Читать книгу The Female of the Species - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 6

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Looking back on it now after the lapse of time, I find it hard to recall my exact state of mind that night. I remember that amongst certain members of the house party I found myself in the position of a popular hero. To have been assaulted and left for dead conferred an air of distinction on me, which I found rather grateful and comforting. The tacit assumption seemed to be that only abnormal strength of constitution on my part had saved my life.

I also remember experiencing a distinct feeling of pique that amongst other members of the party my adventure seemed to cut no ice at all. They appeared to regard it as the most ordinary thing in the world. Two new arrivals had come—the two whom Longworth had been told to summon under the names of Ted and Toby. Their surnames were respectively Jerningham and Sinclair, and Tracey had managed to squeeze them into the house. And it was in describing the events of the afternoon and evening to these two that the point of view of this second section of the party became obvious. Not, I mean, that I wished it to be exaggerated in any way: at the same time I admit that I felt, when all was said and done, that whilst Drummond and Darrell had been in perfect safety at a police-station, I had had a murderous assault made on my life. And to have it described by Darrell as getting a clip over the ear-hole struck me as somewhat inadequate. The replies of the audience also left, I thought, a certain amount to be desired.

Jerningham said: “Pity you didn’t ladle the bloke one back.”

Sinclair said: “Splendid! So we know one of them by sight, anyway.”

Then they all dismissed the matter as trifling, and resumed the interminable discussion. Not that I minded, you understand—but it struck me that it showed a slight lack of a proper sense of proportion.

However, I waived the matter: it was not my wife who had been forcibly dragged from her car in broad daylight. Had it been I should have been insane with worry. And that was the extraordinary thing about Drummond. Outwardly he seemed the most self-possessed of us all, and only the strained look in his eyes showed the mental condition he was in.

Bill Tracey was absolutely beside himself. That such a thing should have happened in his house made him almost incoherent. And it was characteristic of Drummond that in spite of his own agonising suspense, he should have gone out of his way to ease things for Bill.

“My dear fellow,” he said more than once, “please don’t blame yourself. The fact that it happened to take place here is nothing whatever to do with you. They waited till they were ready and then they struck. That they happened to become ready when we were staying with you, is just pure chance.”

Which, though perfectly true, did but little to alleviate his feelings of responsibility. It was his house, and the bald fact remained that one of his guests, and a woman at that, had been decoyed away from it and been made the victim of foul play. And apart from his natural grief at such a thing happening, the prospect of the notoriety involved concerned him, of course, more than any of us save Drummond himself. It was Jerningham who summarised the situation after a while.

“Let’s just see,” he said, “that we’ve got this thing clear. Whilst playing tennis this afternoon Phyllis got a note delivered by hand of such importance that she stops playing and goes out alone in the Bentley. At that time Hugh was having a bit of back chat with the two foreign-looking blokes——”

“Who have not been traced at the railway-station,” put in Tracey.

“Who have since disappeared,” went on Jerningham. “But it is generally agreed that they had something to do with it, though what we don’t know. Shortly after the Bentley is found deserted, showing every sign of having been the scene of a struggle.”

“She dotted him one, Ted,” said Drummond with certainty. “She dotted him good and hard with that spanner. In fact she killed him—glory be to Allah!”

They pondered this point in silence for a while.

“It stands to reason, old boy,” went on Drummond, “that the man Dixon saw lying in the ditch is the same man whose trail we followed on the grass beside the Bentley.”

“Very well then,” said Jerningham, “make it so. She dotted him one. Finding herself suddenly attacked she out with the spanner and slogged him good and hard. So then the other bloke—there must have been at least one more—bunged Phyllis into the back of the other car, stuffed his pal into the seat beside him, and pushed off.”

“It don’t sound right to me, Ted,” said Drummond slowly.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Jerningham.

“All the last part. If you were driving a motor-car in broad daylight, and had to take with you a fellow who was bleeding like a pig from a wound in the head, would you put him on the seat beside you? Especially if you did not want to draw attention to yourself.”

He took a long gulp of beer.

“Not so, old lad: you’d bung him on the floor at the back. And from Peter’s description of the blood in the car that’s what happened. If he’d been sitting in the seat beside the driver, the front of it would have been stained, too. It wasn’t—only the back.”

