Irons in the Fire
1
Up in his little, low-ceilinged, oak-panelled sitting-room in the Bear
and Key, Anthony sat the girl in the one arm-chair. She refused whisky
so pleadingly that he ordered tea. When it had come and the bearer
departed, he sat on the table and watched her drink.
“Now,” he said, “suppose you tell me all about it,” and was
immediately smitten with very fragrant memories of another occasion
when he had used that phrase.
Dora Masterson said simply: “I was frightened. Oh, so horribly,
_horribly_ frightened!”
Anthony was puzzled. “But why just now? Surely you must have felt like
this as soon as you heard?”
“N-no. Of course it was—terrible! But Lucia told me what you said, Mr.
Gethryn—and she—she seemed to so absolutely _believe_ that you would
make everything all right that I—I tried to believe too.”
Anthony’s heart gave a leap that startled him.
The girl went on, struggling for control. “But—but it was when I heard
about the end of the inquest—that he was actually in—— Oh, it’s too
awful! It’s too _terrible!_” She swayed about in the big chair, hands
hiding her face, the slim shoulders twisting as if her pain were
bodily.
Again was Anthony puzzled. Something in the tone told him that here
was something he had not heard of. And this tendency to hysteria must
be stopped.
“What d’you mean? Explain!” he said sharply.
She sat upright at that, her face working. “I mean that—that—if only I
hadn’t been a senseless, vicious little fool; if—if only I hadn’t
be-behaved like a b-beastly schoolgirl, Archie wouldn’t—wouldn’t be in
that awful place! Oh! why was I ever born!” She pressed her hands to
her face and doubled up in the chair until her forehead rested on her
knees.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand yet,” said Anthony.
She raised her head. “Weren’t you at the inquest?” she asked, dabbing
at her swollen eyes with the back of a hand like the schoolgirl she
had named herself.
“Not exactly,” said Anthony, and wondered how many more times he would
have to answer this question.
“Why, then you—you don’t know that—that Archie s-said he went out for
a walk during the time when the—the Thing must have been done. And the
_beasts_ d-don’t believe him because nobody at all saw him while he
was out!”
“I still don’t——”
She broke in on his sentence with a flood of speech, springing to her
feet.
“Oh, you fool, you fool!” she cried. “_I_ ought to have seen him! _I_,
_I_, _I!_ _I_ was to have met him down there on the bank, this side,
by the bridge. We’d arranged a walk! And then because _I_ thought _I_
was some one; because _I_ thought he had been rude to _me_ that
afternoon, I must needs think _I_ would punish _him_! And I didn’t go!
I didn’t meet him! I stayed at home! Christ help me, I stayed at
home!”
Anthony was shocked into sympathy. “My _dear_ chap,” he said. “My
_dear_ chap!” He went to her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “You
poor child!”
Wearily, she sank against him. The reddish-golden head fell on his
shoulder. But she made no sound. She was past tears.
For a moment they stood thus, while he patted the slim shoulder. Then
she drew herself upright and away from him.
“You must sit down,” he said.
She looked up at him. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean
to—to make such a fool of myself. And I was very rude.” She sat down.
Anthony waved aside apology. “What we’ve got to do,” he said, smiling
down at her, “is to do something.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But what, what? Oh, you said I could help, but I
believe you only did it out of kindness. But if I could really
help—how much less—less filthy I should feel!”
Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether
of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he
was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time.
“Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,” he said to himself;
then aloud: “You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think.
In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. I mean,
I’ve found out more than the other fellows—the police—but it’s all
odds and ends and tangles—little things, queer in themselves, that men
would tell me might be found anywhere if one only troubled to look for
’em. But I say they’re not; that they fit!”
The girl was sitting upright now, alert, gazing at him intently.
“Think, then,” she whispered.
“Now for it,” thought Anthony, “and God send it’ll take her in—and
quickly.”
Aloud, he began: “Reconcile for me—put these things into order and
make ’em mean something—if you can. Innocent finger-prints on a weapon
which performed a murder. An innocent person—not the one of the
finger-prints—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that
the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi,
the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in
accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret
drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious
attacks on corpse when alive. Finger-prints——”
“Mr. Gethryn!” the girl interrupted harshly; “you’re making fun of me!
