Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “This is the lot of ’em,” said Paradine, who’d been patiently holding the heap of torn balloons. “Where do you want them put?”

  “I think we’ll sort ’em out first—trodden on and not.”

  There were four of the former, with marks clearly corresponding with the leather-heeled slippers the dead man had worn. One balloon seemed, however, different from the rest. They had all been cut and slashed; this was merely punctured in a couple of places.

  “How’d that happen?” asked Travers.

  “I should say the pen went clean through one of the others and just touched this. By the time he’d got to it, it was deflated already. He’d thrown them all over the room. One in the corner there, another right over there, absolutely indiscriminately. Clean off his head.”

  Travers nodded gloomily. “Pretty awful to see a chap go like that.” He looked at the punctured balloon. “By the way, wasn’t that orange one the one Martin handled?”

  Paradine frowned. “I believe it was.”

  “Right-ho! We’ll put ’em all in the drawer here with the pen and that sheet of paper he scrawled on. Those’ll be the main exhibits.” He locked the drawer, then had a look round. “Anything else you can think of?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Right-ho, then. I suppose, by the way, you won’t mind my reading this manuscript through. Rather strange to hear he hasn’t touched it for all these days. My experience is, the nearer the end, the keener the effort.”

  “Take it, by all means.”

  Travers paused in the act of wrapping it up. “I wonder if he really did write anything? I mean, did he burn anything last night—you know, dissatisfied with it, perhaps? Do you know, I think I’ll go over those ashes carefully. Wood, principally, by the look of ’em.” He locked the desk and pocketed the keys. “I say, don’t you wait, George. It’s frightfully chilly over here.”

  He drew the blinds carefully and watched George Paradine scurrying back to the shelter of the loggia, then to the porch. Then he stood frowning for a moment. Things were not working out quite as he expected. Why, for instance, had George so dexterously avoided any reference to that gas of Martin’s? Was it that he felt in some intangible way that if Fewne had met his death by that gas—of his own volition or not—there might be complications for Braishe himself? Travers shook his head. Let a man be as good company as you like—George Paradine, for instance—but what guarantee was that that he’d accept without prejudice the least implication against one of his own, or his wife’s, family? Besides, George Paradine could be mighty obstinate on occasions. Travers shook his head again. Nothing for it but to carry on and leave George as much in the dark as common courtesy allowed. In the meanwhile, what about those ashes?

  He shivered slightly—then sneezed. As he blew his nose he sniffed. Strange smell somewhere—not the handkerchief: his hand it was—and a smell remarkably resembling whisky. He thought for a moment, then unlocked the drawer and felt that damp pocket in Fewne’s costume. He nodded. That was it. Fewne had done as he and Franklin had—dodged that last drink, and, no receptacle being handy, had unceremoniously tipped it into his pocket. But why? Travers shrugged his shoulders. Why not? Only—that hardly bore out the theory that he’d been tight. And now Travers came to reckon them up, Fewne had had very few drinks—fewer than he himself, for example. However, what did it matter?

  With a couple of candles on the floor of the open fireplace he set to work on those ashes, raking them aside with tongs and poker, and even using his fingers. There was no sign of burnt papers—at least, none that he could distinguish from the ordinary. One thing only seemed at all unusual—the metal tag end of a bootlace, or that was what it seemed to be. But why had Fewne been burning bootlaces? Travers smiled to himself. Because they—or it—had broken. And if so, one of his shoes would show a new lace. There, however, the logic failed. The boots had leather laces with wire tags; the shoes hadn’t a single new lace among them.

  Travers looked round the room again. Assume the death by the gas: then, where had it come from? Not from a balloon—that was a manifest absurdity. And for sanitation or lighting there was no connection with outside. With the candle he worked his way round the room, going over the junction of match-boarding and ceiling, then match-boarding and floor. As far as he could see, there wasn’t a crack. Then he groped beneath the bed to inspect the junction there—at least, he pushed the candle underneath and followed it up with his head . . . then he stopped short!

