Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

“They are not sure—at least that is what I think.”

  “Then it’s dangerous for you—very dangerous?”

  Lindsay gave a dry laugh.

  “Middling,” he said. Then abruptly, “Who is Lee?”

  “Lee?”

  “You said your mother talked about Lee when she was ill. Do you know what she meant?”

  Elsie hesitated.

  “She never talked about any friends or relations. I think it was someone she cared for. She had a picture he had painted—a water colour. She kept it hidden. I never saw it till she was ill. It is signed L.A. She said, ‘Lee painted it.’ She had it on her bed and kept looking at it. She told me to hide it from him. I’m trying to tell you everything. The last thing she did before she got too ill was to mend the back, which had got torn.”

  “A paper back?”

  “Yes. She told me to make some paste and get her some strong brown paper, and she pasted it over. She did it herself.”

  “You’ve got the picture?”

  “Yes—of course I have.”

  “May I see it? Will you let Jimmy have it? I’ll try and get to his rooms to-morrow or next day about this time. And now I must go.”

  He had turned to the door, when they came up close on either side of him. Elsie slid a hand inside his arm.

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she said. “He-he’s cunning—you don’t know him.”

  “I say, can’t I take a hand?” said Jimmy. “I’d like to most awfully.”

  Elsie looked at him with round anxious eyes and a tilt of the head that reminded him of a friendly bird. She was prettily flushed. The brown eyes were a little moist.

  Jimmy, on the other side, was at once embarrassed and as friendly as Elsie. The blessed word brother-in-law had had its effect.

  Lindsay went on his way feeling warmed and cheered.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  “I THINK THAT IS all,” said Lindsay Trevor.

  He stood with his back to the mantelpiece in Mr Smith’s library. The fire behind him was low, a mound of glowing ash with the skeleton of a great log across it, but the long room was full of the warm comfort which the hearth had been giving out all day. In the window Ananias, Mr Smith’s parrot, snored gently behind the green baize extinguisher which covered his cage at night.

  Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith lay stretched at full length in a large leather-covered armchair, his long fine hands on either arm, his feet to the fire, his half closed eyes fixed dreamily upon the topmost of the many rows of books which covered the walls.

  On the arm of a second chair there sat a little sandy man with a bottle-brush scalp and small grey eyes like points of polished steel. He wore the worst clothes in London and carried a brand of bright red cotton bandanna which could be seen at least a quarter of a mile away. Lindsay had once said, “When Garratt wants to disguise himself, all he has to do is to leave his bandanna at home and buy a neat gent’s suiting.” At this moment he wore a light tweed suit with a pink check. All the pockets bulged like a schoolboy’s, and it had the air of having been made for an elder brother and cut down. A blue and white shirt, an exceedingly frayed green tie, and bright orange boots completed his attire. He made Mr Smith look almost incredibly distinguished.

  Garratt snapped his fingers.

  “All!” he said in a contemptuous tone. “If that’s all, it’s not a ha’porth of good! Nothing but a lot of dam theories, and not enough evidence to swat a fly!”

  Lindsay laughed.

  “Well,” he said, “they’ve thought it worth while to try and wipe me off the map, so I suppose they have a better opinion of my evidence than you have, sir.”

  Garratt had one leg over the other; he crouched forward and hugged the uppermost knee.

  “What’s it all about? The Vulture disappears in 1922. Lewindorf dies in 1922. Drayton goes to Restow in 1922. Your young friend Miss Elsie Manning sees the last of a wicked parent in 1922. Therefore— Oh Lord—the Vulture is Drayton!”

  “Not quite fair, sir,” said Lindsay.

  “Oh, put it yourself!” said Garratt.

  “You’ve left out Gogo. Gogo admitted he was working for the Vulture in shadowing Miss Rayne. She was undoubtedly brought to Paris to see how she would react if she met me unexpectedly—”

  “Conjecture!” snapped Garratt. “Arbitrary, unsupported conjecture!”

  “Not quite unsupported. Gogo, admittedly working for the Vulture, is told to shadow Miss Rayne and to see whether she meets me. There’s my support.”

