by Sax Rohmer
“Absolutely, sir. I think I may say I have searched every inch of the room.”
Nayland Smith stood by the desk tugging at the lobe of his ear, a mannerism which indicated perplexity, as I knew; then:
“Do these gentlemen know the identity of the victim?” he asked the minister.
“Yes.”
“In that case, who actually saw General Quinto last alive?”
“Mr. Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary.”
“Very well. I have reasons for wishing that Mr. Kerrigan should be in a position to confirm anything that I may discover in this matter. Where was the body found?”
“Where it lies now.”
“By whom?”
“By Mr. Bascombe. He phoned the news to me.”
Smith glanced at Inspector Leighton.
“The body has been disturbed in no way, Inspector?”
“In no way.”
“In that case I should like a private interview with Mr. Bascombe. I wish Mr. Kerrigan to remain. Perhaps, Lord Moreton and Doctor Sims, you would be good enough to wait in the library with Sir James and the Inspector . . .”
* * *
Mr. Bascombe was a tall fair man, approaching middle age. He carried himself with a slight stoop, although I learned that he was a Cambridge rowing Blue. His manner was gentle to the point of diffidence. As he entered the study he glanced in a horrified way at the body on the settee.
“Good evening, Mr. Bascombe,” said Nayland Smith, who was standing before the writing table,”I thought it better that I should see you privately. I gather from Inspector Leighton that General Quinto, who arrived here yesterday morning at eleven o’clock, was to all intents and purposes hiding in these rooms.”
“That is so, Sir Denis. The door behind you, there, opens into a bedroom, and a bathroom adjoins it. Sir Malcolm, who is a very late worker, sometimes slept there in order to avoid disturbing Lady Locke.”
“And since his arrival, the general has never left those apartments?”
“No.”
“He was a very old friend of Sir Malcolm’s?”
“Yes, a lifelong friend, I understand. He and Lady Locke are in the south of France, but are expected back tomorrow morning.”
“No member of the staff is aware of the identity of the visitor?”
“No. He had never stayed here during the time of Greaves, the butler—that is, during the last three years—and he was a stranger to all the other servants,”
“By what name was he known here?”
“Mr. Victor.”
“Who looked after him?”
“Greaves.”
“No one else?”
“No one, except myself and Greaves, entered these rooms.”
“The general expected me tonight, of course?”
“Yes. He was very excited when you did not appear.”
“How has he occupied himself since his arrival?”
“Writing almost continuously, when he was not pacing up and down the library, or glancing out of the windows into the square.”
“What was he writing?”
“I don’t know. He tore up every shred of it. Late this evening he had a fire lighted in the library and burnt up everything.”
“Extraordinary! Did he seem very apprehensive?”
“Very. Had I not known his reputation, I should have said, in fact, that he was panic-stricken. This frame of mind seemed to date from his receipt of a letter delivered by a district messenger at noon yesterday.”
“Where is this letter?”
“I have reason to believe that the general locked it in a dispatch box which he brought with him.”
“Did he comment upon the letter?”
“No.”
“In what name was it addressed?”
“Mr. Victor.”
Nayland Smith began to pace the carpet, and every time he passed the settee where that grim body lay, the right arm hanging down so that half-closed fingers touched the floor, his shadow, moving across the ghastly, greenish face, created an impression that the features worked and twitched and became still again.
“Did he make many telephone calls?”
“Quite a number.”
“From the instrument on the desk there?”
“Yes—it is an extension from the hallway.”
“Have you a record of those whom he called?”
“Of some. Inspector Leighton has already made that inquiry. There were two long conversations with Rome, several calls to Sir James Clare and some talks with his own embassy.”
“But others you have been unable to check?”
“The inspector is at work on that now, I understand, Sir Denis. There was—er—a lady.”
“Indeed? Any incoming calls?”
“Very few.”
“I remember—the inspector told me he was trying to trace them. Any visitors?”
“Sir James Clare yesterday morning, Count Bruzzi at noon today—and, oh yes, a lady last night.”
“What! A lady?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“I have no idea, Sir Denis. She came just after dusk in a car which waited outside, and sent a sealed note in by Greaves. I may say that at the request of the general I was almost continuously at work in the library, so that no one could gain access without my permission. This note was handed to me.”
“Was anything written on the envelope?”
“Yes: ‘Personal—for Mr. Victor.’ I took it to him. He was then seated at the desk writing. He seemed delighted. He evidently recognized the handwriting. Having read the message, he instructed me to admit the visitor.”
“Describe her,” said Nayland Smith.
“Tall and slender, with fine eyes, very long and narrow—definitely not an Englishwoman. She had graceful and languid manners, and remarkable composure. Her hair was jet black and closely waved to her head. She wore jade earrings and was wrapped up in what I assumed to be a very expensive fur coat.”
“H’m!” murmured Nayland Smith, “can’t place her, unless” -and a startled expression momentarily crossed his brown features -”the dead are living again!”
