Footsteps in the Dark (12 page)

"I do not eat in this plaice, where you cook food fit for pigs. Yes, you wish that I go, but I do not go till I choose, and you dare not speak, my gross one, for me. I am Louis Duval, and there is not another in the world can do what I do! Is it not so? Hein? Is it not so?"

The landlord had an ugly look in his eye, but to Charles' and Peter's surprise he said soothingly: "That's right, sir. Wonderful your pictures are."

M. Duval looked at him through half-shut eyes; his voice sank; he said almost in a whisper: "Sometimes I have thoughts in my head, gross pig, which you do not dream. Sometimes I think to myself, has no one seen the face of Le Moine? Has not Wilkes seen it? Eh? You do not like that, perhaps. Perhaps, too, you are afraid, just a little afraid of poor Louis Duval."

"Me seen it?" echoed the landlord. "Lor', Mr. Dooval, I'm thankful I haven't, and that's a fact. Now you give over talking of spooks, sir, do. You've got half the room listening to you, like silly fools, and these gentlemen don't want to hear them sort of stories."

Contrary to Peter's expectations the drunken artist allowed himself to be helped out of his chair, and gently propelled across the bar to the coffee-room door. Those villagers who still remained in the bar watched his exit with grins and nudges. When he had disappeared, and Wilkes with him, Peter addressed a solid-looking farmer who was seated near to him. "Who's that chap?" he asked.

"He's a furriner, sir," the farmer answered. "An artist. I daresay you've seen his cottage, for it ain't far from the Priory."

"Oh, he lives here, does he? Which is his cottage?"

"Why, sir, it's that white cottage with the garden in front that's a sin and shame to look at, it's that covered in weeds." He began to sketch with a stubby finger on the table before him. "Supposing the Priory's here, sir, where I've put my thumb. Well, you go on down the road, like as if you was coming to the village, and there's a bit of a lane leading off a matter of a quarter of a mile from this inn. You go up there not more'n a hundred yards, and you come right on the cottage. That's where he lives."

"I see. Yes, I know the place. Has he lived there long?"

The farmer rubbed his ear. "I don't know as I could rightly say how long he's been here. Not more'n five years, I reckon. We've kind of got used to him and his ways, and I never heard he did anyone any harm, bar walking over fields while the hay is standing. Mind you, it ain't so often you see him like he is to-day. He gets fits of it, so to speak. Now I come to think on it, it hasn't had a bout on him for a matter of three months. But whenever he gets like this he goes round maundering that silly stuff you heard. Enough to get on your nerves it is, but he's fair got the Priory ghost on the brain." He got up as he spoke, and wishing them a polite good-day, made his way out.

"Quite interesting," Charles said. "I think it's time we made a move."

On their way home down the right-of-way they talked long and earnestly over all that the drunken artist had said.

"It is well known," Charles said at last, "that you can't set much store by what a drunken man may say, but on the other hand it's always on the cards that he'll let out something he didn't mean to. I feel that M. Louis Duval may be worth a little close investigation."

"What surprised me," Peter remarked, "was the way Wilkes bore with him. I expected to, see Duval kicked out."

"If he's in the habit of eating his meals at the Bell you can understand Wilkes humouring him. And apparently he's not always tight by any means. The most intriguing thing about him was his interest in the Monk. I don't know what you feel about it, but I should say he knew a bit about monks."

"I'm all for getting on his tracks," Peter answered. "At the same time, he was so dam' fishy and mysterious that I'm inclined to think it was a bit too sinister to mean anything. Think he is the Monk?"

"Can't say. If I knew what the Monk was after I should find this problem easier to solve."

They walked on for some time in silence. Peter broke it by saying suddenly: "I don't know. It was typical drunken rot when you come to think of it. All that stuff about the Monk walking up and downstairs though we don't see him, and watching us though we don't know it. You can't get much sense out of that. Ghost-twaddle."

