by Sax Rohmer
“Quite proper. What is it?”
“One of my fish has been netted by someone else, and I am angry, but yes — furious. It is Sir Giles Loeder. Understand that I am interested in Sir Giles, and for someone to murder him is inconsiderate to a degree. It is Inspector Firth’s business to discover this poacher upon my preserves, and it is my business to help him.”
“Yes, that’s so.” Colonel O’Halloran gripped his pipe so tightly that his jaw muscles protruded. “Do you mean there was something fishy about Loeder?”
“It may be. Who knows? I have much to learn. One must not jump to conclusions; but some small points come to my knowledge. Item: Sir Giles was a confirmed gambler.”
“Sure of that?”
“But certain. He was a regular visitor to the underground roulette games which are played in Mayfair. I think it very likely that he was coming from one of these when he met his death. He carried a portfolio which may have contained winnings—”
“Portfolio? Firth didn’t tell me that.”
“The Inspector must have forgotten to do so. He knows. This portfolio has not been found. Very well. Now, to-night, I make another discovery. Wake, the butler who has been questioned about the death of Sir Giles, is perhaps connected in some way with roulette, also. Here, I think, is a link which Inspector Firth should test.”
“Entirely agree with you.”
“Because it is necessary for me to find out if any association existed between the late Sir Giles and Lord Marcus, or Lord Marcus’s butler, I have been watching them both, you understand? To-night Lord Marcus dined at the Athenaeum. I believe he is still there. But Wake, his butler, went to Gatacre House. I drove him. And when at the end of half an hour or so he came out again, he was so disturbed, this poor Wake, that he failed to observe that he was getting into the same taxi. I then drove him to Grosvenor Square, to the house at which his wife acts as caretaker.”
Colonel O’Halloran grinned appreciatively, his eyes blinking more rapidly than ever. “You know the right moves in this game, Max,” he said. “What’s the point about Gatacre House?”
“The point is, my colonel, that a woman called Destrée lives at Gatacre House, and I believe that it was Destrée that Wake went to call upon.”
“H’m!” mused the colonel. “Believed to be back of roulette racket. But never got clear evidence. They use different addresses. Very cunning. Lot of money behind it. What makes you think Wake called on Destrée?”
“I followed him in. As the elevator ascended I checked it on the indicator. He got out on the fourth floor.”
“Does Destrée live on fourth?”
“No, no — on the third.”
Colonel O’Halloran removed his pipe. “Talkin’ rot, aren’t you? Don’t make sense.”
“But not at all. On the fourth floor there is a Mr. Julian Francis. He is an associate of Destrée’s. Behold! it is sufficient?”
“Yes — I see. What I don’t see is reason you’re interested in these people.”
Gaston Max shrugged. “Destrée is ground bait for my fish. But tell the good inspector, if you please, carefully to watch Wake. For if Wake is connected with Destrée, as I believe, he may know more about what happened to Sir Giles than he has told the police.”
Colonel O’Halloran lay back in his padded armchair, an unusual relaxation which possibly indicated fatigue. “Are you suggesting Destrée had anything to do with Sir Giles’s murder?”
“But not necessarily. Also, it is not my case. But I think it only fair to Inspector Firth that he should know these things. I think it, also, only fair to me, that there should not be clumsiness. I want no shrimps, I want no cockles; it is my king fish I am seeking to net.”
The Assistant Commissioner laid his hot pipe aside and began to roll a cigarette. “Devil of a lot of information leaking, Max. Sooner you hook king fish the better. Can’t think where they collect it; can’t think how they get it through.”
Gaston Max watched him, and the usually mobile features had become still, almost sombre ... “There is a raid by Combined Operations pending, my colonel, as you know—”
“But I don’t know when it starts. I bet your king fish doesn’t know either.”
“I pray you may be right.” Max stood up, casting the brief, sombre mood aside and displaying his brilliant teeth in a quick smile. “To-morrow I have a small investigation to make. You are aware that I hold a medical degree of the Sorbonne — for how can one hope to gain the heights of our difficult profession lacking a knowledge of forensic medicine? Eh bien, as I have reasons for remaining incognito, I become then a respectable professional man, a fugitive from Paris.” He extended his palms. “Behold!”
