by Sax Rohmer
And in fact, despite all that they had seen, all that they suspected, despite memories of the entranced woman upon whose lips rested a smile at once voluptuous and mystic, no one of the three doubted this man’s sincerity. But each, in his different degree, doubted his sanity.
Bluett had managed to recall the fact that Lord Marcus in his younger days had been a notable boxer: he remained, for all his asceticism, a physically powerful man. Furthermore, the Detective-sergeant, whose special province was the morals of Mayfair, had recognised the woman. She was none other than the once notorious Mrs. Vane, whose adventures, matrimonial and extra-matrimonial, had afforded society journalists just before the war many spicy paragraphs. In his practical way he was reconstructing what might have occurred; and in the light of this reconstruction, Lord Marcus Amberdale already as good as stood in the dock. He cast a swift glance from ingenuous eyes at his superior. But there was nothing in the way in which Firth was looking at Lord Marcus to suggest that he shared Bluett’s views.
“Do I understand, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, “that in spite of what has happened, you would wish to renew this — er — expeeriment?”
Lord Marcus shook his head sadly. “Not at all. To do so would be useless. The shrine has been defiled. Forgive me — the implication does not reflect upon yourselves. But I must very gradually, and with infinite care, recall the traveller.”
“I see,” said Firth. “In the meantime, sir, I am afraid I shall have to put through a few routine inquiries here regarding the dead man’s possessions and so on, but I will endeavor to keep as quiet as possible. May I have the lady’s name?”
“She is Mrs. Vane, the only woman I have known in thirty years who possessed at once the ethereal subtlety and the physical courage to pursue the path so far.” Instinctively, startlingly, he turned to Detective-sergeant Bluett. “You are thinking of the stories which are told about this lady. I would reply that her physical life is beside the point: I neither condone nor condemn it. There are qualities present which I have found in no one else: those of a priestess of Isis. With your permission, Chief Inspector, I will retire.”
And Chief Inspector Firth was about to reply and to give the necessary authority, when all four men started and turned as one. Clouds of incense swam, now, visibly in the nearly still air of the lobby; a slowly writhing pall of oily vapor hung over the body of Sir Giles Loeder. But it was towards the silver-plated front door with its cabalistic inscriptions, that all eyes were directed.
Someone had quietly inserted a key in the lock!
4
Someone Comes In
As the door opened, which it did slowly — one might have said furtively — a draught of cool air penetrated the lobby, weaving those oily layers of perfumed smoke into swirls and spirals. Lord Marcus, interrupted in the act of drawing aside the purple curtain, now closed it again and turned as did the others. He, also, stared with a queer fixity of expression, towards the opening door.
Dr. Fawcett frowned nervously; Chief Inspector Firth, whose fierce eyes were set in the same direction, raised his left hand like an orchestral conductor who subdues the violins; Bluett, as if hypnotised by the gesture, seemed almost to be holding his breath. The door being fully opened, to admit that refreshing smell which tells of falling rain, a sound resembling a sigh disturbed the silence of the lobby. It was caused by a quartette of concerted inhalations.
In out of the darkness, somewhat wet and dishevelled, a girl entered, her eyes wide open and frightened, and her fingers still clutching a key which remained in the lock. Color began to ebb from her cheeks as she glanced around at the four men who lived and at the one who was dead.
“Fay!”
Lord Marcus pronounced the name, on a queer rising intonation to which his musical voice lent a sort of elfin beauty.
“Good God! look at that!”
Bluett was the second speaker. He pointed into shadows behind the girl; pointed to where three cats, a tabby and a black, led by a majestic persian, formed a phantom escort. Firth came to his senses.
“Huish! be off!” he cried, and swept towards the feline intruders.
They fled, uttering plaintive miaows, as the Chief Inspector, stepping past the horror-stricken girl, gently removed her fingers from the doorkey (she did not seem to be conscious of the fact that he was doing so) and slipped the key into his own pocket, closing the door. He turned, back to the silver panels, and looked across her head at the three men. Particularly, his penetrating glance searched the countenance of Lord Marcus.
