Reflected Glory

by John Russell Fearn

  The next day it also occurred to her that she had a legitimate reason for trying to see him: she was entitled to her fee for the sudden termination of her services. In the stress of events it had been the last thing of which she had thought. It was only when he had come to take stock of her finances and considered the prospect of fresh employment that she recalled her uncompleted con­tract.

  Again she went to the studio. It was still locked up; so she went to Clive’s flat in Marton Street instead. But here again, to her dawning astonishment, the answer was the same. Going to the ground floor she sought out the proprietor of the flats.

  “Mr. Hexley, miss?” he repeated in surprise. “Why no, I haven’t seen him for the last two or three days, come to think of it. Gone away maybe—or else I don’t just happen to have noticed him.”

  “But surely, if he’d gone away, he’d have left a forwarding ad­dress!” Barbara insisted. “It isn’t as though he’s just—nobody. He’s pretty important.”

  “Yes; I realize that.” The proprietor shrugged. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Barbara said, and feeling more baffled than ever she departed. In the street she pondered for a moment as to what she should do next—and her decision took her to the doctor who had dressed Clive’s hand.

  Being a busy man it was an hour before he managed to see her, and even then he was brusque when he realized she was not a patient.

  “No, I haven’t seen Mr. Hexley since he came here on Friday morning with his cut hand.” The doctor seemed to feel he had committed a breach of ethics in mentioning the injury for he asked sharply, “Are you a friend of his, miss?”

  “A very great friend, and I’m getting anxious about him. I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Mmm, I see. Come to think of it he should have come in yes­terday to have his hand re-dressed. That’s a vital matter. You’d think he would at least attend to that for his health’s sake.”

  “Yes...you would,” Barbara mused, but she did not prolong the discussion since it would obviously have been useless.

  From wonder her mood had changed now to alarm and it was the fact that Clive had not even bothered to have his injury dressed that troubled her most. That way he was simply asking for trouble.

  Finally she came to another decision and put it into operation after she had had lunch. It was the last chance and it took her to Midhampton. Elsa’s address she had jotted down—at Clive’s request—on the off chance that she might need it some time.

  Towards three in the afternoon, after the long walk down the lane, she reached Tudor Cottage, surveyed it, and then strolled up the front path and hammered boldly on the door. Though there was no response she did fancy that on two occasions she heard dim signs of movement within, and they seemed to come from somewhere above.

  Frowning, she hammered again, as well as ringing the bell—but nothing stirred. Thoughtfully she looked about her. There was nobody within half a mile whom she could ask concerning Elsa’s activities—but if there was nobody at home here she at least had the chance of making certain of the fact. So she want round to the back of the house and peered in at the windows.

  Nowhere in the kitchen, back room—which seemed to be a kind of study—or double-windowed lounge going straight through the house to the front, was there a sign of anybody. Yet she could have sworn she had heard slight sounds from an upper room, possibly the one situated over the hall, its window fronting the main pathway.

  “Oh, forget it,” Barbara told herself briefly. “They must have got married and gone on their honeymoon or something.”

  But even as she said the words she had the instinctive feeling that they did not comprise the right answer. Clive was not the kind of man to marry in secret and steal away; and there had certainly been no newspaper announcements as far as Barbara had noticed. So, as she stood thinking, she presently drifted to bringing herself to a duty that she had known she should have performed much earlier.

  She went to the police. The local inspector—beefy, burly, and by no means brilliant, sat rubbing a tufty eyebrow as she explained things to him in his cottage headquarters. Apparently, even if he had seen Elsa Farraday about the district, he would hardly have known her.

  “Well now, Miss Vane, don’t you think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill?” he asked presently, spreading his hands. “After all, there isn’t a scrap of proof that anything’s gone wrong. The plain top and bottom answer is that Mr. Hexley and Miss Farraday have probably gone off somewhere together and they’ll come back when they’re good and ready.”

  “Then what did I hear in Miss Farraday’s house?” Barbara demanded. “I heard something; I’ll swear to it.’

