Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  What was the connection between Gloria Paravicini’s rock snake and the dead Ķarait?

  Lindsay considered. As a coincidence, he simply wasn’t having any; another coincidence was more than he could induce his mind to receive. He was of the opinion that he had to thank the Vulture for a very characteristic attention. The Vulture? Drayton? Someone had put the Karait under his pillow. This someone had known of M. Arêsne’s offering of a rock snake to Gloria Paravicini. Lindsay felt sure that he had known. He had known, and he had at once acted upon his knowledge. One snake was to explain the other. Charles Arêsne had probably procured his rock snake from some regular dealer. If the Karait came to light, it would be said that it had got into the same box by accident and, escaping, had made its way along the corridor to Lindsay’s room. Lindsay would be found dead. The Karait might never be found at all; and if it were found, a regrettable accident would have occurred and the dealer would be blamed. It was a diabolically clever plan. Of course Charles Arêsne might be in it. Madame herself might be in it for the matter of that—or Restow.

  Lindsay left that point. Someone had attempted his life—probably Drayton, either personally or through an agent. The question was—why? Was it simply because Trevor Fothering had outlived his usefulness and, as an ex-tool, had become a potential danger? Or had he played his part with less skill than he had thought, and was it Lindsay Trevor who was to be eliminated—finally this time? He found himself quite unable to say.

  The point that now arose was—what was he going to do about it? What, in a word, would Trevor Fothering do if he found a snake under his pillow? Lindsay rather thought Froth would gibber. He recalled a cryptic word of Drayton’s and wondered whether Froth’s nerves had given under some such pressure as this.

  He felt distinct disinclination to gibber. After some thought it seemed to him that there was a perfectly good alternative. He picked up the Karait on the end of the stick with which he had killed it, and tossed it as far as he could out into the middle of the road. A little traffic, and there would not be much left of the corpse. Even if it were noticed, there would be no harm done. Drayton, if it was Drayton, or the Vulture, if it was the Vulture, would not be sure of what had happened. The snake might have wriggled out of the bed, fallen down the lift shaft—been killed accidentally in a dozen ways. No one could possibly know that Lindsay had killed it.

  He pulled the bed to pieces, shook each piece of bedding carefully before he put it back, and finally fell asleep and dreamed that he was catching snakes with a butterfly net in a trench which he was defending single-handed. If he could catch all the snakes, he would have won the battle; but Marian kept calling him to come and buy her an engagement ring, and that took his attention off the snakes. He wanted her to take a net and help him, but she wouldn’t. And then all at once Garratt put a hand on his shoulder and said, “He’s done it again!”

  It was at this point that the man who was listening at the door crept noiselessly away.—

  CHAPTER XXXI

  NEXT MORNING RESTOW SWEPT his entire party back to London. He burst into Lindsay’s bedroom at six in the morning like a jovial whirlwind.

  “We pack—we depart! Life is not made for sorrow, my Fothering. Pack clouds away and welcome day, and all the rest of it. We go back to London just as quick as it can be done in a train and a boat. I would like to fly. What is the good of living in the twentieth century if one does not make use of its beneficent inventions? But Gloria will not fly. She will face a hundred wild beasts, she will handle a serpent that turns me as cold as pickled pork, but she will not set her foot in an aeroplane.

  “Madame goes with us?” said Lindsay.

  “By Jing, yes! We are reconciled. We are two hearts that beat as one. But whilst we are in France I do not know where we are. In America we are divorced. In England we are married. In France—I do not know. I prefer to go to England where I can say,’ My wife—the most beautiful woman in the world is my wife.’ Aré! Yes! Also there shall be no more of this damfool nonsense of an exhibition with untamed tigers. I will not have it—my foot is down—I keep it there. And I take Gloria to London and let myself be sued for breach of contract—if that is the law—I do not know. In one hour we start—I—you—Gloria—that wooden Rosa whom I detest—and the new reptile whom Gloria has named Fidelio. If you will lose it in the Customs, you shall have my blessing. It is a pity we do not fly. I would like to drop, this moment, plop upon the doorstep of my house. By Jing, yes—the whole lot of us!” He clapped Lindsay on the shoulder. “I have a strong wish—oh, the very strongest wish to know whether my good Drayton is at home.”

