"That's a lie!"
"I thought she'd appeal to you. But aren't you going to have a hard time defending her?"
On either side of the house, meeting the board fence at the front, ran two low stone walls spiky with dead rose-branches. Near the front of the left wall some boy with a decorative sense had placed an empty tin which might have contained Nemo's salts. Butler saw its faint glimmer by the light of a street-lamp.
"I'll defend her, all right," he snapped. "And I only hope Mr. Justice Bloody Stoneman is on the bench again!"
"But it's a pity, isn't it?" murmured Denham. "Don't you prefer your clients to be guilty?"
"Look here, I only said. . . . !"
"WTiere's the credit—or the fun—in defending somebody who's innocent?"
That was the moment when Butler, adjusting his overcoat, found in his inner coat-pocket the smooth, polished stone from the writing-desk. He took it out and weighed it in his hand. He wondered, in a kind of abstract fury, whether he could throw the stone and hit that tin on the fence.
"Between ourselves, Pat: how do you intend to defend Lucia?"
"I don't know."
"Not a ghost of an idea?"
"Not yet, no!"
Charles Denham began to laugh.
Butler, still eyeing the tin on the fence, swung towards him. "What's so damned funny about it?"
"I apologize it. It isn't funny. But the one client you know to be innocent is the one client you can't get acquitted!"
Patrick Butler threw with all his weight behind it. The tin, squarely struck, banged and flew wide; the stone clattered away into the road. From somewhere a dead shrubbery rose the squall and snarl of a cat.
That night Butler got drunk. At eleven o'clock, when he was sloshing down watered whisky at the Blue Dog Club in Berkeley Square, Lucia Renshaw was undressing to go to bed in her own home. Lucia's bedroom, full of mirrors, showed multiple reflections as she sat down to take off her stockings.
The stockings were rolled a few inches above the knee, and fastened with small, round garters coloured red. Before removing them, Lucia stared thoughtfully at her own reflection in a full-length mirror.
WELL, he was finished with Lucia Renshaw! Finished with the whole case! Finished and fed up!
When Butler came downstairs to breakfast on the following morning, with a bad headache, he had made that decision overnight. The whisky had told him that he wouldn't accept snubs or insults from anybody: he was Patrick Butler, by God—the woman could seek counsel's opinion elsewhere. Mrs. Pasternack, his ancient housekeeper, was waiting in the dining room.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pasternack."
"Good morning, sir. I've taken the liberty of. . . ."
"Mrs. Pasternack," said her employer, with pain jumping above his eyes, "I have nothing on my appointment book today. I don't even want to talk to my clerk. I'm out if the 'phone rings. That's all, thanks."
Mrs. Pasternack hesitated; but she knew him.
"Very good, sir."
Butler's home was an old, narrow, sedate house in Cleveland Row, facing across towards what used to be the Stable Yard Museum. Mist shrouded the dining-room windows on a raw morning. Since it was past nine o'clock, all electric light and heat and gas had to be turned off, and the little eighteenth century dining room seemed to wear a frosty rime.
There were two sausages on Butler's plate. They would be chiefly full of meal instead of meat; his gorge rose. Pouring out tea, which was at least hot, he glanced idly at the few letters beside the plate. He picked up the topmost letter, a grey envelope addressed in block capitals with a pencil.
He opened it, and read the brief message which was also in block capitals.
STAY OUT OF THE RENSHAW CASE. THIS WILL BE YOUR ONLY WARNING.
Butler sat up. His jaw thrust forward; a smile, pleased and wicked, curved his mouth and warmed his inner being.
"Well, well, well!" he murmured cheerfully.
The telephone was in the dining room. Gulping down the tea arid pouring out another cup, Butler carried the cup to the 'phone, where he looked up Lucia's number in the book and dialled it.
"May I speak to Mrs. Renshaw, please?"
"I'm afraid not," replied the unmistakable voice of Miss Cannon. "Who is calling?"
"It's Mr. Butler, me dear," announced that gentleman, in broad Dublin. "And fetch her to the 'phone now, wid no more nonsense."
At the other end of the line there seemed to be some kind of scuffle.
