The Seven Dials Mystery (3 page)

“ 'Morning, Lady Coote,” said Gerald Wade. “Where are all the others?”

“They've all gone to Market Basing,” said Lady Coote.

“What for?”

“Some joke,” said Lady Coote in her deep, melancholy voice.

“Rather early in the morning for jokes,” said Mr. Wade.

“It's not so very early in the morning,” said Lady Coote pointedly.

“I'm afraid I was a bit late coming down,” said Mr. Wade with engaging frankness. “It's an extraordinary thing, but wherever I happen to be staying, I'm always last to be down.”

“Very extraordinary,” said Lady Coote.

“I don't know why it is,” said Mr. Wade, meditating. “I can't think, I'm sure.”

“Why don't you just get up?” suggested Lady Coote.

“Oh!” said Mr. Wade. The simplicity of the solution rather took him aback.

Lady Coote went on earnestly.

“I've heard Sir Oswald say so many times that there's nothing for getting a young man on in the world like punctual habits.”

“Oh, I know,” said Mr. Wade. “And I have to when I'm in town. I mean, I have to be round at the jolly old Foreign Office by eleven o'clock. You mustn't think I'm always a slacker, Lady Coote. I say, what awfully jolly flowers you've got down in that lower border. I can't remember the names of them, but we've got some at home—those mauve thingummybobs. My sister's tremendously keen on gardening.”

Lady Coote was immediately diverted. Her wrongs rankled within her.

“What kind of gardeners do you have?”

“Oh just one. Rather an old fool, I believe. Doesn't know much, but he does what he's told. And that's a great thing, isn't it?”

Lady Coote agreed that it was with a depth of feeling in her voice that would have been invaluable to her as an emotional actress. They began to discourse on the iniquities of gardeners.

Meanwhile the expedition was doing well. The principal emporium of Market Basing had been invaded and the sudden demand for alarum clocks was considerably puzzling the proprietor.

“I wish we'd got Bundle here,” murmured Bill. “You know her, don't you, Jimmy? Oh, you'd like her. She's a splendid girl—a real good sport—and mark you, she's got brains too. You know her, Ronny?”

Ronny shook his head.

“Don't know Bundle? Where have you been vegetating? She's simply it.”

“Be a bit more subtle, Bill,” said Socks. “Stop blethering about your lady friends and get on with the business.”

Mr. Murgatroyd, owner of Murgatroyd's Stores, burst into eloquence.

“If you'll allow me to advise you, Miss, I should say—
not
the 7/11 one. It's a good clock—I'm not running it down, mark you, but I should strongly advise this kind at 10/6. Well worth the extra money. Reliability, you understand. I shouldn't like you to say afterwards—”

It was evident to everybody that Mr. Murgatroyd must be turned off like a tap.

“We don't want a reliable clock, said Nancy.

“It's got to go for one day, that's all,” said Helen.

“We don't want a subtle one,” said Socks. “We want one with a good loud ring.”

“We want—” began Bill, but was unable to finish, because Jimmy, who was of a mechanical turn of mind, had at last grasped the mechanism. For the next five minutes the shop was hideous with the loud raucous ringing of many alarum clocks.

In the end six excellent starters were selected.

“And I'll tell you what,” said Ronny handsomely, “I'll get one for Pongo. It was his idea, and it's a shame that he should be out of it. He shall be represented among those present.”

“That's right,” said Bill. “And I'll take an extra one for Lady Coote. The more the merrier. And she's doing some of the spade work. Probably gassing away to old Gerry now.”

Indeed at this precise moment Lady Coote was detailing a long story about MacDonald and a prize peach and enjoying herself very much.

The clocks were wrapped up and paid for. Mr. Murgatroyd watched the cars drive away with a puzzled air. Very spirited the young people of the upper classes nowadays, very spirited indeed, but not at all easy to understand. He turned with relief to attend to the vicar's wife, who wanted a new kind of dripless teapot.

Two

C
ONCERNING
A
LARUM
C
LOCKS

“N
ow where shall we put them?”

Dinner was over. Lady Coote had been once more detailed for duty. Sir Oswald had unexpectedly come to the rescue by suggesting bridge—not that suggesting is the right word. Sir Oswald, as became one of “Our Captains of Industry” (No 7 of Series I), merely expressed a preference and those around him hastened to accommodate themselves to the great man's wishes.

Rupert Bateman and Sir Oswald were partners against Lady Coote and Gerald Wade, which was a very happy arrangement. Sir Oswald played bridge, like he did everything else, extremely well, and liked a partner to correspond. Bateman was as efficient a bridge player as he was a secretary. Both of them confined themselves strictly to the matter in hand, merely uttering in curt, short barks, “Two no trumps,” “Double,” “Three spades.” Lady Coote and Gerald Wade were amiable and discursive, and the young man never failed to say at the conclusion of each hand, “I say, partner, you played that simply splendidly,” in tones of simple admiration which Lady Coote found both novel and extremely soothing. They also held very good cards.

The others were supposed to be dancing to the wireless in the big ballroom. In reality they were grouped around the door of Gerald Wade's bedroom, and the air was full of subdued giggles and the loud ticking of clocks.

“Under the bed in a row,” suggested Jimmy in answer to Bill's question.

“And what shall we set them at? What time, I mean? All together so that there's one glorious whatnot, or at intervals?”