“I don’t see that it matters much, anyway,” I remarked. “Back or front the result is the same. Perhaps Mrs. Drummond was beside the driver.”

“Good Lord!” said Drummond, sitting up and staring at me. “I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps she was.”

“What’s stung you?” said Darrell, surprised, and we all looked at him curiously. He seemed strangely excited.

“Supposing Phyllis was sitting in that seat,” he remarked. “Supposing the man was bleeding to death behind. Supposing she managed to get her hand over the back of the seat, with the idea of getting some message through by dipping her finger in the blood and writing on the cover.”

His excitement infected us all, though, for the life of me, I couldn’t see what he was getting at.

“Well—get on with it,” said Darrell.

“Don’t you see that the writing would be upside down?” cried Drummond.

“Where’s your note-book, Peter? Turn the page the other way round.”

We crowded over his shoulder and stared at the rough sketch.

“It is,” shouted Drummond. “Smeared letters, or I’ll eat my hat. There’s a K there: two K’s. And L: and E. What’s that first word? Something KE . . . LUKE is it?”

“Like,” I hazarded. “That first letter might be L.”

“Then it’s LIKE LAK,” said Drummond, and we stared at one another a little blankly. If that was the solution it didn’t seem to advance us much. Like Lak: it was meaningless. Probably not realising that it was useless the message had continued into the stream of blood where it had been obliterated. But that was no help.

“Anyway,” said Drummond quietly, “it proves one thing. She wasn’t unconscious.”

He got up and went to the open window, where he stood with his back to us, staring out into the darkness. His shoulders were a little bowed: his hands were in his pockets. And, by Jove! I felt for the poor chap. Somewhere out under those same stars—perhaps twenty miles away, perhaps a hundred—his wife was in the hands of this infamous gang. Up-to-date action had kept him going, even if it had only consisted of futile motoring up and down roads. Now the time of forced inaction had come. There was nothing to distract his thoughts: nothing to take his mind off the ghastly possibilities of the situation.

There was no use sympathising with him: the matter had passed beyond words. Besides, it struck me that he was of the brand that is apt to shy away from sympathy like a frightened colt. And so we sat on in silence, hardly daring to meet one another’s eyes, with the same fear clutching at all our hearts.

It didn’t seem to matter very much whether or not Mrs. Drummond had been conscious in the car. Was she conscious now? Was she even alive? It seemed too incredible to be sitting there in that peaceful room, contemplating such an appalling thought. And yet what was there to be done? That was the maddening part of it. Literally the only clue in our possession was the number of the car—ZW 3214. It was true that I might recognise the man who had nearly throttled me, but even on that point I felt doubtful. And that wasn’t going to be much use, unless I saw him again.

The same applied to the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Both Drummond and I would recognise them again—but where were they? And even if they were found they would probably prove to be only very minor characters in the cast. The telephone on Tracey’s desk rang suddenly, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence, and we looked at it almost apprehensively. Was it some further complication, or was it news?

“Hullo!” said Tracey, picking up the receiver. “Yes—speaking.”

Drummond had swung round, his hands still in his pockets. And he stood there, his face expressionless, while the metallic voice from the machine, punctuated by occasional grunts from our host, droned on. At last Tracey replaced the receiver, and shook his head gloomily.

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said. “It was the police. They’ve traced the car, and it belongs to a man called Allbright in Reading. He’s a retired grocer, and absolutely above suspicion. He is away from home at the moment, and the car must have been coolly stolen from his garage this morning. He has a deaf housekeeper, who is also above suspicion, and who was in complete ignorance that the car had gone until visited by the police this evening.”

Once more silence fell on the room, and Drummond, with the faintest perceptible shrug of his shoulders, again turned his back on us and stared into the darkness. Our only positive clue gone—or at any rate valueless: the outlook blacker, if possible, than before. The butler brought in a tray of drinks, and Tracey waved his hand at it mechanically.

“Help yourselves,” he remarked, but nobody moved.

And then at last Drummond spoke. His back was still towards us: his voice was perfectly quiet.

“This situation is too impossible to continue,” he said. “Something is bound to happen soon.”

And as if in answer to his remark the telephone bell jangled a second time.

