Anthony’s Busy Day
1
He covered the distance to the village in a time creditable for so hot
a day. As he passed the Bear and Key, a knot of men stopped their
conversation to eye him with thirsty interest. He smelt reporter and
passed by, giving silent thanks to the efficiency of Boyd. Now that
the case seemed, to the public at least, as good as over, there was no
real danger; but had the news-hungry hordes been let loose at first to
overrun Abbotshall, Heaven alone knew how impossible things would have
been.
For the case of the murdered minister had seized violently on public
imagination. It was so like, so very like, the books the public had
read yesterday, were reading to-day, and would read to-morrow and
to-morrow. Great Britain (and Ireland) was divided now into two
camps—pro and anti-Deacon. The antis had a vast majority. Many of them
held that to waste time on a trial which would be purely formal was
disgraceful. The wretch, they said, should be hanged at once. Not a
few were convinced that hanging was too merciful. It was all very
funny, really, thought Anthony, and wished he could laugh. But
whenever he tried to realise how funny it was, he thought of Deacon,
and then found that it wasn’t funny at all, but rather terrible.
On this morning, though, he was at least on the road to high spirits,
and walked on down the twisting, cobbled street towards the
police-station, whistling beneath his breath. The whistle bewailed the
cruel death of Cock Robin.
Still whistling, he ran up the steps of the police-station. As he
passed through the doorway the whistling stopped, cut off in the
middle of a bar. He stepped to one side, away from the door. Coming
towards it were Lucia Lemesurier and her sister.
Neither at once saw Anthony. Then, with a gracious smile to
officialdom, Lucia turned and looked full at him. He raised his hat
and looked grim. He didn’t mean to look grim; he was merely trying to
behave well in a police-station to a lady he loved and had offended.
Lucia flushed and bowed coldly and walked down the steps. She hadn’t
meant to do any of these things; but the man _did_ look so forbidding.
“Conceited idiot!” she said to herself, referring to Anthony and not
meaning it in the least.
“Hell!” said Anthony under his breath, and went rather white.
Dora Masterson held out her hand. “Good-morning,” she said, and looked
curiously at him.
From somewhere he dragged out a smile.
“Morning. Feeling better?”
She beamed at him. “Oh, ever so much! Archie seems so—so exactly as if
everything was the same as usual. He’s wonderful! And I haven’t
forgotten what you said about miracles. You will do one, won’t you?”
With another smile she ran down the steps and after her sister. She
had scented an intriguing mystery in the behaviour of these two.
Anthony emerged from thought to find the inspector looking at him with
barely veiled curiosity. He essayed a cheerful manner. Perhaps the
inspector would be so good as to let him see Mr. Deacon. If the
inspector remembered, Superintendent Boyd——
In less than two minutes he was alone with the prisoner.
Deacon put down the book he was reading.
“Hallo-allo! More visitors for the condemned man. Good job you’re
early. I believe they’re moving me to the county clink about eleven.”
Anthony sat down upon the bed. “How are you?” he said. He said it to
gain time. His thoughts, once so carefully ordered, had been thrown
into much confusion. That bow had been so extremely distant.
“To tell you the truth,” Deacon said slowly and heavily, “I feel
absolutely rotten! It’s beginning to get on my nerves—all this!” He
made a sweeping gesture. “It—I feel——” He broke off and laughed.
“Fan-tods won’t do any good, will they? And it’s only what I might
have expected. Nurse always told me my middle name was Crippen.”
Admiration and sympathy cleared Anthony’s head. “When’s the
magistrate’s court?” he asked abruptly.
“The balloon, I believe, goes up at 10 a. m. the day after to-morrow.”
Anthony muttered: “Day after to-morrow, eh? Well, it may,” and
relapsed into silence.
Deacon half rose, then sat down again. “After you left me last night,”
he said, after a pause, “I had a visit from Crabbe—the solicitor
Digby-Coates got. We had a long talk, and he’s going to prime
Marshall, who’s going to come and see me to-morrow himself. So all the
legal business is fixed up.”
“Good,” said Anthony. “What I came for this morning was to ask you two
questions. Are you ready?”
“Aye ready!”
“Have you any money? Beside the salary you got from Hoode, I mean.”
