“Not a police job at all?”
“Seems not,” agreed Bobby gloomily.
But Marsh was looking very relieved.
“That explains Sir Harold,” he said. “Got wind that Miss Hannay’s mixed up with it and wants to yank her out.”
“Yes, I thought just possibly it was Miss Hannay,” Bobby agreed again.
“Well, then,” said Marsh, more and more relieved, “not our business and we can drop it. Eh?”
Bobby shook his head.
“The petting party may be only a blind,” he said; “only the meet of the hounds, and the kill yet to come.”
“I don’t know what you mean, what kill?” Marsh said uneasily. “Anyway, we know what Sir Harold was here for, he’s not the only papa wondering what the girls and boys are after. You can wash him out.”
“I suppose so,” Bobby said, but remembered how Sir Harold had looked, what discomfort, amounting indeed to terror, had shown in his eyes when he had been about to enter a room at Colonel Glynne’s where were his daughter and her friends.
In Bobby’s memory that had not been the look of a father angry or suspicious of a daughter’s conduct, something stranger far must have caused that terror to show so plainly in eyes that on so many battlefields had watched with calm the angel of death pass to and fro.
“I’ll have to tackle him,” Bobby decided, “but if he thinks his daughter may be mixed up in it, he won’t say a word. He is the type who might give her a revolver and tell her to use it, but he would never say a word in public.”
He reflected, too, that he had no actual proof to offer that Sir Harold had actually been there that night. He himself was certain Marsh had told the truth, but suppose Sir Harold chose simply to deny it. Doubtful, more than doubtful whether Marsh could be trusted to stick to his story, if it were seriously challenged. Bobby was not much inclined to think the good inspector was quite the type to stand up to a man in Sir Harold’s position. After all, the bare possibility of a mistake did exist. Marsh might have been deceived by some chance resemblance. Not that Bobby himself believed that for one moment, but the existence of that possibility would certainly destroy the validity of Marsh’s evidence.
Bad luck all along the line to-night, Bobby told himself bitterly. Why had it to be Evers guarding admission to the hall, Evers, who knew him so well, when it could so much more probably have been someone who had never seen him? Why had Sir Harold chosen to make his appearance at the very moment when Bobby was inside the hall? A few minutes earlier or later, Bobby reflected, and he would have been able to stop and question him. No doubt Marsh who knew so much less of the affair and its strange implications, was hardly to be blamed for his hesitation, but for Bobby it might have been a chance, now lost, to obtain valuable information.
“No good hanging about here any longer, is it?” suggested Marsh, evidently longing to be off bedwards.
“You cut off if you like, I think I’ll stay around a bit,” Bobby answered, and poor Marsh was torn between his reluctance to leave a colleague and his very keen desire for his bed.
Before he could decide, they saw someone coming towards them across the forecourt where the shadows lay so heavily. They stood watching the approaching figure. It was coming slowly and with apparent hesitation. A woman, they thought.
“Show’s over, beginning to go home,” Marsh suggested, his tone hinting the example was one to be followed.
But that was not what Bobby thought. He was aware of a tightening at his heart, of a dryness in his mouth, as he watched how silently, as it were a shadow among others, the approaching figure came towards them, at times almost hidden from sight in some patch of darkness thicker than elsewhere, then again appearing, always a little nearer, furtive and unreal in some queer way, and always silent as the night itself. At a little distance she stood still.
“Mr. Policeman,” she called—the voice was certainly a woman’s but pitched unnaturally high, for disguise, Bobby thought, “Mr. Policeman.”
“Yes,” Bobby said, and began to move forward.
“No, no,” she called. “Keep away. Not too near, if you please, or I’ll be off where you can’t follow. I’m only a messenger.”
“From whom?” Bobby asked.
“From—her,” came the answer. “She wants to know what you are doing here? She can’t imagine any reason why police should be bothering us. She would like to know by what right police come here asking their impudent questions?”
“Now, that’s a lot she wants to know,” Bobby said. “But who is—she?”
