Rolling Stone

by Patricia Wentworth

  “The Turner has come back?”

  “Yes,” said Colonel Garrett, setting the whisky bottle down with a bang.

  Quite a bright colour came into Terry’s face.

  “I said I would tell if the picture didn’t come back. You made me tell, and you never said it had come back!”

  “You wouldn’t have told if I had.”

  Peter said in a curious angry voice,

  “What does it matter? You said you wouldn’t tell if the picture was back before Tuesday. Well, it wasn’t back before Tuesday. And you were kidnapped and nearly murdered. I don’t think there’s anything left of their side of the bargain—if you’re going to call it a bargain. And anyhow what you had to tell doesn’t amount to very much that I can see.” He went across to Garrett and caught him roughly by the arm. “Look here, Frank, I’ve had enough! She’s all in—she ought to be in bed. What are we going to do with her?”

  Terry’s colour faded.

  “I can go home,” she said. “Please, I’d like to go home.”

  Peter said, “You can’t.” He shook Garrett insistently. “She can’t go back to Ridgefield’s house. I won’t have it—do you hear? She’s not running any more risks.”

  Terry said, “Oh—” Her voice shrank, her whole body shrank. It came to her that she hadn’t anywhere to go, or anyone to turn to. She stared at Peter with a lost look.

  There was a dead silence. Into the middle of it came the harsh buzzing of an electric bell. Colonel Garrett cocked his head, looked at the clock, and gave vent to a short ejaculation.

  “Two in the morning—and that’s the front door bell! Having fun, aren’t you?” He frowned horribly. “Here, this may be anyone—I don’t know. People don’t come at this hour unless—anyhow you two had better not be seen. Take her in there with the telephone, Peter, whilst I see who it is. You can light the gas fire, but don’t talk too loud. I’m not advertising you.”

  The little room off the hall was horribly cold. Terry sat down in the first chair she came to. The gas fire lit with a pop and began to glow. They heard the bell ring again and go on ringing as Garrett came to the door and made a noisy business of shooting back a bolt and turning a key. It stopped suddenly when the door opened, and was flung right back so that it struck against the wall of the room they were in. They could hear every sound. They could hear Garrett stamp back a couple of paces. They heard him say with a rasp in his voice,

  “Good lord, Fabian! What brings you here at this time of night?”

  Peter was on his knees by the hearth with the matches still in his hand. Terry leaned forward and caught at his arm. They stayed like that whilst Fabian Roxley said heavily,

  “I couldn’t sleep. I saw your light. Can I come in?”

  They heard the door bang and feet crossing the hall. They heard the sitting-room door. And after that voices—a come-and-go murmur of sound without any words.

  Terry didn’t move. She sat there straining, her hands clenched on Peter’s arm, every sense keyed up, every muscle tense. After a little while Peter let the matchbox fall. The small sound made her start. A hard shiver ran over her. He turned and put his arm round her shoulders. He unclasped her hands and put them to his lips, kissing them gently. He went on kissing them. She leaned her head against his shoulder and began to cry. He said,

  “It’s all right, Terry—it’s all right. You’ve got me—I won’t go away. You’ve got me for keeps.”

  In the sitting-room Fabian Roxley stood at the window. He had his back to the room, but he was not looking out. The curtains showed a handsbreadth of dark street and darker sky, but he was not aware of these things. At the sound of Garrett’s voice offering him a drink he turned heavily round, presenting a grey, drawn face and haggard eyes.

  “I can’t sleep,” he said. “It’s no use—you can’t go on when you can’t sleep. So when I saw your light I thought I’d get it over.”

  Garrett looked at him.

  “Drunk?” he said. “Because if it’s that, I won’t waste whisky on you. If it isn’t, you’d better have some.”

  Fabian Roxley came forward. He moved slowly, as if his limbs were heavy. He said,

  “I’m not drunk, sir. I wish I were.”

  He tipped whisky into a glass and drank it neat. And fell into Terry’s chair and sat there staring at the fire. Garrett pitched a log on to the embers and pushed it with his foot. A shower of sparks went up. A bright jagged flame licked the dry bark.

