The Murder on the Enriqueta: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  She stared at him.

  “Your letter?” she repeated, quite at sea as to his meaning.

  He moved impatiently.

  “Yes, my letter. You’re not going to tell me that you didn’t get it?”

  “I’ve had no letter from you for a long time,” said Carol. “I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about.”

  Mellish’s manner changed abruptly.

  “Let’s get this straight,” he said sharply. “I wrote to you nearly a week ago, asking you to see me as I had something of importance to discuss with you. I’ve been expecting to hear from you ever since.”

  Carol shook her head.

  “I’ve had no letter,” she assured him. “If I had, I should have answered it. You might have known that.”

  He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to take up the challenge.

  “So that’s it,” he murmured. “If my brains hadn’t been wool-gathering I should have guessed, I suppose. Where were you last Tuesday afternoon?” he asked suddenly.

  After a moment’s thought Carol answered:

  “At the Little Theatre. Why?”

  “You were out, then. Didn’t your aunt tell you that I called?”

  “Yes. She said that you’d only stayed a short time and were sorry to miss me.”

  “She gave you no message from me?”

  Carol looked puzzled.

  “Not exactly a message. She said that you hoped to see me soon, as far as I can remember.”

  “A half-truth is sometimes better than a lie,” said Mellish grimly. “My message was that I wanted to see you at once, and Lady Dalberry said that you would no doubt telephone to me. When you didn’t ring up, I wrote.”

  “But I never got the letter!”

  “No. I might have guessed you wouldn’t. I ought to have sent it by hand. As it is, who is to say that it wasn’t lost in the post?”

  “Aunt Irma may have misunderstood the message,” suggested Carol doubtfully. “Her English is so good that one’s apt to forget that it isn’t her real language.”

  “She might. As you say, one can hardly blame her.”

  Mellish’s tone was very dry. He turned to Carol with one of his sudden, disarming smiles.

  “I’ve been doing you an injustice. I apologize, my dear. You’ve probably guessed what I wanted to see you about. There are certain things you ought to know about that night at the Terpsychorean, things that Gillie would have explained to you himself if you hadn’t refused to see him. When I got no answer to my letter I concluded that you were indulging in a feminine fit of sulks, to put it mildly, and did not intend to listen to Gillie’s version of the affair. He was already under the impression that he had offended you irretrievably, and your behaviour led me to suppose that he was right.”

  There was a silence, then:

  “Have I ever done anything to make you think me a mean little beast?” asked Carol.

  Her voice was low and not quite steady. Mellish could not see her face.

  “Never,” he answered promptly. “It was because the whole thing was so unlike you that I resented it. Also, you must remember, you had just cause to be angry. Gillie’s behaviour must have seemed inexcusable. He realizes that—otherwise he would have tried to see you.”

  Carol kept her head resolutely turned away.

  “I wish he had,” she confessed. “I’ve minded horribly. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t write or something. I came to-day in the hope—”

  She broke off suddenly.

  Mellish was suddenly reminded of an old habit she had had, as a child, of creeping under a certain big table with a heavy cloth when she wanted to cry. He strolled over to the cupboard where he kept her favourite cigarettes and opened a box.

  “I can put the Terpsychorean business right in a few words,” he said, without looking round. “Gillie wasn’t drunk that night, though I admit you had good reason to think so.”

  There was a pause.

  “He was awfully queer, Jasper,” came at last from Caro.

  “I know. So would you be if you were drugged.”

  “Drugged?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it, Carol. I know what I’m talking about. He really was drugged, absurd as it sounds. It was a deliberate attempt on the part of some one to discredit him in your eyes, just as there has been an equally deliberate attempt to prevent you from seeing either of us for the past week.”

  He left her to absorb this statement while he crossed the room and, with his usual deliberation, placed the cigarettes by her side. She took one mechanically.

  “But I don’t understand, Jasper. Who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Let me tell you the whole story, then you can draw your own conclusions.”

