Читать книгу The Grassleyes Mystery - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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David Granet, for the second time that day, pushed open the swing door of the premises occupied by Spenser & Sykes and made his way to Mr. Woodley's desk. The manager looked up from his books, recognized his caller and rose to his feet.

"Good evening, Mr. Granet," he said. "I'm afraid that I sent you out to Grassleyes on a fool's errand."

"Not at all," Granet answered. "I like the place. I came in to tell you that I have taken a bungalow there."

Woodley stared at him over the counter.

"Didn't you hear—" he began.

"The sad news about Lady Grassleyes? Yes, I was there apparently a few minutes after it happened."

"She was alive when you got there? Did you have any conversation with her?"

"None at all. I was received by the quaintest-looking butler I ever saw and when we got into her room she was sitting at her desk in a perfectly natural attitude—but so far as I could see stone dead."

"God bless my soul!" the manager exclaimed, mopping his forehead. "You will excuse me, Mr. Granet. This is rather a blow. We have just heard the news, of course, but to think that you should have seen her! An important client of ours—Lady Grassleyes. A great shock for Mr. Spenser."

"There has been the usual fuss over there, of course," Granet confided, "but so far as the people themselves are concerned they seem to be taking it very quietly. I had to stay and be asked a few questions, naturally, but I was just on the point of leaving when a young lady, Lady Grassleyes' niece, stopped me. She was very upset indeed but she insisted upon showing me one of the bungalows. She assured me that they would go on with the place. The bungalow was just what I wanted, so I took it. I promised, as a matter of fact, to move in to-night."

Woodley gazed once more at his vis-à-vis incredulously.

"You are not serious, Mr. Granet!"

"Why not? If the rest of the household can take it calmly, what is it to do with me? I never heard of Lady Grassleyes before in my life. The fact that she seems to have died suddenly doesn't make the bungalow less attractive to me. I am going to move in there to-night as soon as I have had dinner and packed my things."

"Don't do it, Mr. Granet! I beg your pardon, but I wouldn't really if I were you."

"But why not?"

The door leading into the private offices behind the manager's reserved space was suddenly opened. A tall, good-looking man, florid and inclined towards embonpoint, made his appearance. Woodley, with a muttered word of apology, hurried towards him.

"Mr. Spenser," he said, "this is Mr. Granet. I sent him out to look at one of Lady Grassleyes' bungalows this afternoon."

"Poor dear lady," Mr. Spenser observed with a sympathetic note in his voice which was not altogether convincing. "He had to come back again, of course?"

"Not at all," the manager replied. "He has just come to tell me that he was shown into Lady Grassleyes' apartment, found her apparently dead in her chair and that afterwards the niece came just as he was leaving and took him to look at a bungalow and said they were going to carry on as usual. And he has taken it."

Mr. Spenser's expletive was both startled and forceful.

"He'll have to give it up. He must be told so at once."

"Perhaps you would like to speak to him yourself, sir. He seems the sort of person who knows his own mind."

Spenser walked to the counter, introduced himself and lifted the flap.

"Mr. Granet I understand your name is. Do you mind coming into my office for just a moment?"

Granet acquiesced, following the head of the firm into a luxuriously furnished room, the walls of which were covered with photographs of most of the desirable estates on the Riviera. He accepted the chair which Spenser offered him by the side of the desk.

"This is a most tragic story, Mr. Granet," Spenser began. "I have been away all day beyond Mentone visiting a property, and have only just heard about it. Do you mind telling me exactly what happened?"

"So far as I was concerned—nothing. I was taken by a queer Oriental butler with an absurd name to Lady Grassleyes' room. He announced me. I said how do you do. She didn't reply and when I looked at her I saw at once that there was something seriously wrong. I rang the bell. Back came the butler. He took one look at her and never hesitated. A queer little fellow—you have seen him, perhaps. He turned to me with his eyes blinking: 'Milady taken bad medicine,' he announced. 'Gone dead.' After that there was the usual sort of fuss. I had to stay and answer questions. I was just leaving when a young lady who said she was Lady Grassleyes' niece stopped me and insisted upon showing me the bungalow. She explained that the place would be kept on, that the letting of the bungalows was in her hands and, to cut a long story short, I took one of them called 'The Lamps of Fire,' paid a month in advance and came away having promised to move in to-night."

"To do what?"

"To move in to-night," Granet repeated coolly. "Now one comes to think of it it is rather a queer thing that the young lady was so insistent. She seemed frightened and nervous, of course, but the bungalows are some distance from the house and she must have people of her own there. Anyway, she made such a point of it that I consented."

The house-agent abandoned his position of nonchalant ease. He rose to his feet and with his hands behind his back walked the length of the spacious apartment and back again.

"Did the young lady give you any special reason why she wished you to move in so quickly?" he asked, pausing in front of Granet.

"Nothing definite. She did rather give me the impression that something had been going on in the Manoir which she had found disturbing and that she felt herself in a way in need of protection. I was inclined to think, at the time—I still think so really—that it was an outburst of nerves."

