Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “You’re not even a clever rascal,” said Hazeldean contemptuously. “Get out of my way.”

  “Pourquoi?” growled the old man.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Mais—si Madame est dans la salle a manger—avec le gendarme—?”

  The words were spat out, malicious in their admission.

  “Quite so. But, as you already know, she isn’t in the dining-room, and there is no gendarme here—yet! Now will you move?”

  The old man gave a surly shrug and stayed where he was.

  “Or must I make you?”

  The old man’s eyes became watchful.

  “Well, if I hurt you it’ll be your fault,” said Hazeldean. “It doesn’t amuse me to be rough with white hairs. For the last time of asking, will you get out of my way?”

  Pierre’s reply was swift and unexpected. Adopting the axiom that attack is the surest means of defence, and with every reason to assume that defence was going to be necessary, he shot out a bony fist and caught Hazeldean on the chin.

  “Some blow, for eighty!” muttered Hazeldean. “Is that a wig you’re wearing?”

  “Allez, allez!” rasped Pierre.

  “Sorry, but now you’re going to get hit yourself. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. One, two, three, bang!”

  The warning was a mistake. Pierre ducked, and his long, lean arms wound themselves round Hazeldean’s body. In the next few seconds an Englishman had a taste of a Frenchman’s method of fighting. Teeth, nails, feet—everything was utilised, and with a strength and skill that added the element of surprise. Whatever Pierre’s age, he was a very long way from falling to bits. He fought like a tiger.

  But Hazeldean, once he found half-measures fruitless, gauged Pierre’s strength and learned his tricks. One trick had tripped him to the ground; but they had fallen together, and they began rolling along the passage. This, Hazeldean discovered, was another trick, for the passage led to a steep flight of stairs down which there could be a very nasty accident. Managing to pull up on the brink, he twisted his adversary round and sat on top of him.

  “Whew! That’s that!” panted Hazeldean. “Only I think, before we part company, I’d like your keys.”

  The old man glared speechlessly. His strength seemed spent.

  “You see,” continued Hazeldean, groping for his pockets, “you may have the key to Numero Deux, and I don’t want to have to come back for it.”

  He found a bunch of keys and one separate one. He took the lot. Then, rising from Pierre’s chest, he walked back to the door of Madame Paula’s room.

  “Madame must be sleeping very soundly if that row didn’t wake her up!” he thought.

  He knocked on the door—softly at first, then more loudly. Madame Paula gave no sign of having heard.

  “Of course, she may have taken a sleeping draught,” he reflected, giving every possibility its chance.

  He glanced back along the passage. Pierre had managed to rise to his knees, whimpering. He glared back at Hazeldean, on all fours like a whipped and sulky dog. His immediate need seemed to be the comfort of an adjacent chair.

  “Well, now for it,” decided Hazeldean.

  He tried the separate key and found that it fitted. He turned it, and a substantial lock left its socket with a click. He turned the door-knob and softly pushed the door open.

  “My God!” he murmured.

  A figure lay stretched on the bed. But it was not the figure of Madame Paula. It was the dark-skinned vendor of coloured silks.

  The next moment something descended with a crash on his head.

  Chapter XVI

  Meanwhile, at Benwick…

  Detective-Inspector Kendall returned slowly through the little wood. He was feeling rather pleased with himself, a frame of mind which he did not often allow. Professionally, he was an enemy of over-confidence; and privately, he loathed conceit. But he was to cross to Boulogne on the late afternoon boat in his effort to trace the Fenners, and he chuckled as he dwelt on the neat manner in which, he hoped, he had sent an advance guard. “That pleasant young fool has fallen in love with the picture of a little girl,” he reflected, “and his one object now is to meet the big girl. Well, I hope he does. Heart sometimes succeeds where art lags behind!”

  This was why he walked slowly, and even stopped and turned back. When, emerging from the wood, he glimpsed the creek, and he saw the Spray moving out of it. He chuckled again, turned once more and re-entered the wood.

