LESLIE’S INTERVIEW
“How did you know he was dead?” asked Leslie again. “Who told you?”
“I--I heard.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Who told you? Nobody knows but the inspector and me, and I have come
straight away from the place where he was found. I left him three
minutes ago.”
“Three minutes? I don’t understand.” And then, as she saw that she had
been trapped for the second time, the colour came and went in Jane
Raytham’s face.
“I don’t wonder that you are surprised, Lady Raytham! You know that
Barnes Common is a little more than three minutes away, don’t you?”
The woman looked round like some hunted animal seeking an avenue of
escape.
“I know he is dead,” she said desperately.
And then she faced the girl with a new resolution and a courage which
Leslie could only admire.
“I know he’s dead!” she exclaimed. “I know he’s dead! Heaven knows who
killed him, but I found him there. I saw him as my car was passing--on
the sidewalk. I somehow knew it was he and got out. That is how I
know. I should have told the police, I suppose, but I was frightened,
terribly frightened. I thought I should faint.”
“Where were you going when you found his body?”
Leslie’s grave eyes were fixed on the woman.
“To--to the Princess Bellini. She has a house in Wimbledon.”
“But you couldn’t have parted with her for very long, when you decided
to follow her.”
Jane Raytham licked her dry lips.
“She left something behind--the night was rather pleasant--I wanted
the air, so I drove----”
“Won’t you sit down, Lady Raytham?” said the girl gently.
The woman looked ready to drop. With a little nod she sank down into
an easy-chair that was near at hand.
Humanity was at the back of Leslie Maughan’s suggestion, but there was
something else. She had learned at Scotland Yard never to interrogate
either a prisoner or a possible witness while you are on the same
level with them. It was a piece of information that had been conveyed
to her by the greatest of the criminal counsel of the Bar. “Put a
witness on a lower level,” he said, “and he’ll tell you the truth.”
Now she looked down at the broken woman who was nervously fingering
the arm of the chair, and a wave of pity swept over Leslie Maughan,
such as she had never experienced before.
“You were not going to Princess Bellini’s, Lady Raytham,” she said
gently. “You were looking for Druze; he had taken something of yours.”
Lady Raytham gazed at her without answering.
“You thought he had gone to the Princess Bellini’s. Is that the way,
across Barnes Common?”
“It is--a way--yes.”
“Then you saw the body and recognized it? Saw it in the light of your
headlamps, as we did? You weren’t on your way to Wimbledon at all; you
were coming back. I saw the rear lights of your car!”
Lady Raytham was breathing quickly.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t have seen the body otherwise. It lay on the left-hand
footpath as you came toward London, on the farther path as you came
from London. What kind of a car have you?”
Jane told her.
“So you had been to Princess Bellini? And what did Princess Bellini
tell you?”
“She was not at home.”
Instinctively Leslie Maughan recognized that Jane Raytham was speaking
the truth now.
“So you came back, and you found the body? Searched it?”
The woman nodded.
“What were you seeking?”
Again the quick movement of tongue across parched lips.
“I can’t tell you.”
Suddenly Leslie looked round. Noiselessly crossing the floor, she
turned the handle quickly and jerked open the door. Mrs. Gurden nearly
fell into the room.
“Are you fearfully interested?” asked Leslie. Her tone was almost
sweet.
The discomfited eavesdropper grimaced and tittered hysterically.
“I was just coming in--really, it was very awkward. My shoe lace came
unfastened and I was just stooping. I don’t know whatever you think of
me, but you really must believe me, Miss Maughan, you really must! I
think prying and spying people are simply dreadful, don’t you, dear?”
“I do, dear!” said Leslie dryly, and pointed to the stairs. “Would you
mind sitting on the bottom step until I come down?”
Greta went tittering down the stairs.
“Was she listening? Was she?” Lady Raytham asked the question with
unusual energy.
“No, I don’t think she had been there long. I have an uncanny
knowledge when I am being overheard. I had it just at that moment.
Lady Raytham, where is your emerald necklace?”
If she had struck the woman she could not have produced a more
startling effect. Jane Raytham sprang to her feet with a low cry and
put out a hand as though she were warding off some terrible menace.
For a second her beautiful face was distorted with fear.
“Oh!” she gasped out. “Why do you say that?”
“Where is your necklace? Can I see it?”
Jane Raytham thought for a moment, her chin on her breast, and then
slowly raised her eyes.
“Yes. Will you come with me?” she said in a whisper. Leslie followed
her out of the room into the bedroom on the right that opened from the
landing.