"Patrick," breathed Lucia's voice. It was as tender and intimate and personal as a touch. It poured with apology and penitence. "I was thinking of ringing you. To tell you what an awful beast and ungrateful wretch I was last night!"
"Say no more about it. You were upset."
"If I can ever make it up to you—!"
Butler's heart was singing.
"You can," he assured her. "You're having lunch with me today."
There was a pause; then more faint noises as of a scuffle, with a mumbling voice in the background.
"Oh, I can't," Lucia answered in the tone of a woman who means, "Please insist!"
"Why can't you?"
"Well! With—Dick being dead. . . . !"
"You hated the swine, and you know it. Wear your best dress in honour of the occasion. Meet me in the foyer at Claridge's, near the entrance to the little brasserie under the stairs, at half-past twelve."
Vividly he could see Lucia as he heard the yearning note in her voice.
"Perhaps I could," she admitted.
"Good! And one other thing." His eyes gleamed. "You told me last night about a firm of private detectives you hired. One of their men, who was watching you, got badly smashed up by a person or persons wearing brass knuckles. Was it your husband who gave this man the beating?"
"Good heavens, no! Dick—wasn't the type."
"I thought not. He'd get somebody else to do his dirty work. Well,
I may be able to find out something from this firm of private detectives. Will you give me their name and address?"
Lucia's voice hesitated. "I don't remember the address; it's in Shaftesbury Avenue. It's just called Smith-Smith, Discretion Guaranteed. You could find it in the 'phone book. But why do you want it?"
"I've just thought of a line of investigation. Claridge's at half-past twelve?"
"Claridge's," breathed Lucia, "at half-past twelve."
Butler, as he put down the 'phone, was so happy he could have danced for joy. If he did not actually dance, it was because he had conformed (outwardly) to custom ever since he had been called to the Bar. But he ate the unspeakable sausages with every evidence of relish, he ate buttered toast, he swilled tea. Mrs. Pasternack, watching him through an open door, judged the moment propitious when he had finished.
"If you'll excuse me, sir." Mrs. Pasternack glided in. "I've taken the liberty of asking the young lady to wait in the library."
"Of asking—what?"
"Sir, the young lady," replied Mrs. Pasternack, very slightly accenting the final word. Mrs. Pasternack was far from being a moralist. But those ladies whom she designated as "persons," at this hour of the morning, were more likely to be leaving Mr. Butler's house than calling there.
"Who is she?"
"A Miss Joyce Ellis, sir."
Hell! Flinging down his napkin petulantly, Butler got up like a schoolboy in a rage. Wasn't he ever to hear the last of the infernal girl? And yet . . . she was attractive, in a way. It surprised his aching head to remember that she had appeared in his dream last night. Perhaps she had come to apologize for her conduct at the coffee-room.
"I'll see her," he told Mrs. Pasternack.
Across the passage was his little front library, whose walls bore almost as large a collection of works on crime as the library of Dr. Gideon Fell. White mist, at the windows, turned all books dingy; it darkened the andirons and changed the leather chairs into hollows of shadow.
Joyce, sitting beside a little table and idly looking through The Trial oi Adelaid
e BartJett, rose to her feet as he entered.
"I'm sorry to bother you," said Joyce sincerely. "I know it must be a nuisance."
Butler was his heartiest.
"Nuisance?" he scoffed. "Faith, now, and how could you—" He stopped dead, because Joyce's eyes were fixed on him.
"I don't care what you say to me," the eyes told him, as clearly as though she had spoken aloud, "I don't even care what you do to me. But stop, stop, stop using that fake accent."
The rush of bitterness which filled Patrick Butler, surprising him, was directed against himself. Perhaps he was acting again; he didn't know. But the bitterness was jagged-edged, stabbing. He drew a chair near her and sat down.
"I'm pretty much of an ass, don't you think?"
"Nol" Joyce said sharply. Her eyes softened. "That's one of the things that makes you so . . . that's one of the things that makes you yourself."
"Ah, well, to the devil with it!"
"I only came here," Joyce said quietly, "because I know what you're doing. And I think I can help you."
Butler sat up straight, all posing gone.
