The Prejudiced Detective
Thornton, Mrs. Lemesurier’s parlour-maid, was enjoying her evening
out. To Mrs. Lemesurier and her sister, drinking their coffee after
dinner, came Thornton’s second-in-command.
“Please, ma’am,” she said, “there is a gentleman.”
“What? Who?” Lucia pushed back her chair.
“There is a gentleman, ma’am. In the drawing-room. He says might he see
you. Very important, he said it was. Please, ma’am, he wouldn’t give
no name.” The girl twisted her apron-strings nervously.
“Shall I go, dear?” Dora asked placidly. Inwardly she was frightened.
She had thought her sister recovered from her attack of the afternoon,
but here she was getting ill again. White-faced! Nervy! Not at all
like the usual Lucia.
Mrs. Lemesurier rose to her feet. “No, no. I’d better see him. Elsie,
what name—oh, you said he wouldn’t give one. All right. The
drawing-room, you said?” She walked slowly from the room.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused, fought for composure, gained
it, and entered. Anthony came forward to meet her.
Her hand went to her naked throat. “You!” she whispered.
Anthony bowed. “You are right, madam.”
“What do you want? What have you come here for, again?” So low was her
voice that he could barely catch the words.
“You know,” said Anthony, “we’re growing melodramatic. Please sit
down.” He placed a chair.
Mechanically she sank into it, one hand still at the white throat. The
great eyes, wide with fear, never left his face.
“Now,” said Anthony, “let us clear the atmosphere. First, please
understand that I have no object here except to serve you. I wasn’t
quite clear about that this morning, hence my clumsy methods. The next
move’s up to you. Suppose you tell me all about it.”
Her eyes fell from his. “All about what? Really, Mr.—Mr. Gethryn, do
you always behave in this extraordinary way?”
“Good! Quite good!” Anthony approved. “But it won’t do, you know. It
won’t do. I repeat, suppose you tell me all about it.”
She essayed escape by another way. She looked up into his face, a
light almost tender in her eyes.
“Did you—do you—really mean that about—about serving? Is it true that
you want to help me?” she asked. And still her voice was soft; but
with how different a softness!
“Most certainly.”
“Then I assure you, Mr. Gethryn, most honestly and sincerely, that you
will help me best by—by”—she hovered on the brink of admission—“by not
asking me anything, by not trying any more to—to——” She broke down.
Her voice died away.
Anthony shook his head. “No. You’re wrong, quite wrong. I’ll show you
why. Last night John Hoode was murdered. During the night you swam
across the river, crept up to the house, and crouched outside the
window of the room in which the murder was done. Why did you do all
this? Certainly not for amusement or exercise. Then, unless a
coincidence occurred greater than any ever invented by a novelist in
difficulties, your visit was in some way connected with the murder.
Or, at any rate, some of the circumstances of the murder are known to
you.”
“No! No!” Lucia shrank back into her chair.
“There you are, you see.” Anthony made a gesture. “I was putting the
point of view of the police and public—what they would say if they
knew—not giving my own opinion.
“The sleuth-hounds of fiction,” he went on, “are divinely impartial.
The minions of Scotland Yard are instructed to be. But I, madam, am
that _rarissima avis_, a prejudiced detective. Ever since this case
began I’ve been prejudiced. I’ve been picking up new prejudices at
every corner. And the strongest, healthiest, and most unshakable
prejudice of them all is the one in favour of you. Now, suppose you
tell me all about it.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she murmured, and looked up at him wide-eyed.
“You’re so—so bewildering!”
“I’ll go further, then. If I say that even if you killed Hoode and
tell me so, I won’t move in any way except to help you,
will—you—tell—me—all—about—it?”
Those eyes blazed at him. “Do you dare to suggest that I——”
“Oh, woman, Illogicality should be thy name,” Anthony groaned. “I was
merely endeavouring, madam, to show how safe you’d be in telling me
all that you know. Listen. I’m in this business privately. I oblige a
friend. If I don’t like my own conclusions, I shall say nothing about
them. I seek neither Fame nor Honorarium. I have, thank God, more
money than is good for me.” He was silent for a moment, and then
added: “Now, suppose you tell me all about it.”
She half rose, then sank back into her chair. Her eyes were full on
his. For a moment that seemed an hour he lost consciousness of all
else. He saw nothing, felt nothing, but those dark twin pools and the
little golden lights that danced deep down in the darkness.