  “Probably a cat.”

  “She hasn’t got a cat—or a dog. She lives—or lived—entirely alone. She told Mr. Hexley as much in my presence. I can’t quite explain it, inspector,” Barbara went on urgently, “but I’ve got the most uneasy feeling that there’s something terribly wrong somewhere. At any rate it can’t do any harm for the police to look into things. As a private individual I can’t do anything—but I will if you don’t, and hang the consequences!”

  “Well, we can’t have you doing that,” the inspector said gruffly, getting to his feet and reaching for his uniform-cap. “All right, we’ll go over to Tudor Cottage and see what we can find out—but there are limits to what I can do, remember. Regulations have to be observed.”

  “Oh, blast regulations!” Barbara snorted. “Get something done, for heavens’ sake. For all we know Mr. Hexley, or Miss Farraday, may be dead!”

  “Like as not havin’ a fine honeymoon and not giving a thought to them they’ve left behind,” the inspector grinned. “Anyway, my car’s outside. I’ll just run us over.”

  He did so in five minutes and then sat at the wheel peering at the deserted Tudor-style home with its overgrown front garden. The place looked utterly deserted—and indeed something more than that. It had a definite not-lived-in aspect.

  “Well?” Barbara questioned, her blue eyes reflecting her impatience. “We can’t accomplish anything by just looking, can we?”

  “No—s’pose not.”

  The inspector heaved himself out into the road, buttoned the top of his uniform jacket, and then in his best official manner opened the gate and walked behind Barbara’s tall, slim form to the front door. He hammered violently and waited, breathing hard.

  “You’ll got nothing that way, inspector,” Barbara told him. “I’ve tried it. Only thing is to break in.”

  “That takes thinking about, miss. If I’ve no reason for doing it I—”

  Barbara suddenly jabbed her elbow and it crashed through the stained glass in the upper half of the door. The pieces fell in silence on the mat in the hall.

  “There you are, inspector: saved you the trouble. Now will you please get a move on?”

  “Well, since you’ve precipitated things, I suppose I’d better.”

  He reached his arm inside the break in the glass and felt for the milled knob of the Yale lock. He turned it back and opened the door. Barbara stepped ahead of him into the square, well furnished hall. She glanced about her.

  “Hello there, anybody home?” she called.

  Silence. The village inspector stood rubbing his massively heavy chin, as though he were uncertain what to do—which indeed he was.

  “I have the feeling, Miss Vane, that I am exceeding my duty,” he said uneasily. “If I’m getting mixed up with trespass—”

  “Let’s look around,” Barbara interrupted him, and she hurried into the lounge.

  It looked exactly as she had seen it through the window, except for the fact that she now noticed the screwed door that Clive had seen. She went over to it and looked for the knob. It had been removed.

  “Bit queer, that,” the local inspector commented, puzzled—and he left it at that before things became too involved.

  “We’ll see what else there is,” Barbara said, and hurried
into the kitchen.

  Here she and the inspector both gazed wonderingly at the vis­ion of the screwed cupboard, but this time Barbara gave the problem scant attention. She continued on her way to the back room study. Here everything was normal—in so far that nothing was screwed up. Interested, she looked at the open writing bureau in which was a litter of quarto sheets, some covered with handwriting, others blank. She picked up the top sheet of a written manuscript and read:

  She knew that there could be no escape from such daming evidence, but at lest even from this complte destruction of her life she could extract one profund consolation—as a murderess she could achive that which, as an innocent, she had nevr achieved.

  “Somebody,” she mused, putting the sheet down again, “doesn’t seem to know how to spell properly.”

  “This stuff doesn’t tell us much anyway,” the inspector said unimaginatively. “We’d better be having a look upstairs.”

  Barbara nodded and followed him from the room and up the well-carpeted staircase. They looked in the two bedrooms and bathrooms and found them circumspect—and empty. Then they considered the closed door of what was presumably a much smaller bedroom occupying the area over the hall.

