by Jack Mann
“Yes.” He thought over it. “And this girl—in the mental home?”
“May Norris. Yes. Will recover, they say, in time. Mind deranged by shock. I offered anything Norris chose to ask, but he refused everything and left the farm at the April quarter. I put a bailiff in to manage, since I took over the growing crops at a valuation when Norris left, and now he—the bailiff—is quitting my employ altogether at the end of this month. Would have left sooner, if I hadn’t almost begged him to stay till I could get another man to replace him.”
“Is he married, this bailiff?” Green asked.
“Yes, and says he’s leaving on account of his wife—at her wish.”
“Ah! Have you seen this wife lately?”
“Not since they went to Knightsmere. Why? Do you think—?”
“A lot,” Green said in the pause. “Now tell me, Mr. Hunter, are you overstocked with bad characters round about Denlandham just now?”
“Overstocked—bad characters?” Hunter echoed in a puzzled way. “Why—what on earth has that got to do with it, even if we are?”
“Possibly nothing,” Green admitted—but he shifted his ground of questioning at once. “What’s this poltergeist of yours like, Mr. Hunter, since you’ve actually seen it yourself and—”
“Poltergeist be damned!” Hunter interjected angrily. “They’re things that throw plates and crockery about, mischief and no more—not one atom impressive, by all I’ve read and heard. And this is impressive! I know that from my one encounter with it.”
“But not impressionable,” Green observed. “At least, it doesn’t react to two charges of number five shot in the way one might expect. Could you give me any description of it, though?”
“Does that mean you’re going to lay it?” Hunter asked.
“You haven’t told me enough about it, yet,” Green countered.
“Well, it’s”—he hesitated—“it’s tall. Taller than I am. Taller than you are, I’d say. Mind, it was practically dark when I shot at it, but light enough for me to align the gun on it, though I couldn’t see the bead of the foresight. And it seemed to be wearing—well, a thin sort of fur, I suppose it was. Something that looked all fuzzy, and made it look broad as well as tall. But whatever that was, it was thin stuff—almost semi-transparent by daylight, I should say. Features I couldn’t see—if it had any. And it didn’t keep still.”
“Do you mind explaining that?” Green asked.
“Well, I got the impression that it was twirling and twisting all the time,” Hunter said. “Rather like—like one of those miniature whirlwinds that gather up dust and leaves in harvest time, twirling round and round as if it were on a pivot instead of feet—till I shot at it. Then it appeared to run, tremendously fast, till I lost sight of it.”
“No blood, nor any trace of the results of your shots?”
“Nothing whatever. That roadway was muddy, but there was no footprint, apart from my own. I struck matches, and came back the next morning as well, to look, but there was no trace of it at all.”
“Has it done anything?” Green asked abruptly, after a pause.
“Done anything—what do you mean?” Hunter snapped.
“Exactly what I say. Can you trace any activities to it?”
“If you don’t call frightening a girl into a mental home, and driving one man after another out of living at a farmhouse, doing anything, I don’t know what is,” Hunter snapped still more sharply.
“The girl may have had delusions, her father may have believed her story and left on account of it, and your bailiff may be a superstitious type that gets frightened of living in an old house,” Green said.
“And I—in such terror of the sight of it as I had never believed possible of myself—what am I?” Hunter demanded. “A rank coward?”
“No-o-o,” Green conceded, rather dubiously. “It seems that there may be something in it. And you say you are willing to pay for results over laying it. Well, money is generally truthful, even if—”
“If you mean that you are prepared to put an end to this—this haunting, call it—name your own terms. Payable for success, mind. I pay nothing at all if you fail, not even your expenses.”
“Very well,” Green said calmly. “Two hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Agreed!” The word was uttered eagerly, without a second’s delay.
“Very good, Mr. Hunter.” Green stood up as he spoke. “Put that in writing and send the letter to me here—no conditions or stipulations, only that when you are satisfied that this ghost is laid, you will pay me the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds. I think that is all.”
“Yes, I’ll send you the letter. And when shall I see you at Denlandham, ready to begin on it?”
“I said, no conditions or stipulations, Mr. Hunter,” Green reminded him quietly. “Send the letter, and leave the rest to me.”
