He received them with an obsequious smile, bowing several times as each of the guests was presented to him. John had described him accurately enough, a man enveloped by fat. When he spoke his chin dropped in a fold over his collar and he had to steady his glasses with the thumb and index finger of his right hand to keep the glasses from sliding down his nose.
Behind him there was the fine, haughty silhouette of Lord Holloway. He had been invited by Roxy. It was clear in the way Bromley looked at Roxy that he loved her. It sufficed Poiret just to see once the jealous glance Bromley sent from beneath his glasses as the lord talked to her.
Roxy was seated or rather she lounged on the sofa, which ran along the wall behind the table. She paid attention to no one. Her attitude was forbidding, even hostile. She indifferently allowed her long hair that fell in two tresses over her shoulders to be touched by the perfumed hands of the beautiful Miss Gabrielle, who had seen her perform in person for the first time that evening. Gabrielle was an artist too and the jealousy she felt at first over Roxy’s success couldn’t last after the emotion aroused by Roxy’s last song.
“Come to supper,” Roxy had said to her.
“Wherever you like,” said the young singer.
The Member of Parliament had been monopolized at once by Lord Holloway, who took him into a corner and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Do I inconvenience you?” asked he.
The other assumed the amused smile of the great lord.
“While there is still time,” he said, “believe me, you ought to leave now.”
“Quite,” replied the politician. He turned his back.
“Why, it’s the Frenchman from the Hassocks mansion,” began the voice of Bromley as he pushed a seat towards the detective and begged him to sit between him and John Colliver, who was already busy with the wine.
“How do you do, Mr. Poiret?” said the beautiful voice of Roxy.
Poiret bowed, smiling. She knew his name. He addressed a lively compliment to Roxy, who threw him a kiss.
“Poiret?” cried Miss Gabrielle. “Why, then, he’s the private detective, who came here to save the life of dear Mr. Hassocks. Show us your gun!”
Bromley sniggered, “He’s certainly a brave little man.”
“Enchante,” said Poiret coldly. And he asked for wine, which he never drank.
The alcohol began its work. While Cooper and his friends told each other stories or paid compliments to the women, Bromley, who was through with niceties, leaned toward Poiret and gave the detective some friendly counsel.
“You have undertaken, sir, a noble task and one all the more difficult, because our friend Hassocks is condemned not only by his enemies, but still more by the ignorance of Inspector Watkins. Understand me clearly, though, Watkins is my friend and a man, whom I esteem very highly. He’s good and brave, but I wouldn’t give a shilling for his policemen. He has mixed in our affairs lately, but I don’t wish to meddle with his. It amuses me. It’s the new style, anyway. I wish you good luck, but I don’t expect it. Remember that if you need any help I love to be of service. I don’t wish any harm to befall you.”
“You are very kind, Monsieur,” was all Poiret replied as he took a cigar from the table, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke in the air.
Several times Bromley tried to address remarks to Roxy, but she concerned herself with her meal and had little time for him.
“Do you know who applauded you the most this evening?”
“No,” said Roxy indifferently.
“Hassocks’s daughter.”
Poiret looked at Roxy fixedly.
But Roxy replied in an icy tone, “I don’t know her.”
“She’s unlucky in having a father, who...” Lord Holloway began.
“Milord, no politics or let me take my leave,” clucked Bromley. “Your health, dear Roxy.” He held his glass in the air.
“Your health, Mr. Bromley. But have no worry about that.”
“Why?” asked Cooper, hesitantly.
“Because he’s too useful to the government,” cried Monk, laughing.
“No,” replied Roxy, “to the ones trying to bring the government down.”
All broke out laughing. Bromley recovered his slipping glasses by his usual quick movement of the thumb and index finger and sniggered softly.
“So they say. I admit, so they say, but it’s my strength.”
“His system is excellent,” said the lord. “As he’s in with everybody, everybody is in with him. He’s a modern day Robin Hood.”