  Two minutes later he was over in the hall, talking to the housekeeper. The pagoda was going to be used as a bedroom again that night. Could she arrange for the bed to be made with clean clothes, the grate to be cleaned out, and the fire lighted? William would do all that, would he? Then would she arrange it at once with Pollock?

  He moved off again to the door, then turned round. Tommy Wildernesse was coming down the stairs, looking as miserable as sin. Travers decided to take a risk.

  “Busy, Tommy?”

  The other looked round with a start. Travers had been invisible in the shadows of the huge, unlighted room.

  “Can you spare a minute or two over in the pagoda? Don’t bother about coat or anything. Just sprint!”

  Wildernesse looked quite startled for a minute. “What’s up? Something—er—”

  “Nothing at all—really. Just something I thought you’d like to see.”

  Whatever it was that Wildernesse was anticipating during that short sprint, it was worlds away from what he actually saw. To tell the truth, it was only after the most laborious of demonstrations that he saw anything at all—and when he did see it he could make nothing of it.

  “Have a look under the bed,” Travers told him. “Just where the boarding joins the skirting board. I’ll hold the candle.”

  “Why not move the bed out?”

  “Mustn’t!” said Travers impressively. “The coroner’ll expect everything as it was.”

  Thereupon Wildernesse had got down under the low bed, cursed when his skull had grated against the ancient mattress, then had gazed where Travers told him.

  “Clean joint?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Couldn’t get a straw in between?”

  “No. I don’t think you could.”

  “Splendid! That’s all, then, Tommy. Mind your head as you come out. I’d get on my back if I were you and come out face up.”

  Tommy rubbed his head. “Pretty Spartan affair, that bedstead!”

  “Best for sleeping in,” said Travers. “I never slept so well in my life as on an army mattress.”

  “So I’ve been told. And now—what was I to look at the joint for?”

  “To see if it was practically airtight. However, never mind what it was for. All I want you to do is to remember it. And something else.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t think this is nonsense. I was never more serious in my life. Promise me you’ll say nothing to a living soul about what we’ve done over here!”

  “Yes—but why?”

  “Because, if the wrong person knows what you’ve seen I wouldn’t give twopence for your life!”

  “Oh, I say!”

  “Don’t be a damn fool!” said Travers sharply. “Do you think Mirabel would have laughed if I’d told her the same thing last night?”

  “You mean . . . you know who killed her?”

  “I don’t know anything, Tommy. All I’m saying is—a knife in the ribs is a damned unpleasant way of dying! . . . You give your word, then?”

  The other’s eyes fell. “Right-ho ... if you think it necessary.”

  “One other thing,” said Travers. “You definitely refuse to sleep here to-night. You consider it unnecessary.”

  Tommy’s eyes opened in astonishment.

  “That’s all right!” said Travers. “The thing’s this: if you’re asked what you’ve been doing over here, you can say I suggested you should have a look round with a view to sleeping here. I’ll explain that later—to the others.”

 
“Right-ho!” He was looking so unusually serious that Travers was enormously relieved.

  “Just one thing, Tommy—something most damnably impertinent of me to say, even as we are now. . . . You thought a good deal of Mirabel?”

  The other looked at him ... bit his lip . . . and nodded.

  “That’s all right, old chap. Then you’ll be prepared to lend a hand to get the bloke who did her in. . . . I’d cut over now if I were you. And something you might do for me—purely a personal matter. Ask Pollock, if he has ’em, to put in my room all the back numbers of The Times from last Saturday inclusive.”

  When he’d gone, Travers looked suddenly very tired. And he was worried. If Tommy kept his word, he’d be all right. But what about himself? One thing only to do—to ape the cheerful idiot; to fuss round treading on nobody’s toes; knowing nothing except what was likely to be farthest from the truth. Then William tapped at the door.

  He watched the footmen enter with lamp, bedclothes, and firing; then, when Charles had gone, had a word with William.

  “Charles been here long, William?”

  “Just about a week, sir. I believe he came specially for the house party, sir.”

  “Really! Is he English?”

  “I think he’s Swiss, sir—least, he says he is; but he says he’s spent most of his time in England.”