For some few seconds Hunter looked as if he would not merely repudiate the bargain, but speak a piece of his mind as well. Then, meeting Green’s steady, tranquil gaze, he thought better of it.
“Very well, I will send the letter,” he said. “It commits me to nothing, until you can report success. Good afternoon, Mr. Green.”
“Good afternoon, sir. My secretary will see you out.”
Hunter, quite unaware that Miss Brandon had heard that last remark through the microphone, was not a little surprised to see her open the door and stand ready to escort him to the exit from the office—and from Green’s residence as well, since all but the two rooms which he and his secretary used as offices were living quarters. He left, and Green lighted a cigarette and then went from his own room to Miss Brandon’s, to see her stand gazing down at the pothooks in her notebook.
“I think we’d better have a transcript, Miss Brandon,” he remarked.
“Then I will get on with it,” she answered, and seated herself at her desk in readiness to begin.
“No hurry—we’ve got to wait for his letter,” he said, and leaned against the doorpost to exhale smoke. “What did you think of him?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she answered emphatically.
“No? It’s a wide term, though—takes in quite a lot of things. His is a wealthy family, I happen to know—my father is vaguely acquainted with him, as he let me know, and two hundred and fifty pounds to him is equal to the same number of shillings to me, which is why I fixed that figure. And he’ll pay it, too,” he ended with conviction.
“For what?” she asked, gazing straight at him.
“Laying the ghost,” he answered tranquilly, and blew more smoke.
“You talk about it—and he talked about it too—as if he were asking you to go and shoot rabbits,” she declared with some impatience.
“Well, I might do that,” he admitted, “since he says they’re a nuisance in his part of the country. But how should we have talked?”
“The supernatural—or whatever you choose to call it—one
hardly considers it—well—I mean—in that everyday sort of fashion.”
“And why not?” He smiled slightly as he put the question.
“Well, I should think—” She hesitated. “And are you, as he puts it, going to lay this ghost—going there to do it?”
“I certainly am,” he answered decidedly.
“There is no such thing,” she declared with equal decision.
“Then I am going to persuade him I have laid it.”
“And take the money for doing it?”
“Inevitably,” he said coolly. “You don’t think I’d waste the time it will take, all for nothing, do you, Miss Brandon?”
“It wouldn’t be you if you did,” she answered with conviction.
“No. Meanwhile you haven’t answered my question—what you think of him. You deliberately hedged away from it to state a disbelief in the existence of ghosts, without defining what you mean by ghosts.”
“I mean—” she began, but he held up a protesting
hand.
“No, no, Miss Brandon. I rely at times very largely on
your—your feminine intuition, call it. What did you think of him?”
“On the strength of this, you mean?” She pointed down at her notes of the conversation that she had taken down.
“On that, since it’s more than what you saw of him,” he assented.
“Well, I don’t believe in ghosts,” she repeated.
“In other words, Angus d’Arcy Hunter is a liar. Feminine intuition wins once more. I began by being prepared to like him, but when he passed out that my father had recommended him to come to me—well!”
“But if there isn’t any ghost, why?” she began, and broke off.
“Oh, that part of it is sound enough,” he assured her. “He believes in his twirling gurgler, whatever it is. But my father has gone all wild over my revival of that mumps to murder slogan in the personal columns of his favourite dailies, and he wouldn’t recommend a goat to come to me to be groomed. Moreover, I know he’d studiously ignore Angus—there’s been a coolness between the two families ever since a Green went off with a Mrs. Hunter and didn’t come back. And because Hunter knew that I’m the son of General Green, owner of the Shropshire property, he pitched me that tale to get me there, hoping I wouldn’t contact my father and get put off going to Denlandham for him.”
“But, if so, how did he know of you?” she asked.
“Through that Cumberland business, of course, when I put an end to the grey shapes. Somebody told him all there is known of that story, but I think he got it that the business was done by Gees, not me, which is why he asked after Gees—whoever told him knew that name for me.”
“But why—why not be straight about it?” she demanded. “Why should he lie about General Green, or—or be roundabout over it?”
