"Good Lord, I thought that type went out with the 'Nineties!" murmured Peter.
The artist walked rather unsteadily up to the bar, and leaning sideways across it, said with a distinct foreign accent: "Whisky. Double."
Wilkes had watched his approach frowningly, and he now hesitated, and said something in a low voice. The artist smote his open hand down on the bar, and said loudly: 'My friend, you give me what I say. You think I am drunk, hein? Well, I am not drunk. You see? You give me…'
"All right, Mr. Dooval," Wilkes said hastily. "No offence I hope."
"You give me what I say," insisted M. Duval. "I paint a great picture. So great a picture the world will say, why do we not hear of this Louis Duval?" He took the glass Wilkes handed him, and drained it at one gulp. "Another. And when I have painted this picture, then I tell you I have finished with everything but my art." He stretched out a hand that shook slightly towards his glass. His eye wandered round the room: his voice sank to the grumbling tone of the partially intoxicated. "I will be at no man's call. No, no: that is over when I have paint my picture. You hear?"
Mr. Wilkes seemed to be trying to quieten him by asking some questions about the picture he was painting.
"It is not for such as you," M. Duval said. "What have the English to do with art? Bah, you do not know what feelings I have in me, here…' He struck his chest. "To think I must be with you, and those others - canaille!"
"Gentleman seems a little peevish," remarked Charles, sotto voce.
His voice, though not his words, seemed to reach Mr. Duval's ears, for he turned, and stared hazily across the room. A smile that closely resembled a leer curled his mouth, and picking up his glass he made his way between the tables to the window, and stood leaning his hand on the back of a chair, and looking down at Charles. "So! The gentleman who dares to live in the haunted house, not?" He shook with laughter, and raising his glass unsteadily, said: "Voyons! a toast! Le Moine!"
Charles was watching him under frowning brows. He went on chuckling to himself, and his eyes travelled from Charles' face to Peter's. "You do not drink? You do not love him, our Monk?" He pulled the chair he held out from the table, and collapsed into it. "Eh bien! You do not speak then? You do not wish to talk of Le Moine? Perhaps you have seen him, no?" He paused; he was sprawling half-way across the table, and the foolish look in his eyes was replaced by a keener more searching gleam. "But you have not seen his face," he said with a strange air of quite sudden seriousness. "There is no one has ever seen his face, not even I, Louis Duval!"
"Quite so," said Charles. "I haven't. Do you want to?"
A look of cunning crept into the artist's face. He smiled again, a slow, evil smile that showed his discoloured teeth. "I do not tell you that. Oh, no! I do not tell you that, my friend. But this I tell you: you will never see his face, but you will go away from that house which is his, that house where he goes, glissant, up and down the stairs, though you do not see, where he watches you, though you do not know. Yes, you will go. You will go." He fell to chuckling again.
"Why should we go?" Peter asked calmly. "We're not afraid of ghosts, you know!"
The artist swayed with his insane giggling. "But Le Moine is not like other ghosts, my friend. Ah non, he is not - like - other ghosts!"
The landlord had crossed the room, and now threw an apologetic glance at Peter. But he spoke to the artist. "You'd like your usual table, moossoo, wouldn't you? You'll take your lunch in the coffee-room, I daresay, and there's as nice a leg of lamb waiting as ever I saw."
The artist turned on him with something of a snarl. "Away, cattle! You think you can tell me what I shall do and what I shall not do, but it is not so!"
"I'm sure, sir, I never had no such idea, but your lunch'll be spoiled if you don't come to eat it, and I've got some of the green peas cooked the French way you like."
"I do not eat in this plaice, where you cook food fit for pigs. Yes, you wish that I go, but I do not go till I choose, and you dare not speak, my gross one, for me. I am Louis Duval, and there is not another in the world can do what I do! Is it not so? Hein? Is it not so?"
The landlord had an ugly look in his eye, but to Charles' and Peter's surprise he said soothingly: "That's right, sir. Wonderful your pictures are."
M. Duval looked at him through half-shut eyes; his voice sank; he said almost in a whisper: "Sometimes I have thoughts in my head, gross pig, which you do not dream. Sometimes I think to myself, has no one seen the face of Le Moine? Has not Wilkes seen it? Eh? You do not like that, perhaps. Perhaps, too, you are afraid, just a little afraid of poor Louis Duval."
