by Sax Rohmer
“I am not here to see Sir Malcolm, but his guest. My name is Nayland Smith. My business is official.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler, with a swift change, of manner. “I didn’t recognise you.”
The door opened straight into a lofty hallway, from the further end of which a crescent staircase led to upper floors. As the butler closed the door I immediately became conscious of a curiously vibrant atmosphere. I had experienced it before, in places taken by assault or bombed. It is caused, I think, by the vibrations of frightened minds. Several servants were peering down from a dark landing above but the hallway itself was brightly lighted. At this moment, a door on the right opened and a clean-shaven, heavily built man with jet-black, close-cropped hair came out. He glanced in our direction.
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Nayland Smith. “What’s this? What are you doing here?”
“Thank God you’ve arrived, sir!” The inspector stopped dead in his stride. “I was beginning to fear something was wrong.”
“This is Mr Bart Kerrigan — Chief Inspector Leighton of the Special Branch.”
Nayland Smith’s loud, rather harsh tones evidently having penetrated to the room beyond, again the door opened, and I saw with astonishment Sir James Clare, the home secretary, come out.
“Here at last, Smith,” was his greeting. “I heard your voice.” Sir James spoke in a clear but nearly toneless manner which betrayed his legal training. “I don’t know your friend” — staring at me through the thick pebbles of his spectacles. “This unhappy business, of course, is tremendously confidential.”
Nayland Smith made a rapid introduction.
“Mr Kerrigan is acting for no newspaper or agency. You may take his discretion for granted. You say this unhappy business, Sir James? May I ask—”
Sir James Clare raised his hand to check the speaker. He turned to Inspector Leighton.
“See if there is any news about the telephone call, Inspector,” he directed, and as the inspector hurried away: “Suppose, gentlemen, you come in here for a moment.”
We followed him back into the apartment from which he had come. It was a large library, a lofty room, every available foot of the wall occupied by bookcases. Beside a mahogany table upon which, also, were many books and a number of documents, he sat down in an armchair, indicating that we should sit in two others. Smith was far too restless for inaction, but grunting irritably he threw himself down into one of the padded chairs.
“Chief Inspector Leighton of the Special Branch,” said Sir James, “is naturally acquainted with the identity of Sir Malcolm’s guest. But no one else in the house has been informed, with the exception of Mr Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary. In the circumstances I think perhaps we had better talk in here. Am I to take it that you are unaware of what occurred tonight?”
“On your instructions,” said Smith, speaking with a sort of smothered irritability, “I flew from Berlin this evening. I was on my way here, and I can only suppose that the purpose of my return was known. A deliberate attempt was made tonight to wreck my car as I crossed Bond Street, by the driver of a lorry. Only Fey’s skill and the fact that at so late an hour there were no pedestrians averted disaster. He drove right on to the pavement and along it for some little distance.”
“Did you apprehend the driver of this lorry?”
“I did not stop to do so, although I recognised the fact that it was a planned attack. Then, when we reached Marble Arch, I realised that two men were following in a Daimler. I managed to throw them off the track, with Mr Kerrigan’s assistance — and here I am. What has happened?”
“General Quinto is dead!”
CHAPTER THREE. THE GREEN DEATH
This news, coupled with the identity of the hidden guest, shocked me inexpressibly. General Quinto! Chief of Staff to Signor Monaghani; one of the most formidable figures in political Europe! The man who would command Monaghani’s forces in the event of war; the first soldier in his country, almost certain successor to the dictator! But if I was shocked, the effect upon Nayland Smith was electrical.
He sprang lip with clenched fists and glared at Sir James Clare.
“Good God, Sir James! You are not telling me that he has been—”
The home secretary shook his head. His legal calm remained unruffled.
“That question, Smith, I am not yet in a position to answer. But you know now why I am here; why Inspector Leighton is here.” He stood up. “I shall, be glad, gentlemen, if you will follow me to the study which had been placed at the disposal of the general, and in which he died.”
A door at the further end of the library was thrown open and I entered a small study, intimately furnished. There was a writing desk near a curtained window, which showed evidence of someone’s recent activities. But my attention was immediately focussed upon a settee in an arched recess upon which lay the body of a man. One glance was sufficient — for I had seen him many times in Africa.
It was General Quinto. But his normally sallow aquiline features displayed an agonised surprise and had acquired a sort of ghastly greenish hue. I cannot better describe what I mean than by likening the effect to that produced by green limelight.
A man whose features I could not distinguish was kneeling beside the body, which he appeared to be closely examining. A second man looked down at him; and as we entered the first stood up and turned.
It was Lord Moreton, the king’s physician.
Introductions revealed that the other was Dr. Sims, the divisional police surgeon.
“This is a very strange business,” said the famous consultant, removing his spectacles and placing them in a pocket of his dress waistcoat. “Do you know” — he looked from face to face, with a sort of naive astonishment— “I have no idea what killed this man!”
