Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “Just wondering where we ought to start, George. And before I forget it—I’d rather like to read that manuscript to-night. You won’t mind if I turn in early and make a start before you roll up?”

  “I’m going to turn in early too,” said Paradine firmly. “These late hours don’t suit me. Only, you read as long as you like. You won’t disturb me.”

  “Good!” He hooked off his glasses. “I’m probably talking rot, George, but what precisely did Celia mean when she said she’d start talking as soon as the police got here?”

  George Paradine’s head didn’t move. He sat looking into the fire for several seconds while Travers polished the glasses and hooked them on again. His answer, when it came, was startling.

  “You know when the lights went out . . . just as I came over to you and Challis and we stood talking? Well, Celia swears she saw Tommy Wildernesse come out of Mirabel’s room, sort of furtively, and slip across to his own room!”

  “But the light was too bad for that, surely!”

  “That’s what I thought at first. She says she heard a kind of click—that’d be when Franklin let the blind up—and just as I came over to you people she looked through our door . . . and saw Wildernesse. You see, that harlequin costume with its variegated colours was rather attracting.”

  “Hm!” Travers took off his glasses again. “Look here, George, we’ve got to look at this from every angle. Martin had a harlequin costume. How’d Celia know it wasn’t he?”

  Paradine hesitated again. “You and I know each other pretty well?”

  “We should do, George!”

  The other nodded. “Then, you trust me as I trust you. I don’t care who’s mixed up in this business—whether it’s you or my wife’s nephew or the man whose house I’m in. Nobody’s going to keep my mouth shut! A square deal and no more. Now you know where we stand!”

  As he scowled into the fire Travers felt a sudden glow of affection. “George, you’re a bald-headed, bellicose old . . . sportsman! But, tell me. How’d Celia know it wasn’t Martin?”

  George turned and looked at him for the first time. “Think it out. Martin’s costume was darker—green, black, and yellow; Tommy’s two colours only—light and dark blue, and Celia says she caught a flash of the actual pattern. That window at the angle of the back staircase hasn’t got a blind, by the way; therefore, what light there was’d be at his back. What she actually saw was this: The harlequin seemed to come quickly into sight. Then he halted at the top of the short staircase and drew his hand over his head as if he was smoothing his hair back. That’s a trick of Wildernesse’s, Celia says. Then the harlequin nipped like a streak across the landing and up the other short staircase.”

  “And Celia saw all that!”

  “So she says. She’s got amazingly good eyesight, you know!”

  Travers nodded. “You realize that while all this was happening we were talking?”

  “Talking? . . . I’m afraid I don’t see—”

  “All I meant was this, George. Why should the harlequin, after he’d murdered Mirabel, have risked being seen at all by the people whose voices he could hear? Why didn’t he lie low? Or cut up the servants’ staircase?”

  “Because he wasn’t aware that he would be seen. Everywhere was dark—except behind his back, and he couldn’t see there!”

  Travers thought it over for a minute. “I think there’s only one thing to do, George. You and I have got to conduct this inquiry as openly as circumstances’ll let us. We must see Celia and put it to the party or parties concerned. Do you mind if we have a word with Celia about it?”

  “Now?”

  “Well, yes ... if it’s suitable. But what about Brenda?”

  “Why not come in and have a word with Brenda yourself?”

  Travers waited at the head of the stairs till George beckoned him in. There was a fire in the room, and Brenda, in a dressing gown, was lying back in an easy chair. Her face, all its rigidity of perfection and its aloof indifference gone, seemed to him then the loveliest thing he had ever seen. As she looked at him he seemed to catch for a moment something apprehensive and inquiring; then, as he smiled, there came a reaction—or a deliberate assumption of weariness.

  “How’re you feeling now, Brenda?”

  “Better, thanks . . . Ludo.” The voice had its old level tone.

  “You must hurry up and get fit again—and come downstairs and join us.” He hesitated, trying to find words. “We know just what it means to you ... or we try to.” She gave him a wan smile as he patted her hand. Then he turned to Celia.