No, that’s not fair; you’re just playing with me to make me think I
can help. No doubt you mean to be kind—but I _hate_ it!”
Anthony for once was crestfallen. The truth of the accusation was so
complete as to make an answer impossible. He found himself in the
indefensible position of one “who means well.” He groped wildly for
words, but was saved; for, suddenly, Dora sprang to her feet.
“Those cuttings!” she cried. “Did you mean—do you _really_ want to
know anything about them?”
Anthony was surprised. “Most certainly I do. I don’t know exactly what
I want to know, but that means I want to know everything.”
“Well, go and see Jim—my brother—now, at once!” She stamped her foot
at him in her excitement. “When he was secretary to Mr. Hoode he was
full of those attacks in the press. I remember we thought he was
rather silly about them. He used to say there was something more than
mere—what did he call it?—policy behind them, and swore he’d make Mr.
Hoode take notice of them. I _think_ it was what they eventually
quarreled about, but I’m not sure, because he’d never tell me. He
wouldn’t even tell Loo—my sister. But if you want to know anything
about those papers, Mr. Gethryn, Jimmie’s more likely to be able to
tell you than any one else!”
Anthony looked at her and said: “The best apology I can make to you is
to go up to town now. Your brother ought to be well enough by this
time. He’s got to be!” He paused; then added with a smile: “You know
you wouldn’t have found me out if I’d been less preoccupied. I’m a bit
tired, too.”
Dora, forgetting herself, looked at him closely. “Why—why, you look
almost _ill_!” she cried, “p’r’aps you—oughtn’t to go to-night.”
“Oh, I’m going right enough,” Anthony said; “and now. And I’m not ill;
that’s only my interesting pallor. You must go home—and don’t worry.”
She cried: “How can I _help_ worrying? Worrying till I wish I’d never
been born! Unless there’s a miracle——”
“Chesterton once wrote,” Anthony interrupted her, “that ‘the most
wonderful thing about miracles is that they sometimes happen.’ And
he’s a great and wise man.”
The girl flashed a tremulous smile at him and passed out of the door.
2
At ten minutes past ten the great red Mercedes drew up outside the
block of flats where Spencer Hastings lived. Anthony had broken his
own record of that afternoon for the Kensington-Marling journey.
Stiffly, he clambered to the pavement, noted with curiosity that his
hands were shaking, and ran up the steps. As he went he wondered would
he see Her. He arrived at the door of No. 15 more out of breath than
the climb should have made him.
Wonderfully, it was She who opened it, and at her smile the shortness
of his breath was foolishly increased. For the smile was one, it
seemed, of open delight at seeing him.
Hastings, she told him, was out, being at his office. His housekeeper,
too, was out, being on holiday. But wasn’t Mr. Hastings a dear? Wasn’t
Mr. Hastings’s betrothed a charming betrothed? The invalid was ever so
much better; temperature down; sleeping; in fact, almost all right.
And she hadn’t forgotten how everything, everything was due to the
sagacity, kindliness, and general wonderfulness of Mr. Gethryn!
They were by this time in the little drawing-room; and as yet Anthony
had done nothing save stare with all his eyes. She finished speaking,
and he realized that he must say something. But what? He wanted to
shout to Heaven that he hadn’t seen her for hours longer than years.
He wanted to catch her hands—those long, slim hands—and cover them
with kisses. He wanted to tell her that she was most glorious of women
and he the vainglorious fool who dared to love her. He wanted—oh, what
did he not want?
He said: “Er—good evening. Hastings out?”
She opened her eyes at him. “But—but, Mr. Gethryn, I’ve just told you
that Mr. Hastings is at his office!”
“Of course. Ah, yes,” said Anthony.
“Did you want to see him?”
Anthony recovered himself; remembered that he had work to do, and that
by attending to it he could save himself from behaving foolishly.
“No,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Lemesurier, I must see your brother.” It
was, he thinks now, the great fatigue which had accumulated during the
past days and the strain of that flying drive which led him to speak
with such curtness.
“To see Jim? Oh, but you can’t,” Lucia said. Her tone was gentle and
rather aloof and very firm.
