*“No, no, certainly not; there’s nothing like being frank in a case like this. Did you hear Sutton go downstairs when he is supposed to have heard the burglar, say between four and five o’clock?”
“No, I must have been asleep, but about half-past five old ‘Fruity’ was astir. I heard his door close. I thought I’d heard him come upstairs, but he denied this when I mentioned the matter to him. He said he had left his door open for air, and rose about that hour to close it, because the dawn breeze was blowing his curtains about and keeping him from sleeping.”
“Sutton Armadale was a great friend of Miss Cazas,” remarked Vereker, filling Winter’s glass.
“He was awfully decent to Edmée. She was dreadfully cut up by his death. As she says herself, he was just a big, kind uncle to her. Being in love with her, I’m inclined to be stupidly jealous of every one. I do my best not to be. Jealousy makes a fellow look so small, don’t you think? Of course, when she explained to me that Sutton, knowing she wasn’t very well off, made her very tactful presents and called her his extravagant little niece, I understood perfectly. She always called him ‘Nunky,’ you know. Edmée gets rather cross about my jealousy, and tells me I should be proud that other men admire my girl. It’s difficult, but I suppose one really ought. Fellows can’t help falling in love with her, and she’s so kind-hearted and sympathetic that she hates to hurt them. Poor old Degerdon’s also very much in love with her. She says she doesn’t admire his sort, and is leading him on just to teach him a wholesome lesson. I’m sorry for him, but as Edmée says, it does a man good to learn that every woman isn’t at his feet. Deg is a bit cocksure with the fair sex.”
“You think Miss Cazas’ relations with Sutton were purely Platonic?” asked Vereker.
“Oh, purely, purely. Edmée told me it was one of those great big friendships between man and woman that are very rarely possible. ‘A friendship made in heaven’ is her rather beautiful way of expressing it.”
“Was there anything in the nature of a quarrel between them on Wednesday night?”
“You couldn’t call it a quarrel. Sutton was rather annoyed at the way she was leading Degerdon on, and she resented his dictating to her how she was to behave. Edmée is very touchy and can be spiteful with her tongue. She retaliated by being worse than ever. Sutton was awfully strait-laced in many ways, and the cause of the trouble was that he came upon them larking in the bathing pavilion. He always hated mixed bathing. Edmée was sitting on Deg’s knee in her bathing costume, I believe, but she denied this to me.”
“Did he speak to Degerdon?” asked Vereker.
“Oh, yes, and Deg got very huffy. He said if Sutton was going to disguise Vesey Manor as a nunnery, he for one was going to give the place a miss in balk. Sutton told him it was necessary to draw the line somewhere, and that those guests who liked mauling and clutching one another should choose Hampstead Heath on a summer’s night. Edmée, of course, capped it by adding ‘and before they’ve cut the grass.’ There the matter ended, but they were very cool to one another for the rest of the evening.”
“Were they always good friends on other occasions?” “I don’t think they hit it off together at all well. Deg always thought Sutton a bit of a humbug.”
“After going to bed on Wednesday night, did you hear or see Degerdon again before you saw him on the polo ground on Thursday morning?”
“Strange that you should ask me that! I have a hazy recollection of hearing Sutton and Degerdon having a hell of a row together long after I turned in. Of course I must have been dreaming, and my dream must have been prompted by what had occurred earlier in the evening. At least, that’s the only explanation I can offer, because they couldn’t possibly have been quarrelling again in the early hours of the morning.”
“It would hardly seem possible,” said Vereker, and asked, “Your cousin, Mrs. Armadale, told you that she was going to elope with Mr. Stanley Houseley?”
