Walk with Care (24 page)

“Who took the Engelberg Note?” said Garrett bluntly. “There are several things I want to know, and that's the first.”

Gilbert Denny pulled a wry face.

“Mimosa Vane,” he said. “All in the family, you see, Frank. She was staying with us at the time. I gather that she let the papers down on a thread out of my study window practically under my nose. They weren't gone twenty minutes, so I never missed them. They were photographed and back again whilst she sat by the window prattling and I kept wishing to heaven she'd clear out and leave me to work. She's been doing jackal for Asphodel for years. What else do you want to know?”

“Where do those green clay models come in? I swear they come in somewhere. Ellinger had one, and Rosalind's got one, and so has Jeremy Ware.”

“Jeremy got his from Rachel,” said Rosalind quickly. “Mine came by post just after Gilbert—went.”

“Well?” said Garrett, looking at Gilbert.

“Carew made them. He was a genius in his way, but quite unpractical. He let Asphodel have his things for a song. Then, when she was blackmailing anyone for a really large sum, it could pass as payment for a work of art. She covered her tracks of course. Old Carew had exhibited in the Salon in his day—if he chose to ask five hundred for one of his green beasts, he could. Asphodel ran an account in his name at a suburban bank, so if the money was traced, the trail only led to Carew.”

“And Carew is dead?” said Mr Smith.

“Three months ago. Asphodel then took Number One Tilt Street and brought Phoebe Dart and Rachel to London. You see, Rachel at Talland was all right. but there wasn't any money, and when Carew was gone, the girl wanted to go out and get a job. Well, Asphodel simply couldn't afford to let her do it. She was getting a bit fussed by then. I'd been very careful, but she knew that someone was on her track. She must have been off her guard sometimes at Talland with Phoebe, and both Phoebe and Rachel knew her as Maud Deane. Phoebe Dart knew a lot more than that, and Rachel knew about the green beasts, and—well, I gathered in the course of my eavesdropping that she wasn't sure how much more Rachel did know. And that is why we haven't got too much time to waste. She's getting Rachel Carew out of the country on a faked passport, and once she's out of the country she—well, she'll never come back. There's enough of the Vulture's old gang knocking about to make quite sure of that. Phoebe's been sticking out about it, but Asphodel will take her own way.” Gilbert Denny got up. “Candidly, Frank, the girl ought to be got out of it at once. Asphodel's rattled—I think she might bolt at any time. She got the wind up when she found someone had been making inquiries in Ledlington. Also I gather she's been trying to involve Jeremy, and he's been too bright for her.”

“One moment,” said Garrett—“I want to know about Mannister. He married this woman. How far is he in with her? If he's in with her, why did he come out into the limelight? If he isn't, why did she let him come? He raised all this business—came to me about it—said he'd been losing papers. Why?” He shot out the last word like an express bullet.

“I—er—told you why,” said Mr Smith with gentle firmness.

Gilbert Denny looked from one to the other and shrugged his shoulders.

“You're asking something I can't answer. I don't know what Mannister knows. I do know that Asphodel has got him body and soul. He never was much more than a bit of sounding brass, and she plays any tune on him she likes. I don't know how soon he found out that she wasn't Geoffrey Deane. Perhaps she knew something about him which kept him quiet until she'd got him where she wanted. After that—well, she blackmailed him mentally. I think he'd scruples about Jeremy. She played on his fears. He'd a reputation, and he stood to lose it if she came to grief and their marriage came out. She played on his infatuation.” Gilbert Denny made a gesture. “I don't know
what
he knew, but he was afraid—afraid of losing her, and afraid of what might come out if he lost her—afraid perhaps of what he might have to know about her.” Gilbert's face changed and darkened. He looked down at the floor and was suddenly silent. He knew the torture of those fears as well as any man. He said harshly, “Do you suppose he'd stick at throwing Jeremy to the wolves?”

Mr Smith nodded.

“That is what I thought. Someone was afraid that the Engelberg affair was in danger of being revived. Jeremy Ware was your secretary at that time. If he could—er—be involved in a new scandal over an employer's papers, it would be readily believed that it was he who had sold the Engelberg Note. Mannister's visit left me under the impression that it had been made for the sole purpose of focusing our—er—attention upon Jeremy Ware. And, by the way, Jeremy has been trying to ring me up. I think, Garrett—” He drew Garrett aside. They walked to the end of the long room and stopped beside the telephone.