  The hand that had clapped his shoulder rested there. Lindsay wasn’t quite sure whether he had jumped or not at Drayton’s name. It had taken him so completely by surprise.

  “Don’t you expect him to be there?” he said.

  Restow stepped back from him, laughing.

  “Oh yes, he will be there—he will be there. He is not like Gloria—he has a high esteem for inventions. Yes, by Jing he has—my Drayton! He will be there. And he will have been busy whilst we are away—he will not have gone to sleep. I think he will have bought that first edition he wrote to me about. I think he will be able to show me how busy he has been whilst we are idle in Paris. I think he is always busy, that good Drayton of mine—hein, Fothering?”

  At Dover Madame Gloria required refreshment. She would not take the boat train. She did not care whether there was another train or not. She did not care whether she ever reached London. She hated, loathed and detested England, a country that was only to be reached by tossing on the sea or endangering one’s life in an aeroplane. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t stayed in America. She seemed to think that it was Restow’s fault, and anyhow she required food—an omelette, a beefsteak, a pêche Melba, and several cups of black coffee.

  Lindsay wandered away. He found a public call office and ultimately achieved the person he wanted. He gave, not his name, but a code number:

  “I have just crossed. … Yes, back in town tonight. … Yes, I had the letters. Look here, will you try and get hold of someone who knew Drayton between 1910 and 1922—that is, whilst he was with Lewindorf? Beat up Lewindorf’s butler or someone like that. I want the closest description you can get—a photograph if it’s possible. Height is very important. I do not believe that my man was born at Vincton Parva, Glos. … Have you got that? … All right. Then I want to know anything that is to be known about a man called Manning. I think he probably disappeared as Manning in 1922. … No, I’m sorry—that’s the best I can do. Then will you get hold of a young fellow called Jimmy Thurloe? He’s a junior reporter on the Daily Round. I want to get a message to him. … Thanks. Will you tell him I must see Miss Manning? I’ll try and come to the same place as before between nine and ten. Will he let her know? It’s too dangerous for me to try to communicate with her direct. Oh, by the way, he knows who I am, so you needn’t beat about the bush. He recognized me. I think he’s quite safe. Tell him it’s very important that I should see Miss Manning. He can be there if he likes. … Yes. Oh yes, if you think so. … All right I’ll come on then. … Yes, one must take some risks. … Yes, that’s all for the moment.”

  An hour later Madame Gloria was ready to proceed upon her journey.

  Restow was right—Drayton had been busy during their absence. He had not bought the first edition, but everything was in train for Restow to buy it.

  Restow temporized, chaffed Drayton affably, congratulated himself on having so zealous a librarian, and was dragged away by Madame Gloria to assist at a joyous reunion with her python, Typhoon, the cobras, Romeo and Juliet, and her other adored snakes. Lindsay discovered that they lived in a superheated snakehouse on the far side of the swimming-bath under the charge of an Egyptian youth called Ibrahim.

  There had, fortunately, been no casualties. Typhoon was comatose after a heavy meal, his great head laid flat upon his massive
coils, his eyes dead and lustreless; but Romeo and Juliet rose swaying at Gloria’s call.

  “I suppose their fangs have been removed?” said Lindsay as she opened the glass front of the cage and picked up first one and then the other, stroking them and talking to them in a deep crooning voice.

  Restow shook his head.

  “She says she is immune. I used to have my feet so cold that blocks of ice would be warmer. Even now something touches my spine with a cold finger. But they do not harm her, and they do not harm Ibrahim. He comes of a snake-charmer’s family—for fifty generations they have handled snakes—perhaps ever since Pharaoh—I do not know. Ibrahim! This snake business—how long has it been in your family?”

