Dancing with Death

by Ruth Wade

  The study was like a stage setting, expectant but somehow painfully lonely. The firelight reflected on the polished furniture and the bright autumn garden beyond the windows only served to heighten this impression, so that Daly had to pause on the threshold to recover himself before moving on into the room. Fox was snuffling again. Then he remembered that he had a handkerchief, and blew his nose with a trumpeting sound. No one sat down. The armchairs looked too deep and comfortable and the only straight chair was Bradley’s own, placed before his desk. No one wanted to sit in that. Daly took up a stand with his back to the fire and said kindly:

  “Now, Nellie, tell us all about it.”

  “I think I’ll wait outside,” said Fox. “I’m a little upset.”

  Nellie looked appealingly after him as he went out, as if she did not like to be abandoned to the other two.

  “I don’t know anything, really, sir,” she said hurriedly. “We only found him a little while ago.”

  “Why was that?” asked Mike. “It’s after one o’clock now.”

  She seemed pleased to be given a starting-point for her story.

  “The President usually got up at about eight o’clock,” she said, “but now and then he’d take a notion to sleep on. He was a terrible cross man, God rest him. We usen’t go near him until he’d ring the bell for a cup of tea when he’d wake up.”

  “Did he sometimes sleep until midday?” asked Daly.

  “No, no, sir. Never. Always about ten o’clock he’d get up. That’s why we got uneasy about him this morning, when it was so late.”

  “How was it you didn’t go in at about eleven?” Daly persisted. “That would have been an hour beyond his usual time.”

  “I was afraid,” said Nellie simply. “And I was polishing up the furniture in here, too, while I had the chance. I didn’t want to bring him out on top of me sooner than I had to.”

  Mike sighed.

  “It’s a pity you picked this morning for a special clean-up,” he said mildly. “Try to remember if there was anything unusual about the room.”

  Nellie wrinkled her forehead.

  “’Twas the same as it always was after a party,” she said. “The President used always to bring anyone he wanted to talk to private in here, and there would be glasses, and ashtrays around. ’Twas the same as usual.”

  “How many glasses had been used?”

  “I think two, but I wouldn’t like to swear to it. With all the excitement it’s gone out of my head.”

  “And was there nothing strange, nothing at all?”

  Mike hoped he did not sound too pressing, for he had more than once encountered witnesses who were so anxious to please that they had made up a story rather than see him disappointed.

  “Look around the room slowly and you may remember if anything was out of place.”

  She stretched her neck while she did so, as if to help her to see further. At last she said:

  “There wasn’t anything, unless maybe the ticket.”

  “What ticket?”

  “I put it under the blotter.” She went over to the desk and lifted the leather-covered blotter. A small piece of blue paper, printed in black, lay underneath. “Here it is, sir.”

  It was a ticket for a symphony concert which was to take place in the first week in November.

  “What is strange about that?” Mike asked.

  “Nothing,” said Nellie, a little huffily, “except that it was lying on the floor by the desk. I was only trying to remember anything out of the way — ”

  Mike soothed her down and thanked her for her help and presently she went on:

  “That ticket wasn’t on the floor when I brought in the tray of drinks at nine o’clock. I’ll swear to that. I’d have seen it and picked it up if it had been.”

  Mike was folding the ticket and putting it into his pocket as he said:

  “And Mrs. Bradley! Where was she?”

  “She has her own room, next to the President’s,” said Nellie. “I brought her breakfast at half-past eight, as usual, and she got up a while after. She went into town at ten o’clock. When she came back I told her the President wasn’t up yet. ’Twas herself opened the door and went in. I heard her calling out, and I ran in to her, and there he was in bed, in the dark, with the curtains pulled and him stone cold dead. The poor man. I never liked him, but you’d be kind of sorry for a person when you’d see them dead,” she finished thoughtfully.

  “So you told Jennings?” said Daly quickly.