“About two hundred and fifty a year,” said Deacon. “When Cousin James
dies of port it’ll be about three thousand.”
“That’s good. You made that point with the solicitor, I hope. It tends
to destroy that insane theft theory.”
“I told the bloke all right. But it won’t count much, I’m afraid. You
see, I’ve been awfully broke for quite a time now. One thing and
another, you know. However!” He shrugged.
Anthony said: “Now the second question. And it’s really important!
Think carefully before you answer. When recently—say within the last
week—have you had in your hands _any_ implement of any kind with a
wooden handle four inches long and about three and a half round?
Think, man, think!”
2
Ten minutes later, Anthony was running up the High Street towards his
inn. Arrived there, he found a telegram. It read: “Authentic
astounding revelations by Pellet what next Hastings.”
Anthony wrote on a telegraph form: “Wait with you afternoon office
keep Pellet Gethryn.” The form he gave to the barman with a
ten-shilling note and instructions for immediate despatch, and then
set off for Abbotshall at a fast walk.
As he entered the gates, a car—an unfamiliar green Daimler, a woman
seated primly beside the chauffeur—left them. In spite of the heat it
was closed. Peering, Anthony saw the only occupant of the tonneau to
be a woman. She was veiled. He deduced the flirtatious Mrs. Mainwaring
and her Gallic maid. The sight appeared to amuse him. He walked on to
the house humming beneath his breath.
Sir Arthur, he was told by a rejuvenated Belford, was believed to be
in his own sitting-room.
Anthony mounted the stairs. He found Sir Arthur’s door ajar; on it was
pinned a notice in red ink: “Please do not disturb.” From where he
stood, all Anthony could see was the big armchair drawn up to the
window, the top of an immaculate head above its back and some six
inches of trouser and a boot-sole by each of its front legs.
Anthony chuckled, knocked, and entered. Sir Arthur rose, turning a
frowning face towards the intruder. As he saw who it was, a smile
replaced the frown.
“You looked,” said Anthony, “like some weird animal, sitting like
that. Hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Not a bit, my boy, not a bit. Very glad to see you.” He picked up
some sheets of paper from the chair. “As a matter of fact, I was just
jotting down a few notes. I’d like you to read them—not now, but when
they’re finished.” He hesitated; then added rather shyly: “They’re
just some ideas I’ve had about this awful business. Somehow, I can put
them more clearly in writing. I want to give them to Marshall before
the boy’s tried, but I’d like you to see them first. There might
possibly be some points which have escaped you, though I expect not.”
“I’d like to look at ’em very much,” Anthony said. “Get them done as
quick as you can, won’t you? Now, what I interrupted you for: is there
in the house a good collection of reference books?”
“There is. Right-hand book-case in the study. You’ll find anything you
want from sawdust to Seringapatam. John got together the most
comprehensive reference library _I’ve_ ever seen.”
“Good!” Anthony turned to the door. “No, don’t trouble to come, I’ll
find ’em!”
It was, as Sir Arthur had said, a most comprehensive collection.
Anthony locked the study door and sat at the big writing-table, now
back in its old place, surrounded by the volumes of his choice. They
were many and varied.
He worked for an hour, occasionally scribbling notes on a slip of
paper. At last he rose, stretched himself, and returned the books to
their shelves. Again sitting at the table, he studied his notes. They
appeared to afford him satisfaction. He folded the paper and took out
his note-case. As he opened it, the bunch of newspaper-cuttings
fluttered down to rest upon the table.
He picked them up and slid them, with the notes he had scribbled, back
into the case. As he did so a line of the topmost cutting caught his
eye. It was the quotation from the _Æneid_ which Masterson had
referred to and which then had titillated some elusive memory. Now
where, recently, had he seen this unusual and meticulous dative case?
His mind wrestled with forgetfulness; then, suddenly tired, refused to
work longer on so arduous a task. As minds will, it switched abruptly
off to the matter with which it most wished to be occupied. Before
Anthony’s eyes came a picture of a dark, proud face whose beauty was
enhanced by its pallor. He thought of her as he had seen her that
morning; as he had seen her that first time; as she had sat in her
drawing-room that night—the night he had made her tell him all about
it.
His mind, remorseful, perhaps, made a half-hearted attempt to get back
to that tiresome business of the correct quotation from Virgil.