"Me seen it?" echoed the landlord. "Lor', Mr. Dooval, I'm thankful I haven't, and that's a fact. Now you give over talking of spooks, sir, do. You've got half the room listening to you, like silly fools, and these gentlemen don't want to hear them sort of stories."
Contrary to Peter's expectations the drunken artist allowed himself to be helped out of his chair, and gently propelled across the bar to the coffee-room door. Those villagers who still remained in the bar watched his exit with grins and nudges. When he had disappeared, and Wilkes with him, Peter addressed a solid-looking farmer who was seated near to him. "Who's that chap?" he asked.
"He's a furriner, sir," the farmer answered. "An artist. I daresay you've seen his cottage, for it ain't far from the Priory."
"Oh, he lives here, does he? Which is his cottage?"
"Why, sir, it's that white cottage with the garden in front that's a sin and shame to look at, it's that covered in weeds." He began to sketch with a stubby finger on the table before him. "Supposing the Priory's here, sir, where I've put my thumb. Well, you go on down the road, like as if you was coming to the village, and there's a bit of a lane leading off a matter of a quarter of a mile from this inn. You go up there not more'n a hundred yards, and you come right on the cottage. That's where he lives."
"I see. Yes, I know the place. Has he lived there long?"
The farmer rubbed his ear. "I don't know as I could rightly say how long he's been here. Not more'n five years, I reckon. We've kind of got used to him and his ways, and I never heard he did anyone any harm, bar walking over fields while the hay is standing. Mind you, it ain't so often you see him like he is to-day. He gets fits of it, so to speak. Now I come to think on it, it hasn't had a bout on him for a matter of three months. But whenever he gets like this he goes round maundering that silly stuff you heard. Enough to get on your nerves it is, but he's fair got the Priory ghost on the brain." He got up as he spoke, and wishing them a polite good-day, made his way out.
"Quite interesting," Charles said. "I think it's time we made a move."
On their way home down the right-of-way they talked long and earnestly over all that the drunken artist had said.
"It is well known," Charles said at last, "that you can't set much store by what a drunken man may say, but on the other hand it's always on the cards that he'll let out something he didn't mean to. I feel that M. Louis Duval may be worth a little close investigation."
"What surprised me," Peter remarked, "was the way Wilkes bore with him. I expected to, see Duval kicked out."
"If he's in the habit of eating his meals at the Bell you can understand Wilkes humouring him. And apparently he's not always tight by any means. The most intriguing thing about him was his interest in the Monk. I don't know what you feel about it, but I should say he knew a bit about monks."
"I'm all for getting on his tracks," Peter answered. "At the same time, he was so dam' fishy and mysterious that I'm inclined to think it was a bit too sinister to mean anything. Think he is the Monk?"
"Can't say. If I knew what the Monk was after I should find this problem easier to solve."
They walked on for some time in silence. Peter broke it by saying suddenly: "I don't know. It was typical drunken rot when you come to think of it. All that stuff about the Monk walking up and downstairs though we don't see him, and watching us though we don't know it. You can't get much sense
out of that. Ghost-twaddle."
"I was thinking of something else he said," Charles said slowly. "I'd rather like to know what he meant by no one ever having seen the Monk's face, not even himself. That wasn't quite the usual ghost-talk we hear in this place."
"N-no. But I'm not sure that it's likely to lead anywhere. Still, I agree he wants looking into."
They had reached the Priory by this time, and agreeing to say nothing of the morning's encounter to the others they went in, and found the three women already seated at the lunch-table.
"Did you have any luck?" Margaret asked.
"No, there's too much sun," Peter answered. He paused in the act of helping himself to salad, and lifted his head. "What's the strange noise?"
There was a distinct and rather unpleasant sound of humming that seemed to proceed from somewhere above. Margaret laughed. "Ask Celia. She let us in for it."
They looked inquiringly at her. "Sounds like a vacuum cleaner or something," said Charles.
"It is," Celia confessed. "I couldn't help it, though. Really, he was so persistent I hadn't the heart to go on saying no."