“Do you think you look like a respectable professional man from Paris?”
“But certainly.”
“Well, you don’t. Good-night.”
Early on the following morning, Nurse Perigal was about to leave Otterly Hospital when she was recalled by the matron.
“Oh, nurse,” cried Mrs. Maddison, standing at the door of her office (this formality of address was occasioned by the presence of two orderlies), “I must detain you for a moment. Will you please come in.”
Fay stopped nervously. Moods of preoccupation latterly had possessed her, a fact which had not escaped the vigilant eye of the matron and which that observant lady knew to be due to the tangled affairs of Fay’s unknown friend who evidently engaged so much of the girl’s affections. However, forcing a smile, Fay walked into the office and found standing there by the matron’s desk a man of striking appearance.
The visitor wore a blue suit with an undeniably red stripe, a green, spotted tie, and a conspicuously blue soft collared shirt. A wide brimmed hat lay upon the desk, and its owner was swinging a monocle upon its cord around and around one extended forefinger. Fay thought that he looked like an actor, particularly noting his beautiful hands.
“Dr. de Brion,” said Mrs. Maddison— “this is Nurse Perigal, who will be glad, I know, to act as your guide to the ward where we are taking care of the French boys.” She turned to Fay: “This is Dr. de Brion, from Fighting French headquarters, nurse, and he would like a chat with some of our patients.”
Dr. de Brion revealed glittering teeth in a smile of frank admiration. Raising Fay’s hand, he stooped and kissed it. “A beautiful morning, matron,” he said, “and you find me a beautiful guide.”
“I shall be glad if I can be of any service to you, doctor,” Fay replied.
“But you have been of service already,” he assured her; “your smile would lift its load from the heaviest heart. I am obliged to you, matron.” He bowed to Mrs. Maddison, “I shall try not to detain Nurse Perigal longer than necessary, although the temptation to do so will be great.”
On their way upstairs to the ward at the end of the south wing which accommodated the French pilots, Dr. de Brion succeeded in putting Fay completely at her ease, so that she felt as though she had known him all her life. Even before he had plunged into voluble conversation with the first of the patients whom she introduced, Fay had decided that he was brilliantly clever. He discussed symptoms and made suggestions of so shrewdly practical a character that he clearly understood his profession. The reaction of the wounded airmen, all of whom he left laughing happily, paid vital tribute to his bedside manner.
He distributed cigarettes with a lavish hand, from a case emblazoned with a diamond crest, which particularly attracted Fay’s attention. He told funny stories and he performed sleight of hand tricks. Before leaving the ward, he promised to come again, a promise which produced cheers, physically feeble but heartfelt, from the occupants. As they walked down the stone stairs together on their way to the ground floor, Dr. de Brion took Fay’s arm in his affectionately friendly manner, and began to speak with sudden seriousness of her own affairs.
“My friend Dr. Fawcett,” he said, “reported to me about you. You remember meeting Dr. Fawcett?”
“Oh, good heavens, yes!” Fay’s eyes opened in a
startled way. “You mean the doctor who came with the police to Marcus’s house?”
“Yes, yes, to the house of your cousin Marcus. He has been talking to me, you understand; and when he heard that I was visiting here, he asked me to talk to you.”
“That was very kind of him, but what about?”
“Well, what more fascinating subject could there be than yourself?”
“Oh, but you are joking again.”
They had regained the frigid lobby, and Fay stood facing the visitor, trying to read some message in those vivacious eyes, but reading nothing save good humor and admiration. She supposed that Dr. de Brion’s rather colorful style of dressing must be professionally correct in Paris; it was certainly unusual in England. Hearing their voices, the matron came out, and Dr. de Brion turned to her.
“Have I your permission, dear madam, to see Nurse Perigal upon her way?”
“But, of course, doctor. How charming of you.”
He took the matron’s hands and kissed them gallantly. “Soon I shall be coming to see those dear fellows again, and to see you, madam ...”