  In as few words as possible he gave her Dalberry’s version of what had happened at the Terpsychorean. He also told her of de Silva’s connection with the club. She was quick to grasp all that the information implied.

  “If Captain Bond put anything into that first drink of Gillie’s, he must have been carrying out Mr. de Silva’s instructions,” she exclaimed. “Captain Bond couldn’t have any possible reason for trying to get Gillie out of the way.”

  “But de Silva might? What makes you think that?” asked Mellish sharply.

  She reddened.

  “A week ago I should have laughed at the idea,” she said frankly. “And it seems ridiculous now. It’s only that, during the last few days, Mr. de Silva’s been—well—rather forthcoming. It isn’t that he’s said or done anything any one could possibly take exception to, only he’s always turning up, and, once he’s there, I simply can’t get rid of him. If I liked him I shouldn’t object to it in the least, but I don’t. And the fact that he’s such a friend of Aunt Irma’s makes it so much more difficult. I don’t want to be rude to him.”

  “He did nothing to annoy you that night he drove you home from the club, did he?”

  “Nothing. He couldn’t have been more considerate. I ought to be grateful to him, really. It was a horrid situation, and he got me out of it very neatly.”

  “Having got you into it in the first instance, that was the least he could do. I shouldn’t waste gratitude on him if I were you.”

  “You can’t really believe he had anything to do with what happened to Gillie! It’s unthinkable!”

  “Gillie did not feel ill till after he’d had those two drinks at the Terpsychorean,” Mellish pointed out. “And those drinks were undoubtedly mixed by either de Silva or Bond. Add to that the fact that de Silva is, or was, the proprietor of the club, and that Bond is in his employ, and I don’t see what other conclusion you can come to. I’m afraid you’ve added yet another to your long list of admirers, my dear, and a determined one at that. At any rate he’s invented an original method of getting rid of his rivals!”

  He spoke lightly with a purpose. He did not want to alarm the girl more than was necessary to put her on her guard against the Argentino.

  “But what was the point of it all?” she exclaimed. “He must have known he couldn’t keep us apart for ever!”

  Mellish decided to tell her frankly the conclusion he had come to.

  “I think he made a bad side-slip over the Terpsychorean business. You must remember he’s a Latin, and he probably let his jealousy of Gillie get the better of his judgment. Also, he bungled badly over the drug itself. If he had given Gillie a slightly smaller amount, it would have been far more difficult for him to prove that he wasn’t simply the worse for drink. Drugs are tricky things to play with. They react quite differently on different people. I don’t suppose, for a moment, he meant him to lose consciousness. The suppression of the letter was simply a blind attempt to postpone the consequences of his blunder. I should have given him credit for more sense myself, from what you tell me of him.”

  “Anyhow, he’ll hardly dare to show his face after this. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to feel that I needn’t always
be avoiding him.”

  “I shouldn’t count on that. He doesn’t know how much we may have guessed. He’s been making hay while the sun shines, from your account, and he’s not likely to relinquish the position easily. When you say he’s always turning up, do you mean that he comes to your aunt’s flat?”

  “It isn’t his coming to the flat I mind, it’s the exasperating way he has of dropping in when Aunt Irma’s out. He’s done it three times now, and each time I’ve opened the door to him myself, thinking that it was Aunt Irma and that she had forgotten her key. That’s the worst of a service flat. Ordinary visitors are shown up by one of the pages, but Mr. de Silva comes out of his own flat opposite and just knocks, and, so far, I’ve been caught every time. When he finds Aunt Irma out he asks if he may come in and wait in her sitting-room, and, as he’s an intimate friend of hers, I can’t very well refuse. Last time I was literally driven out of the flat. I was determined not to give him tea, and I saw he was going to ask for it, so I invented an appointment and cleared out myself.”

  “Have you spoken to Lady Dalberry about it?”

