“And, when you came to, I expect he’d left?” queried the commissaire.
“He must have.”
“One moment, please.”
The commissaire left the room quietly. Kendall guessed where he had gone. When he returned—no word was spoken during his short absence—the gendarme was no longer outside the front door. He was speeding towards the nearest telephone. The search for the absent Pierre and Marie had begun.
“Forgive me—I had to give an instruction,” was all he said. “Yes, Miss Fenner? You have just come to, and Pierre has left. Yes?”
“But there isn’t much more,” she answered. “You see, you arrived soon after that, and I don’t really think I came to properly at all that first time. I mean, though I managed to get up, and to know somehow that I was alone, I was still dazed, and I was still dazed when you knocked. I wasn’t sure whether the knocking was real or imagination, or my heart. If it was real, I thought it might be Pierre come back again.”
“Would Pierre have knocked?”
“No, of course he wouldn’t. That shows the state I was in.”
“And, also, it shows why you didn’t answer the door at once?”
“Yes. But when I managed to get to a window and look out—I don’t know how I did it—I saw several people, and I suddenly guessed that you must be the police. You see, Marie had gone for you.” She stopped suddenly, and a startled look came into her eyes. “Marie! Where is Marie? She ought to be here?”
“We shall find her,” answered the commissaire, quietly, “but Marie did not come to the police station.”
While Dora stared, Hazeldean interposed:
“And, I suppose, Mr. Fenner did not pay you a second visit, either?”
“A—second visit?” murmured the commissaire.
“With Madame Paula, to identify the body of her husband.”
The other men exchanged glances.
“Mr. Fenner has yet to pay me his first visit,” the commissaire remarked, significantly.
“What!”
“We have not seen Mr. Fenner.”
“Then how on earth,” exclaimed Hazeldean, “did he know that Dr. Jones—?”
He paused abruptly.
“Your thought is our own thought,” said Kendall. “Mr. Fenner did not receive his information of Dr. Jones officially, so he must have had it through some other means.”
On the point of continuing, he suddenly glanced at Dora, and changed his mind. She saw the glance, however, and interpreted it with nervous intelligence.
“Please—don’t stop saying anything in front of me,” she exclaimed. “It isn’t necessary. If it will help you to know it, I—I—”
“Miss Fenner has no reason to love her uncle,” interposed Hazeldean bluntly, to help her out as she floundered, “and I’m sure she’s right in thinking that this isn’t a time to hide facts—although the biggest fact—by a most extraordinary sequence of circumstances and interruptions—has not yet been told her. I’ll tell her that myself a little later, if I may. Meanwhile, can we concentrate on Fenner, Madame Paula, Pierre, and Marie? I saw Fenner myself. He brought the news of Dr. Jones’s death—”
“Unwisely, in the circumstances,” interrupted Kendall, dryly.
“No one will dispute that,” answered Hazeldean, “but from what I saw of him, and from what we may guess of him, he wasn’t exactly in a mood for wisdom. His one idea—we may also guess—was to get out of the house, and to take Madame Paula with him, and he used his blunder as an excuse. Does that seem reasonable?”
“Perfectly,” nodded Kendall.
“Yes, and all this explains another of Fenner’s omissions,” Hazeldean went on. “When he left, I promised to stay here and look after Miss Fenner—and damn badly I did it—”
“You couldn’t help what happened!” she interposed, quickly.
“Thank you. Perhaps not. But I’m not particularly proud…Yes, I saw you smile, Kendall, but you remember, early on, I warned you I might be a nuisance! Still, this isn’t a post mortem—in that sense.”
“What was the other omission?” inquired Kendall.
“Fenner was to have given a message to my crew,” replied Hazeldean. “They were to have brought me some things. They haven’t turned up.”
“And are not likely to,” commented the commissaire, as the door opened, and a tall, grave man entered the room. “Ah, doctor, you have completed your examination?” he asked, turning.
It was the doctor who had been summoned to the conference, and who had spent most of his time in Numero Deux.
“The immediate cause of your man’s death is undeniably a knife,” answered the doctor. “The knife, presumably, that you found under the bed. But the knife does not explain the bruise.”
“May I try and explain that?” said Kendall.
“You have a theory?” asked the commissaire.
“Yes, quite a simple one,” replied Kendall, “but before I give it to you I will make a little more sure of it.” He turned to Hazeldean. “You know now, of course, that this silk merchant was a man from the sûreté? A man I had asked for—by telephone—to watch your movements.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered that,” answered Hazeldean. “After all, you didn’t trust me?”
“You told me most definitely that you were working on your own,” returned Kendall. “You were not working for the police, or even for an editor. So—I worked on my own, and hoped to tap any information you might get and not pass on to me. I hoped you would go to Boulogne, that you would find Miss Fenner’s address, and that Gustav—our silk merchant—would meet me with the address and save me a lot of trouble… It is not your fault,” he went on, gravely, “that poor Gustav was unfortunate. But—well—this increases one’s determination to see this matter through.” A shadow passed over his face. “Miss Fenner—I wonder whether—”
“I’ll go? No!” The words came with unexpected sharpness. “I—I know I’m not much use—but I want to see this matter through, too. What Mr. Hazeldean said was true—I think now that it’s more true than I ever thought before. About my feelings for my uncle. I—haven’t any.”