“This is really terrible,” declared Sir James Clare. “Personal considerations apart, his death here in London under such circumstances cannot fail to set ugly rumours afloat. I take it that you mean, Lord Moreton, that you are not prepared to give a certificate of death from natural causes?”
“Honestly,” the physician replied, staring intently at him, “I am not. I am by no means satisfied that he did die from natural causes.”
“I am perfectly sure that he didn’t,” the police surgeon declared.
Nayland Smith, who had been staring down at the body of the dead soldier, now began sniffing the air suspiciously.
“I observe, Sir Denis,” said Lord Moreton, “that you have detected a faint but peculiar odour in the atmosphere?”
“I have. Had you noticed it?”
“At the very moment that I entered the room. I cannot identify it; it is something outside my experience. It grows less perceptible — or I am becoming used to it.”
I, too, had detected this strange but not unpleasant odour. Now, apparently guided by his sense of smell, Nayland Smith began to approach the writing desk. Here he paused, sniffing vigorously. At this moment the door opened and Inspector Leighton came in.
“I see you are trying to trace the smell, sir. I thought it was stronger by the writing desk than elsewhere, but I could find nothing to account for it.”
“You have searched thoroughly?” Smith snapped.
“Absolutely, sir. I think I may say I have searched every inch of the room.”
Nayland Smith stood by the desk tugging at the lobe of his ear, a mannerism which indicated perplexity, as I knew; then:
“Do these gentlemen know the identity of the victim?” he asked the minister.
“Yes.”
“In that case, who actually saw General Quinto last alive?”
“Mr Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary.”
“Very well. I have reasons for wishing that Mr Kerrigan should be in a position to confirm anything that I may discover in this matter. Where was the body found?”
“Where it lies now.”
“By whom?”
“By Mr Bascombe. He phoned the news to me.”
Smith
glanced at Inspector Leighton.
“The body has been disturbed in no way, Inspector?”
“In no way.”
“In that case I should like a private interview with Mr Bascombe. I wish Mr Kerrigan to remain. Perhaps, Lord Moreton and Doctor Sims, you would be good enough to wait in the library with Sir James and the Inspector…”
* * * *
Mr Bascombe was a tall fair man, approaching middle age. He carried himself with a slight stoop, although I learned that he was a Cambridge rowing Blue. His manner was gentle to the point of diffidence. As he entered the study he glanced in a horrified way at the body on the settee.
“Good evening, Mr Bascombe,” said Nayland Smith, who was standing before the writing table, “I thought it better that I should see you privately. I gather from Inspector Leighton that General Quinto, who arrived here yesterday morning at eleven o’clock, was to all intents and purposes hiding in these rooms.”
“That is so, Sir Denis. The door behind you, there, opens into a bedroom, and a bathroom adjoins it. Sir Malcolm, who is a very late worker, sometimes slept there in order to avoid disturbing Lady Locke.”
“And since his arrival, the general has never left those apartments?”
“No.”
“He was a very old friend of Sir Malcolm’s?”
“Yes, a lifelong friend, I understand. He and Lady Locke are in the south of France, but are expected back tomorrow morning.”
“No member of the staff is aware of the identity of the visitor?”
“No. He had never stayed here during the time of Greaves, the butler — that is, during the last three years — and he was a stranger to all the other servants.”
“By what name was he known here?”
“Mr Victor.”
“Who looked after him?”
“Greaves.”
“No one else?”
“No one, except myself and Greaves, entered these rooms.”
“The general expected me tonight, of course?”
“Yes. He was very excited when you did not appear.”
“How has he occupied himself since his arrival?”
“Writing almost continuously, when he was not pacing up and down the library, or glancing out of the windows into the square.”
“What was he writing?”
“I don’t know. He tore up every shred of it. Late this evening he had a fire lighted in the library and burnt up everything.”
“Extraordinary! Did he seem very apprehensive?”
“Very. Had I not known his reputation, I should have said, in fact, that he was panic-stricken. This frame of mind seemed to date from his receipt of a letter delivered by a district messenger at noon yesterday.”
“Where is this letter?”
“I have reason to believe that the general locked it in a dispatch box which he brought with him.”
“Did he comment upon the letter?”
“No.”
“In what name was it addressed?”
“Mr Victor.”
Nayland Smith began to pace the carpet, and every time he passed the settee where that grim body lay, the right arm hanging down so that half-closed fingers touched the floor, his shadow, moving across the ghastly, greenish face, created an impression that the features worked and twitched and became still again.
“Did he make many telephone calls?”
“Quite a number.”
“From the instrument on the desk there?”
“Yes — it is an extension from the hallway.”
“Have you a record of those whom he called?”
“Of some. Inspector Leighton has already made that inquiry. There were two long conversations with Rome, several calls to Sir James Clare and some talks with his own embassy.”
“But others you have been unable to check?”
“The inspector is at work on that now, I understand, Sir Denis. There was — er — a lady.”
“Indeed? Any incoming calls?”
“Very few.”
“I remember — the inspector told me he was trying to trace them. Any visitors?”