  “Locked,” the inspector said, turning the knob and pushing gently with his shoulder.

  “Well, we’re not going away without knowing what’s on the other side,” Barbara told him. “Break it in. Go on—I’ll take the responsibility.”

  Barbara Vane had a way with her when she wanted things done, so the inspector hurled his beef into the panel. It cracked under the impact and a second blow enabled him to get his hand inside the door. He turned a key and swung the door wide—but he did not enter the room.

  He, and Barbara too, remained motionless, completely unable for the moment to absorb the scene. It was not terrifying, ghoulish, or even suggestive of the sadistic. It was utterly bizarre arid unexpected

  Everything was in miniature—a doll’s room. There was a tiny, perfectly made table, a little bureau, quarter-sized beautifully carved chairs, a bookcase with bevelled glass fronts, the entire piece standing no more than two feet high. There were tiny books with microscopic titles, lacy-leafed shrubs in miniature stands—and amidst it all was a very big girl in very small surroundings. She was sideways to the doorway, seeming gigantic as she sat squeezed into a rocking chair, the top of which only reached above the small of her back. A huge pink bow flared on her black hair. She wore a pink, knee-length frock and white socks with black patent house shoes. In every way she was a vastly overgrown child, a feminine Gulliver in an incredible Lilliput.

  She was staring at the smashed door in blank alarm, her mouth open in sheer horrified amazement.

  The ‘child’ was Elsa Farraday.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Elsa got slowly to her feet and the inspector and Barbara still gazed at her in blank wonderment—Barbara more so than the official indeed for she remembered the poised young woman with the grey eyes, the pale face, and the automatic; but to the inspector Elsa’s slightly built figure did not seem particularly incongruous in a child’s clothes. Heavily developed beyond her age, perhaps, but nothing more.

  “There seems to be some sort of mistake here,” he said, trying to get things into focus. “I’ve broken in where I’ve no right and this youngster here is playing with her doll’s house furniture—”

  “This youngster, inspector, is Elsa Farraday,” Barbara snapped. “And she’s about twenty-five, at least!”

  “Yes, I’m Elsa Farraday,” Elsa assented, vindictive fury in her voice. “Why did. you follow me here, Barbara? How did you get in here? I never heard you—until this door smashed open.”

  “I broke in the glass on the front door,” Barbara answered, “but since the pieces fell on the mat you probably didn’t hear them.”

  Barbara, now recovering from her shock, walked slowly into the room. As she gazed about her she felt like a giantess.

  “What is all this confounded nonsense?” she demanded. “You dressed up as you are and all this miniature furniture.... Where is Clive?”

  “What business is it of yours?” Elsa asked coldly. “All I know is that you’ve broken into my home, into the privacy of my life, and I’m going to make you smart for it. And the law too! I’ll report you for this, inspector!”

  “All right,” he muttered. “But it was Miss Vane’s idea. She said she’d take the responsibility.”

  “And I will,” Barbara said. “Answer my question, Elsa—where is Clive? I’ve been trying to trace him since yesterday when he cut his hand, but he seems to have completely disappeared.”

  “I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t want to! And I wish you’d get out!”

  “Don’t want to?” Barbara repeated, battling hard with the incongruity of the situation, for she found it difficult to realize that she was not talking to a child.

  “You’re engaged to him, are you not?”

  “Not any more....” Elsa sat down wearily on one of the tiny chair and pushed a hand through her thick black hair. “Please,” she implored, “do leave me alone. I’m not doing anything wrong. I can behave as I like in my own home.”

  “Just the same,” the inspector said, clearing his throat, “there is something about this which seems a bit irregular, Miss Farraday. I’ve all the particulars from Miss Vane. Apparently Mr. Hexley has disappeared, and the only likely explanation was had that he had married you and you had gone away together on your honeymoon. Now even that possibility is disproved. Since you were apparently the last person to see him I’ll have to ask you a few questions.”

