Trouble on the Thames (14 page)

“Really!” Sally opened her eyes. “I thought that sort of thing was always happening to Lieutenant-Commanders.”

“I wish it was. Life would be a lot brighter and more stimulating.” He looked smilingly from one to the other. “Well, what do you say about it? Let's go to the Milan and do the job in style.”

“It's a lovely idea, but I'm afraid it won't work. One of us must stop here. We can't drift out like that and leave the business to run itself.”

“Don't worry,” remarked Ruth. “I'll stay and look after the shop.”

“Not on your life,” declared Sally determinedly. “We'll either toss up for it or—”

“Don't be mulish, darling. I'm not throwing a Christian martyr act. This ghastly mess we've got ourselves into is all your doing, and like a respectable, clean-living girl I prefer to keep out of it. I should hate to be tapped on the shoulder by a policeman just as I was swallowing an oyster.”

“Suppose we make a compromise,” suggested Owen. “Sally can come to-morrow, and as soon as the real murderer has been discovered I'll invite you. Then you can eat as many oysters as you like in perfect peace.”

Sally laughed. “You don't know what you're letting yourself in for. The last time we went out to lunch together—”

“Dry up.” Ruth's green eyes twinkled mischievously. “If you don't,” she added, “I'll tell him about that corn on your little toe.”

Chapter IX

Setting his teeth savagely, Owen took another frantic pull at the oars. The boat lurched forward a couple of feet and then slid back again into its previous position. With an anguished cry Sally leaned forward from her seat in the stern.

“Oh, go on, go on,” she moaned. “You'll be late for your appointment.”

“Blast my appointment!” A gust of impotent rage swept through his heart. “How can anybody row when the damned sea's full of treacle?”

“It's not treacle: it's
blood
.”

The glare of a torch streamed out through the darkness and there, sprawled grotesquely right in front of his feet, lay the dead body of Granville Sutton. Sticking up between his shoulder-blades was the crooked handle of an umbrella.

“Blood, blood, blood,” wailed Sally. “It's getting into the frying-pan and spoiling the mushrooms.”

A deluge of water surged over the boat, knocking Owen backwards and wrenching the oars from his hands. He was conscious of struggling wildly in a cold, suffocating blackness, and then by some astounding miracle he found himself sitting up in bed with the impassive figure of Watkins standing sedately at his elbow.

“I am sorry to wake you up, sir, but a gentleman has just been enquiring for you on the telephone. I informed him that you were still asleep, and he asked me to give you a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes, sir. He said that he wished to confirm your appointment for three o'clock this afternoon. He declined to leave his name.”

“Thanks. That will be all right.” Jolted back suddenly into complete consciousness, Owen rubbed his eyes and glanced round the room. Through a narrow gap at the side of the drawn blind a thin shaft of sunlight flickered across the carpet and played fitfully round the base of the wardrobe. “What time is it now?” he demanded.

“Ten minutes past twelve exactly, sir.”

“Holy Moses! Why didn't you rout me out sooner?”

“You had left no instructions as to when you wanted to be called.” Watkins gave a discreet cough. “I regret that I was out when you returned last night, sir,” he continued, “but not having been notified of your intentions I had arranged to spend the evening with some friends. By the time I arrived back you had already retired. I have looked in on several occasions this morning, but since you were still sleeping soundly I assumed that you would prefer not to be disturbed.”

“Very thoughtful of you.” Owen's eyes twinkled. “Just in case of any misunderstanding, though, I should like to mention that I had not been out on the binge. I had had a long and rather exhausting day and I was simply dog tired.”

“Just so, sir. That is precisely what I imagined.” Crossing over to the window, Watkins drew up the blind. “I trust you enjoyed your week-end, sir? A pity the weather was not a trifle more settled.”

“Oh, it wasn't too bad, on the whole. Sunday night was certainly a bit of a wash-out, but, taking it all round, I think I was remarkably lucky.”

“Would you care for a cup of tea, sir?”

“No time, I'm afraid. I've got a luncheon engagement at one o'clock, and I must hurry up and get dressed.”

“Very good, sir. I will put your bath on straight away.”