“Just—she,” the other answered, and laughed a little and then abruptly shut her laughter off.
“I mean her name, what is her name?” Bobby asked, though a little disconcerted by the sound of that harsh and brief laughter.
Behind him, he was aware of Marsh’s heavy and uncertain breathing that seemed to be coming in short, tiny gasps. There came into Bobby’s mind a memory of Evers’s sudden exclamation:—‘There’s times I think she’s the devil himself turned woman.’ To his surprise he discovered he was wondering if this could be true.
“Does her name matter?” the woman was saying. “What’s in a name?” she quoted mockingly. “Ask her that yourself if you like and she’ll tell you—perhaps. This way.”
“Is that necessary? are you sure you are not her yourself?” Bobby asked, and moved towards her.
At that she turned and ran. Swift, swift beyond description, swift and light, she turned and fled on swift and noiseless feet, light as a fawn on grass, and after her raced Bobby at his utmost speed, his footsteps crashing down the silent night like strokes of a hammer, and behind him followed Marsh, though less ready and less swift. Not often had Bobby ran as he ran now, for instinctively he knew that this illusive figure before him might at any moment vanish somehow or somewhere into the unknown. Yet there was also exultation in his heart, for he was very sure that never yet had lived woman born of mortal sire who with so short a start could outstrip his pursuit in such a chase. He was gaining on her already. Already he could distinguish more plainly the form and outline of the shadow that was her among those other shadows that flickered and wavered in that so dimly-lighted forecourt. Already he was preparing to stretch out his hand and seize her. He saw her plainly as she fled past the corner of the main building into that narrow passage that ran by its side, between it and the boundary fence. He increased his pace as a runner increases it with the winning post in sight. He flung out his hand to reach her he judged to be now within arm’s length, for indeed he ran more swiftly than ever any woman could, he caught his feet in a coil of wire she dropped at that instant behind her, headlong he went, prostrate and sprawling, he heard her laugh in the darkness and behind him Marsh, unable to stop in time, fell over him as he tried to get to his feet so that they became a confused and struggling heap in that narrow space between wall and fence. The impact, for Marsh was a heavy man, knocked Bobby flat again, and took away all power of speech. He heard Marsh gasp out an oath. He heard again the woman laugh. He felt a sudden blow on his throat, a sharp and heavy blow. He heard the sound of another blow and a muffled exclamation from Marsh. Something fell tinkling to the ground near by. A door opened and shut. He managed to get to his feet. Marsh, muttering and swearing to himself, was still upon his knees. Bobby pulled open the door in the fence and ran into the street. He was just in time to see by the light of the nearest street lamp a figure on a bicycle riding furiously away. He almost thought he heard again a faint laugh floating back to him, but he was not sure. Anyhow, she—whoever ‘she’ might be—had made good her escape. No hope of overtaking her now.
Bobby went back through the gate in the fence into the passage. Marsh was feeling a bruised knee, a damaged nose, a bump rapidly growing on his forehead. On the ground lay the coil of wire in which Bobby’s feet had been caught. It was the kind of trick he himself had played more than once, but he liked it none the better for that. Near by lay a long-bladed knife, ground and sharpened. An ugly
weapon. He picked it up very carefully, by the point, using his handkerchief.
Marsh said in a voice that was not quite steady:—
“That was hers, only she used the hilt and not the blade.”
“Yes,” said Bobby, looking at it.
“If she had used the blade,” Marsh said, we would both be dead ’uns by now.”
“Yes,” said Bobby, once again.
“Between the shoulders,” Marsh said. “I can feel it still, that’s where she gave it me.”
“I got it here,” Bobby said. He felt his throat where it was red and bruised from the blow he had received. ‘Right over the jugular,” he remarked thoughtfully.
Marsh said:—
“It was a woman. Who was she?”
“Oh, just—she,” Bobby said.
Marsh was still standing looking at the knife in Bobby’s hand. He seemed unable to take his eyes from it; and the more he looked at it, the less he liked it.
