking the Duke of Alton's place. Three years. Just while I'm looking round for a place of my own. Your father couldn't sell if he wanted to, I suppose?”

Bundle felt her breath taken away. She had a nightmare vision of England with innumerable Cootes in innumerable counterparts of Chimneys—all, be it understood, with an entirely new system of plumbing installed.

She felt a sudden violent resentment which, she told herself, was absurd. After all, contrasting Lord Caterham with Sir Oswald Coote, there was no doubt as to who would go to the wall. Sir Oswald had one of those powerful personalities which make all those with whom they come in contact appear faded. He was, as Lord Caterham had said, a human steamroller. And yet, undoubtedly, in many ways, Sir Oswald was a stupid man. Apart from his special line of knowledge and his terrific driving force, he was probably intensely ignorant. A hundred delicate appreciations of life which Lord Caterham could and did enjoy were a sealed book to Sir Oswald.

Whilst indulging in these reflections Bundle continued to chat pleasantly. Herr Eberhard, she heard, had arrived, but was lying down with a nervous headache. This was told her by Mr. O'Rourke, who managed to find a place by her side and keep it.

Altogether, Bundle went up to dress in a pleasant mood of expectation, with a slight nervous dread hovering in the background whenever she thought of the imminent arrival of Mrs. Macatta. Bundle felt that dalliance with Mrs. Macatta was going to prove no primrose path.

Her first shock was when she came down, demurely attired in a black lace frock, and passed along the hall. A footman was standing there—at least a man dressed as a footman. But that square, burly figure lent itself badly to the deception. Bundle stopped and stared.

“Superintendent Battle,” she breathed.

“That's right, Lady Eileen.”

“Oh!” said Bundle uncertainly. “Are you here to—to—?”

“Keep an eye on things.”

“I see.”

“That warning letter, you know,” said the Superintendent, “fairly put the wind up Mr. Lomax. Nothing would do for him but that I should come down myself.”

“But don't you think—” began Bundle, and stopped. She hardly liked to suggest to the Superintendent that his disguise was not a particularly efficient one. He seemed to have “police officer” written all over him, and Bundle could hardly imagine the most unsuspecting criminal failing to be put on his guard.

“You think,” said the Superintendent stolidly, “that I might be recognized?”

He gave the final word a distinct capital letter.

“I did think so—yes—” admitted Bundle.

Something that might conceivably have been intended for a smile crossed the woodenness of Superintendent Battle's features.

“Put them on their guard, eh? Well, Lady Eileen, why not?”

“Why not?” echoed Bundle—rather stupidly, she felt.

Superintendent Battle was nodding his head slowly.

“We don't want any unpleasantness, do we?” he said. “Don't want to be too clever—just show any light-fingered gentry that may be about—well, just show them that there's somebody on the spot, so to speak.”

Bundle gazed at him in some admiration. She could imagine that the sudden appearance of so renowned a personage as Superintendent Battle might have a depressing effect on any scheme and the hatchers of it.

“It's a great mistake to be too clever,” Superintendent Battle was repeating. “The great thing is not to have any unpleasantness this weekend.”

Bundle passed on, wondering how many of her fellow guests had recognized or would recognize the Scotland Yard detective. In the drawing room George was standing with a puckered brow and an orange envelope in his hand.

“Most vexatious,” he said. “A telegram from Mrs. Macatta to say she will be unable to be with us. Her children are suffering from mumps.”

Bundle's heart gave a throb of relief.

“I especially feel this on your account, Eileen,” said George kindly. “I know how anxious you were to meet her. The Countess too will be sadly disappointed.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Bundle. “I should hate it if she'd come and given me mumps.”

“A very distressing complaint,” agreed George. “But I do not think that infection could be carried that way. Indeed, I am sure that Mrs. Macatta would have run no risk of that kind. She is a most highly principled woman, with a very real sense of her responsibilities to the community. In these days of national stress, we must all take into account—”

On the brink of embarking on a speech, George pulled himself up short.

“But it must be for another time,” he said. “Fortunately there is no hurry in your case. But the Countess, alas, is only a visitor to our shores.”

“She's a Hungarian, isn't she?” said Bundle, who was curious about the Countess.

“Yes. You have heard, no doubt, of the Young Hungarian party. The Countess is a leader of that party. A woman of great wealth, left a widow at an early age, she has devoted her money and her talents to the public service. She has especially devoted herself to the problem of infant mortality—a terrible one under present conditions in Hungary. I—Ah! here is Herr Eberhard.”

The German inventor was younger than Bundle had imagined him. He was probably not more than thirty-three or four. He was boorish and ill at ease. And yet his personality was not an unpleasing one. His blue eyes were more shy than furtive, and his more unpleasant mannerisms, such as the one that Bill had described of gnawing his fingernails, arose, she thought, more from nervousness than from any other cause. He was thin and weedy in appearance and looked anaemic and delicate.