  “That’s right, sir. I told him to find someone responsible and tell them, and while he was gone I got Mrs. Bradley to lie down. That’s all I could do.”

  “You didn’t move him, I suppose?”

  “I did not,” said Nellie. “I shut out the door and locked it, that way no one would go in. That Annie down in the kitchen is a proper little ghoul — she thinks we’re all going to die except herself. I wouldn’t put it past her to be peeping in at him when my back was turned.” She paused and looked worriedly at Daly. “I didn’t send for the priest, sir. The President never went to Mass, church nor meeting.”

  Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

  “It’s hard to do everything right, so it is.”

  “You’ve been wonderfully good,” said Daly soothingly. “Now just show us the President’s room. We’ll look after everything else.”

  She led them out into the hall. Unlike Jennings she showed no resentment of Mike’s presence. Mike was glad of this, for he did not wish to spread the news of his profession just yet. Fox had made no comment upon it. But Fox looked dazed just now. He hung back as they went upstairs, and almost seemed to be considering running away. While Nellie was unlocking the door of Bradley’s bedroom he was moving slowly along the corridor. While they were inside he stood uncertainly at the door.

  Mike was pleased about this, for he was always disturbed by the presence of emotional laymen at the scene of a murder. Professor Daly he almost regarded as a partner. Still, he glanced anxiously at the old man as they crossed to the huge luxurious bed where Bradley lay, and wondered whether it would have been wiser to have made him stay outside.

  Five minutes later, when they locked the door behind them again and stood facing each other in the corridor, Daly looked pale and shocked. Fox had wandered away to the other end of the corridor and was gazing out on to the quadrangle. Mike grasped Daly’s arm and said in a low voice, so that Fox should not hear:

  “Don’t take it so hard. It was not nice, but you won’t see it again.”

  “Sorry,” said Daly, with a feeble grin. “It was that blue colour of his skin — I did not expect it.”

  “Yes,” said Mike, half to himself, “one clings to the notion that he might have died naturally, in his sleep. But I’m afraid there is no question of that.”

  “I have heard that there are some heart conditions that turn the skin blue at death,” said Daly uncertainly, “but then we must not forget the — ”

  “Yes, you must forget,” said Mike earnestly. “Leave all that to the experts. It’s no use speculating when you have no scientific knowledge.”

  He was pleased to see the old man revive a little as he said:

  “There is plenty to speculate about, apart from the cause of his death. I wish you had known Bradley better. Then you would perhaps better be able to estimate whether he was capable of suicide.”

  Though Mike had not excluded this possibility, he affected an air of surprise which made Daly preen himself a little and even smile in a somewhat superior way as he said:

  “Oh, yes, in spite of the threats to his life, we must think of suicide. For one thing, we only have Bradley’s word for it that he received those threats. Professors and university people in general are a race apart,” he went on seriously. “After a number of years of concentration on the abstract, they tend to lose touch with reality. You have seen how sensitive they are. They can make a full-scale grievance out of something that a business man would hardly notice. To me it does no
t seem impossible that a professor wishing to commit suicide would first build up a story about anonymous letters and threats, so as to give himself the necessary impetus to carry out his wish for death.”

  While the old man discoursed they had been moving towards the head of the stairs. Fox joined them there, and listened sceptically to his last sentence. Daly, now quite recovered, turned to him eagerly and said:

  “Don’t you agree with me, Fox? It’s very important that Mike should understand — ”

  “I think you’re talking rubbish,” said Fox rudely. “Bradley was the most sensible, down-to-earth man I ever met. He would never have thought it necessary to deceive himself like that.”

  “Like what?” asked Mike innocently.

  “Faking all that stuff about anonymous letters,” said Fox, staring. “They were no fake. I saw them.”

  “You did?” exclaimed Daly. “When?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. He showed them to me.”

