Deadly Hall

by John Dickson Carr

  Out bustled Mr. Rutledge. Uncle Gil, eyes narrowing, still studied the doorway.

  “Even apart from his concern as family lawyer, Jeff, our friend has some personal worry on his mind. It sounded very clearly over the phone. Ira has little to worry him, I should imagine. But the fact that he lacks cause has never prevented any man from worrying, particularly Ira. Whether he chooses to tell me may be another thing.”

  “In that respect. Uncle Gil, Dave himself has something to tell you. Dave’s decided to speak out; he may clear up much. Will you see him now?”

  “I will see Dave, I think, when I have seen some others first. For our journey to town, Jeff, you needn’t trouble to borrow the car you have been using. I will drive you and return you. As regards clearing things up …”

  About to close the brief-case, Gilbert Bethune hesitated. Cigar in right hand, he thrust his left hand into the inside breast pocket of his coat and drew out an envelope on whose back he had copied a few lines in pencil.

  “Already,” he said, “I have been forced to revise one pronouncement I made last night. Dave wrote down what he could remember of Commodore Hobart’s log. When I removed those notes and took them away, I remarked that probably they would not help me. On the contrary, they have been of immense help. The old commodore did leave one more clue, a thundering clue, a clue that should open and reveal.”

  “Clue?” Jeff blurted. “Thundering clue? What clue?”

  “Listen! After estimating the weight in missing gold, Commodore Hobart wrote as follows. ‘Distrust the surface; surfaces can be very misleading, especially from that workshop. See Matthew VII, 7.’”

  “Matthew? Workshop?” Jeff stared at him. “You mean you had an idea, but you’ve had to revise it because the idea was wrong?”

  “No, by all the Magi!” said Uncle Gil, returning the envelope to his pocket and shutting up the brief-case. “I mean the idea was dead right. Commodore Hobart’s reference to the gospel of St. Matthew, far from being curious, is so confirmatory as to be almost inevitable. The real clue will be found in his preceding sentence. ‘Distrust the surface; surfaces can be very misleading, especially from that workshop.’” Uncle Gil drew himself up. “There you have it. Correctly interpret those words, Jeff, and you will have solved half the riddle of this case.”

  13

  AS THEY SWEPT along the River Road in Uncle Gil’s Buick, Jeff presently gave it up.

  “All right!” he said. “Since every question gets turned aside with some further enigmatic comment—you’re worse than Father Brown!—then it’s apparent that questions are useless.”

  “Don’t force me to paraphrase Dr. Johnson,” begged his uncle, “and say I must provide information but not the understanding to grasp it. You’re an intelligent man, Jeff; the evidence was before your eyes. Surely … !”

  “Very well: information. Where are we going?”

  “To Mrs. Keith’s. Though I am not well acquainted with the lady, knowing her mainly by repute, at least I have met her.”

  “Why to Kate’s?”

  “You will see. A rain-splashed Sunday afternoon should find her at home and will find her at home; Harry Minnoch has made sure of that.

  “Further information, nephew! Among the phone calls I myself made this morning was one to Westchester County, New York. I wanted information about Malcolm Townsend and, if possible, about Charles Saylor too.”

  “Townsend? Are you thinking—?”

  “No, Jeff. It’s not to be anticipated that an outsider like Townsend would have much interest in the Hobart family beyond his natural interest in their house. But I sought information and found it.”

  “To what effect?”

  “Townsend’s book, as well as a previous work of the same sort, was published by the small but reliable firm of Furness & Hart, Fourth Avenue. And Jerry Furness, whom I caught at home nursing his Sunday hangover, is an old friend of mine.”

  “Well?”

  “Townsend, of whom Jerry speaks highly, delivers lectures under the auspices of Major Pond, Inc., one of the biggest Madison Avenue outfits. He began lecturing only last fall, and with some reluctance; it prevents him from spending so much time abroad investigating picturesque houses. Townsend has an independent income, which may be accounted as fortunate. His books are widely and favorably reviewed, but they don’t sell.”

  “What about Saylor?”