“They say... ah, ah... they say...” Colliver almost choked, trying to drink and talk at the same time, “there are thieves that ought to have existed even if they never have. One of them stopped a young woman in front of Victoria Station one night. The woman, frightened, immediately held out her purse to him, with fifty shilling in it. The hooligan took it all. “My Goodness,” she cried, “I have nothing now to pay my rent. I’ll be turned out.” “How much is it?” asked the hooligan. “Sixty shilling.” “Sixty shilling? Why didn’t you say so?” And the bandit returned the fifty shilling to the woman and added ten shilling out of his own pocket.”
“Something quite as funny happened to me two winters ago in London,” said Miss Gabrielle. “I had just stepped out of the door of my apartment, when I was stopped by a hooligan. “Give me twenty shilling,” said the hooligan. I was so frightened that I couldn’t get my purse open. “Quicker,” he said. Finally I gave him twenty shilling. “Now,” he said then, “kiss me.” And I had to kiss him on both cheeks, because he held his knife threateningly in the air.”
“Talking about knives,” said the High Court judge, “as I was leaving a pub once I was stopped by a hooligan, who stuck a huge hunting knife under my nose. I saw him startle, when he looked at my face. “You can have it for ten shilling, Your Honour,” he said. Can you believe that I bought it without any haggling? And it was a very good bargain. It was worth at least thirty shilling. Your health, Miss Gabrielle!”
Bromley settled his glasses, rubbed his fat hands and said, “Today a locksmith in Maidstone, whose name is Smith, went to the house of the local grocer. He found him alone at home. He wished to sell him a revolver. It was a Webley. “A gun of the greatest reliability,” he said to the grocer, “which never misses.” Having pronounced these words, the locksmith gave the gun to the grocer, who immediately tried out the revolver and received a bullet in the chest. The grocer is dead, but before he died he bought the revolver. “You are right,” he said to the locksmith. “It never misses.”
The others laughed heartily. Roxy deigned to smile. Bromley, in recognition, bowed. The young woman bowed in return, but her face showed disgust. Then the doors opened for a group of five musicians. When they had entered, those present made place for them and Poiret, who for some moments had been showing marks of fatigue, profited by the diversion to get a corner of the sofa not far from Lord Holloway, who occupied the place at Roxy’s right.
“Look, Mr. Poiret is asleep,” remarked Miss Gabrielle.
“Poor man!” said Roxy. And turning toward Bromley, “Aren’t you soon going to get him out of our way?”
“Oh, that,” said Bromley, shaking his head. “I have nothing to do with that. Apply to Inspector Watkins. Your health, Miss Roxy.”
The musicians played some opening chords for their song and the singers took everybody’s attention, everybody except for Lord Holloway and Roxy, who, half turned toward one another, exchanged some words on the edge of all this musical uproar. As for Poiret, he certainly must have been sleeping soundly not to have been woken up by all that noise, melodious as it was. After the musicians had sung three times, Bromley gave the singer a couple of banknotes as a sign that they might go to charm other ears.
“Let us go,” muttered Roxy to Lord Holloway. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as him.”
“I helped you,” replied the secretary, surprised, followed by his habitual gesture of hanging on to his glasses. “And I
shall continue to do so. And I shall keep an eye on your fiancé in prison. I promise you that.”
At these words the lord and Roxy both changed their behavior. Their anger rose, but their demeanor became calm. Roxy turned her head as though to arrange the folds of her coat. Holloway contented himself with shrugging his shoulders impatiently and murmuring, “Former fiancé.”
After which he bowed to the supper-party, took Roxy’s arm and had her walk in front of him. Miss Gabrielle followed them quickly. Bromley bowed. When he looked to his side he saw before him the three horrified figures of Christian Cooper, Richard Monk and John Colliver.
“Gentlemen,” he said to them, in a colorless voice, which seemed not to belong to him, “the time has come for us to part. I need not say that we have supped as friends and that, if you wish it to remain so, we can forget everything that has been said.”