Outside the gray building and clear of ambulances which stood in its courtyard, they walked on in silence through the outskirts of Otterly; and soon (for Otterly was little more than a village) gained the open country. Dr. de Brion inhaled fragrant morning air and looked about him with unconcealed delight. Once, he paused, and stared up into a clear blue sky.
“Wild geese!” he exclaimed— “like a flight of planes! Ha! There is water in the neighborhood?”
“Yes, Umley Mere, quite near to Rosemary Cottage, where I am going now, doctor. I sometimes watch a kingfisher working there.”
“A kingfisher! turquoise with wings! A fairy jewel wearing a robin’s waistcoat! Ah!” His eyes seemed to dance as he turned to her, in recognition of her kinship with the fairyland of nature. “You, too, love the wild things.”
“Yes, I suppose I do, doctor,” said Fay, and spoke a little sadly. “They seem so much more free and so much happier than we do. But perhaps, if we knew more about their lives—”
“Yes, yes, they may have their small bothers, too. Name of a good little man, but certainly. There will be Mrs. Kingfishers who are jealous of Miss Kingfishers. There will be angry geese, and misunderstood geese. Robins fight like the very devil: I have seen them. And the starlings — well, well, those gluttonous starlings! Why don’t they get fat? Oh, I know them all.”
“Evidently you do,” said Fay; and she laughed for the first time that morning, a laugh so young and so fresh that the man who studied her found himself wondering, again, what cloud had cast its shadow over her life: he had instinctively detected the presence of such a cloud.
Illumination on this point was soon to come; for, following a brief silence, Fay suddenly asked, “Do you ever visit the R.A.F. hospital at Ashbrown, doctor?”
“Ashbrown in Hampshire? But, yes — I was there only a week ago. Why do you ask?”
Watching her face, he detected a faint shade of embarrassment, and mentally answered his own question.
“A — very old friend of mine was there until recently—”
“But French?”
“No, not French. He is an American: Flight Lieutenant Hawke Kershaw.”
“Hawke Kershaw? Of an Eagle Squadron?”
“Yes. I only wondered if you had happened to meet him.” She spoke with complete calmness, but looked straight ahead.
“I cannot recall the name, Nurse Fay. I went to visit a French officer who was formerly a colleague, but I met some others also. Describe, if you please, this fortunate Hawke Kershaw.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can, really. He is tall and slim, and has dark brown hair—”
“Dark brown hair? And gray eyes?”
“No — blue eyes.”
“Blue. He is a handsome fellow?”
Fay, who had flushed momentarily, now seemed to grow more pale than usual. “Yes, I suppose he is rather good looking, doctor.”
“I fear I cannot have met him, Nurse Fay. Was he a — dangerous case?”
“No.” Fay shook her head. “That’s what puzzles me. He was shot down and wounded in the foot. At first, they were afraid he might be crippled, and walk with a limp—”
“With a limp, you say?”
“Yes. But he wrote to tell us that although he actually did limp slightly, with rest and massage this would disappear. We expected him down here, but — well, he seems to have vanished!”
“He has vanished, eh? A strange fellow. But his station will tell you where he is — yes?”
“There is so much official secrecy, doctor. Beyond finding out that he is on sick leave I haven’t been able to learn a thing. But as you don’t know him, why should I bother you about it. Please tell me what it was that Dr. Fawcett suggested you should ask me?”
They had paused in a narrow, winding lane. A lime tree towered above a briar hedge gemmed with rubies, its leaves a furtive gold as if reluctantly yielding to the spell of autumn; and Dr. de Brion seemed temporarily to have forgotten his companion.
“But, yes.” He turned suddenly and that glittering smile brushed a shadow magically from his face. “But, of course! He is much concerned, my faith, the good doctor, about your cousin Lord Marcus.”
“I suppose he thinks he is mad?”
“But no, name of a name, not mad — eccentric.”
“Is there any difference?” murmured Fay.