  “My informant,” replied Uncle Gil, “had never even heard Saylor’s name. But he promised to look into the matter; and, if he picked up anything, to phone me collect.”

  Whereupon Gilbert Bethune fell silent for so long a time, his attention apparently fixed on the road ahead, that it was sandpaper to Jeff’s curiosity.

  “Are you mulling over anything else, Sir Oracle?”

  “Well, yes. If we look for suspects in a murder case, we find ourselves stymied at every turn. Regarding facts gleaned by Lieutenant Minnoch, consider our really remarkable collection of alibis.”

  “Alibis?”

  “You and Ira Rutledge, to begin with. You yourself are not likely to be suspected; neither is Ira. In any case you were together from ten-thirty until past midnight. Townsend and Mrs. Keith have an alibi still more incontestable.”

  “When Penny phoned me at Ira’s office,” Jeff recalled, “she said Kate had lured Townsend away from the Hall soon after dinner.”

  “Correct. She lured him to a night club.”

  “Cinderella’s Slipper, was it?”

  “No, not Cinderella’s Slipper. This place, poetically called Le Moulin de Montmartre, provides food and liquor as well as a dance floor. Many witnesses testify he was there with Mrs. Keith from about ten o’clock until after one in the morning. As for Penny, with whom I also talked today …”

  “You phoned Penny?”

  “Penny phoned me. She had seen the morning paper, and was much distressed.”

  “Uncle Gil, you never mentioned—!”

  “I warned you, did I not, to let the girl alone for the time being? She lacked the courage, she said, to phone Delys Hall or approach anyone there. So she chose me. Was the news about Serena really true? It couldn’t be true, could it? I soothed her as much as possible, to no great effect. After speaking to you at Ira’s office last night, she played three-handed bridge with her parents until close on twelve.”

  “You don’t think Penny needs an alibi?”

  “Not at all; I merely commented on so impressive a collection of alibis. If we can manage to include Saylor too, the roster will be almost complete.”

  Again Uncle Gil fell silent. Except to repeat the substance of what Dave had told him, Jeff himself spoke few words until his uncle presently drew up at a house on the north side of St. Charles Avenue, just before the intersection of Jackson Avenue in the Garden District.

  Of brick faced with white stucco, sleekly kept behind its hedge, the place had four slender white pillars on the ground floor and four more for the iron-railed gallery above. There had been another break in the wet weather; Jeff, lacking a raincoat, did not even need to hurry.

  A maid admitted them to the wide central hall and thence, after taking Gilbert Bethune’s hat and coat, to a drawing-room on the right.

  Amid the Louis Quinze opulence of the drawing-room, amid a profusion of flowers in bowls, Kate Keith rose to greet them. If subdued and somewhat uncertain, she had an unmistakable air of sleek, satisfied well-being. Malcolm Townsend, equally subdued but perhaps less satisfied, also rose in greeting.

  “Yes, Mr. Bethune?” Kate began. She presented Townsend to Uncle Gil, and was about to present him to Jeff when both murmured that they had met.

  “You’re here, I imagine,” Kate rushed on, “to question us—they call it grilling, don’t they?—about that dreadful business last night. Well …”

  “Accept my assurance, Mrs. Keith,” Uncle Gil informed her, “that nobody is to be grilled or even brought near the fire. But you had heard of Serena’s death, had you?”

  “Oh, indeed
I’d heard! It was in the papers. And Lieutenant Somebody, that awful man from the boat, has been here already!”

  “You, sir,” and Uncle Gil turned to Townsend, “had heard of it too?”

  Courteous, uneasy, Townsend shifted from one foot to the other.

  “I had heard, in fact,” he answered, “even before I saw the newspaper or met Lieutenant Minnoch. Shall I explain?”

  “If you will.”

  Kate almost interrupted this by becoming a good hostess. After installing Townsend on the brocaded sofa beside her, she insisted that the others should take chairs and offered refreshment, which they refused.

  “You see,” continued Townsend, pinching at his under-lip, “together with this lady, whom I now take the liberty of calling Kate …”

  “Honestly, Malcolm,” Kate murmured, “it’s about time you got around to that, isn’t it?”

