The Noose

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘It is Gethryn, isn’t it?’ said the pleasant, decisive voice.

  Anthony held out his hand. ‘It is. And you’re Ravenscourt.’ His hand was shaken. Ravenscourt said:

  ‘I’ve been dancing with your wife. I said I wanted to meet you. She told me to seek you out.’

  ‘Did she say,’ said Anthony, ‘that I wanted to meet you? And badly wanted? Because I did and do.’

  Ravenscourt smiled. ‘You have. Let’s go and find a drink. Old Brownlough’s got a good brandy there.’

  They went into the room and up to the buffet, whose attendance was now reduced. The extra waiters had gone; behind the long table was now only the ex-soldier-servant of the host. In the middle of the group nearest to where they took their stand was Lake. Anthony eyed him. But Captain Lake was at last showing discretion. He did not see Anthony; most broadly he did not see Anthony.

  Ravenscourt ordered drinks, for himself liqueur brandy, for Anthony a brandy-and-soda. He took the two glasses when they came and bore them to a table in the room’s far corner. He said:

  ‘May as well sit down … Good health!’

  Anthony raised his glass. When he had drunk, he said:

  ‘I want to get straight with you, Ravenscourt. I won’t waste time. You’ve heard what I’m at down here.’

  Ravenscourt nodded his fair head. ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. His voice had changed. Now it was a non-committal, official voice. Anthony looked at him. Anthony said:

  ‘If I want it, do I get any help from you? Officially, of course, I can’t; for officially Bronson’s as dead as he may be on Tuesday morning. But do I, unofficially?’

  Ravenscourt raised his eyes from the finger-nails he had been studying. There was a pause. He said at last:

  ‘I don’t know. Damned if I do. Ever since this evening, when I heard about what you were trying to do, I’ve been wondering how I’d answer if you asked me just the question you have asked me.’ He cupped his glass in both hands and began slowly to roll it, watching intently while the oil of the brandy left its aromatic trail higher and even higher. He was silent; he waited for Anthony to speak but Anthony did not. So himself he spoke again. He said:

  ‘It’s like this, Gethryn. Here’s a perfectly straightforward case, on which I and my fellows ’ve done a neat, straightforward job. A man’s killed and we find the man who’s killed him. And that man’s tried before every court; given every possible chance of proving his innocence; but he can’t do it; he’s convicted by three courts and a coroner’s jury, and our case—the Police case—isn’t shaken at any point whatsoever. And then, months later, you come along—a private individual—and say you “don’t think Bronson’s guilty” and ask whether I’ll use—because this is what it comes to—whether I’ll use my official knowledge or status or both to help you … I don’t know what to say, Gethryn, and that’s a fact. If it wasn’t you … I mean if I were asked what you’ve asked me by just an ordinary person, I tell you frankly my answer ’d be a polite version of go-to-the-devil. But it is you who’s asking—and you are a man who’s pulled off some extraordinary bits of detective work. So I can’t count you as “just an ordinary person” … But, and it’s a big one, I’m dead, cold, utterly certain you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong. After all, I was on the spot, I know more of the leading characters than you do, I did the work or directed it, I know … D’you follow me?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘With ease. And you’re quite right, y’know … except for one thing, and that is that you’re quite wrong. No; let me finish. I mean you’re wrong at the start. Bronson isn’t guilty. I started this business making myself—forcing myself—to adopt that as a creed, because if I hadn’t I shouldn’t have been able to start. But now I have started, and more than started, I’m getting somewhere. And I know now that the hypothesis of Bronson’s innocence was right. I don’t have to make myself believe now; there’s no need.’

  Ravenscourt’s rather cold blue eyes were alight now with interest. He said:

  ‘You say you’ve got somewhere …’

  Anthony interrupted. ‘Yes. But where it is God knows. I don’t. What I do know is that there’re so many oddnesses about that there must be something behind ’em. Follow?’

  Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Can’t be more than a certain amount of smoke without a fire.’

  ‘Exactly. There’s a fire all right. And I’ve got to find it. And I’ve only a limited time—very limited, by God!—to find it in. It’s that time-limit that forces me to ask considerable things of people that in other circumstances I would barely beg a match from …’

  He was interrupted. Suddenly Ravenscourt threw back his head and laughed. An infectious sound. He said:

  ‘All right; don’t rub it in.’ He went on laughing.

