Читать книгу The Gallows of Chance - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Sir Humphrey and his doctor dined together that evening in Chestow Square. The latter was jubilant at his patient’s triumphant recovery, but insisted on a glass of champagne to counteract the fatigues of the first day.

“By-the-by,” he remarked speculatively, “you said something about a shock, but you never told me what it was that brought on the crisis that terrible night. Your physical condition was bad enough, of course, but it was scarcely sufficient to account for your complete breakdown.”

Sir Humphrey fingered the stem of his wineglass. The two men were alone, for the single servant who had waited on them had departed in search of coffee.

“No, I never told you, Standish,” he assented. “I do not think I ever shall. I have had to dig the matter up this afternoon for Scotland Yard, but I do not think that I shall ever tell anybody else.”

The physician missed the note of seriousness in his host’s voice. He leaned back in his chair and held his glass to the light.

“1884, isn’t it?” he observed. “A magnificent wine. Drier than Jubilee and much better for us.... If you want to live for ever, Humphrey, you must get out of these habits of secrecy. A man should be prepared to tell his lawyer and his doctor everything.”

Sir Humphrey smiled slightly. The look of renewed health in his face was manifest, but there was nevertheless a very serious expression in his eyes as he sipped his wine.

“I agree with you about the port, Standish. Quite my favourite year. Concerning the other matter, I am afraid that, notwithstanding your axiom, I shall never tell you of my experience.”

“A little overtired with the long day’s shooting, I expect,” Standish suggested.

“Nothing to do with that at all,” was the deliberate reply. “I will tell you as much as this—I went through a mental strain that night which might well have upset a man in more robust health than I was. As to the nature of it—well, it will be the object of my life in future to drop it into the well of forgetfulness, to speak of it or to hear it spoken of as seldom as possible. To be told the truth would not help you in your diagnosis, Standish,” he concluded, “and every time I speak of it, which is only in case of sheer necessity, it awakens devastating memories.”

“My dear fellow, not another word,” the physician begged. “I just spoke out of the idlest curiosity. At present, I am interested in only one matter—how the mischief did you manage to get this wine transported so that it opens up in such perfect condition?”

Sir Humphrey smiled.

“The question of transport has never arisen,” he explained. “This little house—every one wonders why I am so fond of it—belonged to my father and my grandfather. The wine was laid down in these cellars.”

“I always wondered why you stayed on here when you have an official residence,” the doctor remarked.

“The official residence I use as little as possible. You see, I have no official hostess. My sister comes up from the country whenever I require her, but she is a busy woman and I do not worry her too often. Every one else in the Cabinet is a domestic person with wife and family, and except where it is clearly the Home Secretary’s job, I let them take on the entertaining. What about a cigar to-night, doctor?”

“If you don’t mind,” the latter replied, “I would rather you gave smoking another month’s rest. That glass of port you are drinking will do you all the good in the world, and half another one after it, if you like; but I would cut out the brandy, spoil your coffee with a little milk, and smoking I would leave entirely alone, except for an occasional cigarette. Yours is not ordinary work, you know, and you are the sort of man who feels his responsibilities deeply. Temperament counts for so much in health; much more than people realise. You would be a stronger man, you know, if you did not take your life and your duties quite so seriously.”

“If there is any man in the world who could do my work without taking it seriously, I should like to meet him,” the Home Secretary expostulated.

“That’s all very well, but the limits must be observed. A man cannot be all the time working. If it had not been for your cricket at school and the ’varsity, you would never have been the man you are to-day. You ought to play more golf, accept a few more shooting invitations, go to the theatre oftener, and if I dared, I’d go so far as to say marry and have domestic interests.”

“And all this advice free,” Sir Humphrey murmured. “Nothing like having one’s doctor to dinner for getting the truth out of him.”

“Well, you’re certainly succeeding in that,” the other admitted. “Physically every organ you have is adequate, but you have a tendency to unsettle them and put them out of accord by using your brain too much....”