  That being that, his busy mind moved to another point.

  “Seven people, whether dead or alive, cannot be in a house without having got there,” he thought, “unless, of course, they were born there and stayed put. Which is unlikely. How did these seven people get to Haven House? Through this wood, obviously. There are not sufficient marks in the road at the front, and the few marks there are are not the right marks. Here there are plenty of marks—here and in the muddy bank of the creek—and our two measured sets of prints fit the boots of two of the seven people. We may temporarily assume the rest. But how did they arrive at the creek? By boat, obviously. There are some new scratches and rubbings against the edge of the landing-stage. But where is the boat? Did someone bring them and then go away again? If so, I must find that someone. If not… Kendall, there’s a hell of a lot to do.”

  The trees thinned. Just ahead was the beginning of the garden lawn. Just off the path was a little black, silky heap.

  “And how did that cat die?” mused Kendall, pausing. “Is this—Number Eight?”

  He bent down and examined the animal. He sniffed. He sniffed again, closer. “Dr. Saunders,” he murmured as he straightened himself. “I think you must see this cat!”

  He looked across the lawn, visualising a cat’s course from the house and regretting there was no way of proving the picture. The lawn’s occupants at the moment were Sergeant Wade, a constable and a thin young man with a note-book. The sergeant was thoroughly enjoying a good excuse for an officious mood. “I can’t help about your public, I’ve got mine,” came his stern voice. “And orders are orders! There’s a man on the gate, he can take a message; and we can’t have no climbing through hedges—not if you was the Editor of the Times!” Kendall smiled and, catching the constable’s eye, beckoned to him.

  “Stand by this cat,” he instructed the constable, when the man drew up; “and if anybody tries to touch it, tick ’em off as the sergeant’s ticking off that journalist.”

  The constable grinned, then stared at the cat.

  “Dead, ain’t it?” he said.

  “You surprise me,” answered Kendall.

  On the point of crossing the lawn, he suddenly glanced along the edge of the wood and paused.

  “Constable,” he said. “Do cats move round in circles, like dogs and politicians?”

  “Dogs do,” replied the constable.

  “You’re behind the times,” remarked Kendall. “I’ve already implied that fact.”

  Instead of crossing the lawn, he moved to examine a little nest of grass. Then he gazed beyond and followed a new course between trees, studying the ground carefully as he walked. The cat might have disturbed the grass, but human feet had worn the track he was now pursuing.

  The track began along the edge of the wood. Then it turned inwards, away from the house, winding and zigzagging between bushes. It ended in a big tangle of undergrowth.

  Kendall sniffed. He brought out an electric torch and played it into the tangle. “Someone’s closed the front door!” he murmured. “Why? And what’s beyond the front door?”

  He parted some branches, most, though not all, of which appeared to have been recently introduced. Forcing his way through, he found himself in a short, narrow tunnel of twigs and leaves and creepers. He sniffed again, made a grimace, brought out his handkerchief with difficulty, wiped his forehead, blew his nose, and played
his torch down a large hole. Gingerly he let himself into the hole. He dropped on to earth. Ahead, his torch glowed on a long cavity fitted with shelves.

  “A.R.P.?” he murmured sceptically.

  There were other things besides shelves. A bench, a stool, rubber tubing, a pail, empty bottles, indecipherable oddments, and a considerable quantity of broken glass. Also, another dead cat.

  He lingered in the underground cell for just as long as was necessary, which was also just as long as he could stand, and then escaped back into the air, taking a bit of the rubber tubing with him. On his way out he noticed two more things. One was a substantial slab of wood about a yard square; this was near the entrance to the hole, and its area was sufficient to cover the hole comfortably. The second, which he pocketed, was a fragment of grey cloth caught on a twig.

  He found the constable still guarding the cat. Sergeant Wade had joined him, and was airing his views.

  “That cat never died natural,” declared the sergeant.

