Kitabı oku: «The Riddle of the Night», sayfa 11
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHEN TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR
It would not be overstating the case if one were to say that Cleek's mind was absolutely in a whirl when he closed the door of the dining-room behind him and stood alone in the brilliantly lighted hall; for, added to the loathing contempt he felt for the young reprobate he had just left, there was the knowledge that this new and unexpected development threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his theories in almost every particular.
Not for one moment, heretofore, had he looked upon young Raynor as other than a shallow, empty-headed wastrel; a mere cuckoo hatched in an eagle's nest; a thing to be scorned, not dreaded; a mere mischievous atom that hadn't the courage to be a bird of prey, nor blood enough in its veins to be dangerous. Now, however – God! what a riddle life is! You never know!
The door that led out into the grounds of the Grange was but a rope's cast distant. He felt that he couldn't trust himself to go in and face the ladies just yet a while; that he must think over this new and staggering turn which events had taken: think over it for a time in the hush and darkness of the outer world; and, turning on his heel, went swiftly to the door and let himself out.
By this time the night had closed in, the moon had risen, and the gardens were simply a shadowy place of dark and fragrant mystery, with here and there a silver arabesque on the earth where the moonlight shafted through the boughs of trees, and here and there a streak of yellower radiance where the windows of the house threw man-made light across the lawn and against the massed green of crowded leaves. Cleek took to the grass that his footsteps might not be heard, and there, in the darkest shadow of all the darkened land, walked up and down, up and down, with his lower lip pinched up between his thumb and forefinger, his brows knotted, and the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other: a quiet, slow-moving figure, as silent as the other soundless shades that were about it.
So that was how the cat jumped, was it? Directing suspicion – not openly, not with any positive hint of what, but with deadly seriousness, considering that last night a man had been mysteriously murdered and the police were out for the assassin – directing suspicion against his own father, and at such an appallingly significant time.
What a cur the fellow was! Even if his father could in any way have been implicated in the crime, by any means, upon any pretext, what a devil's act it was to lead the law into the right channel. But when there was not one solitary circumstance that pointed, when it was merely to save his own skin, merely to divert suspicion away from himself, what an act of unspeakable atrocity! Couldn't the fellow reason? Couldn't he see that the very thing he was doing to mislead justice was the one circumstance which directed its sword against himself? That the simple fact of his endeavouring to direct suspicion against one who was in no way implicated was absolute proof that he had a purpose in wishing it to be misdirected. And if he had a purpose in doing that, the inference was so obvious that a child might read between the lines.
Heigho! It was just another exemplification of the truth of the old adage that "when the wine's in the wit's out." If he'd let that brandy decanter alone, if he hadn't fuddled his reason and clogged his wretched brain with alcohol, he must have seen what an ass thing he was doing, and what a fool his loosened tongue was making of him.
True, as yet there did not seem any just cause for connecting him with the murder of De Louvisan, any reason why he should have killed the man; any single purpose he might serve, any solitary thing he might gain by slaying him; but still – Oh, well, you never know how deep a well is until you have reached the bottom of it. The thing had every appearance of being an Apache crime, and he was "in" with Margot – Margot, who played for money and money alone; so if – Good God! the little reptile hadn't let her lead him into that folly, had he? Hadn't let her lure him into taking the oath and enrolling himself a member of the Apache?
If he had been mad enough to do that, if that were the explanation, why, then, all the rest was possible. The law of the Apache is the law of the commonwealth; and he would find that out, as Lovetski had found it out – too late. If St. Ulmer was in any way implicated, St. Ulmer's fortune would be one stake. And if this brainless weakling should fall heir to his father's money, ho! there was the other "stake"; there the possible motive, there the first connecting link!
Was that Margot's little game? Was that the way the idiot had been tricked into becoming an accomplice? Just so! let's put the jumbled bits together and see if they fit; let's sum up two and two and learn if they really do make four.