Parkins served the coffee and made an announcement.

“There is an urgent telephone call for the doctor, Sir Humphrey,” he announced. “He is asked to go to Harding House at once.”

“You will excuse me, I know, Humphrey,” his guest begged. “It is old Lady Harding—one of my best patients. Nothing serious, but she doesn’t like it if I keep her waiting. I sha’n’t bother about seeing you for a day or two. I will ask you to report in a week. No, no coffee, thank you, Parkins. I will get along, if you’ll call me a taxi.”

Sir Humphrey strolled into the hall to see his guest off. As he turned away from the closed front door he noticed that there were several strange hats upon the rack.

“Whose are these choice specimens of headgear, Parkins?” he asked, a little puzzled.

“Four gentlemen are waiting to see you in the library, sir,” the man confided. “Colonel Matterson is one of them, and I fancy that the other gentlemen are from Scotland Yard. They arrived at the same time as the telephone message for Doctor Standish, so I did not announce them.”

“Quite right, Parkins,” his master approved. “I will go in at once and see what they want.”

In the library he found the Subcommissioner, Inspector Smithers and two other men awaiting him. The former was standing upon the hearthrug and advanced to greet his host.

“Sir Humphrey,” he explained, “I want you to meet the three members of my staff whom I have chosen to look into this affair of yours. They will start for Norfolk to-morrow morning, but they were exceedingly anxious—Inspector Smithers particularly—to ask you a few questions first. I thought you would not mind if I brought them round. They are leaving by the newspaper train.”

“Certainly not,” Rossiter acquiesced, “although there is little I can say beyond what I told you this evening.”

“Inspector Smithers you have already met,” Colonel Matterson said, pointing to the sallow-faced man with the black moustache. “This is Inspector Simpson, who has done some excellent work for us.”

Sir Humphrey shook hands with Inspector Simpson—a strongly built man, with a ruddy complexion, bright blue eyes and a somewhat ferocious expression.

“And this,” the Subcommissioner concluded, “is Detective Pank. Pank, I may say, still has his spurs to earn, but he has done some useful work and he happens to be a Norfolk man.”

Detective Pank, under the average height, but with a well-set-up, athletic figure, sandy-haired, with an insignificant but thoughtful face, rose to his feet and shook hands with obvious nervousness. Sir Humphrey established himself in an easy-chair. Inspector Smithers leaned respectfully forward.

“We are very sorry to trouble you, sir,” he began, “but there are one or two points upon which we should like information before we leave. Colonel Matterson has been in telephonic communication with Norwich this afternoon, and, with the help of some maps we have bought, we have a fair idea of the neighbourhood of Keynsham Hall. There seems to be only one lonely tract of country anywhere near, and that’s round Thetford. To reach that part of the world from Keynsham, you would be on a straight road nearly the whole of the time. Do you remember, sir, after you left Keynsham Hall, whether you turned to the left or to the right?”

“To the left,” was the prompt reply.

“Reverse number one,” Inspector Smithers observed, with a little grimace. “That would be the Norwich road and probably the best road to London. Can you tell us whether you found yourself upon a twisty road or whether you just went straight ahead?”

“At first we were turning corners all the time,” Sir Humphrey admitted. “I was surprised, in fact, to find the road so narrow and winding. I really cannot tell you much about it, though, because I was very tired and I was dozing nearly all the time.”

“Thank you. Can you describe the room in which you found yourself when they removed the bandage from your eyes? Did it look like a room in an old house or a modern one?”

“It looked like nothing except what it was supposed to represent,” Sir Humphrey declared. “It looked like a glorified prison cell.”

“With reference to the courtyard,” Smithers asked. “Did it possess any distinction? Did it look like the courtyard of a famous country house, for instance?”

“It might have been the back courtyard of any place,” Sir Humphrey decided, “and I take it that it was a back courtyard, because there were no large entrance gates. There was nothing particularly imposing about it, except the high red brick walls, and the fact that it was of considerable extent. To tell you the truth, I did not look about much. I was absorbed by the ghastliness of the newly built shed and the rest of the environment.”