  Anthony grinned. ‘Sorry. But I’m not mincing words. And I wasn’t necessarily referring to you, you know …’

  ‘And that’s another!’ said Ravenscourt. Then his tone changed. Laughter faded from his voice and face and eyes. He said: ‘Look here, Gethryn! Will you swear to me that you’re in earnest; that you know you’re not deluding yourself; that you have real and solid reason for believing that, in spite of all appearances, Bronson was not the murderer of Blackatter; that if I put aside my natural feelings and prejudices and promise to give you within reason any help I can, you have hope of saving Bronson?’

  Anthony looked at him; across the little table the blue eyes and the green held each other. Slowly, Anthony nodded. He said:

  ‘See it wet, see it dry! I give you my word.’

  Ravenscourt swallowed the remains of his brandy. He got to his feet. He leaned his knuckles on the table and looked down at Anthony. He said:

  ‘Right. Call on me when you want me. Sooner, if you like; because I’ve got to admit that I’m interested. Though, believe me, entirely unconvinced.’

  Anthony got up. He held out his hand and the other took it. Anthony said:

  ‘Thank you. And suppose we meet tomorrow, if you can.’

  Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes. Morning. Come and see me. No; that won’t do, because you must want all the time you’ve got and then some more. I’ll come and see you. You’re at Bronson’s pub, aren’t you? S’pose I come there about ten?’

  ‘Ten it shall be,’ said Anthony. ‘And thanks again.’ He watched while Ravenscourt strode away to the door, a wide-shouldered, graceful figure with decision in its every movement, its fair head held like a boy’s.

  Anthony, standing, finished his brandy-and-soda. He looked at his watch. At it he raised his eyebrows. He set down his glass and made for the door.

  In the hall he found Lucia, and to her hurried. She said:

  ‘No, I haven’t been waiting. I’ve just come. We ought to go, oughtn’t we? Did Colonel Ravenscourt find you?’

  ‘Good. Yes. He did, thank you,’ said Anthony. ‘Where’s the host?’

  Lucia shrugged white shoulders. ‘No idea. Other people ’ve been looking for him … I’m going to get my things, dear.’

  Anthony looked after her. She had been very quiet; quite properly tired seeming and just a little bored. But he knew this woman. Something there was up the sleeve she had not got. There had been about her a certain suppressed excitement, concealed so cleverly that certainly no one else in the world would have seen it. He said to himself:

  ‘She’s got something, bless her!’

  He went in search of hat and coat. He was back in the hall with these before Lucia had emerged. The big doors were open now, and a cold night breeze was playing havoc with tobacco-fumes and jaded air. The ballroom was dark and empty and quiet; and the library lights went out, one by one, until only a single centre lamp was burning. By the open doors there now stood Colonel Brownlough and with him a group. A male group, Anthony saw, posed about the central figure of Mrs Carter-Fawcett. He looked in vain for the burliness of Captain Lake. He stood, hat in hand, waiting for Lucia.

  But he was not to wait unheeded. From the fringes of that group, his host detached h
imself. To Anthony he came hurrying and seized an arm of Anthony. He sprayed Anthony with speech; speech, gathered Anthony, indicative of Mrs Carter-Fawcett’s desire that Colonel Gethryn should be presented to her.

  ‘Well, well!’ said Anthony. He suffered that hand upon his arm to lead him across to the group.

  In the hoarsest of whispers Colonel Brownlough spoke on the journey. ‘Charmin’ woman!’ he said. ‘Wonderful woman. You’ll be glad to’ve met her, Gethryn. Unique woman …’

  A segment of the group, most reluctant, made way for them.

  ‘Here he is, my dear lady. I have him!’ Colonel Brownlough was heavily facetious. It did not suit him. And his voice, thought Anthony, had changed most unpleasingly. Gone its martial throatiness, its full-blooded, vintage-port, be-damned-to-you-damn-you rattle; it was, when its owner addressed the woman, an unctuous and discordant cooing.

  ‘She’s got something, bless her!’

