Читать книгу The Judgment of Larose - Arthur Gask - Страница 6

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GILBERT LAROSE was enjoying his lunch, for the turbot and lobster sauce were excellent, and the hock was the best he had ever tasted.

"The turbot, the sole, and the salmon," was his mental comment, "are surely the very aristocracy of the sea, but I think I like the turbot best. It has a silky flavour that is most agreeable to the palate. And this wine—it is a nectar and most certainly much better than that beer the inspector spoke about."

He made a grimace. "But really I wish I were enjoying everything under pleasanter surroundings. This is quite a little banquet in its way and the company is most select, but"—he sighed—"I am the hangman at the feast."

He went on: "Yes, Gilbert, my boy, you are out on business, and it is your hope to introduce one of these fine ladies or gentlemen to the seven-foot drop later, and, as they are all quite aware of that fact, you are not popular in consequence. No one loves you, and wherever you turn your eyes you are met with nasty looks. That red lipped party opposite, the handsome Lady Drews, is regarding you as if you had just come out of the zoo, and all the men appear to be cold and contemptuous. They are not accustomed to taking meals with policemen, and they don't like it accordingly. If you are right, however, one of them ought to be feeling decidedly uncomfortable at the present moment, although, for the life of you, you don't see any signs of it."

He sighed again. "No, Gilbert, you've got no friends here; you're——" His face brightened suddenly. "Ah! but you may be mistaken. Her pretty little ladyship has given you two nice smiles, and that smart-looking parlourmaid—you'd swear she's that policeman's daughter, Betty Yates—appears to be quite sympathetic when she glances in your direction, which she very often does."

The meal was not a lively one, for what conversation there was was carried on in subdued and more or less gloomy, complaining tones. Mr. Culloden grumbled about the bad prospects for the grouse season; Gentry Wardle was annoyed that there was nothing of interest in the newspapers; and Lucy Bartholomew had many grievances, and one in particular—the weather.

No one entered into any conversation with the detective, yet never at any time, he noticed, were their glances long away from his direction, and any quick movement on his part, he saw, focused all eyes upon him at once.

But he was quite unperturbed, and enjoyed his lamb and mint sauce with the same zest with which he had appreciated the turbot.

"No good hurrying, Gilbert," he told himself complacently. "All in good time, and in five minutes or so, when you're not feeling quite so peckish, you'll join in the talking yourself. This feed, as I have already told you, is business as well as pleasure, and before you get up from this comfortable chair you must have wangled an invitation, somehow, to stay on for a few days here at this very agreeable hotel." He smiled to himself. "I told the inspector I was sure they would keep a good cook."

He sipped his wine appreciatively. "But now, which among these men strikes you as likely to be the guilty party? You regret to say, not one of them as yet, for no one appears to have got the wind up in any way. Sir James is just irritable and annoyed and shamed with the scandal of everything; the Honourable Culloden, as the inspector says, is a pompous ass; that K.C. fellow is waiting to be insulting to you the first chance he gets; the actor chap is watching to see if he can derive any amusement from your table manners; the colonel has no expression at all upon his face, and the doctor does not seem to be interested in you in any serious way. As for the women, they seem harmless, although the Culloden one has been staring hard and for so long that you really might believe she's trying to hypnotize you."

His thoughts ran on. "Then, there's the butler—the poetically-minded butler, who told Betty Yates you were the 'Angel of Death'—and you appear to be only just another one to wait on to him, but you notice he's got a keen, sharp face, and the well-shaped hands of a man who should excel in something in life. Yes, you look forward to a little talk with him."

The detective glanced up and caught Lady Marley's eye. She gave him another gracious little smile, and then asked immediately: "And how do you like England, Mr. Larose?"