“Yes, and I advised her very strongly against it. She and Sutton didn’t pull together, but after all he was her husband and rather a marvellous chap altogether. Few men can become millionaires in a lifetime. But Angela and I don’t always see alike. She doesn’t like Edmée, and has often tried to make me throw her over altogether. Angela thinks me a bit of a fool and says I’m what the Americans call a ‘sap.’ Anyhow, I should never be such a big ‘sap’ as to leave a decent chap like Sutton for that pompous old ass, Stanley. Now she’s going to marry him and, as he dislikes Edmée, I shall see less of Angela than ever. I threatened to punch his head not long ago when he called Edmée a cabaret girl, and he’s not likely to forget it in a hurry. Tried to be sarcastic at my expense, but I fairly scored when I asked him if he’d like to find that pet moustache of his growing out of the back of his left ear. Stubborn ass, old Stanley!”
“Did you tell anyone else in the house about this elopement plan of your cousin’s?”
“Yes, I mentioned it in strictest confidence to Edmée, who agreed with me by saying that Angela was really qualifying for bibs and pinafores again. Edmée’s such a finished product that she has no patience with women who, as she says, look shy and suck their thumbs when a fellow wants to kiss ’em.”
From this point the conversation drifted into generalities, and after lunch Aubrey Winter left Vereker to keep an appointment concerning the purchase of a Burnley car. Vereker made his way to his club and had not been there long before Ricardo arrived. Thence they repaired to Vereker’s flat in Fenton Street, where they could discuss affairs without restraint.
“Miss Hardinge enjoy her lunch?” asked Vereker as soon as they had settled themselves comfortably in his studio.
“Algernon, I didn’t lunch Laura at all. That was what I call a lubricating lie. I took Edmée to Prince’s; only I didn’t want that tendril, Aubrey, to know. Neither did she, because of late she says he seems to have changed his toys from dolls to guns. I’ve been put to a lot of trouble on your account. Edmée’s as elusive as a bluebottle at all times, but recently I’ve found it almost impossible to get her by herself for five minutes together.”
“Did you get any information out of her about the Armadale affair?”
For a few seconds Ricardo was silent. Then, shaking his head gravely, he said:
“I don’t like the look of things. There’s something rotten about the whole business. From what I can gather, Vesey Manor on Wednesday night was like a thieves’ kitchen. Every one seemed to be ready to slit throats on the slightest provocation.”
“Your lady friend seems to be a bit of a damned nuisance wherever she goes.”
“I’m disillusioned, Algernon; she was only sugar- coated after all. I’ve been obliged to strike her off my list. The worst of it is, she’ll never realize the degradation, and I get as much satisfaction as the Pope would get in excommunicating the Devil. It had to be done. I find she associates with all sorts of undesirables of her own nationality. The other day I met her in company with a worm whom she introduced to me as Raoul Vernet. He was unacquainted with soap, blackleaded his shoes, and wore a compass on his watch-chain! He’s a typical—well, the French call such a man maquereau.
I went and had a Turkish bath after being in his company for about a quarter of an hour.”
“Where does he hang out?” asked Vereker.
“God knows, and I’m sure He’d rather not. Edmée seemed to be very intimate with him. He insisted on discussing something with her in French in spite of my declaring that I didn’t speak the language. But I have a working acquaintance with the lingo and kept my ears open. He seemed to be in a great hurry to get back to France, and eventually Edmée lent him some money for his passage—which, by the way, she borrowed from me. I lent it almost gladly in such a good cause.”
“Poor old Ricky!” exclaimed Vereker, laughing.
“Don’t be sorry for me, Algernon, I’ve put it down on my bill for expenses incurred on your behalf.”
“Anything else you picked up from their conversation?”
“Not much. Vernet seemed very upset about a friend of his, called Hippolyte Ferray, who had somehow got into trouble with a Trojan car, but what it was all about I couldn’t quite gather. He seemed most anxious to shake me off, but, as you know, Algernon, on business I’m perfectly prehensile. I wanted to get Edmée alone, and finally I did. She was in a highly nervous state about this affair at Vesey Manor and talked rather incoherently. She seemed more upset about the loss of Angela’s pearls than she did about Sutton’s death. I told her not to worry about things and that we had a very clever inquiry agent who was looking after the interests of the guests. I arranged that you should meet her and have a quiet talk.”
“When am I to meet the lady?”
“You’re to call at her flat at five this afternoon and have tea.”