  Anthony, straightening after his bow, looked into the odd eyes of Mrs Carter-Fawcett. They were cold; but with the sort of coldness which may easily become a ravenous flame. She looked tired. She also looked, thought Anthony, a good four years older than she had as many hours ago. She said, in an insolent and deep and rather beautiful voice:

  ‘You’re not the Gethryn that won the Grand Military on Firespring last year.’

  Anthony shook his head. ‘Alas, no. A cousin. A young cousin.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the lady, ‘thought you weren’t. Pity. Like to meet that boy. He can ride.’

  ‘After a fashion,’ said Anthony, ‘yes.’ He was very much at his ease; perhaps a shade more than good manners would usually have allowed.

  The slanting eyes opened widely for a second. They surveyed him; their coldness blazed for a moment into iced fire; but instantly they were veiled again. She put up a hand to the crimson mouth and yawned behind five fingers whose two rings were worth a fortune not so small. She turned a shoulder to Anthony. To the youth who was next to her she murmured:

  ‘You drive, Jack. I’m sleepy.’

  The boy crimsoned with pleasure. The group broke; drifted down the steps and out into the darkness. By the doors Anthony was left with his host. A voice, her voice, drifted up to them:

  ‘Thanks for the party, Brownie. Not so bad.’

  Colonel Brownlough waved his hand. He turned then to Anthony. He seemed to find some difficulty in finding words. And his eyes did not meet Anthony’s. He was saved by Lucia’s arrival.

  They got away from him quickly. He stood at the head of his steps as their shoes began to crunch on gravel and he waved. But he was not waving to them. Lucia glanced back at him. She saw his strong figure silhouetted against the lights of his hall. There was a droop to it now. She said:

  ‘Is he rather pathetic? Or not? P’r’aps not.’

  Anthony found his car. From just before it, two others started, viciously. A spurt of gravel thrown up by the off back-tyre of the nearest car stung his cheek. He swore beneath his breath.

  ‘That’s a pig in that Bentley!’ Lucia said.

  ‘Or sow,’ said her husband. ‘Hop in!’

  Neither spoke again until the car was out of the drive and fairly upon their homeward road. Anthony drove slowly—a rare thing, a phenomenon. The speedometer needle pointed to twenty-five—figures it had, perhaps, never seen before save in passing. Anthony said:

  ‘And now!… Shoot, Pinkerton!’

  ‘Beast!’ said Lucia. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your face told me. What was it, darling?’

  ‘The Carter-Whatsit woman. I kept that eye on her. But it wasn’t the eye that gave me the only oddity I’ve got to tell you about. It was both ears. And—I’ve got to confess it—utterly by accident. I was sitting out in that conservatory. A very nice boy. He wanted to hold my hand. I let him. He did it very firmly. Sweet. And then I was thirsty and rather than lose seclusion he darted to fetch me a drink. I stayed. I was glad to. He was quite a long time gone, which was a good thing. It was terribly hot in that place and when we first went in he’d opened a window for me—a transom thing. I was sitting right underneath it. I was wondering how much longer that drink was going to be, when I heard—just like George Robey—“footsteps upon the gravel outside”. Two pairs. And they stopped just outside my little window. And a woman spoke. I very nearly squeaked, because it was the Carter-Fawcett female. There’s no mistaking that croaking, rather attractive voice. The man’s I didn’t get a chance of recognising for the simple reason that I never heard it. Two growls were all that came from him; they were just human enough and male enough to make me know it was a man; but otherwise …’ She broke off; she half-turned in her seat and looked at her husband with wide eyes. ‘Dear,’ she said, ‘I … it’s rather awful … now I’ve got to the point of telling you, I feel it’s really all nothing … I mean it may all have been about something else and I may’ve been working myself up for no reason at all … and you … What are you doing?’

  Anthony was drawing the car in to the side of the road. It came gently to a standstill. He switched off the headlights, but left the engine running; it purred softly in the chill, bright darkness. He turned in his seat now; his hands came up and each gripped an arm of his wife. He said:

  ‘You tell now; or there’ll be trouble.’

