The electric light had been put in by the Cravens; all the other fixtures in the room were as Cazalet remembered them. The bookshelves contained different books, and now there were no busts on top. Certain cupboards, grained and varnished in Victorian days, were undeniably improved by being enameled white.
But the former son of the house gave himself no time to waste in sentimental comparisons. He tapped a pair of mahogany doors, like those of a wardrobe let into the wall.
“Have you looked in here?” demanded Cazalet in yet another key. His air was almost authoritative now. Blanche could not understand it, but the experienced Mr. Drinkwater smiled his allowances for a young fellow on his native heath, after more years in the wilderness than were good for young fellows.
“What’s the use of looking in a cigar cupboard?” that dangerous man of the world made mild inquiry.
“Cigar cupboard!” echoed Cazalet in disgust. “Did he really only use it for his cigars?”
“A cigar cupboard,” repeated Drinkwater, “and locked up at the time it happened. What was it, if I may ask, in Mr. Cazalet’s time?”
“I remember!” came suddenly from Blanche; but Cazalet only said, “Oh, well, if you know it was locked there’s an end of it.”
Drinkwater went to the door and summoned his subordinate. “Just fetch that chap from the pantry, Tom,” said he; but the sullen sufferer from police rule took his time, in spite of them, and was sharply rated when he appeared.
“I thought you told me this was a cigar cupboard?” continued Drinkwater, in the browbeating tone of his first words to Cazalet outside.
“So it is,” said the man.
“Then where’s the key?”
“How should I know? I never kept it!” cried the butler, crowing over his oppressor for a change. “He would keep it on his own bunch; find his watch, and all the other things that were missing from his pockets when your men went through ‘em, and you may find his keys, too!”
Drinkwater gave his man a double signal; the door slammed on a petty triumph for the servants’ hall; but now both invaders remained within.
“Try your hand on it, Tom,” said the superior officer. “I’m a free-lance here,” he explained somewhat superfluously to the others, as Tom applied himself to the lock in one mahogany door. “Man’s been drinking, I should say. He’d better be careful, because I don’t take to him, drunk or sober. I’m not surprised at his master not trusting him. It’s just possible that the place was open — he might have been getting out his cigars before dinner — but I can’t say I think there’s much in it, Mr. Cazalet.”
It was open again — broken open — before many minutes; and certainly there was not much in it, to be seen, except cigars. Boxes of these were stacked on what might have been meant for a shallow desk (the whole place was shallow as the wardrobe that the doors suggested, but lighted high up at one end by a little barred window of its own) and according to Cazalet a desk it had really been. His poor father ought never to have been a business man; he ought to have been a poet. Cazalet said this now as simply as he had said it to Hilton Toye on board the Kaiser Fritz. Only he went rather farther for the benefit of the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, who took not the faintest interest in the late Mr. Cazalet, beyond poking their noses into his diminutive sanctum and duly turning them up at what they saw.
“He used to complain that he was never left in peace on Saturdays and Sundays, which of course were his only quiet times for writing,” said the son, elaborating his tale with filial piety. “So once when I’d been trying to die of scarlet fever, and my mother brought me back from Hastings after she’d had me there some time, the old governor told us he’d got a place where he could disappear from the district at a moment’s notice and yet be back in another moment if we rang the gong. I fancy he’d got to tell her where it was, pretty quick; but I only found out for myself by accident. Years afterward, he told me he’d got the idea from Jean Ingelow’s place in Italy somewhere.”
“It’s in Florence,” said Blanche, laughing. “I’ve been there and seen it, and it’s the exact same thing. But you mean Michelangelo, Sweep!”
“Oh, do I?” he said serenely. “Well, I shall never forget how I found out its existence.”
“No more shall I. You told me all about it at the time, as a terrific secret, and I may tell you that I’ve kept it from that day to this!”
“You would,” he said simply. “But think of having the nerve to pull up the governor’s floor! It only shows what a boy will do. I wonder if the hole’s there still!”
Now all the time the planetary detective had been watching his satellite engaged in an attempt to render the damage done to the mahogany doors a little less conspicuous. Neither appeared to be taking any further interest in the cigar cupboard, or paying the slightest attention to Cazalet’s reminiscences. But Mr. Drinkwater happened to have heard every word, and in the last sentence there was one that caused him to prick up his expert ears instinctively.
“What’s that about a hole?” said he, turning round.
“I was reminding Miss Macnair how the place first came to be—”
“Yes, yes. But what about some hole in the floor?”
“I made one myself with one of those knives that contain all sorts of things, including a saw. It was one Saturday afternoon in the summer holidays. I came in here from the garden as my father went out by that door into the hall, leaving one of these mahogany doors open by mistake. It was the chance of my life; in I slipped to have a look. He came back for something, saw the very door you’ve broken standing ajar, and shut it without looking in. So there I was in a nice old trap! I simply daren’t call out and give myself away. There was a bit of loose oilcloth on the floor—”
“There is still,” said the satellite, pausing in his task.