  Elsa got to her feet again and spoke sharply:

  “I know enough about the law, inspector, to know that you are not really entitled to ask me anything. You’ve broken into my home without any conceivable reason and searched it. Where’s your warrant?”

  “Well, I—er—”

  “You haven’t got one!” Elsa snapped. “Miss Vane here is responsible for everything; no doubt of that. And I’m within my rights in ordering you to leave. You haven’t heard the last of this, inspector. I’ll take the matter tip with the Divisional- inspector for your area.”

  The inspector seemed a trifle nonplussed by her ready grasp of the essentials of law and order, then he glanced at Barbara as she remarked:

  “Elsa Farraday is a writer of crime thrillers, inspector—and for that reason I imagine she knows what she’s talking about where the law is concerned. We’d better go. But don’t think,” she added to Elsa, “that the affair will end here. I mean to find out where Clive is.”

  Elsa said nothing. She stood waiting as with a further rubbing of his heavy chin the inspector lumbered from the room and went down the staircase. Barbara hesitated. in the doorway, studying Elsa in her astonishing child’s get-up.

  “For heavens’ sake, Elsa, what is the idea?’ she pleaded. “At least explain that even if nothing else.”

  “I’ve no reason to explain anything to you, Barbara, and I don’t intend to. I’ll answer questions to anybody who has the proper authority, but not otherwise. Now oblige me by leaving.”

  Barbara went. Elsa waited until she heard the front door close, then she hurried. into her bedroom and watched through the window as the inspector, Barbara beside him, drove his car swiftly away up the lane....

  * * * * * * *

  Barbara Vane, a woman of action, did not wait for Elsa to have the opportunity to lodge a complaint with the Divisional-inspector for the Surrey area. Knowing there was no telephone at Tudor Cottage, by means of which Elsa might speak first, Barbara insisted on driving to the Divisional-inspector’s headquarters immediately. Nor did the local inspector raise any objections. The problem with which he was confronted was far too complex for his peace of mind.

  Divisional-inspector Hayworth was a very different type from the local man—a square-shouldered, vaguely benevolent individual with a fresh-complexioned face. When Barbara and the local inspec­tor had been shown into his o
ffice he listened in courteous silence to what they had to say, verifying each other as they went.

  “I acted, sir, in what I considered were the best interests,” the local inspector concluded.

  “I appreciate that, inspector, but you did exceed your authority,” the Divisional-inspector said, thinking. “Miss Farraday was quite in her rights in ordering you out—and if she goes further she can make things most uncomfortable for you.... However, that can wait for the moment. It is the disappearance of Hexley which takes pride of place.”

  “So I think!” Barbara declared, “and I believe that Miss Farraday knows just where he is.”

  “It’s possible, of course,” the Divisional-inspector agreed, “but before we have the right to question her we have to be sure where Mr. Hexley is not. In other words we have to know that he has, beyond a shadow of doubt, completely vanished without explanation. Not until we are convinced of that can we tackle Miss Farraday directly.”

  Barbara looked worried. “I’ve been everywhere that Mr. Hexley could have been, Inspector—and drawn a blank every time.”

  “True; but the investigation must be much more thorough than that. It must also include a search of his studio and his flat, in case be might have met with serious mishap in one or the other and nobody is aware of the fact. Since Mr. Hexley lives—or lived—in the London area I’ll hand that part of the business over to Scotland Yard. As regards Surrey I’ll make my own inquiries. As far as you are concerned Miss Vane, and you”—the cold eyes settled on the local inspector—“you have done all you can.”

  “To me,” the local inspector said, musing, “it’s suspicious in itself that Miss Farraday acts so strangely. Dressed up like a little girl amidst a lot of small furniture, when she should have been honeymooning with her husband—or something like it. What do you make of it, sir?”

  “She might have been made up in readiness for a fancy dress ball; she might be a woman with delusions of childhood; she might be anything,” Hayworth responded. “All that has to be sorted out. Leave the matter with me. I’ll get some action quickly enough—and if I need you, Miss Vane, I’ll get in touch with you right away.”