“About how long do you believe that you were in the car between the time of leaving Keynsham Hall and your arrival at your destination?”

“Hard to say,” Sir Humphrey replied, “but I should think it was between half and three quarters of an hour.”

Smithers studied his notebook for a moment.

“I don’t wish to bother you, sir, with questions about points on which we already have information, but I gather that you were not able to recognise any of your captors?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have no suspicion as to the identity of any one of them?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Your impressions, however, especially concerning the one who appeared to be the ringleader, were that they were men in a superior class of life?”

“That is so,” Sir Humphrey agreed, “with the exception of the man who played the part of hangman. He smelt strongly of drink and was wearing a shabby grey suit with white paint marks upon it.”

Inspector Smithers turned to his Chief.

“So far as I am concerned, that is all, sir,” he announced. “We are not proposing to ask Sir Humphrey any of the questions which we can find out for ourselves by enquiries in the neighbourhood.”

“Have you anything to ask, Simpson?” the Subcommissioner enquired.

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“If I might,” Detective Pank intervened a little nervously, “I should like to ask about those white masks. Did they seem like new ones made for the occasion or as though they had been worn before?”

Sir Humphrey nodded approval. The question appeared to him to have some point.

“Curiously enough,” he confided, “they seemed to me as though they had been worn before. The one on the man’s face, who stood on my right hand when we passed out into the yard, might almost have been described as soiled.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anything else, Pank?” the Subcommissioner asked good-naturedly.

“Nothing else, sir, thank you.”

Colonel Matterson rose to his feet.

“Then I don’t think we need worry you any further, Sir Humphrey,” he said.

“Can I offer you gentlemen anything?” Rossiter enquired, with his hand upon the bell.

“Thank you, no,” Matterson replied. “I am sure the others feel as I do. We quite understand that you have to be kept very quiet for a time, and, believe me, we won’t bother you unless we are driven to it. Furthermore, the whole of our enquiries—you may be sure of that—will be kept utterly and entirely secret. I quite realise, and so do my men here, that the kidnapping of the Home Secretary is a matter which must never become public property, unless when the mystery is solved it reaches the Criminal Courts.”

They all signified assent. Sir Humphrey shook hands with them and touched the bell. Matterson lingered behind.

“I am hoping,” he confided, “that we shall have a report to make to you almost immediately. This seems to me like a very amateurish job and, if Brandt had only been a more popular man, I should not have hesitated to put it down as a stupid attempt at bluff on the part of some of his pals. From the enquiries I have been able to make, though, he had not enough friends who would have been willing to run the risk.”

“Come in and have a whisky and soda with me before you go,” Sir Humphrey begged abruptly. “You have finished with your staff, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely. Their train travels at six o’clock to-morrow morning and they have had my last word.”

Rossiter led the way back to the dining room and helped his guest from the sideboard.

“I have only one single, small thing to confide to you,” he said.

“In that case,” Colonel Matterson observed, “I sha’n’t sit down. I know what it is to be about again after such an illness as you have had. That’s enough—only a splash. Now tell me what it is.”

“Just this. These men may have been, as you say, a gang of something little better than practical jokers. They did not give me that impression, but that’s neither here nor there. I do not even allow myself to think of that night. All that I want to do is to forget it. But I must tell you this. Katherine Brandt, whom I saw this afternoon, and who is the only person to whom I have mentioned them, seemed absolutely terrified when I told her the story. I do not wish her to be questioned; I shall never ask her any questions myself, but if it helps you in any way, you can, I am sure, take this for granted: there was something she either knows about or guesses at—possibly something in the background of Brandt’s life—which induces her to take the whole affair very seriously indeed.”

The Subcommissioner set down his empty glass.

“That sounds mysterious, but it is worth thinking about,” he commented, as he took his leave.