  Garratt snapped his fingers within an inch of Mr Smith’s left hand.

  “How’s that, umpire?”

  “Oh—Trevor’s point—undoubtedly Trevor’s point,” said Mr Smith, continuing to gaze at Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

  “All right, you may have that,” said Garratt. “But a fat lot of use it is to any of us. We should look nice running Drayton in and putting up evidence like, “He hired an apache to follow my fiancée in Paris, and I found a snake in my bed.” He clutched his head and rocked on the arm of the chair. “Oh, Lordy Lord!”

  “There’s the blackmail,” said Lindsay.

  “My good Lin! Have you gone dotty? Do you propose to stand up in the witness box and swear to having blackmailed Sir John Gladisloe entirely pour le bon motif? You’ve only your own unsupported word for it that Drayton gave you your instructions. Drayton will have his pockets full of alibis. He’s a learned, scholarly librarian, is Drayton—he don’t meddle in strikes and suchlike. ‘He is an intellectual chap and thinks of things that would astonish you.” He hummed the snatch from Iolanthe, thumped on his knee, and ended, “That’s no good.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  Garratt thumped his knee again.

  “What Gogo says isn’t evidence, and what you might say ’ud be dam queer evidence. And the evidence we’ve got on the political side is all very entertaining and informative, but it’s about as much good as a sick headache from the practical point of view. That Madame Ferrans you put us on to—she’s an old hand. She used to call herself Marie Morel. Gouraud very nearly shot her twice, but she’d luck. Drayton’s working up a ramp against the Naval Conference. We’ve identified the people she was sent to ginger up. F and J are prominent journalists. N is a party leader.” He gave the names. “N will probably commit a blazing indiscretion to order some time in the next ten days. It’s a new line in blackmail, but I’ll go so far as to admit it’s just the sort of thing one might expect from the Vulture. He collects scandals; then he turns some of ’em into money and buys more scandals—there are always plenty of scandals to buy, if you can afford the price. Well, he sells some of ’em for money, and he sells some of ’em for strikes and suchlike, or for anti-everyone articles in the Paris Press, or for calculated indiscretions in the Chamber, or the Reichstag, or any other old talking-shop. And I’ve got my guess—and a pretty good guess too—that he sells some of ’em for opposition to things like international agreements about drug traffic, the white slave trade, and oddments of that sort. Our friend Ferdinand Schreck got his in Vienna the other day. Why do you suppose he paid tax to the Vulture? Tax!” He laughed a short dry laugh like a terrier’s bark. “You might call it sur-tax! Ferdinand was pretty sour about it, I gather. But why did he pay it? Did you ask yourself that? I did, and I decided that it was dam well worth his while. The Vulture blackmails the politicians who make the laws and the officials who administer ’em—and it’s better to pay a sur-tax to the Vulture than to have your activities restrained by international agreements or to get jugged.”

  Lindsay stood on one foot and warmed the other.

  “You began with Drayton, and you end with the Vulture,” he said.

  “Trevor’s point again, I think,” said Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith.

  Garratt flung out an impatient hand.

&nb
sp; “He can have it! It isn’t worth a tinker’s cuss. He may think Drayton’s the Vulture, and I may think the Vulture’s Drayton, and it’s worth exactly nuppence to nobody unless we’ve got cold, cast-iron proof. That’s about the size of it—isn’t it, Lin?”

  Lindsay nodded.

  “We’ve got to get the proof,” he said.

  Garratt grinned.

  “Carry on! You have my blessing. We’ll hunt up Lewindorf’s domestic staff and try and get a line on Drayton under the Manning alias—but eight years is a long time. And meanwhile if anyone attempts your life again, try and grab him in the act. Candidly, that’s our best chance of evidence.”

  Without opening his eyes Mr Smith inquired,

  “What was Mrs Manning’s Christian name?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lindsay.

  “But Miss Rayne, her elder daughter—I have an impression that her name is Marian.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She might have been called after her mother.”

  “I don’t know.”—

  “It is possible. And Mrs Manning talked about Lee during her last illness—an artist, I think you said.”

