Marjorie was following her uncle from the room, when a glance from Vera brought her back. The older woman waited until the door had closed behind her husband.
“Marjorie,” she said, in the mild and honeyed tone which the girl recognized as her “At Home” voice, “I want you to do something for me.”
“With pleasure, dear,” said the girl warmly.
Lady Morte-Mannery fingered the little silver ornaments on one of the tables which abounded in the drawing-room, and placed them as though they were pawns in a new game she was playing. She seemed to be concentrating her attention upon this pastime as she spoke.
“I want you to do something very special for me,” she repeated. “Of course, I know I can trust you about that money, and now I want to ask you to help me with a little ruse. This man who is coming to-day,” she said, “this Italian person, is really not the kind of man I want to meet. I hate detectives and all those crude, melodramatic individuals. They talk about crime and things, and besides,” she hesitated, “I can trust you, can’t I?”
She looked up sharply.
“Yes,” said the girl gravely, wondering what was coming.
“Well, you know, dear,” said Vera slowly, and still playing her mysterious game with the comfit boxes and Dutch silver, “I’m a member of a club. It’s a ladies’ club; you won’t find it in Whittaker because we do not care to advertise our existence, although of course we are registered. Well, we had rather a bother there, two or three months ago. We—we. Why should I deceive you?” she said in a burst of confidence, and with her rare smile. “We were raided! You see, dear, we played rather heavily. We did not confine ourselves to the prosaic game of Bridge. Some woman—I forget her name—introduced baccarat, and we had a little wheel too; you know.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It was awfully fascinating, and one lost and won quite a considerable sum. And then there was a bother, and the police came in one night quite unexpectedly. Your dear Uncle Ralph was in town for the May Meetings, and I had quite a lot of time on my hands.
“It was very fortunate I escaped any serious consequences of my rashness. I gave a false name, and was brought up the next morning at Bow Street with the rest of the women—you remember, the case created quite a sensation—and I was bound over in a false name. Nobody recognized me and nobody but you is any the wiser.”
She stopped again, and shot a swift, side-long glance at the girl.
“Oh, you needn’t be shocked,” she said, the acid in her tone asserting itself. “It wasn’t so very dreadful, only this Tillizini man was in court that day, and I think he may have recognized me.”
“How awkward!” said Marjorie. “Really, Vera, I’m not a bit shocked, and it’s not for me, any way, to sit in judgment on your actions. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to help me when I tell Sir Ralph that I am too ill to entertain this person. I’ll go straight away to bed, and I want you, like an angel, to do the honours.”
“Why, with pleasure,” said Marjorie, with a little smile.
“Anyway,” said Vera, a little hardly, “Ralph won’t bully you before visitors, nor will he refer pointedly to your needless extravagance in potatoes. Ralph is rather a fanatic on the question of potatoes,” she said. “There is a standard by which he judges all phases of domestic economy.”
Marjorie was filled with an infinite pity for the girl. She was not more than seven or eight years older than herself, still young enough to find joy in the colour and movement of life.
“I will do anything I can,” she said. For the second time that day she laid her hand upon the other’s shoulder.
“Don’t paw me, dear,” said Vera, with sudden asperity, and the warm, generous heart of the girl was chilled. Vera saw this, and tried to make amends.
“Please don’t bother about me, dear,” she said, in a softer tone. “I am rather jagged; too jagged, indeed, to meet this—”
At that point the door of the drawing-room was opened, and William, the butler, came in importantly. He stood by the open door.
“Professor Tillizini,” he announced.
III. —A HUNTER OF MEN
IT SEEMED TO MARJORIE that Vera shrank back at the name.
The girl waited for her to go forward and greet the newcomer, but as she made no move Marjorie realized that she was called upon, even now, to perform the duties of hostess.
The man in the doorway was tall; he looked taller, perhaps, because of his slimness. He was clad from head to foot in black, and the big flowing tie at his neck was of the same sober hue. He carried in his hand a black soft felt hat, from which the butler had made several ineffectual attempts to detach him.
His face was long and thin, sallow and lined; his eyes were big and grey, and steady. They were terribly alive and expressive, Marjorie thought. They gave the impression that the whole process of life was comprehended in their depths. His hair was black and was brushed smoothly behind his ears. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His face was an unusual one, attractive, because of its very character and strength. The mouth was big and sensitive; the ungloved hands were long and white, and as delicate as a surgeon’s.
He gave a quick glance from one to the other.
“I am so sorry to intrude upon you,” he said. There was no trace of any foreign accent in his voice. “I expected to find Sir Ralph. He is out—yes?”
He had a quick, alert method of talking. He was eager to the point of anticipating the reply. Before the girl could answer he had gone on.
“He has kindly asked me to dine to-night. I am so sorry I cannot. I must be back in London in an hour or two. There are one or two interviews of importance which I have arranged.”
His smile was a dazzling one; it lit up the whole of his face, and changed him from a somewhat morose, funereal figure, to a new and radiant being.
