And, as Kay waited, those tense moments of ordeal at the Chelsea restaurant took deferred payment of her nerves. The menace of Waring overshadowed his reality. He seemed always to be just the other side of the wall, outside the window, outside the door; watching, waiting, listening—gloating over her distress.
As the hours passed slowly and the uproar increased, she felt that she would almost welcome his actual presence—as something she could get at grips with—rather than this long drawn-out torture of suspense.
Presently, a sigh from Milly distracted her attention, and she saw that her mother had fallen asleep—one rouged cheek pressed against the tablecloth.
She stirred the fire, and, having glanced at the clock, nerved herself to unbolt the window.
To her relief, the night was over. Vivid white gashes striped the torn sky.
“The dawn!” she cried joyfully.
She thought vaguely of making fresh tea; but—overpowered with sudden weariness—she sank into the nearest chair and dropped into a deep sleep.
Dr. William Tree also spent a bad night. On his homeward way, his ancient boneshaker struck permanently, so that he had to accept a tow back to the town.
His first action had been to ring up the sanatorium. Dr. Perry, who was obviously distraught with worry, had no news beyond the fact that it was believed that Waring had been recognised on the London express.
“Chelsea,” murmured William.
He went to bed feeling annoyed and worried, and lay listening to the buffets of the wind. Several times, he thought that someone was making a forcible entry through his window; and it struck him that his own jerry-built villa, on the fringe of the town, must be a fortress in comparison with the lonely bungalow, exposed to the full fury of the storm.
About seven o’clock, he felt he could ring up Kay, without shortening her sleep, and he dashed to the telephone.
After waiting impatiently for several minutes, the operator spoke down the wire.
“Sorry, but the line’s out of order.”
William’s heart grew leaden with apprehension.
“Why?” he snapped. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the gale,” explained the operator. “There are lines down all over the country.”
William accepted the explanation, but he did not like it.
His young practice was still in the flopping stage and his case-book was awkwardly spaced. It would be impossible to get out to the bungalow until the late afternoon; but he decided to express a letter which would reach Kay that morning, to cheer her with news of his intended visit.
He dashed off his note, meaning to cycle with it to the post office, before breakfast. Just as he was on the point of leaving the surgery, however, his ears caught the exaggerated sound of laurel-bushes scraping against the thin outside wall of the villa.
In a flash, he concealed himself behind the door and waited.
The lower sash of the open window was lifted still higher, and a man slipped into the room. William had a vision of a furtive figure and an unshaven blur of face, as the intruder tiptoed to the mantelshelf and pounced on the letter addressed to Kay.
It made William sick to listen to his exultant pants and chuckles, as he gloated over his prize. He felt his own muscle, and thanked his Maker for endowing him with supernormal strength.
•••
Ten minutes later, Dr. Perry was listening to his breathless but triumphant message.
“Dr. Tree speaking. I’m holding your man here. How soon can you lift him?”
“Immediately,” was the prompt answer. “I can just catch the express. That’ll be quicker than car, and bring me in at nine-thirty. Hold him, whatever you do. He’s cunning and slippery as an eel.”
William rang off, and then called up a colleague to take his morning round. Deciding to postpone his meal, since it was doubtful whether the brain-specialist had yet breakfasted, he sank into a chair, to wait, in lethargic relief, after his strain.
Presently, he glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes past nine. His responsibility was nearly over. He decided to walk to the gate, in five minutes’ time, in order to greet Dr. Perry.
He drew a deep breath at the thought. Heaven alone knew what it would mean for his peace of mind, when he knew that Waring was safe back in the sanatorium.
He looked up, with a start of surprise, as his housekeeper opened the door and Dr. Perry hurried into the dining-room.
“Got him safe?” he asked.
“Boxed and barred.”
“Good.”
The specialist wiped his brow and accepted a cup of coffee.
“A couple of my men are coming along directly,” he explained. “I hadn’t time to wait for them. The instant I got your message I dropped everything and came. He’ll take some shifting.”
“He’s a bit of a man-eater,” admitted William. “I’m very sorry I didn’t meet you, Doctor. I fully intended to.”
As he spoke, he glanced at the clock. It was still twenty minutes past nine.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “Clock’s stopped. What time d’you make it?”
The specialist glanced at his watch.
“Twenty to ten. A clock that stops just about the right time could be a source of real mischief,” he added thoughtfully.
“Quite,” agreed William. “Was your train late?”
“I didn’t catch the express, after all. Lost it by a minute. I came by car, but I stepped on the gas.”
He stopped to watch the rain which was pelting against the window. It reminded him of something.
“By the way,” he said, “when the rain came on, I couldn’t stop to put up the hood. And, as I didn’t want the seats to get soaked standing outside, I took the liberty of running the car into your garage.”
William’s face turned grey.
“The garage?” He spoke with an effort. “But—it was locked.”
“Not locked. A bar across the staples.”
“I know.”
William leapt to his feet.
“Hurry, man!” he cried. “You’ve let Waring out!”
As he dashed through the door, his eye fell upon the clock, and he reflected bitterly, that had he been waiting at the gate, as had been his intention, the tragedy would have been averted.