“Damn! I rather wanted to get back to the ‘Silver Pear Tree’ about five.”
“Edmée was anxious to see Ralli this afternoon because she’s going back to Belgium as soon as possible, and has run down to Vesey Manor to say good-bye. She also wanted to see about a diary which she left behind on her last visit.”
“Then there’s nothing for it but to keep the appointment,” remarked Vereker. “I wanted to see Heather at five o’clock, but I can phone him a message to be sent down from Vesey Manor. Any other items of interest that may bear on my job, Ricky?”
“I’m afraid not, old pickle. You’ve given me rather an arid patch to cultivate on this occasion. No meat in my part, but I’ve played it with as much brio as I could.
“One minute,” said Vereker, with sudden eagerness, “here’s a point on which you may be helpful. Have you ever read or heard the words, ‘It has a strange quick jar upon the ear’? Seems to have a Shakespearean run about it.”
At once Ricardo rose to his feet, and the look of depression which had settled on his features, at the thought of his ineffectual services for Vereker, vanished.
“My dear Algernon, I’m sorry for you. Of course you can’t help being illiterate; all painters are. Here’s where I bourgeon. Let me recall those lines to you:
‘It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so.’”
“Heavens, Ricky, you’ve a marvellous memory for some things. Who wrote the stuff? Can you remember the versifier’s name?”
“Versifier, my dear Algernon? Poet of the first water—well, perhaps water is rather inappropriate to Byron. No mixer of ice-cream sodas for sloppy souls wrote those lines. You’ll find them somewhere in ‘Don Juan.’”
At once Vereker pulled out a slip of paper from his wallet.
“Ah, yes, D.J. C.4, S.41,” he said. “I read the riddle: ‘Don Juan,’ Canto 4, Stanza 41. This is remarkably interesting!”
Vereker relapsed into silence and sat deep in thought; his face grew pale, and his breath came quickly.
“I think that deserves a drink, Ricky,” he said at length, and in a strangely calm voice. “You’ve been a really helpful assistant. I thought Byronism was buried in Russia ages ago.”
“Possibly it was, but before we go further and you forget, let’s have the drink. I suggest something long and strong. I’m a bit depressed, and at the moment agree with Byron when he sang:
‘Man being reasonable must get drunk,
The best of life is but intoxication:
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk
The hopes of all men and of every nation’—
so hand me the keys of your cellarette and I’ll wait on us both!”
While Ricardo was busying himself in the direction of refreshment, Vereker was excitedly pacing up and down his studio. He was eager to meet Miss Edmée Cazas, and he was anxiously debating in his mind the line he would take in his interview with that lady. He felt that it would be no occasion for gentle persuasion, but a time for directness and, if necessary, a certain amount of judicious bluff. At last the work of sifting the information he had laboriously gathered seemed to promise a solution to the mystery of the happenings at Vesey Manor on the fateful morning of Sutton Armadale’s death. Little by little a theory had shaped itself from the seemingly inchoate mass of detail, and he was eager to put that theory to a final test. If Miss Cazas proved amenable to reason, he might be able to acquire the finishing touches which would crown his work with success. He was sanguine, but his hopefulness was tempered with caution. So often before had a promising edifice of theory been razed to the ground by some unexpected and disruptive fact. With fretful impatience he passed the time chatting with Ricardo, who, with characteristic changefulness, had forgotten his depression and was once more in exuberant mood. At half-past four Vereker left his flat and, hailing a taxi, asked the driver to take him to Francis Street, W., the address which Ricardo had given him.