“Sir James Clare yesterday morning, Count Bruzzi at noon today — and, oh yes, a lady last, night.”
“What! A lady?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“I have no idea, Sir Denis. She came just after dusk in a car which waited outside, and sent a sealed note in by Greaves. I may say that at the request of the general I was almost continuously at work in the library, so that no one could gain access without my permission. This note was handed to me.”
“Was anything written on the envelope?”
“Yes: ‘Personal — for Mr Victor.’ I took it to him. He was then seated at the desk writing. He seemed delighted. He evidently recognised the handwriting. Having read the message, he instructed me to admit the visitor.”
“Describe her,” said Nayland Smith.
“Tall and slender, with fine eyes, very long and narrow — definitely not an Englishwoman. She had graceful and languid manners, and remarkable composure. Her hair was jet black and closely waved to her head. She wore jade earrings and was wrapped up in what I assumed to be a very expensive fur coat.”
“H’m!” murmured Nayland Smith, “can’t place her, unless” — and a startled expression momentarily crossed his brown features— “the dead are living again!”
“She remained in the study with the general for close upon an hour. Their voices sounded animated, but of course I actually overheard nothing of their words. Then the door was opened and they both came out. I rang for Greaves, the general conducted his visitor as far as the end of the library and Greaves saw her down to her car.”
“What occurred then? Did the general, seem to be disturbed in any way? Unusually happy or unusually sad?”
“He was smiling when he returned to the study, which he did immediately, going in and closing the door.”
“And today, Count Bruzzi?”
“Count Bruzzi lunched with him. There have been no other visitors.”
“Phone calls?”
“One at half past seven. It was immediately after this that General Quinto came out and told me that you were expected, Sir Denis, between ten and eleven, and were to be shown immediately into the study.”
“Yes. I was recalled from Berlin for this interview which now cannot take place. This brings us, Mr Bascombe, to the ghastly business of tonight.”
“The general and I dined alone in the library, Greaves waiting.”
“Did you both eat the same dishes and drink the same wine?”
“We did. Your suspicions are natural, Sir Denis, but such a solution of the mystery is impossible. It was a plain and typically English dinner — a shoulder of lamb with mint sauce, peas and new potatoes. Greaves carved and served. Followed by apple tart and cream of which we both partook, then cheese and young radishes. We shared a bottle of claret. That was our simple meal.”
Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again. Mr Bascombe continued:
“I went out for an hour after dinner. During my absence General Quinto received a telephone call and afterwards complained to Greaves that there was something wrong with the extension to the study — that he had found difficulty in making himself audible. Greaves informed him that the post office was aware of this defect and that an engineer was actually coming along at the moment to endeavour to rectify it. As a matter of fact the man was here when I returned.”
“Where was the general?”
“Reading in the library, outside. The man assured me that the instrument was now in order, made a test call and General Quinto returned to the study and closed the door. I remained in the library.”
“What time was this?”
“As nearly as I can remember, a quarter to ten.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I sat at the library table writing personal letters, when I heard Greaves in the hall outside putting a call through to the general in
the study. I heard General Quinto answer it, dimly at first, then more clearly. He seemed to be shouting into the receiver. Presently he came out in a state of some excitement — he was, I may add, a very irascible man. He said: ‘That fool has made the instrument worse. The lady to whom I was speaking could not hear a word.’”
“Realising that it was too late to expect the post office to send anyone again tonight, I went into the study and tested the instrument myself.”
“But,” snapped Nayland Smith, “did you observe anything unusual in the atmosphere of the room?”
“Yes — a curious odour, which still lingers here as a matter of fact.”
“Good! Go on.”
“I put a call through to a friend in Chelsea and was unable to detect anything the matter with the line.”
“It was perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly. I suggested to the general that possibly the fault was with his friend’s instrument and not with ours. I then returned to the library. He was in an extraordinarily excited condition — kept glancing at his watch and inquiring why you had not arrived. Some ten minutes later he threw the door open and came out again. He said: ‘Listen!’
“I stood up and we both remained quite silent for a moment. ‘Did you hear it?’ he asked.
“‘Hear what, General?” I replied.
“ ‘Someone beating a drum!’”
“Stop!” snapped Smith. “Those were his exact words?”
“His exact, words… ‘Surely you can hear it?’ he said. ‘An Arab drum — what they call a darabukkeh. Listen again.’
“I listened, but on my word of honour could hear nothing whatever. I assured the general of this. His face was inflamed and he remained very excited. He went in and slammed the door — but I had scarcely seated myself before he was out again.
“ ‘Mr Bascombe,’ he shouted (as you probably know he spoke perfect English), ‘someone is trying to frighten me! But by heavens they won’t! Come into the study: Perhaps you will hear it there!’”
“I went into the study with him, now seriously concerned. He grasped my arm — his hand was trembling. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘it’s coming nearer — the beating of a drum—’
“Again I listened for some time. Finally: ‘I’m sorry, General,’ I had to say, ‘but I can hear nothing whatever beyond the usual sounds of distant traffic.’