First bit: De Louvisan with such a hold upon St. Ulmer that he can compel his lordship to cancel his daughter's engagement and force her to accept him as a fiancé. Quite so! Second bit: De Louvisan, without any rupture occurring between himself and St. Ulmer, suddenly murdered in cold blood. And not only murdered, but spiked up to the wall after the manner of Lanisterre and other traitors to the Apache. A clear proof that this De Louvisan himself was an Apache; and being a traitor to the cause – Quite so! quite so! Prevented from marrying Lady Katharine, because that was not part of the agreement; because he was making an effort to obtain for himself and his own personal use a fortune which it was intended should come into the commonwealth. Hum-m-m! Those two pieces seem to fit together. Now for the next:
If St. Ulmer, over whom this De Louvisan undoubtedly had a hold of some sort, bought that fellow's silence by promising him his daughter for a wife, then it is quite certain that he was acquiescing in his traitorship to the Apache and quite willing that the man should have Lady Katharine's dower for himself. That bit fits also. Now for another: if in doing that thing this De Louvisan merited the name of traitor, it must have been that he came between the Apache and the possession of the St. Ulmer fortune, and if the owner of that fortune had to make terms such as he did with the man, the inference is as plain as the nose on your face. In other words, St. Ulmer, too, had reason to dread the Apache, and there must, therefore, be some connection between him and Margot. Two and two – and it makes four exactly! St. Ulmer, then, is the game, St. Ulmer the pivot upon which the whole case revolves.
Where, then, does young Raynor come in? Hum-m-m! Ah! Of course, of course. Very crafty, very crafty indeed. A beautiful woman could do anything in the world with such a worm as he. The stage-door Johnnie will be best caught by a chorus girl. Yes, yes, just so. Get one who is out of an engagement or in debt – anything that will make her willing and eager to accept a bribe. She will do the introducing; the rest you can do yourself. Easy enough with such an ass as that fellow. Lovely women and jolly chaps for companionship; a lonely house, music, dancing, champagne; a famous French variety star heels over head in love with him, letters, photographs, nights of revelry, and quarts of wine; and then —voilà, the fish is hooked!
Sworn in, by heaven! sworn in in a drunken fit, to wake and find himself not only an Apache, but to have his vanity tickled, his empty head turned, and his love of being thought a regular ladies' man pampered to the full by being told that he is in reality the king of the Apaches, and that hundreds and hundreds of just such jolly fellows and girls as he sees about him are willing and eager to do the little worm homage and to be ruled by him as though he were actually royal.
It is an old, old game of yours, that, isn't it, Margot? So you have caught many a fool in your day, wiser fools than this one, and sillier, too, in their way, but none of them ever held his kingship beyond the space of a month; none at all but that bolder rascal, the Vanishing Cracksman.
And this little maggot of a Harry Raynor is the latest dupe, eh? Hooked in a drunken moment, the silly gudgeon, hooked that you may get at St. Ulmer and – get even – with the chap called De Louvisan. It must have been a shock when you found what a cowardly cur the fellow is at heart. Still there must be an accomplice, and there must be a strong incentive to command the services of this one.
How did you work it, then? How get him to assist in that thing, if he did assist? How lead him up to this abominable act regarding his own father? Yes! To be sure, to be sure. Help you and your crew to St. Ulmer's money and you'd help him to his: to be rid of a father who kept him upon a short allowance, who disapproved of all the things and all the people he cared for, and who treated him as though he were a little foolish boy instead of a great, noble, splendid man, who ought to be free to live like the king he was.
Oh, it would be easy: just the mere turning of suspicion after the other thing was done. A letter would do that – a forged letter – and that would be prepared for him nicely. Oh, no, no! of course he wouldn't be hanged. Means would be provided to prevent that. He would be so deeply compromised, however, that there would be no possibility of his escaping but by death, and the means of bringing that about would be conveniently supplied him. A swift but painless poison; or, perhaps, a bottle of ether – something of the sort. No pain, no suffering, all over in a minute or two; then "darling Harry" would come into everything, and the clever little forged letter would explain everything away.
Would it? Cleek's jaws clamped together as the thought came, Would it, indeed? Well, he'd see that it wouldn't, then! If any one was to suffer it should be the guilty, not the innocent; they should never pull that game off to the end of time.