For a stopped clock—the most harmless object in its futility—can, on occasion, become potent with the powers of life and death.
•••
When the two men reached the shed—which served for garage—the double doors were wide open and the car had gone.
They stared at each other, in stunned horror.
“Didn’t you see him when you ran your car in?” asked William.
“No. It was dark and he was possibly hiding behind the door. Why—in Heaven’s name—didn’t you lock the door?”
“Key was lost, and I hadn’t bothered about it, because no one would want my old stinkpot. And the garage seemed the safest place for Waring, as it was without windows. I’d warned my housekeeper and the surgery-boy—and there was no one else.”
“But why didn’t you truss him up?”
William shrugged wearily.
“What with? I keep bandages in my surgery, not rope. We had the devil of a dust-up. By sheer luck, I knocked him out, and when he was groggy, managed to drag him to the garage.”
“But—later?”
“Later? I was all in. Think I’d risk a second fight in the garage, and probably get knocked out myself? I thought I’d wait for you and your men to tackle him. The chances were a thousand to one against anyone letting him out, and he’d be there now, but for that infernal clock.”
Dr. Perry shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Well, there’s no time to waste. We can trace him through the car. That is, if he’s not too cunning to dump her, once
he’s got clear away.”
•••
Suddenly, William’s mind recovered from its shock. He had a ghastly recollection of his letter to Kay shaking in the fever of Waring’s clutch.
“My God!” he cried. “He’s gone after the girl!”
It taxed Dr. Perry’s specialised training to calm his frenzy, and restrain him from riding off on his old push-bicycle, in pursuit. He was still shaken by his brain-storm, when the car—hired, by telephone, from the nearest garage—splashed over the muddy road, on its way to the bungalow.
The sky was blotched with heavy clouds, which travelled over the heavens and burst in local storms, like slanting black wires. Sometimes, a white gleam of light would pass, like a searchlight, over the fields. The scene was unearthly and foreboding as a bad dream.
William sat in dumb agony, wrenching his thoughts from the fear that they might be too late. Yet he was stung by the irony of the rescue. They two were responsible for the situation. They had unloosened a ravening Waring upon a defenceless Kay. One had supplied her address and the other had given him liberty and a car.
At last, they reached the bungalow, set amid its cropping chicken-coops and pens.
William rose up in his seat and then gave a shout of joy.
“They’re safe! Hullo!”
He pointed to a rising slope, where two figures were outlined against a livid sky; one, in trousers and incongruous dangling green earrings—the other in short wine-red skirt and sweater, facing the wind with the vigour and radiance of youth.
Dr. Perry gave them but one glance.
He, too, had risen in his seat and his keen eye had espied a far-off object in a tributary lane.
“The car. Ditched. Look out, Tree! He must be somewhere near.”
“If he is, we’ll soon have him out,” responded William cheerfully, leaping from the car.
“What’s that?” asked Dr. Perry sharply, as they passed through the gate.
William laughed.
“Took you in, too? That’s Kay’s scarecrow.”
“A mighty realistic one.” Dr. Perry gave it a longer look. “Come, there’s not much cover here.”
It was the work of a few minutes to search the chicken-houses, although William stopped in the middle, to greet Kay and her mother and to explain the situation.
Fortified by daylight and the presence of two men, both remained calm.
“He might have slipped into the bungalow, while we were out,” said Kay. “It’s plain he’s nowhere here. Come and look!”
Dr. Perry, however, lingered. His eye swept over field and low hedge. There was no ditch or furrow, and hardly cover for a fox.
Then his glance was once again caught and arrested by the scarecrow.
He touched William’s arm and spoke in a low voice.
“I’d like a closer inspection of that gentleman.”
The two men advanced warily: but, as they drew nearer the scarecrow, the illusion of humanity faded.
Dr. Perry laughed.
“A fine take-in,” he confessed. “Your young friend has some idea of anatomy. Studied art, you say? Well, now for the bungalow.”
The scarecrow hung mute and lifeless. It had played its part in the grim conspiracy. It had held the eye and distracted the attention of those who might have made a closer search.
Directly the voices had faded behind the closed doors of the bungalow, there was a stir, followed by a disruption, in a large pile of leaves, rotting into mould.
From under the heap, emerged an earth-stained figure, which writhed its way swiftly over the grass, to its ally—the scarecrow.
•••
A minute later, the scarecrow hung again on its supporting poles. The collar of its weatherproof met the brim of its hat; its hands and legs looked no more lifelike than the padded gloves and breeches, which were buried with the rest of the straw, under the leaf-mould.
There was only one difference. A button—wrenched off, in the mad haste—was missing from the middle of the coat.
But the scarecrow was content. It had only to wait. It must not stir a muscle, lest someone should be watching from the bungalow. Its two enemies were there. And to hang from the pole, like a bat, was easy, for while the body was slack, the mind could wander.
The scarecrow knew that she was here. It had heard her voice as it lay under the pile of leaf-mould. But there was another voice beside, and he wanted her—alone.