  Outside, on the main landing, he listened without interrupting, while she gave her story in full detail. There seemed to be at least one flaw.

  “You really mustn’t say that, Celia,” he told her patiently. “You didn’t see him leaving Mirabel’s room! You can’t see the door at all from here. For all you know, the harlequin—whoever he was—was only coming down the stairs from the servants’ quarters.”

  “What right had he got to be there?”

  “Well, we might at least ask him. And if it was Wildernesse, he might have forgotten for a moment and mistaken the landing for his own. When you caught sight of him, he was merely rectifying the error.”

  “Rubbish! He’d been in the house long enough to know where his own room was!”

  Travers smiled. “He was wool-gathering! However . . .” He turned to George. “What about putting out the light and then you coming down the stairs past the door with a handkerchief in your hand?”

  Paradine carried out the instructions, then Travers changed places with him. Celia had certainly been right. Though the snow had stopped falling, the moon was not yet up; and in spite of that there was sufficient light from the window to make the handkerchief visible. Moreover, in spite of Celia’s known tendency to welcome opposition and ride rough-shod over it, Travers was beginning to think it had really been Tommy Wildernesse she had seen; indeed, but for one thing he’d have needed no further convincing. He put it quietly to George as they made their way downstairs.

  “I must say it, George, but that trick of smoothing the hair back is one that I’ve noticed much more in Martin than Tommy. However, we’ll have it out with Tommy first, if you think fit.”

  “Best thing to do—then see Martin afterwards. Didn’t you say he wasn’t in his room when the lights went out, because you went to tell him about drawing his curtains?”

  “That’s right. See if he’s in the drawing room, will you?—and bring him along.”

  In the drawing room the council of four was holding its first session, with Pollock giving evidence. Wildernesse seemed a trifle perturbed at being called away.

  “Hallo! What’s up now?” he asked, just a bit anxiously, it seemed to Travers.

  “Just want to tell you something. Have a cigarette and make yourself at home!”

  Paradine took over. “We’re taking you completely into our confidence, Tommy, without any beating about the bush. To put the matter absolutely bluntly, we’ve a witness—whom you’ll be allowed of course to confront—who says you came either out of or past Mirabel’s room last night, shortly after the light went out—say, two minutes after.”

  “Good God! I say, what a damnable lie!”

  “No need to get excited, Tommy!” said Travers. “Tell us, where were you precisely at that moment?”

  “Hm! That’s easy! I was—” He broke off abruptly. “Is all this without prejudice?”

  Travers smiled. “Without prejudice to what?”

  “Well, you’re not going to rake up any private affairs of mine?”

  “Don’t be absurd!” said Paradine testily. “Everything here is confidential. All we want you to do is to clear yourself of what you evidently know to be a ridiculous charge.”

  “Charge! You don’t mean to say you’re accusing me of murdering—”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Travers told him. “We know you better than that. Come on! Cough it up, Tommy! Where were you?”

&nbs
p; He gave the pair of them a damnably suspicious look. “If you insist on knowing, I was in the loggia—and I stayed there till just before Charles locked up.”

  “In the loggia!” Then Travers apologized. “Sorry! I’m not doubting your word, but what on earth were you doing out there in the cold?”

  “Mirabel gave me a note—at least, she threw me a note—to meet me there after the show.”

  “Really! Did you keep the note, Tommy? I mean, the police might want to see it.”

  “As a matter of fact—I did!” This very deliberately. “It said I was to burn it, but... never mind the reason, I just kept it. Like to see it?”

  In a couple of minutes he was back with it—a half sheet of writing paper, ordinary white parchment from the lounge desk, apparently. Travers smoothed out the creases.

  See me in the loggia after the show. Most urgent. Burn this.

  M.

  Paradine had a look at it. “Suppose it’s her writing, all right?”