Ananias watched them with the closest attention. When, after a few moments of low-toned conversation,

Garrett proceeded to dial in, he became restless and excited, and could be heard reciting in a whisper:

“Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom
—”

Garrett began to bark into the receiver.

“In bed? … Then he'll have to get up! … Yes, I said up! U P—up! Tell him Colonel Garrett wants to speak to him at once! … Oh, is that you, Hawkins? I tell you I want Hawkins! I don't care if he's dead and buried! Somebody'll lose their job if he isn't on the line inside the next minute, so jump to it, my lad! … Oh, is that you, Hawkins? They said you were dead. Now look here. …” He proceeded to give a number of very succinct instructions.

Ananias stopped reciting in order to commit to memory the peculiarly sharp tone of his voice. With one foot raised and all the claws retracted, he appeared lost in admiration.

Garrett hung up the receiver at last and turned to the room.

“We're going to make a raid,” he said. “I'm banking on your evidence, Gilbert. I hope you're sure of it. I suppose Rosalind will take the girl in if we get her away. How did you come? Have you got a car?”

“I've got my taxi outside,” said Gilbert Denny. “Did I tell you I drove one?”

As he spoke, the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour of twelve.

^*
See
Danger Calling.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

JEREMY DID NOT FIND
it at all difficult to enter the house in Tilt Street. It was perhaps ten minutes past twelve when he emerged cautiously from the stairway leading to the basement and came into the narrow hall. He had taken three noiseless steps, when something halted him. There came from overhead the sound of heavy pacing feet. He stood where he was, and heard them go to and fro the house.

After a minute or two he moved again. He had come to look for Rachel, and he was going to look for Rachel. He had a pocket torch, and with its help he ascertained that the ground floor room was empty. It was a dining-room, and it ran right through from the front of the house to the back. He went on up the stairs past the half-landing where Phoebe Dart had sold him a water-colour sketch, and so on to the doors which opened into the L-shaped room where Asphodel had sat behind a black curtain and pretended to read his hand.

The curtains must be drawn back, because it was in this room that the steps went heavily to and fro. They were a man's steps, and as he listened, Jeremy thought that the man was Bernard Mannister. Once the steps halted at the window which looked upon the street. There was silence, and then a groan, and then the heavy footsteps went to and fro again.

Jeremy went on up the stair. There were two bedrooms here, and they were empty. In the front room everything was in perfect order. The bed was made. The drawers and cupboards had been cleared. Not so much as a scrap of paper remained. Asphodel was gone, but she had not been gone for long. The soap in the soap-dish was still damp. The back room was not so neat. Phoebe Dart had packed in a hurry, but she too had taken care to leave no papers behind her.

Jeremy went on to the top of the house, There was an empty attic that looked out to the front. And there was Rachel's room. But there was no Rachel. There was nothing of Rachel left. Asphodel had seen to that. She took no chances and she left no clues. Jeremy stood in the little, empty room, and was racked with an agony of fear. This was Rachel's room, but where was Rachel? This was Rachel's room, but there was not so much as a dress, or a book, or a handkerchief of Rachel's here. The emptiness meant that she had been taken away.

He went back on to the landing and saw the ladder leading to the loft. He climbed into the dreary place and sent the beam of his torch flickering over the derelict baths and fenders. He even called her name, but it came back to him with a hopeless sound, and he knew that he had not expected Rachel to be here. He was numb with the realization that she was gone. Presently the numbness would pass and he would suffer, but for the moment he could feel nothing. He stood on the dark landing with the torch making a bright patch at his feet, and a curious heavy space of time went by. He did not know how long it was. It was broken upon by a loud and heavy knocking at the street door.

Gilbert Denny had drawn up his taxi at the same corner where earlier in the evening Jeremy had walked to and fro, and for the same reason—the door of Bernard Mannister's house and the door of the Tilt Street Row. Rachel was gone. They swore that they would find her, but where was she to-night, and in whose hands?
In whose hands?
He felt stiffly in his pocket, found his key, and opened the door. It opened on darkness.

He took a step forward into the darkness and touched something—something soft. A sharp stab went through him, sheer pain and something like a terror of hope. He groped for his torch and switched it on.

Mrs Walker's stair ran steeply up from the door. There was just room to stand between the door and the bottom step. Jeremy stood in the narrow space, and saw Rachel on the second step with her feet drawn up under her skirt and her head against the balustrade. Her hands were folded in her lap and she was very deeply asleep, with her lashes dark upon her white cheek, and the faintest, sweetest smile just parting her lips. She looked very young.

