The Seven Dials Mystery (24 page)

“And did he play very marvellously?” inquired Bundle.

“No, he didn't,” confessed Lord Caterham. “But then he may have been off his game. I see the theory all right and I think there's a lot in it. Ah! Did you see that one, Bundle? Right over the rhododendrons. A perfect shot. Ah! If one could be sure of doing that every time—Yes, Tredwell, what is it?”

Tredwell addressed Bundle.

“Mr. Thesiger would like to speak to you on the telephone, my lady.”

Bundle set off at full speed for the house, yelling “Loraine, Loraine,” as she did so. Loraine joined her just as she was lifting the receiver.

“Hallo, is that you, Jimmy?”

“Hallo. How are you?”

“Very fit, but a bit bored.”

“How's Loraine?”

“She's all right. She's here. Do you want to speak to her?”

“In a minute. I've got a lot to say. To begin with, I'm going down to the Cootes for the weekend,” he said significantly. “Now, look here, Bundle, you don't know how one gets hold of skeleton keys, do you?”

“Haven't the foggiest. Is it really necessary to take skeleton keys to the Cootes?”

“Well, I had a sort of idea they'd come in handy. You don't know the sort of shop one gets them at?”

“What you want is a kindly burglar friend to show you the ropes.”

“I do, Bundle, I do. And unfortunately I haven't got one. I thought perhaps your bright brain might grapple successfully with the problem. But I suppose I shall have to fall back upon Stevens as usual. He'll be getting some funny ideas in his head soon about me—first a bluenosed automatic—and now skeleton keys. He'll think I've joined the criminal classes.”

“Jimmy?” said Bundle.

“Yes?”

“Look here—be careful, won't you? I mean if Sir Oswald finds you nosing around with skeleton keys—well, I should think he could be very unpleasant when he likes.”

“Young man of pleasing appearance in the dock! All right, I'll be careful. Pongo's the fellow I'm really frightened of. He sneaks around so on those flat feet of his. You never hear him coming. And he always did have a genius for poking his nose in where he wasn't wanted. But trust to the boy hero.”

“Well, I wish Loraine and I were going to be there to look after you.”

“Thank you, nurse. As a matter of fact, though, I have a scheme.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you and Loraine might have a convenient car breakdown near Letherbury tomorrow morning? It's not so very far from you, is it?”

“Forty miles. That's nothing.”

“I thought it wouldn't be—to you! Don't kill Loraine though. I'm rather fond of Loraine. All right, then—somewhere round about quarter to half past twelve.”

“So that they invite us to lunch?”

“That's the idea. I say, Bundle, I ran into that girl Socks yesterday, and what do you think—Terence O'Rourke is going to be down there this weekend!”

“Jimmy, do you think he—?”

“Well—suspect everyone, you know. That's what they say. He's a wild lad, and daring as they make them. I wouldn't put it past him to run a secret society. He and the Countess might be in this together. He was out in Hungary last year.”

“But he could pinch the formula any time.”

“That's just what he couldn't. He'd have to do it under circumstances where he couldn't be suspected. But the retreat up the ivy and into his own bed—well, that would be rather neat. Now for instructions. After a few polite nothings to Lady Coote, you and Loraine are to get hold of Pongo and O'Rourke by hook or by crook and keep them occupied till lunch time. See? It oughtn't to be difficult for a couple of beautiful girls like you.”

“You're using the best butter, I see.”

“A plain statement of fact.”

“Well, at any rate, your instructions are duly noted. Do you want to talk to Loraine now?”

Bundle passed over the receiver and tactfully left the room.

Twenty-seven

N
OCTURNAL
A
DVENTURE

J
immy Thesiger arrived at Letherbury on a sunny autumn afternoon and was greeted affectionately by Lady Coote and with cold dislike by Sir Oswald. Aware of the keen matchmaking eye of Lady Coote upon him, Jimmy took pains to make himself extremely agreeable to Socks Daventry.

O'Rourke was there in excellent spirits. He was inclined to be official and secretive about the mysterious events at the Abbey, about which Socks catechized him freely, but his official reticence took a novel form . . . namely that of embroidering the tale of events in such a fantastic manner that nobody could possibly guess what the truth might have been.