"You know what I'm doing?"
"Yes. There was an account last night in the papers about Mr. Ren-shaw being poisoned."
"But even so—!"
"Mr. Denham," Joyce put down The Trial oi Adelaide Bartlett on the table, "Mr, Denham came out to Holloway Prison. He knew I'd have to go back there to pick up the few Httle things I'd left in my— cell. He thought I might have told a matron or somebody where I was going."
"But when did Old Charlie do this? He was with me until dinner time!"
"After he left you. And, as it happens, the Chief Matron has a sister who keeps a lodging-house in Bloomsbury; she recommended me by 'phone, and Mr. Denham found me at the lodging-house." Joyce hesitated. "Mr. Denham—"
"Here, what's wrong with Old Charlie!"
"Nothing!" Joyce assured him hastily, "He talked to me; people often do." Joyce made a wry mouth, but it was a beautiful mouth, "Anyway, I know you're going to defend Mrs. Renshaw, and I think I can help you,"
"How?"
Joyce leaned forward. She was still wearing the clumsily tailored suit
and yellow jumper of yesterday, though with no outer coat. But she had gone to the hairdresser; and about her skin clung a flavour not so harsh or antiseptic as that of prison soap.
'Tou want to know," said Joyce, shaking her sleek black hair, "the motive for these murders."
"Naturally!"
"I lived for nearly two years at Mrs. Taylor's," continued Joyce, and picked at the arm of the leather chair. "I liked her. I think everybody liked her. But somebody like myself will go on and on, never noticing little things. And then, all of a sudden—!" She stopped. "You see Mr. Butler, you're not really observant."
More than the throb of a headache shot through Butler's brain. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
"Besides," Joyce went on, "you're too—too healthy. That's why "
"I see. You interest me very much. Then I am not observant?"
The tone of his voice made Joyce Ellis look up quickly,
"To the whole bench of high-court judges, all twelve of them sitting in a row," pursued Butler, "you could give quite a fascinating lecture on the subject of observance. Forgive me, Miss Ellis, if it does not interest me."
Then Joyce cried out at him. "Oh, won't you ever listen to anybody?"
"On occasion, of course."
"Don't you even want to hear what I have to say?"
Butler got up coolly, glancing at his wrist-watch.
"Some other time, perhaps. If you'll excuse me, I have a number of appointments this morning. I know you'll understand."
"Of course," said Joyce. And, as he made a movement towards the bell: "Don't bother to have anyone show me out, thanks."
Perversely, his conscience smote him. Or perhaps it was because, he told himself, she did have a remarkably fine figure.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "if you could have dinner one evening...."
Joyce whirled round at the door.
"I don't intend to see you," she told him in a thin, light voice, "until I can tell you the name of the real murderer."
Butler laughed outright. "More power to you! But do you think," he asked quizzically, "you can find the solution before I do?"
"I can try," said Joyce. She moved softly across the old polished boards of the passage, and was lost in white mist with the closing of the front door.
It seemed to him, as he stood in the dim room under the walls of old books, that he ended ever)' meeting with her either by cursing her or admiring her—sometimes both. The idea of Joyce as a detective, solving anything, greatly amused him. But the idea of Joyce, and everything connected with Joyce, was swept out of his mind when he met Lucia Renshaw for lunch.
Butler arrived at Claridge's more than half an hour early, just in case it should occur to Lucia to be half an hour early too.
Since by Government order it was not yet time to turn on electric lights, the big foyer at Claridge's had been illuminated by tiers of candles, many reflected in mirrors. They mellowed and softened the walls to a dream-like scene out of the eighteenth century.
But the electric lights were on again when Lucia, half an hour late, hurried through the revolving-doors, up the few marble steps, and greeted him with a face of distress.
"I couldn't get a taxi!" she explained. Then she regarded him with real reproachfulness. "Vhy are you laughing?"
"I wasn't laughing. Honestly."
"But you were!"
'T was only thinking about Dr. Fell. First about a silver candelabrum," he nodded round the foyer, "and then about that grotesque question: 'Do ladies nowadays still wear garters? Not even red garters?' "
"Patrick," observed Lucia, after a slight pause, "that's not very funny."
