“So you think it was destroyed to prevent it protecting her?”
“Don’t bother to speculate till we’ve got something to go on,” said The Counsellor impatiently. “Find out about its blood, first of all. And another thing, Inspector. Would you ring up the housekeeper at Longstoke house, now, and ask if Miss Treverton used to take that dog with her to tennis-parties. It’s not likely but. . . . Yes, just ask her if the Fairlawns children got on well with the beast. Do it now.”
The inspector left the room and returned in a few minutes.
“You seem to have hit it,” he admitted. “The housekeeper says the Trulock kids fairly doted on the beast. They loved playing with it when they came over to Longstoke House, and Miss Treverton always took it to Fairlawns whenever she went there, for their amusement. She didn’t take it to other places. No one wants dogs at tennis parties.”
“That seems a bit suggestive,” The Counsellor admitted. “But I’d rather have more facts about that dog before I waste time over it. You get it dug up, Inspector. And, if I may suggest something, I’d do that at dead of night, without informing the town crier. See?”
“I see,” said Pagnell with a portentous nod.
Chapter Nine
The American
ON the day after his interview with Inspector Pagnell, The Counsellor felt an unwonted disinclination for the work of his office. He decided that it would be early enough if he dropped in there after luncheon. Part of the morning he spent in poring over ordnance maps, but this proved to be time wasted. Yet he could not shake himself free from the Treverton problem. He had a feeling that the solution was just round the corner and that it would emerge if only he kept his attention fixed on the subject. But it stubbornly eluded him, try as he might. At last, about half-past two, he decided to go to his office.
Hearing of his arrival, Sandra Rainham came into his private room with a sheaf of papers in her hand; but he waved them aside impatiently.
“Fix them yourself,” he ordered. “I’ll get Wolf now, and give you both the stop press news on the Treverton mystery.”
“Has that poor man really committed suicide?” asked Sandra.
“Dead, for a ducat. Shakespeare.” The Counsellor assured her.
“I think you’re simply beastly,” Sandra retorted. “It’s not decent, to talk like that about a thing of that sort.”
“Well, I didn’t like him,” declared The Counsellor, defensively. “And, what’s more you wouldn’t have liked him either, if you’d met him. Besides, surely he knew what was best for him. No need for you to voice an opinion about the rights or wrongs of the case. Ah! Wolf,” he added, as Standish came into the room, “Sandra wants to know all about the Treverton business, so I thought you’d better hear it too.”
“Very kind of you,” said Standish, ironically. “That means you feel you must talk about it to somebody, so Sandra and I suffer. Well, go on. I’m not a bit interested, really; but I’ll try to make the right noises.”
Quite undamped, The Counsellor rapidly outlined the tale of Treverton’s death as he had heard it from Inspector Pagnell.
“And that’s how it is,” he concluded.
“Oh!” said Standish.
“Oh?” said The Counsellor with a touch of petulance in his tone. “What d’you mean by saying ‘Oh!’”
“One of the appropriate noises,” Standish explained. “One can do a lot with ‘Oh’, according to intonation, you know.”
“Oh, you can, can you?” said The Counsellor, giving an unconscious illustration of Standish’s contention. “And what does this particular ‘Oh’ mean?”
“Expanding it by Humpty-Dumpty’s method, it means I think this Treverton case is an excellent thing to leave alone, Mark. This flood of detective fiction’s gone to your head, evidently, and that’s a bad symptom. About as bad as a rush of brains to the feet.”
“I’m going on with it,” said The Counsellor, doggedly.
“Well, I rather agree with Wolf,” Sandra declared. “It’s all very well to use the wireless to trace missing people. That’s useful work, in a way. But once suicide comes in, I think it’s time for you to drop it, Mark. I do indeed.”
The Counsellor glanced at her with a foxy smile.
“Ah, wait till you take a hand in the game yourself, Sandra. Then you’ll feel the fascination of it.”
“I take a hand? I like that! What do you think I’m going to do in a business of that sort?”