“Four masked men with revolvers? Is that really so?” demanded Socks severely.

“Ah! I'm remembering now that there was the round half-dozen of them to hold me down and force the stuff down my throat. Sure, and I thought it was poison, and I done for entirely.”

“And what was stolen, or what did they try and steal?”

“What else but the crown jewels of Russia that were brought to Mr. Lomax secretly to deposit in the Bank of England.”

“What a bloody liar you are,” said Socks without emotion.

“A liar, I? And the jewels brought over by aeroplane with my best friend as pilot. This is secret history I'm telling you, Socks. Will you ask Jimmy Thesiger there if you don't believe me. Not that I'd be putting any trust in what he'd say.”

“Is it true,” said Socks, “that George Lomax came down without his false teeth? That's what I want to know.”

“There were two revolvers,” said Lady Coote. “Nasty things. I saw them myself. It's a wonder this poor boy wasn't killed.”

“Oh, I was born to be hanged,” said Jimmy.

“I hear that there was a Russian countess there of subtle beauty,” said Socks. “And that she vamped Bill.”

“Some of the things she said about Buda Pesth were too dreadful,” said Lady Coote. “I shall never forget them. Oswald, we must send a subscription.”

Sir Oswald grunted.

“I'll make a note of it, Lady Coote,” said Rupert Bateman.

“Thank you, Mr. Bateman. I feel one ought to do something as a thank offering. I can't imagine how Sir Oswald escaped being shot—letting alone die of pneumonia.”

“Don't be foolish, Maria,” said Sir Oswald.

“I've always had a horror of cat burglars,” said Lady Coote.

“Think of having the luck to meet one face to face. How thrilling!” murmured Socks.

“Don't you believe it,” said Jimmy. “It's damned painful.” And he patted his right arm gingerly.

“How is the poor arm?” inquired Lady Coote.

“Oh, pretty well all right now. But it's been the most confounded nuisance having to do everything with the left hand. I'm no good whatever with it.”

“Every child should be brought up to be ambidexterous,” said Sir Oswald.

“Oh!” said Socks, somewhat out of her depth. “Is that like seals?”

“Not amphibious,” said Mr. Bateman. “Ambidexterous means using either hand equally well.”

“Oh!” said Socks, looking at Sir Oswald with respect. “Can you?”

“Certainly; I can write with either hand.”

“But not with both at once?”

“That would not be practical,” said Sir Oswald shortly.

“No,” said Socks thoughtfully. “I suppose that would be a bit too subtle.”

“It would be a grand thing now in a Government department,” observed Mr. O'Rourke, “if one could keep the right hand from knowing what the left hand was doing.”

“Can you use both hands?”

“No, indeed. I'm the most right-handed person that ever was.”

“But you deal cards with your left hand,” said the observant Bateman. “I noticed the other night.”

“Oh, but that's different entirely,” said Mr. O'Rourke easily.

A gong with a sombre note pealed out and everyone went upstairs to dress for dinner.

After dinner Sir Oswald and Lady Coote, Mr. Bateman and Mr. O'Rourke played bridge and Jimmy passed a flirtatious evening with Socks. The last words Jimmy heard as he retreated up the staircase that night were Sir Oswald saying to his wife:

“You'll never make a bridge player, Maria.”

And her reply:

“I know, dear. So you always say. You owe Mr. O'Rourke another pound, Oswald. That's right.”

It was some two hours later that Jimmy crept noiselessly (or so he hoped) down the stairs. He made one brief visit to the dining room and then found his way to Sir Oswald's study. There, after listening intently for a minute or two, he set to work. Most of the drawers of the desk were locked, but a curiously shaped bit of wire in Jimmy's hand soon saw to that. One by one the drawers yielded to his manipulations.

Drawer by drawer he sorted through methodically, being careful to replace everything in the same order. Once or twice he stopped to listen, fancying he heard some distant sound. But he remained undisturbed.