"Oh, it's a lovely country," he replied—he pretended to shiver—"but how I miss the sun." He looked round smilingly upon the company, as if he were on the best of terms with them all. "You see, in Australia we get so much sun, and always, winter and summer, in some parts of the Commonwealth, the sun is shining all day long. In summer everywhere we get the sun for months and months on end. Always then sunshine and blue skies, and when the heat is a dry heat there cannot be a more delightful climate in the world. It's an invigorating heat, a sort of champagne of the air."

No one made any comment, but everyone stared as if they were most surprised he should have had the temerity to make his reply to Lady Marley longer than a monosyllable. He appeared quite at his ease, too, and not a bit awed by their frowning looks.

He went on enthusiastically: "Yes, and the sea is so deliciously warm that in the summer-time you can be in bathers for the whole day, and bathing parties carry on until midnight and even later."

Lady Sylvia Drews looked at him scornfully through her lorgnette. "But it's a dreadful country, Australia," she remarked, elevating her eyebrows. "I have always heard so."

"Dreadful only," smiled Larose, "because it is so dreadfully far from here."

"But most of the people are blacks, I understand," she went on.

"Blacks!" ejaculated Larose, as if he were puzzled. "Oh, you mean our politicians." He laughed merrily. "Well, perhaps some of them are pretty black, but they are not all as black as they are painted."

"And the country is full of snakes," frowned Lady Drews.

"And you might live all your life in Australia," laughed Larose, "and never see one. Of course, there are plenty of snakes, but they don't hang about where people are, and they are quite as frightened of us as we are of them, and get away as quickly as possible. Only about four people in the Commonwealth die each year from snake bite, and so"—he bowed smilingly to her—"so the danger of snakes need hardly deter you from paying us a visit."

"And what are the most dangerous kinds of snakes you have there?" asked Lady Marley quickly, as if intending to forestall the rude reply that Lady Drews, from the contemptuous expression upon her face, was about to make.

"Oh, the death-adder and the tiger-snake, every time," replied Larose promptly, "and their bites are very deadly. One person in every two bitten by them dies and there is practically no hope at all if you are bitten on the body."

"How horrible!" exclaimed Lady Marley, shuddering. "And have you ever killed any of those snakes, Mr. Larose?"

"I killed a tiger-snake once," replied Larose, smiling, "actually in the middle of a game of tennis, but it was very unusual that it should have been anywhere near. Something had frightened it, and it glided right out across the court."

"But you've killed other things besides snakes," said Lady Drews dryly. "It's well known that you've shot scores of people"—she turned up her nose disdainfully—"in your investigations."

"No, no," laughed Larose; "that's a libel." He suddenly became serious "But mine is a dangerous calling at times, your ladyship, and,"—he shrugged his shoulders—"I have to protect myself."

"Then you admit you have shot people in Australia?" insisted Lady Drews.

"But there are still more than six millions left alive there," parried Larose, "so I haven't been too ready with my gun, if it be, as you say, a little failing of mine."

"And do you then carry a pistol here?" asked Felicia Brand with great interest. "You've got one in your pocket now?"

For the moment the detective looked embarrassed, but he quickly recalled his ready smile.

"Habit, Miss Brand," he laughed, "only habit—just as some people carry a fountain-pen."

"But surely, sir, it is most questionable taste and unpardonable on your part," commented Gentry Wardle, elevating his eyebrows as if greatly surprised, "for you, as a guest here, to come to the table—armed?"

Larose went hot in his annoyance "I am not an ordinary guest, Mr. Wardle," he replied. "I am here——"

"Yes, yes, of course," exclaimed Gentry Wardle quickly. "I was forgetting that." He looked insolently at the detective. "I remember, as a young man, when travelling through Mexico, I had a meal with some niggers once, and——"

"Have you ever been shot yourself, Mr. Larose?" interrupted Sir James Marley, speaking quickly and with the evident intention of cutting short, what Gentry Wardle had been intending to say.

The anger that had been flaring up in the detective's eyes instantly died down. "Yes, three times, Sir James," he replied. "It's give or take sometimes in my work"—he smiled—"and I'm not the only one who uses a gun."