"I was thinking of something else he said," Charles said slowly. "I'd rather like to know what he meant by no one ever having seen the Monk's face, not even himself. That wasn't quite the usual ghost-talk we hear in this place."

"N-no. But I'm not sure that it's likely to lead anywhere. Still, I agree he wants looking into."

They had reached the Priory by this time, and agreeing to say nothing of the morning's encounter to the others they went in, and found the three women already seated at the lunch-table.

"Did you have any luck?" Margaret asked.

"No, there's too much sun," Peter answered. He paused in the act of helping himself to salad, and lifted his head. "What's the strange noise?"

There was a distinct and rather unpleasant sound of humming that seemed to proceed from somewhere above. Margaret laughed. "Ask Celia. She let us in for it."

They looked inquiringly at her. "Sounds like a vacuum cleaner or something," said Charles.

"It is," Celia confessed. "I couldn't help it, though. Really, he was so persistent I hadn't the heart to go on saying no."

"I think it's a very good plan," said Mrs. Bosanquet. "I'm sure there must be a great deal of dust in all the carpets, and this will save having them taken up, which I was going to suggest."

"But what do you mean?" Peter demanded. "We've no electricity here, so how can you…'

"Oh, it isn't an electric one! It's some new sort of patent affair, but I really didn't pay much attention, because I've no intention of buying it. Only the man was so anxious to show me the amount of dust it would draw out of the carpets and chairs that I let him demonstrate. After all, it's costing us nothing, and it seems to please him."

"A man, with a vacuum-cleaner for sale," Charles repeated. "A man…' He looked at Peter, and as though by common consent they both got up.

"Well, what on earth's the matter?" Celia asked. "You don't mind, do you?"

"I'm not at all sure," said Charles. "I'll tell you when I've seen this clever salesman." He threw down his tablenapkin, and went quickly out of the room, and up the stairs. The droning noise came from Mrs. Bosanquet's room, and he went in. Busily engaged in running a cleaner over the floor was the shifty-eyed commercial staying at the Bell Inn.

Chapter Seven

For a moment they eyed one another in silence. Then the man with the vacuum-cleaner said: "Good morning, sir. I wonder whether I can interest you in this here cleaner? No electric power required. Practically works itself, needing only the 'and to guide it. Like this, sir, if you will kindly watch what I do." He began to run it over the carpet, still talking volubly. "You can see for yourself, sir, "ow easy to work this here cleaner is. Sucks up every speck of dust, but does not take off the nap of the carpet, which is a thing as can't be said of every cleaner on the market. We claim that with this here cleaner we 'ave done away with all servant trouble. Cheap to buy, and costs nothing to run. I will now demonstrate to you, sir, what it has done, by turning out the dust at present contained in this bag, which you see attached to the cleaner. All of which dust, sir, "as been sucked out of this very carpet."

"Don't trouble," said Charles. "I'm not buying it."

The little man smiled tolerantly. "No, sir? Well I don't know as how I should expect a gentleman to be interested in this here cleaner, not but what I 'ave sold to bachelors many a time. But I hope when your good lady sees the dust and dirt which this here cleaner has extracted from all carpets, upholstered chairs, curtains, and etcetera, she'll be tempted to give me an order, which the firm which I 'ave the honour to represent will execute with their custom'ry dispatch."

"And what is the name of the firm you have the honour to represent?" Charles inquired blandly.

If he expected the invader to be embarrassed he was disappointed.

"Allow me, sir!" beamed the little man, and inserting a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket he drew out a card, which he handed to Charles.

It was an ordinary trade-card, bearing the name and address of a firm in the city, and purporting to belong to a Mr. James Fripp.

""That's me name, sir," explained Mr. Fripp, pointing it out. "And I 'ope that when ordering you will 'ave the goodness to mention it, supposing I can't tempt you to give me an order now, which I 'ope I shall do when you 'ave seen for yourself that this here cleaner is all that we claim it to be."

Charles put the card carefully into his pocket-book. "We'll see," he said. "Do I understand that you propose to clean all the rooms of the house for us?"

