Dancing Death Page 5
“Fairly. He’s a charming fellow, especially when he forgets things.”
“Such as?”
“Well, that his father was an ambassador, that he failed himself for the Foreign Office, that he’s got a sister-in-law . . . and that he’s frightfully hard up. You ready for the bathroom?”
There was a tap on the door, and Pollock came in with a candle.
“Thank you, Pollock,” said Travers. “What’s happened to the light?”
“The master and William are trying to find out now, sir. We thought you could manage with this.”
Travers assured him they could manage admirably and added a word or two of congratulation on the general management of the evening. Ten minutes later the room was quiet except for Franklin’s steady breathing. Travers stirred restlessly.
“You asleep, old chap?”
Franklin muttered dreamily that he wasn’t.
“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll lower the blind a little. The moonlight’s clean in my eye. You don’t want to wake up in the morning with a gibbering idiot.”
Over at the window his voice came again.
“Fewne’s not in bed yet. Must be working at that book of his. No, he isn’t! There’s his shadow! He’s parading up and down!”
“The light’s on again, then!”
“Not necessarily. He’s got an acetylene lamp there—not electric. However, we might as well try our own while we’re about it. . . . Hm! Still off!” and he got into bed again.
Franklin at the time thought it was much later, but it was barely half an hour after that when he woke—not with any sort of suddenness, but sleepily and dreamily. Then he slid slowly out of bed and blinked his way towards the door. Then there was a crash as he came a cropper over a chair. Travers got up on one elbow.
“Hallo! ... What’s up?”
Franklin tried the switch. The light was on. Then he explained. “Do you know, I’d have sworn somebody flashed a light across my eyes!”
“You weren’t dreaming?”
Then Travers sat up in bed and groped for his glasses.
“Who put that chair there? It wasn’t there when I turned in.”
He hopped out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown. Franklin rubbed his shins where the chair caught them.
“That restless devil Fewne’s still up,” remarked Travers from the window. “His light’s still on. . . . Listen!. .. Wasn’t that Ho-Ping?”
“Sounds like it.” Franklin put on his dressing gown and opened the door quietly, then stood listening. Travers joined him. It might have been imagination, but from somewhere away in the darkness there seemed to be a sound.
Franklin nodded. “Come on!”
“What about a stick or something?”
“Sh! . . . Light the candle. We don’t know where the switches are.”
They moved quietly down the main staircase, round the bend, and into the entrance hall. In the short corridor that led to the lounge Franklin suddenly made a motion to stop. They listened. From somewhere close was the thud of a grandfather clock, its beat preposterously exaggerated in the quietness. Then something else was heard. Franklin nodded towards the staircase they’d just left. A couple of steps back and a figure—a footman, by the look of him—was seen at the foot of the stairs, carrying a lighted candle. He seemed to show no surprise whatever at the sight of them; he merely waited for them to come over.
“Who are you?” asked Travers, then, “Oh! It’s Charles, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing down here at this unearthly hour?”
“There were noises, sir. I thought I would come and see what it was, sir.”
“Hm! . . . See anything suspicious?”
“No, sir.”
“Better have a look in the dining room,” said Franklin. The footman moved forward at once, felt for the switch, and opened the door for them. Everything seemed to be perfectly normal inside. Franklin even drew back the curtains and examined the windows.
“What was the matter with the light?” asked Travers.
“The light, sir? It was—tempered with.”
“Tempered? . . . Oh, I see! You mean tampered with?”
“Yes, sir. It was cut, sir, against the—where the meter is, sir.”
“And where is the meter?” asked Franklin.
“This way, sir. Under the stairs, sir. . . . Just here, sir.”
In the angle where the staircase curved to the entrance hall a tall screen hid the door of the cubbyhole—it was little more than that—where the meter stood. Franklin got inside and had a look round.
“Looks as if it’s what Charles was saying. One of the cords has been cut. . . . Don’t see how it could have broken itself. . . . It’s been bound up with adhesive tape where it enters the metal sheath.”