Jeremy let the light shine upon her face. He could only look and wonder. The light shone into the dream where Rachel walked with him and he said, “I love you, Rachel. Say you love me too.” The light shone in and waked her. She opened her eyes and saw Jeremy standing there. She said, in a happy, sleepy voice,

“I love you, Jeremy!”

CHAPTER I

ELFREDA MOORE TURNED ROUND
from the telephone with a despairing gesture.

“Aunt Hortensia, she says she sent them off yesterday morning—she
swears
she did.”

“Then she's not speaking the truth,” said Miss Hortensia Carew. “Any time before one o'clock, and they would have been here by the first post.”

She spoke in her most decided manner, and she could be very decided. She was small, pretty, with fluffy white hair, eyes of the brightest china blue, and a complexion which was still admired, especially by Miss Hortensia Carew. She had managed her brother and her brother's house for twenty-two years, and now that Rose Anne was to be married, there would never be any question of the reins being taken from her hands. From this point of view the marriage had her approval. But why make such a fuss about it? Girls were married every day, weren't they? One could have been married oneself several times over if one had wanted to.

She put her gold-rimmed pince-nez straight, and frowned at Elfreda, who continued to bleat.

“She swears she sent them. She says they were posted before ten. Isn't it grim?”

The Reverend James Carew looked suddenly over the top of the
Times
and enquired in an irritated voice,

“What's the matter now? What hasn't been posted? What hasn't arrived? There isn't a minute's peace! I am reading an article about the stratosphere. Remarkably interesting—if I could get a minute's peace!”

“Oh, Uncle James—the bridesmaids' wreaths. The dresses came yesterday—from Madame Frederica's, you know—and she hadn't put in the wreaths, and we rang up at once, and she swore she'd send them by the very next post, and they haven't come.”

“Your uncle is not interested in wreaths,” said Miss Hortensia acidly.

Elfreda couldn't believe it. You might be old, and an uncle, and a person who read articles on the stratosphere, but it wasn't possible that you should take no interest in the wreaths for your own daughter's bridesmaids. She said protestingly,

“Isn't it
grim
, Uncle James?”

Mr Carew got to his feet and began to drift towards the door, paper in hand. He had the same regular features as his sister. All the Carews had regular features—it annoyed Elfreda dreadfully that she should have taken after her father's family—but James Carew's eyes were hazy instead of sharp, and his fair skin had gone tired and grey. His sister managed him because he had stopped taking much interest in his own life when Rose Anne's mother died. He had a vague fondness for Elfreda though he considered her noisy. He said quite kindly,

“The wreaths will probably come.”

“But the last post's in.”

He paused at the door.

“There will be one tomorrow.”

“But the wedding's tomorrow—Rose Anne's wedding.”

She spoke to an empty doorway. Mr Carew had disappeared.

“Aunt Hortensia—what are we to do?”

Miss Carew was engaged in ticking off names on a long, neat list. Every time she had to look up she lost her place and was obliged to go back to the beginning again. As the list had already been checked at least a dozen times, this did not really matter, but every time it happened she became a little crosser. Weddings always made her cross, and Rose Anne's wedding had already filled the house with people, upset its well ordered routine, and turned two capable, well trained maids into giggling chatterboxes. Goodness knew how long it would take to get settled down again, and she couldn't go away and shut herself up in the study with the
Times
like James. She looked up with a frown and a jerk of the head.

“Go and tell Rose Anne. It's her business, I suppose.”

Elfreda hesitated.

“Oliver's only just come. They're in the garden.”

Miss Hortensia coloured sharply.

“Good gracious—isn't he going to have her for the rest of his life? Go and tell her at once! And she must make her own arrangements. I can't do everything.”

Elfreda ran out of the room—quickly, because she didn't want to have a row right in the middle of Rose Anne's wedding and she felt one coming on. How Rose Anne had contrived to live all those years with Aunt Hortensia she simply couldn't imagine. Uncle James wasn't too bad, but Aunt Hortensia was a menace.

She opened the garden door and stepped out. It was going to be fine for the wedding all right—bright sun, cold air, a nip of frost tonight perhaps, and a lovely October day tomorrow for Oliver and Rose Anne.