Suddenly, it connected the work and the woman. The great light of
recaptured memory burst upon him.
He jumped for the telephone; asked for Greyne 23; was put through at
once; thought: “Wonder who’ll answer?” then heard the “Hallo” of a
servant.
“Miss Masterson in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. What name shall I say?”
He told her. Waiting, he grew excited. If by any chance he was right,
here was yet more confirmation of his theory.
Dora Masterson’s voice came to his ears. “Hallo. Is that Mr. Gethryn?
I——”
Anthony interrupted. “Yes. I wonder whether you can help me. The
second time I was in your house I picked up a book. Little green book.
Soft leather binding. Essays. Pleasantly written. One was called ‘Love
at First Sight.’ Author’s name on title-page was a woman’s. D’you know
the book I mean?”
“Is it one called _Here and There_?”
“Yes, now who wrote it? Was it really a woman? And is that her real
name? I meant to ask at the time, but forgot.”
3
At twenty minutes to two that afternoon, Anthony stopped his car
outside _The Owl’s_ office. He had broken no record this time; his
mind had been much occupied on the journey. The interviews he had held
with Belford, Mabel Smith, and Elsie Syme before leaving Abbotshall
had given him food for thought.
He found Hastings in his room, with him a little, dapper, sly-eyed
Jew. “Discreet Inquiries. Divorces, Watching, etc.,” thought Anthony.
“This,” murmured Hastings, “is Mr. Pellett.”
“Ah, yes.” Anthony sat down heavily. He was tired and very hungry. He
had not eaten since breakfast. Mr. Pellett displeased him.
“Mr. Pellett,” said Hastings, “has some information which should
interest you. I have paid him fifty pounds. He wants another two
hundred.”
“He would,” Anthony said. “And if he’s got what I want he shall have
it.”
“Thath right,” said Mr. Pellett with a golden smile.
“It may be.” Anthony fixed him with a glittering eye. “Let us hear
you, Mr.—er—Pellet.”
Mr. Pellett cleared his throat, produced a packet of papers, wiped his
hands on a pink silk handkerchief and began.
“About theeth three newthpaperth,” he said—and went on for one hour
and fifty-seven minutes by the clock on Hastings’s table.
He got his two hundred pounds.
4
There was a matinée at the Regency. At half-past four, Anthony was at
the stage-door.
The stage-door keeper remembered that five-pound note and the foreign
gent. He was civil. Yes, Madarm Vander was in the theatre. She had,
indeed, just finished her performance. He would see if the—the prince
could be admitted. The prince scribbled on a card, placed the card in
an envelope, and sealed the envelope. As balm for tender feelings, he
gave the door-keeper a flashing foreign smile and a pound-note.
He was kept waiting not more than three minutes. After four, he was
ushered into the most sacred dressing-room in Europe.
From a silken couch in a silken corner a silken, scented vision rose
to meet him.
Anthony saw that they were alone. He bowed, kissing the imperious
hand. He was regarded with approval by tawny, Slavonic eyes.
She peered at the card in her hand. “Who air you,” she said “that
write to me of—of John?”
Anthony proceeded to make himself clear.
It was nearly six o’clock when he left the theatre.
5
By half-past six Anthony was in his flat. At seven he bathed; at eight
dined. From eight-thirty to nine he smoked—and thought. From nine
until midnight he wrote, continuing his work of the night before. Save
for occasional reference to notes, he wrote for those three hours
without a pause. From midnight until one he considered what he had
written. Then, after a long and powerful drink, he unearthed from its
lair his typewriter.
It was lucky, he reflected, that two years ago he had wearied at last
of professional typists and taken a machine unto himself.
From one-thirty in the morning until five—three whole hours and a
half—he typed. There were two reasons why the work took him so long:
the first, that he had not used the machine for six months; the
second, that in copying what he had written he was constantly
polishing, correcting, altering, improving.
At five he discarded the typewriter, took pen and paper and wrote a
letter. This, together with the typewritten document, he placed in a
large envelope. He stamped the envelope; was about to leave the flat
and post it; then changed his mind. It should be sent by special
messenger as early as one could be found awake.
He did not go to bed, feeling that if he did, nothing could wake him
for at least twelve hours. He had another drink, another bath, and,
when he had roused his man, a breakfast.