“I believe you,” she said at last. “I _will_ tell you”—she laughed a
little—“all about it.”
Anthony bowed. “May I sit?” he asked.
“Oh! Please, please forgive me!” She sprang to her feet. “You look
_so_ tired—and I’ve kept you standing all this time. And while I’ve
been so melodramatic, too. Is there anything you——”
“Only your story.” Anthony had discovered a need to keep a hold upon
himself. Contrition had made her, impossibly, yet more beautiful. He
pulled up a chair and sat facing her.
The white hands twisted in her lap. She began: “I—I hardly know where
to begin. It’s all so—it doesn’t seem real, only it’s too dreadful to
be anything else——”
“Why did you go to Abbotshall last night? And why, in Heaven’s name,
since you did go there, did you choose to swim?” Anthony conceived
that questions would help.
“There wasn’t time to do anything else,” she said, seeming to gather
confidence. She went on, the words tumbling over each other: “We’d
been out all day—Dora and I and some friends. I—when we got back——Dora
and I—there was only just time to change for dinner. As I came in I
saw some letters in the hall, and remembered I’d not read them in the
morning—we’d been in such a hurry to start. Then I went and forgot
them again till after dinner.
“It wasn’t till after half-past ten that I thought of them. And then,
when—when I read the one from Jimmy, I—I—oh, God!—” She covered her
face with her hands.
“Who,” said Anthony sharply, “is Jimmy?”
With an effort so great that it hurt him to watch, she recovered. The
hands dropped to her lap again. He saw the long fingers twist about
each other.
“Jimmy,” she said, “is my brother. I’m most awfully fond of him, you
know. He _is_ such a darling! Only—only he’s not been quite the same
since he got back from Germany. He—he’s ill—and he’s—he’s been
d-drinking—and—he was a prisoner there for three years! When they got
him he was wounded in the head and they never even—the beasts! The
beasts! Oh, Jim, darling——”
“That letter, madam,” Anthony was firm.
“Yes—yes, the letter.” She choked back a sob.
“I—I read it. I read it, and I thought I should go mad! He said he was
going—going to sh-shoot Hoode—that night!”
“Your brother? What had he to do with Hoode?” Anthony was at once
relieved and bewildered. He knew why she had said, ‘Who shot him?’ But
why should Brother want to shoot?
She seemed not to have heard his question. “I tried hard—ever so
hard—to persuade myself that the letter was all nonsense, that it was
a practical joke, or that Jimmy was ill or—or anything. But I
couldn’t. He—he was so precise. The train he was coming by—and
everything. The——”
“What had your brother to do with Hoode?” Anthony interrupted. He felt
that unless she were kept severely to the point her self-control would
vanish altogether.
“He was his secretary until Archie took his place—about six months
ago. I—I never knew why Jimmy left, he wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t
tell me, I say!”
Anthony shifted uneasily in his chair. There had been a note of
hysteria in those last words.
Suddenly she was on her feet. “He did it! He did it!” she wailed, her
hands flung above her head. “Oh, Christ! he’ll be—oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!”
And then she began to laugh.
Anthony jumped at her, took her by the shoulders, and shook. The
ivory-white flesh seemed at once to chill and burn his clutching
fingers. With every movement of his arms her head lolled helplessly.
Knowing himself right, he yet detested himself.
The dreadful laughter changed to sobbing; the sobbing to silence.
“I’m s-sorry, p-please,” she said.
Anthony’s hands fell to his sides. “I,” he said, “am a brute. Please
sit down again.”
They sat. A silence fell.
At last he broke it. “Then you were so impressed by the sincerity of
your brother’s letter that you determined you must try to stop him. Is
that right?”
She nodded.
“But why, in God’s name, didn’t you walk or run, or do anything rather
than swim?”
“There wasn’t time. You see, it—it was so late—as I explained—before I
read the—the l-letter that I knew th-that Jimmy was probably almost
there. There wasn’t time to—to—to——”
“I see. Judging that you’d save at least ten minutes by crossing
the river here, you pretended you were going to bed, probably
removed the more clinging of your garments—if you didn’t put on a
bathing-dress—put on a pair of bathing-sandals to make running easy
without hindering swimming, slipped out of the house quietly and beat
all previous records to Abbotshall by at least ten minutes. That
right?”