“I believe you spoke, sir.”
Startled by the voice which came from behind her shoulder, the girl looked quickly back, and then ran to Lord Marcus, hands outstretched.
“Marcus, my dear — Marcus! whatever has happened!”
He rested his long hands upon her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze, and his smile was infinitely kindly. “You may well ask, Fay, but I fear I cannot tell you. This unhappy affair is as much a mystery to me as to anyone. Let me ask in return whatever has brought you here at this hour of the night.”
Sergeant Bluett glanced suspiciously at Dr. Fawcett. Firth stood quite still, watching Lord Marcus: the girl, clutching one sleeve of his robe, was staring aside towards the Roman couch. Perceptibly, she grew still more pale. She was so delicately pretty that the average observer might have overlooked her; a beauty for a connoisseur. Almost boyishly slim, her limbs were alluringly rounded, and her frank gray eyes expressed a sort of primaeval innocence. She had hazelnut hair, wind-blown, and at the moment, wet; and her fresh skin might have belonged to a dryad, to a creature of the greenwood. A light blue cape, which may have formed part of a uniform, was worn over an evening frock, and her dance shoes were spattered with mud. She turned from Lord Marcus, still holding his sleeve, and faced the Chief Inspector.
“Really,” she said, “I am afraid I don’t understand at all. Please, won’t somebody tell me what has happened?”
“Perhaps, gentlemen—” the interruption came in that singularly calm voice of Lord Marcus— “I should make you acquainted. Chief Detective Inspector Firth, Dr. Fawcett, and — er — Sergeant Bluett: my cousin, Fay Perigal.”
The Chief Inspector and the surgeon acknowledged this introduction by bows. Bluett alone spoke.
“How do you do, miss?” he inquired.
“A tragic and unaccountable thing has occurred here to-night,” Lord Marcus added, “so that your wholly unexpected appearance seems to call for an explanation, Fay. I am curious on this point myself, and these gentlemen are professionally interested.”
“Yes, of course.” Fay Perigal glanced from face to face, glanced at the couch and then away again quickly: her agitation was pathetic. “It’s really quite simple. Just an unfortunate accident. You see—” she addressed herself nervously to the Chief Inspector— “I managed to get leave to attend a birthday party given by a school friend in London. As I knew I couldn’t possibly get back to Otterly to-night—”
“Otterly, miss?” Bluett glanced up from his notes.
“Yes, I am at the Royal Air Force Hospital there. And so I arranged with Phil — Phillida Wentworth, another friend — to spend the night at her flat, which is quite near the house where the party was held. Well—” she smiled unmirthfully— “I can’t account for it. But when I got there, the outer door was locked, and no amount of ringing was any good. Then, it began to rain — and at last I gave it up in despair. I walked all along Albemarle Street and into Piccadilly, but there simply wasn’t a taxi in sight. I really had no idea what to do, especially as I had very little money with me. And then, I thought of you, Marcus.”
“I am glad you did. Normally, you would have been most welcome. Indeed, you are welcome now.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to disturb you by going upstairs.”
She glanced in the direction of a marble stair which led from a corner of the lobby to upper apartments. “My idea was to sleep, or try to sleep—” her eyes turned fearfully in that di
rection— “on the couch. I didn’t expect to find anybody up, you see.”
“Then might I ask, Miss Perigal,” the Chief Inspector interrupted, “how ye expected to get in?”
“Oh!” She smiled again, and this second smile momentarily swept the horror from her eyes. “That’s quite simple. Marcus always hides the key, or what he calls hiding it, in the flower box outside, you see.”
“What!” Firth turned frowningly to Lord Marcus. “Do ye mean to say, sir, that it is a habit of yours to leave the key outside the door?”
That old-world, dignified inclination of the head answered him.
“I confess to being somewhat absent-minded, Chief Inspector, and therefore invariably I leave my key in a corner of one of the stone boxes, as Miss Perigal has told you.”
“Good lord!” murmured Bluett.