“I offered you a job as Delilah before, but you didn’t seem to bite,” complained The Counsellor. “I don’t mind changing the spelling to suit you. You’re going to be Dalilah the Crafty, out of the Arabian Nights.” He changed his tone, and added gravely, “This is serious, Sandra. There’s something damned fishy about this whole affair, and so long as that girl’s missing, it’s every decent person’s business to lend a hand. I’m not fooling.”
“Oh, if you put it like that . . .” Sandra answered, reluctantly.
“I do. I’ll tell you afterwards what I want you to do. It’s all straight and above-board, really. Still, it’ll need tact, and I can’t do it myself. Nor can Wolf.”
Sandra considered for a moment or two.
“If you really believe that girl’s been kidnapped, of course, I don’t mind lending a hand.”
“I hope it’s no worse than kidnapping,” The Counsellor retorted, soberly. “This suicide has jarred me up more than I wanted. It doesn’t look too well, all round.”
He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a copy of the last balance sheet of the Ravenscourt Press which he had got typed out. He put it down on the desk before him and placed his finger on one item.
“Sundry creditors—£2,573 14s. 9d.,” he read. “One of them should be Treverton, for I heard that he helped to finance the show out of his own pocket when it got into deep water at times. But why not have put his name down in black and white? And who are the rest of the Sundries? I’d like to know, just as a matter of curiosity.”
Before either of his companions had time to put a question, a typist brought in a card. The Counsellor read it with raised eyebrows, flicked it across the table to Sandra, and ordered the typist to show the visitor in at once. Standish, leaning over Sandra’s shoulder, read the name on the card: “Mr. HOWARD QUERRIN”, and his brows also lifted in surprise. The Counsellor made a quick gesture commanding: “Leave this to me”; and all three of them turned towards the door as the visitor was announced.
Sandra Rainham was no mean judge of men, and it was with some surprise that she found her first impression of Howard Querrin was favourable. He was obviously what she called ‘the best type of American’, a young man with a frank eye, a rather humorous mouth, a lean face, and a reserved manner which was wholly free from shyness; the sort of person, in fact, who looked as if he could be trusted in a tight corner. This did not fit in at all with Sandra’s preconceptions of the Querrin who had lured away a girl and cheated her with a sham marriage ceremony.
Querrin wasted no time in preliminary talk. He glanced at the trio, picked out The Counsellor, and addressed him:
“Mr. Mark Brand? I thought so. Inspector Pagnell sent me on to you. So here I am. I want to hear your story about Miss Treverton.”
“Miss Rainham. Mr. Standish,” explained The Counsellor by way of introduction. “They’re colleagues of mine. Friends, too. You can speak freely in front of them, Mr. Querrin. Mr. Standish gave me some assistance”—he threw Standish an ironical glance—“in tracing Miss Treverton’s car.”
Querrin acknowledged the introductions.
“I quite understand,” he went on. “but I came here to listen to you, not to talk. What’s happened to Miss Treverton; that’s what I want to know.”
His eye wandered over The Counsellor’s tweeds and then fixed itself on Brand’s face with a steady gaze of expectation.
“Wait a minute,” said The Counsellor cautiously. “It’s easy to come in here with a visiting card and say: ‘I’m Mr. Querrin.’ But
how do I know you’re the right Mr. Querrin? Anyone can get a card printed.”
“You’re talking sense,” Querrin admitted, putting his hand into his pocket. “Here’s a passport—I landed yesterday. Here are a couple of letters with my address in the States on them. If that’s not enough, my banker can identify me personally.”
He was obviously impatient to get to business, but it was plain that he recognised the reasonableness of The Counsellor’s precautions.
“Right!” said The Counsellor. “You want to know what’s happened to Miss Treverton. I don’t know. But I’m trying to find out. What I do know, I’ll tell you. This is how it is.”
His broadcasting experience had made The Counsellor a master of succinct narrative; and his account of the episode was concise without the omission of any relevant detail. Querrin listened to the whole of it without interrupting with a single question, though Sandra guessed that this must have entailed considerable self-restraint.