Miss Edmée was in and awaiting him. On seeing her, Vereker remembered Ricardo’s description of her as a wisp of provocative feminine gossamer, and it struck him that, as a thumb-nail sketch of her, his words could hardly be bettered. On entering her drawing-room, he was at once aware of the prevailing odour of stephanotis. Tea was brought in by a highly coloured French maid, and, as Miss Cazas attended to the business of serving him, Vereker took the opportunity of studying her face. She was undoubtedly beautiful, but her rather prominent nose, typically Gallic, was displeasing to his taste, and her toilette, finished to the last degree of art, gave her the semblance of something unreal, so far was it removed from the robustness of English health and freshness. Her eyes had that extraordinary veiling of the lids and lashes suggestive of languor and passion which has appealed so strongly to artists at all periods of luxury and over-refinement. Her figure was admirable in its proportions, and she moved with the grace and sophistication of the danseuse. In spite of his prejudice and a determination to be hypercritical, Vereker was obliged to admit that he was decidedly impressed. With eminent practicality she brought the conversation at once to the business on which she knew Vereker had come.
“You’re busy on the investigation of the Armadale affair,” she said, speaking with hardly a trace of accent. “I’m glad you’ve called on me, Mr. Vereker. I can help only a little perhaps, but I will answer all your questions as clearly as possible. Poor Sutton” (she accented the name on the final syllable), “his tragic death has been a terrible blow to me. I have behaved rather wonderfully under it. I was one of his very great friends.”
“Your friendship was one of those that are made in heaven,” suggested Vereker, with a difficult simulation of sincerity.
“Exactly,” she replied, with a swift, penetrating glance. “You have used my own words.”
“You were born lucky, Miss Cazas; such friendships are naturally rare on this earth. But before we talk about this business I’d like to return you something you’ve lost.” With these words Vereker produced the dainty lace handkerchief which he had picked up in the rock garden of Vesey Manor and handed it to her.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she replied, with a disarming smile; “but how did you know it was mine?”
“A happy piece of guess-work, Miss Cazas. Your scent is stephanotis, and the rest was rather easy.”
“You’re a wonderful detective, Mr. Vereker; but, again, how did you know I used stephanotis?” she asked archly.
“More guess-work, Miss Cazas. Your bedroom at Vesey Manor retains a delightful memento of you and simply won’t forget your stay there.”
“Now that is very clever, Mr. Vereker. You deserve full marks, and I put you at once to the top of the class,” she laughed, as she tucked the handkerchief away in her dress. “Now how can I help you in your investigation?”
“By answering my questions very frankly, Miss Cazas. It’s the only way you can help me. Let me begin. At what time did you all go to bed on Wednesday night?”
“At twelve o’clock, or perhaps it was a little later.”
“I believe there had
been some unpleasantness between you and Mr. Armadale earlier in the evening?”
“Ah, but no. It was just a slight tiff about nothing. Mr. Armadale was a very generous man, and occasionally he gave me very acceptable presents. I’m very extravagant, and I get into debt. I used to tell him my troubles, and sometimes he would scold me and tell me I was his naughty little niece. It was such an occasion.”
“But I thought the tiff rose out of your behaviour with Mr. Degerdon?”
“Sacré nom de Dieu! Who told you that silly nonsense? Ah, I know—it was Aubrey. He is an impossible fool. He is very fond of me, and I tease him by making him, oh, so jealous. I told him a big fib about it.”
“I see. How’re the knees, Miss Cazas? I hear you hurt them rather badly when you were larking about in the swimming-pool.”
“Oh, I grazed them very severely. I should like to show them to you, but it would not be quite proper— eh? They’re not thoroughly healed yet.”
“Most unfortunate. I hear Aubrey Winter told you all about Mrs. Armadale’s little elopement scheme. She was going to run off with Mr. Houseley at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Perhaps he did. I’m not quite sure. I was not very interested in her childish way of making love, so I do not remember.”
“You knew, of course, she was going to take out divorce proceedings against her husband?”
“Yes, I knew. She told me so herself. I advised her not to be foolish, but, there, I cannot understand your English point of view on such matters.”
“If Mr. Armadale had lived and Mrs. Armadale had been granted a divorce, would you have consented to become his third wife?”
“That is an impossible question to answer, Mr. Vereker. I liked Sutton, but I cannot say I loved him. Still, he was immensely rich, and to be his wife would not have been unpleasant if he had consented to being sensible. I am young—need I explain?”
The Polo Ground Mystery Page 19
