THE MAN IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE
The hour of the theatre rush was long since over and its passing had
transformed the taxi-drivers from haughty autocrats to humble
suppliants. One taxi after another crawled slowly past the street
corner where Desmond had stood for over an hour in deep converse with
Gunner Barling, but neither flaunting flag nor appealingly uplifted
finger attracted the slightest attention from the athletic-looking man
who was so earnestly engaged in talk with a tramp. But at last the
conversation was over; the two men separated and the next taxi passing
thereafter picked up a fare.
At nine o’clock the next morning Desmond appeared for breakfast in his
sitting-room at Santona Road; for such was the name of the street in
which his new rooms were situated. When he had finished his meal, he
summoned Gladys and informed her that he would be glad to speak to Mrs.
Viljohn-Smythe. That lady having duly answered the summons, Desmond
asked whether, in consideration of terms to be mutually agreed upon,
she could accommodate his soldier servant. He explained that the
last-named was of the most exemplary character and threw out a hint of
the value of a batman for such tasks as the cleaning of the family
boots and the polishing of brass or silver.
The landlady made no objections and half an hour later a clean and
respectable-looking man arrived whom Desmond with difficulty recognized
as the wretched vagrant of the previous evening. This was, indeed, the
Gunner Barling he used to know, with his smooth-shaven chin and neat
brown moustache waxed at the ends and characteristic “quiff” decorating
his brow. And so Desmond and his man installed themselves at Santona
Road.
The house was clean and comfortable, and Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe, for all
her “refaynement,” as she would have called it, proved herself a
warm-hearted, motherly soul. Desmond had a small but comfortably
furnished bedroom at the top of the house, on the second floor, with a
window which commanded a view of the diminutive garden and the back of
a row of large houses standing on the lower slopes of the hill. So
precipitous was the fall of the ground, indeed, that Desmond could look
right into the garden of the house backing on Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe’s.
This garden had a patch of well-kept green sward in the centre with a
plaster nymph in the middle, while in one corner stood a kind of large
summer-house or pavilion built on a slight eminence, with a window
looking into Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe’s’ back garden.
In accordance with a plan of action he had laid down in his mind,
Desmond took all his meals at his rooms. The rest of the day he devoted
to walking about the streets of Campden Hill and setting on foot
discreet inquiries after Mrs. Malplaquet amongst the local
tradespeople.
For three or four days he carried out this arrangement without the
slightest success. He dogged the footsteps of more than one gray-haired
lady of distinguished appearance without lighting upon his quarry. He
bestowed largesse on the constable on point duty, on the milkman and
the baker’s young lady; but none of them had ever heard of Mrs.
Malplaquet or recognized her from Desmond’s description.
On the morning of the fourth day Desmond returned to lunch, dispirited
and heart-sick. He had half a mind to abandon his quest altogether and
to go and make his peace with the Chief and ask to be sent back to
France. He ate his lunch and then, feeling that it would be useless to
resume his aimless patrol of the streets, lit a cigar and strolled out
into the little back-garden.
It was a fine, warm afternoon, and already the crocuses were thrusting
their heads out of the neat flower-beds as if to ascertain whether the
spring had really arrived. There was, indeed, a pleasant vernal scent
in the air.
“A fine day!” said a voice.
Desmond looked up. At the open window of the summerhouse of the garden
backing on Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe’s, his elbows resting on the pitch-pine
frame, was a middle-aged man. A cigarette was in his mouth and from his
hands dangled a newspaper. He had a smooth-shaven, heavily-jowled face
and a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles on his nose.
Desmond remembered to have seen the man already looking out of a window
opposite his on one of the upper floors of the house. In reply to a
casual inquiry, Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe had informed him that the house was
a nursing home kept by a Dr. Radcombe, a nerve specialist.
“It is quite like spring!” replied Desmond, wondering if this were the
doctor. Doctors get about a good deal and Dr. Radcombe might be able to
tell him something about Mrs. Malplaquet.
“I think we have seen one another in the mornings sometimes,” said the
heavily-jowled man, “though I have noticed that you are an earlier
riser than I am. But when one is an invalid—”
“You are one of Dr. Radcombe’s patients, then!” said Desmond.
“I am,” returned the other, “a great man, that, my dear sir. I doubt if
there is his equal for diagnosis in the kingdom.”
“He has lived here for some years, I suppose?”
“Oh yes!” answered the man, “in fact, he is one of the oldest and
most-respected residents of Kensington, I believe!”
“I am rather anxious to find some friends of mine who live about here,”
Desmond remarked, quick to seize his opportunity, “I wonder whether
your doctor could help me...”
“I’m sure he could,” the man replied, “the doctor knows everybody...”
“The name—” began Desmond, but the other checked him.
“Please don’t ask me to burden my memory with names,” he protested. “I
am here for a complete rest from over-work, and loss of memory is one
of my symptoms. But look here; why not come over the wall and step
inside the house with me? Dr. Radcombe is there and will, I am sure, be
delighted to give you any assistance in his power!”
Desmond hesitated.
“Really,” he said, “it seems rather unconventional. Perhaps the doctor
would object...”
“Object” said the heavily-jowled man, “tut, tut, not at all. Come on,
I’ll give you a hand up!”