  Ibrahim grinned a cheerful grin. He wore a bright brown tweed suit and a jaunty red fez. His teeth were as white as the kernels of nuts.

  “Always, master,” he said, and grinned again.

  Lindsay was looking at the last cage on the left. On the freshly sanded floor two small snakes of a dull brownish colour lay motionless. They had probably just been fed.

  “What are those?” he said quickly.

  Ibrahim grinned again.

  “Karait, master—Indian snake. Very bad tempered snake, Karait.”

  Lindsay looked a moment longer. His mind showed him something moving, just moving, under the edge of a hem-stitched pillow-case. He looked steadily, and turned away.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  LINDSAY DINED OUT HE did not think that he was followed, but he redoubled his usual precautions. After dinner he turned in to a big cinema, put the stub of his ticket in a convenient pocket, and after ten minutes or so slipped out unobtrusively.

  By the time he reached Santa’s he was quite sure that it was safe to do so. The shop window was dark, but the moment he knocked on the door it was opened—by Jimmy. They passed into the inner room where Elsie sat on the corner of the table, her feet swinging, her eyes round and bright.

  “Well?” she said when the door was shut. She cocked her head just a trifle impudently, and for an instant the turn of the neck, the moulding of the chin, gave him that startling something that was like Marian. They had not a feature in common—eyes, hair, and skin were as unalike as they could be—and yet there was that something which tugged at his heart.

  “It is very good of you both to come.” He was aware of Jimmy on the defensive. “Thurloe, I don’t know how much you know. If you know anything at all, you know that Elsie is not in a particularly safe position.”

  “Well,” said Jimmy, “that’s just it. Who put her there?”

  “Not I,” said Lindsay. “She will tell you that herself. She’s in it because she knows things. I want her to tell me just what she does know, and then she needn’t be mixed up in it any more.”

  “What do you want to know?” said Elsie.

  “I want to know about Drayton.”

  “I told you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask—is he your father?”

  “What!” said Jimmy.

  Elsie nodded. The colour stood high in her cheeks, her eyes were bright and hard.

  “Will you tell me all about him?” said Lindsay.

  She did not look at Jimmy at all. She looked first at Lindsay, and then down into her lap.

  “He’s a devil,” she said. “Look here, this will show you—I haven’t lived with him for eight years, and I’m still so afraid of him that if I were to meet him in the street, I believe I’d drop.” She paused, jerked up her head, and said, “He killed my mother.”

  Jimmy exclaimed. He came nearer, flung an arm about her, and looked defiantly at Lindsay.

  Elsie took no notice of him.

  “As far back as I can remember we were frightened of him. She—wasn’t strong. She—couldn’t stand things. She died eight years ago.”

  “In 1922?” said Lindsay. The date kept cropping up.

  Elsie nodded.

  “You asked me about Trevor Fothering. He lodged with us—that’s how I knew him. I was thirteen. When my mother died, he—that man—Drayton—came back. He used to come and go. Sometimes we didn’t see him for months, and then he’d come down on us.” She lifted hurt, angry eyes to Lindsay’s. “You’re making me think about things that I don’t let myself think about.”

  Lindsay was conscious that he had received a shock. His mind had not travelled beyond her statement that Trevor Fothering—Froth—had lodged with the Mannings. If he had lodged there, he was known to Manning. Manning was Drayton. Drayton had known Froth eight years ago. He could not move his thoughts from this. It might mean that eight years ago Froth was implicated in Drayton’s undertakings. It certainly meant that when he, Lindsay, set out to pass as Froth he had taken on a far more difficult job than he had any idea of. Had he ever deceived Drayton? He thought so. Yes, looking back, he was sure that he had. If Drayton had suspected him, he would not have been used in the Gladisloe affair. But something had roused his suspicions then. Marian’s appearance in Paris had not been accidental. Someone had confronted them there. Drayton?