***

Handing over his hat and pocketing the ticket, Owen stepped back out of the cloakroom into the luxuriously carpeted vestibule of the Milan. As usual at this hour, the place was crowded. In every direction little clusters of people were sitting or standing about waiting for some belated friend, while through the constantly revolving door an apparently endless stream of fresh arrivals kept drifting in to swell the already imposing throng. The air was filled with a buzz of conversation, punctuated now and then by a mechanical voice bleating out the number of some resident guest.

He had produced his case and was about to light a cigarette when he suddenly caught sight of Sally. She had been completely concealed behind an enormous overdressed woman who had come in a moment before, and at the first glimpse of her standing there and looking around in search of him, his heart gave such a disconcerting jump that he nearly disgraced himself by shouting out her name. The next moment he had pushed his way forward and they were shaking hands.

“You're beautifully punctual,” he observed. “I suppose that comes from running a business?”

She smiled. “It comes from the fact that I'm fearfully hungry. We both overslept ourselves this morning and there was no time to have a proper breakfast.”

“Let's go in at once, then. I rang up and reserved a table.”

“That was very nice and thoughtful of you.”

She nodded approvingly, and steering a course for the entrance to the dining-room, Owen mentioned his name to the stately attendant who was functioning in the doorway. The latter consulted his list, and the next moment they were being conducted across the vast restaurant in the direction of the long array of flower-banked windows which looked out towards the Embankment.

“This is topping. Hope I'm not too dowdy compared with all these gorgeous females.” Sally settled down into her chair. “How do you like my new hat?” she demanded.

“Terrific! Knocks spots off anything in the place.”

“Thank you. Now I feel more at home.” She waved aside the menu which the waiter was presenting to her. “I'd rather you ordered the lunch,” she continued. “When there are such a lot of things to choose from I can never make up my mind what I'd like best.”

Owen reached out for the card and for several moments looked over it thoughtfully. “How about beginning with some
pâté
?” he suggested. “Then we might have a couple of young grouse and finish up with Pêche Melba.” He beckoned to the wine waiter who was hovering in the background. “Bring us a bottle of really good Burgundy,” he added. “You know what you've got better than I do.”

The man made a gratified bow. “M'sieur may leave it to me with complete confidence.”

“Does that meet with your approval?” Owen turned back to Sally, who was surveying him with a sort of grave amusement.

“Speaking professionally, I should describe it as a perfect piece of interior decoration.” Her lips twitched. “I think you ought to come into partnership with us.”

“That's not a bad idea. After the bungle I've made of my present job I shall probably be looking out for a new profession.”

“But are you sure you've bungled it?” Sally's face had suddenly become serious. “Of course I—I don't know what it's all about—”

“And I can't explain, I'm afraid: at least I can't give you any details.” He frowned. “What it amounts to, however, is that I've got to go along to the chap I'm working for and tell him that just as I had a chance of collecting the information he wanted I was fool enough to get knocked on the head and lose my memory. Not what one would call a pleasant prospect, but the thing's so damned serious I've no other choice.”

“Then it will all have to come out, I suppose? I mean about that wretched letter and my reasons for going to the bungalow.”

“Not necessarily. I've been thinking it over, and I believe I can square that all right.”

“Won't you have to explain how you got away and what you've been doing ever since?”

“I certainly shall.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Wait till we've been served. Here's our man coming back now.”

They sat silent while racks of crisp brown toast accompanied by delectable-looking slices of
pâté
were ceremoniously deposited in front of them. On the farther side of the room the orchestra broke out into the latest heart-stirring masterpiece recently imported from Broadway.

“That business of yours has nothing whatever to do with what I'm working on.” Owen had lowered his voice and was leaning forward across the table. “If I can, I want to keep you out of it altogether.”

“But how?” persisted Sally. “You've got about twenty-two hours to account for, and you must have spent them somewhere.”

“I could have spent them lying in a ditch or hidden away under a hedge. Suppose you hadn't turned up, and suppose I'd recovered consciousness say about midnight. You know the state I was in—half dazed and not able to remember a blessed thing. It's quite possible that I might have walked out of the place and blundered along vaguely in the dark until at last I collapsed again through sheer weakness. I might easily have lain there in some out-of-the way spot until four or five the next afternoon. Then, as soon as I came to my senses and realised what had happened, my first idea would naturally have been to stagger back to Town and get in touch with Greystoke. I could pretend that I caught a train at some station up the line and went straight home to my flat, where I rang up his office.”

