“No, I haven’t.”
“No possibility occurs to you?”
“No.”
“And the ‘he’ she quotes—have you any ideas about that?”
Jeremy was frowning at the block on his knee. He looked up doggedly. “I thought it might be Mannister.”
Mr Smith nodded gently. Then he said,
“And that brings us to episode number six. Number five would be your interview with Miss Rachel in the Park, but we can return to that. For the moment it is number six that I would like to consider.” He paused, sat up, and leaned his chin upon his hand. His eyes looked past Jeremy to the fire, where the logs had fallen into a ruin of crimson ash. “Number six,” he said meditatively, “is very important. It is the episode of Mr Mannister’s return on Monday evening, and I would like to take it now because it is naturally linked with number two, Mannister’s departure, and four, your discoveries with regard to the open safe and the missing letter. Well, Mr Mannister came home yesterday, and when he had had some tea and had gone through the speech he was going to deliver at the Albert Hall that evening, he produced the key of the safe and told you to get out a letter which he wanted to show to the Prime Minister. Was the key loose or on a keyring?”
“On a key-ring, and the ring on a chain. He handed me over the whole bag of tricks.”
“You cannot, of course, say whether the key with which Miss Rachel locked the safe was Mr Mannister’s key or a duplicate?”
Jeremy leaned forward.
“Yes, sir, I can. That’s what’s been puzzling me—it was the same key.”
“That—er—makes things very difficult,” said Mr Smith. “Do you mind telling me your reasons for deciding that Miss Rachel’s key was not a duplicate?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. There’s a little nick about half way up the stem—oh, more a deep scratch than a nick—I’ve noticed it every time I’ve unlocked the safe. You know how that sort of raw scratch on metal catches your eye.”
“And Miss Rachel’s key had it too?”
“Yes, it had.”
Mr Smith nodded.
“You are very definite,” he said. “Well, you opened the safe. Where was Mr Mannister whilst you were doing this?”
“He was sitting in a chair by the fire.”
“Watching you?”
“Yes, I think he was.”
“And when you opened the safe, the letter with the blue envelope was lying where you had left it at midnight on Saturday?”
Jeremy hesitated for the first time. He put the writing-block behind him in the chair and got up.
“I’d like to show you what happened,” he said. “If you don’t mind turning your chair a little, you can be Mannister, and the bureau will do for the safe.” He went over and stood by it on the right of the fireplace. “I had the key and I opened the safe, and then I funked. I wondered if there had been another disappearing trick, and I didn’t look into the safe—I looked back over my shoulder at Mannister.”
Mr Smith’s gaze swept him. Jeremy had the sensation of being for a moment stripped quite bare. If he had had anything to hide, the moment would have been an extremely unpleasant one. It came and went, and Mr Smith was speaking.
“You looked at him, you say. Could he see into the safe?”
“Yes, he could.”
“And what did you see?” The you was very definitely stressed.
“He was looking into the safe—frowning. I was trying to make out whether the letter was there or not from the way he looked. I asked him what letter he wanted. I had got the wind up. I thought he wasn’t ever going to answer, and then he said, ‘There—right in front—the one in the blue envelope,’ and I turned round, and it was there.”
“Yes,” said Mr Smith—“er—yes. And if Miss Rachel had not walked in her sleep on Saturday night, it would have been in your drawer. Did Mr Mannister, who was looking into the safe, appear at all surprised when he saw the letter?”
“I didn’t see him when he saw the letter,” said Jeremy. “I turned my back to him to open the safe, and when I turned round he had already seen the letter.”
“And what did you see? I asked you that before. Did you see anything?”
Jeremy hesitated again. He said,
“It seems absurd.”
“I shouldn’t—er—trouble about that.”
Jeremy came back from the bureau and leaned against the mantelpiece.
“There wasn’t anything I could swear to—there wasn’t even anything that I could be tolerably sure about. And next minute he was pretty brusque with me—wanted me to hurry up and get through with it and be off out of his way.”