  “And now what?” said Garrett with his back to the fire.

  “She had a hold over me,” said Fabian Roxley in an odd indifferent voice. “Something I did. I was horribly dipped, and Elsinger—it all seemed quite easy at the time and it didn’t hurt anyone, but she found out somehow and threatened me.”

  Garrett said sharply, “You took a bribe and let yourself in for blackmail—is that what you’re saying?”

  Fabian lifted a hand and let it fall again. His eyes dwelt on Garrett without fear or shame—the eyes of a man who is too tired to care.

  “Yes, that’s it—a little information in advance, and no harm done. It seemed all right at the time. Then I got dipped again. No luck with cards or horses, but you keep on thinking it’s bound to turn—that’s how. And she came along and suggested this picture racket.”

  Garrett said explosively, “Maud Millicent Simpson?”

  “I suppose so. She called herself Madame X. If I hadn’t come in with her, she’d have given me away. She had proof that I had taken the money. And nobody was any the worse—only the insurance companies. It’s difficult to feel passionately about defrauding an insurance company.”

  Garrett’s eyes snapped. He restrained a snort, but not with marked success. Fabian Roxley said,

  “I was sorry about Oppenstein’s butler, but he recognized me, so there wasn’t any way out of it. I told her after that that I couldn’t go on. She agreed. She was inclined to blame me about the butler, and she said we’d better get someone to put it on, so that I could go on being useful in other ways. There was a fellow called Reilly who did the correspondence with the insurance companies—she said he was getting dangerous. She said we’d better get him over and put it on him, so we did. We had him out to Heathacres, and I gave him the Turner. It was all arranged to look like an outside job. But Terry Clive saw me. That’s what we hadn’t reckoned on. She saw me out of her window. I think she wasn’t quite sure who it was she had seen, but she would have come to be sure. She went round telling everyone in the house that she had seen something. She said she wouldn’t say what she had seen if the picture was put back. I wanted to send it back, but Madame X wouldn’t have it. She said I might as well make a signed confession and have done with it. The picture had got to be found in Spike Reilly’s car, and she wanted a day or two to complete her plans. I didn’t know what they were. I thought Terry was in danger, and I did my best to find out how much she knew, but she wouldn’t tell. Then she disappeared. I haven’t been able to sleep since. I tried to get hold of Madame X. I’ve never known where she lived or what she called herself—I’ve never had anything except an accommodation address.”

  Garrett stopped him sharply.

  “I’ll have that address.”

  “They don’t know anything. Do you think I haven’t tried?”

  Garrett dragged a notebook from his pocket.

  “The address!” he barked.

  “Fifty-seven Paley Street. It’s a tobacconist’s shop.”

  Garrett scribbled.

  “All right—go on! How did you and Maud Millicent meet? And where?”

  “When she wanted to see me she used to write or telephone, and pick me up after dark in a car. I’ve never seen her in daylight. I don’t know what she looks like—she’s always worn a mask. There wasn’t any way I could get at her. And I’ve been going mad.”

  Garrett struck backwards at the log with his heel. There was a rush of flame. He said violently,

  “Mad all along, I should say. Good God, Fabian—do you
mean all this—is it true?”

  Fabian Roxley said, his voice quite gentle, quite indifferent,

  “Hardly the sort of thing one makes up to pass the time, sir. I’d have carried it through if it hadn’t been for Terry. A damnable mistake to let one’s feelings get involved. I couldn’t stand not knowing—about Terry—”

  Garrett gave his harsh laugh.

  “You must have known damn well what was likely to happen to Terry Clive if she got in Maud Millicent’s way! What happened to Louisa Spedding?” He barked the question at Fabian, and saw him wince.

  He said, “Don’t!” in a shuddering whisper.