  “How can I? Apart from the fact that they seem to do a lot of business together, they are old friends, and the flat is as much hers as mine.”

  “Do you think she knows he comes to see you?”

  Carol smiled rather ruefully.

  “I don’t even know it myself,” she said honestly. “As I say, he hasn’t done or said a thing I could possibly complain of, and, for all I know, it may have been just bad luck that he came when Aunt Irma was out. But I don’t think so. He has got a queer way of turning up and waylaying me on the stairs or catching me just as I am going out of the flat. I don’t believe it can be altogether accidental. There’s something about the whole thing that bothers me, and I’m nervous about Aunt Irma. I believe he’s getting hold of her money in some way. She’s always going over to his flat with bundles of papers, and I’m sure she consults him about all her investments. He belongs to the bridge club she goes to, and I know she lost heavily to him the other night. She was talking about it next morning. And now there’s this business of Gillie’s illness and the disappearance of your letter. It does look as if he’d got round Aunt Irma. Do you think he’s got some hold over her, Jasper?”

  “It certainly looks as if she’d had a finger in the pie,” said Mellish evasively. “Though, of course, the loss of the letter and the bungling of my message to you may be a sheer coincidence. As you say, it might be due to her bad English, and, after all, letters do get lost in the post. What do you want to do? Leave the flat? I daresay we should have no trouble in terminating any arrangement you made with Lady Dalberry.” Carol shook her head.

  “I can’t leave her in the lurch like that, after all the trouble she’s taken to make me comfortable. She had the rooms done up on purpose, and she’s really been a brick. And, after all, we’ve no proof that she’s mixed up in this business at all. If the de Silva man gets really troublesome, I shall have to go, and I shall tell her frankly why I am leaving. But, for the present, I think I’d better stay.”

  Rather to her surprise Mellish did not question her decision.

  “You may be right,” he said. “There’s more in this business than meets the eye, and we’ve undoubtedly got a better chance of finding out what de Silva’s object is if we can keep in touch with him. So long as you are on your guard, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t stay where you are, unless you feel nervous, in which case you had far better leave at once. Do you feel equal to meeting de Silva and, possibly, Bond, without betraying the fact, either to them or Lady Dalberry, that your suspicions have been aroused? If de Silva annoys you in any way, ring me up here.”

  Carol hesitated for a moment.

  “All right, I’ll do my best,” she said. “And I’ll post any letters I write myself, though, honestly, it seems too absurd! I feel as if I were acting in a cheap melodrama.”

  “No harm in being on the safe side, all the same,” said Mellish easily. “And, by the same token, don’t mention the fact that you have seen me or Gillie. Meet him outside, if you can. I’ll ring you up at intervals.”

  “Aunt Irma nearly always goes round to the club in the evening. She’s got a mania for bridge. Unless I’m out you’ll find me alone after dinner, if you telephone then.”

  “Shall I tell Gillie that?” asked Mellish innocently. “He’s about due to ring up now. He drops in or telephones on an average of every three hours nowadays.”

  Carol fell into the trap.

  “Why are you seeing so much of him all of a sudden?” she asked.

  “I’m not,” answered Mellish blandly. “His visits are unflatteringly short. He merely asks whether I have heard from you, and then, the answer being in the negative, removes himself till next time. He hasn’t seemed in the mood for conversation lately. You may find him more chatty when you meet. Have you any message for him?”

  Carol, her cheeks a shade pinker than usual, was on her way to the door. She turned.

  “No, thank you,” she said demurely. “I shall be writing to him in any case.”

  “Then take my advice and post the letter yourself,” called Mellish after her as she disappeared.

  When she had gone he rang for Jervis.

  “In the future, whenever I go out I shall leave an address that will find me,” he said. “If Miss Summers should ring up at any time her message is to be telephoned on to me immediately, wherever I may be. If, at any time, I should forget to mention where I am going, I shall expect you to remind me, Jervis.”

  “Very good, sir. Lord Dalberry is on the phone.”