"I know it isn't. I was simply wondering what in sanity's name he was talking about. Shall we go in?"
The little brasserie, with its red-leather upholstery and its circle of Swedish hors d'oeuvres, was so crowded that they had to wait for a table. All this time, and during lunch, Lucia made small-talk with a brightness which (her companion could guess) concealed sheer terror. Arrest seemed imminent; the minutes crawled. Her attractiveness, the blue eyes and fair hair set off by a blue costume under the mink coat, drew strength and vitality from that very fear. And how he admired her courage!
They were sitting side by side. Not until the coffee had arrived, and they had both lighted cigarettes, would Lucia refer to any of the tortures in her mind. For some time she had been furtively studying the red leather upholstery. Then she spoke abruptly.
"This Dr. Fell. He's got an awfully big reputation, I know. But he's feeble-minded or something!"
"No, Lucia. I'm afraid not."
She twisted round to look at him. "But you heard the stupid kind of questions he asked!"
"Yes. There were times when I thought he was crackers. But let's face it, which I sometimes won't: Gideon Fell is nobody's fool."
"I even heard," exclaimed Lucia, "that he got into an awful flap about a silver candelabrum; and it was only one of the ordinary candelabra in the drawing room!"
"Yes," agreed Butler. Puzzles, like doubts, gnawed at him. "The reason Dr. Fell got so interested, as far as I could see, was that one of the candle-sockets wasn't clean."
"But it was clean!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Kitty," Lucia assured him rather breathlessly, "told us about it this morning. It upset Miss Cannon, because poor Agnes wants everything spick-and-span. We looked downstairs, and every socket-holder was highly pohshed."
"It wasn't highly polished last night, Lucia. I can testify to that. Somebody must have—"
Butler paused. His headache had gone; his wits were alert. That word 'somebody' was beginning to lurk in his mind like a masked face.
"Never mind," he said. "I've got two pieces of news for you."
"Oh? Good news?"
"First of all, you're having dinner with me tonight."
If this was not what Lucia expected, she did not show it. She showed neither hesitation nor coquetry. Putting down her cigarette on the edge of the saucer, she looked full at him in a way that dazzled him.
"I'd love to," she answered, "if you'll let me make a suggestion. I—I think I understand you well enough to know you won't be shocked. Could we dine and dance at some thoroughly disreputable place?"
Butler was delighted.
"By George, we can! And we will!" But a busy barrister, whose life is fairly circumspect, has a limited knowledge of places that can be called thoroughly disreputable. "That is," he added, "if you can think of one."
"J know of one," Lucia said quickly. "I've never been there, but they say it's terribly amusing. You don't," said Lucia, disregarding grammar, "you don't know who you're dancing with."
QO BELOW SUSPICION
"How do you mean, you don't know who you're dancing with?"
"Never mind!" Lucia brushed this aside, with a quick deep breath. "You'll seel Have you got pencil and paper?"
He gave her a pencil and the back of an old envelope.
"I can't remember the name of the club," Lucia went on. "But here's the address." She wrote down 136 Dean Street, underscoring it, and then handed back envelope and pencil. "It's in Soho. And afterwards"—Lucia's woman-of-the-world's air contrasted oddly with the childish innocence of her mouth—"are you game for a real adventure without even asking what it is?"
"Am I!" exclaimed Patrick Butler of the County Antrim. "Am I! Just try me and see! Tell you what—I'll send the car round for you tonight. . . ."
"No, no, no." Lucia spoke in a low voice; her eyes were eager. "You couldn't take a hmousine into that district. No formal dressing, either; wear your oldest clothes. I'll meet you there at eight o'clock."
Their conspiratorial intimacy had increased; Lucia touched his hand.
"If they do arrest me," she breathed, "I'm going to have some fun first!"
"That was the second piece of news I had for you," said Butler, and leaned closer. "I told you last night you weren't to worry."
"Why not?"
"Because now I know how to prove your innocence."
"I wish you'd tell me about that, Mr. Butler," struck in a new, heavy voice from close at hand.
Below Suspicion Page 10
