Dancing Death Page 7

  “I say; this is decidedly queer!” Paradine was holding a sheet of quarto paper on which was a series of really extraordinary scrawls. Travers had a look at it, then whistled dolefully.

  “‘To the Editor of The Times. Dear Sir:’ That’s it—don’t you think so?” He shook his head perplexedly. “He was mad, George; that was what was the matter with him! Look here! He manages to get a certain amount of coherence into the first line—then the control gets less and less. Look where the pen’s been pressed on hard. The poor devil was trying to write . . . and he couldn’t! At the end he tries merely the form of address—and he couldn’t manage that. I say, where’s that pen?”

  He had a look at the ruined nib. “It’s a J. The one he wrote it with; don’t you think so? If so, he tried to write before he went quite mad and destroyed those balloons. . . . Better get back to the house, hadn’t we?”

  He looked round again and shook his head, then took the key from the inside and locked the door. “I’ll keep this key, George. If there’s a duplicate at the house I’ll take that too.” He halted for a moment in the shelter of the door. “Something I want you to do. When we have a powwow indoors, propose me as the one to take charge till the police come. Then I’ll accept on condition that you’re with me. If you want a reason, say that I and Franklin and you and Celia are the only ones with a first-class alibi... for that business indoors. What do you say?”

  “Well, I don’t know quite what you’re driving at, but—er—I’ve no doubt you’ve a perfectly good reason.” He turned up his coat collar and looked at the blinding snow. “Between ourselves—What’s that over there in the snow? Broken branch, probably,” and he started off.

  Travers seized him by his coat tail. “Just a minute, George! How’d a branch get there? A branch’d be under the snow.” He hesitated for the briefest instant, then stepped off the veranda. For the first yard or so, in the shelter of the pagoda, the snow was no more than a foot deep; after that, like Fewne on the previous night, he dragged his way through. But it was worth it. Lying there with mouthpiece just above the main surface of the snow was the missing telephone!

  “What is it?” hollered Paradine.

  Travers waved it at him, then took a few floundering steps farther into the croquet court, his long fingers combing the surface of the snow. Then he found the receiver he was looking for and, the snow blinding his glasses, struggled back. Paradine came to meet him and lent a helping hand, the pair looking like blurred figures in an ancient film. Travers shook himself like a borzoi and hooked the snow out of his turn-ups. Back in the entrance hall William was sent to find Charles.

  “When you started to sweep that path round to the pagoda, William, did you see any sign of footprints?” Travers asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Absolutely sure of that?”

  “Absolutely, sir!”

  “Right! Go up to my bedroom where you can overlook the pagoda. Stay there and watch it till I tell you to go. Charles, you tell Mr. Pollock where William has gone.”

  He whispered something to Paradine as they moved away. As they entered the breakfast room, Braishe came to meet them. The others got up from their seats. Braishe’s face still looked almost livid.

  “Anything new?”

  “No. . . . Just heart,” said Paradine with a shake of the head. “He’s been overdoing it a bit lately,” and he sank heavily into a chair by the fire.

  Nobody said a word. Even Challis seemed too appalled to make one of his usual trite remarks. Travers broke the silence.

  “I think the house ought to be searched at once—and the outbuildings. If I were you, Martin, I’d get every man and do the job thoroughly. Any gardeners available?”

  “Two—just cleared a path. And there’s my chauffeur.”

  “Good! The first thing the police’ll ask when they get here is whether we’ve searched the place. . . . Oh, and you might be interested to know we’ve found the telephone ... in the snow by the pagoda.”

  “What!” He looked flabbergasted. “How on earth did it get there?”

  “Lord knows! Who’s your handy man?—because he might as well get it put right. It’s on the table outside.”

  “Right! We’ll get going straightaway. Come on, you fellows! We’ll make a start from the kitchen.”

  Paradine got up at once. “Count Travers out, Martin. He’ll be in for a chill if he isn’t careful. His legs are soaking.”

  “Nonsense!” began Travers.