  “Kate and I, then, set out for the purpose of seeing some of the town’s sights. We saw, to be exact, only one of the town’s sights. I’m not quite sure whether I’m safe in telling this to any representative of the law …”

  “You are safe enough, sir,” said Uncle Gil, “in telling it to this particular representative of the law. You went to a night club, Le Moulin de Montmartre, where you found the drinks of better quality than you had expected. The police are satisfied regarding your movements and whereabouts at any important time after you both arrived there. But what can you tell me about events earlier in the evening: events, say, immediately before and after dinner at Delys Hall?”

  Kate clenched her hands.

  “Now, Mr. Inquisitor!” she burst out. “I don’t want to seem uncooperative or be uncooperative. But I never heard such rubbish in all my life! Did you ever hear such rubbish?” she demanded of Jeff, and then whirled back on the inquisitor. “What earthly difference can it make what Malcolm or I or anybody else was doing earlier in the evening?”

  “Nevertheless, madam, the question has interest.”

  “When I got there,” Kate retorted, “Penny Lynn was with them. They’d just finished dinner, and were talking about taking indoor photographs.”

  “Penny Lynn,” said Uncle Gil, “has already mentioned it to me. Perhaps there was something else. Mr. Townsend?”

  Townsend drew a breath of relief.

  “The process of taking indoor photographs,” he replied, “had begun before dinner. Miss Hobart produced a large folding Kodak, and her brother a reflector with a special new kind of flash bulb which will burn with great brilliance for many seconds at a time if plugged in at any ordinary light socket.

  “Miss Hobart proved an intense perfectionist at choosing backgrounds and posing subjects. Dave took the pictures, which almost invariably she said he did wrong. Dave further insisted on taking so many photographs of Miss Lynn—Miss Lynn in the doorway. Miss Lynn at the harpsichord—that both Miss Lynn and Miss Hobart strongly protested.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I can’t recall anything else. Towards the end of dinner there was some talk of resuming the picture-taking. But it was never done. Kate arrived, as you must have heard; she and I presently left for Montmartre’s Mill. When I think that, as we sipped brandy at our table or I very clumsily squired Kate over the dance floor, Serena Hobart … !”

  He let the words rise and die away. Uncle Gil nodded.

  “Yes, to be sure! You left the night club—when?”

  “I took no particular note; it was past one o’clock. Some time later Kate with her car dropped me off at my hotel. And now,” said Townsend, “we come to the part of my story which may have some slight interest.”

  “Yes?”

  “When Kate left me at the hotel, she had very kindly invited me to have lunch here today. I slept unpardonably late until almost nine o’clock, and decided to miss breakfast after I had gone downstairs. I had asked for mail at the desk; I was on my way out to find a taxi when …”

  “Malcolm,” interrupted Kate, “you must not take taxis all over the place! There are two cars in the garage here; use either of those when you need it. After all—!”

  “Thanks, Kate, but—! As a matter of fact, sir,” Townsend continued to Uncle Gil, “I had started in search of a taxi when I met a well-spoken, well-mannered young man who said he had just arrived and heard me inquire for mail. After introducing himself as Detective Terence O’Bannion of the police, he told me of Miss Hobart’s tragic death. He did not elaborate. If for a moment the news seemed so incredible as to suggest some grotesque hoax or joke, young O’Bannion soon resolved doubts by delivering a message from Dave Hobart. Dave, collapsing last night, now asked that I would not desert him at a time like this; that I would stay on in New Orleans until he found his feet.

  “My first impulse was to phone Dave or go out to the Hall and see him. But Mr. O’Bannion advised against either, saying Dave would be much better left alone for the rest of the day.”

  “So Malcolm did find a taxi,” Kate amplified in a rush, “and did come out here. There was a fair amount in the paper, with one or two times of night referred to, but nothing much; mostly what they wouldn’t or couldn’t say. Then that other detective, the dreadful one with the big moustache and the bald head, walked in before lunch. He was the one who started talking about murder; murder, for pity’s sake? It’s crazy, that’s what it is; don’t tell me anything else!”