He thrust out a large, white hand. Desmond was about to grasp it when
he saw gleaming on the third finger a gold snake ring with emerald
eyes—the ring that Mrs. Malplaquet had given Bellward. He was about to
draw back but the man was too quick for him. Owing to the slope of the
ground the window of the summer-house was on a level with Desmond’s
throat. The man’s two hands shot out simultaneously. One grasped
Desmond’s wrist in a steel grip whilst the other fastened itself about
the young man’s throat, squeezing the very breath out of his body. It
was done so quickly that he had no time to struggle, no time to shout.
As Bellward seized him, another arm was shot out of the window. Desmond
felt himself gripped by the collar and lifted, by a most amazing effort
of strength, bodily over the wall.
His brain swimming with the pressure on his throat, he struggled but
feebly to recover his freedom. However, as Desmond was dropped heavily
on to the grass on the other side of the wall, Bellward’s grip relaxed
just for a second and in that instant Desmond made one desperate bid
for liberty. He fell in a crouching position and, as he felt Bellward
loosen his hold for a second with the jerk of his victim’s fall,
Desmond straightened himself up suddenly, catching his assailant a
violent blow with his head on the point of the chin.
Bellward fell back with a crash on to the timber flooring of the
pavilion. Desmond heard his head strike the boards with a thud, heard a
muttered curse. He found himself standing in a narrow lane, less than
three feet wide, which ran between the garden wall and the
summer-house; for the pavilion, erected on a slight knoll surrounded by
turf, was not built against the wall as is usually the case with these
structures.
In this narrow space Desmond stood irresolute for the merest fraction
of a second. It was not longer; for, directly after Bellward had
crashed backwards, Desmond heard a light step reverberate within the
planks of the summerhouse. His most obvious course was to scramble back
over the wall again into safety, in all thankfulness at having escaped
so violent an attack. But he reflected that Bellward was here and that
surely meant that the others were not far off. In that instant as he
heard the stealthy footstep cross the floor of the summer-house,
Desmond resolved he would not leave the garden until he had ascertained
whether Barbara Mackwayte was there.
Desmond decided that he would stay where he was until he no longer
heard that footstep on the planks within; for then the person inside
the summer-house would have reached the grass at the door. Desmond
remembered the arm which had shot out beside Bellward at the window and
swung him so easily off his feet. He knew only one man capable of
achieving that very respectable muscular performance; for Desmond
weighed every ounce of twelve stone. That man was Maurice Strangwise.
As soon as the creaking of the timbers within ceased, Desmond moved to
the left following the outer wall of the pavilion. On the soft green
sward his feet made no sound. Presently he came to a window which was
let in the side of the summerhouse opposite the window from which
Bellward had grappled with him. Raising his eyes to the level of the
sill, Desmond took a cautious peep. He caught a glimpse of the face of
Maurice Strangwise, brows knit, nostrils dilated, the very picture of
venomous, watchful rancor.
Strangwise had halted and was now looking back over the wall into Mrs.
Viljohn-Smythe’s back garden. Was it possible, Desmond wondered, that
he could believe that Desmond had scrambled back over the wall?
Strangwise remained motionless, his back now fully turned to Desmond,
peering into the other garden.
The garden in which the summer-house stood was oblong in shape and more
than twice as broad as it was long. The pavilion was not more than
forty yards from the back entrance of the house. Desmond weighed in his
mind the possibility of being able to dash across those forty yards,
the turf deadening the sound of his feet, before Strangwise turned
round again. The entrance to the back of the house was through a door
in the side of the house, to which two or three wrought-iron steps gave
access. Once he had gained the steps Desmond calculated that the side
of the house would shelter him from Strangwise’s view. He turned these
things over in his mind in the twinkling of an eye; for all his life he
had been used to quick decision and quick action. To cover those forty
yards across the open in one bound was, he decided, too much to risk;
for he must at all costs gain access to the house and discover, if
possible, whether Barbara Mackwayte were confined within, before he was
caught.
Then his eye fell on the plaster nymph in the middle of the grass. She
was a stoutly-built female, life-size, standing upon a solid-looking
pedestal fully four feet broad. Desmond measured the distance
separating him from the nymph. It was not more than twenty yards at the
outside and the pedestal would conceal him from the eyes of Strangwise
if the latter should turn round before he had made his second bound and
reached the steps at the side of the house.
He peeped through the window again. Strangwise stood in his old
attitude gazing over the garden wall. Then Desmond acted. Taking long
strides on the points of his toes, he gained the statue and crouched
down behind it. Even as he started, he heard a loud grunt from the
inside of the summerhouse and from his cover behind the nymph saw
Strangwise turn quickly and enter the summerhouse. On that Desmond
sprang to his feet again, heedless of whether he was seen from the
house, ran lightly across the grass and reached the steps at the side
of the house.
The door stood ajar.
He stood still on the top step and listened for a moment. The house was
wrapped in silence. Not a sign of life came from within.
But now he heard voices from the garden and they were the voices of two
angry men, raised in altercation. As he listened, they drew nearer.
Desmond tarried no longer. He preferred the unknown perils which that
silent house portended to the real danger advancing from the garden. He
softly pushed the door open and slipped into the house.