  “Hm! I guessed something of the kind. By the way, when you clean out the grate, see if you can find anything that Mr. Fewne might have thrown in.”

  “Something lost, sir?”

  “Well, something I can’t find. Do it carefully. It might be very small.”

  But whatever it was that Travers was looking for, it wasn’t found. All that William ran across was a metal tag—the fellow of the one that Travers had in his pocket. Thereupon, as the cold was making his teeth chatter, he hurriedly put away in one of the large drawers the used bedclothes, then made his way back to the house, the bundle of manuscript under his coat. By this time the afternoon was nearly over. In the house, the lighted windows looked cheerily inviting. Above, the sky was a sullen grey, the wind cut like a knife, and the snow was blinding down harder than ever.

  CHAPTER VIII

  MORE COMPLICATIONS

  CELIA PARADINE came down to tea after all: a can’t-stay-more-than-a-minute visit that lasted twenty. Not that anybody wished it shorter. The men were beginning to get more than bored with their own company. That afternoon, with the funeral cortège from the pagoda, had, as Challis said, absolutely put the lid on it. All very well for Travers and Paradine, with a job of work to do; but to loaf round in a Sabbath atmosphere and feel every remark an indiscretion if not an indecency, well, wasn’t any relief welcome?

  It was George Paradine who accomplished it. Brenda, he said, would be all the better for a few minutes of her own company, and just then she was having a cup of tea upstairs. For the others, the change of room, the less sober atmosphere, the fire, even Ho-Ping, contributed to make things by comparison positively cheerful. Footmen and ceremonial were dispensed with. Travers, with a kind of subdued gaiety, fluttered round with cakes. Crashaw kept up a discreet chatter, and Challis ventured more than once on a guffaw.

  “Don’t you think it would be rather a good idea,” Travers suggested, “if one of us—Martin really ought to be the chap—had a word with Brenda and—er—sort of said how sorry we all were; how we hoped she’d soon be down, and so on? I think, perhaps, she might appreciate it.”

  “That’s a very sensible suggestion!” said Celia.

  “Well—er—if everybody thinks so,” said Braishe. “She’s—er—quite presentable?”

  “Of course she is!” snapped his aunt. “You don’t think she’s in sackcloth and ashes!”

  Travers put a side table at her elbow. “What about Ho-Ping, Celia? Don’t you think he might have a special éclair?—if he eats éclairs.”

  The point seemed to be missed. Travers explained.

  “You see, if he hadn’t been in your room you’d have lost the family jewels.”

  Celia gave a snort. “Murdered in our beds, more like it!” She glared at George; why, Travers didn’t know. “What’s been done about it? If I understand George’s account, nothing’s been done at all.” She snorted again. “Why aren’t the police here? What do we pay them for if it isn’t to protect us?”

  Travers smiled placatingly. “Look here, Celia; I’m not George, and you’re not going to get round me. Don’t let’s talk about all this terrible business. We’ve agreed—”

  Agreements to Celia Paradine were like ditches to a tank. “I don’t care what you’ve agreed. I say I’m not going to let that poor girl be alone to-night! She’s coming in with me!”

  “Why not?” asked Travers mildly. “George can have Franklin’s bed, and you can hammer on the wall if anything goes wrong—which it won’t!”

  Celia ignored that. “The sooner you get the police here, the better. Then I’ll have something to say!” She glared at Tommy Wildernesse, who opened his mouth, then thought discretion the better part. “Didums feel frightened, then?” she asked the obese Ho-Ping. Nobody laughed.

  Travers drew his chair up alongside hers and assumed his most ingratiating manner. In a couple of minutes he had her booming away, and things settled down again. That lasted till the end of the interlude, when Tommy Wildernesse started playing the piano—very quietly and rather well. Celia’s voice came with disconcerting clearness.

  “Do tell Mr. Wildernesse to stop playing—please! Most unsuitable!”

  Travers raised his eyebrows. Wildernesse stopped abruptly, then, looking very confused, lighted a cigarette. Celia rose like a tragedy queen.

