by Sax Rohmer
Hurrying footsteps, discreet instructions; and Lady Huskin, her head enveloped in a vast white towel which lent her the appearance of a eunuch, hurried as quickly as high heels would permit, across the lobby to a side-table on which a telephone stood. Mlle. Dorine, making sure that the caller was connected, placed the instrument in Lady Huskin’s hand, and withdrew. As her ladyship took it up:
“Don’t forget to give Dandini his biscuits,” she called.
Mrs. Jameson, the only other client present, being manicured by Miss Dora, was evidently chatting with that somewhat frigid blonde, since the tones of a more cultured voice from the cubicle became silent as though the speaker found herself stupefied by a monologue which now began at the telephone.
“Teddie darling. How simply sweet of you. How did you find out I was here?... Oh, I see. Are you coming along for me? Oh! What’s that, darling ... Isn’t it simply terrible ... Sir Giles was so completely charming ... Yes, he was a dear ... Oh, I was horrified when I read it this morning. Whatever can have happened? It makes me simply terrified to move out after dark ... Yes, Teddie darling ... Must have been a dreadful shock to that fascinating Mrs. Destrée ... They seemed to be such old friends ... Oh, yes, I realised that, Teddie. I thought she was most charming to you, too. But then, she’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
Complete silence reigned in the cubicle occupied by Mrs. Jameson. The ‘phone conversation continued.
“To think we were all together last night and having such a good time. Then, such a horrible thing to happen ... No, I don’t quite know how long I shall be, darling. Miss Rita — you know, the brunette, who is attending to me — seems a little distrait to-day, I thought. Something on her mind, yes ... Oh! sure to be a love affair ... What do you say? Good heavens! really! No, I didn’t see her. You think he kept her out of the way when he found that I was there, you mean?... Yes, I understand, darling. Poor dear Sir Giles, he was always so tactful.”
Lady Huskin’s white turban had begun to slip forward, and she had soap in her eyes; but she persevered, undeterred by these minor difficulties.
“But doesn’t he play for terribly high stakes? And wins, too. Oh, Teddie! listen! It has just occurred to me. Do you think he was robbed?... Yes, darling, it is quite possible, isn’t it ... I did enjoy the game. Now that one can’t get to Monte Carlo, and all that ... Yes, it was fun. But how his death must have alarmed poor Mrs. Destrée. Yes, of course, it would. They have to be careful, don’t they. But there will be another roulette game, dear?... Oh, that’s lovely ... Of course you can’t tell me on the ‘phone. I realise that, Teddie darling. But you will let me know, then we can dine together and go on later ... Yes, I should simply love it ... Of course I will bring plenty of money ... Yes, I promise ... Oh, I know there’s no fun unless one has plenty of money ... Very well. In the Ritz Bar, darling, when I have had my hair done. Good-bye, Teddie darling.”
When presently Mrs. Jameson left, which she did some time before Lady Huskin, one saw that she was a tweed clad, middle-aged lady, with tanned complexion, who wore sensible shoes and economy stockings; the wife of a country doctor, or possibly of a clergyman, up in town for the day.
10
Reports and Theories
Sergeant Bluett walked into Chief Inspector Firth’s office and placed a bulky volume upon the desk before the Chief Inspector. Bluett’s manner was abstracted; one would have said that his thoughts were far away. And that such indeed was the case presently appeared, for Firth, glancing at the volume, raised his eyes, lids contracted and stared at his assistant.
“Ye may recall, Bluett, that I asked you to bring me from the library the latest edition of Burke’s Peerage. This is Who’s Who.”
“So it is!” Bluett stared down at the volume with ingenuous surprise. “Funny thing of me to do, bringing Who’s Who.”
“Ye’ll never know who’s who,” said the Chief Inspector, “until ye know what’s what. However, as it happens, I can make do with this.”
“You see,” Bluett went on apologetically, “I was thinking about something else.”
“A recognised formula for success.”
“Well, I’ve been checking up on Mrs. Vane. You know my theory of the crime? Well, what I’ve found out supports it.”
“Indeed! is that so?”
“Yes. She used to be Sir Giles Loeder’s mistress.”