It knew it had but to wait, and she would come. On the ground, beside it, lay a key. She was always dropping keys. Once, she had dropped the key of her flat in the scarecrow’s studio, and, because it had grasped the obvious implication, she had made a terrible scene.
She would fool men no more. The scarecrow was waiting for her to come. Two minutes would suffice—and then, its enemies might come.
They would find nothing left of any use to them.
•••
Inside the bungalow, voices were raised in discussion and laughter. Only Dr. Perry chafed at the delay, for he was anxious to pick up the trail. Milly—who had donned femininity with high-heeled French shoes and a long red cigarette-holder—tried to charm him in vain.
“Waring can’t be far off,” he asserted. “You and I’d better move on, Tree.”
William shook his head.
“If he’s lurking around, I’m not going to leave Kay.”
“Oh, I feel quite safe now.” Kay laughed happily. “But I’ll own up, I simply can’t face another night.”
“You shan’t,” declared William. “If he’s not caught by then, I’ll sleep in the sitting-room. But it will be safer to catch him. Perhaps, I’d better look around for about half an hour.”
Dr. Perry clinched his decision.
“Wisest course, Tree. We’re bound to get him if we’re systematic. I’ll follow the road in the car, while you beat the fields.”
“In this rain, and without a coat?” protested Kay indig-
nantly.
Then her face cleared.
“I have it. The scarecrow is wearing Roly’s old Burberry. You’d better have that.”
“Righto. That’s a clinking dummy of yours, Kay.”
She gurgled.
“I loved making it. And I feel a worm to strip it, when it protected us so nobly through that horrible night.”
William walked to the door, but turned, on the threshold, at Kay’s voice.
“I just want to see you, one minute, in the kitchen.”
He knew what she meant. He had not kissed her yet. With a sheepish beam on his face, he hastened to follow her into the adjoining room.
Fate must be blind, for how otherwise, could she deliberately fight against the helpless? Even while the lovers lingered—Kay’s cheek pressed against William’s tweed shoulder—the wind shook the last drop from the inky cloud.
William—self-conscious but aloof—appeared from the kitchen, in obedience to Dr. Perry’s hail.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Kay wanted something nailed up. Hullo! It’s stopped raining. Good egg! I won’t bother about that coat now, Kay. Sooner we’re off the better.”
Milly kissed her hand to the men, and then called to Kay.
“When you’ve seen them off, just take these eggs to the egg-house, angel.”
“All right.”
Kay picked up the basket and then turned to the empty nail on the wall.
“Now, what have I done with that blessed key?” she cried, “I know I had it yesterday.”
“Always losing keys,” laughed William.
“Think back,” advised Milly.
Kay proceeded to think back, to Dr. Perry’s ill-concealed annoyance. But, suddenly, she gave a cry of triumph.
“I know. I was just going to date those eggs, yesterday, when I heard William’s stinkpot. I must have left
it in the orchard.”
She walked with the men to the orchard, and the scarecrow heard her voice. At the sound of her laughter, it tensed its muscles. The waiting was nearly over.
•••
Her hand on the gate, she turned to wave farewell to the two men. She felt happy in William’s presence, and in the warm glow of her relief. The night held no more terrors for her. William would be there. Even the sun was going to shine for her.
Her joy was visible in the radiance of her smile. The brightening light bronzed her brown hair. William thought he had never seen a sweeter picture.
“Do look at my scarecrow,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s waiting to make love to me. Wouldn’t you like to touch it and see if it’s alive?”
Both men laughed as they shook their heads.
“You don’t get us twice,” said William. “We’ve been had, both of us.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Kay. “He scared me, and I made him. Good-bye—and don’t be long!”
The men turned away and she opened the orchard gate, just as the sun broke through the cloud.
It travelled over the field and fell upon the scarecrow. As it did so, a spark of fire glinted from the gap in its coat, where the button was missing.
Kay only noticed her key. She was running towards it, when she felt William’s hand upon her arm.
“Come back!” His voice was low and tense. “Perry, make ready! That scarecrow’s wearing a watch-chain.”
Clue in the Mustard
Leo Bruce
Leo Bruce was the pen-name of Rupert Croft-Cooke (1903–1979), whose life was so eventful that he felt moved to produce no fewer than twenty-seven volumes of autobiography. Barry Pike, compiler of Murder in Miniature, a collection of Bruce’s short stories, points out that only two of those memoirs make any reference to his detective fiction. Similarly, Croft-Cooke’s obituary in The Times failed to mention his work as Leo Bruce. It is ironic, Pike notes, that it is Leo Bruce the crime writer, rather than Croft-Cooke, prolific author of mainstream novels, plays, and non-fiction, who is celebrated in the Dictionary of Literary Biography.
Bruce created two major detective characters, Sergeant Beef and the history teacher Carolus Deene. Beef made his debut in Case for Three Detectives (1936), an entertaining novel in which caricatures of Lord Peter Wimsey, Hercule Poirot, and Father Brown are outshone by the plebeian, darts-playing Beef. This account of Beef’s first important case has also been published under the alternative title of “Death in the Garden”.
Serpents in Paradise Page 24
