by Sax Rohmer
“The bell push,” Bluett began —
“I have it in mind,” said Firth. “If it’s true that someone rang the bell immediately after the crime took place, the bell push and the plate may bear evidence.”
“It has been raining since then,” Dr. Fawcett pointed out.
“I am thinking of that, and I want to find something to hang over it to act as a shield. In fact—”
He ceased speaking so suddenly that the effect was that of a disconnected telephone. Dr. Fawcett, who had picked up his bag and hat, held them in a rigid attitude; Bluett, who had just bent over the dead man, came bolt upright as if at the command of a drill sergeant. Distant awesome chanting arose — and ceased.
For the second time that night the three stood staring towards the silver-plated door; because, for the second time that night, someone had gently inserted a key in the lock.
5
Someone Else Comes In
The door opened and a man came in, quickly closing it behind him as if to exclude some intruder. Then he turned and faced the lobby, and his dark brown eyes opened wider and wider until they seemed to become completely round.
He was a short, broad man, having a remarkable span of shoulder, clean shaven, high colored and with a good head of gray hair, meticulously groomed. But the high color was gradually filtering out of his face. He wore light suede gloves, a black morning coat and a winged collar with a black tie. His trousers were of a discreet gray, his shoes were black. An umbrella which hung from his arm, allowed drops of rain to fall upon the mosaic pavement. Slowly, as he watched, he removed a soft black hat, as one grown conscious that he stands in the presence of death.
“Good evening,” said the Chief Inspector ominously. “Who are you?”
The man swallowed. His gaze had sought, found, and was now focussed upon the Roman couch. “My name is James Wake, and I am Lord Marcus Amberdale’s butler.”
Bluett was considering James Wake with frank interest. His expression was that of a punter studying the points of a horse, and deciding whether it shall or shall not carry his money. Firth’s tawny eyes conveyed nothing other than an interrogation. Dr. Fawcett replaced his bag on the floor and his hat on top of it.
“You keep strange hours for a butler.”
“It may certainly seem so, sir.” The man had a punctilious accuracy of speech which the Chief Inspector found faintly irritating. “But in point of fact my return at so late an hour is, if I may so describe it, the result of an after-thought.”
“Indeed! Do I take you to mean that you had not intended to come back at all?”
“I had his lordship’s permission to sleep out. And if I don’t intrude in any way, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me who you are, sir, and what has occurred.”
With the unerring instinct of a “gentleman’s gentleman,” he had placed Firth in that intermediate class towards members of which one displays a reasonable respect (as a well-trained butler should do) but not the peculiar deference which is reserved for social superiority. As if to discount his studiously calm manner, however, the high color of James Wake had now filtered away entirely.
“I am Chief Inspector Firth, and what has happened is a murder. Just step across, Mr. Wake, and tell me if you know the dead man.”
Wake, suddenly aware of his wet umbrella, inverted it hurriedly, then, drawing open a curtain which hung before a cupboard immediately inside the door, he placed it in a stand which the curtain had concealed and hung up his hat. He crossed the lobby with short, sturdy steps, and looked down at Sir Giles Loeder. Then he turned and faced Firth.
“I recognise this unfortunate gentleman, Inspector. It is Sir Giles Loeder.”
“Quite so. A friend of his lordship?”
“Not to my knowledge, Inspector.”
“When did he arrive?”
“I have no idea. He was certainly not here when I left.”
“At what time did you leave?”
“Immediately after dinner. Mrs. Vane dined with his lordship, and I understood that the evening was to be devoted to one of his lordship’s occult experiments.”
“Do you know where his lordship keeps his key?”
“Certainly, Inspector. It is always in the left hand flower box; but I use my own.” He held up a bunch of keys attached to a chain. “I should not dream of disturbing his lordship’s.”
“Where have you been until this hour?”
“I have been balancing my quarterly accounts. My wife usually assists me. I am responsible for his lordship’s household. My wife is exceptionally good at figures.”
“I see. Where does your wife live?”