Sally stared at him for a moment before replying.

“This job you're on is really important—something connected with the secret service, isn't it?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“And are you proposing to tell all these lies merely to oblige me?”

Owen contented himself with a nod.

“Then the whole notion is just fantastic. To start with, it wouldn't hold water for a minute, not if it was looked into properly. They would know you'd invented it for some reason of your own, and after that they wouldn't believe a single word you told them.”

“It's more than possible,” admitted Owen.

“Well, do you imagine I'd sit down quietly and let you do anything so idiotic? I—I know it's terribly decent of you to suggest it, but—” She paused, her lips slightly parted and a sudden determined light shining in her eyes. “Oh, it's no good trying to hide things any longer; at least, not from you. We're all in this together, and the sooner you know the whole truth the better.”

“Go ahead. I'm listening.”

“It was Sheila, my sister, who wrote that letter to Sutton. The only excuse I can make for her is that she must have been utterly infatuated at the time. Later on she found out what he was really like and refused to have any more to do with him. A little while ago she got engaged to somebody else. He's quite a well-known man in politics, and he'd be terrified of any sort of scandal which might interfere with his career. I've no use for him myself, but Sheila is desperately keen on marrying him because he can give her exactly what she wants. I'm making her sound horrid, but that isn't fair. There's nothing really wrong with her. It's merely that she has always been spoiled because she's so beautiful.”

“Is she like you?”

“I've got a faint look of her, at least so people say—only just enough to show that we're sisters. Why, if she was here now every man in the room would be goggling at our table.”

“What a revolting idea!” Owen gave a slight shudder.

“I think this will meet with M'sieur's approval.” The wine waiter was standing at his elbow proffering a bottle for inspection. “It is a Nuits George, twenty-nine—a remarkably fine vintage.”

“Good work! Shove it on the table and we'll help ourselves.” He slid half a crown into a conveniently receptive hand, and waiting until they were alone again, helped himself to a fresh piece of toast. “I gather the proposal was that she should buy this letter back? How much was the swine asking for it?”

“A thousand pounds. He swore that unless she paid up he'd put it in an envelope and send it to her fiancé. She'd have been fool enough to do it too, if she could have managed to raise the cash. As it was, all she could get hold of was five hundred. She came to me in such a state of jitters that I felt I had to do something about it. I knew it was no use her trying to bargain with him, so I offered to take on the job myself. He'd arranged for her to bring the money to the bungalow at ten-thirty, and I thought the simplest way would be to go down and have it out there and then, I loathe putting off anything nasty of that sort: it only makes it seem more difficult.”

Very deliberately Owen filled up a glass and passed it across.

“Seems to be a hobby of yours, rescuing people who've got themselves into jams!”

“Oh, I had to help Sheila. I promised my mother that I would always look after her.”

“Then what do you want me to do? If I tell the truth—”

“It will just have to come out, that's all. Sheila knows what's happened. She looked round last night after you'd gone, and I explained the whole situation.”

“As a matter of fact, it isn't Sheila I'm worrying about—it's you.”

“Me?”

Owen nodded. “In a murder case the police suspect everybody. I shall be a hot favourite, of course; but when they learn that Sutton was blackmailing your sister and that you went there to try to get hold of the letter, they're dead certain to rope you in as a promising alternative. You'll be questioned and requestioned till you don't know whether you're on your head or your heels, and—”

“I'm not afraid.” Sally squared her shoulders defiantly. “I don't mean to say that I should like it; but if there's something going on that's got to do with the safety of the country, one can't just think about oneself.”

“That's a pretty fine way of looking at it, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Sally. “Anyone who didn't feel like that would be a complete twirp.” She picked up her glass, took a sip of its contents and smiled at him encouragingly. “That's settled then; you must tell this friend of yours everything, and if he doesn't believe you he can come and talk to me.”

“Thanks. It will certainly make things a heap easier.” Owen hesitated. “I—I wish I could tell you how grateful I am, but I'm a shockingly bad hand at expressing what I feel. I think most sailors are.”

“The Silent Service they call it, don't they?” Sally's eyes twinkled mischievously. “I expect it comes from being so much on board ship and seeing so few women. You ought to find some nice girl and get her to give you a course of lessons. If you like, I'll put up an advertisement in the shop.”