“Wonder where the old cat goes gallivantin’ this time of night?” he voicelessly asked the passing wind. “Now lemme think. She was out the night Grumman was done in, and she was out the night following. Then she missed two nights, and went out and come ’ome about this time. She ain’t been out since then until tonight. Wonder if Mr. Bonaparte was expectin’ ’er to go out tonight, sort of?” Bisker began to sneer silently to the wind: “Go to bed with a ’eadache, me blinkin’ aunt’s grandmother! The old cat. Strayin’ on the tiles at midnight, or a bit after.”
Soliloquising thus enabled him to pass the time and to assist in keeping from his mind the growing chill. A strong gust of wind brought a skiff of rain which bit coldly into his face, and then when the wind passed like a giant to stride away down the mountain, in the abrupt comparative quietness he fancied he heard other footsteps on the road beyond the gate. The next wind-giant came before he could be decided about it, roaring through the trees so loudly as to drown out the noise of a farm tractor. That giant passed, and Bisker strained his ears.
“Musta been mistook,” he breathed into his moustache. “By cripes, I wasn’t!”
He saw the figure on the roadway, a figure that loomed high from his prostrate position at the foot of the wood-stack. He saw it against the almost black sky. It seemed to drift past him, making not the slightest sound, and Bisker shivered. It drifted towards the open space before the front entrance and vanished from him.
“Musta bin Mr. Bonaparte,” he said to himself. “Cripes, ’e can move silent, all right. Like them bloomin’ aborigines gettin’ around. Well, well, we are ’avin’ a great time of it.”
Half an hour later he almost shouted. He was lying on his back to maintain that sky background when he felt a hand close over an ankle, and then saw a form loom over him like a vampire. A shape blotted out the sky from his eyes, and then he saw two gleams of steel-coloured light. The voice, he was most happy to hear, although it came to him as an echo flung back by his own moustache.
“Did you see that man come in from the top gate?” asked Bony.
Bisker felt Bony’s ear touch his mouth, and he breathed:
“Yes. Did you? Where did he go?”
“Into the house by the front door. Had his own key, I think. Went in and closed the door. It was locked when I tried it a minute ago. See anyone else?”
“Yes, Miss Jade. She come back a full hour ago. From the top road.”
“You were not able to recognise the man?”
“No. All I could make out was a sorta shadder drifting by, I thought I ’eard footsteps on the road beyond the gate but I couldn’t be sure ’cos of the wind.”
“How do you know the woman who came in was Miss Jade?”
The question was cause for Bisker’s silence, and Bony said:
“You don’t know that it was Miss Jade, eh?”
“But we know as ’ow Miss Jade ’as been out late at night, don’t we?” countered Bisker in defence.
“Very well! We’ll leave it at that. It was a woman, but who, we don’t know. Will you stay here a little longer?”
“Too right! As long as you like.”
“Good! Stay here until I come back to you. I may be away for some time. I am going into the house by the scullery door.”
The shadowy form that had been just above him slipped away, and Bisker did not see Bony, or hear him, depart.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Prowler
STOOPING BEFORE the scullery door, Bony felt for the key beneath the brick, and with it let himself into the house, then pocketed the key and closed the door behind him. With the shutting of the door the orchestra of the wind played with only one violin and one drum muffled.
Within the house the inner silence was profound, and Bony leaned back against the door and gave himself a full minute of meditation. He could be sure that the woman Bisker had seen enter by that door had been Miss Jade, and that by now she would have reached her room and probably was in bed and asleep. The man who had entered by the front door presented a far different problem because even a guess could not be hazarded to establish him. Bony could not know if he were one of the guests, or a burglar. If one of the guests, then he could assume that this guest had gone to his room and by now was in bed, if not actually asleep. If a burglar, then he would be very much awake and somewhere in the house engaged in his unlawful occupation. In consequence, a burglar would be much more a menace to Bony’s plans for that night than a guest.
In his left hand, Bony held a swithy-stick, cut from the bush that evening, green and resilient and about four feet in length. Why does a cat grow whiskers from above each eye if not for the purpose of being warned by them that an obstruction was immediately before it, an obstruction not seen in complete darkness? Bony’s swithy-stick was intended for similar use to avoid running against any object which might fall with a clatter, and to avoid tripping over an object and producing the same result. With the stick held before him, he gently prodded with it whilst he crossed the scullery to the connecting doorway with the kitchen. He felt that he would not contact any probable burglar until after he had left the kitchen, and therefore, when he gained the passage beyond the kitchen, he leaned against a wall and listened, listened for full sixty seconds which, under such circumstances, take a long time in passing.
He was aware that this passage was approximately twenty-five feet in length, and that at its far end was the serving door to the lounge. The passage was bisected by another. Along the left angle were the reception hall and the office, whilst along the right angle were the wine-store, the steward’s room, a lumber room and three bedrooms occupied by the staff.
If the man observed by Bony to enter the house by the front door was a burglar, then he could be expected firstly to be operating in the office, secondly in the wine-store, and thirdly, well, anywhere. He must be first located before Bony could execute the work he had planned to do.