“But for a moment you had an—er—impression?”
Jeremy looked frowning into the fire. It had been the most fleeting, the most evanescent of impressions. He struggled to recapture it, and it eluded him. He tried for a word with which to clothe it and failed.
“I can’t get it,” he said. And then, as he turned to go back to his chair, a word slipped into his mind—the most astonishing and unexpected of words. He stopped and fixed a surprised look on Mr Benbow Smith. “Relief,” he said. “It sounds barmy, but I caught a look I couldn’t put a name to at the time. I believe it was relief.” He threw himself into his chair and plunged his head into his hands. “It goes as soon as I try and get it into words. I’m not sure about any of it now.”
CHAPTER XXII
MR SMITH GOT UP and dropped a fresh log upon the embers. He laid a second log across the first and came back to his chair, remarking that the nights were chilly, and that Ananias disliked the winter. As he spoke, his glance passed vaguely over Rosalind, and all at once she felt that she was cold, and wished that she had not come.
Mr Smith leaned back in his chair and addressed himself to Jeremy.
“Let us now retire in good order upon episode five, which has a particular interest for me, as I was to a certain limited extent a—er—participant. I refer, of course, to your meeting with Miss Rachel in the Park. It was not, I understand, premeditated?”
“Oh no.”
“It was purely accidental?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On your side,” said Mr Smith in his pleasant voice.
Jeremy’s eyebrows twitched. He said abruptly,
“It was accidental on both sides. She couldn’t possibly have known that I would go into the Park—I didn’t know myself.”
“But she spoke to you, not you to her.”
Jeremy’s face took on a disconcerted expression that had the effect of putting back his age ten years. He said,
“It was only about the squirrel. I frightened him.”
Mr Smith nodded. A bright flame sprang up from a splinter on the uppermost log. It waved like a gaudy-banner and went out in a puff of smoke.
“Now I wonder,” said Mr Smith—“I wonder whether you noticed Miss Rachel’s shoes and stockings.”
Jeremy looked up with a fleeting grin.
“Did you, sir?”
“Oh, at once. They struck me as—er—expensive, and singularly out of keeping with the—er—dilapidated appearance of her coat and hat. Hat, of course, is a misnomer—I should have said cap, or beret. I am not, I confess, very clear as to the difference between the two, but it is my impression that whilst a beret is a cap, a cap is not necessarily a beret. Now I should like to know whether you noticed anything special about this particular coat and cap.”
“They’d been worn by the sea,” said Jeremy. “The stains were sea-water stains.”
Mr Smith nodded.
“Yes, I think so. And what do you make of that?”
“I thought,” said Jeremy—“I wondered whether—whether she was kept in—not allowed to go out. She mightn’t have been able to get hold of any other outdoor clothes. That’s what I thought.”
“There is, of course, another explanation,” said Mr Smith, “but it did not occur to me any more than it appears to have occurred to you. I think we may dismiss it. Well, coming down to your conversation with Miss Rachel, the most noteworthy points are:
“1. She did not recognize you.
“2. When you called her by her name, she was frightened and astonished, and immediately asked how you knew that she was called Rachel.
“3. When you asked her what she had dreamed the night before, her trouble was intensified. And—
“4. When you told her that you were Jeremy Ware, she ran away.
“These four points hang together and sustain your contention that during her two visits to the library she was really walking in her sleep. When you induced her to stop running, you had a short conversation with her, in the course of which she told you you were not safe, begged you to leave town, refused to meet you again, and implored you not to follow her. This concludes episode five. There now remains the very fragmentary and inconclusive episode seven, in which you once more entered Mr Mannister’s cellars and neither saw Miss Rachel nor discovered anything. We cannot at present ascertain who it was that you did see.”