“At the town house of Sir George Clarking in Grosvenor Square: she was formerly Sir George’s cook, and now acts as caretaker of the premises, which are unoccupied.”
“You have been there, then, since what time?”
“Since a little before nine o’clock. I had permission to remain the night, as I have mentioned, but I recalled the fact that his lordship had an early morning appointment, and I thought it better that I should return.”
During this conversation Wake had perceptibly recovered some of his normal sang-froid, and with it a trace of his normal color. He was peeling off the suede gloves, which he placed in a pocket of his black jacket. Dr. Fawcett thought that in many respects he more closely resembled a City man than a butler. But there was something else about Wake’s appearance, now that hat, gloves and umbrella were discarded, which taunted the Chief Inspector as a thing familiar, yet elusive. The wing collar and black tie formed part of this mocking image which he failed wholly to capture. Suddenly he spoke again.
“Ye were expecting a Miss Fay Perigal, I understand?”
“Miss Fay, Inspector?” Wake’s expression of surprise was too sudden to be simulated. “No, sir. Although I am sure Miss Fay would be very welcome.”
“Nae doubt,” said Firth drily. “Well, she is here.”
“What do you say, Inspector?”
“She went upstairs some little whiles back. Lord Marcus said he would leave a note for you; but I misdoubt me if he will remember.”
“Thank you, Inspector. I will see that Miss Fay has her early morning coffee. Can I assist in any way, in this highly unpleasant matter?”
“It is probable. So don’t turn in at present. By the way, doctor, speaking of coffee, if ye would prescribe the same, possibly Mr. Wake would oblige us. We have much yet to do.”
Dr. Fawcett groaned, and glanced at his wrist-watch; at which moment the telephone rang in the study. Wake moved in that direction, but:
“Sergeant Bluett,” said Firth peremptorily, “take the call.”
Bluett went out, and his muffled voice might be heard speaking. The Chief Inspector, watching Wake, seemed to have another idea.
“Do you keep a lot of cats here?” he asked.
“No, Inspector.” Wake shook his head. “But his lordship’s experiments result in a number from the neighborhood being attracted here.” He sniffed. “I am told that it is the incense which is used at these séances. His lordship has informed me that all domestic cats derive from the temple cat of Ancient Egypt, and that Kyphi, which I understand to be the name of this preparation, has what his lordship terms an hereditary fascination for them.”
“Thank you,” said Firth; “a most lucid exposition. Could I trouble ye to prepare a pot of coffee?”
Sergeant Bluett appeared in the opening which led to the study. “Assistant Commissioner on the line, sir,” he reported ...
6
Misty Morning
Somewhat later the same morning — that is to say, not long after break of day — an incident occurred which bore no apparent relation to the mystery of South Audley Street but which, in fact, later fell into its place in the design of that tragedy. A coffee-stall keeper, named William Sawby, had established a highly lucrative business during the heavy London raids by serving coffee to wardens, firemen, police and others whose duties compelled them to remain
abroad. He operated in part of the shell of a once popular West End public house, which had fallen an early victim to German bombs.
This astute caterer had fitted up a radio in his stall, so that customers might listen to the seven o’clock news bulletin, whilst refreshing themselves after their night’s labor. The enterprise had outlived the blitz. William Sawby’s coffee-stall on the morning following those remarkable occurrences at the house of Lord Marcus Amberdale, was well patronised at five minutes to seven by workers of all kinds, who sipped their tea or coffee whilst waiting to hear the early news.
After a night of intermittent rain, sunrise had produced a steamy mist, almost meriting the description of fog. Visibility was reduced to a few yards, and Sawby’s stall with its bright urns and lights, around which a cheerful rattle of cups prevailed, formed a welcome oasis. In once orderly Bond Street hard by, a street which had come to resemble the lower jaw of a giant following extensive dental operations (and extraction by bomb is by no means painless dentistry), early traffic was just beginning to stir. But wartime London that morning, much of it still wearing its black-out night cap, possessed a sort of hollow, echoing quality, vaultlike, cavernesque and alien. The soul of a city is its people; and Mayfair had lost its soul.