  “’Ow do you make that out?” asked the constable.

  “Because,” replied Wade, “a cat that dies natural don’t look like that.”

  “What does a cat look like, Wade,” inquired Kendall, as he drew up, “when it dies natural?”

  “Not like that,” insisted the sergeant.

  “Well, what did this cat die of?”

  “Ah, there you are!”

  “It died of a complaint similar to that which killed seven people in a drawing-room. Come along, stop staring, and let’s get back to the house. Carry on, constable. Anything new, Wade, while I’ve been away?”

  “They’re still trying to find that old forwarding address at the post office,” replied the sergeant, falling into step. “Died the same way as the others did it?”

  “It’s a confounded nuisance they can’t trace the re-direction form.”

  “I’ve told ’em they’ve got to. See, if it had been filled in more than once they might have remembered it—but a year ago—and they don’t think there was anything to forward, even then.”

  “What happens to the Fenners’ mail ordinarily when they’re away?”

  “I expect it stays. Waits for ’em.”

  “Queer they don’t always have it forwarded, isn’t it?”

  “Well, they aren’t often away for very long; and they get very little, anyhow. So the postman says. Oh, yes, I forgot. There was a letter came yesterday morning with a French stamp.”

  “Yesterday morning?” exclaimed Kendall. “Why the devil didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Well, I’m telling you now, sir.”

  “By which post?”

  “First post. Early morning.”

  “Anybody notice the postmark?”

  “Boulogne.”

  “Wade, do you know who killed those seven people?”

  “Eh? No, sir!”

  “I only thought you might have forgotten to mention it! We’re trying to find a man, we learn that a letter from Boulogne is delivered to him shortly before he vanishes, and you bring it in casually with the weather. Well, what else? Those descriptions. Have they been circulated? All seven?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Being rushed, sir.”

  “Black looking after that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose nobody’s come forward yet to identify anybody?”

  “No. Not since you left, sir.”

  “Had anybody come forward before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why use six words? Two would have done. Any inquiries? Of any kind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Aeroplane?”

  “Fixed up, sir.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  “They came through quarter of an hour ago. Start at 3.30. That’ll get you in Folkestone in time for the boat.” The sergeant paused, then added: “Why don’t you go all the way by air?”

  “And miss the Isle of Thanet? No, thank you. Once I’m at Folkestone by air, the rest won’t take much longer by sea, and I’m interested in that voyage. Also, I’m meeting someone at the other side. Fingerprints?”

  “You could paper a wall with ’em.”

  “Quite an idea for a detective’s study. Whorl-paper, eh?” He stopped as they reached the french windows. “Something damnable about those shutters, Wade. Not merely closed, but nailed. Nailed. Shutters nailed, and chimney stuffed up… And there are some people who don’t believe in capital punishment!… Well, p’r’aps they’re right. Ever seen a man swing, Wade?… That cricket ball intrigues me. Funny colour, isn’t it? Yes, there’s no doubt about it, we’ve got a puzzle on; but we’re moving, and we’ll unearth some devil or other before we’re through. Come along. Revolver. Whose fingerprints were on that?”

  “The old man’s, sir,” answered the sergeant as they moved again and stepped off grass on to gravel.

  “Ah! Then he did fire it!”

  “Unless someone else pressed his fingers on the thing afterwards.”

  “Improving, Wade. You’ll get promotion yet. Only I don’t think that’s really what happened this time. Here we are—back at the House of the Dead. Come into the hall, and I’ll show what I think happened.”

  They had reached the front porch, and he darted in. Wade followed more slowly, to find the detective opening the drawing-room door.

  “We’ll have the dining-room door open, too,” called Kendall, “because at the moment I’m going to reconstruct I’ll wager anything you like it wasn’t closed. Open it, will you? A bit more. Whoa! I think that’ll do. Now, then!”

