The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Did you hear anything?” demanded Hannay shakily. “This is the finish, Pat…we’ll get out of this house to-morrow.”

  The Professor nodded slowly.

  “That is the wisest decision you have ever made, Mr. Hannay,” he said.

  Morning brought a blue sky and a flood of sunlight, and Mr. Hannay weakened on his resolution. He came into Pat’s little sitting room to talk the matter over with her.

  “I don’t know that I’m so keen to leave this place,” he said. “In fact, darling, I feel I’m—um—running away from—not exactly danger, but the threat of danger. And we Hannays——”

  For some reason Pat did not feel annoyed with him. She had some sense of protection which she could not define or explain.

  Mr. Hannay, wandering about the room, his hands in his pockets, suddenly saw a new title on the bookshelf.

  “What’s this?”

  He stretched out his hand. Pat hastily intervened.

  “Advice to a Young Lady of Fashion. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? Who is the author?”

  “I don’t know who the author is,” said Pat rapidly, “only I don’t want you to touch it. It belongs to a friend of mine.”

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “It isn’t one of those neurotic——”

  “Don’t be stupid, darling. It belongs to a friend of mine, and that is sufficient.”

  She asked herself, after he had left, why she had made such a scene, and exactly how important the wishes of the man called Peter were to her.

  The Professor came down to breakfast with them, but heard of Mr. Hannay’s decision for the first time that afternoon. Pat found him walking about the grounds on her return from Maidenhead, where she had driven Mr. Hannay, who banked in that town.

  “Are you admiring my car or our garage?” asked Pat.

  Herzoff turned quickly and smiled.

  “I didn’t know you were back. Well, has your father let the house?”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I have persuaded him to stay on.”

  He was taken aback by this.

  “Do you know the story of this place?”

  She nodded.

  “Daddy told me on our way into Maidenhead.”

  “And you still wish to stay?”

  “I still wish to stay,” she said.

  She felt a sudden antagonism towards this man—an antagonism which was unreasonable and unfounded. Herzoff chuckled.

  “You’re a very brave girl,” he said. “I admire you for it, but I hope you will persuade your father to get out. You may laugh at me for a foolish, middle-aged man with illusions, but I am psychometric, and I have a feeling that this house at the moment is a place of doom for all of you.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of house I like to live in,” said Pat, with sudden recklessness.

  On her way back to the house she passed the gardener. He straightened his back as she came near him, and to her indignation and amazement hailed her.

  “Hullo, young lady! Having a chat with the Professor? He’s a swell fellow! But he’s not much better than me.”

  Then, to her horror, he put out his big paw and caught her under the chin, lifting up her head. She was paralyzed with fury. Then she struck at the big hand and went running towards the house.

  Herzoff had been a witness of the scene. He came slowly across the garden. He was paring his nails with a small penknife, apparently intent upon his occupation, and he did not lift his eyes until he came face to face with the gardener.

  “Don’t do that,” he said gently.

  “Do what?” growled the big man.

  “Don’t touch that young lady.”

  Twice Herzoff’s hand came up and down, and the gardener’s cheeks went suddenly red and wet. The man uttered a roar and put up his hand to his slashed face.

  “Don’t do that.”

  There was a whimper in his face that was absurd in so big a man.

  “There was no cause for that.”

  “Don’t interfere with that young lady. Go and wash your face. Mr. Higgins will give you a little sticking plaster.”

  Pat came breathlessly into the kitchen. Mr. Higgins was putting glasses on a tray and looked round at her in surprise.

  “Higgins,” said Pat breathlessly, “who is this new gardener?”

  “I don’t know much about him, miss, but I’m told he’s a very respectable chap——”

  “Well, discharge him at once,” she said.

  “Why, miss, I’m sorry to hear you say that. He’s not very presentable, but faces don’t mean anything—that’s my experience.”

  “It’s dreadful that we’ve got to have men like that about the house,” said Pat, as she made for the door of the dining room.

  Higgins shook his head sadly.

  “Well, miss, you can’t get people to stay in a house that’s supernatural. Personally, I don’t mind, though it gets me worried at times.”

  Suddenly Pat remembered something.

  “Where has he been sleeping—this gardener?”

  Higgins hesitated.

  “In the cellar, miss, but he won’t sleep there now because of the noises.”

  “Have you the key?”

  She put out her hand for it, and Higgins took it from his pocket.

  “I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, miss.”

  “I don’t want to go down,” she said sharply. “I want to lock the door so that nobody else can go down.”

  She tried the door; it was already fastened, and she slipped the key into her bag.

  “That man doesn’t sleep in this house to-night—understand that,” she said.

  “Very good, miss,” said Higgins, a little hurt.

  She saw Herzoff as she passed through the breakfast room.

  “That man will not annoy you again, Miss Pat.”

  “I don’t think he will,” said Pat. “I’ve told Higgins to get rid of him.”