Many of Sawby’s patrons were regular customers: Sergeant Roper from Vine Street, his bicycle resting against the stall; Tom Wilkins, the milkman, his white pony, forefeet on the pavement, eating biscuits out of his hand; Smith, the postman, setting forth on his round; a steel helmeted warden, who in private life was a famous King’s Counsel; and Mrs. Ryley, the charlady who “did for” the silversmiths on the corner. One or two others stood by; but these were accredited members of this unique early morning club, good companions between whom no social barriers existed.
“Going to be a hot day, I think,” said the K.C. in his cheery forensic voice.
“It certainly ‘as the smell of one, Mr. Corcoran, sir,” Mrs. Ryley agreed.
“Quite so. Don’t know what I shall do when I have to give up my morning visits, Sawby. Always look forward to my spells of duty.”
“If you always had to get up in the middle of the night,” the milkman observed, “you’d leave off looking forward to it.”
“Hear, hear!” chuckled the postman. “Not that I don’t enjoy a cup of coffee meself.”
“It’s in the winter you’re a boon, Bill,” said the police sergeant. “I reckon it was Vine Street, during the blitz, made your fortune.”
Sawby, red-faced, blue-eyed, and wearing a moustache resembling a gnome’s grotto, grinned appreciatively, clearing away empty cups and plunging them into the washing tub.
“Some o’ them mornings was shockin’, wasn’t they, sergeant?” remarked Mrs. Ryley reflectively. “I won’t never forget standin’ at this ‘ere counter one Wen’sday and wonderin’ what ‘ad become of my offices. Clean gone they was.”
“Nothing left to scrub, what?” said the K.C. “Othello’s occupation gone.”
A lorry pulled up. It had come from Southampton during the night, and the driver and his mate climbed out of the cab, stretching their cramped limbs, and joined the group at the stall.
“We ain’t late for the news, Bill, are we?” asked the driver.
“Two minutes yet,” was the prompt reply. “Bread and butter with yours?”
“Bread an’ what!” growled the other. “Give it its right name, chum.”
“Margarine is good for us, as a matter of fact; Lord Woolton told me so,” said Michael Corcoran. “Got to prefer it to butter, myself.”
“Every man to his fancy,” muttered the milkman. “But give me the stuff what I used to bring round in the good old days. Cows makes better butter than what coconut trees does.”
Another customer appeared. He glanced in a doubtful way at the group about the stall, and then diffidently joined it.
This was a young Royal Air Force officer, a tall slim fellow with the lines of an athlete. He had dark brown wavy hair and very steadfast blue eyes, beneath straight brows. But in the group about the stall, there were two trained observers. The hair which showed beneath the new arrival’s cap was slightly dishevelled; his shoes were dirty; and palpably he had not shaved that morning. This, in conjunction with the type of man and the tradition of the Royal Air Force, gave rise to speculation in the mind of the officer from Vine Street, and in that of Michael Corcoran, K.C. Charitably, they formed identical, but inaccurate deductions (a thick night); Corcoran furtively winked at the police sergeant, and the sergeant winked back. They understood one another.
The young Flight Lieutenant ordered coffee, in a nervous manner, glancing about him almost apologetically. Learned counsel, who noted his accent, determined that the officer was a man of culture and a citizen of the United States. However, as such was the rule at the Sawby Club, no one paid any further attention to him, except Mrs. Ryley, who said: “Good mornin’, sir. Going to be ‘ot, I fancy.”
“Maybe you are right,” he replied; and his momentary smile was that not of a rather careworn man but that of a likeable boy.
Sawby turned on the radio. The young airman, making an effort to set himself at ease, took out his cigarette case, and as Mrs. Ryley stood immediately beside him, offered it to her.
“Thank you kindly, sir. But I don’t ‘old with ladies smokin’ in public.”
“That’s too bad.” He smiled again and lighted one himself, then returned the case to his pocket as the announcer began to read the news bulletin.