"I think it's a very good plan," said Mrs. Bosanquet. "I'm sure there must be a great deal of dust in all the carpets, and this will save having them taken up, which I was going to suggest."
"But what do you mean?" Peter demanded. "We've no electricity here, so how can you…'
"Oh, it isn't an electric one! It's some new sort of patent affair, but I really didn't pay much attention, because I've no intention of buying it. Only the man was so anxious to show me the amount of dust it would draw out of the carpets and chairs that I let him demonstrate. After all, it's costing us nothing, and it seems to please him."
"A man, with a vacuum-cleaner for sale," Charles repeated. "A man…' He looked at Peter, and as though by common consent they both got up.
"Well, what on earth's the matter?" Celia asked. "You don't mind, do you?"
"I'm not at all sure," said Charles. "I'll tell you when I've seen this clever salesman." He threw down his tablenapkin, and went quickly out of the room, and up the stairs. The droning noise came from Mrs. Bosanquet's room, and he went in. Busily engaged in running a cleaner over the floor was the shifty-eyed commercial staying at the Bell Inn.
Chapter Seven
For a moment they eyed one another in silence. Then the man with the vacuum-cleaner said: "Good morning, sir. I wonder whether I can interest you in this here cleaner? No electric power required. Practically works itself, needing only the 'and to guide it. Like this, sir, if you will kindly watch what I do." He began to run it over the carpet, still talking volubly. "You can see for yourself, sir, "ow easy to work this here cleaner is. Sucks up every speck of dust, but does not take off the nap of the carpet, which is a thing as can't be said of every cleaner on the market. We claim that with this here cleaner we 'ave done away with all servant trouble. Cheap to buy, and costs nothing to run. I will now demonstrate to you, sir, what it has done, by turning out the dust at present contained in this bag, which you see attached to the cleaner. All of which dust, sir, "as been sucked out of this very carpet."
"Don't trouble," said Charles. "I'm not buying it."
The little man smiled tolerantly. "No, sir? Well I don't know as how I should expect a gentleman to be interested in this here cleaner, not but what I 'ave sold to bachelors many a time. But I hope when your good lady sees the dust and dirt which this here cleaner has extracted from all carpets, upholstered chairs, curtains, and etcetera, she'll be tempted to give me an order, which the firm which I 'ave the honour to represent will execute with their custom'ry dispatch."
"And what is the name of the firm you have the honour to represent?" Charles inquired blandly.
If he expected the invader to be embarrassed he was disappointed.
"Allow me, sir!" beamed the little man, and inserting a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket he drew out a card, which he handed to Charles.
It was an ordinary trade-card, bearing the name and address of a firm in the city, and purporting to belong to a Mr. James Fripp.
""That's me name, sir," explained Mr. Fripp, pointing it out. "And I 'ope that when ordering you will 'ave the goodness to mention it, supposing I can't tempt you to give me an order now, which I 'ope I shall do when you 'ave seen for yourself that this here cleaner is all that we claim it to be."
Charles put the card carefully into his pocket-book. "We'll see," he said. "Do I understand that you propose to clean all the rooms of the house for us?"
"I'm sure I shall be pleased to, sir, but if you're satisfied, "awing seen what 'as been effected under your own eye…
"Oh no!" Charles said pleasantly. "For all I know it might break down before it had gone over half the house." Mr. Fripp looked reproachful. "This here cleaner," he said, "is constructed in such a way that it can't go wrong. I should mention that we give a year's guarantee with it, as is usual. But I shall be pleased to take it over every room in the 'ouse, to convince you, sir, of the truth of all I say."
"Excellent," said Charles. "And in case I make up my mind to buy it I'll send my man up to watch you, so that he will know in future how to manipulate it."
"That," said Mr. Fripp, "is as you like, sir, but I should like to assure you that a child could work this here cleaner."
"Nevertheless," said Charles, stepping to the bell-rope, and jerking it sharply, "I should like Bowers to - observe what you do."
Those quick-glancing eyes darted to his face for an instant. "I'm sure I shall be pleased to show him all I can, sir," Mr. Fripp said, not quite so enthusiastically.