“I moved the oilcloth, in the end; howked up one end of the board (luckily they weren’t groove and tongue), sawed through the next one to it, had it up, too, and got through into the foundations, leaving everything much as I had found it. The place is so small that the oilcloth was obliged to fall in place if it fell anywhere. But I had plenty of time, because my people had gone in to dinner.”
“You ought to have been a burglar, sir,” said Mr. Drinkwater ironically. “So you covered up a sin with a crime, like half the gentlemen who go through my hands for the first and last time! But how did you get out of the foundations?”
“Oh, that was as easy as pie; I’d often explored them. Do you remember the row I got into, Blanche, for taking you with me once and simply ruining your frock?”
“I remember the frock!” said Blanche.
It was her last contribution to the conversation; immediate developments not only put an end to the further exchange of ancient memories, but rendered it presently impossible by removing Cazalet from the scene with the two detectives. Almost without warning, as in the harlequinade of which they might have been the rascal heroes, all three disappeared down the makeshift trap-door cut by one of them as a schoolboy in his father’s floor; and Blanche found herself in sole possession of the stage, a very envious Columbine, indeed!
She hardly even knew how it happened. The satellite must have popped back into the Michelangelo cigar cupboard. He might have called to Mr. Drinkwater, but the only summons that Blanche could remember hearing was almost a sharp one from Drinkwater to Cazalet. A lot of whispering followed in the little place; it was so small that she never saw the hole until it had engulfed two of the trio; the third explorer, Mr. Drinkwater himself, had very courteously turned her out of the library before following the others. And he had said so very little beforehand for her to hear, and so quickly prevented Cazalet from saying anything at all, that she simply could not think what any of them were doing under the floor.
Under her very feet she heard them moving as she waited a bit in the hall; then she left the house by way of the servants’ quarters, of course without holding any communication with those mutineers, and only indignant that Mr. Dri
nkwater should have requested her not to do so.
It was a long half-hour that followed for Blanche Macnair, but she passed it characteristically, and not in morbid probings of the many changes that had come over one young man in less than the course of a summer’s day. He was excited at getting back, he had stumbled into a still more exciting situation, so no wonder he was one thing one moment and another the next. That was all that Blanche allowed herself to think of Sweep Cazalet — just then.
She turned her wholesome mind to dogs, which in some ways she knew better and trusted further than men. She had, of course, a dog of her own, but it happened to be on a visit to the doctor or no doubt it would have been in the way all the afternoon. But there was a dog at Uplands, and as yet she had seen nothing of him; he lived in a large kennel in the yard, for he was a large dog and rather friendless. But Blanche knew him by sight, and had felt always sorry for him.
The large kennel was just outside the back door, which was at the top of the cellar steps and at the bottom of two or three leading into the scullery; but Blanche, of course, went round by the garden. She found the poor old dog quite disconsolate in a more canine kennel in a corner of the one that was really worthy of the more formidable carnivora. There was every sign of his being treated as the dangerous dog that Blanche, indeed, had heard he was; the outer bars were further protected by wire netting, which stretched like a canopy over the whole cage; but Blanche let herself in with as little hesitation as she proceeded to beard the poor brute in his inner lair. And he never even barked at her; he just lay whimpering with his tearful nose between his two front paws, as though his dead master had not left him to the servants all his life.
Blanche coaxed and petted him until she almost wept herself; then suddenly and without warning the dog showed his worst side. Out he leaped from wooden sanctuary, almost knocking her down, and barking horribly, but not at Blanche. She followed his infuriated eyes; and the back doorway framed a dusty and grimy figure, just climbing into full length on the cellar stairs, which Blanche had some difficulty in identifying with that of Cazalet.
“Well, you really are a Sweep!” she cried when she had slipped out just in time, and the now savage dog was still butting and clawing at his bars. “How did you come out, and where are the enemy?”
“The old way,” he answered. “I left them down there.”
“And what did you find?”
“I’ll tell you later. I can’t hear my voice for that infernal dog.”
The dreadful barking followed them out of the yard, and round to the right, past the tradesmen’s door, to the verge of the drive. Here they met an elderly man in a tremendous hurry — an unstable dotard who instantly abandoned whatever purpose he had formed, and came to anchor in front of them with rheumy eyes and twitching wrinkles.
“Why, if that isn’t Miss Blanche!” he quavered. “Do you hear our Roy, miss? I ha’n’t heard that go on like that since the night that happened!”
Then Cazalet introduced himself to the old gardener whom he had known all his life; and by rights the man should have wept outright, or else emitted a rustic epigram laden with wise humor. But old Savage hailed from silly Suffolk, and all his life he had belied his surname, but never the alliterative libel on his native country. He took the wanderer’s return very much as a matter of course, very much as though he had never been away at all, and was demonstrative only in his further use of the East Anglian pronoun.
“That’s a long time since we fared to see you, Mus’ Walter,” said he; “that’s a right long time! And now here’s a nice kettle of fish for you to find! But I seen the man, Mus’ Walter, and we’ll bring that home to him, never you fear!”
“Are you sure that you saw him?” asked Blanche, already under Cazalet’s influence on this point.
Savage looked cautiously toward the house before replying; then he lowered his voice dramatically. “Sure, Miss Blanche. Why, I see him that night as plain as I fare to see Mus’ Walter now!”