The last drawer was looked through. Jimmy now knew—or could have known had he been paying attention—many interesting details relating to steel; but he had found nothing of what he wanted—a reference to Herr Eberhard's invention or anything that could give him a clue to the identity of the mysterious No 7. He had, perhaps, hardly hoped that he would. It was an off chance and he had taken it—but he had not expected much result—except by sheer luck.

He tested the drawers to make sure that he had relocked them securely. He knew Rupert Bateman's powers of minute observation and glanced round the room to make sure that he had left no incriminating trace of his presence.

“That's that,” he muttered to himself softly. “Nothing there. Well, perhaps I'll have better luck tomorrow morning—if the girls only play up.”

He came out of the study, closing the door behind him and locking it. For a moment he thought he heard a sound quite near him, but decided he had been mistaken. He felt his way noiselessly along the great hall. Just enough light came from the high-vaulted windows to enable him to pick his way without stumbling into anything.

Again he heard a soft sound—he heard it quite certainly this time and without the possibility of making a mistake. He was not alone in the hall. Somebody else was there, moving as stealthily as he was. His heart beat suddenly very fast.

With a sudden spring he jumped to the electric switch and turned on the lights. The sudden glare made him blink—but he saw plainly enough. Not four feet away stood Rupert Bateman.

“My goodness, Pongo,” cried Jimmy, “you did give me a start. Slinking about like that in the dark.”

“I heard a noise,” explained Mr. Bateman severely. “I thought burglars had got in and I came down to see.”

Jimmy looked thoughtfully at Mr. Bateman's rubbersoled feet.

“You think of everything, Pongo,” he said genially. “Even a lethal weapon.”

His eye rested on the bulge in the other's pocket.

“It's as well to be armed. One never knows whom one may meet.”

“I am glad you didn't shoot,” said Jimmy. “I'm a bit tired of being shot at.”

“I might easily have done so,” said Mr. Bateman.

“It would be dead against the law if you did,” said Jimmy. “You've got to make quite sure the beggar's housebreaking, you know, before you pot at him. You mustn't jump to conclusions. Otherwise you'd have to explain why you shot a guest on a perfectly innocent errand like mine.”

“By the way what did you come down for?”

“I was hungry,” said Jimmy. “I rather fancied a dry biscuit.”

“There are some biscuits in a tin by your bed,” said Rupert Bateman.

He was staring at Jimmy very intently through his horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah! That's where the staff work has gone wrong, old boy. There's a tin there with “Biscuits for Starving Visitors” on it. But when the starving visitor opened it—nothing inside. So I just toddled down to the dining room.”

And with a sweet, ingenuous smile, Jimmy produced from his dressing gown pocket a handful of biscuits.

There was a moment's pause.

“And now I think I'll toddle back to bed,” said Jimmy. “Night-night, Pongo.”

With an affectation of nonchalance, he mounted the staircase. Rupert Bateman followed him. At the doorway of his room, Jimmy paused as if to say good night once more.

“It's an extraordinary thing about these biscuits,” said Mr. Bateman. “Do you mind if I just—?”

“Certainly, laddie, look for yourself.”

Mr. Bateman strode across the room, opened the biscuit box and stared at its emptiness.

“Very remiss,” he murmured. “Well, good night.”

He withdrew. Jimmy sat on the edge of his bed listening for a minute.

“That was a narrow shave,” he murmured to himself. “Suspicious sort of chap, Pongo. Never seems to sleep. Nasty habit of his, prowling around with a revolver.”

He got up and opened one of the drawers of the dressing table. Beneath an assortment of ties lay a pile of biscuits.

“There's nothing for it,” said Jimmy. “I shall have to eat the damned things. Ten to one, Pongo will come prowling round in the morning.”

With a sigh, he settled down to a meal of biscuits for which he had no inclination whatever.

Twenty-eight

S
USPICIONS

I
t was just on the appointed hour of twelve o'clock that Bundle and Loraine entered the park gates, having left the Hispano at an adjacent garage.

Lady Coote greeted the two girls with surprise, but distinct pleasure, and immediately pressed them to stay to lunch.

O'Rourke, who had been reclining in an immense armchair, began at once to talk with great animation to Loraine, who was listening with half an ear to Bundle's highly technical explanation of the mechanical trouble which had affected the Hispano.