“Oh, but I must,” Anthony said. His loss of temper is regrettable, and
was inexplicable to himself even at the time.
The dark eyes blazed at him. “You can’t,” she said.
Anthony said with brutal clearness: “Mrs. Lemesurier, I am, as best I
know how, trying to clear of the charge of murder a man I believe
innocent. I’ve got to a point where a five minutes’ conversation with
your brother will help me. Your brother—you have told me
yourself—cannot be considered as seriously ill. I must see him.”
This time it was her eyes that fell. Anthony was angry—with himself.
And a man angry with himself is invincible.
With a grace that burned a picture into his mind she crossed the room,
to stand with her back to the door.
Anthony picked his hat from the table and walked slowly towards her,
smiling as he walked. It was not a nice smile. It was a smile which
crept up on one side of his face and stopped before it reached his
eyes. A black smile. There are men in odd corners of the world who
would counsel, out of personal experience, that when one sees that
smile one had better get out.
He came close to her, still smiling. For a moment she faced him; then
faltered; then stood to one side and let him pass.
He closed the door softly behind him and began his search for the
sick-room. He found it at once. He entered, closing this door even
more softly.
A shaded lamp arranged to leave the bed in shadow was the only light.
In the bed lay a man. Peering at his face, Anthony could trace a
certain faint resemblance. He sat on the chair by the bed and waited.
“What the devil are you?” said a weak voice.
Clearly, but with rapidity, Anthony explained his presence.
“I’m sorry,” he said in conclusion, “to disturb a sick man, and I’ll
get the business over as quickly as possible. But I’ve got to find out
all I can, you see.”
“Quite, quite.” Masterson’s voice was stronger now. Free of fever,
shaven, clean, he was vastly different from Margaret’s bogey.
“How can I help?” he asked after a silence.
Anthony told him. Bored at first, Masterson woke to sudden interest at
the mention of the newspaper-cuttings.
“So he _did_ keep ’em!” He lifted himself in the bed to rest on one
elbow.
Anthony pushed the little bundle of slips into the thin hands.
Eagerly, the sick man read each.
“Some of these are new,” he said. “After my time with Hoode, I mean.
But these three—and this one—I remember well. Dammit, I ought to!
These are what we had that infernal row about.”
“How?”
“Well, you see, I’d been watching these three papers for a long time,
and I’d come to a definite conclusion that there was one man behind
all the attacks. I told Hoode so, and he laughed at the idea! That
made me as mad as hell. I’ve always had a foul temper, but since the
war, y’know, it’s really uncontrollable. I mean I actually can’t help
it.”
“I know,” Anthony nodded.
“That’s all. I cursed him for a blind, pig-headed, big-headed fool,
and he sacked me. He couldn’t very well do anything else. I still feel
very bitter about it; though not quite so much now he’s dead. He was
such a brilliant cove in some ways, but so blasted silly in others.
Simply wouldn’t listen to what I had to say—and I was sweating to
benefit him!”
“‘Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Easy!’” said Anthony.
“Exactly; but zeal’s a damn good thing at times, ’specially in private
secretaries, and being turned down like that made me brood. I really
couldn’t help it, you know. After I got the sack I brooded to such an
extent that I simply went to pieces. Drank too much. Made an idiot of
myself. I say, Lucia’s told me all about things, and I want to
thank——”
“You can do that best,” Anthony interrupted, “by keeping on about
Hoode and these press-cuttings. I’ve made some conclusions about ’em
myself, but you know more.”
A slight flush rose to the sallow cheek of the man in bed. He turned
restlessly.
“When I come to think of it,” he said nervously, “I don’t _know_ a
great deal. “Mostly surmise, and from what I’ve heard of you I should
say you’re better at that game than I am.”
Anthony grew grim. “Some one’s been exaggerating. You fire ahead. The
sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be able to get away and leave you in
peace.”
Masterson said hesitantly: “All right. When I first saw the things
coming out one by one I didn’t think anything about ’em. But after a
week or so—it may have been a month—something queer struck me. At
first I couldn’t place it. Then after collecting a few of the
articles, I tumbled. It seemed to me that one man was behind ’em.