“I told you so,” he said calmly. “This is news.”

Tracey had again taken the receiver: and again we watched him with a kind of feverish anxiety. Was Drummond right? Or was it some further futile communication from the police?

“A lady wishes to speak to you, Drummond,” said Tracey, and the tension suddenly became acute. “She won’t give her name.”

Drummond went to the instrument, and we waited breathlessly. And if there is a more maddening proceeding during a time of suspense than having to listen to one end of a telephone conversation, I have yet to experience it. We heard the metallic voice of the other speaker; we saw Drummond give an uncontrollable start, and then freeze into absolute immobility.

“So it is you,” he said in a low voice. “Where is Phyllis?”

Again that metallic voice, and then quite clearly a laugh.

“Damn you,” said Drummond, still in the same quiet tone. “What have you done with her?”

This time the voice went on for nearly a minute, and all we could do was to watch the changing expressions on his face, and try to imagine what was causing them. Anger, bewilderment, and finally blank surprise were all registered, and it was the latter which remained when the voice ceased.

“But look here!” he cried. “Are you there? Damn it—she’s gone!”

He rang the bell furiously for exchange.

“Where did that last call come from?” he asked. “London. Can you possibly get me the number?”

We waited eagerly, only to see him lay down the receiver wearily.

“The public call-box at Piccadilly Circus,” he said.

“It was Irma?” almost shouted Darrell.

“Yes—it was.”

He stood there frowning, and we waited eagerly.

“It was that she-cat right enough. I’d know her voice anywhere. And she’s got some dirty game up her sleeve.”

“What did she say?” asked someone.

“She first of all said that she was charmed to renew her acquaintance with Phyllis, and that it seemed quite like old times. She went on to say that so far she had only been able to have a very brief chat with her, but that she hoped for many more in the near future. She was sure I would like to know that she was unhurt, but that how long that condition of affairs lasted depended on me entirely. That I should have a letter from her in the morning making things quite clear, and that all she could advise me to do for the present was to have a good night in. Then she rang off.”

“Well—that’s something,” said Darrell. “We know she’s unhurt.”

“Yes—I don’t think she would lie,” agreed Drummond. “But what’s she getting at? How can it depend on me?”

“That seems fairly obvious,” said Jerningham gravely. “You’re going to be put through it, old man, and if you don’t play nicely Phyllis is going to suffer. There’s no good not facing facts, and she’s got you by the short hairs.”

Drummond sat down heavily.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly. “I’ll do anything—anything. I wanted to ask her to-night if she would take me instead of Phyllis, but she’s rung off.”

Darrell laughed shortly.

“I don’t think the answer would have been very satisfactory even if she hadn’t,” he said. “You’re not a very comfortable person to have about the house, old boy.”

“Hell!” said Drummond tersely.

Then he stood up, and the expression on his face made me feel profoundly thankful that I was never likely to come up against him.

“I’m going to take one of your boats, Tracey,” he remarked. “Don’t wait up for me: I shan’t go to bed to-night.”

The next moment he had vanished through the open window.

“Poor devil,” said Bill. “I’m sorry for him. But I don’t see that there’s anything to be done.”

“There isn’t,” said Darrell. “We can only wait for this letter to-morrow morning.”

He helped himself to a whiskey and soda, and I followed his example. That was all we could do—wait for the letter. But it was impossible to prevent oneself speculating on the contents. What test was Drummond going to be put to? Was he going to be told to commit some crime? Some robbery possibly with his wife’s safety depending on his success?

What a ghastly predicament to be in! To have to run the risk of a long term of imprisonment, or else to know that he was putting his wife in danger. And even if he ran the risk how could he be sure that the others would stick to their side of the bargain? Avowedly they were criminals of the worst type, so what reliance could possibly be put on their word?

The others had gone off to the billiard-room, leaving Tracey and me alone. And suddenly the utter incredibility of the whole situation came over me in a wave. Not twelve hours ago had I been sitting peacefully in my club, earnestly discussing with the secretary whether the new brandy was as good as the last lot. He had said yes: I had disagreed. And it had seemed a very important matter.

I laughed: and he looked up at me quickly.

“I don’t see anything very humorous in the situation,” he remarked.

I laughed again.