  “And why not?” said Garrett mercilessly. “You can do the thing, but you can’t bear to hear about it! That poor devil of a butler got in your way. He recognized you, and so there wasn’t any way out of it—you shot him! Capital punishment for recognizing Mr. Fabian Roxley—a government servant—part of our machinery of civilization—part of our system of law and order! I wonder what he thought about it all before you shot him—but perhaps you didn’t give him time to think! Louisa Spedding recognized Maud Millicent. Capital punishment for that—and, I imagine, no time to think! Terry Clive on the edge of recognizing you. You’ve quite a good brain, Fabian—what did you think was likely to happen to Terry Clive? And you sit there and whine about your feelings, and tell me you haven’t been able to sleep! What do you expect me to do—tuck you up in bed?”

  The violence with which the last words were spoken appeared to penetrate that dazed indifference. Fabian Roxley got to his feet and stood there staring.

  “What are you going to do?” he said. “Arrest me?”

  Garrett’s face for once was a blank. He looked past the big, unsteady figure as if it was not there. He said coldly,

  “I’m not a policeman, thank God. You’d better go.”

  Fabian went on staring for a minute. Then he turned and went towards the door. Garrett’s voice followed him.

  “Terry Clive has been found.”

  Roxley stopped dead, put a hand on either jamb of the door, and stood there with his back to Garrett, swaying. His voice caught in his throat. He tried to speak before he got out the one word,

  “How?”

  “How do you suppose?” said Garrett in the cold tone which made a stranger of him.

  There was a long and dreadful pause. Then Fabian Roxley straightened himself and went out of the room and across the hall. Garrett heard him groan. So did Terry Clive. She lifted her head from Peter’s shoulder and pushed him away.

  “What was that?”

  She got up and opened the door. Fabian turned and saw her. She said his name, very quick and frightened,

  “Fabian—” And then louder, “Fabian, what is it?”

  The change in his face might have startled anyone—that grey haggard mask suddenly alive with rage, congested—the eyes glaring. Terry cried out and fell back against Peter. She said, “Fabian!” again, and hardly recognized the voice which answered.

  “A trick! All a trick! You’ve tricked me—the lot of you!”

  “Fabian!”

  Words poured from him with a kind of maniac fury.

  “Dead, were you—dead, and driving me mad! Whilst you laughed at me with your lover—who was dead too! Dead, and mad, and—no, no, not yet—you needn’t laugh yet! I’m not dead yet, and I’m not mad—not yet—not yet!”

  He wrenched at the door, flung it back upon its hinges, and went in a blind rush across the landing and down the bare stone stairs, taking three steps, four steps, five, in a clattering stride which checked and tripped but never fell. They heard the footsteps become hollow and faint. They heard them die away.

  Terry stood shuddering in Peter’s arms. Garrett came out of the sitting-room, gave them his familiar scowl, and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER XLI

  Scotland Yard next day. A brief, exhausted sleep in Garrett’s narrow slip of a spare room, where the bed was as hard as Maud Millicent’s mercies.

  Terry had not thought that she would sleep, but she laid her head on a brickbat of a pillow and knew no more until nine o’clock. Peter appeared to have slept in a chair. He was in very good form, and he and Garrett between them made her eat quite a good breakfast.

  Then Uncle Basil, arriving all in a hurry, and shaken quite out of his usual immaculate neatness. His hair was ruffled, and he was badly shaved. It was very comforting. When you have always taken someone for granted as family, and then had a sick moment when all the foundations have given way and the roof is falling in, it is naturally helpful to find that the accustomed figure has survived the crash. There had been a moment—moments perhaps—when Terry had seen this figure in a nightmare, horribly transmuted into the image of murder. They were gone. This was Uncle Basil who had always been kind, even if he appeared to be more interested in stamps than in his ward. The rough chin and the untidy hair were most reassuring tributes. Terry found herself clinging to him and being very warmly kissed.

  And then Scotland Yard. Statements. People who wanted to know all about everything. About the picture—James Cresswell’s Turner which was the apple of his eye. Last heard of, it had been in a garage, in the boot of Spike Reilly’s car—only of course not really Spike Reilly but Peter Talbot. And then on Wednesday night James Cresswell had a mysterious telephone call telling him he would find his picture just inside his own gate. And he did. But no one seemed to know how it got there, and they all wanted to know very badly. Until suddenly Colonel Garrett chipped in and said in his most offhand voice,

  “Lot of fuss about nothing. Thought he’d better have it back, so I took it back.”