“She remained in the study with the general for close upon an hour. Their voices sounded animated, but of course I actually overheard nothing of their words. Then the door was opened and they both came out. I rang for Greaves, the general conducted his visitor as far as the end of the library and Greaves saw her down to her car.”
“What occurred then? Did the general seem to be disturbed in any way? Unusually happy or unusually sad?”
“He was smiling when he returned to the study, which he did immediately, going in and closing the door.”
“And today Count Bruzzi?”
“Count Bruzzi lunched with him. There have been no other visitors.”
“Phone calls?”
“One at half past seven. It was immediately after this that General Quinto came out and told me that you were expected. Sir Denis, between ten and eleven, and were to be shown immediately into the study.”
“Yes. I was recalled from Berlin for this interview which now cannot take place. This brings us, Mr. Bascombe, to the ghastly business of tonight.”
“The general and I dined alone in the library. Greaves waiting.”
“Did you both eat the same dishes and drink the same wine?”
“We did. Your suspicions are natural. Sir Denis, but such a solution of the mystery is impossible. It was a plain and typically English dinner—a shoulder of lamb with mint sauce, peas and new potatoes. Greaves carved and served. Followed by apple tart and cream of which we both partook, then cheese and young radishes. We shared a bottle of claret. That was our simple meal.”
Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again. Mr. Bascombe continued:
“I went out for an hour after dinner. During my absence General Quinto received a telephone call and afterwards complained to Greaves that there was something wrong with the extension
to the study—that he had found difficulty in making himself audible. Greaves informed him that the post office was aware of this defect and that an engineer was actually coming along at the moment to endeavor to rectify it. As a matter of fact the man was here when I returned.”
“Where was the general?”
“Reading in the library, outside. The man assured me that the instrument was now in order, made a test call and General Quinto returned to the study and closed the door. I remained in the library.”
“What time was this?”
“As nearly as I can remember, a quarter to ten.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I sat at the library table writing personal letters, when I heard Greaves in the hall outside putting a call through to the general in the study. I heard General Quinto answer it, dimly at first, then more clearly. He seemed to be shouting into the receiver. Presently he came out in a state of some excitement—he was, I may add, a very irascible man. He said: That fool has made the instrument worse. The lady to whom I was speaking could not hear a word.’
“Realizing that it was too late to expect the post office to send anyone again tonight, I went into the study and tested the instrument myself.”
“But,” snapped Nayland Smith, “did you observe anything unusual in the atmosphere of the room?”
“Yes—a curious odor, which still lingers here as a matter of fact.”
“Good! Go on.”
“I put a call through to a friend in Chelsea and was unable to detect anything the matter with the line.”
“It was perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly. I suggested to the general that possibly the fault was with his friend’s instrument and not with ours. I then returned to the library. He was in an extraordinarily excited condition—kept glancing at his watch and inquiring why you had not arrived. Some ten minutes later he threw the door open and came out again. He said:
‘Listen!’
“I stood up and we both remained quite silent for a moment.
“‘Did you hear it?’ he asked.
“‘Hear what. General?’ I replied.
“‘Someone beating a drum!’“
“Stop!” snapped Smith. “Those were his exact words?”
“His exact words . . . ‘Surely you can hear it?’ he said. ‘An Arab drum—what they call a darabukkeh. Listen again.’
“I listened, but on my word of honor could hear nothing whatever. I assured the general of this. His face was inflamed and he remained very excited. He went in and slammed the door—but I had scarcely seated myself before he was out again.”
‘“Mr. Bascombe’ he shouted (as you probably know he spoke perfect English),”someone is trying to frighten me! But by heavens they won’t! Come into the study. Perhaps you will hear it there!’
“I went into the study with him, now seriously concerned. He grasped my arm—his hand was trembling. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘it’s coming nearer—the beating of a drum—’
“Again I listened for some time. Finally: ‘I’m sorry, General, I had to say, “but I can hear nothing whatever beyond the usual sounds of distant traffic.’
“The incident had greatly disturbed me. I didn’t like the look of the general. This talk of drums was unpleasant and uncanny. He asked again what on earth had happened to you. Sir Denis, but declined my suggestion of a game of cards, so that again I left him and returned to the library. I heard him walking about for a time and then his footsteps ceased. Once I heard him cry out: ‘Stop those drums!’ Then I heard no more.”
“Had he referred to the curious odor?”
“He said: ‘Someone wearing a filthy perfume has been in this room.’ At about twenty to eleven, as he had become quite silent, I rapped on the door, opened it and went in.” He turned shudderingly in the direction of the settee: “I found him as you see him.”
“Was he dead?”
“So far as I was able to judge, he was.”
The Girl Outside
To that expression of agonized surprise upon the dead man’s face was now added, almost momentarily, a deepening of the greenish tinge. A fingerprint expert and a photographer from Scotland Yard had come and gone. After a longish interview, Nayland Smith had released Lord Moreton and Dr Sims. He put a call through on the desk telephone which General Quinto had found defective. Smith found it in perfect order. He examined the adjoining bedroom and the bathroom beyond and pointed out that it was just possible, although there was no evidence to confirm the theory, that someone might have entered through the bathroom window during the time that the general was alone in the study.