  “You stop there!” Paradine spoke sharply. “I’ll send you in a tot of hot whisky.”

  Travers shrugged his shoulders resignedly and watched the party file out. For ten minutes or so he sat over the fire with his hot drink, then, in his favourite pose, stretched out his long legs and settled into the depths of the chair. Now and again he took off his glasses and polished them nervously. Then he strolled along to the dining room where the chauffeur had just completed the joining of the severed wires. He tried the phone. Still stone dead.

  “There’s a break outside somewhere, sir,” the man said. “Probably a tree’s been brought down by the blizzard last night.”

  Travers nodded. “And the devil of it is they won’t be able to repair it in this weather.”

  He listened at the foot of the stairs and noted the progress of the search. Then he put on coat and hat and went out by the front door, hugging the wall. He circled the twelve-foot boundary that enclosed the outhouses and garage, came out again at the north of the house, and so round by the east end to the front porch again. Everywhere was the narrow trench that Franklin had made in the snow with his feet, still clear as a depression in spite of the snow that covered it. A minute to remove the traces of the expedition, and he went up to his bedroom. William had seen nothing.

  A few minutes later the others returned to the breakfast room, trooping in quietly like people coming back from a dinner appointment which they’d kept on the wrong night.

  “Anything happen?” asked Travers.

  Braishe shook his head. “He’s bolted long ago.”

  “Not long ago,” remonstrated Travers with a dry sort of smile. “He hadn’t gone ten minutes ago.” He took off his glasses again, blinking round nervously as he polished them with the silk handkerchief. “Now, what about this—er—general meeting?”

  CHAPTER VI

  TRAVERS MAKES A START

  TRAVERS had expected that meeting to be a simple affair. In one thing only, he was right. Everybody did indeed seem faced by a situation with which in his wildest dreams he would never have attempted to cope. But instead of being tongue-tied, people were quite the opposite. The meeting appeared to give them the chance to express emotions and feelings that had been bottled up. After half an hour of aimless talk and wordy suggestions Travers got rather restless. Each speaker seemed to imagine himself as the only one who realized the horror of the situation; and each, while anxious about his own exoneration, was elaborately careful about the susceptibilities of the rest.

  “Look here!” he said, in practically the only pause there had been up to that moment. “What really is the use of theorizing? Admit anything you like—that the last drink we had was doped, that there was a burglary, that there’s been a murder at any hour you choose to name. All that doesn’t alter the one fact: We’ve no right to argue. We’re all possible burglars and murderers in the eyes of the law—every man jack of us except Crashaw.”

  He waited till everybody had had his say to that.

  “You noticed that I included myself. Who can really prove that I didn’t burgle the rooms last night? Everything that was taken could go into my pockets, and I might have secreted it in a safe place long ago. And it would be a pretty difficult job to prove that I didn’t do the murder—in spite of what George has been good enough to tell you. Now he might be vouched for by his wife. But what about the rest of you? Where’s your alibi, Tommy? Yours, Martin? Yours, Challis?”

  Challis got to his feet with a rare assumption of dignity. “If you thi
nk I’m going to stay here to be insulted, you’re vastly mistaken.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not!” said Travers quietly. “You’re going to stay here whether you like it or not, and I’ll tell you why. If you’re afraid to have—”

  “Afraid! Who’s afraid?”

  “Let me finish. If you’re shirking an inquiry into your alibi, you’ve got something to cover up—and that applies to all of us. Not only that. An inquiry’s our best friend. When the police get here we want to be ready with a clean bill of health. Personally, I don’t mind who inquires into my doings or affairs. I’d welcome it. Surely that’s how we all feel?”

  “Perfectly right!” said Braishe.

  “If it comes to that, old boy, I see Travers’s point: not that I’ve any use for snooping round. And who’s going to do all this Nosey Parker business?”

  Paradine cut in there. “That depends on ourselves. It might be you.”