  “Elsie Manning has a picture painted by him.”

  “One picture does not make an artist,” said Mr Smith in a vague, abstracted tone. “No—no—certainly not. But I think you mentioned that the picture was signed L. A.”

  “Yes—Elsie said so.”

  Mr Smith rose slowly, strolled across the room, and came back with a portfolio in his hand. When he had seated himself, he took a pair of glasses out of his waistcoat pocket, placed them upon his nose, and began to turn over the leaves of the portfolio.

  Garratt sat watching him intently.

  “There are probably,” said Mr Smith, “several thousands of persons who combine the initials L. A. with the ability to paint at least one picture. I knew one of them—oh, rather over twenty years ago. Yes—let me see. …” He relapsed into calculation. “Yes, it would be twenty years ago, I think.” He took a sketch and handed it to Lindsay. “You will see the initials in the corner.”

  Lindsay looked at the sketch. It showed running water, and trees blowing in the wind. The water ran, and the trees really blew.

  “A young American,” said Mr Smith. “Thaxter wrote to me about him and his wife. They were pleasant young people. They had no money, and they did not know anyone. There were two babies. His name was Lee Abinger. The wife’s name was Marian. Thank you.” He took the sketch and closed the portfolio upon it.

  Lindsay felt the blood rush to his face.

  “Sir!” he said.

  Mr Smith nodded.

  “Perhaps another coincidence—perhaps not. We shall know more when Garratt has discovered when Mrs Manning became Mrs Manning.”

  “What happened to the Abingers?” said Lindsay quickly.

  Mr Smith laid the portfolio down upon the floor beside his chair.

  “Now there I have no first-hand knowledge. I was—er—abroad—er—in Russia. When I returned I was told that Lee Abinger was dead and that his widow had married again. In the circumstances it seemed better not to write. I had in fact no address to write to.”

  Garratt whipped out a note-book.

  “Where were they living when you knew them?”

  “Earl’s Court,” said Mr Smith. “Rooms—” He closed his eyes. “The landlady had red hair that was always coming down—Irish—yes, her name was Carroll—Mrs Carroll—Frederick Street, Earl’s Court.” He opened his eyes again and gazed into the fire. “I am afraid I have forgotten the number.”

  The note-book went back into the pocket with the bandanna.

  “Well, it’s the first time in history if you have,” said Garratt. “I didn’t know you could forget anything. If you remember the number in the middle of the night, don’t have me out of bed to tell me so, that’s all. I can bear to wait.” He swung round on the arm of the chair and fixed sharp grey eyes on Lindsay. “Now look here, my lad, so far we’ve been dallying. Let’s get to business! Shed Drayton and the ladies and let’s get to what about Restow!”

  Mr Smith disposed himself in his chair as for slumber.

  Lindsay met the steel of Garratt’s eyes with his pleasantest smile.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Garratt snorted.

  “You went to the dam place to watch Restow, and you come bobbing up with nothing to say but’ I don’t know.’ Now listen to me and I’ll put it to you. Someone gives Madame Ferrans her instructions. Your Manning girl—strong, persevering eavesdropper—overhears them. Now let’s get quite clear—was that Drayton, or was it Restow?”

  “Drayton.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t at first, but I am now.”

  “And when the Ferrans woman warned you on the boat—was she warning you against Drayton or against Restow?”

  “I thought Restow—now I’m not sure.”

  “And when you found the snake in your bed in Paris—whose room was next to yours?”

  “Restow’s,” said Lindsay.”

  “Drayton wasn’t in Paris?”

  Lindsay smiled.

  “I don’t know. Restow gave me to understand that he was.”

  “Restow would, if he wanted to cover his tracks. Now let’s hark back a bit. When Drayton sent you out blackmailing, he told you in so many words that Restow was his principal?”

  “I shouldn’t put implicit faith in a statement made by Drayton.”

