Four Strange Women (28 page)

“Look here,” Bobby said, “you wanted to know if there were any fresh developments. If there are I may ring you up, because I may need your help. I might see my way to lay a trap for Mr. Baird's murderer you could be a big help in. Make a good story, eh?”

It was an offer to stir the blood of any journalist but Eyton seemed only mildly interested.

“What's worrying me is how to find my wife,” he explained, “and get a divorce without too much delay. Why are people such fools as to marry before they know?”

“Know what?”

“What it—what it really is when you do know,” Eyton answered, shivering a little and somehow, in some odd way, not very pleasantly.

He went away then and Bobby saw him to the door and felt very certain that soon he would be back again, so alluring, Bobby felt convinced, would prove to be the ground bait he had laid down in his offer made to the little journalist.

“She—whoever ‘she' is,” he told himself, “will be keen on knowing what trap is to be laid for her.”

He worked a little longer and then went up to bed, for by now it was late, and as he was undressing, in the stage between trousers and pyjamas, he heard someone singing in the streets, a woman's voice and a Welsh song. He tore on his clothes again, he raced downstairs, he had to unlock and unbolt a door fastened for the night. When at last he got into the street, it was empty and silent. For nearly half an hour he raced around in the vicinity but without success, and for once sympathized with the common complaint that never is a policeman there when you want him. In point of fact the constable on the beat had had to go off to the nearest hospital with a bad accident case, but that Bobby did not know till later. In a very bad temper he began to undress again, and this time was actually in bed, and had just put out his light, when once again he heard that snatch of Welsh song in a woman's voice, just beneath his window.

“Oh, it's a game, is it?” he said aloud. “Watching me running round all the time most likely and now thinks it fun to start again. Well, my dear lady, you can have your fun all to yourself this time.”

He put his head resolutely on the pillow, and, for once in his life, lay awake for long. But he heard no more, and presently he slept, and next morning when he went down to breakfast, he found by his plate, with one or two letters, a key with a label attached to it, a label on which was written his own name and an address.

“It was in the letter box this morning,” his landlady said, bringing in his eggs and bacon. “Someone must have pushed it in, it was there before the post came.”

But Bobby was not listening. With a queer, wondering sensation he was staring at the address, that of the flat occupied by Lord Henry Darmoor.

“Now what on earth,” Bobby asked himself uncomfortably, “does that mean?”

He began to open his letters. One was a small bill, one was a circular, one informed him passionately that it was his duty to his country and to himself to join a new book club, the last was from the commissionaire employed by Messrs. Higham, the man he had asked to let him know if the original of the photograph given him by Bobby had visited the shop.

It appeared that Count de Legett had in fact called the previous day, and had been granted that interview with the head of the firm only accorded when really big transactions were under consideration. Nothing more had ‘transpired', wrote the commissionaire, using the word as he saw it generally used in the popular press, but he was on his guard, and also he would like to see Mr. Owen again as soon as possible with a view to passing on to the firm the warning received.

Bobby did not ask himself what this meant. He felt only too uncomfortably certain that he knew.

All the time he was eating his breakfast Bobby was looking doubtfully from letter to key and label and then back again. The commissionaire's letter was a development he had anticipated and provided for, but none the less disturbing, ominous in its hint that here, too, drama was developing into tragedy. The key and the attached label puzzled him. What its significance might be, he could not guess, nor who had left it in the letter box, or for what reason, or how it was to be connected with the snatch of song he had heard the night before. That there must be some connection seemed certain, but what that connection might be he could not even guess. One thing alone, he told himself, was clear: that someone was for some reason taking in some way some sort of action—and then he reflected that ‘clear' was in this connection scarcely the ‘mot juste'. He could not even decide whether the intention was friendly or hostile. Possibly all that was intended was another warning, like that already given at the Mountain Street hall.

Another point he had to decide was whether first to interview Count de Legett or to call on Lord Henry Darmoor to return to him what was apparently the key of his flat. Bobby's plan for the day, even before the arrival of the commissionaire's letter, had been to go first to Count de Legett's office, there to offer that warning which he felt must be given even though he knew well it would be useless, would be resented, was likely to have mischievous consequences. None the less his sense of duty told him warning must be given, since no man may be allowed to walk into danger to life and honour without at least some attempt to save him. Yet such a visit would take consider-able time, and therefore a long delay before the mystery of the key and label could be solved.

In the end, though with some hesitation, Bobby decided to make his first call at Lord Henry's flat. Uneasiness was growing in his mind, and an uncomfortable feeling that strange things might have been happening there. Best to make sure at once if anything was wrong. First of all, though, he went to the Yard. There he left the label to be tested for finger-prints though he was assured it showed every sign of having been carefully wiped. The key also was examined. It, too, had been carefully polished, and though finger-prints were plainly visible on it, Bobby felt fairly certain they would prove to be those either of his landlady or her maid.

From the Yard Bobby proceeded to the Park Lane block of flats. At the door of that occupied by Lord Henry he knocked and got no answer. He had knocked again, and more loudly, when one of the staff employed in the building came down the corridor and paused to tell him there was no one in.

“Must have gone out early, for he was here last night all right,” the man added. “I saw him come in myself with a—lady.” Bobby noticed a faint hesitation in pronouncing this word, as though the speaker had been much inclined to use another name. “But there's no answer when we phone up, and there's a parcel come by post couldn't be delivered and waiting for him downstairs.”

“Do you know who the lady was?” Bobby asked.

“No, nothing to do with us,” retorted the attendant, and walked away quickly, so quickly indeed that Bobby felt sure the man scented some sort of scandal or indiscretion and was afraid of being mixed up in it and so getting into trouble himself.