“What did you say?” Firth inquired.
“I said ‘Good lord’!” Bluett, whose pencil had broken, delved in an inside pocket and produced the evening paper. This he placed in an outside pocket, then sought, and found, another pencil.
“As you can see from my condition,” Fay added, “it was raining quite fast, and I practically ran here. Truly, Marcus, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“There is no occasion to apologise, Fay. My house is always open to my friends. And now, gentlemen, if you wish to talk further to Miss Perigal, I would suggest that you use the study. The guest room is vacant, Fay, and you are more than welcome to it. I will leave a note for Wake, who will bring your morning coffee and take your orders for breakfast, at which I shall look forward to joining you. I should be glad, Chief Inspector, of your permission to retire for the purpose to which I have already referred.”
But Fay continued to clutch the sleeve of his linen robe. It was a physical expression of a bleak mental loneliness; a quest of sympathy, of understanding.
“Marcus!” He paused, as he was about to draw back the curtain. “Is she in there?”
“Yes,” he answered mildly.
Fay crept closer to him. “But surely, Marcus, you promised me that you would give this business up?”
“When the experiment of to-night should be completed, Fay; such was the understanding. I regret to say that Fate has intervened to make it a failure.” He turned to Firth. “My cousin is obviously much overwrought. I count upon you to spare her unnecessary questioning. She knows no more than I know. Until breakfast, Fay.”
“One moment, Lord Marcus.”
Lord Marcus paused, his hand raised again to the curtain and glanced back at the Chief Inspector, who had addressed him.
“At your service.”
“When ye have awakened the lady in yon, I should be glad, wi’ the doctor’s consent, to see her for a moment.”
“I will do my best.”
Lord Marcus pushed the plated panels aside, went into the dimly lighted place beyond, and reclosed the door.
Silence became so complete that it was possible to hear the pattering of rain in the street outside. It was broken by a muffled sound of that musical chanting which the police officers dimly had heard before. The Chief Inspector frowned irritably. Fay shuddered, turning away and clasping her hands. Firth looked at the rather forlorn figure and his frown melted into a smile. This smile revealed a man no criminal had ever met.
“I am more than sorry to have to ask, Miss Perigal, but—” he nodded towards the couch— “does it happen ye are acquainted wi’ this man?”
Fay Perigal breathed deeply; she was obviously exercising an effort of self control: she remained very pale. She nodded.
“Yes.” Her frank eyes were clouded, and one would have said that either the condition or the identity of the man who lay there had taxed endurance close to breaking point. “Sir Giles Loeder.”
“H’m!” muttered Dr. Fawcett.
“Would ye be knowing Sir Giles well?” Firth asked.
“No; scarcely at all. He came down to Otterly a month or so ago to interview some of the patients. He had official permission to introduce their experiences into his broadcasts. You know he used to broadcast. That was where I met him. I was detailed to take him round. I never saw him again until ... to-night.”
“I see,” murmured Firth. “That doesn’a help us a great deal. He had the reputation of being a man o’ great charm. Did ye find it so?”
“Frankly—” she forced a smile, but it was a wry and tremulous smile— “it sounds a dreadful thing to say, perhaps, in the circumstances, but I am afraid I didn’t like him at all.”
“Aye! is that so? And about Mrs. Vane, now? Ye’ll be knowing her, I doubt not.”
“Yes — I know her.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“No — I’m afraid she isn’t. You see—” she brushed back a ringlet of damp hair— “my cousin Marcus believes that he can rediscover all sorts of lost secrets in some way that I’m sorry to say I don’t altogether understand—”
“And of which you don’t altogether approve?”
“Well, perhaps I don’t. I mean, if it calls for his association with—” she hesitated— “queer people.”
“Such as Mrs. Vane?”
“All kinds of queer people. Unfortunately, he is quite indifferent to public opinion.”
“So I gather.” Firth smiled reassuringly. “Weel — I don’t believe there is any further evidence I want just now, Miss Perigal. And as you probably know the way to the guest room — nae doubt ye do — my advice is to turn in.”