More, that one man was writing ’em—and for three papers of widely
different politics and apparently belonging to different people!”
Anthony was pleased. “You support me. I thought the author seemed to
be one man, though I’ve not had time to study the things carefully. I
went so far as to think—the authorship being the same and the papers
so different in views—that one man controlled all three.” He fell
silent a moment, then added slowly: “One might consider, you know,
whether the controller and the writer——”
But Masterson interrupted. “Look here,” he said, sitting up in obvious
excitement, “how did you spot the unity of authorship business?”
“Similarity of style, I think.” Anthony was reflective. “I’ve got
quite an eye for style. Two or three times the fellow tried to
disguise it. By doing that he gave the game away completely.”
“Oh, but there was more than that!” cried the other, fumbling with
shaking hands at the sheaf of cuttings. “Wait till I find—ah! Now,
look at this. ‘The Minister of Imperial Finance, in his efforts for
advancement of self, would do well to remember that hackneyed line of
Pope: “A little learning is a dangerous thing.”’ Did you see that?”
Anthony opened his eyes. “I did. And thought how refreshing it was to
see the quotation given right. They nearly all get it wrong, though
you’d think any one could see that Pope couldn’t have been such a fool
as to say a little knowledge was dangerous. Knowledge is always
useful; learning isn’t—until you’ve got plenty. But go on: what about
it?”
Masterson was searching feverishly. “Tell you when I’ve found—here we
are! Listen. Er-um Finance—policy—rumty-tumty—‘when Greek joins Greek,
then comes the tug-of-war!’ There you are again. How many times d’you
see that given right?”
“Never,” said Anthony. “They all say ‘meets.’”
“There you are, then. It all goes to prove what you felt and I’m
certain about.” He tapped the bundle of cuttings with a lean finger.
“All these were written by the same man; there’s not a doubt in my
mind. Style—similarity in style, I mean—isn’t proof; but this orgy of
correctitude _plus_ that similarity is. At least it’s good enough for
me. There are plenty more instances if you want them. There’s one I
remember well—a leader in _Vox Populi_. It was a more vicious attack
on Hoode even than the others, and it was so damn’ well done that it
was almost convincing. It said, apropos of him: ‘_facilis descensus
averno_.’ What about that?”
Anthony sat up. “‘_Averno_’ is very rare,” he said slowly. “But it’s a
better reading. I saw it. I wondered. I wondered a lot.”
There was a silence. The two looked at each other.
“Masterson,” Anthony said at last, “you’re very useful, you know. Most
useful. Wish you weren’t sick a-bed. Now here’s another point. We’ve
fixed the author of these articles as one man; but what about the
motive force behind the author. I’m inclining to the view that as
these papers differ so widely in everything else they are controlled
by some one whose only interest in them was to do Hoode a bad turn.
Agree?”
Masterson nodded emphatically.
“Right.” Anthony leaned forward, speaking softly. “But did this motive
force hire some one to write for it, or was its distaste for the
unfortunate Robin Hoode so great that it wrote itself, being unwilling
to forgo the pleasure of, so to speak, giving birth to a new litter of
scorpions three times a month or more? Briefly, are you with me in
thinking that author and motive force are probably one and the same?”
“By God, I am!” Masterson said.
Anthony smiled. “Well, thank God I’ve found another lunatic! That’s
what we are, you know. Think of our theory! It is that some one had
such a hatred of Hoode that the secret purchase of three newspapers
was needed to assuage it. That’s what we’ve said; we’re thinking more.
But we’re frightened to say what it is because it’ll sound so silly.”
“I know. I know.” Masterson’s tone was almost fearful. “I say, we
_can’t_ be right! It isn’t sense! Now I come to think of it there are
dozens of other theories that’d fit. There might be more than one
person. The whole thing might be political. The——”
Anthony raised a hand for silence. “Fear not. Of course you can fit
other theories. One always can; that’s the devil of this bloodhound
business. The only way to work is to pick a likely-looking path and go
down it. I’ve chosen one to get on with. As you say, it’s not sense;
but then nothing else is. It’s sad and bad and very mad and very far
from sweet. But there it is. So we’ll all go mad. I’m starting now.”
