“Frank—Cornelius tried to get you this morning.”
“How do you mean, tried to get me?” said Garrett in a belligerent voice. He threw his hat on to a chair.
Antony said, “On the telephone—this morning about ten.” He turned to Miss Marsden, who had begun to look terrified. “Was that about the time?”
She said, “Y-yes.”
“Cornelius?” said Garrett. “What did he want? And why wasn’t I told?”
“You’d better tell him now,” said Antony.
When Miss Marsden had stammered through her story again the storm broke. By the time Antony managed to make himself heard they had tears to contend with. Miss Marsden cried exactly like a baby, her eyes wide open and enormous drops rolling down to the corners of her mouth. When Antony put his hand on her shoulder she turned a quivering upward gaze to his. The hand shook her slightly.
“Stop crying!”
With miraculous suddenness the drops ceased to flow. Antony said,
“That’s right. Now listen! You say the man sounded as if he had been running. I suppose you mean he was out of breath.”
She nodded.
“Sort of gaspy.”
“As if he was—ill?” Antony spoke slowly, watching her face. “Or—hurt?”
There was a faint startled reaction.
“Oh!” And then, “He might have been.”
“And when you say there was a crash and the line went dead, can you give us any idea what sort of a crash it was?”
“It was a—a crash,” said Miss Marsden helpfully. She had quite stopped crying, and there was even a gleam of interest in her eyes. From a couple of yards away Colonel Garrett surveyed her with sardonic fury.
Antony remained calm.
“Yes, but there are a lot of different kinds of crashes. Just try and think back. You answered the telephone. A man had just asked for Colonel Garrett in a panting voice—you would call it a panting voice?”
“Yes—sort of.”
“As if he was in distress?”
“Oh, yes—that’s just how it sounded.”
“Then you asked his name, and he said, ‘Cornelius.’ Was that in the same panting voice?”
“Oh, yes, it was.”
“And then there was this crash. Now think what sort of a crash it was.”
“I don’t know.”
The hand shook her again.
“Think! Oh, yes, you can. Think back! What did it sound like—like a man falling—a chair going over—someone being hit plonk—or the receiver coming down with a crack?”
Miss Marsden’s gaze was beautifully blank. Antony put some force into his grip.
“Four sorts of crash. A man would go down with a thud. A chair or any other bit of furniture would make more noise—harder, sharper. If someone knocked the man out, there’d be the plonk of bone hitting bone. And the receiver coming down would be just a sharp crack. You can’t help knowing that one anyhow. Now which of those four is the nearest to what you heard?”
Miss Marsden brightened.
“Do you think someone hit him?” she enquired with interest.
Colonel Garrett dragged a violent bandanna out of his pocket. It failed to muffle a loud derisive “Tchah!”
Antony cast him a look of reproach. He himself could have murdered the girl with pleasure, but where was that going to get them? He said,
“I’m not thinking—I’m asking you.”
For the first time, she appeared to be going through some kind of mental process.
“I suppose there were a lot of sounds really. It might have been someone coming into the room and pushing something over and the receiver falling down. I couldn’t say for certain, but I know I thought at the time what a lot of noise they were making—”
“They?”
She gazed at him.
“Did you think there was more than one person there?”
“Oh, yes, I did—at least I suppose I must have done, because I did think what a lot of noise they were making.”
Garrett blew his nose like a trumpeting elephant. Finality appeared to have been reached.
Antony took Miss Marsden to the door, put her out, and shut it on her instant flight. Then he came back and asked a single question.
“Do you think Cornelius is dead?”
Garrett stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket and grimaced horribly.
“Shouldn’t be surprised,” he said.
After a prolonged pause Antony said,
“Rather horrible, Frank. And I left him to it!”
Garrett clapped him on the shoulder.
“Damfool nonsense!”
“I ought to have got help and gone back to Silverthorn Road at once. He was being followed. They got him.”