  Someone with a very starchy voice said,

  “Oh, you took it back? May I enquire how, Colonel Garrett?”

  Garrett stuck his chin in the air. His eyes snapped.

  “Easy as mud,” he said. “I drove the car out of the garage—one-horse place, man and a boy doing something else—drove down to Heathacres, rang up from a call-box, drove back to town.”

  “And may I ask why?”

  Garrett shrugged his shoulders.

  “Valuable picture. Cresswell probably glad to get it back again. One-horse garage not the place for a Turner—definitely.”

  Terry’s heart warmed—she could have kissed him. But you can’t kiss people at Scotland Yard—“He didn’t want Peter to get into trouble. He’s a lamb.”

  Then more talk. Everyone wanted to know a lot of things which Terry would very much have liked to know herself—things about Maud Millicent, about Jake, about the Bruiser. And quite suddenly she thought about Alf, and broke in upon the grave-faced men and their statements.

  “Oh, please, will someone find Alf. He’s a bull-terrier—and an angel—and if they’ve all run away—and I expect they have—there won’t be anyone to feed him, and he does so hate being shut out in the yard, poor lamb.”

  One of the men was rather nice. He had very blue eyes. He laughed and said that Alf had been found and they were very glad to know what his name was and that he was an angel, because he had bitten two policemen under the impression that they were burglars and it might soothe him to be properly addressed.

  Terry relaxed. She produced her friendliest smile.

  “Oh, do you think I might have him? He was the one bright spot.” She was aware of Peter’s eyes upon her, poignant with reproach, and blushed vividly as she stuck to her point. “He was—really. And of course he thought the policemen were burglars if they came breaking in. Do you think I might have him?”

  “I daresay it might be arranged—with Jake. We haven’t got him yet, but when we do he—er—won’t be in a position to keep a dog for some time to come. By the way, Mr. Talbot—” he turned to Peter—“I think you were lucky to get away as you did last night. Your derelict house on the edge of the cliff is Lattersley Hall, Sir John Lake’s property. When it had to be abandoned on account of the dangerous state of the cliff three years ago, he built again about a mile and a half inland. Well, hi
s garage was broken into last night and his new Rolls taken. A very daring piece of work, and I daresay we can all make a guess at who was behind it. It was the only way they could have escaped. If they hadn’t had a car, we’d have got them. And, considering the car they got, you were very lucky indeed not to be overtaken on the road. I see you took about ten minutes telephoning to Colonel Garrett.”

  Peter smiled engagingly.

  “And then I took a wrong turning.”

  “By accident, or by design?”

  “Well, I had an idea it might be safer. It made us a bit late getting to town, but Mrs. Simpson is a very enterprising woman, and I thought there had been enough shooting.”

  “Have you traced the car?” snapped Garrett.

  The blue-eyed policeman smiled a thought grimly.

  “Oh, they dropped it like a hot coal as soon as it had served their turn. It was found abandoned in a Chiswick by-road. We’ve got the Bruiser, and we shall probably pick up Jake and Bert in the course of the day, but I expect we can whistle for Maud Millicent Simpson. Unless one of them gives her away.”

  “They won’t,” said Garrett. “They won’t know anything. That’s why we’ve never got her. She’ll change her skin and save her bacon. You won’t see hair, hide or hoof of her, the she-devil. You’ll get the others, and they won’t know anything, any more than Fabian Roxley did.”

  “I wish he hadn’t got away,” said the man behind the desk.

  Terry lifted startled eyes.

  “Has he got away?”

  The blue-eyed man nodded.

  “For the moment. But we shall get him of course—we shall get him.”

  They signed their statements, and came out into bright sunshine, clouds rolling back and the sky blue overhead.

  “I must go and see Aunt Fanny,” said Peter. “After wasting a good wreath and lot of undeserved affection it’s the least I can do. Terry—if I came and fetched you in an honest off-the-rank taxi, do you think you would come and have tea with her, and—er—with me?”