  He stood for a moment, staring across the hall towards the dining-room door. Then he transferred his gaze to the sergeant, who fought an uncomfortable impression that something unpleasant was coming.

  “In a moment,” said Kendall, “I want you to imagine I am the old man who—we are assuming—fired that shot. You yourself are an unknown individual called X, and your object is to lock me in the drawing-room with my six companions. Wait a bit. What is my condition? Am I hale and hearty—that is to say, as hale and hearty as my wasted condition will allow—or am I already drifting off?” He ceased speaking for an instant and closed his eyes. “I don’t know, Wade,” he went on, opening them again. “I don’t know. But I’ve still got enough strength and spunk to pull a trigger. Yes, and—afterwards—to write… Well, let’s get on. Lock the door, and if I try to interfere, damn’ well see I don’t. Be as rough as you like—and, I warn you, look out for yourself. Though, of course, any subsequent doctor’s bills will be debited in the official accounts. Au revoir, Wade.”

  He vanished inside the drawing-room. The sergeant paused for an instant to swallow. He was not quite sure that he fully appreciated this new form of instruction. It was a bit too vivid, and stirred uncomfortably his usually unimaginative mind. He almost felt as though he were the unidentified X, and as though the old, grey-haired gentleman had actually come to life in there—with his six companions—and were really going to reproduce one of the gruesome events of yesterday! “I’ll see I lock that door!” thought Wade suddenly. “Yes, and if there’s any interference, and he wants it, he shall have it!”

  He dived to the door. As he did so, Kendall came rushing out. He looked wild.

  “Hey, back you go!” shouted Wade, while the spirit of X seemed to swoop inside him. Perhaps it did. Not many hours had elapsed to wipe it out.

  The next moment the sergeant ducked. Kendall’s hand had shot out.

  “Bang!” bawled Kendall over Wade’s head.

  Wade’s head buffeted into Kendall’s stomach. With queer satisfaction the sergeant saw, or rather felt, his superior totter back into the room.

  “Bang!” he bawled back.

  And slammed and locked the door.

  After a second o
r two Kendall’s voice came through the wood. It was quiet now, though it bore an amused, almost mocking note.

  “Coming in?”

  “No, thanks,” muttered Wade, now feeling a little ashamed of himself for his over-acting.

  “Why not?”

  “P’r’aps I shan’t be so lucky next time!”

  “Exactly. I missed you, didn’t I? As you say, next time you might be less fortunate, and I might hit you. You see, I’ve still got this revolver, and you’ve no need to press my fingers on the barrel. Unlock the door now, Wade, and let’s see where my bullet went. All quiet on the Western Front.”

  Wade unlocked the door. Kendall smiled at him, then looked beyond his shoulder. Wade turned, following his gaze.

  “Out of the drawing-room, over your head across the hall, into the dining-room, and across to the picture. Follow the line? That’s what happened, Wade. That’s what happened… Yes. Yes… But—afterwards?”

  Sergeant Wade mopped his brow.

  “Yes—what happened afterwards?” he muttered.

  Kendall did not reply. He was looking very thoughtful, and there was a little extra colour on his usually uninformative cheeks. He turned back to the drawing-room door, closed it, and re-locked it. Then he removed the key. Then he took a length of thin rubber tubing from his pocket and, after squinting through the keyhole, inserted an end of the tubing in the hole.

  “Just fits—doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Of course, there was something more on this end.”

  It seemed to the sergeant that he held the tubing in the keyhole for a full minute. Then he withdrew the tubing and replaced the key.

  “And all we’ve got to do now, Wade,” he said, “is to find the man and the motive.”

  Chapter XVII

  Exit a Bicycle and Enter a Boat

  While Detective-Inspector Kendall had a busy period with the telephone in the hall, Sergeant Wade made another tour of the grounds, returning just as Kendall replaced the receiver for the last time.

  “Well?” asked Kendall.

  “I’ve had a look at that dug-out,” answered Wade, “and I ain’t making no offers for it!”