The forged letter, eh? Ah, be sure that Harry Raynor would take means to preserve it and to have it handy against the time of need. And be sure, too, that Margot would instruct him with the utmost carefulness just how to act with regard to it, and just where to keep it in order to make everything appear natural and in accordance with what he was to tell to his friend, Mr. Barch, in order to set the ball rolling. Claimed to have received it this afternoon, didn't he? So, of course, it would be in the pocket of the coat he had worn at the time. Had to change into evening clothes for dinner, and was in evening clothes still. So, of course —
The thought had no more than shaped itself in Cleek's mind before he put it into action. As swiftly and as soundlessly as he had left the house he now returned to it. But whereas he had gone out unsuspected and unseen, it now became manifest that he was not to be permitted to enjoy the same privilege in returning, for as he stepped into the hall he came face to face with Hawkins advancing from the direction of the servants' staircase.
"Out for another ramble in quest of a new plot you see, Hawkins," he said gayly as he entered. "The woes of the novelist are many when plots come slowly. Where's Mr. Harry – upstairs or in the drawing-room with the ladies?"
"Neither, Mr. Barch, sir. Still sitting in the dining-room. Just on my way there with a message. Shall I say that you will rejoin him there, sir?"
"No, not at present, thanks. Just going upstairs to change my shoes – the grass is very damp. By the way, Hawkins, do you happen to know what time Mr. Harry got home last night? Your mistress was asking Miss Lorne earlier in the evening, and as he was with me until ten I shouldn't like to contradict anything he may have said, you know, should she conclude to ask me. Know when he got back?"
"No, sir, that I don't. All I can tell you is that he wasn't home at half-past twelve when I went to bed."
Cleek made a mental tally. Wasn't home at half-past twelve; and it was at half-past eleven, according to Mr. Narkom, that the limousine arrived at the head of Mulberry Lane and the first cry of murder was heard.
"Oh, all right," he said. "Don't worry him by mentioning that I asked. See him myself when I come down." Cleek then passed by and went up the stairs two steps at a time.
He did not stop at the second floor, however, but went up still another flight, and then, stopping a moment to look about to see if anybody was watching and to lean over the bannisters and listen if anybody was following, went fleetly to Harry Raynor's den, passed in, and shut the door behind him.
The place was quite black, but a touch of the electric button flooded it with light, and showed him at once what he had come to seek. On a chair close to the open bedroom door lay the clothes which young Raynor had worn this afternoon, neatly folded, just as Hamer had placed them after brushing and pressing, in case the young man should, by any chance, elect to wear the same suit to-morrow.
Cleek moved rapidly to the chair, partly unfolded the coat and slipped his hand into the inside breast pocket. A letter was there —the letter, as he learned when he drew it out and opened it – typewritten by what was clearly the hand of a novice, and setting forth just such a message as young Raynor had stated.
"A bad move, Margot, and a little less carefully done than I should have thought you would have countenanced, knowing how clever and cunning you are," was his mental comment as he read the thing. Then carefully refolding it, he slipped it into his own pocket, snicked off the light, and left the room.
In the lower passage he encountered Hamer.
"Begging pardon, Mr. Barch," the footman said, "but I was just going up to see you, sir. Hawkins tells me that you were anxious to know at what hour Mr. Harry returned home last night, and it happens that I know."
"Do you?" said Cleek. "That's jolly. At what hour did he return last night, then?"
"He didn't return last night at all, sir. It was four this morning and day just beginning to break, sir, when I heard a noise, and getting up, looked out of my window, and there he was, a-coming up the drive very cautious-like and acting as though he didn't want to be seen, as no doubt he didn't, sir, considering that master and mistress didn't know he was out at all."
"Didn't know he was out? How do you know that?"
"Because, sir, he said he was going to sit up and write letters when the master gave the order for Johnston to lock up after Lady Katharine and Miss Lorne returned from Clavering Close; and Mr. Harry he gave me a half a crown to see that the door wasn't bolted before I went to bed, as he intended to slip out and visit a friend. Of course I wouldn't have said anything about it to anybody, sir, if Hawkins hadn't told me that you said he was with you, which, of course, means that you were the friend he was going to see, and not, as I'd supposed, the Lady in Pink."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN FOUR AND FOUR MAKE EIGHT
In spite of himself Cleek's nerves gave an absolute jump, but being an adept in the art of dissimulation, he laughed lightly and gave Hamer a quizzical look.