  Mellish settled himself luxuriously in his chair.

  “Tell him that I am asleep and have left orders that I am on no account to be disturbed, but that Miss Summers is writing to him. Have you got that, Jervis?”

  “You are asleep, but Miss Summers is writing to Lord Dalberry. Very good, sir.”

  And Jervis departed on his errand of mercy.

  CHAPTER XI

  On leaving Mellish’s rooms Carol hurried back to the Escatorial, impelled by a quite shameless desire to get hold of Dalberry as soon as possible. She tried to ring him up from a public call-office on her way home, but the line was engaged. If she had known that she had missed him on the telephone at Mellish’s flat by a few minutes she would have bitterly regretted the pride that had prevented her from asking if she might ring him up from there. She knew that Lady Dalberry was probably at home, in which case she dare not call up from the Escatorial. There seemed nothing for it now but to write to him. One thing was quite clear to her: she could not rest in peace until she had put things right between them.

  She swung quickly into the big hall of the Escatorial, her mind so full of the letter she was about to write that she did not notice a dumpy, thickset figure which had just emerged from the lift. The sound of her own name, spoken in a curious husky whisper, caused her to turn, and, to her annoyance, she recognized Captain Bond. He carried a suitcase and a heavy motor coat slung over his arm.

  Her first instinct was to ignore him, then she remembered Mellish’s instructions and her undertaking to obey them. She realized now that the task was not going to be an easy one. The mere sight of the little man’s pasty, querulous face brought back the Terpsychorean and his share in what had happened there.

  With an effort she greeted him pleasantly. He dropped the suitcase he was carrying with a sigh of relief, and shook hands.

  “Have you been calling on us?” she asked. “I hope you found my aunt at home.”

  “I’ve had to deny myself that pleasure,” he explained elaborately. “My time was too short. I’m leaving for Paris tonight, and have been getting my final instructions from Mr. de Silva.”

  “You’ll have a lovely trip. Paris ought to be delicious now, in spite of the cold.”

  “I’m afraid I shall have no time for frivolities,” he grumbled, delighted, as usual, to be able to voice a grievance. “I shall only have two days, a
nd those will be spent in stuffy warehouses, sampling scents and face-creams and all the things you ladies love.”

  Carol persisted nobly in her determination to be pleasant.

  “I’m not sure that I don’t envy you,” she said, with something of the sprightliness she felt that he expected of “you ladies.”

  “It’s not a man’s job,” he assented gloomily.

  He stood staring at her in silence until, having waited in vain for him to move on, she was driven to holding out her hand in dismissal.

  “Well, I hope you’ll have a good crossing and a pleasant time when you get there,” she said, with cheerful banality.

  He shook hands with her absent-mindedly, picked up his suitcase and then stood with it in his hand, barring her way to the lift.

  “What do you think of our preparations, Miss Summers?” he asked suddenly.

  She could not help smiling at the inconsequence of the question.

  “The Onyx things? I think they’re excellent.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re right. They’re about the best of their kind. Quite pure and all that. You know that quite a lot of the big places stock them now? Garrods and Hammidges, for instance. You can get all our things there.”

  There was another pause. Then, with an involuntary glance at the deserted staircase, he finished hurriedly:

  “If you want any of the Onyx preparations, Miss Summers, go to one of the big stores for them. Don’t get them from us. You’ll find them just as good elsewhere.”

  And with that he turned and hurried away, leaving Carol staring after him in mixed consternation and astonishment.

  In the light of what she had learned that afternoon, his intention was obvious. He was trying, in his bungling way, to warn her against the Onyx.

  On reaching the flat she went straight to her room and wrote her letter to Gillie. Then, without waiting to see whether her aunt was at home, she rang for the lift and went down and posted the letter herself at the little post office at the corner of the street.

  On her return to the flat she opened the door of her aunt’s sitting-room and looked in. Lady Dalberry was sitting by the fire, reading.