“Are you sure?” The Inspector’s tawny eyes challenged him.
“I confirmed it by going through the files of social paragraphs from the Riviera. Sir Giles took a villa for her at Cannes in 1937. She lived there during that winter. As I take it she is practically living with Lord Marcus now, looks as though I might have found something out.”
“And it looks as though you might not. If your idea is that Lord Marcus killed Sir Giles in a fit of jealousy, where does the missing portfolio come in? Furthermore, where did the struggle take place? There was no sign of a struggle in the lobby!”
“The portfolio might have been lost between the time that Max saw Sir Giles, and the time that Sir Giles met Lord Marcus. He had a service flat not three hundred yards away. It might even have been left there.”
“You were there yoursel’ this morning. Did you find it?”
Sergeant Bluett took an evening paper from his left-hand coat pocket and put it in the right. “No,” he confessed. “I found nothing in the way of evidence. There never was such a man for locking things up, I should think — and until we have authority we can’t open his bureau or his safe.”
“We’ll get the authority,” said Firth, “but I doubt if we’ll find the portfolio.”
“H’m!” said Bluett, “you may be right. Have you heard from Lady Loeder?”
“Yes,” the Chief Inspector nodded. “It seems that she has been more or less an invalid for some time. She lived at Llandudno, apart from her late husband, except when he visited her there, which, I gather, was verra seldom. It is clear enough, Bluett, that he led a double life.”
“That’s right,” said Bluett; “married to the daughter of a Cabinet Minister, too.”
“Aye, it’s a fact.”
“There’s altogether something too mysterious,” continued Bluett, “about Lord Marcus, and all his friends and relations. I called at the Clarking’s house in Grosvenor Square where Mrs. Wake acts as caretaker, but she was out. I could get no reply. I am going back again. Wake is as tight as a limpet, but his wife may spill a thing or two about him.”
“You think he knows more than he has told us?”
“Well, he’s a sly looking bird, and I am not satisfied that Sir Giles hadn’t been there before. I should like a long talk with Mrs. Vane, but I don’t want to make her suspicious.”
“No.”
Firth rested his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands in that characteristic attitude of his. “It would be a mistake.”
“Then there’s this Nurse Perigal. I thought of looking her up.”
“The Chief assures me that she may be left out o’ the case. You must remember, Bluett, that he knows the family weel, and we are skating on thin ice in dealing wi’ them. Go and see if you can find Mrs. Wake; that might be worth while.”
The ‘phone rang, and, raising the instrument:
“Yes?” said the Chief Inspector. “Please show her to my office.”
And so a moment after Bluett had gone out, Mrs. Jameson came in, and smiled across at Chief Inspector Firth.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jameson.”
“Good evening, Inspector Firth.”
“Won’t you please sit down?”
Mrs. Jameson did so with a manner of great composure, took out a small notebook, and began immediately to speak.
“I don’t know if I should have found anything out, Inspector, if luck hadn’t helped me.”
“Luck solves most of our cases, or such is my own experience,” said Firth.
“You underrate yourself,” she smiled. “Well, as I was saying, what really helped me was a visit from Lady
Huskin.”
The Chief Inspector raised his eyes. “Wife of Lord Huskin of the Food Ministry?”
“Yes, quite unmistakably. She referred to her husband several times, and always she called him Lord Huskin.”
Chief Inspector Firth grinned appreciatively, showing his lower teeth, and Mrs. Jameson laughed outright, a silvery laugh which was most infectious.
“I listened to a conversation with the girl called Rita, but except that she was obviously worried about something, I might not have learned much if it had not been for a telephone conversation which Lady Huskin carried on with someone called Teddie Olivar.”
“You have a note of the name?”
“Yes, I have all the notes. From this conversation, which was not disguised in any way, I learned that Lady Huskin and Teddie Olivar had been at a roulette party.”
“Roulette!” the Inspector exclaimed, his tawny eyes lighting up.
“Yes; I thought it was a trifle significant, particularly as it appears that Sir Giles Loeder was there, too.”
“Gad!” said the Inspector, bringing one long, powerful hand down upon the desk. “We are making headway.”