  She laughed a little. ‘Well … what she said first was: “It doesn’t matter what you say, I know there was something!” … That’s practically word for word. I know it’s the sort of thing that men and women say to each other, all over the world, at the rate of about a thousand a minute; and I know it’s said, equally, about tiny things, and middle-sized things and very, very important things. But the way this was said, and the person it was said by, made me know at once—absolutely know—that whatever it was was an important thing; something vital … And then there was a sort of growling “Ssh!” from the man … And then she said: “It’s all right, there’s no one about … Why won’t you tell me? let me help you; I probably could” … And then another sh’shing growl from the man, and another sort of impatient noise from her; and she said: “All right, damn you, if you won’t tell! But don’t make me sick by saying there’s nothing! And don’t deny this man’s coming hasn’t upset you; because I know better …” They walked off after that; I heard their feet on the gravel. They went round, past the conservatory, to the left … And that … that’s all.’

  She fell silent; her dark eyes searched her husband’s face in the faint light cast by the little lamp upon the dashboard; but she could not read the face, except to half-see, half-guess, that it was set in lines she knew, with the jaw muscles standing out beneath the skin and the deep V of a frown between the eyes.

  Anthony was silent too. Very silent. He sat motionless. At last, still without speaking, he switched on the headlights again. With a muffled throbbing the car moved forward. And now it did not move slowly; it was travelling on its fourth gear within a hundred yards; the needle on the speedometer dial quivered and began to race round the last segment of its glowing circle.

  They were almost home before Lucia spoke. She said, raising her voice to carry above the engine’s humming roar:

  ‘I wasn’t a fool, then? To be excited, I mean.’ She saw a little smile twist down the corner of Anthony’s mouth. He said:

  ‘You know you weren’t … I’m thinking … We’ll talk when we get in.’

  And in very soon they were. The car in its garage, they stamped cold-footed way across the cobbled yard and so into the warmth of The Horse and Hound. Anthony’s watch showed the time as one-fifty.

  In the Smoking Room, beside a fire of magnificence, were Dyson and Flood. They rose. Flood in graceful hurry took Lucia’s cloak; set for her, facing the fire, a chair. Dyson looked on. He said to Anthony:

  ‘Have a drink? Cold outside.’ His head darted out like a bird’s from between his lean, stooping shoulders; it pointed with its beak to a small table upon which were glasses and a whisky-bottle.

  Anthony nodded. �
��Thanks. Where’s Pike?’ He crossed to the table and poured whisky; he looked across at his wife. She smiled, shaking her head. Dyson said:

  ‘PC Pike’s on his beat. Where that is, God knows.’

  ‘He rushed off,’ said Flood, ‘just as soon as comrade Dollboys had gone.’

  Anthony set down his glass. ‘About Dollboys now? What happened?’

  Flood smiled; not without complacence. His round, fresh face seemed rounder and fresher. He smoothed his sleek, fair hair. He said:

  ‘We frightened him according to plan. I might say I’ve never seen a man more scared.’

  ‘Tornado,’ said Dyson round his pipe, ‘vertical!’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Flood beamed. ‘It went off very well, I think. Eh, Mogul? I met him in the bar. I was pleased to see him. He was delighted to see me. He was a bit on; he told me the terrible sleuth-hound reporter I’d warned him against had turned up. He didn’t like him; not at all!… And just then in pops Dyson; it turns out, most convincing, that he and I are really thick as thieves. Comrade Dollboys got the shock of his life. It actually sobered him … And he buzzed off, scared as a hare in the Waterloo Cup …’

  ‘We know now,’ Dyson said. ‘Bloke was so scared there must be something to him … Collusion between two press men wouldn’t blister him all that much if there’s nothing to him.’ He dropped his dishevelled lankiness into his chair on the last word; it seemed that the length of his last sentence had exhausted him.

  Anthony, an arm upon the mantel and a foot upon the fender, stared into the fire’s crimson heart. Flood said, looking at him:

  ‘And you, sir? Find anything?’

  Anthony straightened himself. He turned to face them.

  ‘Nothing so definite,’ he said, ‘as Dollboys … But I wouldn’t say we found nothing. No …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lucia from her chair, ‘too much …’

  Anthony shook his head. ‘Couldn’t do that. But nothing’—he looked at Dyson and then at Flood—‘we found was positive. Nor negative … Just oddity. I said I was looking for oddity. And I found it. Too much of it for my mental digestion.’