“You’ll find, Miss Brandon,” he said, “that it suits some natures to be roundabout. They’ll go to no end of trouble, and even make trouble for themselves, rather than take a straight course. Hunter knew that a Shropshire Green would have no great liking for any one of his family, he wanted Gees to come and lay his ghost, and he found himself faced by a Shropshire Green for a beginning, and then found that particular Green was the Gees he was after. He hoped to get straight to Gees, missing out Green, and told that little tale when he found they were one and the same. But”—he straightened himself with a start—“by the holy pancake, I forgot all about the two guineas for initial consultation!”
“I didn’t.” She took up her note-book, and revealed two pound notes and a two shilling piece which it had concealed.
“Miss Brandon, you’re a pearl of exceeding price,” he told her feelingly. “If that letter arrives to-morrow morning, I’ll start for Denlandham after lunch, and meanwhile I want to consult some authorities on twirling gurglers, so you can mind the office.”
“You don’t mean you believe in it, Mr. Green?” she asked.
“An open mind,” he answered, “is as valuable as an account with a bookmaker, and I keep both. That two guineas will help to pay the bookmaker’s account for last week—if I hand you the account, you can make out the cheque for me to sign, Miss Brandon. Thanks so much.”
CHAPTER 2
AT THE HUNTERS’ ARMS
THE ROLLS-BENTLEY, smoke grey with black wings, drew up outside the town house of General Sir George Green, K.G.V.O., D.S.O., and the general’s son got out and, with one glance of pardonable pride in ownership at the quiet aristocrat of sports cars—he had bought it out of the somewhat illicit proceeds of his first case as Gees—rang the bell and got himself admitted to the house. In the library, his father gazed at him in a way that indicated a possible storm.
“Well, what do you want?” the general snapped out.
“Oh, lots, father,” the son answered, “but I didn’t come here looking for any of it. Just a simple inquiry, if you don’t mind.”
“Which is the business of confidential agencies, as you call that preposterous pretence at occupation of yours,” the general observed.
“But it hasn’t been altogether preposterous,” Gees—as his intimate acquaintances usually called him—protested gently. “Even you yourself handed me a bouquet over the Kestwell case—”
“I don’t like your slang expressions, Gordon!” the general interrupted. “That one case is all you appear to have done or ever intend to do—except for maintaining a very pretty secretary on premises which include your living accommodation—”
“My secretary, father, could give Caesar’s wife ten yards in the hundred and come out an easy winner,” Gees interrupted in turn.
“It’s not the first time you’ve made that imputation against her, and I’d call any man but you a liar for making it, and hit him if he were not too old. Now do we drop this wrangling while I ask what I came to ask—”
“Quite apart from the girl, you’ve started that infernal advertising again, I see,” the general broke in again. “That ludicrous and perfectly damnable mumps to murder sentence that makes me ashamed to own that you are my son. Consult Gees! Consult the devil!”
“A matter of taste,” Gees said blandly. “Which you consult, I mean. But unless you have any more observations to hurl at me—”
“What do you want here?” the general interrupted yet once more.
“Being on my way to Denlandham—” Gees began, only to meet another interruption, uttered in a tone of wrathful surprise.
“Denlandham? You—going to Denlandham?”
“I believe I said so. To make an investigation—”
“Why—what has Hunter been doing?” the general broke in again.
“I don’t know what anyone has been doing till I’ve got on to my investigation,” his son told him as patiently as ever. “But I wanted to ask you—did you see Hunter in your club, the day before yesterday?”
“I did. What has that got to do with your investigation?”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Speak to him? What do you take me to be, Gordon? Of course I didn’t speak to him! How dare you suggest such a thing?”
“But you were talking to somebody about me,” Gees accused,
“and you said whatever it was loudly enough for Hunter to overhear it.”
“I—what?” The general looked like making some outburst, but checked himself. “I—yes, I remember, now. Palliser was inquiring about you, questioning whether you were keeping on with that agency in co-operation with the man named Gees. I didn’t undeceive him, and I said that either you or Gees was fool enough to keep on with anything, or something of that sort. Hunter may have heard me—I don’t care if he did. Your mumps to murder advertisement is enough to make me say anything. I loathe and detest it. Hate it! Resent it!”
“You’re terribly redundant with your verbs, father,” Gees said placidly, “and now you’ve told me what I wanted to know, I’ll not trouble you any longer, but head for Denlandham to make it by nightfall.”
“If Hunter is the culprit and you land him, I’ll forgive you everything except that advertisement, Gordon,” the general promised.