With his “cat’s whisker” feeling the way hidden even to his keen eyes, Bony moved soundlessly over the linoleum covering the passage floor. On reaching the cross-passage, he moved along that to the reception-hall door, now walking on carpet. The door was open, and this did not disturb him because he had not once seen that door closed save on that day the police held their enquiry in Miss Jade’s office.
The wall clock in the reception hall ticked loudly, but although Bony gave another minute to listening, he could hear no sound other than the ticking clock and the wind in the trees outside the house. Familiar with the furnishing of the hall, he crossed to the door of the office, finding that closed and knowing that it was fitted with a Yale lock. With his ear pressed against the wood, he listened intently, and eventually decided that the unknown man was not working within on Miss Jade’s safe.
Now for the second target. Using the swithy-stick like a rapier, he re-crossed the reception hall to find that he had missed the door by about two feet and was warned by the stick that he had come up against the corner of a straight-backed chair. Out through the door and along the passage, across the passage from lounge to kitchen, and without the slightest relaxation of caution, eventually he reached the door of the wine-store, a door also fitted with a Yale lock. Against this door he leaned with his ear pressing the cold woodwork.
No sound came from within. Other than the moan of the wind outside the house and the ticking of the wall clock in the reception hall, the interior of the house presented to him the silence of a bank’s vault. He had his ear still pressed to the door of the wine-store when from farther along the passage a door was softly opened. Normal ears, perhaps, would not have registered the sound, and much later, when he recalled this moment, he was undecided if it were sound or change of air pressure which gave him the warning.
The door of the wine-store was, fortunately, only five feet from the cross-passage and with two swift strides he was round the angle and peering back, confident that he had made no sound betraying him. Listening, he heard no further sound from beyond the w
ine-store—until he detected a minute noise of periodic rasping slowly becoming more distinct.
His mother’s blood was tingling his neck and the roots of his hair; his father’s blood was flowing strongly through his heart. The aboriginal half of him was widening his nostrils and dilating his eyes and urging him to flee from the unseen terror; the white half of him was holding him to that corner, controlling his limbs and his mind.
Bony knew what it was—that faint rasping sound becoming slowly more distinct. It was being made by the hand of a man who was otherwise silently approaching, the hand sliding along the wall to guide him through the absolute darkness.
Himself making no sound, not even the slightest rasping noise, Bony, with the aid of his “cat’s whisker,” slipped along to the door of the reception hall, and there turned and again waited—listening. Now he could hear nothing. The moments passed. The ticking of the clock in the hall had become hammer blows in his ears and he wished that he had stopped it.
The light glow appeared at first as brilliant as a searchlight. He thought it could not fail to reveal him to the man at the point where the passages crossed, and then instantly realised that it was not sufficiently strong, that it was the light of an electric torch shining through two or more folds of a silk handkerchief. Thus dimmed, it would not reveal anything beyond two or three feet to the man holding it.
The light went out, but before it was switched off, Bony saw that the man was about to enter that passage leading to the lounge. He walked swiftly to the crossing of the passages—to peer round the corner, holding his breathing the better to hear.
The light was switched on again, and this time Bony made out the figure of the man as he was about to turn down the passage between the dining room and the lounge door, the passage leading to the guests’ bedrooms. Again the light was extinguished. Bony counted three and then, with less necessity for caution with his feet as the floor was carpeted he gained the turn-off passage to the bedrooms, where he stood hugging the wall angle as he peered with useless eyes into the blank space of total darkness.
The light did not come again, and Bony was reasonably sure that it had been switched on only to guide the man into passages leading him to his room. So, after all, it was a guest and not a burglar. But that argument was wrong, surely! If a guest, he could have left the house by his bedroom window and could have returned by that way. If a guest intent on nefarious business, then why had he left the house, and later entered it by the front door? If not a guest, why had he entered the passage to the bedrooms?
Only five of the twenty-six rooms were occupied, the occupants being Raymond Leslie, Downes, Lee, Sleeman and himself.
These questions hammered at his brain almost as loudly as the ticking clock had done. Had the man mistaken his way? Was he even then returning? Bony could hear nothing whatsoever. He waited with the “cat’s whisker” held before him, his legs tensed to spring backward at the instant the top of his stick contacted a body.
Then once more he felt the infinitesimal alteration of air pressure and knew that the man had opened one of the bedroom doors. The same alteration of pressure did not occur again, and Bony understood why when visualising that the man would close the door with greater precaution and with slower action than he had when he opened it.
He had certainly entered one of the twenty-six rooms, five of which were occupied. Which room? It seemed unreasonable to accept the premise that he had entered an unoccupied room for the purpose of leaving the house by its window. That would pre-suppose that he knew which of the rooms were unoccupied and which were occupied, and that would further pre-suppose that he must be a guest to know the answer. Bony felt safe in assuming that the man was one of the guests. Still, why break into the house by using the front door?