“I gathered that this girl, Rita, was actually with Sir Giles at the party. It seems to have been given by someone called Mrs. Destrée.”
“Destrée! that settles it. That’s something we wanted to know. Go ahead, Mrs. Jameson. I have a quantity o’ material about Destrée.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she went on quietly, “because there is to be another roulette party. I rather thought, but I cannot be sure, that it will take place on Wednesday night, at a different address. I think it possible that Lady Huskin’s chauffeur (his name is Payne) might be useful in learning this address: but he would have to be approached tactfully.” She glanced at her notes. “Lady Huskin suggested to Teddie, the man to whom she was talking, that as Sir Giles played for high stakes and seemed to win, he might have had money in his possession on the night of his murder.”
“My own theory,” murmured Firth.
“It seems to be a fairly good theory, Inspector. Lady Huskin, when she returned to her cubicle, which adjoined mine, taxed this girl Rita about her friendship with Sir Giles. Rita had to admit that she had actually been with him that evening, although Lady Huskin had not seen her. Rita and Sir Giles left together. Yes — and he was carrying a leather case when he saw her off in a taxi.”
“Which confirms the statement o’ Gaston Max. How, in the name o’ heaven, the dead man got into Sir Marcus’s house is something the imagination boggles at, but that he was murdered for his money I think is as plain as a pikestaff.”
“I have made another appointment at Simone’s,” added Mrs. Jameson, “and, of course, I may learn more.”
“Ye have learned a lot a’ready,” said Chief Inspector Firth. “By the way, Mrs. Jameson, I should be obliged, as you go about, if ye would keep your eyes open for a man wi’ a limp ...”
11
Destrée of the Lilies
Lord Marcus Amberdale sat in his darkened study which was lighted only by the shaded desk lamp. He wore reading glasses with tortoiseshell rims and was absorbed in a manuscript which contained numerous Egyptian hieroglyphics and other mysterious signs. He seemed to be checking this manuscript from a papyrus laid upon the desk beside him, that same papyrus which had been there on the night of the mysterious crime. One would say, in fact, that it had never been moved, for it was still held down by those four unusual paper weights — a piece of quartz, a figure of Set, a fossilised fish and the mummied hand of a woman.
Lord Marcus wore a double-breasted black velvet coat, his invariable substitute for the more conventional evening dress. In lieu of the usual black bow, he displayed a stock which revealed merely the top rim of a high white collar. It lent to his naturally distinguished appearance an odd touch of the Regency. In the downcast light, as his long, sensitive, fingers turned over pages, a spark shone as from the eye of a reptile out of the heart of a green scarab ring which he habitually wore. The house with the scarlet door was silent, its atmosphere faintly permeated by that haunting odor of incense. The sound of a discreet rap interrupted the reader.
“Come in,” said Lord Marcus, without raising his eyes from the manuscript.
The door opened and Wake entered. “An apéritif, my lord, or are you still fasting?”
“No,” murmured Lord Marcus absently; “I mean, Wake, I am no longer fasting. Angostura and soda.”
“Very good, my lord. You are dining out, I believe.”
“I am dining at the club. You need not wait up.”
Wake withdrew as silently as he had entered, and Lord Marcus continued his studies. The mummy in its case just inside the door seemed to be watching him, and sometimes a chance reflection caused by the turning of a page might have suggested to a nervous onlooker that the highly varnished brown hand which lay so near to Lord Marcus’s own slender white hand edged every now and again a little nearer.
If Lord Marcus had dismissed, as apparently he had dismissed, memories of those gruesome happenings which had disturbed his household, clearly this was not the case with Wake. For as Wake went about his duties, passing between the kitchen quarters and the study, rarely did he fail to glance at the Roman couch. Nevertheless his manner when presently he returned, bearing a long necked Venetian glass upon a silver salver, was irreproachably correct. With a slight premonitory cough, he placed the glass conveniently within reach of Lord Marcus, and, the salver under his arm, stood for a moment beside the polished desk.
“Will there be anything further, my lord?”
“Nothing further, Wake. You may go out if you wish.”
“Good-night, my lord.”
“Good-night, Wake.”