  His lips pursed.

  “I assure you he’s been punished enough——” he began.

  “And I assure you, Professor Herzoff, that he will leave Chesterford to-day,” said Pat.

  There had been another witness of the incident in the garden. Peter Dunn had found a new point of vantage: a branch of a tree that overhung the little private road which was Mr. Hannay’s very own. So situated, he could not get down to deal with the loutish gardener, but he had watched with some satisfaction and astonishment Professor Herzoff’s summary administration of justice. He saw the girl and Herzoff go into the house, and waited. All that morning he had been hoping to meet her, and had his car conveniently parked so that he might follow and overtake her if she came out. And now, when his own machine was a quarter of a mile away, it looked as if he was to be baffled, for he saw her cross the lawn towards the garage, drawing on her gloves. There was no time for him to get his car.

  Presently she came out, swept round the narrow drive near the garage into the road over which he was sitting. She was going slowly, which in a measure was an act of providence, for when he called her by name in a loud whisper she stopped the car and looked round, and, happily, stopped it right under the bough where he was sitting. She heard the thud as he struck the seat beside her, and looked round in amazement.

  “Where did you come from——” she began.

  “ ‘Baby, dear,’ you ought to say,” said Peter. “And my answer is, ‘Out of the everywhere into here.’ ”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Going for a ride,” said Peter. “In America all the best gangsters take their friends for a ride.”

  “I’m not a gang
ster, and you’re not my friend.”

  “Don’t argue,” said Peter Dunn. “Your father will come along in a minute, and he’ll ask me my intentions. Think how embarrassing that will be.”

  She sent the car along with a jerk.

  “You’re a rotten bad driver, but you’ll improve with practice.”

  “Why are those glasses round your neck?” she asked.

  He wore a pair of field glasses suspended by a strap.

  “The better to see you with, my dear.” And when she shot an indignant glance at him: “A quotation from ‘Red Riding Hood,’ ” he said gently. “Those glasses are for spying purposes. I’ve been spying on you.”

  She reached the secondary road and stopped the car.

  “I’ve dropped my handkerchief. Will you get out?”

  Peter shook his head with great calmness.

  “That’s a dirty trick to get me out.”

  “I don’t want you here,” she said.

  Peter nodded.

  “I know that. If you did, the whole thing would be simple. I should go to the registrar and get a license.”

  She gasped.

  “Have you any sense of decency?” she demanded.

  Peter nodded.

  “Yes; that is why I should get a license first.”

  Again she stopped the car.

  “Get out,” she said firmly, and this time she meant it.

  Peter obeyed. She did not drive on.

  “I want to ask you one question. Will you tell me what is your name and why you are here? Probably there is some special reason why it should be kept secret, and if there is, I promise you I will tell nobody.”

  “My name is Peter Dunn,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “Until yesterday I was a sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.”

  He saw her mouth and eyes open.

  “Aren’t you any more?” she asked.

  “No, I’m an inspector. I was promoted this morning. They telephoned me—that is why my manner errs on the side of frivolity.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Why do you come here? What is there for a Scotland Yard officer…?”

  “A lot of things. But I’ll tell you the main thing that is keeping me hanging around here and making me keep this case all to myself. I have a personal interest in it—two personal interests: one, the reputation of a dear friend of mine who is dead.”

  “And the other?” she asked, when he stopped.

  “The other is you,” he said simply. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  His eyes looked at her straightly. He was telling the truth. She went red and white, and then:

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Are you telling the truth or a lie?” he demanded, the old smile in his eyes.

  “I’m telling a lie,” she said, and sent the car forward in six distinct unworkmanlike jumps.

  Peter was walking back the way he had come when he heard the hum of a car behind him, but did not turn round till she came abreast of him.

  “I’ll drive you back,” she said.

  “No, thank you,” said Peter simply. “I’d rather walk.”

  She looked at him with disapproval.

  “It’s a very long way——” she began.

  “You don’t know where I’m going, so you can’t say it’s a long way or a short way.”

  “I don’t like your manners.”

  “I’ve taken prizes for them,” said Peter. “For the matter of that, I don’t like your car. You’ve humiliated me.”

  She stared at him.

  “Humiliated you? How?”

  “I’ve told you I love you, and you haven’t had the decency to fall out of the car into my arms.”

  She brought the car to a shuddering stop.

  “Come here,” she said. “You can kiss me—once.”

  He kissed her once, but it was a long once….

  Pat Hannay came back to the house. There was a look in her eyes that a wise woman could have interpreted. But there was nobody in Chesterford wiser than Joyce, the maid, and she at the moment was preoccupied.

  Pat went up to her room, closed the door, took off her coat, and looked in the glass. There were some things which could not be believed. Some such thing had happened that day, and she could only look at herself in wonder. She found a difficulty in breathing normally, and the hands that tidied her hair were shaking.