  “Precisely!” added Travers. He looked round the meeting. “Somebody suggest a name, please. What powers he has can be decided on later.”

  “I refuse to stand,” said Braishe firmly. “I’d much rather be inquired into; that’s how strongly I feel about it. But may I ask a question? Why the urgency? Won’t the police be here at any minute?”

  “More likely they won’t be here this time to-morrow. If this blizzard keeps up, they mayn’t be here for days. And when they do get here, they’ll expect us to have done something. We’re responsible men—not children.”

  “May I ask something?” said Wildernesse.

  “Why not?” smiled Travers.

  “Well, then, we know there was a burglary. I say the burglar did the murder. Now, we know the burglar’s gone. Then what is there to inquire into?”

  “I think you’re wrong,” said Travers. “I may say I know you’re wrong. There never was a footmark where he left the house. There isn’t one now. He didn’t dissolve into air.”

  “Don’t be clever, old boy!” Challis’s tone was decidedly nasty.

  “Sorry!” said Travers imperturbably. “What I’m getting at is this: however thorough your search was, I’m convinced the murderer, or the burglar—call him what you will—is still in the house. Murderers are most unpleasant people. Isn’t that an urgent reason for an inquiry, if only as a measure of protection for those of us who’re not murderers?”

  “That’s sheer horse sense!” said Paradine, getting to his feet. In a couple of minutes the dictatorship of two was appointed.

  “I’m not going to thank you,” said Travers, “because it’s going to be a most unpleasant job. But I would like to say that there should be no more ideas about what Challis called ‘snooping.’ Discipline is discipline, and there’s the end of it. If anybody deliberately refuses to answer a question or hedges or lies, then he’ll have to reconcile that with what the police are bound to find out. And you can bet your life they’ll give him the hell of a time.”

  “I don’t think you need worry about that,” said Braishe drily. “Speaking as—er—for what I am, the house is yours to do as you like with. And you can’t start inquiring too soon for me. You’ll want some sort of headquarters, by the way. Where’d you like to be?”

  “Here, I think. It’s out of the way. And it leaves the dining room free for meals. What do you think, George?”

  George nodded. Then came Crashaw’s excessively timid voice. “Where do I come in, in—er—all this?”

  “Don’t know yet,” smiled Travers. “You may be on duty at the telephone when it starts working again.”

  “I’m glad that question was raised,” said Paradine. “My idea is that all of us—Travers and myself, for instance, when we’re not what might be called ‘on duty’—should be as normal as we can. We’ll get the women down. And we’ll keep off all morbid talk at meals or while they’re present. There’s nothing hypocritical about that.”

  That was voted a first-class suggestion. Travers had the last word.

  “Don’t forget we’re the servants of this meeting—not its masters. You’ve three votes—four, if you count Crashaw’s—so you can kick us out of office when you like. What’s the time, somebody?”

  “Just gone eleven.”

  “Good! Then if you fellows don’t mind, George and I will have a committee meeting. And if there’s any hot coffee going you might send me in a breakfast cup.”

  “Make it two!” said George.

  It was a quarter of an hour later when Challis entered the room. He gave a wary look round, and his face assumed an expression of such extreme suspicion that Travers had to laugh.

  “Come along in, Challis! You’re not going to be executed!” He drew up a chair. “Sit down and be friendly!”

  Challis permitted himself an inscrutable smile. “Rather like going to the dentist’s, old boy, what?”

  “Not at all,” said Paradine stiffly. For the first time in twenty-four hours he was looking the heavy professional man, inclined to be obstinate and certainly not to be trifled with. “What it amounts to is this: we want to call you in as a witness and assistant.”

  “Better see if he can do the job,” smiled Travers. “Did you design those Sally Sisters costumes?”

  Challis looked mystified. “No, old boy; just copied ’em.”

  “But you do design costumes and sets and so on?”

  “Well, yes—after a fashion, old boy, I do.”