“He was following you. Perfectly free agent, wasn’t he? And avoiding both of us.”
Antony nodded.
“That’s it, Frank—that’s why I didn’t like to butt in. The fact is, I’ve been afraid of what I might walk into. There’s something I don’t understand—this business about my being dead. Cornelius went down day before yesterday and told Delia I was dead. He repeated this yesterday and pitched her a highly circumstantial tale which came quite near the truth except for the fact that a Gestapo bullet cut my arm instead of getting me in a lethal place. But the night before he was following me back from your flat. If he thought I was dead, whom did he suppose he was following, and why was he doing it? I just can’t make it fit in.”
Garrett walked round the table and sat down. His eyes were like points of steel, his manner that of a terrier at a rat hole.
“Sure it was Cornelius?” he said.
Antony looked startled.
“No, I’m not sure. I thought it was. That’s all I’m really sure about—I thought it was Cornelius.”
“When he was following you—or when you found him in the porch?”
“I never thought about it being Cornelius when he was following me. There was simply nothing to go on. It was later, when I was following him, that I saw him in one of those flashes and thought it was Cornelius.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No.”
Garrett banged the table.
“Then what made you think it was Cornelius?”
Antony had been holding himself in. His control broke, and he said in a voice of sharp exasperation,
“How on earth do I know? Height, figure, walk—whatever goes to make up that sort of impression. I did think so.”
“But you never saw his face?”
“No.”
“And in the porch—you still thought it was Cornelius?”
“I called him Con when I pulled him up.”
“Did he answer?”
“No—I don’t think so. The door was open by then. Someone swore in Dutch. It wasn’t Cornelius.”
Garrett had one of his ferocious frowns.
“Meaning it wasn’t Cornelius—or it wasn’t the man you’d pulled up?”
“It wasn’t the man I had just pulled up, whether he was Cornelius or not—at least that was my very strong impression.”
“But you won’t swear to it?”
“I won’t swear to any of it.”
“A lot of use you are as a witness!” said Garrett in a vindictive tone.
“I know. I’m sorry about it, but there it is. The only things I can be sure of are my own impressions. And this is one of them. When I took hold of him and pulled him up I was quite sure it was Cornelius. It felt like him.”
Garrett gave a grunt.
“You said he had a cut on his wrist. Did you ask your Delia What’s-her-name about that? She saw Cornelius next day—she’d have noticed if he’d a bandage, wouldn’t she?”
“She might—I didn’t ask her. I can ring her up about it. But look here, sir, the parcel’s gone.”
Garrett threw himself back in his chair and glowered.
“What!” he said.
“The bank was burgled in the night. Hole
in the wall—oxyacetylene flame used on the safe. Very expert job. Net haul about five hundred pounds, the late Mrs. Canning’s jewellery—some quite good pearls, and a diamond necklace. And the parcel. And, Frank, here’s something. You know the yarn Cornelius put up about a wax cylinder full of blazing indiscretions—well, as far as I can make out he was leading everybody on—de l’audace, de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace.”
Garrett stared.
“What’s this?
“Delia opened the parcel,” said Antony with an agreeable smile.
“She opened it? Why?” The last word had the force of an explosion.
“She wanted to see what was inside. Might have been a bomb.”
Garrett said, “Tchah!”
“Undoubtedly. But the fact remains that she opened it and there wasn’t any cylinder. And from what she said, it hadn’t been taken out, because the box was full of papers. My own belief is that Cornelius got away with a most almighty bluff, and the people who took the parcel will have the devil to pay. Do you think they’re going to be able to persuade the little man whom Cornelius has bluffed that there really wasn’t any record in that parcel, or do you think he’ll have some nasty suspicions about them and wonder whether they’re not holding it up on him? Quite a lot of possibilities, don’t you think?”
Garrett gave an affirmative jerk of the head. Then he rapped out,
“Papers”—she says there were papers, does she?”