  “It’s the first time she ever wrote me anything—that’s one reason why I kept it. I tell you, I saw her flick it over. I was sitting down for a minute by the drinks table—you know, Travers; you must have seen me there; just before eleven, it was, soon after the balloons went up. She was dancing with Fewne, and then she flicked that over. I put my foot on it.”

  “Do you mind if George shows it to Brenda?” asked Travers.

  “That’s just as you like—except that I don’t want it shouted all over the house!”

  “You’re a suspicious young devil, Tommy!” Travers shook his head at him. “Take it up, George! I’ve got a brain wave. Excuse me a moment, Tommy!”

  When he came back Palmer was with him, looking, as usual, more like the family solicitor than a gentleman’s general factotum. Travers whispered to Wildernesse, then began the questioning.

  “Oh, Palmer! You were sitting by the electric gramophone all night?”

  “Yes, sir, until you told me I might go, sir.”

  “Exactly! And all the time you were watching the dancers and so on?”

  “Yes, sir . . . and very interesting it was, sir.”

  “Quite! Now, did you at any time during the evening see a note flicked across the room to anybody?”

  Palmer gave a tentative cough. “Er—were you wanting names, sir?”

  “Certainly!” blurted out Wildernesse. “Say what you saw—names and all!”

  “Well, sir, Miss Quest was dancing with Mr. Fewne—I mean, he wasn’t dancing very well, sir—”

  “Keep to the point!”

  “Very good, sir. Then, as they passed by Mr. Wildernesse, sir, I saw what I took to be a note, sir. Mr. Wildernesse put his foot on it, sir, and afterwards he picked it up . . . and then he went out of the room, sir.”

  “And you’ve not mentioned this to a soul?”

  “Certainly not, sir!”

  “All right, Palmer, thanks.”

  George Paradine had heard the last few sentences, and Travers filled in the gaps; moreover, he couldn’t forbear the least bit of self-congratulation.

  “There you are, Tommy! Great is truth, and all the rest of it!”

  “Just a moment!” said Paradine. “This note isn’t in Mirabel’s writing. Brenda says it’s nothing like it. And here’s a letter Celia had from her a day or two ago. Compare them for yourselves!”

  That, of course, upset everything. “If Mirabel didn’t write it, who did?” asked Wildernesse, now rather alarmed.

  “Are you sure it was she who flicked it over?” asked Travers.

  “Well, she caught my eye at the same time—and gave me a sort of grin.” Then he grunted. “What should Fewne want to do it for? Of course, he might have flicked it over because she asked him, but it doesn’t look likely; I mean, the note says it’s all secret. . . . And what should Fewne want to write it for? He wasn’t so mad as all that!”

  “Let’s talk nonsense for a moment,” said Travers. “Let’s suppose Fewne wanted to murder her. Then why should he want to lure you away, Tommy? You had no assignation with her that he was likely to know about?”

  “Had I, hell! I’d hardly spoken to her. She’d treated me just like dirt or tried to be funny at my expense all the time: as you know, if you think it over.”

  Travers nodded. “Then that isn’t it. How long were you in the loggia?”

  “How long! Long enough to freeze nearly stiff. It was as cold as hell in there.”

  “Anybody see you come back?”

  He thought for a moment, then scowled. “Blast it, no! You see I didn’t want anybody to see me. I just slipped into the hall and upstairs to my room. I was absolutely foaming at the mouth. I made up my mind I’d raise blue merry hell with her in the morning.”

  “You didn’t tap at her door or anything?”

  “No! I’ll swear to God I didn’t. I’ll swear every word I’ve told you is true!”

  “That’s all right, Tommy. We believe you all right. It’s just unfortunate, that’s all. However,” and he patted him paternally on the shoulder, “we’ll be sure to find somebody who saw you come in.”

  “There was a light under the stairs, behind the screen; I know that. And I heard Martin say something!”

  “Good! That’s one up to you!” He turned to Paradine. “Now, what about asking the other harlequin to give his account?”