“Yes.” Besides other emotions there was wonder in her tones.
“Good. Now, when you were kneeling outside the window of Hoode’s
study, what did you see? You’ll understand that if I am to be allowed
to help you I must find out all I can and as quickly as I can.”
Their lids veiled the great eyes. A convulsive movement of the white
throat told of the strain she was under. When she spoke it was without
feeling, without emphasis, like a dull child repeating a lesson
memorised but not understood.
“I saw a man lying face-downwards by the fireplace. There was blood on
his head. It was a bald head. I saw a clock half-fallen over; and
chairs too. And I came away. I ran to the river.”
“Do you know,” Anthony asked slowly, “what time it was when you got
back here?”
“No,” said the lifeless ghost of the voice that had thrilled him.
He was disappointed, and fell silent. Nothing new here, except, of
course, the brother. And of this business of Brother James he did not
yet know what to think.
With this silence, Lucia’s cloak of impassivity left her. ‘What shall
we do?’ she whispered. “What shall we do? They’ll find out that
Jimmy—they’ll find out. I _know_ they will, I——”
“The police know nothing about your brother, Mrs. Lemesurier.”
Anthony’s tone was soothing. “And if they did, they wouldn’t worry
their heads about him. You see, they’ve found a man they’re sure is
the murderer. There’s quite a good _prima facie_ case against him,
too.”
Relief flooded her face with colour. For a moment she lay relaxed in
her chair; then suddenly sat bolt upright again, her hands clutching
at its arms.
“But—but if they’re accusing some one else, they—we must tell them
about—about—Jimmy.” Her face was white, dead white, again.
“You go too fast, you know,” said Anthony.
“Don’t you think we’d better find out a few people who didn’t do it
before we unburden ourselves to the Law?”
She laid eager hands on his arm. “You mean—you think Jim didn’t—didn’t
do it?”
Anthony nodded. “More prejudice, you see. And I know the man the
bobbies have got hold of had nothing to do with it either. Again
prejudice. Bias, lady, bias! There’s nothing like it to clear the
head, nothing! Now, have you a telephone?”
“Yes, yes,” she said eagerly. Hope, trust and other emotions showed in
the velvet darkness of her eyes.
“And your brother’s address?”
Unhesitatingly she gave it; then added: “The phone’s in here.” She
pointed to a writing-table at the far end of the room.
As he turned to go to it, she clutched again at his arm. “Damn it!”
thought Anthony. “I _wish_ she wouldn’t keep doing that. So
disturbing!” But he smiled down at her.
“Isn’t it dangerous to use the telephone?” she whispered. “Isn’t it?
The girls at the exchange—if you use his name——”
“Credit me with guile,” smiled Anthony.
He crossed the room, sat by the table and pulled the instrument
towards him. She stood beside him, her fingers gripping the back of
his chair. He lifted the receiver and asked for a city number.
“Is it a trunk-call?” he added. “No? Good!”
To Lucia, her heart in her mouth, it seemed hours before he spoke
again. Then—
“Hallo. That _The Owl_ office?” he said. “It is? Well, put me on to
Mr. Hastings, please. At once. You can’t? My child, if I’m not put
through _at once_ you’ll go to-morrow! Understand?” A pause. To Lucia
it seemed that the heavy thudding of her heart must be filling the
room with sound. She pressed a hand to her breast.
Then Anthony’s voice again. “Ah, that you, Spencer? Oh, it’s the
unerring Miss Warren, is it? Yes, Gethryn speaking. He is, is he?
When’ll he be back? Or won’t he? Oh, you’re all always there until
after midnight, are you? Well, when he comes in, will you please tell
him—this is important—that I’ve run across some one who knows where
our old friend Masterson, Jimmy Masterson, is. Hastings will want to
see him at once, I know. He and I have been trying to find Masterson
for years. And say that I want to find out what Jimmy was doing last
night. Tell Hastings to ask him or find out somehow where he was. It’s
a great joke.
“The address is 84, Forest Road, N.W. 5. Now, Miss Warren, if you
wouldn’t mind repeating the message?” A pause. Then: “That’s exactly
right, Miss Warren, thanks. You never make mistakes, do you? Don’t
forget to tell Hastings he simply must go there this evening, whether
the work’ll allow him or not. And he’s got to ring me up here—Greyne
23—and tell me how he got on. And, by the way, ask him from me if he
remembers his Cicero, and tell him I said: _Haec res maxim est: statim
pare._ Got it? I won’t insult you by offering to spell it.