Travers had a look at the hall clock. “Half-past two. . . . You been in all the rooms, Charles?”
“All the downstairs ones, sir.”
“Hm! Then you’d better push off to bed. If you hear anything else, tell Pollock ... or us. You know where we are.”
He watched the footman move off in the direction of the kitchen, then turned to Franklin.
“What was his idea? Why didn’t he warn Pollock or the other footman?”
“Sh! You’ll rouse the whole house!”
“Another thing,” whispered Travers. “He had crêpe-soled shoes on . . . and they were done up!”
“You mean he didn’t come down in a hurry?”
Travers nodded. “And did you notice his careful intonation? I believe he’s a Swiss.”
Franklin frowned, then smiled. “Hadn’t we better push off to bed? We’ll be waking everybody up.”
They moved quietly up the stairs again. At the top of the main landing Travers touched Franklin on the arm.
“Why is it that we’ve been the only ones to hear any noise?”
It was just after eight when Franklin opened his eyes the following morning. He sat up and yawned then yawned again and woke Travers.
“When’s Palmer bringing tea?”
“I told him to wait till we rang. Push the bell, since you’re so energetic. . . . What’s the weather like?”
Franklin had a look out.
“No more snow. . . . You can see Fewne’s last night’s traces perfectly clearly. . . . Sky looks pretty bad. ... Wonder what the time is?”
He went over to the dressing table, then to the chest of drawers, then fussed round anxiously.
“I say! My watch is gone!”
Travers laughed. Two minutes later he swore! Franklin’s gold repeater had gone, and with it his own notecase with the better part of fifty pounds in it. Franklin’s money was intact. More by luck than by design he had pushed it under a spare suit when he changed after dinner.
CHAPTER IV
ONE COMES—ONE GOES
“MR. BRAISHE will be down in a moment, sir,” said Pollock.
“Good! What’s your idea about it? Anything missing?”
“Two miniatures from the drawing room, sir—rather valuable I believe, sir. Nothing else we can—Ah! here is Mr. Braishe, sir.”
Braishe, looking sleepy in spite of his hasty tub, hailed them before he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Morning, Travers! Morning, Franklin! I say, this is a damn funny affair. What’d you say you lost?”
Travers told him. “You lost anything?”
“About a tenner altogether—and a signet ring. What’d we better do? Ring up the police?”
“Hadn’t we better see everybody else and get a full list of what’s missing?” suggested Franklin. “Mind you, he’s probably miles away by now, in any case.”
Braishe hesitated. Pollock took advantage of the short silence to come forward.
“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a gentleman in the breakfast room, sir. A Mr. Crashaw, sir.”
Braishe looked at him blankly. “Crashaw! Who’s he?”
“Charles heard him knock, sir, just as it was getting light. I
t appears, sir, his car broke down in the snow near the drive early this morning, so he came here, sir, thinking he could get help. Nearly dead with cold he was, sir.”
“Better go and have a look at him,” began Braishe. Pollock followed, still explaining. “You see, sir, the breakfast room was warm, and I didn’t expect anybody down at present.”
“That’s all right, Pollock. Come along, you fellows, and get some breakfast. Perfectly filthy taste in my mouth this morning. Feel as if I could drink a gallon.” He stopped suddenly. “Good God! I wonder—” and sprinted across the parquet flooring towards the dining room.
“What’s up now?” asked Travers quietly.
“Probably gone to see if something’s been pinched,” smiled Franklin.
They stood there watching the door. In less than a minute Braishe reappeared. He looked round to see if the coast was clear, then beckoned them over.
“I say, something pretty awful’s happened! The safe’s been opened!”
“Something important gone?” asked Franklin.
“Important! My God! It’s awful! I had a siphon of gas in there! Got it down for you and George to see.”
Travers whistled. “That’s pretty bad! But—er—bit risky, wasn’t it, having it in the house?”
