‘Not a bit of good. She won’t have anyone but me. But she keeps asking for an Alice. And something about some curtains keeps worrying her. She’s not coherent. But she may get. If the crowd goes.’
Ravenscourt, rubbing his chin, looked at Anthony. Who said, out of the corner of his mouth:
‘This is Flood. He’s helping me. Good man. I’d suggest leaving him with her. She’s taken a fancy to him. Leave him, and give instructions she’s not to be questioned yet, except through him, and not at all unless he says so. I’ll tell him to get what he can. But if she’s worried she’ll go moost. And then she’ll only confuse us.’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘If he’ll stay,’ he said doubtfully.
Anthony took out pencil and a small notebook. ‘He’ll stay all right. He’s on the job.’ He wrote upon a leaf from the notebook, tore out the leaf, screwed it up and threw it.
Flood’s free hand caught it neatly, and neatly unrolled it. Flood’s eyes read the message. ‘D. was murdered. She may know something. Stay with her. You’re in charge with authority. Get what you can. Can we use your car?’
Flood nodded. His eyes rested upon Anthony’s for a moment before they turned back to his charge. They showed no surprise, those eyes; their look conveyed an impression that to surprise their owner much more than all this would have to happen.
Ravenscourt turned on his heel and went back down the passage. From its end Anthony heard the crisp voice giving orders, and when it ceased the rumbling, very respectful murmur of Constable Murch.
Anthony, taking cap and coat from the hall’s centre table, went to the main door and through it and out into the air. All traces of the mist had now vanished. A yellow sun, bright and cold, made the world sparkle like a nursery picture. He drew in draughts of the earth-scented, sharp-cutting air.
From Anthony’s car, the loose figure of Dyson detached itself; it came to meet Anthony with long and flapping strides. Leaning against the car’s bonnet was Pike.
‘What’s on?’ said Dyson. His voice was querulous.
Anthony smiled with one corner of his mouth. ‘You were right, Dyson. No suicide, Dollboys.’
Dyson rubbed together his ungloved hands. Almost he smiled. He said:
‘Murdered, was he? Excellent! Knew he wasn’t a felo de se.’
Pike came forward now. ‘Got your message from Mr Dyson, sir. And here I am.’ His tone added wordlessly: and what’s to do?
Anthony answered the unspoken. ‘A lot and a hell of a lot.’ He no longer smiled. ‘While they’ve all been gabbling in there, I’ve been thinking. Or trying to. Where are we now? Up against it? It’s time again. If there wasn’t this time-limit, I believe we’d be better off; because this elimination of Dollboys is another confirmation for us. We know now that Dollboys knew something or everything, and we know too that he wasn’t X. At least, we know this, if we assume, as we’ve got to assume, that Dollboys’ murder is a direct sequel of our activities. If it isn’t we’re done anyhow; so it’s got to be. And we’re near to knowing that if we get the killer of Dollboys we’ll find that he equals X. But, though we’re ahead that way, we’re really astern. Now, we can’t talk to Dollboys and twist the truth out of him. We’ve a double job instead of a single. And only time for half a single.’ His tone was savage. His eyes looked at the men he talked with, but did not seem to see them. There was a silence, broken only by the scraping of Dyson’s shoe upon the frozen earth. Dyson was tracing an invisible pattern with his toe. Pike said:
‘But what’ll we do, sir?’ There was urgency in his voice.
‘Everything,’ said Anthony. ‘And all at once.’ His tone had changed again; the savagery had gone from it; it was eager and decisive. ‘Pike; so soon as we get back, take Flood’s car … can you drive?… Yes?… Good! Take Flood’s car and do this: from the man himself, or any other, find out what a Captain Lake, at present staying with the Carter-Fawcett woman … anyone’ll tell you where her place is … find out what this man is and why and who and how. That’s in general. In particular, find out whether, after that party of Brownlough’s last night, Lake went to bed—properly or improperly; in other words, is it possible that he was out and about? Got that?’
Pike nodded, once. A new seeming had come to his face as he listened. It seemed to have grown longer and sharper. The lantern-jaw was out-thrust like the prow of a punt. His eyes were very bright. Dyson said:
‘What for me?’
‘We get off back now, sir?’ said Pike.