  “Think with more than half your brain, Lin! Drayton would lie if it suited him—but he was risking your going behind him to Restow and saying, ‘Look here, old top, what about this Gladisloe blackmail?’ He was taking a bit of a risk, wasn’t he, unless Restow really was his principal—unless Restow was the Vulture.” He drawled out the last words, dwelling on them. “That’s been my theory all along. Take the period of the Vulture’s greatest activity, 1915 to 1922. Drayton was with Lewindorf.”

  “I don’t admit that,” said Lindsay quickly. “I don’t believe that the Drayton who was with Lewindorf is the Drayton who is with Restow.”

  Garratt banged his knee.

  “You needn’t believe it if you don’t like it! I’m putting my case. Drayton was with Lewindorf book-worming. Where was Restow? … I’ll tell you. Restow was on the razzle-dazzle. He failed sensationally in the spring of ’15, bobbed up again in ’19, and failed again in ’20—reappeared in a halo of millions in the spring of ’22. In the intervals he was all over the shop—Madrid—Paris—Warsaw—Nij ni Novgorod—Sicily—and, for all I know, Timbuctoo as well. Sometimes he had money, and sometimes he hadn’t. If Restow isn’t the Vulture, I don’t mind betting he’d find it difficult to produce a good rock-bottom alibi. D’you remember the night we thought we’d got the Vulture at Hazebrouck? Well, you try asking Restow with my compliments how he got away. I’d like to know—yes, by gum, I would!”

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  LINDSAY WALKED BACK TO Blenheim Square. The night was cold and raw. There was no fog. The light from the lamp-posts fell clear upon the black wet streets. He was not sure whether it had been raining. The theatres were out and the streets beginning to be empty. He had taken a short cut through Leonard Street, when he first heard the footstep behind him.

  The idea that he had been followed was a very unpleasant one. As he quickened his pace, the footsteps broke into a run and a man’s voice hailed him as pothering. He looked over his shoulder and saw a young man cross the circle of light about the last lamp. He was running. The light fell on a pale sharp face, on a tall hat tilted back, on a white muffler and a dark coat buttoned up. Lindsay had never seen the man before. He stood still for him to come up.

  The street, which is only a couple of hundred yards long, was empty from end to end. Lights burned in the upper windows of the houses, but th
e ground floors had retired into darkness for the night. A street of respectability—a quiet, comfortable, family sort of street—not at all an appropriate street in which to be the object of nefarious attentions.

  The young man came up with Lindsay rather short of breath.

  “I—I saw you from my taxi. You—you walk the devil of a rate,” he said accusingly.

  “Well, it’s getting late, and I’m supposed to be in,” said Lindsay pleasantly.

  “We’d better walk,” said the young man. “You—you haven’t been followed?”

  “Why should I be followed?”

  The answer came with a nervous laugh: “His way—his little way. Hang it all, you ought to know that!”

  “Perhaps names are a mistake,” suggested Lindsay, playing to his cue.

  “Yes—yes. I say—my nerves are all in bits. You don’t think—anyone’s watching us?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “My nerve’s gone—that’s a fact. Perhaps I’ve had one too many—I don’t know. Would you say I had?”

  He diffused an odour of varied drinks. As they walked, he showed a disposition to link arms.

  “One too many,” he repeated, leaning rather heavily on the arm he held. “Should always know when to stop. Dash it—I say—that’s it!” He pronounced the words with a careful attention to consonants. “That’s it! A fellow should—always know—when—he’s had nuff.” He stood still and leaned outwards, wagging an emphatic hand. “Always.”

  “You’d better get along home,” said Lindsay.

  “No,” said the young man firmly. “Not home—can’t sleep at home.” He caught Lindsay’s arm with both hands. “Is someone following us?”

  “No. Why should anyone follow us?”

  “His little way. I say—must pull myself together—what? Beastly thing to have nerves all go to bits.”

  “Beastly,” said Lindsay. “Why have they gone?”

  The young man sagged against him.

  “You know, old sport. Not so long since you were in the same boat. Beastly kind of job to give a fellow—what? I mean—” He straightened himself and waved an explanatory hand. “What I mean is, you can’t call it—kind of job—for a gentleman. What I mean to say is—can you?”