  CHAPTER IX

  EVERYBODY TALKS

  AS IT happened, there was no need to look for Braishe. He came in while they were talking, holding a sheet of paper which appeared to be notes.

  “Hope I’m not butting in, but I’ve got all those times you asked us to do—where people were when the light went out.”

  “Splendid!” said Travers. “Tell us all about ’em.”

  “Well, the female staff is all right—I mean to say they were all in bed and asleep; two in a room, except Mrs. Cairns. The sleeping two in a room is no actual guarantee, of course, though it’s pretty strong evidence; also I should say there isn’t one among ’em likely to burgle a room, let alone murder anybody. With regard to the men, I pushed the bell for Pollock just as we got up, you remember. He and William were just inside the hall as we came in. Charles says he was getting something from his room upstairs and just as he got down the light went out . . . but of course he can’t prove it. The other two say Mirabel ran upstairs first, then you two and Franklin and Aunt Celia, then Challis and Brenda. Pollock says he doesn’t know where Denis or Tommy was. He remembers Brenda stopped on the stairs and asked Challis if he knew where Denis was. Challis confirms that. With regard to myself, I was just behind the last pair and was actually talking to Pollock when the light went out. Tommy can probably account for himself, but we can’t make out where Denis was. He spoke to William a few minutes later—just said good-night, or something like that—when William was in the meter cupboard. At that moment I was in the rooms, trying the switches to see if the breakdown was a local one.”

  “Now I come to think of it,” said Travers, “I think I can explain where Denis was. When I came out of the room, I noticed those balloons of his still there—attached to the settee probably. I should say he suddenly remembered them, and by the time he’d gone back for them, the light went out. We know he took them over to the pagoda—heaven knows why!”

  Braishe rubbed his chin and nodded thoughtfully.

  “As you say, there wasn’t any hurry. The balloons could have waited till the morning—or later. Still, they were part of the costume, as it were. Perhaps that’s what he had in mind.”

  Travers might have added, “Then why did he take that trouble merely to slash them in pieces over in the pagoda?” What he did say was, “We know what happened to Tommy. He was in the loggia—for private and excellent reasons.”

  Braishe looked interested. “That explains it, then! Charles saw him come in again. He said you passed close to him, against the stairs; about a quarter of an hour later—would that be it?”

  Wildernesse looked immensely pleased. “That was i
t!” He gave a nod of satisfaction. “That lets me out—thank God!”

  Travers smiled. “Good for you, Tommy! But there’s just one extra verification we can have of your being in the loggia. I looked out of my window and saw Denis go to the pagoda. You must have seen him too. Would you mind telling us exactly what you saw?”

  “Would I! My dear chap, I saw the whole thing!” He gave an account that left no doubt whatever in Travers’s mind; moreover, he added something that Travers couldn’t possibly have known; something that fitted in with those amazing happenings in the pagoda and yet left them unexplained. “He was muttering to himself like blazes. Between ourselves, I thought he was tight. And my idea of where he was is that he went back to the room to have another tot. Perhaps he saw the balloons at the same time.”

  Travers nodded, then put a vital question. “I take it, Tommy, that when you said you were in the loggia when the light went out, you were talking—well, figuratively. I mean, you were there while they were out. Where were you when they went out?”

  “I see.” He shot a look at Travers. “Damn it all, Ludo; don’t look at me like that! I slipped into the dining room till the coast should be clear. That’s where I was.”

  Travers made a gesture of complete comprehension. “That’s all right, Tommy. It’s best for you to know the kind of question the police might ask.”

  “I shouldn’t worry if I were you, Tommy,” said Braishe. “Here’s another confirmation he was in the loggia. He wasn’t in his room when Pollock brought the candles up.”

  “Tommy’s all right!” said Travers heartily. “The police’ll get nothing on him!” He turned to Braishe. “How about Mirabel? Did she get a candle? There wasn’t one in her room.”

  “No. She wasn’t there.”