For a moment Jeremy wondered whether he should mention Mr John Brown. He decided that it would not be fair. He had seen no more of the man who dropped from the wall than a quickly moving shadow in the dark. It might have been Mr John Brown, but it might have been anyone else. It seemed a little unfair to drag Mr Brown into the limelight. He might have had half a dozen reasons for being abroad. He might have been looking for Mrs Beamish’s cat, or he might have been courting a Tilt Street cook—both venial offences.
“And now,” said Mr Smith, “I would like to invite Mrs Denny’s co-operation. I called this”—he touched the torn scrap of paper scrawled with Jeremy’s signature—“Exhibit B—Exhibit A being the small model of an owl dropped by Miss Rachel on the occasion of her first visit to the library. Mrs Denny, I believe you possess a similar model?”
Rosalind looked up and then down again.
“Mine is a snail,” she said.
“And Ellinger’s is a toad. We know of three of these models. I have seen none of them. Colonel Garrett has seen the toad and the snail. And you”—he turned to Jeremy—“have seen the snail and the owl. Colonel Garrett is positive that the toad and the snail are of the same workmanship—I am taking Mrs Denny’s account. I would like your opinion as regards the snail and the owl.”
“Oh, they were done by the same person,” said Jeremy. “Colonel Garrett sprung the snail on me after lunch on Sunday. I nearly dropped my coffee-cup. I expect he thought I was registering guilt.”
“Er—probably,” said Mr. Smith. “You might, of course, have introduced your owl in order to—er—account for whatever it was that you did register.”
“Yes,” said Jeremy, “it cuts both ways—I see that.”
Mr Smith turned back to Rosalind.
“There are one or two questions I would like to ask you about that telephone call this morning. When you first heard the voice, you did not recognize it as Mr Ware’s?”
Rosalind was sitting up, her hands lightly linked in her lap.
“Oh no,” she said. “It was very faint. I wasn’t even sure whether it was a man or a woman.”
“And when did it occur to you that the voice resembled Mr Ware’s?”
“Not till the very end.”
“Could you repeat the words, do you think? Was it one sentence, or more than one?”
“It was about the photograph.” Her voice was very tired. “He said, ‘You shall have a photograph;’ and then, ‘I think you will find it convincing.’ I thought it was Jeremy speaking, and I thought I was going to faint.”
“It did not occur to you that if Mr Ware had taken the precaution of disguising his voice, it was unlikely that he would suddenly revert to his natural speech?”
“I didn’t think at all. It was a shock.”
“Will you think now, Mrs Denny? If someone wished you to believe that Mr Ware was blackmailing you, they would have adopted some such course as you have described. You will notice that he did not take the risk of sustaining the whole conversation in the voice he desired you to recognize—he restricted his imitation to two short sentences. I am—er—assuming that there was an—er—imitation, and that Mr Ware is in fact innocent.” He leaned forward and looked full and keenly at Rosalind. “Mrs Denny, why did you immediately assume that he was guilty?”
Rosalind Denny flushed brightly. The colour gave her beauty. She caught her breath and said in a startled voice,
“It was a shock—I hadn’t time to think—I thought it was his voice.”
“And when you had—er—time to think?”
“I asked him to come and see me.”
She looked at him, and wished that he would look away. The dreaminess was gone from his eyes. They gave her the feeling that she was made of glass—clear, and brittle, and cold. It frightened her, but she held on. He must look away soon. Why should he make her tell him things that she could not bear to tell? She didn’t want to tell anyone about her visit to Asphodel. It had hurt so frightfully. She had heard Gilbert’s voice speaking through the medium’s lips. It was a trick of course. … Was it a trick? She had heard Gilbert’s voice, and it had said, “Don’t trust Jeremy Ware.” How could she tell anyone a thing like that? She felt herself growing colder and colder. With another half caught breath she put her hand over her eyes and said,
“Phase—”
“It would be better if you were to tell me,” said Mr Smith.
He was answering what she had not said. He looked away from her and watched the flames which were fretting at the tilted log. There was a long pause before he spoke again.