She stood looking down the garden, a plump girl with a lot of fair hair. She had good grey eyes but rather light lashes. Her thick fair eyebrows rose to a peak in the middle and gave her rather a surprised look. She would have been prettier if she had weighed less. She had a soft heart and a sweet tooth. She adored Rose Anne, who was twenty-two to her nineteen. She didn't want to break in on her and Oliver. She stood there hesitating and thinking about the wedding. Mary Leigh, the other bridesmaid, was dark, and they were going to wear stiff dresses of lilac and white shot taffeta with flat wreaths of pink and mauve flowers like highly sophisticated daisies, and they were to carry sprays of Michaelmas daisies and pink chrysanthemums. The wreaths were very becoming. Frederica was a beast. If they didn't come, they might use some of the biggest Michaelmas daisies—pink and mauve ones, just single flowers nipped off and sewn on a narrow strip of net. They must be looked over for earwigs though. Grim to have an earwig in your hair at Rose Anne's wedding.

She went down the narrow path between the apple trees. She knew just where they would be, in the sheltered sunny corner where a bit of old brick wall kept the wind off and you could look across at the dahlias, and the daisies, and the orange heleniums.

But Rose Anne and Oliver Loddon were looking at each other. Rose Anne saw a fair young man with lines of humour about his mouth and a little frown between his eyes, a quick frown which came, and went, and came again. The eyes told very little as a rule. Just now they were telling Rose Anne that he loved her. They were no-coloured eyes and could be secret. She saw this. She saw Oliver who had made love to her the third time they spoke together. And tomorrow he would be her husband.

Oliver saw Rose Anne, lovely and beloved, most gentle, most gracious—a loving heart, a gentle mind, a sweet intelligence—the turn of her head sheer grace, the texture of her skin fine as the rose petal just drifted from the wall. He would have liked to set it against her cheek, rose against rose, but he refrained, because any movement, any word, must break the enchantment of the hour. He looked at her, and wondered whether he could love her more, whether the years which steadied and deepened love would rob him of this quivering delight in her beauty, her perfection—the sun on her chestnut hair and the lovely shades in it, grey-blue eyes, very dark, very deep, the same thick lashes that Elfreda had, but dark instead of light, and in place of surprised fair brows a delicate arch much darker than her hair. He saw these things, and the way she had of smiling without seeming to move her lips, and the little ripple which saved her nose from being merely straight.

Elfreda came round the last apple tree, and thought, “She's lovely. He's awfully in love with her. Lucky them!”

They both moved. Oliver frowned, and then smiled quickly, because he was in a smiling mood, and life was good and he liked Elfreda. “Rose Anne—” Elfreda thought—“she was in a dream—I've waked her—I wish I hadn't. Why couldn't Aunt Hortensia leave them alone?” She said in her pretty, fresh voice,

“I didn't want to come—Aunt Hortensia made me. I do hate her, don't you? But the wreaths haven't come, and she said I was to tell you. And Frederica swears she sent them off before ten yesterday, and of course she couldn't have, or else they've got lost on the way. And don't you think we could do something with Michaelmas daisies instead?”

“I expect we could,” said Rose Anne. Her voice was gentle and a little aloof.

Oliver laughed.

“What do you want to do with them?”

He was the first person who had taken the least interest. Elfreda's heart warmed to him.

“Well, I thought we might take some of the big ones, just the single flowers—October Dawn, and Lil Fardell, and Queen Mary—and put them on a strip of net and wind them in and out of our hair, only the snag is that Mary simply can't wear real flowers. She says they just look at her once and die. That's why we were having the wreaths from Frederica.”

“Flowers die on flirts, don't they?” said Oliver. “I shall look forward to Mary.”

Elfreda giggled.

“Oh, but she isn't. That's the comic part—she couldn't flirt to save her life—doesn't know how to. Do you like flirts?”

“In reason,” said Oliver Loddon.

“Rose Anne can't flirt,” said Elfreda in a teasing voice.

“She doesn't want you to marry me under false pretences,” said Rose Anne.

“Rose Anne doesn't need to flirt,” said Oliver. “She just looks, and we fall down flat—at least that's what happened to me.”

Rose Anne got up: She was smiling. She didn't say anything. Her lashes came down and hid her eyes. She moved away from them, going down the border, not picking among the flowers, but looking at them and touching one here and there. All at once she looked back over her shoulder and spoke,

“Did anyone ring up—for me?”