“As I landed yesterday, it’s plain that this other Querrin wasn’t me,” he pointed out when The Counsellor had finished. “I suppose you took him for me. Quite natural if you did.”
“I did, at the start,” The Counsellor admitted frankly. “But when I began to see that the girl in the car wasn’t Miss Treverton, I had my doubts as to whether her friend was the genuine article either. Now we know both of them are frauds. But where do you come in, Mr. Querrin, if I may ask?”
Querrin hesitated for a moment or two. Then he made up his mind.
“This isn’t a time for beating about the bush,” he said. “I’ll give you the straight of it. I was over here in the fall of 1936. I came across Miss Treverton then. We . . . liked each other. But my folk had lost their money in the Wall Street crash when I was a youngster. I hadn’t anything to offer a girl, financially. Besides, she’d some money and I don’t believe in that kind of marriage. So . . . well, we understood each other, more or less. No engagement. I went off to make good if I could. Meanwhile, we wrote to each other regularly. I’ve managed to make good. Been lucky in some things. I told her so in my letters. Then I wrote saying I was sailing, and would arrive yesterday. She should have got that letter last week.”
“She did, I believe,” interjected The Counsellor.
“Well, of course she must have known what was bringing me over. She could have cabled to stop me if she didn’t want me. Now I land here; and, the first thing, I go up to Longstoke House. Everything’s upside down there. My girl’s vanished and old Treverton’s suicided. They referred me to this Inspector Pagnell. The housekeeper did that. I saw him. He gave me a rambling sort of yarn. I could make neither head nor tale of it. In fact, I didn’t believe half of it, because it didn’t sound the least like Miss Treverton. But perhaps I wasn’t in the best of form for taking things in just then. The news I’d got at Longstoke House was enough to knock one off one’s perch. I expect I was a bit dazed by it. Anyhow, this Inspector Pagnell must have felt his tale wanted independent confirmation if it was to get across. So he sent me on to you. I’m cooler now. Not so stunned, anyhow. And I’ve taken in what you’ve told me. But it doesn’t seem to make sense. You say you haven’t got any further than what you’ve told me?”
Sandra could see that under a mask of self-control, Querrin was all on wires. The Counsellor pushed a box of cigarettes across his desk and the American, evidently glad to have some mechanical operation to perform, chose a cigarette and, after a gesture asking her permission, lighted it. As he did so, she could see that his fingers were unsteady.
“You know more about Miss Treverton and her uncle than we do,” said The Counsellor. “I thought you might throw some light on the affair. But don’t say anything now, if you’d rather not. I can guess the kind of shock you’ve had. If you’d rather think over things for a bit. . . .”
Querrin shook his head decidedly.
“No, you can have it now, if there’s any question you want to put. No use wasting time, is there?”
Again his anxiety broke through the mask.
“Why should anyone want to get hold of her? That’s what I don’t understand. But if anyone’s laid a finger on her, they’ll pay for it. I promise you that.”
The Counsellor evidently thought the best treatment was coolness.
“Ever hear of some people called Trulock?” he asked.
Querrin shook his head.
“Never heard of them.”
“Or a man called Whitgift?”
“Whitgift? Oh, yes. One of Treverton’s experts? Yes, I remember him. Surly sort of beggar . . . I may as well put the cards on the table. I’d reason to believe that he’d some aspirations . . . so I gathered from one or two things that Helen—Miss Treverton—dropped casually. I didn’t cut him out, you understand? He simply wasn’t in it and wouldn’t have been in it even if I’d never turned up. Not her type, or anywhere near it. I saw him this morning. Very cut up about this business, obviously. In fact, I liked him better after a talk with him than I did before. No jealousy about him now. He seemed a bit that way in the old days, which is understandable enough. But this morning we seemed to be both in the same boat. Worried about her, I mean. He was very decent.”
“Know a man Albury?” queried The Counsellor.
“Another of the experts? Yes, knew him by sight, but not much more. Surly beggar. Not a taking personality. But that’s all I know about him.”