“Thank you; I will. Good-night.” She included all three men in the words, crossed the lobby to the foot of the marble stair, and went up.
In an awkward and rather puzzled way, they watched the slight figure until it was lost to sight on a landing. They heard the sound of an opening door, followed by that of a door being closed; then, once more, nothing but the pattering of rain in the street outside.
“It will be necessary,” said the Chief Inspector, a faintly defeatist note in his voice, “to check up on Miss Perigal’s evidence in the morning. But I am not anticipating that there will be anything wrong about it.”
“Funny thing all the same,” murmured Bluett.
“Speaking personally,” said Dr. Fawcett, “the more I learn about this very singular family, the more I incline to the idea of some hereditary taint. Lord Marcus I regard as definitely suspect.”
“So do I,” said Bluett.
“I don’t mean of the crime,” the surgeon added severely, “but of mental alienation. His custom, which I suppose you have accepted, Inspector, of leaving the key out in the street, for example, quite apart from his somewhat unusual studies, would seem to indicate a lack of what is usually described as common sense. Then, Miss Perigal’s failure to make sure of her accommodation to-night, in these days of black-out and overcrowded hotels, is rather irresponsible, if I may say so.” He shook his head reflectively, glancing again at the dead man. “The whole thing is bizarre to a degree.”
“Aye! that’s a fact,” Firth conceded. “Phew! I need a breath o’ fresh air. I don’t know how you feel.” He crossed and was about to open the front door when he paused, put his hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket and drew out the key. He stared at it in the dim light, keenly. “Aye. It’s still damp,” he muttered.
He opened the door, so that again a draught of fresh, sweet air swept in. And almost immediately, he found himself engaged once more.
“Huish! awa’ wi’ ye!”
A number of cats, their fur diamond-tipped with rain, had entered at the moment that he opened the door. He shepherded them out and closed it.
“The behavior of the cats,” said Dr. Fawcett, in an uneasy way, “is another phenomenon for which I find myself quite unable to account.”
“Speaking pairsonally,” Firth confessed, “nothing has occurred here to-night for which mysel’ I am able to account. And so let’s get down to routine business. I greatly regret, doctor, the necessity of detaining you longer. But I wish to interview Mrs. Vane, if it is
possible, and only yoursel’ can tell me if it is possible.” Dr. Fawcett sighed wearily. “Regarding the dead man, nae doubt ye will be prepared to make out your report?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Fawcett. “There are several details to which I shall have to draw your attention, but the cause of death is unmistakable. It is for you,” he added with a sly smile, “to explain how and where it took place.”
“As to when,” Firth challenged, “what are your findings, doctor?”
“I should say that Sir Giles had been dead not more than twenty minutes when I arrived.”
“In other words, he died at just about the time that Lord Marcus called up Scotland Yard?”
“Exactly. Such is my reading of the matter.”
“H’m,” muttered Sergeant Bluett, and made another note. “I’ve got an idea.”
“It is possible,” murmured Firth. “What is this idea?”
“I was thinking about Mrs. Vane.”
“I was thinking you might be.”
Sergeant Bluett turned to Dr. Fawcett, his ingenuous eyes and upstanding hair lending him an absurd resemblance to a stout schoolboy. “Has it occurred to you, doctor, that she may be dead?”
“Dead!” the surgeon echoed.
“That’s right.”
Firth, brows drawn down so that his tawny eyes gleamed fiercely, stared at Bluett. His expression changed, and he glanced interrogatively at Dr. Fawcett. But the doctor was smiling again.
“The idea is not utterly preposterous,” he admitted; “but only a layman could have conceived it. Mrs. Vane is unmistakably alive, but unmistakably unconscious. You may accept my word for that.”
“Oh,” murmured Bluett, and taking the newspaper from his pocket, he put his notebook there, and the newspaper in another pocket. “In that case, let’s get down to business.”
“I am hoping,” said Firth, “for results from fingerprints. I left orders for Sergeant Hawkins to follow on, and it’s full time he was here.”