  “Good enough!” Paradine took up the tale. “The situation’s this. We’re certain the police can’t get here for some time—unless they get a rotary plough from God knows where—so whether we get into trouble or not, we’ve decided to move the bodies. It doesn’t seem decent, as things are. We’re going to bring poor Fewne over here and lay the bodies out decently—reverently, as it were. Now, we can’t do that unless you help us—by making drawings of where the bodies are, and so on, in case the police want details. The thing is, will you do it?”

  In Travers’s opinion, Challis looked mightily relieved. He was certainly gratified. Then, as soon as he’d expressed himself as satisfied with what paper and pencils they could muster, they set about the job.

  “If you don’t mind getting on your hands and knees,” Travers told him, when the bedroom door was open, “we’ll move all round the bed to see if Franklin missed anything.”

  “What sort of things, old boy?”

  “A hair—the mark of a foot on the carpet. Imagine somebody came in with snow on his boots, for instance.”

  Ten good minutes of that produced nothing.

  “Ask Palmer to fetch that maid, George, will you?” said Travers. He let the valance fall and draped it carefully to hide the shoes.

  Ransome was looking in a bad way. Her naturally pinched features seemed more sharp than ever, and the thin, almost bloodless line of her lips was the only semblance of colour in her face. She gave Travers two impressions—that she might faint again at any moment, and that under normal circumstances she was a shrewd if not feline customer. Still, he gave her a friendly smile.

  “Feeling better, young lady? Capital! Now, we’re not going to ask you to come in. If you just tell us something, it’ll be quite enough. . . . You put the tray on the side table as you came in this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you saw the bed hadn’t been slept in?”

  She moistened her lips. “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you see then?”

  “The shoe, sir—the tip of the shoe.”

  “Was the valance up?”

  “Oh, no, sir!”

  “You pulled it up? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He frowned at that. “I see. You lifted the valance. You didn’t touch the shoes.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “No, sir. I leaned down and saw . . . her. Then I remember calling out. . . .”

  Travers smiled reassuringly. “Then you fainted. . . . When did you tidy up this room, by the way? After your mistress changed?”

  “Yes, sir. She was a bit la
te changing—”

  “I know. We’ll go into that later. But just for the moment. About nine o’clock, that’d be. You tidied up.”

  She nodded and moistened her lips again.

  “And when Miss Quest sent you word not to wait up”—he turned to the others—“about half-past twelve, wasn’t it?—you went straight to bed?”

  “Yes, sir. I was very tired.”

  “I expect you were. Sleep alone?”

  “No, sir. I shared a room with Ellen—the head housemaid.”

  “Good!” He made a sign to Palmer. “We may not need you again, but perhaps you’ll stay there with Palmer for a minute or two.” As she turned nervously away he whispered in Palmer’s ear, then drew Paradine inside and closed the door.

  “Strange about that valance! It was down, therefore the burglar didn’t see the body. And if he had seen it he’d have bolted like blazes, snow or no snow. And as he didn’t see the body, why didn’t he ransack the room?” He indicated the drawer he had opened. “However, let’s get on.”

  The course of procedure seemed to have been mapped out beforehand. The whiting marked the position of the walnut single bed before it was moved clear of the body. Then Travers made an outline on the floor while Paradine took notes. Then Challis got to work—at least, he made a start. Travers noticed his hand shaking and nodded to Paradine.

  “Don’t trouble too much about detail,” George told him. “Just the general lie of the limbs.” He peered over his shoulder. “I say, that’s awfully good!” and so on, till it was finished and the three of them had signed it.

  “And you’ll lend us a hand in the pagoda after lunch?” asked Paradine.

  “And would you mind, on your way down, telling that maid she can go?” added Travers.

  With Challis out of the way the work became more gruesome. The body was placed on the bed, and the bed itself moved to its original position. The ghastly headdress was put carefully aside. With his scissors Paradine cut clean through frock, slip, and vest from the low neck opening to the waist. While Travers steadied the body he got the pliers to the cross of the dagger and drew it slowly out. Still holding it by the pliers, he took it over to the window.