She switched on the lights, and they crossed to a corner of the room
where on the wall hung, apparently, a small Rembrandt in a gilt frame.
The picture must have been a very good copy, but it was no more. When
Jane Raytham touched the frame it swung open like a door and showed
behind a small, square safe set in the wall. Lady Raytham turned the
key with a hand that shook--not even her iron nerve could conceal her
emotion. Taking out a jewel box, she carried it to a table, pressed a
hidden spring, and the lid flew open. And there the dumfounded Leslie
saw the emerald chain--intact! Intact even to the square emerald
pendant!
Leslie picked up the jewel and surveyed it in bewilderment. Then,
opening her bag, she brought to light the emerald that had been found
in the dead hand of Druze and placed it by the side of the pendant of
the chain.
They were exactly alike.
“Are there two chains?” she asked.
“No,” said Jane Raytham.
“Is that the one you wore to-night?”
She nodded.
Her eyes were flaming. Even under that terrible strain, she could not
restrain her natural curiosity.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“We found it in Druze’s hand,” replied Leslie.
The woman’s mouth opened in astonishment.
“You found--nothing else? No other----” Again she stopped quickly.
“No other part of the chain--no. Wasn’t it this you were looking for?”
Leslie saw her expression change. Was it relief she detected?
Certainly her tone was lighter and less strained when she spoke.
“No, I wasn’t looking for that. Who killed him?”
“Who do you think?”
Eye to eye they stood, silent for the space of a second.
“Why should I suspect anybody?”
Leslie Maughan fired her second shot.
“Shall I suggest a name?” she asked. “Peter Dawlish!”
Again that quick upward jerk of the chin, as though she were meeting
some sickening pain.
“Peter Dawlish?” she said loudly. “Peter Dawlish! You’re mad--mad to
think Peter Dawlish----”
Without warning, she stumbled forward and Leslie had only time to
throw out her arms and take the weight of her as she fell in a swoon
to the ground.
In a second Leslie had pressed the bell and had thrown open the door.
The footman came running up.
“Open one of those windows, and get me some brandy.”
He gaped down at the white-faced woman on the floor.
“Is her ladyship ill?” he asked.
“Don’t ask questions! Open the window! Hurry.”
And as the French windows were thrown violently open, she said:
“Now get the brandy.”
Before the man had come back, Jane Raytham had opened her eyes and
stared inquiringly up into the face that was bent to hers.
“What happened? I fainted. I’m a fool! Let us go out.”
With Leslie’s assistance she rose unsteadily to her feet.
“I’d better put your jewel case back in the safe, hadn’t I? Or perhaps
you’d rather do it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the woman listlessly.
And in that moment Leslie Maughan guessed why Anthony Druze had died.
Slipping her arm round Jane Raytham’s waist, she took her back to the
drawing room, insisted upon her lying on the couch, propping a pillow
under her head, and throwing a heavy silken scarf that drooped on a
chair back over her feet.
“You’re very good,” murmured Lady Raytham, “and I loathe you so much!”
“I suppose you do,” said Leslie, “And yet you shouldn’t, because I
haven’t been at all unpleasant.”
Jane nodded her head in agreement.
“Will you keep very quiet when I tell you this? I haven’t suggested
that you will be under suspicion of shooting Druze.”
She had no need to be a reader of faces to realize that this
possibility had never occurred to Jane Raytham.
“I?” she said incredulously. “But how absurd! Why should I shoot? Oh,
but that is impossible! It is impossible that anybody should think
such a thing!” And, in spite of Leslie’s warning, she struggled erect.
“You don’t think so, do you?”
She was on her feet, peering into the girl’s face, her hand gripping
Leslie’s wrist fiercely.
“You don’t think so? I hated Druze! I hated him, hated him!” She
stamped her foot in her fury. “You don’t know what it has meant to
me--every morning to see his face, every minute liable to his
presence. Do you realize what that meant? I had to school myself so
that I didn’t shudder at the sight of him, and the mock humility of
his ‘yes, my lady’ and ‘no, my lady’ that I might sit unmoved at my
own table and face my own husband, and appear oblivious to the
horrible masquerade----”
She stopped, exhausted by her own vehemence.
Leslie waited a moment and then:
“What is Anthony Druze to you?”
Lady Raytham stared at her.
“To me--you mean---- What do you mean?”
Suddenly she burst into a paroxysm of laughter. It was dreadful to see
her.
“Oh, you fool! You little fool! Can’t you guess? Don’t you know?”
And then suddenly she ran out of the room. Leslie heard her bedroom
door slam and the snap of the turning key and knew that her interview
was ended.