"The Lady in Pink, eh?" he said cheerily. "You know more than your prayers, I'm afraid, Hamer. Now what in the world made you think he'd be calling on her last night, eh?"
"Well, sir, I can't exactly say what, unless it was a sort of putting two and two together, sir. I'd seen him with her over Kingston way on my day off, only she wasn't dressed in pink then, of course. And last night, a deal earlier in the evening, just about the time Lady Katharine and Miss Lorne was starting for Clavering Close it was, sir, I happens to go round back and slip into Mulberry Lane for a pull at my pipe on the sly – master never letting any of the servants smoke in the grounds, and housekeeper objecting to pipes in the servants' hall – and just as I comes out, there she was a-standing in the shadow of the trees, and so close up to the wall that I nigh barged into her, sir."
"Who? The Lady in Pink?"
"Yes, sir. Took her by surprise, coming out in that unexpected manner, and she just had time to throw a pink scarf she was wearing over her face and hurry away, sir, before I could so much as apologize. But quick as she was it didn't prevent me a-seeing of her, sir, and recognizing her as the lady I'd seen Mr. Harry with on my day off, although, as I say, sir, she was dressed quite different last night. Looked to me as she was going to some sort of an evening affair: a dance or the theatre or something of that sort; for she didn't have any hat on, and although she was wearing a long black cloak that reached almost to the ground, I could see when she made such a bolt to get out of sight that it was lined with ermine, and that, under it, she wore a rose-pink evening frock that she was holding up to keep from touching the ground."
Cleek did not so much as turn a hair, although beneath his placid exterior something in the nature of a tumult was raging. And why not? For here, undoubtedly, was the pink gauze dress that had left the fragment on the nail head at Gleer Cottage last night; and here, too, was a garment which, being turned inside out, would become in truth an ermine cloak!
"Oho! Now I see how you came by the idea that Mr. Harry had gone out to meet her, Hamer," he said with the utmost serenity. "Quite natural, quite, in the circumstances; only, as it turns out, you were mistaken. Mr. Harry spent the evening with me, and as we had the misfortune to miss the Pink Lady altogether, we didn't see her at all last night, worse luck. But, I say, that's letting you into something, isn't it? Well, here's half a crown to pay you to forget all about it and to keep your tongue behind your teeth. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Much obliged, sir. Won't breathe a word to a living soul."
"Mind you don't, or you'll spoil sport and – wait! Stop a moment! Got time to do something for me?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Plenty of time; no end of it this evening. Master says he'll be up best part of the night reading, sir, and won't need me at all to-night; so if it's to go anywhere or to carry any message for you, sir, I've got hours at my disposal."
"Thanks, but I shan't require any more than a minute or two of your time. I'll just scrawl a line on the leaf of my notebook, and – ph, blow! Another fellow's evening clothes! And, besides, when I come to think, it was in the pocket of the coat that confounded thief carried off. Slip into the library and get me a sheet of paper and a bit of pencil, will you? Look sharp!"
"Couldn't do that, sir – couldn't get what you want from the library, I mean. Master's in there reading, sir, and he's locked the door and given orders that nobody's to disturb him. But if a bit of typewriting paper will do, sir – "
"Yes, certainly. The very thing. Can you get me a sheet or two?"
"As much as you care to have, sir. It's all in the hall cupboard along with the typewriter itself. Master had them taken there when he'd finished his book and let the typist go. I'll get you some in an instant, sir."
He hurried away forthwith and was back presently with half a dozen sheets of typewriting paper, a bit of pencil and an envelope, which latter he had included on the off-chance of its being needed.
Walking a few paces away, Cleek rested the paper against the wall, scribbled a few hasty words, sealed them up in the envelope, and then handed it over to Hamer.
"Here, take this thing to Miss Lorne. You'll find her in the drawing-room," he said, as he threw the remaining sheets which he had employed as a sort of writing pad upon one of the hall chairs. "You can attend to that litter afterward. Move sharp!"