Kendall regarded her thoughtfully. The commissaire said:
“You, of not much use? I cannot agree to that. Permit me, Miss Fenner, to hold a high opinion of your courage. All the same, I agree it might be advisable—”
“If she stayed,” Kendall changed the ending for him. “In view of that courage, I may have to ask her some more questions.”
The commissaire yielded with a little sympathetic shrug.
“Meanwhile, we are still waiting for your theory,” he said. “Which, remember, prints on the knife-handle may confirm or refute.”
“Oh, I’ve not forgotten that,” answered Kendall. “Can any one here tell me whether Gustav actually called at this house?”
“He did,” replied Hazeldean. He related the incident.
“I see,” said Kendall. “He traced you here, called, and was turned away. And that was the last you saw or heard of him alive?”
“No, I saw him from an attic window a little later,” Hazeldean told him, “still waiting.”
“And I saw him at a window—that one,” added Dora.
“When? When? This is important!” The words were rapped out sharply. “Before or after Mr. Fenner and Madame Paula left?”
Hazeldean and Dora looked at each other inquiringly, and both shook their heads.
“I’m afraid we can’t help you definitely there,” said Hazeldean, “but my own impression, when thinking back through all the confusion, is that it was before they left. Perhaps just before. That fits your theory, doesn’t it?”
“I am not allowed to choose times to fit my theories,” responded Kendall. “Still, it does fit my theory. Let us follow Gustav’s movements after he has traced you to the Pension Paula. He waits.
He calls. He is turned away. Still, he waits—”
“And watches Mr. Fenner come along,” interposed Hazeldean. “I saw that from the window. Or, strictly speaking, from the attic roof.”
“Let us begin again,” said Kendall. “Gustav tracks you here. He waits. He calls. He is turned away. He still waits. He watches Mr. Fenner arrive. Does Fenner see Gustav?”
“He makes no sign of it, but I think he does,” answered Hazeldean.
“But there is no actual meeting?”
“No.”
“Fenner enters. Gustav still waits. He tries his luck at the window. He sees Miss Fenner. He has her description. He is satisfied. He prepares to go. Remember, he was to have met me on my arrival. Why did he not? Because he met Fenner instead. Outside this house. Fenner, also, was going. With Madame Paula. Fenner is worried. He is, as we now know, in flight. This silk merchant! He was here when Fenner arrived. He is still here! But hurrying away. Clearly, this is unpleasant! Especially to a man in Fenner’s condition—a man who has blundered, and who probably knows it. So he blunders again. He tries, in some way, to interfere with Gustav. Or—yes—perhaps he frankly flies. And Pierre, who knows of and shares his master’s crookedness, comes out and catches Gustav.”
“If Fenner flies, why does not Gustav fly after him?” asked the doctor.
“Because Pierre prevents him,” retorted Kendall. “Only that. It is obvious that Gustav cannot have been damaged far from this house—he would hardly have been carried back. No, whatever the details, Gustav was knocked out at this door. If Pierre has the strength to knock Mr. Hazeldean out, we may assume he has the strength to knock Gustav out. Gustav falls. His head hits stone. Eh?” The doctor nodded. “He is temporarily unconscious. But he will come to… And then Pierre loses his head. No one is about. He carries the unconscious Gustav inside, and locks him in Madame Paula’s room, which will later serve to cover both Madame Paula’s absence and Gustav’s presence—”
“Yes, we were told Madame Paula was in her room,” exclaimed Dora.
“Exactly. While Pierre was preparing for his own flight… But Gustav began to recover on the bed. So Pierre—finished him there. There is no blood anywhere else in the room. Or, for that matter, in the house. I think—and hope—that criminal old man had some very nasty moments when the movements of others kept him locked in Numero Deux with his own victims!… Well? What do you say? Can we accept the pattern, while reserving judgment on some of its details?”
No one spoke for a few seconds. Dora was staring hard at the carpet, and Hazeldean moved a little closer, and patted her hand. She looked up quickly, and suddenly took his. Then the commissaire said:
“I think we can accept the pattern. One detail, as I have mentioned, will be settled by fingerprints. Unless, of course, the person who used the knife had forethought. So now we have to search for four people, two of whom may be wanted for criminal offences, one—Madame Paula—for complicity, and the other—Marie—for her safety. The hunt is on, gentlemen, and we have wasted no time—but we must see that we do not.” He rose and looked at Hazeldean and Dora with a fatherliness almost embarrassing. “The invalids will be staying here, of course—with a gendarme outside to see there is no more damage.”
“I’d die if I stayed here!” exclaimed Dora.
“Would you die, if you stayed on my yacht?” suggested Hazeldean. “With an old man and a small boy as chaperones?”
He never forgot the expression that leapt into her eyes at that moment, and his sympathetic imagination realised the truth behind it. She was the little child again, a child caught in a maze of nightmares; and suddenly a miracle had occurred, showing her the way out. But she could hardly believe the miracle, despite the logic that resided in the centre of it.