“Let us turn to Exhibit C,” he said, “which consists of three photographs purporting to reproduce a letter from Mr Gilbert Denny to some unknown person under date October the first, nineteen twenty-nine. Mr Ware is quite positive that it is a forgery. You are equally positive.”
It was hardly a question, yet Rosalind answered it.
She said, “Yes,” her voice leaping at the word, and falling suddenly exhausted.
Mr Smith did not look round. He said,
“I think it is quite certain that you will be approached again. A price will be suggested for the original of these photographs—a price—” His voice trailed off. He went on looking into the fire. Presently he said, “I wonder—” He turned in his chair and once more regarded Rosalind. “I won’t ask you any more questions, Mrs Denny, but I should like to offer you some advice. You will not, I suppose, take it, and I am old enough to know better than to offer what very few are inclined to accept.”
Rosalind smiled. Her relief was so great that she smiled very beautifully. If he had gone on asking her questions she might have told him all those things which she never meant to tell, or, more terrifying still, he might have known them without being told. Her lips had stiffened on her secrets; now they relaxed into a smile.
“Perhaps I am one of the few,” she said. “I do take advice sometimes, and even when I don’t take it I am grateful.”
Mr Smith got up. He had taken off his glasses and was polishing them.
“If you will take my advice, Mrs Denny,” he said, “you will ring up Colonel Garrett and ask him to come and see you without delay. When he comes, tell him the whole thing. He will probably suggest a course of action, and if he does so, I should advise you to follow it. I have also some advice for Mr Ware.” He put on his glasses again, pushed them up on to his forehead, and looked from under them at Jeremy. “I hope you will take it,” he said. “I—er—really do hope so. The advice—er—falls into two parts. First, do not forget to examine your pass-book. Do not put off doing so. And second, be circumspect with regard to Mr Mannister’s safe. If he requires you to lock away important papers, it might be p
rudent for you to invite his attention whilst you are doing so. You might—er—even go so far as to let him see that you are—er—on your guard. I do not think that would do any harm. Do not allow yourself to be left alone in the room with the open safe or with the keys. In the words which Ananias quotes with—er—thrilling effect from a very striking poem by Mr Vachel Lindsay, ‘Walk with care’.”
When, a little later, he was bidding Rosalind goodbye, he looked at her once again, but this time she felt no discomfort under his gaze, which was dreamy and benign.
“I believe,” he said, “that you—er—value your—er—model of a snail.”
“I did,” said Rosalind. “It’s most beautifully done.”
“So Colonel Garrett gave me to understand.”
Rosalind had taken a step towards the door. She turned back.
“Why did you say that?”
“Colonel Garrett described it as a—er—masterpiece.”
“Please, why?” said Rosalind earnestly.
Mr Smith took her hand, held it for a moment, and then let it drop again.
“I have an—er—impression.” he said, “that you may-very shortly be afforded the—er—opportunity of acquiring a second masterpiece. Good-night, Mrs Denny.”
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEN THE FRONT DOOR had closed, Mr Smith strolled over to the telephone and dialled in. After a short interval Colonel Garrett’s growl jarred the wire and evolved into words.
“What is it? What is it?”
“You do not sound very pleased,” said Mr Smith mildly.
“Oh, it’s you, is it? I’m playing bridge. The telephone bell rang thirty-two times during the last rubber, and we finished by going down for a grand slam in spades!”
“Very afflicting,” said Mr Smith. “You should take up backgammon. I won’t keep you, but I thought you would like to make an early—er—assignation. I am—er—several tricks up on you in the—er—other game. My—er—hand is positively crowded with kings and aces. For the moment the knave eludes me, but I have collected a most charming queen. Meanwhile I should like as soon as possible the address, other than Marsh Street, of Mr Geoffrey Deane, together with his full dossier and a great deal of information about everybody who lives, moves, or has any kind of being in or about Number One Tilt Street—the ostensible occupant being a Miss P. Dart. Good-night, my dear Garrett. … No, no—you really must restrain your language. Consider the innocent slumbers of Ananias.”
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