He turned as he spoke, as if to go upstairs again, but the very instant Hamer had disappeared he went fleetly back to the chair, caught up one of the sheets of paper, folded it carefully, slid it into his pocket, and passing swiftly and soundlessly down the hall, opened the door and went out again into the night.
Hitherto all had been speculation, theory, guesswork, not irrefutable facts; hitherto all clues had been mere possibilities, never actual certainties. Now —
The curious smile travelled up his cheek, slipped down again, and left his face as hard and as colourless as a mask of stone. He turned as he rounded the angle of the house and glanced back to where the windows of the dining-room cut two luminous rectangles in the fragrant, flower-scented darkness; then his eye travelled farther on, and dwelt a moment on the chinks of light that arrowed out from the curtained bay of the library.
"Poor old chap! Poor, dear old chap!" he said between shut teeth.
The tightly woven fabric of last night's mystery had started to unravel. In one little corner a flaw had suddenly sprung into existence, and to-night the first loosened thread was in this man's hands.
He set his back to the lighted windows and forged on through the darkness until the swerving path brought him to the little summerhouse where, earlier, he had first met Ailsa, and stepping in, threw himself into a rustic seat and bent forward with his elbows upon his knees and his face between his hands: a grim and silent figure in the loneliness and the darkness.
Five minutes passed – six, seven – and found him still sitting there, still communing with his own thoughts, though it was now nearing ten o'clock, and he had told Dollops to be at the wall angle to meet him at nine. But suddenly his attitude changed; his hands dropped, his head jerked upward, as a sleeping cat's does when it hears a gnawing mouse, and he was on his feet, alert, eager, all alive, in a twinkling. Half a minute later Miss Lorne stepped from the grass on to the gravel and found him waiting for her in the arch of the summerhouse doorway.
"It is you at last, then, is it?" he said, reaching out to her through the darkness. "Take my hand and I will guide you if you cannot see the way clearly. I can't risk striking a match."
"It isn't necessary; I know the way quite well," she answered; but she took his hand all the same. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting; I came as quickly as I could. Mrs. Raynor had fallen asleep over her novel while we were waiting for you and her son to finish your cigars and join us in the drawing-room, but Hamer coming in with your note awoke her and I could not get away so quickly as I desired."
"Was Mrs. Raynor interested in the note, then? Did she show any desire to hear what it was about?" he questioned eagerly.
"Oh, no. She" – colouring under cover of the darkness – "she merely laughed, and said that it was no more than she should have expected, but she kept me talking so long that I nearly lost all patience, and your note did puzzle me, Mr. Cleek. Why was it so important that you should see me at once without Kathie knowing? Have you discovered anything fresh?"
"Such strange things indeed have happened, Miss Lorne, since this evening," he returned quietly, "that I think I shall need your help in getting to the bottom of them. For one thing, it is now absolutely certain that the murderer of the Common keeper came into these grounds last night after he had committed the crime, and that when he gave Narkom and his men the slip the fellow came directly to this place unseen."
"Mr. Cleek!"
"Sh-h-h! Not so loud, please. And don't shake like that. Steady yourself, for there is something yet more startling to come. There is now positive proof, Miss Lorne, that Lady Katharine Fordham did leave this house last night and go to Gleer Cottage."
"I won't believe it!" she flung out loyally. But she had scarcely more than said it when his next words cut the ground from beneath her.
"A witness has turned up," he said; "a witness who saw her there and spoke to her."
"A witness? Dear God! Who?"
"Geoffrey Clavering!"
"Geoffrey Clavering? Geoffrey?"
"Yes. He and Lady Katharine had an interview in the ruin this evening, an interview which I overheard without either being aware of my presence. That is what sent Lady Katharine to bed with a bad headache just before dinner. Geoffrey Clavering accused her of murdering De Louvisan and acknowledged that it was he himself who placed the two lighted candles at the feet of the dead man's body."