  Townsend spread out his hands.

  “I appreciate your offer of a car, Kate, even though I can’t avail myself of it. And it’s gratifying to think Dave believes I may be of some use to him. But I can’t stay on here much longer; it’s out of the question.”

  “Why is it out of the question, Malcolm?”

  “Next week, for one thing, I am booked to sail from New York by the Ile de France …”

  “We are told, Mr. Townsend,” struck in Uncle Gil, “you spend a good deal of time abroad.”

  “In summer, yes; always in summer. Even the English climate is usually tolerable then. And those with historic houses, either in the British Isles or elsewhere, are in the proper mood to be approached. But my journeyings abroad, sir, are only small potatoes, the very smallest potatoes on the table! The real reason I cannot and must not remain in New Orleans much longer …”

  “Well, sir?”

  “Already,” returned the other, with embarrassment mounting to his almost-handsome face, “I have proved the worst and most officious of intruding meddlers. Having tried to assist Dave, have I actually assisted him? You know I have not; nor can I.”

  Townsend rose up from the sofa. Wandering towards the two windows that overlooked St. Charles Avenue, he stood between the windows, his back to the wall, a picture of groping indecision.

  “What looked important yesterday, gentlemen, has no importance today. Yesterday Dave Hobart’s whole life seemed concentrated on only one thing: the search for his grandfather’s hidden gold. He begged for a suggestion, any suggestion in any direction.”

  “And you could make no suggestion?”

  “I did make a suggestion, Mr. Bethune. Since Dave was positive nothing had been or could be hidden between the walls, I wondered about the space between the floors.”

  “What did Dave say to that?”

  “He ruled it out at once. The floors, he assured me, had once been taken up for the installation of some wiring. The floors held no secret either.”

  “You were present, I believe,” Uncle Gil cleared his throat, “at the discovery that Commodore Hobart’s famous log had been removed from the study. Afterwards, as you are probably aware, Dave made notes of his memories from that log.”

  “We all knew he had made notes. He did not show them to anyone, at least not in my presence.”

  “Here,” pursued Uncle Gil, taking the envelope from his pocket, “is a direct quotation, another part of the commodore’s challenge. ‘Distrust the surface; surfaces can be very misleading, especially from that workshop. See Matthew VII, 7.’ How are we to interpret that?”

  Townse
nd stared into the distance.

  “‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.’ What odd scraps of memory stick at the back of any man’s brain! The reference, I agree, is clearly to that ancient challenge. But what is the surface we must distrust? We have no clue there. Is the surface of brick, of stone, or of wood?”

  “Suppose it were none of them?”

  “None of them?”

  “I state a conjecture, no more; it cannot yet be proved. Should the surface prove to be wood after all …”

  “Wood, brick, stone, even cardboard or Brussels lace, it does not alter a situation now grown intolerable; Miss Hobart is dead, Dave momentarily shattered. Any search for hidden treasure becomes as meaningless as it is morbid. What about Jean Laffite’s treasure? Or Captain Flint’s? If I were to stay on here much longer, it would show a state of mind approaching the ghoulish.”

  “Honestly, Malcolm—!” protested Kate.

  “I don’t sail for Europe until next Saturday. If you insist, if Dave insists, I will stay until Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. I prided myself on only one thing in life, and I have failed in it. Let that serve as my warning for the future.”

  “Perhaps you have not failed,” suggested Uncle Gil, returning the envelope to his pocket and getting up, “though you may as yet have neglected to realize in what you should take most pride. Sir and madam, my thanks to you both. Since I have no further questions with which to trouble you at this time …”

  A few minutes later, as he and Jeff climbed into the car, Jeff gave voice to a certain despair.

  “You didn’t learn much, did you?”

  “On the contrary, I learned much of value. That man has no idea where to find the commodore’s gold; he has no idea at all!”

  “Did you think he might have?”

  “It was a possibility for consideration. I had a test to apply, and I applied it. As soon as I heard truth ring in his voice, I knew the direction we ought to look.”

  “For the lost hoard?”

  “For the answer to a question which has been much neglected.”

  “Well, where do we go from here?”