Antony leaned across the table.
“Frank,” he said, “when I had that talk with Cornelius in Anna’s back sitting-room he asked me something. You know he was trying to clear out and get to the States. He wanted to know to what extent things would be made easy for him over here. Of course I said I wasn’t in a position to say, but if he’d been straight with you, he could reckon on your being straight with him. Well, he turned that off, but presently he said something about paying his way, and when I didn’t take any notice of that, he asked whether you wouldn’t be interested in an up-to-date map showing the exact position of underground petrol tanks in Germany, because if you were, it was remotely possible that he might be able to do something about it.”
Garrett gave the grin of a terrier who sees his rat.
“And you told him to apply to M. I.? Said it wasn’t my pigeon?”
“No, sir.”
“So what?”
“So nothing. He didn’t say any more, and I didn’t say any more. He shut down like a clam, and I thought it better not to press him. But Delia says some of the papers were maps—maps, Frank—with something marked on them in red. Looking at it all round, it would be quite like Cornelius to say what he did and never let on that he’d already got the maps and got them out of the country. You know, it would account for a lot. The parcel was addressed to me. If he didn’t get away, I’d be welcome to what was inside it. But if he did get away—and he did—then he’d want those maps for himself, to drive the best bargain he could and get off to the States. It explains the whole thing to my mind—why he was in such a hurry to get the parcel back, and why he sheered off meeting me. He wanted to put the job through on his own. Quite likely he didn’t want you to know that he’d actually got the maps. He’d go round about and find out first what you’d be prepared to do for him if he could get them.”
Garrett said, “H’m!” and then, “Looks to me as if he’d queered his own pitch. Shied off you and left the door open for the other side. Got to get up damn early to get ahead of the Gestapo.”
“Cornelius has been doing it for quite a long time now.”
Garrett banged on his blotting-pad.
“We’ve got to get ’em! I want those maps. Want to see James’s face when I hand them over to him with something on the lines of, ‘Perhaps you’d care to have these. Seem to be down your street.’” He gave an explosive sound which practice enabled Antony to identify as a chuckle, and followed it with his most ferocious frown. “This bank business can’t be left to the county police. I’ll get on to the Chief Constable. They must call in Scotland Yard. London job undoubtedly. He can put it on that. This business of the papers has got to be kept quiet. But you’d better go round to the Yard—they’ll want to see you. I’ll give you a note to the Commissioner, and you can tell him the whole thing. I want those papers. If everyone jumps to it, we’ll get them.”
“And Cornelius?” said Antony in an altered voice.
“We’ll get him too. If he’s alive. If he isn’t—well it’s no good crying about spilt milk.”
He had pulled a writing-block toward him. His pen drove furiously.
He folded the paper, crammed it into an envelope, and stuck it down. As he scribbled the address he said,
“Better get along at once. Here’re your credentials. I’ll give them a ring. You can leave telephoning to your Delia What-you-may-call-it till you get back. Let me know what she says about the bandage. Bound to have noticed it if he was wearing one. Get along!”
Antony took the note. When he had got to the door he looked over his shoulder.
“The name is still Merridew, sir.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was about half past four when Antony got back to the flat. He had seen the Commissioner and, according to instructions, told him all about everything. This task accomplished, he had now the pleasanter one of ringing up Delia. Rather amusing to be doing it to Frank’s order.
The day had turned poisonously cold. He switched on an electric fire and an electric kettle, set a cup and teapot handy, and proceeded to get through to Fourways. He had luck, because he was only in his second cup and his first chunk of cake when Parker lifted the receiver and said “Hullo!” in his own peculiar tone of resigned melancholy.
“Hullo, Parker—Miss Delia anywhere about?”
Parker brightened.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Antony—having tea.”
An interval, and then Delia.
“Oh, darling, how nice! Whose bill are your calls going down on? We think ours will have to be broken very, very carefully to Uncle Philip.”