She made no cry this time, no single sound. He knew that she was beyond doing so, that she was struck to the very heart, and he made haste to lessen her distress by telling her of Lady Katharine's denial and of the whole circumstance as it happened. Then he told of his own discovery of the buried clothing, his overhearing the interview, the manner in which the lovers had parted, and, finally, of his own act in apprehending young Clavering and then accepting his parole and sending him off to London for the night.
"Why did you do that?" she questioned feebly, and was not satisfied even when he explained his motive. "I will not even take his word against Kathie's, but I could have told you that he speaks the truth when he says that his stepmother's interest in him is so great it is very likely that she did go out on the Common to look for him, and for the reason he gave. If he were her own son she could not think more of him. She absolutely idolizes him. He is not dearer to his father than he is to her; and if he does not return to Clavering Close to-night, be sure she will have the Common searched from end to end, and will go half out of her mind when she does not find him."
Cleek took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it hard. This was somewhat of a facer, he was obliged to confess.
"You rather take the wind out of my sails," he said reflectively. "If the boy spoke the truth, if the stepmother really does care like that, why that eliminates her from the case altogether, and it isn't worth while asking you to take the risk I alluded to in the note."
"What risk?"
"A very considerable one for a young lady in your position, should you be seen. As I do not even know Lady Clavering by sight, I was going to ask you if you would mind prowling about the Common in company with me, that, if the lady put in an appearance, you might be able to identify her for me. But of course, if it is so very certain that she will join in the search for the boy, there's no necessity for doing such a thing."
"Pardon me, but I think, Mr. Cleek, there is more reason than ever," she replied, "if only to ease her mind, you know. You might do that by telling her that Geoff was unexpectedly called to town and that you were on the way to the Close to tell them so. I don't in the least mind taking the risk, as you call it, under those circumstances; it would be a charity to do so, for I know her ladyship, and Sir Philip will worry. Of course they will not think of worrying yet a while; it is much too early; and as Geoff came over here to see Kathie they will think he is remaining for the evening. But later, when it is past bedtime, when it is getting on toward twelve o'clock, they will be half out of their minds with anxiety. Oh, yes; I'll go with you willingly, this minute if you like, in such a cause as that."
"How loyal you are! What a woman you are! What a friend!" said Cleek admiringly. "Shall I tell you something? I have hope that one of those friends will be wholly cleared before another day comes; that something may happen to-night which will make Geoff Clavering the happiest of men and you and Lady Katharine almost beside yourselves with joy. No, don't ask me what it is just yet a while. I have dreams and fancies and odd notions like other men sometimes; and I am a great believer in the theory of Loisette that a likeness of events acting upon a weary brain is apt to produce similar results in certain highly strung natures. But will you walk with me as far as the angle of the wall on the other side of the shrubbery, Miss Lorne? Dollops is waiting there for me. I have something of great importance for him to do to-night, and I think you will be interested in it. Will you come? Thank you! This way then, please, as quietly as you can."
Taking her hand and keeping always on the grass and always in the dark, where the shadows of the trees lay between them and the lighted windows of the Grange, he led her on to something which even he had not foreseen and never for a moment guessed.
At the angle of the wall he stopped and began to whistle softly "Kathleen Mavourneen." As upon another occasion, before he had completed the third bar, the wall door gaped open and flashed shut again and Dollops was in the dark, tree-crowded enclosure with him. It was a rather more excited Dollops than he had expected to find, however, for Cleek had no more than just begun to apologize for his lateness when the boy was on him like a pouncing cat and was cutting into his low-spoken words in a panting sort of whisper:
"For Gawd's sake, gov'ner. Come quick, sir!" he said, as he laid a tense, nervous grip on Cleek's arm. "'Nother door in the wall, sir. Higher up where them mulberry trees is thickest. Woman prowlin' round, gov'ner. Been prowlin' round this ten minutes past and been to that door and tried it three times a'ready. Woman in a pink dress, sir, and a long dark cloak reachin' almost to the ground!"
"Margot!" said Cleek in an exultant whisper. "Margot at last, by George!"
Then, for the second time that night, he received a shock.
"If you mean that French Aparsh 'skirt' we run up against in the time of the Red Crawl, gov'ner," interposed Dollops, "you're backin' the wrong horse. It aren't her– aren't a bit like her, sir; no fear!"