“Good Lord, no! Come and have a look here!”
He went across to the far end of the room where a small, two-shelved bookcase stood on a mahogany side table. A touch of a concealed spring and books and all opened out, disclosing a safe built into the wall. He closed the shelves again, then turned to Travers.
“Now, you two open it!”
“That’s just it!” he said, when both had made a hopeless hand of the job. “Here’s the secret. I steady the bookcase with my right hand, thus; and with my left hand, which you watch, pretend to work the spring. But I don’t! It’s the right hand does that! . . . So! Now look at the safe. Absolutely empty. And I found it with the combination set just as I left it!”
“Good Lord! I say, that’s extraordinary!” Franklin shook his head. “But—er—who knew about it—I mean, even that the safe existed?”
“As far as I know, only Pollock and—well, I might as well say—Denis.” He grunted. “That’s ridiculous, of course.”
“Either know the combination?”
Braishe looked at him queerly. “Denis did—but don’t mention the fact. It’s absurd to—er—”
“Quite! By the way, had you anything else in it, besides the siphon? Notes or formula or anything like that?”
“Not a thing. Except in my own mind—and what the War Office have—there’s no formula in existence. I had this siphon by special permission of the Colonial Office, by arrangement, in view of the possible developments we were going to discuss down here. I had it at the conference on Monday—you know, the one at Oxford.”
“What was the siphon like?”
“Tiny cylindrical affair, holding the liquefied gas—under pressure. Eighth of a gill. The release plunger was sealed and fastened.”
“Doesn’t sound much—eighth of a gill!” remarked Franklin.
“Good God, man!” Braishe snapped out. “Don’t you realize a single drop’d vapourize into enough to kill a man!” He looked helplessly at Travers. “What are we going to do?”
“Well—er—I don’t think there’s so much to worry about,” said Travers hopefully. “It could only have been taken for a very definite purpose. Tell me, any foreign power likely to be interested?”
Braishe hesitated for a moment. “You’re asking me to blow my own trumpet, but ... I should say any government might be interested.”
Franklin broke in there. “I think Travers is right. If it was taken by someone of that kind, then the taker knows what it is, and it’s away and gone by now without any danger to anybody in this house.” He stopped suddenly. “But what about the robberies during the night? What was that? Camouflage—to conceal this?”
Neither could answer.
“Well, if I were you,” went on Franklin, “I’d call up the special branch at Scotland Yard. There’s one stroke of luck. We shall be able to follow up the fellow’s footprints in the snow.”
“I should say he couldn’t get clear away,” said Travers. “How deep’ll the snow be in the drive? Best part of a couple of foot?”
“More!” said Braishe. “However, hold on for a minute.” He went across by the door and opened the telephone cabinet. A blank look came over his face.
“I say, the telephone’s gone!”
“Gone!” The others nipped across.
“Yes. Look there! The cord has been cut! The whole bag of tricks has gone!”
“Another phone in the house?”
“Afraid there isn’t. Rather looks as if this chap—whoever he was—did the job pretty thoroughly.” He stood there indecisively for a moment or two, then, “Tell you what I’ll do! I’ll have a spot of coffee and slip across to the Paynes’ place. Let’s go along. You fellows are probably a bit peckish.”
“You two push on!” said Franklin. “I’m going to have a look at those footprints—where the chap got out,” and he moved off to the hall. Braishe took Travers’s arm.
“Wonder who this chap is Pollock let in,” he whispered, with his hand on the knob of the breakfast-room door. Travers grimaced and shrugged his shoulders as the other motioned him in.
At the end of the long table a youngish man sat over his toast and marmalade. Pollock appeared to have been right for once in his use of the all-embracing term “gentleman”: this fellow’s face had character in it and a certain diffidence which the glasses made rather noticeable. Quiet sort of cove, by the look of him, thought Travers. Then, as the stranger dropped his napkin and got to his feet, a shy sort of smile made his face positively likable at first sight. It didn’t need more than the “Good-morning! I’m—er—afraid I’m rather—er—” to tell where that accent came from.