A moments silence followed and then Mrs. Culloden, fixing him with her big prominent eyes, asked solemnly:

"And what have you come here for, sir? What is your intention with regard to us?"

"That's it," snapped Gentry Wardle angrily. "It's an insolence your being here at this table, and we insist——"

"Wait, please, Wardle," interrupted Sir James sharply, and he frowned sternly at the K.C. "We'll come to that presently." He signed to the butler. "Put on the decanters, Slim, and then you can leave us."

Every one stopped speaking, and a hush came over the room. The faces of the women flushed uneasily, and the men regarded the detective with most unfriendly looks.

The butler and the maids left the room and the door was closed behind them.

"Now for it," thought Larose, "I'm the poor fox, and it's 'up dogs and at him!'"

Then Gentry Wardle, with a venomous gleam in his eyes, rapped out angrily:

"Yes, we want to know now what are this"—his lips curled to a sneer—"this gentleman's intentions. What does it mean his thrusting his presence upon us like this? Are we to have no privacy at all? It's an insolence, I say. It's a——"

But a clear, musical voice came sharply from the end of the table. "Mr. Larose is my guest, Mr. Wardle," exclaimed Lady Marley with spirit, "and I would beg to remind you of that."

The big K.C.'s jaw dropped and he looked taken aback.

"Er—er, certainly, Lady Marley," he replied, and he turned at once to the detective. "Pleased to have you here, I am sure, Mr. Larose." He smiled sarcastically. "What are the newest things in handcuffs now?"

The detective laughed. "I'll tell you later, Mr. Wardle," he said—his voice hardened—"perhaps in a few hours."

"But I think we ought to be informed, Sir James," broke in Clark Rainey, "to some extent how we stand and exactly what this gentleman's presence here means."

"Certainly, you are entitled to know," replied the baronet coldly, "and I have no doubt Mr. Larose will be only too willing to tell you." There was just a trace of annoyance in his tone. "It was his wish to meet you all like this at lunch." He turned to the detective. "You might kindly let us know now specifically what you want."

Larose took off the gloves at once. The studied insolence of the men had stung him to annoyance.

"I am an emissary of the law," he said sharply, "and one of you now present here"—he corrected himself—"or elsewhere in this house—is guilty of murder, and it is my conviction that I can best satisfy myself as to the guilt or innocence of each one of you, by a personal contact with him or her for a few hours." He spoke dispassionately. "There were twenty-two persons under this roof last Tuesday night; one of them was murdered, and from what we have found out, we are of opinion that the responsibility for his death lies among the remaining twenty-one. For twenty of you, therefore, my presence here is undeserved, but it will only be a temporary annoyance at worst, and the more facilities you give me for my inquiries—the sooner you will be rid of me for good."

"You are very sure, aren't you?" sneered Gentry Wardle rudely. "You have made up your mind beforehand then, that one of us here has done it, and that no one came in from outside?"

"A closed and sealed house before the murder," replied Larose sternly, "and a closed and sealed house after." He looked challengingly round the table. "It is undoubtedly distasteful to you to realise it, ladies and gentlemen, but—one among you is a murderer."

"Fiddlesticks," scoffed Wardle. "The police are incompetent, and to cover their stupidity, you have been sent down to level a general accusation against everyone. You haven't a scrap of evidence that the murderer came from inside the house."

"We haven't a scrap of evidence that he came from outside," replied Larose, "and therefore until we learn something to the contrary, we must take the more evident supposition to be the correct one." He glanced round the table again. "But if you will all help me as best you can," he hesitated a moment, "and not——"

"Help you!" burst our Gentry Wardle, "do you think then we shall try and hinder you?" He thumped his fist upon the table. "Do you imagine then there is a conspiracy between Sir James and Lady Marley, and all the rest of us here, to screen the murderer of Captain Dane?"