“Thanks so much, Miss Warren. Good-night.”
He replaced the receiver and rose from his chair. He turned to find
the face of his hostess within an inch of his own. The colour had fled
again from her cheeks; the eyes again held fear in them. It seemed as
if this passing-on of her brother’s name had revived her terror.
“Preserve absolute calm,” said Anthony softly. “The cry of the moment
is ‘dinna fash.’”. Gently, he forced her into a chair.
The eyes were piteous now. “I don’t—I don’t understand _anything!_”
she gasped. “What was that message? What will it do? What am I to—to
do? Oh, don’t go! Please don’t go!”
“The message,” Anthony said, “was to a great friend whose discretion
is second only to mine own. Don’t you think it was a nice message?
Nothing there any long ears at the exchange could make use of, was
there? All so nice and above board, I thought. And I liked the very
canine Latin labelled libellously ‘Cicero.’ That was to make sure he
understood that the affair was urgent. The need for discretion he’ll
gather from the way the message was wrapped up. Oh, I’m undoubtedly a
one, I am!
“And as for going, I’m not until I’ve had an answer from Hastings.
That ought to be about midnight. At least, I won’t go unless you ask
me to.” He sat down, heavily, upon a sofa.
Something—his calmness, perhaps—succeeded. He saw the fear leave the
face, that face of his dreams. For a moment, he closed his eyes. He
was thirsty for sleep, yet desired wakefulness. She glanced at him,
timidly almost, and saw the deep lines of fatigue in the thin face,
the shadows under the eyes.
“Mr. Gethryn,” she said softly.
“Yes?” Anthony’s eyes opened.
“You look _so_ tired! I feel responsible. I’ve been so very difficult,
haven’t I? But I’m not going to be silly any more. And—and isn’t there
anything I can do? You _are_ tired, you know.”
Anthony smiled and shook his head.
Suddenly: “Fool that I am!” she exclaimed; and was gone from the room.
Anthony blinked wonderingly. He found consecutive thought difficult.
This sudden recurrence of fatigue was a nuisance. “Haven’t seen her
laugh yet,” he murmured. “Must make her laugh. Want to hear. Now, what
in hell do we do if Brother James turns out to be the dastardly
assassin after all? But I don’t believe he is. It wouldn’t fit. No,
not at all!”
His eyes closed. With an effort, he opened them. To hold sleep at bay
he picked up a book that lay beside him on the couch. He found it to
be a collection of essays, seemingly written in pleasant and even
scholarly fashion. He flicked over the leaves. A passage caught his
eye. “And so it is with the romantic. He is as a woman enslaved by
drugs. From that first little sniff grows the craving, from the
craving the necessity, from the necessity—_facilis descensus
Averno_. . . .”
The quotation set his mind working lazily. So unusual to find that
dative case; they nearly all used the almost-as-correct but less
pleasant ‘_Averni_.’ But he seemed to have seen ‘_Averno_’ somewhere
else, quite recently, too. Funny coincidence.
The book slipped from his hand to the floor. In a soft wave, sleep
came over him again. His eyes closed.
He opened them to hear the door of the room closed softly. From behind
him came a pleasant sound. He sat upright, turning to investigate.
Beside a small, tray-laden table stood his hostess. She was pouring
whisky from decanter to tumbler with a grave preoccupation which lent
an added charm to her beauty. Anthony, barely awake, exclaimed aloud.
She turned in a flash. “You were asleep,” she said, and blushed under
the stare of the green eyes.
“I’m so psychic, you know,” sighed Anthony. “I always know when
spirits are about.”
She laughed; and the sound gave him more pleasure even that he had
anticipated. Like her voice, it was low and soft and golden.
She lifted the decanter again. “Say when,” she said, and when he had
said it: “Soda?”
“Please—a little.” He took the glass from her hand and tasted. “Mrs.
Lemesurier, I have spent my day in ever-increasing admiration of you.
But now you surpass yourself. This whisky—prewar, I think?”
“Yes.” She nodded absently, then burst out: “Tell me, why are you
doing all this for me—taking all this trouble? Tell me!”
To-night Anthony’s mind was running in a Latin groove. “_Veni, vidi,
vicisti!_” he said, and drained his glass.