Bobby stared thoughtfully at the closed door and fingered uneasily the key in his pocket. Was that why it had been sent to him, he wondered, that he might secure admission? He remembered, too, the old valet, and his story of sudden unfair dismissal after long years of service, a story confirmed to some degree by what Miss Gwen Barton had told him with such apparent unwillingness and distress. At any rate he decided it would do no harm to put the key in the lock and turn it and see if the door were bolted on the inside. It was not, for it opened at once, and Bobby hesitated no longer, for he was beginning to feel that he trod upon the very threshold of the mystery and yet was perhaps as far off as ever.

The door admitted to a small entrance lobby. Various inner doors faced him. All were closed. He stood for a moment waiting to see if the sound of his entry had attracted any attention. All remained as still and silent as before. He called out loudly:—

“Is there any one here?”

No answer came. His voice died away unanswered in that small, confined space. He called again, and again there was no reply. He opened the door nearest to him. It admitted to a fair-sized sitting-room, furnished like that of any young English bachelor of the upper classes. Commonplace engravings on the walls, no books, plenty of evidence of interest in sport and outdoor games, an exceedingly high standard of comfort and well-being. The room was tidy, everything exactly in its place, with a general air of not being very often used. Bobby left it and went into a smaller room next to it. This one was apparently what is often called a ‘study', though study is the last use to which it may be put. But it had a more intimate air. There were papers and magazines, even a book or two, there were college photographs, over the fireplace hung an oar with on it an inscribed plate to celebrate some triumph of the past. On the table stood soda water, whisky, glasses. Bobby noticed that the glasses did not seem to have been used. On the floor, half under the table, so that it was not visible at first, lay a woman's stocking, very neatly filled with sand; and on the thick pile of the expensive Turkey carpet were faint marks, as though some heavy body had been dragged along it.

Bobby touched nothing but looked long and carefully at everything, and then went out again into the corridor. He opened another door, it was that of the bathroom, in normal condition and undisturbed. He tried the door opposite. It gave admission to a large, comfortably furnished bedroom and on the threshold Bobby stood still and gaped at a spectacle as surprising as any he had ever witnessed.

For there upon the bed lay Lord Henry Darmoor, neatly spread-eagled. Each wrist was secured by a length of strong dog chain, such as may be purchased anywhere, to each upper corner of the bedstead; each ankle was secured in a similar way to each lower corner. Round the neck was fastened yet another chain with its other end secured to the head of the bed. It was an arrangement that allowed the victim a certain slight freedom of movement but none the less held him helplessly a prisoner. Over the lower part of his face a towel had been placed and made secure by stitching, so that he was unable to call for help. On a small table, placed conspicuously in the centre of the room, were two or three keys. From above the towel covering so completely mouth and chin Lord Henry's eyes, red and swollen, stared at Bobby, and in them Bobby thought that he could read a kind of wondering and incredulous despair as of one who knew that he had lost all, all and for ever, and yet would not believe it, though he knew it.

Bobby went quickly to the bed and removed the towel, cutting the stitches with his penknife. Lord Henry drew a deep breath and tried with his tongue to remove fragments of fluff that clung to his lips. He did not speak. Bobby took the keys from the table where they were lying. As he had expected they fitted the small, strong padlocks with which the chains had been fastened, and soon he had the prisoner free. Not a word did Lord Henry utter, he watched in silence and the tragic misery in his eyes seemed even greater than before, giving to the ugliness and irregularity of his features a kind of new dignity in suffering. When he was quite free he raised himself slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. *He did not attempt to stand up. In spite of a slight freedom of movement the chains had allowed, he was cramped and stiff and aching in every bone. Still not speaking he leaned his head upon one hand and stared moodily before him. Bobby went back into the other room and poured out a stiff drink of whisky and soda. Returning, he found Lord Henry sitting in an armchair. Bobby offered him the drink. He accepted it and drank, still in complete silence.

“Feeling better?” Bobby asked.

Lord Henry looked at him and seemed to consider the point. Then he said:—

“Have a drink yourself.”

“What's happened?” Bobby asked.

Lord Henry looked at him and then looked down again, covering his eyes with his hand as though all at once he feared what might be seen there. Presently he said:— “Practical joke—damn fool practical joke.”

“I don't think so,” Bobby answered softly. Then he said again:— “What happened?”

Lord Henry was still silent, he still kept one hand over his eyes as though to hide what might be written there. Bobby had the idea that he was trying his best to collect himself and decide on some story. But he was in no condition to think coherently, and after a minute or two he said again:

“Practical joke, I tell you. That's all.”

“Who is—she?” Bobby asked.

This so startled Lord Henry that he looked up sharply. “What do you mean?” he demanded, a note of fear now in that deep rich voice of his.

“I mean, who is the woman?”

“What woman? What do you mean? There wasn't one, just pals playing the fool.”

“I wish you wouldn't tell such lies,” Bobby said patiently. “Makes things so difficult. Of course it was a woman. She got you to bring her in here on some excuse or another. The porters saw you come in together and noticed that she didn't look like an ordinary caller. She asked you for a drink. While you were getting out the whisky she got out a stocking filled with sand and knocked you out. The stocking is lying there under the table in the other room. Then she dragged you in here and fastened you up the way I found you.”

“Know it all, don't you?” Lord Henry muttered. Then he seemed to remember and said more loudly:—“That's all wrong, nothing like that happened. There was no woman, none at all.”

“The towel you were gagged with was sewn in place,” Bobby told him. “A woman's work. It's no good telling lies both you and I know to be lies. Who was she?”

“I don't know,” Lord Henry answered then.

“You mean—she was a stranger?”

“Someone I had never seen before—didn't know her from Adam, from Eve I should say, I suppose. She said she had something important to tell me. Next thing I knew I was done up the way you found me. How did you get here?”