Anthony said: ‘I’m taking Colonel Ravenscourt back. He’s giving the bobbie a final word. We must wait.’
‘What,’ said Dyson again, ‘for me?’
The little smile twisted Anthony’s mouth. ‘This.’ He took out his wallet and from the wallet a folded sheet. ‘I made this out in bed last night. This district creeps with soldiery, past and present. This paper’s got all their names, and as much of their particulars as I could get. I want their War Service records. Get up to town on that machine of yours, go to the War Office and ask for General Beaumont. He’ll see you’re attended to, and properly. Friend of mine. I’ll ring him up before you get there. Whether the job’s finished or not, report back at the pub tonight. Any time, but come. Also, ring me up there between one and two this afternoon. I might have more for you. Got that?’
Dyson snorted. ‘But what’s the idea?’
‘I’m damned,’ said Anthony, ‘if I know.’ He looked at Dyson. ‘But I want it done.’
Dyson was unshaken. He tried again. ‘Mean t’say: like to know what’s behind …’
Anthony cut him short. ‘You’ll hear tonight. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. According to whether or not I’ve got my present Irish Stew of a mind sorted out. But do it! Blast you, Dyson, do it!’ There was no sting in the curse, and there was a smile with the words. But Pike, watching covertly, felt rather than saw the brief combat of two minds.
Dyson shrugged. ‘Right!’ he said at last. His voice had no sulkiness in it.
Behind them, the door of the house shut with a bang. Ravenscourt came towards them. They turned. Dyson surveyed the tall figure in its red coat beneath which the dazzling white of the breeches merged into the glossy black of the boots. Beneath his breath Mr Francis Dyson, who had somehow to assert again his complete contempt for all men except Mr Francis Dyson, made an impolite noise. There came from his lips, after this, a muted parody of the hunting horn.
‘Shades,’ said Dyson, who had never in his life enforked even a seaside donkey, ‘of Surtees!’
Anthony went to meet the resplendence. Pike looked at Dyson sharply. He said:
‘You in France, Dyson?’
Dyson looked over his great glasses. ‘Great Bore?’ he said. ‘A little. Three years, nine months.’
Anthony and Ravenscourt, having halted a moment in conversation, now were coming towards the car. Dyson, his head to one side, birdlike surveyed them. Pike said, lowering his voice:
‘Don’t jeer then. That’s the Varolles VC that is.’
Dyson’s face for a moment displayed interest. ‘Zat so?’ he said. And then, recovering, again made the horn noise. ‘A-hunting,’ he murmured, ‘we will go.’ He turned back to Anthony’s car, whistling John Peel, and stripped the radiator of its rug.
III
Ravenscourt followed Anthony into The Horse and Hound’s Smoking Room. From without there came to their ears, and their eyes when they looked from the side-window, the sound and sight of Pike starting the small, wicked-looking and dusty car of Flood, and Dyson, upon his motor-bicycle, leaving the yard at a speed which must have been near to thirty miles an hour.
‘Have a drink?’ said Anthony. ‘Or too early?’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘I will. Not too early today.’ He jerked his neat head to point the window and the yard without. ‘Who are those two? I’ve seen that … whatsaname? Pike?… Seem to’ve seen him before.’
Anthony smiled. He pressed the bell by the fireplace. He said:
‘You have. He knows you
by sight. You’ve seen him in Scotland House. As a Chief-Detective Inspector CID.’
Ravenscourt threw himself into a chair. ‘Of course. But how …’
Anthony interrupted. ‘Easy. He’s on holiday. And he heard of my pursuit of very wild geese and just came along to help. He’s a good line in men, that. I’ve worked with him. He was on the Lines-Bower job.’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘And the other two of your … er … staff?’
‘They’re press men. Ever see The Owl?’
Ravenscourt nodded again. ‘Always. Regular subscriber. And I get the Specials if there happens to be one when I’m in town. Good little paper. And not so little.’
‘Partly mine,’ said Anthony. He turned and pressed the bell again. ‘And partly Hastings’ who edits it. Friend of mine. Those two, Dyson and Flood, are on the “Special” staff. Hastings lent ’em to me.’
‘And you all …’ began Ravenscourt, but checked in mid-sentence and was silent. The door had opened. The girl Annie came in. Ravenscourt wanted brandy and soda. Anthony gave his order: coffee for himself. ‘And is Mrs Gethryn up?’