Charles' smile was a little grim. When Bowers appeared in answer to the bell, he told him that he was to accompany Mr. Fripp from room to room, and closely to watch all he did. Mr. Fripp looked at him sideways.
"Yes, sir," Bowers said, a trifle perplexed. "But I haven't served the sweet yet, sir."
"Never mind," said Charles. "We'll manage on our own. You stay with Mr. Fripp — in case his cleaner goes out of action. And just see that he doesn't knock the panelling with it. We don't want any scratches."
"No, sir, very good," Bowers said, and resigned himself to his fate.
But the look that Mr. Fripp cast on Charles' vanishing form was one of something bordering on acute dislike.
In the dining-room Charles was greeted by a demand from his wife to explain what on earth was the matter with him.
"If," said Charles, resuming his seat, "you would occasionally employ your brain, dear love, you might realise that the last thing we desire is a stranger let loose in the house. Oh, and if anyone wants any pudding he or she will have to get it for themselves, as Bowers is otherwise engaged."
"It's on the sideboard," Celia said. "But really, Chas, I don't quite see what harm a man selling a vacuumcleaner can do. And I asked him for his card, just to be on the safe side."
"Was it our friend at the Bell?" Peter asked.
"It was. I am happy to think that I've given him a nice, solid afternoon's work." He inspected Mr. Fripp's card again. "Yes. I think this is where one calls for a little outside assistance."
Celia pricked up her ears. "Not Flinders again!" she begged.
"No, not Flinders," Charles said. "I should be loth to interrupt his entomological studies. But I feel a few discreet inquiries might be put through."
"If you're going to call in Scotland Yard, I for one object," Peter said. "We've no data for them, and they'll merely think us credulous asses."
Charles slipped his table-napkin into its ring, and got up. "I can hardly improve on the favourite dictum of Mr. Flinders," he said with dignity. "You don't need to tell me how to act."
"Well, what are you going to do?" Margaret asked.
"Write a letter," Charles answered, and went out.
Peter presently ran him to earth in the small study at the front of the house. "Why the mystery?" he inquired. "Are you getting an inquiry agent on to James Fripp?"
"I am," Charles said, dir
ecting the envelope. "There's a chap I've once or twice had dealings with who'll do the job very well."
"What about Strange? Think it's worth while setting your sleuth on him?"
"I did consider it, but I think not. As far as Fripp's concerned it ought to be fairly easy, since I've got his card. Brown can get on to this firm he apparently works for. But regarding Strange we've nothing to give Brown to start on. If he's a wrong 'un it's highly unlikely that Strange is his real name. The man we want now is friend Flinders."
Peter groaned. "Do we? Why?"
"To find out a little more concerning M. Louis Duval. I'm rather surprised Flinders hasn't mentioned him."
But the reason for this omission was soon forthcoming. Flinders, when they visited him in his cottage later that afternoon, said with considerable hauteur that they had only asked him questions about the gentry. "And that Dooval," he added, "ain't gentry, besides being a furriner. You've only got to look at the place he lives in. Pig-sty ain't in it. What's more, he does for himself. Ah, and in more ways than one!" He permitted himself to give vent to a hoarse crack of laughter at his own wit. "But what I meant was, he doesn't have no one up to clean the place for hirn, nor cook his breakfast." He shook his head. "He's a disgrace to the neighbourhood, that's what he is. He goes round painting them pictures what no one can make 'ead nor tail of as I ever heard on, and half the time he's drunk as a lord. Getting worse, he is. Why, I remember when he first come here, barring the fact of his being a furriner, there wasn't really much you could take exception to about him. Very quiet, he used to be, and you never saw him in drink more'n was respectable, though there are some as say that it ain't only drink as is his trouble."
"Drugs?" Charles said. "I rather suspected as much."
"Mind you, I never said so," Mr. Flinders warned him, "nor I wouldn't, me knowing my duty too well. But Mrs. Fellowes, what I told you about before - her as is housekeeper to Mr. Titmarsh - she spread it about that Dooval was one of those dope-fiends you read about in the News of the World. And the reason she had for saying it was on account of her working for a gentleman in London once, what was in the 'abit of taking drugs, which she said made her reckernise it right off."
Footsteps in the Dark Page 9