The three others nodded uncomfortably. When the door had closed behind them, the secretary hurried toward the sofa, where Poiret was lying forgotten and gave him a tap on the shoulder.
“Come, get up. Don’t act as though you are asleep.”
Poiret was already on his legs and out of the door. At the door of the Avalon Poiret, who was in a hurry for a means of transportation, jumped into an open car, where Miss Gabrielle was already seated. The singer caught him half on her knees.
“Please to take Poiret to the Hassocks mansion. Vite!” cried the consulting detective for explanation at the driver.
“Do as he says, quickly,” repeated Miss Gabrielle.
She was accompanied by a vague sort of person to whom neither of them paid the least attention.
“What a supper! You woke up at last, did you?” quizzed the singer.
But Poiret, standing up behind the enormous driver, pointed out the route to take and ignored her. They bolted along through the night at a dizzying pace. At the corner of the road leading to the mansion Poiret ordered the car stopped, thanked his companions and disappeared.
“What a man! What a funny, little man!” said the young singer.
The car immediately revved its engine and drove back into town.
Poiret walked down the road and slowly, taking infinite precautions not to reveal his presence by making the least noise, made his way to the mansion. When he saw in the blackness of the night the blacker mass of the Hassocks mansion, he stopped. Then he moved silently like a snake and ended not far from the little path, where, thanks to the broken cobwebs, he had discovered the escape route of the would-be assassin. At that moment the moon rose and he saw the oaks in front of him.
The detective wished to profit at once from the sudden moonlight to learn if his movements had been noticed and if the approaches to the mansion on that side were guarded. He picked up a small pebble and threw it some distance from him along the path. At the unexpected noise three or four shadowy heads were outlined suddenly in the white light of the moon, but disappeared at once, lost again in the dark tufts of grass.
He had his information. His ears caught a noise moving in his direction, a slight swish of twigs. Then all at once a shadow grew by his side and he felt the cold of a revolver barrel on his temple.
He said, “Monsieur Watkins?”
The shadow crouched down next to him.
He continued, “How is it, mon ami, that you are here in the person?”
The inspector whispered in his ear, “I have been informed that something will happen tonight. Kimberley went to the Avalon and exchanged some words with Roxy there. Lord Holloway is involved too.”
“Kimberley, she has returned?” inquired Poiret.
“Yes, a long time ago. She’s pretending to be asleep. The light from her room has been put out.”
“Have you warned Madame Hassocks?”
“Yes, I let her know that she must keep on the sharp look-out tonight.”
“That is the mistake, mon ami. She will take the extra precautions and the others, they will be warned immediately.”
“I have told her she should not go to the ground floor at all this night and that she must not leave Hassocks’s room.”
“Bien, but only if she will obey you.”
“The road from the Avalon is under surveillance too.”
“Bon. What will happen?”
“We will let them enter. I don’t know whom I have to deal with. I want to strike a sure blow. I shall take him in the act. No more doubt after this, I tell you, Poiret.”
Watkins seized his hand.
“Listen.”
Poiret waited no longer. Quickly and silently he moved to the wall of the mansion, where he made a turn, reached the gate and asked for Carswell, who opened the gate for him.
“The Lady Hassocks?” he said.
Carswell pointed his finger to the bedroom floor.
“Merci!”
Poiret was already across the garden and hid under the window of Kimberley’s room, where he listened. He could hear Kimberley walking around in the dark room. He moved lightly on his feet, mounted the patio steps and opened the door then closed it so lightly that Carswell, who was watching him, didn’t hear the slightest grinding of the hinges. Inside the mansion Poiret advanced carefully. He found the door of the drawing room open. The door of the sitting room had not been closed or else had been reopened. He turned in his tracks, felt in the dark for a chair and sat down. With his hand on his cane, he waited for the events that would not delay long now. Above he heard distinctly from time to time the movements of Lady Hassocks. This would give a sense of security to those, who needed to have the ground floor free that night. Poiret reasoned that the doors of the rooms on the ground floor had been left open so that it would be easier for those, who would be below to hear what was happening upstairs.