The girl fingered her apron. ‘Yes, sir. And she’s not had breakfast yet. She’s ordered it in half an hour, sir, in the Coffee Room. Should … should I tell her you’ll have yours then, sir?’ Her speech was quick enough, but somehow there was about it an uncertainness, as if she were talking upon one subject but thinking of another.
‘Yes, do.’ Anthony looked at her. Her china-blue eyes, round and large and polished like a doll’s, seemed to have in them a question; a something odd and appealing and tinged with fear. He held these eyes with his own; the green gaze probed the blue. She went scarlet; then, quicker than it had come, the colour ebbed, leaving an ashen paleness.
She turned with a flutter of apron. As she walked to the door, there seemed to Anthony’s eye to be an unsteadiness about her gait, the shadow of a wavering.
‘Pretty child,’ said Ravenscourt from his chair. ‘But as I was going to say when she came in, you and your … er … staff all called on Dollboys this morning? Mind if you say why?’ The tone was curt, but devoid of offence.
Anthony suddenly grinned. ‘You know why. But that Inspector didn’t. Although he thought Dollboys was a suicide, he was worried about this regiment of callers. And callers of that sort at that hour … Now he knows it’s murder, he’ll be thinking a lot more. And possibly talking. Don’t worry. None of us killed Dollboys.’ His smile was gone now; and his tone changed. ‘I told you I knew Dollboys went to bed last night. But that was because Pike was watching over him to make sure he’d be safe for us this morning. I wish to God he’d watched all night.’
‘Watching?’ said Ravenscourt. ‘How?’
‘On the roof of that shed at the end of the house nearer the road. The window above Dollboys’ chamber. Pike watched him go to bed; waited till he judged him asleep. We’d been frightening Dollboys, you see. To loosen that tongue. And Pike thought we might have so frightened him that he’d bolt. Hence the watching, and the early call.’
Ravenscourt laughed—a sound not free from annoyance.
He said:
‘Don’t know that I ought to listen to this. You’re breaking the law all round. And you insist on telling me. Why?’
Anthony’s answer was delayed. Annie came back, with a tray against which the cup and saucer of Anthony’s coffee and the glass and small soda-water bottle of Ravenscourt’s brandy seemed to beat a trembling tattoo not to be accounted for by her careful gait. She served them in speed and silence and was gone. Again Anthony’s eyes followed her to the door; again he detected that hesitant flaw in her gait; it was as if she walked every third step with closed eyes.
Ravenscourt drank. ‘That’s good. Thanks. Good health. Carry on, won’t you? Why tell me, I said.’
Anthony carried on. ‘I tell you because you’re going to help me. You may not’ve been sure last night. But you’re sure now. Dollboys has been killed. By the man—my X—who killed Blackatter and who’ll get away with his third killing—Bronson—if we’ve not found him within seventy-two hours … Seventy-two hours! Think of it, man! Seventy-two hours to save a man from hanging—a man who deserves hanging much less probably, than you or me …
‘You can’t doubt now. We scared Dollboys. What happened then must’ve been that Dollboys got in touch with X, because he was scared. He wanted support and instruction. He got, for X’s safety, a bullet through the head. We’re surer now, if more sureness was necessary. But, by God, we’re up against time still, and with much larger odds against us. I can convince you, here, now, in this room. But what sort of a case have I got to postpone Bronson’s hanging to give me time? None. You know it and I know it. Bronson’s deader than Dollboys unless we get X; get X and haul him up by the scruff of the neck and make him say “I did it! I did it because of this, like that.” Follow me? ’Course you do!… You’ve got to help me, Ravenscourt.’
The other man got suddenly to his feet. Glass in hand he walked over to the fire and stood looking down into it. His face was overcast; his brows met in a frown and beneath them his eyes seemed to have sunk back into his head with the conflict of his thoughts. Anthony watched him, seeing a struggle between human and official nature. Watching each phase as one watches a fight between two men.
And then, with a change complete in an instant when it did come, Ravenscourt put back his head and laughed. Real laughter this time; a young and joyous sound. He said:
‘We’re a couple of fools. I can’t help helping you. My job now’s to find out who killed Dollboys. And you say that when you’ve got him, you’ve got your X. There you are. We’re on the same job whether we like it or not.’ He laughed again.