  She looked out of the window, hoping that by some miracle he would be in sight….

  There was his book. She reached out to take it, but remembered her promise and drew back.

  A detective officer…a policeman…how would Mr. Hannay, somebody very important “in the drapery,” accept that devastating fact?

  Mr. Hannay had ideas for her; looked as high as the House of Lords; had confided to her his desire to found a lordly line with such assistance as she could offer.

  A policeman…that puzzled her. She went down to the library to find some sort of reference book, having a vague idea that she could discover the briefest biography of the man who had kissed her once. For the time being, Chesterford and its horrible secret receded into the background.

  The miracle did not happen: there was no book more communicative than an annual almanack which gave her the names and divisions of some thirteen or fourteen superintendents, but omitted any mention of Inspector Peter Dunn, who yesterday was Sergeant.

  Between then and dinner time she wrote him a dozen letters, all very carefully considered, all finishing on the first or the second page. One was too dignified, another too friendly. She ran the gamut of emotions, doubts, and hopes appropriate to the occasion. Happily she had secured temporary help in the shape of a cook who had come on the condition that she left the house before nightfall. Chesterford was beginning to gain unenviable notoriety, and Pat had almost fallen on the stout lady’s neck.

  She had seen no more of the gardener, and when she questioned Higgins, he told her that the man had been paid off and had gone, and she was a little relieved.

  When her delirium had a little subsided, and she came to take stock of her room—it was when she began to dress—she became aware that somebody had made a very careful search of the apartment. The bureau drawer where she kept her handkerchiefs was a muddle and a confusion when she opened it. The drawers of her desk had also been disturbed. Suddenly she remembered the key of the cellar, which she had put away in a pigeonhole behind a small table clock. The clock was there, but it had been moved. The pigeonhole was empty.

  She finished dressing and went down to dinner but made no reference to the matter until they were in the drawing room and coffee had been served.

  “Have you been to my room, Daddy?” she asked. “Somebody has been there, pulled out the drawers, opened my bureau, and searched my desk.”

  Herzoff looked up quickly from his coffee.

  “Have you missed anything?” he asked.

  “The key of the cellar,” said Pat. “I took it from Higgins this afternoon.”

  Hannay had suddenly an idea.

  “I wonder if it was that fellow—the man who is always wandering about this place—that young person. What did you call him——?”

  “Peter?” said Pat incredulously. “Don’t be stupid, Daddy. Why should he——”

  Mr. Herzoff interrupted.

  “Peter! What is his other name, do you know?”

  “Peter Dunn,” she said, and she saw the Professor’s mouth open and close and his lips draw in.

  “Peter Dunn!” he repeated. “That’s interesting. You know him, do you, Miss Hannay—a Scotland Yard man?”

  “Hey?” Hannay was suddenly alert. “A Scotland Yard officer?
What the dickens is he doing here?”

  Pat rose to the moment heroically.

  “He is my fiancé,” she said, and the two men were dumb-stricken.

  “Fiancé?” Mr. Hannay squeaked the word. “A policeman? Are you mad, Patricia?”

  “I’m not mad,” said Patricia. “I’m just telling you as a fact. He has asked me to marry him, and I’m going to.”

  She did not wait to see the effect of her pronouncement, but went up to her room. She had an uncanny feeling that Peter Dunn was near. Before she pulled the curtains and opened the window she extinguished the light. Her heart leapt as she distinguished a figure standing on the edge of the grass beneath her window.

  “Is that you?” she whispered.

  “That’s me,” said Peter Dunn. “I heard you!”

  Her heart sank.

  “Heard what?”

  “I heard you telling your father that I’d asked you to marry me, which wasn’t true. I haven’t asked you to marry me. I merely made love to you.”

  “That amounts to the same thing in civilized communities,” she said coldly.

  She ought to have been furious with him, she told herself, but she did not feel furious. She had fallen instinctively into Peter’s peculiar habit of thought and speech.

  “I’m going to marry you, anyway,” said Peter; “I decided that a long time ago.”

  She spoke to him again but had no answer. When she looked out he had gone. She thought she saw him in the shadow of a bush which grew against the house. Then she heard the crunch of heavy feet crossing the gravelled path. She could not see who it was, but he came nearer, and then her heart jumped. It was the gardener, the man Higgins said had gone, and he was coming directly towards her window.

  She drew aside, peering round the edge of the window sash, and saw him halt on the lawn about half a dozen yards away. He was smoking a cigar; she saw the red glow of it as he took it out of his mouth.

  “Are you up there, miss?” he asked in a croaking whisper.

  She did not answer. Evidently he had heard her voice and had come across to investigate. What was he doing there? If Higgins had spoken the truth he had no right to be in the grounds of Chesterford. Perhaps he had come back for something he had left behind. She found a dozen uneasy explanations, and was relieved when he turned and walked back the way he had come, presently to be swallowed in the darkness.