Now sure that the man had entered one of the rooms, Bony proceeded to move along the passage on the side where were the five occupied rooms, his own being the last. Then he remembered that outside the doors of the occupied rooms would be a guest’s shoes against which he might kick with a foot. Following that thought, another flashed into his mind. Assuming that the man he had followed was a guest, that man’s shoes might not yet be placed outside his door to await Bisker’s early-morning attention.
With the “cat’s whisker” trembling before him, Bony passed along the passage, his left hand barely touching the wall. He came to a closed door, then a second, a third, and the fourth, behind which slept, or should be sleeping, Raymond Leslie. Yes, there were Leslie’s large shoes close to the foot of the door. Bony stepped over them and went on. He passed the fifth door and the sixth, and came to the seventh, and at the foot of the door he felt with the stick the large shoes of Mr. Lee. He could hear Mr. Lee snoring beyond the door.
The next room was occupied by Downes, and a pair of shoes were outside that door. Bony passed three more empty rooms and then came to the door of Sleeman’s room. And outside this door there were no shoes.
The next door to be reached was his own, and at his feet were his day shoes as he had placed them before leaving his room by the window. Bony silently and slowly opened the door and passed inside, where he turned about and leant against the frame so that he could keep watch along the passage, and also keep one ear directed to the interior of the room, where the stealthy gentleman with the masked torch might be.
He had been there for perhaps five minutes when for the third time he felt the alteration in air pressure as a door was opened. That was all. There was no sound. No light was switched on. Which of the twenty-six doors in that passage had been opened, he could not distinguish, and whether the door opener had left to steal back along the passage to the front door, or had re-closed the bedroom door, Bony could not decide.
The only sound to register upon his ear-drums was the ticking of the clock in his own room. The overall noise of the wind outside the house appeared to come as from a great distance and failed to master possible sounds within.
Bony waited at his door for many minutes. No light was flashed on to indicate that the intruder had reached the far angle of the passage, and presently he came to believe that the door had been opened to enable a pair of shoes to be placed in the passage for Bisker to clean. That could have been done only by Sleeman, whose shoes had not been outside the door when Bony had passed.
Bony left his doorway and slipped along the passage wall to the door of the next room. At its foot he felt with the stick a pair of shoes. The door was shut. Bony pressed his ear to the panel, and brought his eye to the key-hole. The key prevented his seeing into the room even had the light been on. And as he stooped he heard from within the faint creaking of a wire mattress.
So it was Sleeman whom he had followed, who had left a room in the passage beyond the wine-store. Surely he had not been visiting one of the maids! Their rooms were in that passage where the wine-store, the steward’s room, and the lumber room. And why had Sleeman entered the house by the front door?
Had the man who had entered by the front door been Sleeman? Had Sleeman been out of his room on an amorous adventure leaving his room by the door and returning by the door and was the man who had entered by the front door still prowling about the house somewhere?
Because he, Bony, chose to enter the house by the scullery door instead of through his bedroom window through which he had gone out, it would seem most unlikely that Sleeman had had a similar reason for leaving the house through his bedroom window and entering it by the front door. Bony had chosen to enter by the scullery door because he wanted to examine the lumber room and, perhaps, the room occupied by George, and these rooms could be more easily reached by way of the scullery than through his bedroom. He decided to have a word with Bisker.
Locking his bedroom door and slipping the key into a pocket, he climbed out of his window for a second time that night and eventually, for the second time, clamped a hand about one of Bisker’s ankles.
“Seen anything?” he breathed into Bisker’s ear.
“Not a thing but a s
tar trying to peep out now and then,” answered Bisker. “How did you get on?”
“Well enough. You did not see or hear anyone leaving by the front door?”
“No. I seen nothink and ’eard nothink bar the blinkin’ wind.”
“You know Sleeman’s room, don’t you?”
“Number seventeen it is.”
“When did you clean the windows of that room last?”
“ ’Bout a fortnight ago.”
“Do they open and close all right?” pressed Bony.
“No,” replied Bisker. “The bottom one jams so badly that it can’t be raised. There’s only one set—not two sets like yours. Miss Jade was gonna get it fixed, but the carpenter hasn’t been.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Early in the Morning
ONCE AGAIN in the scullery with the closed door behind him, Bony spent a minute listening before proceeding into the kitchen and from there to the cross-passages. Here he waited, listening for two minutes, becoming confident that his presence was unknown to anyone within the house. Almost, but not quite, he had dismissed the presence of a second prowler as an improbability.
However, he did press an ear against the door of the wine-store and could detect no sound from within. The next door he came to was that of the steward’s room, and although he halted here for a few minutes, he did not enter but went on to the door of the room given over to lumber. Outside this door, he also paused to listen, to be assured that no one was within, before returning to George’s bedroom.
He had with him a bunch of skeleton keys provided by Colonel Blythe when first the Grumman case was assigned to him, but he found on trying the door that it was unlocked and that the key was on the inside. Silently closing the door, he stood for a little while listening. Then he switched on his torch, over the bulb of which he had wrapped his handkerchief.
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