“I’m not bothering about that. Delia—”
Her laughter interrupted him.
“Darling, how lordly! Even Cousin Mervyn bothers about telephone bills. I must say Cousin Leonora would break anyone who wasn’t a millionaire. Oh, Antony, Uncle Philip’s better—he’s much better. We rang up after lunch, and they’re most awfully pleased, and if he goes on like this, I can see him in a day or two. Isn’t that splendid?”
“I’m most awfully glad. But, Delia—”
“Darling, your voice does sound queer! What’s the matter with it?”
Antony said, “Cake,” and washed it down with the last of the second cup of tea. “Now, darling, listen! This isn’t me talking to you—this is an official interview.”
“What about?”
“Cornelius. And it’s important, so think before you speak, and don’t say anything you’re not sure about.”
“What do you want to know?” said Delia. Her voice had changed.
“Something quite simple. When you saw Cornelius yesterday morning, had he got a bandage on his wrist?”
“A bandage?”
“Yes.”
“Why should he?”
“Never mind about that. I want to know if he had.”
At the other end of the line Delia screwed up her eyes and tried to remember everything about Cornelius coming to see her yesterday … A dark suit, with a heavy rain-coat over it—a dark felt hat which he had refused to give up to Parker—a dark blue tie with a lighter fleck in it—dark brown gloves which he kept in his hand—an edge of striped shirt-cuff beyond the rain-coat.… He held the gloves in his left hand and put his hat on a chair. When he picked it up again his wrist came out from the striped cuff—his right wrist. There wasn’t any bandage on it—She said,
“Which wrist did you want to know about?”
Antony’s turn to think back.… The dark porch, the dark steps—the tiny beam of his torch—blood
running from the gash on a man’s wrist—his right wrist. He said the words aloud.
“It would be the right wrist.”
“Then there wasn’t any bandage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, quite.”
“It’s—important.”
“I’m quite sure. He had his gloves in his left hand, and he reached out for his hat with his right. I could see his wrist, and there wasn’t any bandage. Antony, what’s all this about? Why do you want to know?”
All of a sudden his voice was tired. He said,
“I can’t tell you—yet. Goodbye.” He rang off.
Delia went back into the drawing-room, where Miss Simcox was enjoying Mrs. Parker’s date-and-nut cake. She would have enjoyed it even more if her conscience had not been in a highly uncertain state over the question of Mr. Antony Rossiter. It was not yet five o’clock, and he had already called once in person and twice on the telephone. What did Lady Maddox expect her to do? A couple of hundred years ago Delia would have been locked into her bedroom, and there would have been no telephone, but this was 1940. Casting her mind back over the spate of instructions with which she had been inundated, she recalled that she was to be firm but on no account to antagonize Delia, who was a sweet girl but not one to be driven. She was to be very, very tactful, but not to allow this lamentable affair with young Rossiter to go any farther. She was to gain Delia’s confidence, to wean her from an ill-considered engagement, and incline her thoughts in the direction of Mr. Lewis West, but she was not to drive her into rebellion by too open a show of authority. In reply to all this Miss Simcox was glad to remember that she had said no more than that she would do her best.
Afterwards she was to remember that Delia was very silent for the rest of the meal. To Miss Simcox tea really was a meal, and the pleasantest one of the day. She began to wonder what Mr. Antony Rossiter had said to induce this silence. And really what use was it for Lady Maddox to say that the affair must go no farther, when the house was positively littered with telephones and extensions—one in the study, one in the pantry, one in Mr. Merridew’s bedroom, and even one in Delia’s room, on the table beside her bed? How did Lady Maddox suppose that she was to be prevented from ringing up or being rung up as often as she and Antony Rossiter desired? Miss Simcox considered that she had been placed in a false position, and almost but not quite regretted having obeyed the peremptory summons which had snatched her from the Vicarage at Pudley Marten.
Pursuit of a Parcel: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 15