  “I mustn’t leave that poor girl any longer. Are you coming, George, or remaining here?”

  “With you, my dear.” He gave Travers a look. “Of course, you know, I shall have to be down again . . .”

  The voices trailed away in the corridor. Challis looked round as if to sound the feelings of the meeting, then addressed himself to Wildernesse.

  “Well, thank God she’s not my aunt, old boy!”

  For the first time since they’d been there Wildernesse looked at Challis as if he were a human being. But he said nothing.

  “Celia’s all right!” put in Travers, smiling. “We’re all a bit on edge—and we do at least know something. She’s been up there all day, having a perfectly filthy time—and knowing precious little.”

  “Well, we don’t know so much, old boy, if it comes to that!”

  “You may do in time!” said Travers, still smiling. Then Braishe came in with the news. Brenda was bearing up like a brick. Frightful shock, of course. And she’d been touched by the message they’d sent. Next day, perhaps, she’d be down. Company, according to Braishe, was what she wanted. Travers agreed, then announced that he had a rather important question to ask.

  “I want someone to sleep over in the pagoda to-night. Fire’s going strong, light’s fixed up, and the bed’s got newly aired sheets. Who’s going to volunteer?”

  “But—er—why?” asked Braishe. He seemed staggered at the suggestion and looked round helplessly.

  “I’ll tell you. Not that you’ll agree. Poor Fewne went mad last night. You all noticed how uncannily quiet he was during the evening. When he got over to the pagoda he seems to have broken down pretty badly. He cut and slashed . . . things in the room, and threw himself on the bed like a lunatic. Whether that brought on the heart attack that killed him, I don’t know. Still, there we are. What I suggest is that this must have been a cumulative process. He’s been over there—introspective, worried, perhaps, and overworking—but is there anything else? Is there anything—don’t laugh at me!—anything psychic, overwhelmingly depressing about that pagoda? Is there any noise you can hear that might torture one’s nerves?—branch of a tree creaking or anything like that?” He looked round appealingly. “Did anything help to drive him mad? That’s all I want to find out. And, if necessary, I’ll sleep there myself.”

  “
That’s all right,” said Braishe quickly. “I’ll sleep there!” He laughed nervously. “I’m nervous enough at the moment—I mean I’m nervy enough to sense anything that’s going.”

  “That’s capital!” Travers appeared to be considerably relieved. “If you don’t mind my suggesting it, Crashaw might have Brenda’s room, and George might come in with me. Then we’ll be all in a bunch together.”

  Braishe nodded. “Perhaps that would be better. I’ll fix it up.”

  “Then, if you people don’t mind,” said Travers, “I’ll push off to the breakfast room. Send George along when he comes.” At the door he paused. “Why shouldn’t you all lend a hand with the inquiry?” He came back and explained. “Why not find out where everybody was when the lights went out—servants and everybody—so as to see who really cut the cord? You might have a go at the same time at finding out when and how that burglar got in—assuming he was an intruder, as Tommy thinks.”

  The idea seemed well received.

  “One thing I’d like to ask in that context,” went on Travers. “That footman Charles. He brought in the special nightcap which everybody thinks was doped. Pretty certain about his references?”

  Braishe’s eyes opened. “That’s an idea! I only really had him for this special show. If he turned out all right I’d thought of trying him out as a valet.”

  “Well, you make a few cautious inquiries!” said Travers from the door, and left them to it. As he stirred up the fire in the breakfast room he wondered just where Franklin was at that moment. He’d got through to the village, of course; there wasn’t any doubt about that. The trouble was, when could he get back again? Travers was finding it hard work to keep his own counsel, and harder still to avoid criticism of his own efforts, and wondering what Franklin would do if he were there. And what was the best thing to do, now the ground had been roughly surveyed? Events in chronological order—say the doped drink, the cut cord, the burglary, and the murder? Or why not start at the murder and work back? Everything most damnably cautious, of course . . . then an idea! Why not play for safety and call in Palmer and hear if he’d got anything out of that maid? Just then George Paradine came in, and Travers drew him up a chair.