“Do you—mean that?” she asked, breathless.
“Of course,” he answered. “Quite apart from the facts that you can’t stay here, and that there seems nowhere else at the moment for you to go, I’d love it more than anything else in the world. I promised to show you the boat, you know. Well, here’s the chance! You’ll find she’s designed for comfort as well as speed.”
Kendall broke in.
“And it’ll save us the deuce of a lot of worry,” he said, and went on with a dry little smile, “You’re the one point in this affair, Miss Fenner, that I can trust Mr. Hazeldean completely to look after.”
“Is that a compliment?” murmured Hazeldean.
“To Miss Fenner,” answered Kendall.
Hazeldean grinned.
“I’ll pack my bag—it won’t take a minute,” cried Dora, and ran to the door, which the commissaire with his insistent politeness had opened for her. Before vanishing she paused to add, “Please—after I’ve left this place—never let any one bring me back here—never, never!”
Chapter XXIII
Beyond the Mist
Late in the evening of the most unnerving day Dora Fenner had ever spent, she found herself walking along the ramparts between two men who gave her a strange, unnatural sense of security. She had walked along the ramparts once before that day, but then the Pension Paula had been ahead of her, waiting like an evil influence to draw her in. Now it was behind her, blotted out by a whispering darkness. Every step she took increased the distance that separated her from that hateful place, and augmented the number of intervening elms; and every step reduced the distance to a little peaceful sanctuary of whose existence she had only known for a few short hours—the quiet cabin of a yacht, perhaps swaying gently when velvet water was ruffled by a night breeze. There would be no disturbing or frightening personalities around. Only friendliness, expressed by a young man whose interest she was accepting without understanding, and by “an old man and a small boy” who, besides adding their own warm note, would soothe any frowns of Mrs. Grundy. What lay beyond the sanctuary was hidden by an impenetrable mist which she made no attempt to pierce. She was too tired.
But all at once Hazeldean pierced the mist himself.
“Worrying?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Not more than I can help,” she answered.
“That means you’re worrying,” he replied. “Well, of course you are! But don’t forget all the things I’ve told you.”
“What things?”
She knew, but she wanted him to repeat them.
“About my sticking to you,” he said. “Shall I tell you how long I mean to stick to you?” He waited a moment, while Kendall increased his pace and drew ahead. “Until I see you looking as happy as you look in that painting by your father.”
“I’m afraid that will be a long time.”
“I hope not. But the longer it is, the longer I’ll stick. In fact, I shall probably go on sticking to you until you dismiss me.”
“Oh!”
“So don’t forget it. What you want is something to hang on to—something that will prevent you from feeling as though you’re drifting about like a rudderless ship. Well, you’re hanging on to me!”
“I—I seem to be.”
“Unless, of course, you can give me the address of anybody else to hang on to?”
“No, I can’t!”
“Hooray! Even if that’s selfish. By the way, Miss Fenner, policemen aren’t really so bad, are they? I think that commissaire is a most charming gentleman. I even liked the gendarme, with his snub nose. Did you notice his nose?”
“Had he one?”
“We’ve all got noses.”
“Don’t make me laugh, or I’ll cry!”
“That wouldn’t hurt you, though perhaps you’d better wait till we get to the Spray. Yes, he had a snub nose. But the chap I like best is old Kendall. Kendall of Ours. Look how considerately he’s accelerated. If he accelerates much more, we’ll lose him, and we mustn’t do that, because there’s a car waiting for us at the bottom of the next steps. Shrewd fellow, Kendall—knows when he’s want
ed, and knows when he’s not. Hullo—what’s up?”
“Nothing,” said Dora, “but I just feel a bit weak.”
“All empty like?”
“Yes.”
“And head going round and round like?”
“Yes.”
“And knees a bit wobbly like?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re a pair, because I feel all empty like, and my head’s going round like, though my knees aren’t quite wobbly like. Isn’t all this lucky? It gives us a logical excuse for holding each other up.”
He put his arm round her.
“Now I am crying,” she said, as he drew her closer beside him.
“And I told you to wait!” he reprimanded her. “All right, have it your own way, only do it softly, or Kendall will hear. Ah, here are those steps!”
They turned into the little opening that twisted down to the bottom of the wall. They emerged at La Porte des Dunes, and saw through the archway the smudge of a waiting car. Behind them brooded the Haute-Ville, seeming drowsily to watch them go. It contained its joys, but to them it was just a bad dream, saving that it contained the spot where they had met.
Kendall watched them enter the car with a smile. Their world was not his, but he understood it, and though he had not heard a word of their conversation, he could have written a fairly accurate report of its tenor.
“Where?” he asked Hazeldean. “You know where you left your boat.”
“Quartier Saint-Pierre,” answered Hazeldean, and named the exact spot.
The car ran down the wide hill, then turned into the narrow shopping streets that led in the direction of the quay. Soon the quay itself came into view, with dark shapes and little lights upon it. “Here we are!” called Hazeldean. The car slowed down and stopped. A moment later he exclaimed, “Wait a minute! Is this right?… I’m not sure…”
Seven Dead Page 16