“Dead as stuck pigs, both of us,” he muttered, “if she had used the other end.”
“Dead as stuck pigs,” Bobby agreed, “and without being strung up to hooks, either.”
“What? what’s that?” Marsh asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Bobby answered, wondering himself why there had come into his mind so vivid a memory and image of those hooks in the ceiling of the cellar under the hall that had so strongly reminded him of those others in the old barn at home, where at one time the farmer had been accustomed to slaughter his pigs each autumn.
“She could have laid us both out in two ticks with a thing like that and no one been the wiser,” Marsh said, his fascinated gaze still upon the thin and deadly blade in Bobby’s hand. “What was the idea though? If she only meant to hit us a whack, anything would have done, and why did she leave it behind?”
“Probably meant it for a hint, a warning to watch our step and keep out,” Bobby said. “Evers must have told her we were asking questions. He has his own ideas of loyalty. He had taken her pay and so he had to earn it. He will have been told how to get a message to her, if necessary. So then she got things ready for us—a coil of wire and a push-bike all ready to get away on. A push-bike is a lot safer than a motor-bike, motor bikes can be traced sometimes, more likely to be noticed, too. And this nice little tool for use, if required. I expect if I had caught up with her too quickly, I should have got six inches of it under the ribs.”
“She could have outed us both as easy as not,” Marsh muttered.
“We were safe enough, except in the last resource,” Bobby said. “Publicity is the very last thing the lady wants, and two stuck policemen would make quite a fuss.”
“All thought out seemingly,” Marsh agreed with an uneasy laugh. “Regular plan of campaign—good staff work and all that. Makes you inclined to remember Sir Harold Hannay is a soldier and a general at that.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Bobby, frowning. “It’s possible. It was well planned all right. But not beyond her, I think. I think she must be quite good at planning things.”
“Who do you mean—she?” Marsh asked.
Bobby did not answer. He was still looking at the knife he held so carefully by its extreme point.
“We’ll have a try for finger-prints,” he said, “but there isn’t an earthly. We aren’t up against any one so simple as all that.”
“Gloves,” commented Marsh. “They all know that answer.”
In the darkness the knife blade glimmered with an evil light as Bobby held it up, turning it this way and that.
“All the same,” he said, “there is something familiar about a thing like this, something simple, understandable, something human you could almost say. It’s not hidden and unknown, not like the lurking hellishness you feel behind what’s going on here. For I tell you, Marsh,”—he spoke with a sudden and profound emotion that astonished even himself, “there’s enough in this business to turn the stomach of Satan himself.”
Marsh did not answer. Something of the same feeling had already stirred in his own mind. Unimaginative man as he was, he was yet aware of a sense of evil things around them that passed far beyond his knowledge or experience.
“I think I feel a little sick,” he said. “I suppose it’s because of knowing how easy you and me might have been done in.”
But both he and Bobby knew well enough it was no physical danger that had so shaken them.
They talked a little longer and then departed, since it did not seem to either of them that now it was worth while, now ‘she’ had gone, to continue their watch.
CHAPTER XIX
ANOTHER?
Happy to remember that he had no duty hours to keep, Bobby slept late the next morning and was still at breakfast when he was rung up to receive the information he had asked Marsh to obtain. It was to the effect that General Sir Harold Hannay had left Midwych for London the day before and that when in London he often stayed at Hassall’s Hotel, an old-fashioned but still flourishing hotel near the Haymarket.
“Better tackle him, I suppose,” Bobby decided, as he completed his more immediate business with toast and marmalade, a decision he arrived at in pursuance of his general principle that when a detective wanted information his best plan was to go and ask for it.