“I should have thought it was too dark to see anybody properly,” said Blanche, and Cazalet nodded vigorously to himself.
“Dark, Miss Blanche? Why, that was broad daylight, and if that wasn’t there were the lodge lights on to see him by!” His stage voice fell a sepulchral semitone. “But I see him again at the station this very afternoon, I did! I promised not to talk about that — you’ll keep that a secret if I tell ‘e somethin’? — but I picked him out of half a dozen at the first time of askin’!”
Savage said this with a pleased and vacuous grin, looking Cazalet full in the face; his rheumy eyes were red as the sunset they faced; and Cazalet drew a deep breath as Blanche and he turned back toward the river.
“First time of prompting, I expect!” he whispered. “But there’s hope if Savage is their strongest witness.”
“Only listen to that dog,” said Blanche, as they passed the yard.
VIII. FINGER-PRINTS
Hilton Toye was the kind of American who knew London as well as most Londoners, and some other capitals a good deal better than their respective citizens of corresponding intelligence. His travels were mysteriously but enviably interwoven with business; he had an air of enjoying himself, and at the same time making money to pay for his enjoyment, wherever he went. His hotel days were much the same all over Europe: many appointments, but abundant leisure. As, however, he never spoke about his own affairs unless they were also those of the listener — and not always then — half his acquaintances had no idea how he made his money, and the other half wondered how he spent his time. Of his mere interests, which were many, Toye made no such secret; but it was quite impossible to deduce a main industry from the by-products of his level-headed versatility.
Criminology, for example, was an obvious by-product; it was no morbid taste in Hilton Toye, but a scientific hobby that appealed to his mental subtlety. And subtle he was, yet with strange simplicities; grave and dignified, yet addicted to the expressive phraseology of his less enlightened countrymen; naturally sincere, and yet always capable of some ingenuous duplicity.
The appeal of a Blanche Macnair to such a soul needs no analysis. She had struck through all complexities to the core, such as it was or as she might make it. As yet she could only admire the character the man had shown, though it had upset her none the less. At Engelberg he had proposed to her “inside of two weeks,” as he had admitted without compunction at the time. It had taken him, he said, about two minutes to make up his mind; but the following summer he had laid more deliberate siege, in accordance with some old idea that she had let fall to soften her first refusal. The result had been the same, only more explicit on both sides. She had denied him the least particle of hope, and he had warned her that she had not heard the last of him by any means, and never would till she married another man. This had incensed her at the time, but a great deal less on subsequent reflection; and such was the position between that pair when Toye and Cazalet landed in England from the same steamer.
On this second day ashore, as Cazalet sat over a late breakfast in Jermyn Street, Toye sent in his card and was permitted to follow it, rather to his surprise. He found his man frankly divided between kidneys-and-bacon and the morning paper, but in a hearty mood, indicative of amends for his great heat in yesterday’s argument. A plainer indication was the downright yet sunny manner in which Cazalet at once returned to the contentious topic.
“Well, my dear Toye, what do you think of it now?”
“What do you think of it now?”
“I was going to ask you what you thought, but I guess I can see from your face.”
“I think the police are rotters for not setting him free last night!”
“Scruton?”
“Yes. Of course, the case’ll break down when it comes on next week, but they oughtn’t to wait for that. They’ve no right to detain a man in custody when the bottom’s out of their case already.”
“But — but the papers claim they’ve found the very things they were searching f
or.” Toye looked nonplused, as well he might, by an apparently perverse jubilation over such intelligence.
“They haven’t found the missing cap!” crowed Cazalet. “What they have found is Craven’s watch and keys, and the silver-mounted truncheon that killed him. But they found them in a place where they couldn’t possibly have been put by the man identified as Scruton!”
“Say, where was that?” asked Toye with great interest. “My paper only says the things were found, not where.”
“No more does mine, but I can tell you, because I helped to find ‘em.”
“You don’t say!”
“You’ll never grasp where,” continued Cazalet. “In the foundations under the house!”
Details followed in all fulness; the listener might have had a part in the Uplands act of yesterday’s drama, might have played in the library scene with his adored Miss Blanche, so vividly was every minute of that crowded hour brought home to him. He also had seen the original writing-cupboard in Michelangelo’s old Florentine house; he remembered it perfectly, and said that he could see the replica, with its shelf of a desk stacked with cigars, and the hole in its floor. He was not so sure that he had any very definite conception of the foundations of an English house.
“Ours were like ever so many little tiny rooms,” said Cazalet, “where I couldn’t stand nearly upright even as a small boy without giving my head a crack against the ground floors. They led into one another by a lot of little manholes — tight fits even for a boy, but nearly fatal to the boss policeman yesterday! I used to get in through one with a door, at the back of a slab in the cellars where they used to keep empty bottles; they keep ‘em there still, because that’s how I led my party out last night.”
Cazalet’s little gift of description was not ordered by an equal sense of selection. Hilton Toye, edging in his word in a pause for a gulp of coffee, said he guessed he visualized — but just where had those missing things been found?
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 373