Anthony said: ‘That’s not all I meant. And you …’
‘And I know it, you’re going to say. All right, I do. You want more.’ He straightened himself. He held out a hand and Anthony took it. He said:
‘You can have it, Gethryn. I’m with you; officially so far as I may—that’s confining things to the Dollboys case; and unofficially with no hesitations … But don’t forget, if you think I’ve been slow coming round, that you’re asking me to help to prove myself wrong; to expose myself as a fool who, with all his underlings, was hoodwinked; to make myself known as the sort of feller who “doesn’t mind who they hang so long as they hang someone” … Don’t forget that … But I’ll help. I’ve said so and I will; though I suppose this is the first time in my life I’ve ever gone back on my own opinion on a big issue … And I’m not utterly convinced yet, you know. But you’ve made me feel there’s a doubt and a biggish doubt. I thought it all out last night. I kept seeing that feller Bronson waiting. Just waiting …’ He broke off abruptly. He finished his drink. He set the tumbler down and said:
‘Anything you want of me now?’
Anthony nodded. ‘Yes. This is the unofficial side. What d’you know of one Lake? Called Captain?’
Ravenscourt’s brows came together again. His face set in hard lines. ‘That thing!’ he said. ‘What the devil … well, you know what you want. Lake? All I know about him is that he’s got much money, damned bad manners and a foul face. Magnificent horseman, though. I’ve hardly ever spoken to him. But he’s about these parts quite a bit. With the Carter-Fawcett crowd.’
‘Captain?’ said Anthony. ‘What in? Is or was?’
Ravenscourt’s lips twisted in a sneer. ‘Was. Temporary gent. Don’t know what in. But he did well, I believe. Guts of a lion, I should say. But a damn’ nasty job otherwise.’ Through the smoke of his cigarette he surveyed Anthony with curiosity. ‘Why Lake?’ he said. ‘D’you think? …’
‘Hardly,’ said Anthony, ‘at all.’ He smiled. ‘No, I mean it. I daren’t think yet. But I could bear to know about Lake. Thanks. I’ve also got another string on to him. Pike.’
Ravenscourt raised his eyebrows. ‘So?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anything else? Anything official?’
‘Not yet. Now you’re on my side, I’m easier
though. I had to get you to say you were, more in case of almost certain future need than anything in the present. Can I always get you quick?’
Ravenscourt gave two telephone numbers. ‘One or other of those is pretty certain always.’ He picked up his silk hat and gloves and moved towards the door.
Anthony stopped him. ‘Stay and have some breakfast. Late but good.’
Ravenscourt shook his head. ‘Thanks, no. Had mine early.’ He looked down, a little ruefully, at his splendour. ‘There’s a meet at Copthalls, only a few miles off. I was going. Matter of fact, that’s how I came to get down to Dollboys’ at all. I came here early to see whether I could get our talk in and be off by ten-fifteen. When I got here I heard Dollboys had shot himself. So I went straight along.’
They went out together by the inn’s front door. Ravenscourt’s car, a large and powerful but by no means new limousine, had just arrived. Its owner got in. ‘Home, quick,’ he said to the chauffeur; then to Anthony: ‘Hear from you soon. If anything happens on our side, I’ll telephone.’
‘So long,’ said Anthony. ‘And thanks.’ He watched as the car curled carefully way out into the road, accelerated and slid smoothly out of sight round the corner.
He went back to The Horse and Hound and breakfast.
IV
The cell door was not quite closed. Those two in their blue uniforms were not inside the cell. But he knew where they were. They might as well have stayed on their little chairs. They were outside—only just outside—the door which seemed shut but wasn’t.
He sat upon the edge of the bed and looked heavily, without expression, at the man who sat, to face him, upon one of those chairs. A man, this, whose clean-shaven face wore a look of gentle tolerance and earnest kindliness well-nigh insufferable to the man upon the bed. The earnest one had been talking; the resonances of his deep voice seemed to be still hanging in the air, that air which was never stale, but which never seemed alive: he leant forward, his steady gaze bent upon the man on the bed, his hands clasped between his knees; his whole attitude expectant of answer.
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