To Hassall’s Hotel he therefore proceeded, only to learn that the general had left an hour or two previously. He had not said where he was going. Certainly he had left in a taxi, but did Bobby, the hotel asked pityingly, really suppose that an hotel porter, who probably called a taxi every five minutes of his working day, remembered all the directions given to him to repeat to the driver? Two minutes later, he would hardly know whether he had told the driver to go to Euston or Victoria, to an address in the suburbs or to a Pall Mall club. Nor could they say, nor would they if they could, at what hour Sir Harold had returned the night before. The hotel was not a detective agency, as he, Bobby, so evidently and so unreasonably supposed, nor did it in any way attempt to keep any kind of check on the movements of its guests. It was his own affair if a gentleman like Sir Harold chose to stay out till the small hours, chatting with old companions of the Great War, which was in fact precisely what had happened the night before since Sir Harold had chanced to say as much to the night porter, another old soldier, on his return. But there was no reason why that fact should be communicated to Inspector Owen, nor any reason why he should think it any business of his.
Bobby said meekly he was very sorry, and of course the hotel was perfectly right to preserve so absolute a discretion, nor did he stress the fact that now he knew all he wished to know, namely, that Sir Harold had been out very late the previous night and had thought it necessary to offer an explanation therefor to the night porter. A sure sign, Bobby felt, of an uneasy conscience and of something to conceal.
The hotel, unplacated even by this display of meekness, remarked menacingly that Sir Harold would be informed of these very strange inquiries, and, in the opinion of the hotel, Sir Harold was not likely to be pleased. In any case, added the hotel with a touch of malice in its voice, here was Miss Hannay herself, just come in, and perhaps the inspector would be good enough to ask her for any further information he required.
Bobby turned quickly. He had had his back to the door and had not seen her enter. She was standing just behind him. Evidently she had already recognized him, had perhaps heard this last remark addressed to Bobby. Tall and frowning she stood there, her dark, angry eyes beneath the strongly-marked brows, seeming as it were to engulf him in their passionate inquiry. He saw how her hand, a large, capable hand, was fiercely clenched on the small umbrella she carried, nor could he help wondering if so, the evening before, her hand had clenched a bare and shining knife. She looked tired and worn, he thought, as if she had not slept well, or had not been long in bed, with dark rings beneath her eyes to match the dark, straight brows above.
At first she did not speak, nor did Bobby, and they stood intently watching each other, alert and challenging, with growing doubt on his side, with incr
easing anger or defiance—or was it just simply fear?—showing on hers. But in this mutual challenge of their eyes, it was hers that first turned aside, and that Bobby thought was significant, for he did not much suppose that it would have happened so easily or so soon, had there not been some reason. Abruptly she moved, in a too obvious effort to ignore his presence. To the clerk at the reception desk, watching with discreet interest, she said:—
“Is my father here?”
“He left first thing this morning, Miss Hannay,” the clerk answered. “I was just telling this gentleman so.” Reception clerks learn to be tactful. But this remark was distinctly lacking in that useful quality. Possibly for the moment professional tact was subordinate to human mischief. Anyhow, the remark made it difficult for Hazel to pretend longer to be ignorant of Bobby’s existence. He took swift advantage of the opening thus given to say to her:— “I am trying to find Sir Harold. I am hoping he may be able to help me. Could you tell me how to get in touch with him? ”
“You could write, I suppose, couldn’t you?” Hazel suggested coldly. “Probably he would arrange to see you when convenient.”
“It would mean delay I am anxious to avoid,” Bobby said, watching her closely and more and more certain that she was profoundly disquieted. “It may be important,” he added. “I don’t know, but it may be.”
“If you care to give me any message I will tell him when I see him,” she said. “Why important? what is it about?”
“There is some information I have,” he answered, “Sir Harold may be able to confirm or correct. It would depend on where he was last night.” At that he saw her stiffen, her face grow blank like a mask, but a mask through which her eyes burned. He said quickly, on a swift impulse:— “Where were you last night, Miss Hannay?”
She made no answer. She turned and walked away, straight out of the hotel. Bobby watched her go, saw her call a taxi, wondered whether it was fear or anger or what else that had so, as it were, chased her away with such an aspect of flight, a flight he thought not usual with her. The hall porter, an imposing person, one accustomed to speak to the great as their mentor and guide, came up very angrily to Bobby.
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