"I'm sure I shall be pleased to, sir, but if you're satisfied, "awing seen what 'as been effected under your own eye…

"Oh no!" Charles said pleasantly. "For all I know it might break down before it had gone over half the house." Mr. Fripp looked reproachful. "This here cleaner," he said, "is constructed in such a way that it can't go wrong. I should mention that we give a year's guarantee with it, as is usual. But I shall be pleased to take it over every room in the 'ouse, to convince you, sir, of the truth of all I say."

"Excellent," said Charles. "And in case I make up my mind to buy it I'll send my man up to watch you, so that he will know in future how to manipulate it."

"That," said Mr. Fripp, "is as you like, sir, but I should like to assure you that a child could work this here cleaner."

"Nevertheless," said Charles, stepping to the bell-rope, and jerking it sharply, "I should like Bowers to - observe what you do."

Those quick-glancing eyes darted to his face for an instant. "I'm sure I shall be pleased to show him all I can, sir," Mr. Fripp said, not quite so enthusiastically.

Charles' smile was a little grim. When Bowers appeared in answer to the bell, he told him that he was to accompany Mr. Fripp from room to room, and closely to watch all he did. Mr. Fripp looked at him sideways.

"Yes, sir," Bowers said, a trifle perplexed. "But I haven't served the sweet yet, sir."

"Never mind," said Charles. "We'll manage on our own. You stay with Mr. Fripp — in case his cleaner goes out of action. And just see that he doesn't knock the panelling with it. We don't want any scratches."

"No, sir, very good," Bowers said, and resigned himself to his fate.

But the look that Mr. Fripp cast on Charles' vanishing form was one of something bordering on acute dislike.

In the dining-room Charles was greeted by a demand from his wife to explain what on earth was the matter with him.

"If," said Charles, resuming his seat, "you would occasionally employ your brain, dear love, you might realise that the last thing we desire is a stranger let loose in the house. Oh, and if anyone wants any pudding he or she will have to get it for themselves, as Bowers is otherwise engaged."

"It's on the sideboard," Celia said. "But really, Chas, I don't quite see what harm a man selling a vacuumcleaner can do. And I asked him for his card, just to be on the safe side."

"Was it our friend at the Bell?" Peter asked.

"It was. I am happy to think that I've given him a nice, solid afternoon's work." He inspected Mr. Fripp's card again. "Yes. I think this is where one calls for a little outside assistance."

Celia pricked up her ears. "Not Flinders again!" she begged.

"No, not Flinders," Charles said. "I should be loth to interrupt his entomological studies. But I feel a few discreet inquiries might be put through."

"If you're going to call in Scotland Yard, I for one object," Peter said. "We've no data for them, and they'll merely think us credulous asses."

Charles slipped his table-napkin into its ring, and got up. "I can hardly improve on the favourite dictum of Mr. Flinders," he said with dignity. "You don't need to tell me how to act."

"Well, what are you going to do?" Margaret asked.

"Write a letter," Charles answered, and went out.

Peter presently ran him to earth in the small study at the front of the house. "Why the mystery?" he inquired. "Are you getting an inquiry agent on to James Fripp?"

"I am," Charles said, directing the envelope. "There's a chap I've once or twice had dealings with who'll do the job very well."

"What about Strange? Think it's worth while setting your sleuth on him?"

"I did consider it, but I think not. As far as Fripp's concerned it ought to be fairly easy, since I've got his card. Brown can get on to this firm he apparently works for. But regarding Strange we've nothing to give Brown to start on. If he's a wrong 'un it's highly unlikely that Strange is his real name. The man we want now is friend Flinders."

Peter groaned. "Do we? Why?"

"To find out a little more concerning M. Louis Duval. I'm rather surprised Flinders hasn't mentioned him."