Marjorie noticed that he was almost handsome in his amusement. The smile came and went like a gleam of sunshine seen through a rift of storm-cloud.
“You are Miss Marjorie Meagh,” he said, “and you, madam,” with a little bow, “are Lady Morte-Mannery.” His head twisted for a moment inquiringly. That, and the bow, were the only little signs he gave of his continental origin.
Vera forced a smile to her face. She came forward, a little embarrassed. She had hoped to escape without an introduction and to have developed a convenient headache to keep out of his way.
“I saw you in court,” said Tillizini, quickly. “It was an interesting case, was it not? That poor man!”
He threw out his arms with a gesture of pity.
“I do not know why you sympathize with him,” said Vera.
“Seven years!” Tillizini shook his head. “It is a long time, Madam, for a man—innocent.”
Again the little shrug. The tall man paced the room nervously.
“You have heard his story. He said that he came to this house to meet an individual who would give him a packet.”
“But surely you do not believe that?” said the other, with amused contempt.
“Yes, I believe that,” said Tillizini, calmly and gravely. “Why should I not? The man’s every attitude, every word, spoke eloquently to me, of his sincerity.”
“Do you believe, then, in this mysterious Italian?” said Vera.
“Oh, Vera, don’t you remember?” Marjorie broke in suddenly, and with some excitement, “there was an Italian in the town. We saw him the day before the robbery. Don’t you remember?” she asked again. “A very short man, with a long Inverness cape which reached to his heels. We passed him in the car on the Breckley road, and I remarked to you that he was either an Italian or a Spaniard because of the peculiar way he was holding his cigarette.”
“Ah, yes!”
It was Tillizini, tremendously vital, all a-quiver like some delicately strung zither whose strings had been set vib
rating by a musician’s hand.
“He was short and stout, and was dressed in black,” said the girl.
“A moustache—no?” said Tillizini.
The girl shook her head.
“He was clean-shaven.”
“You were going the same direction—yes?”
Again the girl nodded, with a smile at the man’s eager question.
“And did he turn his face towards you or from you? From you?”
Again the girl nodded.
“He did not want you to see his face?” Tillizini himself shook his head in answer.
“What rubbish, Marjorie!” broke in Vera, petulantly. “I don’t remember anything of the sort. There are always organ-grinders with monkeys and things of that sort coming through the village, or ice-cream people who come down from Chatham. You are letting your imagination run away with you.” Marjorie was amazed. She remembered now the incident most distinctly. She had spoken of it to Vera in the evening, at dinner. It was amazing that she herself had forgotten it until this moment.
“But you must remember,” she said.
“I don’t remember,” answered the other shortly. “Besides, you are very wrong to give Mr. Tillizini a false clue. There can be no doubt that this man, Mansingham, burgled the house for no other reason than to steal Sir Ralph’s collection.”
“Instigated by the Italian,” said Tillizini. “Oh, you English people,” he said, with a despairing shrug, “I am desolated when I speak with you. You have such a fear of melodrama. You are so insistent upon the fact that the obvious must be the only possible explanation!”
He shook his head again in humorous resignation. From any other man the outburst might have sounded as a piece of unpardonable impertinence. But Tillizini had the extraordinary gift of creating an atmosphere of old-established friendship. Even Vera, frankly antagonistic, had a vague sense of having discussed this matter before in identical terms with the man who spoke so disparagingly of her compatriots.
He looked at his watch.
“I must see Sir Ralph before I go back. Where shall I find him?”
Vera had a shrewd idea that at that moment Sir Ralph was engaged in a heated interview with the offending butcher who had put a halfpenny upon the price of beef, but she did not think it fair to her husband, or consonant with her own dignity, to admit as much.
“He’ll return very soon,” she said.
He looked at her sharply, for no reason as far as she could see. There had been nothing in her tone to justify the look of quick interest which came to his face.
“I have met you before somewhere, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said quickly, “and it is very unusual for me that I cannot for the moment recall the circumstance.”
“Really?” said Vera, in a tone which suggested that she had no interest in the matter, “one does have these queer impressions—you’ll excuse me now, won’t you, doctor,” she said, “I have got rather a bad headache and I thought of lying down. Miss Meagh will entertain you till Sir Ralph returns.”
He stepped quickly to the door and opened it for her, and favoured her with a little bow as she passed. Then he closed the door and walked slowly back to Marjorie.
“Where, where, where?” he said, tapping his chin and looking solemnly at the girl.
She laughed.
“You must not confuse me with the Oracle,” she said. “You know, doctor, we ask such questions of you.”
Again that beautiful smile of his illuminated the sombre countenance.
“I was asking this Oracle,” he said, tapping his breast. “And now I remember. There was a raid on a gambling house. It was run by one of my compatriots, and I was in court.”
“I hope you will forget that, Doctor Tillizini,” said Marjorie, quietly. “Lady Morte-Mannery may have been very foolish to have been found in such a place, but it would not be kind to remember—”
She stopped when she saw the look of astonishment on the other’s face.