  They walked downstairs in silence. Daly was thinking how like Bradley it was to have refused to show him the letters, when he had already shown them to Fox and possibly to several other people as well. It was as if, having employed Daly, he was not going to help him in any way lest he make his task easier. Since one of Daly’s own maxims was that one should not hire a dog and bark oneself, he could not but experience a little fellow-feeling with Bradley. Still his resentment was undoubtedly based on the fact that he had insisted on acting as a friend to Bradley, and not as an employee.

  “But where’s the use,” he said to himself. “He’s dead now, so my status doesn’t matter.”

  Through the open door the study seemed full of people.

  “I’ll go and telephone,” said Mike. “You go in there and tell them what has happened.”

  Nellie came scuttling from the back of the hall, hissing conspiratorially:

  “I couldn’t keep them out, sir. They just walked straight in. They said they wanted to see Mrs. Bradley, but I haven’t called her, the poor creature — ”

  “Quite right, Nellie,” said Daly. “I’ll see them myself.” He paused in the doorway and watched them for a second before they noticed him. Badger was there, clearly possessed of a sort of gloomy excitement that kept him walking up and down like the black leopard in the adjoining zoo. He was looking at his feet, as he always did when he wished to conceal his thoughts. Little Hamilton, looking somehow all wrong without his smile, was darting penetrating glances about at his colleagues, with terrifying professorial detachment. Milligan was in an elevated mood. Daly saw him slip a silver ashtray off the desk into his pocket, as he chatted animatedly with Miss O’Leary. She was the only one of the group who seemed to realize the presence of tragedy. An intelligent woman, Daly thought. Even in his agitation his eyes rested in quiet momentary contemplation on her beauty, as a dragonfly rests on a still pool. She looked up suddenly and saw him and started across the room.

  “Thank heavens you’re here!” she said without ceremony. “What on earth is happening? That beastly Jennings just said the President is dead and the police are in. Is it true? We’re all longing to know.”

  By the time she had finished there was silence in the room. Burren, who since he had noticed Daly had been affecting to study the titles of books on the shelves, now rambled across with his hands in his pockets. Delaney hovered at the fireplace with a painfully eager cock of the head so as to miss nothing. Fox slipped into the room behind Daly and shut the door.

  “Yes, Bradley is dead,” said Daly. “We have just seen him. Inspector Kenny thinks he had been poisoned.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Delaney testily. “Bradley would never take poison. I once knew a man who committed suicide and he was not in the least like Bradley. Not in the least.”

  “No one said Bradley committed suicide,” said Miss O’Leary, turning her sharp blue gaze on Delaney. “I take it that someone gave him poison.”

  “Did you hear what she said?” Delaney spluttered shrilly. “She’s saying I poisoned him! Stop looking at me, woman! I had nothing to do with it! I know you want to get rid of me, but you should have some notion of where to stop — ”

  “I did not say you poisoned him,” Miss O’Leary interrupted in a loud, ringing voice.

  Burren laughed sourly, glancing from one of them to the other. Feeling pleased that Mike was absent, Daly intervened:

  “Please let us not quarrel. We are all certain to have a few difficult days. The police will be considerate. There is no cause for alarm — ”

  “I am not alarmed,” said Burren.

  “Nor am I,” said Badger truculently.

  Though they hated to be called to order, Daly could see that his words had had the effect he wanted of restoring something like normality. Fox was saying, in a new tone of authority:

  “Now, we must make a point of having everything continue as if there were nothing wrong. The students may get out of hand if we’re not careful. Break up big groups if you see them, and do not give any information — ”

  “I think it would be much better to issue a statement of some kind,” said Miss O’Leary.

  “We’ll call a meeting then,” said Fox hurriedly. “We must appoint an acting President.”

  “Ha!” said Badger.

  In despair, Daly saw all their hackles rise again. But at that moment the door opened and Mike put his head in, cautiously:

  “Come along, Mike,” said Daly, too heartily. He turned in a sort of sweep to the others. “This is Inspector Kenny, an old friend of mine. We’re very fortunate in having him — ”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Milligan replace the ashtray on the desk. Delaney took a little running step forward.