“A distinction. Or so they used to tell me at the Salpêtrière, Paris, where for a time I studied such matters. But he thinks, Dr. Fawcett, that your cousin is so lost in his studies that perhaps advantage is taken of him.”
As they began slowly to walk along again: “I am afraid that may be true,” Fay admitted. “He is, of course, quite unworldly. Perhaps Dr. Fawcett was thinking about—” she hesitated— “Mrs. Vane.”
“Yes, perhaps it may be that he had in mind the beautiful Mrs. Vane. But also, perhaps, the butler, Wake.”
“Oh! don’t you trust Wake?”
“He looks in every way completely the perfect butler. I fear such characters. But you, my dear, no doubt you have known him for a long time. So tell me, please. What do you think of this Wake?”
“Well, since you ask me,” Fay replied, “I don’t know that I have ever felt quite sure about him, myself. But then, do you think anybody ever did understand butlers?”
One would have said that Dr. de Brion’s mobile features reacted to a hundred and one amusing thoughts, presumably relative to butlers. “All butlers terrify me,” he assured her. “But you can tell me, no doubt, how long Lord Marcus has had this butler?”
“Oh, for more than three years — since before the war.”
“For more than three years, eh? If there had been something wrong with him, anyone could find this out in three years, I think?”
“Anyone but Marcus,” Fay amended. “So far as I am aware, Wake is a model servant. No doubt he expects his perks—”
“Perks? what is this, perks? I must conquer this word, perks.”
Fay laughed outright again. “It is argot, a vulgarism, an abbreviation,” she explained. “It means perquisites, and I understand that all butlers expect them.”
“Oh, yes, name of a name! I understand. I shall add this word to my repertory. The odd cigar, the half decanter of port, this and that no doubt? Perks. It is a delightful word. And this Mrs. Vane you know but slightly, I suppose?”
“Very slightly.” Fay made a tiny grimace. “She is not living with Marcus, or anything of that kind, although I understand she has the run of the house. But he really believes that she possesses psychic powers.”
“A medium, shall we say?”
“Yes, a medium, or so Marcus has assured me. Of course, she may be, but she has a suite at the Barchester and dresses better than almost any other woman in London to-day, so that I suppose—”
“You suppose that she must be a very good medium? Well, well, my dear—” he patted her shoulde
r— “the laborer is worthy of his hire. It is perhaps that we are unenlightened. Ah! the beautiful prospect. Let me see — what house is that?”
13
Treasure Island
The lane crossed an old stone bridge over a meandering stream. Looking down, one could see roach and carp in clear water which moved lazily over a pebbly bottom. Northward of this bridge the ground rose through parkland to a wooded bay which enshrined a red brick mansion.
“That is Huskin Court,” said Fay, “and the cottage there in the hollow — look, you will see it if you follow the stream — is Rosemary Cottage, where my patient is convalescing. It is on the Huskin Court estate, and has been made over to us by Lord Huskin.”
“But how intriguing,” Max commented, surveying Huskin Court appreciatively; “a stately home of England, yes?”
“Yes, part of it is certainly stately, and very old. But Lord Huskin, who is reputed to be a millionaire, has made a number of changes, I believe. He is very much liked and respected about here. His generosity is wonderful.”
“That is nice: — to possess wealth and to use it. That is also wise. For what is money but a golden key? How great a fool is the man who hides the key and never opens the door that it fits! And now, Nurse Fay, the morning is so beautiful that I am reluctant to return to London — that poor patient old London. May I come to your cottage with the romantic name, and make the acquaintance of your case?”
“Oh!” Fay assured him, and there was no mistaking the warmth and sincerity of the invitation, “I wish you would. He has been rather badly knocked about, and he is subject to moods of terrible depression. That’s really the worst we have to contend with, now. You are — well, such a tonic—”
“No man should require a tonic who has you near him,” said Dr. de Brion. “But I have forgotten your patient’s name.”
“Squadron Leader Dan Corcoran.”
“Ah! the great Dan Corcoran, the pride of Fighter Command, is it not so? Of course, certainly, but yes. I must meet him. He suffers from depression, you say? But pilots must never be depressed. They must be exalted.”