“My dear lady,” he said, with his winning smile, “you do not suggest that Lady Morte-Mannery was in any way complicated? It would be wicked, it would be absurd, it would be villainous,” he said extravagantly, “to associate such a lady with so sordid a business.”
“This was a very commonplace raid,” he went on, “they were mostly Italians engaged, and mostly people of very low origin, and my interest in the case was merely the hope of identifying some of the participants as gentlemen who had another interest for me. Lady Mannery was in court, certainly, but she was in court as the guest of the magistrate, Mr. Curtain, the Metropolitan Police Magistrate, who, I think, is some relation of Sir Ralph.” This was so, as Marjorie knew. Then why had Vera lied to her? She understood how easy it was for her to make up the story; but why give that as an excuse for not wanting to meet Tillizini?
“There is Sir Ralph,” she said suddenly. She had seen the car go past the window. “Do you mind staying here alone, while I go and tell him you are here?”
He opened the door for her, with his quaint little bow. She met Sir Ralph in the hall, and explained the fact that the visitor was waiting.
“Where is Vera?” he asked.
“She has gone to lie down,” said Marjorie, “she has a very bad headache.”
Sir Ralph swore under his breath.
It was her main weapon of defence—that headache. A convenient, but, to his mind, grossly unfair method of evading her responsibilities. He was more incensed now because he felt that not only had she failed to do the honours of his house towards a man for whose position he had an immense respect, but she had escaped from the just consequence of her carelessness. He had discovered that it was entirely due to her that the extra halfpenny had been put upon beef. She had acquiesced to the imposition in a letter which the butcher had triumphantly produced to vindicate his character.
He was, therefore, at the disadvantage which every man must be, half of whose mind is occupied by a private grievance, when he met Tillizini.
The two men went off to the library for about a quarter of an hour.
At the end of that time they returned to the drawing-room—Tillizini to take his leave of the girl—and Sir Ralph to see him to his waiting fly.
Marjorie saw that the Chairman of the Burboro’ Sessions was considerably ruffled. His face was red, his thin grey hair untidy—ever a sign of perturbation. He was, too, a little stiff with his guest.
As for Tillizini, he was the same imperturbable, cool, masterful man. Yes, that was the word which Marjorie sought. This man was masterful to an extent which she could not divine.
“Some day I shall meet you again,” said Tillizini, as he took the girl’s hand in his own. She was surprised at the strength of his grip. “I would not go so soon, but Sir Ralph has kindly given me permission to see this man, Mansingham, who was convicted to-day.”
“I think your labours are entirely misdirected, Professor,” said Sir Ralph, gruffly. “You will learn nothing from him but a pack of lies.”
“Ah, but lies!” said Tillizini, with an ecstatic gesture. “They are so interesting, Sir Ralph, so much more interesting than the commonplace truth, and so much more informative.”
The elder man, who prided himself in post-prandial speeches upon being a plain, blunt Englishman, and inferentially typical of all that was best in an Englishman, had no mind for paradoxes. He grunted unsympathetically.
“You are an Italian,” he said. “I suppose these things amuse you. But here in England we believe in the obvious. It saves a lot of trouble and it is generally accurate. You know,” he said testily, “these stories of mysterious organizations are all very well for novels. I admit that in your country you have the Camorra, and the possession of that factor probably unbalances your judgment; but I assure you “—he laid his hands with heavy and paternal solicitude upon the younger man’s shoulder—“nothing of that sort.”
IV. —THE “RED HAND” DRAW BLANK
SIR RALPH FELT THE whiz of bullets as they passed him, heard the smash of the picture they struck on the opposite wall, and jumped back, white and shaking. Tillizini reached out his hand and thrust the girl back to cover with one motion.
In an instant he was down on his knees, crawling quickly to the window. He reached up his hands, threw up the sash, and leant out suddenly. For a second he stood thus, and then a jet of flame leapt from his hand, and they were deafened with the report of his Browning. Again he fired, and waited. Then he turned, and came back to them, a beatific smile illuminating his face.
“You were saying,” he said calmly, “that these things do not happen in England?”
His voice was even and unshaken. The hand that raised a spotless white handkerchief to wipe a streak of blood from his forehead, did not tremble.
“What happened?” asked Sir Ralph, in agitation. “It must have been a poacher or something. Those beggars hate me!”
“Poachers do not use Mauser pistols,” said Tillizini quietly. “If you take the trouble to dig out the bullets from your wall, which I am afraid is somewhat damaged, you will discover that they bear no resemblance whatever to the pellets which, I understand, filled the cartridges of your friends. No,” he smiled, “those shots were not intended for you, Sir Ralph. They were very much intended for me.”
He looked wistfully out of the window.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hit him,” he said. “I saw him fairly distinctly as he made his way through the trees.”
“Who was it?” asked Sir Ralph anxiously.
Tillizini looked at him with an expression of slyness.
“Who was it?” he answered, deliberately. “I think it was the Italian who sent William Mansingham to your house to receive a packet.”
The Fourth Plague Page 5