  “No, no, no!” he said querulously. “That is the man we all met the other night. He’s a vocational school teacher from somewhere in the west. Don’t you remember?”

  He looked up solicitously into Daly’s face. Mike grinned wryly at the company. He saw Miss O’Leary’s eyes narrow. Then she said:

  “There is more in this than meets the eye. If you really are a policeman,” Mike nodded, “then we had better go away and leave you in peace. Professor Daly will show you where to find us when you want us. Come along, everyone.”

  And she herded them, in masterly fashion, right out of the house. Delaney and Milligan looked back over their shoulders once or twice, like small boys who want to stay and watch a fire, but she would not allow them as much as one question. At the front door, just before she closed it, she turned and gave Daly and Mike a broad and expert wink. Mike started, shocked. It was as if the Mona Lisa, hanging decorously in her chaste frame, had winked at him. He followed Daly back into the study and closed the door mechanically. Then he asked:

  “Who is she?”

  “Professor O’Leary,” said Daly severely. “Don’t forget what you know about professors, all professors. And I would no more think of having her about the house than I would a jungle tiger.”

  “Some people do keep tigers,” said Mike feebly.

  “For a little while only,” said Daly meaningly. “Have you sent for reinforcements?”

  “Yes, they are on their way.” He shook his head regretfully. “Police doctor coming, too.” He sighed. “I suppose you’re right about the tiger.”

  Twenty minutes later they were so deep in conversation that they did not hear the doorbell ring. Nellie came into the room, still scuttling and whispering.

  “There’s three men in the hall. Big, huge men with waterproofs.” She sketched their dimensions in the air. “What will I say to them? And that Jennings has got in with them, sir. I didn’t see him until he was inside the house.”

  “I’ll settle him,” said Daly grimly. “To work, Mike!”

  Mike, who had dropped into an armchair only a moment before, now unfolded his long body with a sigh and heaved himself upright again. Then they followed Nellie out into the hall.

  Chapter 7

  They found Jennings cowered against the cl
osed front door, transfixed by the speculative quiet eyes of the three huge men in waterproofs. When he saw Daly he slipped around them and ran forward.

  “I’m not doing anything, sir!” he said with indignant rage. “Tell them to stop looking at me. I only came to say that I asked the restaurant to keep lunch for yourself and — and them, if you’re late.”

  “That was good of you, Jennings,” said Daly gravely. “We’ll all be along later.”

  Jennings did not appear to trust himself to reach the front door in safety, for he backed down the hall until he could open the service door and dart through.

  “What did you do to him, MacCarthy?” asked Mike.

  “We just looked at him,” said one of the giants. “A bit closely, I’ll admit. Then we sort of nodded to each other. That was all.”

  They nodded solemnly, to show how it was done.

  “It seems to have silenced Jennings, anyway,” said Daly with satisfaction.

  Mike introduced two of them as Sergeant MacCarthy and Guard Murphy. The third man, though he seemed identical with the others, turned out to be the doctor. His name was Mullen.

  “There’s great excitement below in the office,” said Sergeant MacCarthy, looking pleased. “The boss seems to think you bumped off the President yourself. He says it’s a mighty queer thing how you knew in advance what was going to happen.”

  “Very funny,” said Mike coldly. “Come along upstairs, Doctor. You two can come also, for one look. Then you can start working out where everyone of the hundreds of people who inhabit this College spent the last twenty-four hours!”

  He marched off up the stairs, followed briskly by the doctor, and somewhat more slowly by the other two. Daly waited uncertainly in the hall, until they had gone out of sight around the turn of the stairs. Then he went back into the study and stood on the hearthrug looking into the fire. He was not a nervous man, but in the next few minutes he felt a sort of compulsion grow from the air about him, palpably forcing him to become clammy and cold. A sudden flurry of wind swept up through the sunny garden and rattled the window-panes. Behind him he imagined that a moulded fog had grown to towering size and would overwhelm him at any moment.