“Good-morning! My name’s Braishe. This is Travers. How’re they doing you? All right?”
“Oh, marvellously, thanks! My name’s Crashaw,” and he waited with a shy hesitation.
“I say—do carry on!” said Braishe. “You must be frightfully hungry. What happened exactly?”
Crashaw sat down. “Well—er—you see, I was with some people at Tonbridge till about ten last night, then I pushed off in my little Morris to—er—get to Hythe—if I could; only it started snowing like blazes. They’d told me of a short cut—and then the carburettor went wrong and—er—the snow kept holding me up, and shortly after I got in the side road she conked out altogether in a drift . . . and there she is!” He smiled ruefully.
“But—I say! You haven’t been out there all night!”
“I’m afraid I have—most of it. It wasn’t bad—really—while the engine was warm. Then I had to empty the radiator in case she froze up. Of course, I had a rug or two. Er—then I thought I’d try to get down your drive for a bit of help. You see, there weren’t any cars on the road.”
“No need to apologize,” smiled Braishe. “What was the snow like? Pretty deep?”
“Frightfully! I thought I’d never get here. Must be three foot in some places.”
Braishe nodded. “That’s because the plough didn’t get along here yesterday—after the fall we had in the morning.”
“And my legs are on the short side,” smiled the other. He exhibited a pair of black trousers that went rather humorously with the grey sports coat. “Your man let me have these while mine are drying.”
“Splendid! Well, you stay here as long as it suits you. Have some more coffee?”
“Thanks, I will.”
Travers was already tackling his porridge. Braishe took some toast and marmalade.
“Hallo! What’s up with you?” asked Travers. “Off your feed?”
Braishe frowned. “Damned if I know what is up! Something must have gone the wrong way last night.” He explained to Crashaw. “We had a bit of a dance here last night. Quite cheerful—while it lasted.”
“That’s right,” He finished off the breakfast cup of coffee. “By jove! That was good. Where’s Franklin got to?”
“I shouldn’t worry about him,” smiled Travers. “He’s a bit of a crank on finding things out.” He turned to the stranger. “You know this part pretty well?”
“I can’t say I do—really. I live in Oxford actually, but—er—I put in most of my time in Warwickshire.”
“Really!”
“Yes. ... I’m a schoolmaster ... at the moment.”
Travers laughed. “You needn’t be so diffident about it! We’ve got to have ’em, you know. . . . Pretty decent spot?”
“Er—yes . . . rather. Westover. Do you know it?”
Travers hesitated as if in thought. “I seem to know the name. If I remember rightly, they say it’s the most expensive prep school in England.”
Crashaw smiled modestly. “I’d hardly like to go so far as that . . . still, I suppose it’s rather expensive.”
Travers remembered something, or thought he did. “Oh, yes! Didn’t your cadet people do frightfully well at Bisley last summer?”
The other smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m not a very warlike person. . . . Still, they did do rather well ... I believe.”
Just at that moment Franklin came in. “Nothing doing!” he began, then caught sight of the stranger. Braishe introduced him, then answered Franklin’s look with an explanation.
“We had a burglary here during the night. Various things taken.”
“I say! How exciting!”
“Isn’t it! Tell Franklin so! He’s lost the family watch. By the way, what did you find out?”
“Not a damn. I’ve been the whole way round the house, and there’s only two lots of prints: where Mr. Crashaw here came in, and where Fewne went over to the pagoda. Pollock had a path cut to the outhouses, but that’s a cul de sac. And there isn’t a tree to get on, or a roof or anything!”
It was Crashaw who spoke, as if involuntarily. “Then your man must be in the house. ... I beg your pardon!”
“Don’t worry,” said Braishe. “It’s a perfectly true observation.” Then he frowned, got up, and pushed the bell. William was dispatched for Pollock and Charles.