“Now here’s something that’s been worrying me,” The Counsellor said, leaning forward over the desk. “We know Miss Treverton was a shareholder in the Ravenscourt Press to the tune of £3,000. That earned no dividends, but she had some sort of income. Have you any notion of what other capital she had?”
“No figures,” Querrin explained, “but I had a notion she had four or five hundred a year—pounds, I mean—from somewhere. It’s a guess, but she must have had something like that.”
“In Trustee Stocks that would be round about £10,000 capital,” mused The Counsellor.
A thought seemed to cross his mind.
“In this correspondence between you and Miss Treverton, did she ever say anything about her financial affairs? The merest hint of anything?”
Querrin reflected for almost a minute before answering.
“I’ve a hazy idea that once or twice she did mention something, something about her uncle trying to get her to lend him some money to tide that Press of his over a bad spot. I never referred to that when I replied. Finance, you see, was a sore point with me in the state of the case. I couldn’t advise her to lend the money, not knowing anything about the business. And if I advised her not to . . . well, you see how it was? It might have looked as if I was interested in her money affairs, since I hoped to marry her. I left it alone. But I certainly remember clearly enough now, that about his trying to borrow from her.”
“Was she a business-like girl?” asked The Counsellor.
“Meaning did she keep accounts of her finances? No, she wasn’t likely to, from what I know of her. A bit careless, in that line, I’d say.”
“Trustful? Not likely to run to a lawyer about money affairs?”
“I can’t see her doing that,” said Querrin with the first sign of a smile that had crossed his face.
“What about her uncle?” asked The Counsellor. “Was he much of a business man? I may as well say I’m not impressed by his dealings with that Press of his.”
“Well, he’s dead,” Querrin said, rather shamefacedly. “I don’t like to say anything against him. And I didn’t know much anyhow. But I wouldn’t call him a genius in the money-market. That’s just an impression, mind, and I’m not running him down in saying it. Some men are built that way.”
The Counsellor switched over to a fresh line.
“When you were here in 1936, you saw something of them together. What sort of terms were they on?”
“Meaning did they get on together? Yes. So far as I saw. They seemed on quite good terms. Not all over each other, in any way. But quite happy together. She used
to chaff him, and he seemed rather to like it. See what I mean?”
“I see,” said The Counsellor, in a tone which suggested that he had seen more than the others had.
He pondered for a while before he spoke again.
“Well, Mr. Querrin, I’m not going to bluff. We’ve come to what may be a dead end, so far as my resources go. But if you can see any way for us to lend a hand, you can count on us. I mean it. Perhaps when you’ve got over this shock a bit, something may occur to you. It’s been a bad business for you, anyone can guess that. And I wish I was able to tell you I had the key in my hands. But I haven’t.”
Querrin got up from his chair with all the reluctance of a disappointed man.
“Well, I’d hoped for something more than that,” he confessed frankly, with a smile which was a little awry. “You were so cute in tracking that car of hers. I was sure you’d got something more up your sleeve. But if you haven’t, why, you haven’t. I’m downright grateful for you doing as much as you have done. But I want my girl back” . . . his voice shook slightly despite his effort at control . . . “and I suppose it’s up to me to do something for her myself, now.”
“Where are you going?” asked The Counsellor. “Give us your address in case something turns up.”
“I’ve booked a room at The Black Bull in Grendon St. Giles,” Querrin explained. “Not much point in staying there, perhaps. Still, I want to go through this business, and that seems the best place to start. Thanks, again, sir. If anything does turn up. . . .”
“We’ll let you know immediately,” The Counsellor assured him.
And with that cold comfort, Querrin took his leave.
“What do you think of him?” demanded The Counsellor, swinging round on Sandra.
“He’s nice. And I am so sorry for him. He kept himself in hand, but one could see that he’s completely dazed by having this sprung on him. Going up there to meet that girl after all this separation and finding she’d vanished. The bottom must have dropped out of his world when he got that facer. You’ll have to do something, Mark. I can see his face still . . . as if it were frozen, or something like that.”
The Counsellor Page 13