He got to his feet.
“Here, wait a minute!” Masterson cried. “Don’t go. I—I might be able
to help you.”
“My dear fellow, you have already—immeasurably! For one thing you’ve
crystallised my determination to go mad and stay mad——”
“Oh, I know all about that!” Masterson exhibited some irritation. “But
I mean really help. I was just going to tell you. When I was with
Hoode, before I told him about this business, I went to one of those
filthy private inquiry agents. I was so absolutely certain, you see. I
told this chap to find out, if he could, who the enemy was. Or rather
I told him to find out who really owned the three newspapers. He
thought I was mad, said he could do it in a day—but he didn’t! I think
he imagined he’d only got to look it up or get some one from Fleet
Street to tell him. Of course, that didn’t work, he only gave me the
three figureheads that’re shown to the trusting world. But when I
laughed at him, and explained a little, I think he got his back up and
really went for the job.”
“D’you mean to say——” began Anthony.
“No, I don’t! Before I heard any more I had the row with Hoode—I
didn’t tell _him_ about the ’tec, of course; I was too angry—and
dropped the whole business and paid this chap off. He was very fed
up—kept trying to see me, and writing. Of course—well in the state I
was in, I refused to see him and chucked his letters into the fire.
But he was so very eager! He _might_ know something, I think!”
Anthony was elated. “He might indeed. Masterson, you’re a treasure!
What’s the name?”
“Pellet, he calls himself. Office is at 4, Grogan’s Court, off Fleet
Street, just past Chancery Lane.”
“Excellent! Now I’m going.” Anthony held out his hand. “And thank you.
Hope I’ve done you no harm.”
“Not a bit. Feel better already. Let me know how you get on. Going to
sleep now,” said the invalid, and did, before Anthony had reached the
door.
In the passage, Anthony hesitated. Should he go straight from the flat
or should he tell Her first that he was going? Then, as he reached it,
the door of the drawing-room opened.
The passage was dimly lit, and at first she did not see him. He moved
towards her. There came a startled “Oh!” of surprise; then she
straightened herself into a rigidity eloquent of protest. Anthony
groaned. He had hoped the ruffled feathers smooth again.
“Your brother,” he said, “is asleep. By the look of him he’s in for a
good twelve hours. He’s none the worse and I’m even more full of
information than I’d hoped to be. So everything in the garden is
lovely!”
But Lucia was angry. Lucia was not to be put off by this
light-and-airyness. When she spoke her voice was cold; cold and cruel.
She meant to hurt—and succeeded.
“Is there nothing,” she said, “that my brother and I can help you with
further? Nothing that we can be _made_ to do? A woman and a sick man!
Oh, surely there is?”
For the second time that night Anthony lost his temper. One must, to a
certain extent, forgive him. He was worried and tired and harassed and
very much in love. He laughed, and peered down at her in the
half-light. Lucia caught her breath. Like many lesser women she had,
being angry, said far more than she had meant. And now she was sorry,
and—well, yes, frightened.
“Before I go,” Anthony said, “I will tell you a story. Once on a time
there was a woman who had a big brother and a little sister. One
night, she heard that her big brother, who was living in the great
city, was sick with a chill. Good friends had taken him to their house
and were caring for him. But the woman posted to the great city to
make sure that her brother was indeed being well tended.
“But,” he went on, “she left behind her in the country her little
sister. Now, this maid was in great sorrow, for her lover had been
seized by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and thrust into
a dungeon. Here he was to stay until the king’s judges had decided
whether or no to hang him for a misdeed of which he had not been
guilty. So, left alone, the little sister grew more and more lonely
and frightened, and became in danger of falling ill, She had nobody to
comfort her, you see. But that, of course, did not matter, because big
brother had his mustard plaster in the right place at last.”
He walked to the front-door; opened it. “Good night,” he said, and
shut it gently behind him.
Hands gleaming pale against her throat, Lucia leant against the wall
of the passage.
Down in the street, Anthony jumped into his car; then for a moment sat
staring before him. Like many lesser men, he had, being angry, said
more than he had meant. And now he was frightened.
They had, it must be admitted, behaved like silly children. Very silly
children. But then the best people so often do.