  And what did Drayton think now?

  He was suddenly afraid for Marian. He moved, frowning. Elsie was staring at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must ask you these things. About Fothering now—Drayton knew him?” He had to make sure.

  “Yes—of course—I told you. He lodged with us. I don’t believe you were listening.”

  “Do you think Froth was—well—in with him?”

  Elsie flushed scarlet.

  “I don’t know—I thought sometimes—oh, I don’t know.”

  So even eight years ago Froth had been running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. A racking game. No wonder his nerve had gone.

  Lindsay frowned. Then he said,

  “Will you go on?”

  “I don’t know what you want to know. My mother died, and Trevor helped me to get away. He sent me to school.”

  “Trevor did?”

  “Yes. He—he was fond of me. He sent me to school till I was eighteen. Then he wanted to marry me. It doesn’t matter my telling you that, because he used to tell everyone himself. He used to say he’d brought me up to marry him.”

  Jimmy’s arm dropped from her shoulders. She had been leaning against it. When it dropped away she looked round and said in a small, quivering voice,

  “Don’t be a mutt, Jimmy!”

  “Are you going to marry him?” said Jimmy Thurloe. He had turned rather white. Neither of them seemed to remember that Lindsay was there.

  Elsie did not speak. She lifted her eyes and looked at him—hard. Then she turned away. Lindsay gave her a moment before he said,

  “He called himself Manning. What Christian name did he use?”

  “Robert.”

  “Do you think Manning was his real name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did your mother ever tell you how she met him—or anything about him? Had he a profession?”

  “She never told me anything. She was afraid all the time. We didn’t talk about him. When he was there I kept out of his way, and when he was away I used to try not to think about him.”

  “He was away a good deal?”

  “Most of the time. He used to come and go. Sometimes we didn’t see him for months, and then he would come back for a night—two nights—a week—and go off again.”

  “But you never saw him after 1922?”

  “No—not until the other day.” She leaned back again, relaxing a little. Jimmy’s arm was there for her to lean against. His hand rested for a moment upon her shoulder.

  “Did your mother ever tell you you had a sister?” said Lindsay after a pause.

  He saw her flush brightly.

  She said “Oh!” in a startled voice; and then, “A sister?

  “Did she?”

&nbs
p; “I think—she did—”

  “You think?”

  “Yes—when she was ill—she talked. I couldn’t make out what she was saying most of the time. There was a lot about someone called Lee, but sometimes she kept on saying ‘Marian—Marian,’ like that—over and over. Once she said ‘Marian’s safe’; and then, ‘My little baby—she’s out of it.’ And then she caught my wrist and said, ‘I’ve never regretted it, though it has broken my heart.’ I said, ‘Don’t trouble’; and she said, ‘I’ve had the trouble. But she’s safe—Marian’s safe—she couldn’t have stood it as well as you—you’re stronger—she couldn’t have borne it.’”

  “What do you think she meant?” said Lindsay.

  Elsie looked at him questioningly.

  “I thought she meant I’d had a sister who had died. Please tell me what she meant—please.”

  “She meant that you had a sister who is alive,” he said gently.

  She jumped off the table and came to him.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  She turned half round.

  “Oh, Jimmy!”

  “Shall you mind me for a brother-in-law?” said Lindsay laughing.

  Elsie turned back, clutching Jimmy by the arm.

  “A brother-in-law?”

  Lindsay thought that Jimmy Thurloe brightened.

  “Marian and I are engaged.”

  He told Marian’s story in as few words as possible. Telling it over made it seem more real—and more dangerous. Marian’s danger came more vividly before him with each short sentence.

  “Does he know she is alive?” Elsie’s voice was quick and frightened.

  “Yes, he does. You mustn’t try and see her, or write to her. It would be very dangerous for both of you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In Paris at the moment, but I don’t expect she’ll be there for long. I think she was taken over there in order to try and trap her into recognizing me.”

  “Then they know who you are?”