Wake withdrew, glanced at the vacant couch, and retired to what he called his pantry, a square alcove curtained off from the kitchen. Here were shelves well laden for war days, and uttering a profound sigh, Wake brewed himself an apéritif, somewhat more stimulating than that which he had recently placed before his employer. Fortified with this and the smoke of a cigarette, which he inhaled luxuriously, Wake took stock of events; and in his rather small, speculative eyes it might have been read that he detected breakers ahead.
Accustomed to the ways of this orderly household, he was aware that Lord Marcus would never set foot in the kitchen. Therefore, when presently he heard his lordship preparing to go out, he merely placed his cigarette in an ashtray, his drink beside it, and tentatively showed himself at the end of the passage.
Lord Marcus, wearing a black French cape, and a wide brimmed soft black hat, was selecting an ebony cane from the cupboard inside the front door. His hand on the latch, he spoke over his shoulder:
“Don’t disturb yourself, Wake; I have all I want.” He went out. The scarlet door closed.
The evening was somewhat dull and cloudy, so that although nearly half an hour remained before black-out time, South Audley Street, to which a few long strides led him, appeared to Lord Marcus already partially cloaked in night. A taxicab stood at the corner, a well-groomed vehicle in charge of a particularly dirty looking driver.
“Taxi, sir?”
“Thank you, no.”
The refusal was courteous but definite, and Mr. Finch, his peaked cap on the back of his reddish brown hair, accepted it with a grin, which revealed those glittering teeth. Had Lord Marcus lived fully in the conscious world, he might have noticed that the flag was down, although the man had offered his services. However, Finch lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his seat, continuing to leave the flag down. Either he was engaged or expected by waiting there to pick up another fare.
South Audley Street presented few evidences of habitation. Two taxis and perhaps three cars passed in the semi-darkness, possibly bound for a near-by hotel, but pedestrians were rare. Presently a constable strode up, surveyed Finch, studied the vehicle, walked around to look at the number, and then addressed the driver.
“Waiting for somebody?”<
br />
“Gent ‘phoned from Number 9A; asked me to wait ‘ere. Sha’n’t wait much longer, though.”
“H’m,” said the officer. “9A — that’s Lord Marcus Amberdale’s. H’m!”
He passed on, the squelch of his wet soles dying away in the distance. The sound of a closing door, a few minutes later, seemed to decide Finch’s next move, for he put his flag up, moved the clutch and slid into slow movement. He was overtaken by a short, broad figure; a man who wore a square pointed collar and black tie, black coat and gray trousers, the outfit crowned by a discreet black hat. A carefully rolled umbrella and suede gloves completed the ensemble.
“Taxi, sir?”
“Yes.” The man opened the door and got in. “Gatacre House.”
The address was that of a block of modern luxury apartments, presenting to the world a flat, grayish façade encrusted with square protuberances in the form of balconies, and resembling the sort of building which is run up temporarily at exhibitions. It contained, however, some of the most expensive suites in London, although many of them were now sublet. Paying off the taximan, Wake walked in.
Where formerly in Gatacre House there had been a hall porter (with top hat) and two lift attendants, there was now nobody; the marble atrium sounded a note of echoing desolation, which was odd, perhaps purely psychological, for all the flats in fact were occupied. The elevators, however, had been equipped for the convenience of residents and were provided with numbered buttons each corresponding to a floor. Wake stepped into that on the left of the hall and pressed a button numbered four.
Arrived at the fourth floor, he reclosed the elevator gate as he stepped out, and proceeded along a carpeted corridor to a door numbered 32. He applied a gloved finger to the bell push and dim buzzing sounded from within. Otherwise, the long shadowy corridor was silent. Presently, a man opened the door of No. 32. He wore evening dress, and at a glance one might have been undecided as to whether he was a superior servant or a gentleman dressed for dinner. Clean shaven and sallow, with heavy, flexible — one might almost have said, rubber, features — he had light blue dancing eyes, heavy dark brows and close-cut graying hair. A sardonic smile, conveying an impression that he found most people ridiculous, caused a dimple to appear and disappear upon his heavy chin in a queerly intriguing way.