But the reason for this omission was soon forthcoming. Flinders, when they visited him in his cottage later that afternoon, said with considerable hauteur that they had only asked him questions about the gentry. "And that Dooval," he added, "ain't gentry, besides being a furriner. You've only got to look at the place he lives in. Pig-sty ain't in it. What's more, he does for himself. Ah, and in more ways than one!" He permitted himself to give vent to a hoarse crack of laughter at his own wit. "But what I meant was, he doesn't have no one up to clean the place for hirn, nor cook his breakfast." He shook his head. "He's a disgrace to the neighbourhood, that's what he is. He goes round painting them pictures what no one can make 'ead nor tail of as I ever heard on, and half the time he's drunk as a lord. Getting worse, he is. Why, I remember when he first come here, barring the fact of his being a furriner, there wasn't really much you could take exception to about him. Very quiet, he used to be, and you never saw him in drink more'n was respectable, though there are some as say that it ain't only drink as is his trouble."

"Drugs?" Charles said. "I rather suspected as much."

"Mind you, I never said so," Mr. Flinders warned him, "nor I wouldn't, me knowing my duty too well. But Mrs. Fellowes, what I told you about before - her as is housekeeper to Mr. Titmarsh - she spread it about that Dooval was one of those dope-fiends you read about in the News of the World. And the reason she had for saying it was on account of her working for a gentleman in London once, what was in the 'abit of taking drugs, which she said made her reckernise it right off."

"By the way," Peter interrupted, "how is Mr. Titmarsh getting on?"

The constable shook his head. "Ah, now you're asking, sir. Well, I don't mind telling you that when you first came here asking me questions about him, I didn't set much store by it. But I been keeping a close watch on him, sir, like I said I would, and I'm bound to say he's fishy."

"What's he done?"

""That," said Mr. Flinders cautiously, "I couldn't go so far as to say, him having got into the habit of giving me the slip. Behaves like as if he knew he was being followed, and didn't wish for anyone to see what he was up to." An odd sound proceeding from Charles made him turn his head inquiringly. "You was saying, sir?"

"Nothing," Charles replied hastily. "At the moment I'm more interested in Duval than in Titmarsh. Does Duval go down to the inn every morning?"

"He eats his dinner there most days," Flinders answered. "Though when he's got one of his fits on him I. don't believe he touches a bite. You'll see him at the Bell most evenings, but he's painting one of these 'orrible pictures of his now, and he's out most of the day."

"What's he painting?" Charles asked.

"Pink rats, I should think, sir, judging from what I see of hire last night," said the constable facetiously. "What's more, if he told me he was painting pink rats I'd believe him a lot easier than what I do when he says he's painting the mill-stream. Because anything more unnatural I never did see. Looks like a nightmare, if you ask me."

"The mill-stream. That's past the village, isn't it?"

"That's right, sir. If you was to think of taking a look at the picture you'll find him painting it on the near bank, just below the mill."

"I rather think I'll wander along that way," Charles said.

"I take it you don't want me?" Peter asked him.

"N-no. Might perturb him if two of us rolled up. I'll see what I can find out."

They took their leave of the constable, and drove on to the village. At the Bell, Charles got out of the car and proceeded on foot down the street to the fields that lay beyond.

It was no more than a ten minutes' walk to the mill, and as Flinders had predicted, Charles was rewarded by the sight of M. Duval at work on his sketch.

Charles approached from behind him, and thus had leisure to observe the artist before his own presence was detected. The man looked more of a scarecrow than ever, but if he was under the influence of drink or drugs this was not immediately apparent. He seemed to be absorbed in his work, and it was not until Charles stopped at his elbow that he looked round.

There was suspicion in his nervous start, and he glared up at Charles out of his bloodshot eyes.

"Good afternoon," Charles said pleasantly. "I apologise for being so inquisitive. If I may say so, you are painting a very remarkable picture."

This was no less than the truth. Privately Charles thought that Flinders' strictures were not without reason. The sketch before him was weird in the extreme, yet although it couldd hardly be said to represent the old mill, even Charles, no connoisseur, could see that it was executed with a certain perverted skill.