Spenser was tugging hard at his moustache. He, too, seemed to be struggling with a nervous attack of a sort.

"Didn't it seem queer to you, with all this trouble going on, that she should want to bring a stranger into it?" he demanded with a distinct note of truculence in his tone.

"It does now that I think it over," Granet admitted frankly. "It didn't seem so at the time."

Spenser resumed his seat at the table.

"If you'll allow me to give you a word of advice, Mr. Granet, I should suggest you break your promise to the young lady."

Granet looked at him steadily.

"I am not in the habit of breaking my word, Mr. Spenser," he said.

The house-agent seemed uneasy. His fingers were playing once more with his closely clipped moustache. It appeared to his companion, who was a keen observer of trifles, that he was finding it difficult to retain his composure.

"I should break it on this occasion," Spenser advised, "because it is such an utterly impossible thing to ask you to do. The place must be all upside down. A newcomer just arriving would create a most embarrassing situation."

"That's all very well," Granet pointed out, "but it's their look-out, not mine. I paid the girl a month's rent in advance and if she particularly wants me to do something a little unusual why shouldn't I?"

"You can't," the other insisted abruptly. "It is quite out of the question. It isn't even a certainty that the place will be kept on for a week. There's an offer pending which, in the present circumstances, will probably be accepted at once."

"Have you any authority for saying that?"

"None whatever. I perhaps should not have mentioned it. Still, you must agree with me that yours is an impossible proposition."

"The trouble is that I have given my word to be there sometime to-night," Granet pointed out, "and it is rather a peculiar prejudice of mine that when I have once given my word I keep it. I dare say I shall find the place in confusion, as you suggest. If so, and the young lady has changed her mind or is willing to excuse me, I shall come away."

A message was brought to Spenser on an oblong slip of paper. He glanced at it with a frown, rose to his feet and with a muttered word of apology to his visitor left the room. It was quite ten minutes before he returned.

"Very sorry to keep you, Mr. Granet," he explained, "but the fact of it is, this message is from Lady Grassleyes' local solicitors. They tell me that the police have been asking some ridiculous questions and there will probably have to be an inquest, which in this country is rather a serious thing."

"What have the doctors to say?"

"Well, it is through the local doctor that the trouble has arisen. He declares that there is not the slightest sign of any disease of any sort, that Lady Grassleyes' heart, for instance, is perfectly sound, and that he is not disposed to sign any sort of certificate."

Granet considered for a moment.

"There is no suggestion, I suppose, of anything in the shape of foul play?" he ventured.

Spenser leaned forward in his chair. He passed his hand through his already untidy hair.

"If the doctors cannot find a weak spot or any trace of disease in the body of an elderly woman who has never been known to have an illness in her life—why, one might suspect anything."

"Poison or a deed of violence," Granet pointed out, "would just as necessarily leave a trace as disease."

"We are getting out of our depth," the other declared with an irritable gesture. "These matters are for the specialists, whether they be doctors or police. If I have my way I shall close the estate and the bungalows pending further investigation. I do not understand," he added, glaring across at Granet, "any one wishing to take up residence there in the present circumstances."

"Neither do I altogether understand," Granet rejoined coolly, "what business it is of the house-agent to interfere with his client's actions to such an extent."

Spenser rose to his feet.

"I shall communicate my views, at any rate, to Miss Grassleyes. In view of your attitude, Mr. Granet, however," he continued, drawing a card from his waistcoat pocket and scrutinizing it thoughtfully, "I shall feel it my duty to make the most careful enquiries into your references."

"Well?"

"They seem to be all right but in my opinion they need verifying."

"Why not verify them?" Granet suggested. "There's a Who's Who behind you on the shelf. Mind if I smoke a cigarette?"

Spenser took no notice. Granet calmly produced his case, drew out a cigarette and lit it. He continued to smoke whilst his companion turned over the pages of the bulky Who's Who. He closed the volume at last. There was a very different note in his voice when he spoke, but he was a tenacious man and he held to his last shred of argument.

"How do I know that you are the person described here?"

Granet looked out into the street and pointed through the window.

"Why not try the British Consul? Take you a matter of a few minutes and save you from making a fool of yourself."

"What—Colonel Dryden?"

"Certainly. The office may be closed now but you can get him at his private house—the 'Villa Colombe,' I think it is."

Spenser played his last card.

"If you are a friend of the British Consul, why did you not say so when you gave a reference?"

Granet rose to his feet. His manner was still superficially amiable but he had the air of one who has had enough of the conversation.

"That is my business, not yours, sir," he said calmly. "I wish you good evening."

He turned towards the door. Spenser leaned forward in his place, the palms of his hands stretched out upon the table, his mouth open for speech. He was apparently dumbfounded, for he said nothing. He watched the door open and close but it was not until he was perfectly certain that his visitor had no intention of returning that he staggered rather than rose to his feet, snatched down his grey Homburg hat from the peg in the small ante-room and made his way into the street by the back entrance.