This was commonplace enough, a brief and uninspiring report. Then, nearly at the end, the following item occurred: —
“Listeners who are familiar with his popular postscripts will regret to learn that Sir Giles Loeder was killed in the West End of London last night in mysterious circumstances.”
The effect of this announcement on the group in general was not marked by any profound sympathy. Someone said, “Poor devil!” and someone else said: “I heard ‘im broadcast only last night.” Sergeant Roper shook his head. “Too many of these thugs getting busy in the black-out,” he muttered. “No news of the case when I left.” But to this apathy the Air Force pilot proved an exception.
He took so large a mouthful of hot coffee that he almost choked. Mrs. Ryley helpfully patted him on the back. He thanked her, his eyes streaming. As he had dropped his cigarette, he took out and lighted another. Then, disposing of his nearly boiling coffee in huge gulps until he had swallowed sufficient to justify his departure, with a muttered “Good morning” he walked off.
Michael Corcoran, his distinguished features marked by a puzzled frown, watched the slim blue figure seemingly dissolve into mist. At one moment the man was there, then he began to fade; and before he had reached the corner, he was gone ...
Later still on this misty morning Fay Perigal, having changed into uniform in the nurses’ room at Otterly Hospital, looked up with a start, for she had been in a reverie, as the door opened and the matron came in.
“Good morning, dear,” said Mrs. Maddison. “I expect you are rather tired.”
It was unusual for matron to address any of the nurses in her charge as “dear,” but Fay Perigal, perhaps because she was pretty, or because she was highly efficient, or because (for these accidents are said to count) she was related to the Marquis of Ord, had been a great favorite of Mrs. Maddison’s from the first.
She was “Nurse Perigal” in public, but “Fay,” or “dear” in private.
“Yes, I am rather tired, matron. In many ways I had a dreadful time.”
“Was it such a wild party?”
Mrs. Maddison, her beautiful graying hair never disarranged, her poise unchangeably serene, permitted a worldly twinkle to animate her eyes which few had seen there.
Fay shook her head. “No, it was gay enough, as wartime parties go. Julie and I were at school together: I should have hated not to be there. But first of all, owing to some mistake, and I am not blaming anybody, I found myself alone in London with nowhere to sleep! And then�
��” she repressed a shudder— “I found myself mixed up in a murder.”
“A murder?” The twinkle disappeared from Mrs. Maddison’s eyes; her expression became one of some gravity.
“Yes. You see, in despair I went to my cousin’s house.”
“Lord Marcus Amberdale?”
“Yes, Marcus. It was pouring with rain, there wasn’t a taxi in sight, and I hoped to be able to slip in and sleep on the couch, or anywhere.”
“At what time was this, dear? And how did you propose to slip in?”
“Oh, the door is always practically open — at least, everybody knows where he keeps the key. But when I did get in, I found the place in the hands of the police. There was a murdered man lying in the lobby!”
“Fay! whatever do you mean? What had happened?”
“Nobody knows what had happened. At least, no one knew up to the time that I left this morning. Haven’t you heard the news, matron?”
“No, I have not.”
“It was Sir Giles Loeder.”
“Dead?”
“Yes — murdered; at least they think so.”
“Gracious heavens, child! Most charming man! Why, he was here only last month. You yourself showed him round.”
“I know I did.”
Fay remembered telling the police that she had disliked Sir Giles. Now she knew that she must not tell matron why: that in exercising his charm upon Mrs. Maddison Sir Giles had been endeavoring to serve a purpose. The reason of Fay’s dislike was that Sir Giles had made urgent overtures to his charming guide, pressing her to dine with him in London the same night, and undertaking to use his influence to obtain the necessary leave.
“But how perfectly terrible!”
“I can’t tell you what it was like. As though I hadn’t been unhappy enough before.”
“Unhappy, dear, about what?”
And now, without warning, as Mrs. Maddison watched, tears welled up in Fay’s eyes. “My dear, what is it?” The matron stooped and clasped the girl’s shoulders. “Whatever is the matter? Can’t you tell me?”