“I don’t think that’s how it was done,” he said, “but it is a possibility. This dispatch box must be opened, and if Mr. Bascombe can’t find the key we must force it. In the meantime, Kerrigan, you have a nose for news. I have observed that quite a number of people remain outside the house. Slip out the back way, go around and join the crowd. Ask stupid questions and study every one of them. It would not surprise me to learn that there is someone there waiting to hear of the success or failure of tonight’s plot.”
‘Then you are satisfied that General Quinto was—murdered?”
“Entirely satisfied, Kerrigan.”
When presently I came out into the square I found that Lord Moreton’s car had gone. Smith’s, that of the home secretary and a Yard car were still standing there. Ten or twelve people were hanging about, attracted by that almost psychic awareness of tragedy which ahead of radio or newspaper in some mysterious way creeps through.
I examined them all carefully and selected several for conversation. Apart from the fact that they had heard that “something had happened,” I gathered little news of value.
Then standing apart from the main group, I saw a girl.
This was a dark night but suddenly the house door was opened to admit someone who had driven up in a taxi. In the light from the doorway, I had a glimpse of her face. She was dressed like a working girl, wearing a light raincoat which, however, did not disguise the lines of her slim, trim figure. She wore a brown beret. But her face, as the light shone fully upon it, was so really lovely—a word which rarely can be applied—that I was astonished. In the shadows she looked like a brunette; in the swift light I saw red glints in her tightly waved hair beneath the beret, exquisitely modeled features, lips parted in what I can only describe as an expectant smile. She fumed and stared at the departing taxi as I strolled in her direction.
“Any idea what’s going on here?” I asked casually.
She raised her eyes in a startled way (they were wonderful eyes of a most unusual color; they set me thinking of amethysts) keeping her hands tucked in the pockets of her coat.
“Someone told me”—she spoke broken English—”that something terrible had happened in this house.”
“Really! I couldn’t make out what the crowd was about. So that’s it! Who’s the owner of the house? Do you know?”
“Someone told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”
“Oh yes—he writes books, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know. They told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”
She glanced up again and smiled. She had a most adorable, provocative smile. I could not place her, but I thought that with that face and figure she might be a mannequin or perhaps a show girl in a cabaret.
“Do you know Sir Malcolm Locke?” she asked, suddenly growing serious.
“No”—her change of manner had quite startled me—”except by name.”
“May I speak truly to you? You look”—she hesitated—“sensible.” There was a caressing note in her voice. “I know someone who is in that house. Do you understand?”
Nayland Smith had made the right move. Here was a spy of the enemy. Whatever my personal predilection, this charming young lady should be in the hands of Detective Inspector Leighton without delay.
“That’s very interesting. Who is it?”
“Just someone I know. You see”—she laid her hand on my arm, and inclined ever so sli
ghtly towards me—“I saw you come out of the side entrance! You know—and so, if you please, tell me. What has happened in that house?”
Satisfied that I should not let her out of my sight:
“A gentleman known as Mr. Victor has died.”
“He is dead?”
“Yes.”
Her slim fingers closed on my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Thank you.” Dark lashes were raised; she flashed up at me an enigmatical glance. “Good night!”
“Just a moment!” I grasped her wrist. “Please don’t run away so quickly.”
At which she lifted her voice:
“Let me go! How dare you! Let me go!”
Two men detached themselves from the group of loiterers and dashed in our direction. But the behavior of my beautiful captive, who was struggling violently, was certainly remarkable. Pressing her lips very close to my ear:
“Please let me go!” she whispered. “They will kill you. Let me go! It’s no use!”
I released her and turned to meet the attack of two of the most ferocious-looking ruffians I had ever encountered. They were of Mongolian type with an incredible shoulder span in proportion to their height. I had noticed them in the group about the door but had not seen their faces. Viewed from the rear with their glossy black hair they might have been a pair of waiters from some neighboring hotel. Seen face to face they were altogether more formidable.
The first on the scene feinted and then by a trick, which fortunately I knew, tried to kick me off my feet. I stepped back. The second was upon me. Other loiterers were surrounding us now and I knew that I was on the unpopular side. But I threw discretion to the winds. Until I could turn my face from these two enemies I had no means of knowing what had become of the girl. I led off with a straight left against my second opponent,
He ducked it perfectly. The first sprang behind me and seized my ankles. The house door was thrown open and Inspector Leighton raced down the steps. Fey came up at the double, so did the driver of the police car. The attack ceased. I spun around, and saw the black-haired men sprinting for the corner.
“After that pair,” cried Leighton gruffly. “Don’t lose ’em!”
The police driver and Fey set out.
“’E was maulin’ ’er about!” growled one of the loiterers. “They was in the right. I ’eard ’er cry out.”