“No more do I, Bill, not really. But it had just occurred to me that if I was suddenly transported to the smoking-room of the club, and I told the occupants that since I last saw them a lady had been kidnapped from your house, I had found a dead man in a ditch, and finally had been nearly murdered for my pains—they might not believe me.”

He grunted.

“You’re right,” he said. “They might not. At times I hardly believe it myself. Damn this accursed woman Irma—or whatever she calls herself!”

He mixed himself a drink savagely.

“We’re going to have hordes of newspaper men round the place, poking their confounded noses into everything. And, being Whitsuntide, they’ll probably run special steamers to view the scene of the crime. I tell you, Joe, I wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds. Of course I’m very sorry for Drummond—but I wish it had taken place somewhere else.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. “At the same time, Bill, don’t forget that everything that happened did take place somewhere else. The dead man I found was twelve miles from here—and he has since disappeared. The car has disappeared, too. In fact there’s nothing to connect the matter with this house.”

“What do you mean?” he said. “Nothing to connect it with this house! What about Mrs. Drummond? Wasn’t she staying here?”

“She was—undoubtedly. But hasn’t it occurred to you—mind you, I only put it forward as a possibility—that Drummond may be compelled by the gang who have got her to keep the fact of her disappearance quiet?”

“But the police know it already,” he cried.

“They know she went out in a car, and that the car was found empty. That does not necessarily mean that she has disappeared. We know she has, but that’s a very different matter. And if, as I surmise, Drummond is going to be ordered to commit a crime as the price for his wife’s life—or at any rate safety—the first essential is that he should keep the police out of it as much as possible.”

“Commit a crime!” He stared at me for a moment or two and then put down his glass on the table. “You really think that is going to be the next move?”

“I don’t know any more than you do,” I said. “The whole thing is so absolutely amazing that no ordinary rules seem to apply. If they had murdered the poor girl outright as an act of revenge it would at any rate have been understandable. But this new development can only mean that they are going to put pressure on him through his wife.”

“Well, I must frankly admit,” he said at length, “that the less that is known about this affair the better I shall be pleased. At the same time I’d hate to know that Drummond was running round the country robbing churches or something of that sort.”

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

“It might be a case, not of blackmail exactly, but of ransom. On the payment of a sum of money she will be returned.”

“Is he a wealthy man?” I asked.

“Quite well off. Do you think that’s the solution, Joe?”

“My dear old man,” I cried, “ask me another. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hopelessly at sea in my life. I shall put a cold compress round my neck, and go to bed. Presumably all our questions will be answered to-morrow morning.”

And to bed I went—but not to sleep. Try as I would I could not stop thinking about the affair. That last idea of Bill Tracey’s had a good deal to be said for it. And what would happen if Drummond wouldn’t pay—or couldn’t? People of the type we were up against were not likely to ask a small sum.

Would they go on keeping her a prisoner until he had scraped together the money? Or would they murder her? I shuddered at the thought: this was England, not a bandit-infested desert. They would never dare to run such an appalling risk. They might threaten, of course, but at that it would stop. And then as if to mock me I saw once again that evil face with its cynical smile! heard that voice: “Too easy,” felt those vice-like hands on my throat. Would they stop at that?

At last I could bear it no longer. I got up, and lit a cigarette: then I went and sat down by the open window. A very faint breeze was stirring in the trees: from the other end of the lawn came the mournful cry of an owl. And somewhere out there in the darkness was that poor devil Drummond, on the rack with anxiety and worry.

Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing fantastic shadows across the lawn—the clear-cut black and white shadows of the night. And after a while I began to imagine things: to see movement where there was no movement—to hear noises when there was no noise. Every board that creaked in the house seemed like the footsteps of a man, and once I started violently as a bat flitted past close to. In fact I came quite definitely to the conclusion that during the hours of darkness Piccadilly was good enough for me. With which profound reflection I got back into bed, and promptly fell asleep. But what the footman thought, I don’t know. Because when a motor-car with blood spouting from the radiator is on the point of knocking you down, and you see that it isn’t really a radiator, but the face of a man with a cynical smile who continually says “Too easy,” it is only natural that you should push that face. I did—and it was the footman’s stomach. The only comfort was that he had already put down the tea.