The point was hotly disputed. One party argued that for a champion sleeper like Gerry Wade the combined ringing of eight alarum clocks was necessary. The other party argued in favour of steady and sustained effort.

In the end the latter won the day. The clocks were set to go off one after the other, starting at 6:30 am.

“And I hope,” said Bill virtuously, “that this will be a lesson to him.”

“Hear, hear,” said Socks.

The business of hiding the clocks was just being begun when there was a sudden alarm.

“Hist,” cried Jimmy. “Somebody's coming up the stairs.”

There was a panic.

“It's all right,” said Jimmy. “It's only Pongo.”

Taking advantage of being dummy, Mr. Bateman was going to his room for a handkerchief. He paused on his way and took in the situation at a glance. He then made a comment, a simple and practical one.

“He will hear them ticking when he goes to bed.”

The conspirators looked at each other.

“What did I tell you?” said Jimmy in a reverent voice. “Pongo always
did
have brains!”

The brainy one passed on.

“It's true,” admitted Ronny Devereux, his head on one side. “Eight clocks all ticking at once do make a devil of a row. Even old Gerry, ass as he is, couldn't miss it. He'll guess something's up.”

“I wonder if he is,” said Jimmy Thesiger.

“Is what?”

“Such an ass as we all think.”

Ronny stared at him.

“We all know old Gerald.”

“Do we?” said Jimmy. “I've sometimes thought that—well, that it isn't possible for anyone to be quite the ass old Gerry makes himself out to be.”

They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny's face.

“Jimmy,” he said, “you've got brains.”

“A second Pongo,” said Bill encouragingly.

“Well, it just occurred to me, that's all,” said Jimmy, defending himself.

“Oh! don't let's all be subtle,” cried Socks. “What are we to do about these clocks?”

“Here's Pongo coming back again. Let's ask him,” suggested Jimmy.

Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his decision.

“Wait till he's gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very quietly and put the clocks down on the floor.”

“Little Pongo's right again,” said Jimmy. “On the word one all park clocks, and then we'll go downstairs and disarm suspicion.”

Bridge was still proceeding—with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real interest. She reiterated, not once, but many times:

“I see, dear. It's so kind of you to tell me.”

And she continued to make exactly the same errors.

At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:

“Well-played, partner, jolly well-played.”

Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.

“Say he goes to bed about twelve—what do you think we ought to give him—about an hour?”

He yawned.

“Curious thing—three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye, but tonight, just because I know we've got to sit up a bit, I'd give anything to be a mother's boy and turn in right away.”

Everyone agreed that they felt the same.

“My dear Maria,” rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation. “I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table information.”

Lady Coote had a very good answer to this—namely that as Sir Oswald was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But she did not make it. Instead she smiled kindly, leaned her ample chest well forward over the table, and gazed firmly into Gerald Wade's hand where he sat on her right.

Her anxieties lulled to rest by perceiving the queen, she played the knave and took the trick and proceeded to lay down her cards.

“Four tricks and the rubber,” she announced. “I think I was very lucky to get four tricks there.”

“Lucky,” murmured Gerald Wade, as he pushed back his chair and came over to the fireside to join the others. “Lucky, she calls it. That woman wants watching.”

Lady Coote was gathering up notes and silver.

“I know I'm not a good player,” she announced in a mournful tone which nevertheless held an undercurrent of pleasure in it. “But I'm really very lucky at the game.”

“You'll never be a bridge player, Maria,” said Sir Oswald.

“No, dear,” said Lady Coote. “I know I shan't. You're always telling me so. And I do try so hard.”

“She does,” said Gerald Wade
sotto voce.
“There's no subterfuge about it. She'd put her head right down on your shoulder if she couldn't see into your hand any other way.”

“I know you try,” said Sir Oswald. “It's just that you haven't any card sense.”

“I know, dear,” said Lady Coote. “That's what you're always telling me. And you owe me another ten shillings, Oswald.”

“Do I?” Sir Oswald looked surprised.

“Yes. Seventeen hundred—eight pounds ten. You've only given me eight pounds.”

“Dear me,” said Sir Oswald. “My mistake.”

Lady Coote smiled at him sadly and took up the extra ten shilling note. She was very fond of her husband, but she had no intention of allowing him to cheat her out of ten shillings.

Sir Oswald moved over to a side table and became hospitable with whisky and soda. It was half past twelve when general good nights were said.

Ronny Devereux, who had the room next door to Gerald Wade's, was told off to report progress. At a quarter to two he crept round tapping at doors. The party, pyjamaed and dressing gowned, assembled with various scuffles and giggles and low whispers.

“His light went out twenty minutes ago,” reported Ronny in a hoarse whisper. “I thought he'd never put it out. I opened the door just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?”

Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty arose.

“We can't all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person's got to do it and the others can hand him the whatnots from the door.”

Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.

The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle. Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of Rupert Bateman.

“Pongo's the lad,” agreed Jimmy. “Anyway, he walks like a cat—always did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible that'll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions.”

“Something subtle,” suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” said Jimmy.

Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally he emerged. Everyone held their breath and listened. The rhythmical breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr. Murgatroyd's eight alarum clocks.

Three

T
HE
J
OKE
THAT
F
AILED

“T
welve o'clock,” said Socks despairingly.

The joke—as a joke—had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks, on the other hand, had performed their part.
They
had gone off—with a vigour and
élan
that could hardly have been surpassed and which had sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.