"Not at all," replied Larose quickly, "but you are naturally upset at the knowledge of the dreadful suspicion with which the public as well as the police regard this house-party and in consequence——"

"The public!" gasped Gentry Wardle, and he could hardly get his breath, "the public suspect us! Why, you——"

"Pass the port, will you please, Mr. Wardle," interrupted Lady Marley sharply, "you are neglecting Mrs. Culloden," and when with an apologetic bow, Gentry Wardle complied with her request, she turned to the detective.

"And to come down to something we shall all understand, Mr. Larose," she said quietly, "what do you want to do?"

"Stay here for a day or two," replied Larose promptly, "have the run of the house, and just be allowed to go wherever I wish."

"Certainly," replied Lady Marley promptly, "and you will be doing us a service, I am sure. Consider yourself as our guest as long as you wish. Tea at four-thirty in the lounge, dinner at half-past seven and"—she looked round calmly—"everyone will give you all the help they can."

The ladies rose from their seats and left the room and Sir James turned at once to the detective. "Pray, don't let us keep you, Mr. Larose," he said. He bowed ironically. "As my wife has just told you, everything in the house is yours."

Larose gave a nod that might have meant anything, and immediately followed the ladies.

Then Gentry Wardle said frowningly: "I am sorry I was rude, Marley, but I don't like that fellow. His impertinence is colossal and it was a mistake, I think, for your wife to give him permission to stay."

Sir James blew a wreath of smoke from his cigarette.

"It was entirely your fault, Wardle," he replied slowly. "You should not have made the dead set on him that you did, and so obliged her to take his part. You forgot he was a guest at our table."

"Well, I don't like the man, anyhow," returned Wardle, "and if he finds out nothing, I'm sure he'll still stretch any point to bring a scandal upon us." He looked sharply at the baronet. "We ought to have got a private detective here on our own." He turned suddenly to the other men. "Now what do you say to us asking Naughton Jones to come down. He's the finest private detective in the world. I know him slightly and," he glanced back at Marley, "you don't mind, do you?"

Sir James looked bored. "My opinion is," he replied quietly, "that no one will catch Dane's murderer now. He's had too long a start."

"Oh, but do let us engage Naughton Jones?" exclaimed Clark Rainey eagerly. "Jones is a jealous old bird, and will put this Larose in his place, pretty quickly. We can all go shares in the expense."

"Just as you like," said Sir James carelessly. "You can please yourselves."

But a few minutes later when the baronet was alone with his wife it was evident that he was not as unconcerned as he had wanted to make out.

"Wardle's telephoning for Naughton Jones now," he said with a frown, "and it's all because of the fuss you made of Gilbert Larose." He shook his head reprovingly. "You were foolish again, Sonia, for you should not have been so lavish with your invitation to the man. It was quite unnecessary."

Lady Marley looked frightened, and very different from the queenly young chatelaine of the Court, at lunch.

"But if he's got to be here Jim," she replied brokenly, "we may just as well make ourselves as agreeable as possible; besides"—and her spirit began to reassert itself—"I could not sit still and allow Mr. Wardle to be so insulting to our guest at our own table."

"We shall be having two of the best detectives in the kingdom here, now," said her husband gloomily, "and if they light upon anything"—he sighed deeply—"what a scandal upon our house!" His face softened and he drew his wife tenderly towards him. "Poor little girl, it's a terrible ordeal for you."

"But Mr. Larose may perhaps see where someone could have broken into the house," said the girl eagerly, "and then——"

Her husband shook his head. "No chance, Sonia. Build no hopes, for a child, almost, could be certain that he was killed by someone amongst us here. A child even——"

But the girl placed her hand over his mouth. "Don't please, dear," she said with a sob, "I can't bear it. I try to keep a smiling face before them all, but with you——" She put up her arms and pulled his head down. "Oh, kiss me, please, Jim! Everything is so dreadful."