Suddenly there was a vertical bar of pale light from the sitting room. He deduced two things; first, that the curtains were slightly open and that the moon was out from the clouds again. The bar of light died almost instantly, but Poiret’s eyes, now used to the dark, still distinguished the open line of the curtains. There the shade was less deep. Suddenly he felt the blood pound at his temples, because the shadow of a man gradually rose on the balcony. Poiret gripped his walking stick tightly.
The man stood up immediately behind one of the shutters and tapped lightly on the glass. Placed as he was now, he could be seen no more. His shadow mixed with the shadow of the shutter. At the noise on the glass Kimberley’s door had opened cautiously and she entered the sitting room. On tiptoe she went quickly to the window and opened it. The man entered. The little light that by now was commencing to dawn was enough to show Poiret that Kimberley still wore the evening dress in which he had seen her that same evening at the Avalon. As for the man, he tried in vain to identify him. He was only a dark mass wrapped in a muffler. He leaned over and kissed Kimberley’s hand.
She said only one word, “Quickly!”
But she had no more than said it before, under a vigorous attack, silent shadows jumped on the balcony and sprang into the mansion. Kimberley uttered a shrill cry in which Poiret believed he heard more despair than terror and moved in front of the men. But like a cat burglar, the intruder was lean enough to jump over a sofa, a chair, a table and through one of the floor to ceiling windows to get on the balcony, before a new person entered the room. It was Lady Hassocks.
Warned by Watkins that something would happen that night and foreseeing that it would happen on the ground floor, where she was forbidden to be, she had told her faithful nursemaid to go secretly to the first floor with orders to walk around there all night to make all think she herself was in her room, near her husband while she hid herself in the dining room.
Lady Hassocks now rushed to the balcony, crying, “Shoot! Shoot!”
In just that moment the man, who was hesitating whether to risk a jump from the balcony and perhaps break his neck or descend using his rope, chose to jump. The policemen used the ropes to climb down again and ran after the intruder. He had disappeared.
Sud
denly Watkins’s voice was heard shouting orders, calling on his agents to take the quarry alive. From the balcony Lady Hassocks continued crying out like a savage and Poiret tried in vain to keep her quiet. She was delirious at the thought the intruder might escape yet. As she turned on him angrily she saw Kimberley, who was leaning over the balcony, her lips trembling, trying to understand what was happening down in the garden. Lady Hassocks grabbed her hair and pulled her into the drawing room. She saw that her husband was there. He appeared in the pale glimmerings of dawn like a ghost. By some miracle Stephen Hassocks had been able to descend the stairs and reach the drawing room. She saw him shake with anger under his silk dressing gown.
He demanded in a hoarse voice, “What is going on?”
Lady Hassocks let go of Kimberley’s hair and pointing to Kimberley, she denounced his daughter as she would have pointed her out to a judge.
“Stephen, she’s the one, who has wished more than once to murder you! This night she opened the mansion to your assassin.”
The arms manufacturer fell onto a sofa, no longer able to hold himself up. Looking from Lady Hassocks to Kimberley, he put his hands in front of his face and said, “It’s you, who has killed me.”
“Me! By the living God!” babbled Lady Hassocks desperately. “Question your daughter and if what I said is not true, abandon me, divorce me. I will say thank you, thank you rather than for this to be true.”
Stephen Hassocks pushed her away. Without saying anything further, she stood there and looked with her haggard eyes, with her crazed face at her husband. It was painful for Poiret that he was present at this horrible family drama. Hassocks didn’t deign even to consider for any length of time Lady Hassocks’s words.
He said to his daughter, who shook with sobs, “Come here, Kimberley.”
His daughter embraced him and sat down next to him, not letting him go for a second. At this moment Inspector Watkins walked in.
“He’s dead.”
A cry answered him. Kimberley let go of her father, fell down on the floor on her knees and wept.
“But, who?” questioned Lady Hassocks breathlessly.
English Rose (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 13) Page 11
