SIR TOBY IS SURPRISED
As Nick had guessed, Bobby Manvers found that drive to London a
depressing one. Michael was silent, sliding lower and lower in the
driving seat, staring sullenly at the road ahead. Bobby's few attempts
at conversation met at the best with monosyllabic replies, and finally
he abandoned the struggle. His only comfort lay in the fact that
Michael was driving at a high rate of speed and that, in consequence,
the journey would be over in the shortest possible time. The last
half-hour through London, however, was a considerable strain to his
nerves, and when Michael dropped him at his flat he got out thankfully,
with a sigh of relief and a hypocritical 'Thanks awfully, old man.
Topping run!'
Michael drove on, unnoticing, left his car at the garage he patronised,
and went back to Quebec Street on foot. It was a close, stuffy
evening, with a feeling of thunder about. Michael looked up at the
tall houses that hemmed him in, and was conscious for the thousandth
time of a desperate desire to get away from it all. There was no air,
no sunshine, no freedom of mind or body in this swarming antheap of a
city. Well, his legal affairs were finished, thank Heaven. He'd had
a word with Sir Toby just before lunch, and had been assured that all
was over bar the shouting, and that in another week's time he would
be free to shake the dust of England from his feet. Free to go back
to his own place, where the sun really shone, and a man could do as
he chose. It would be good to be home again; to see the long, low
coast-line, fringed to the shore with the dark, unchanging bush, and
above, silhouetted against the sky, a bunch of lanky coconuts: then,
as his cutter drew near to the shore, the surf breaking in a gleaming
line, apparently endless but for the narrow break in the reef where the
fresh water pierces the coral and opens the way into the clear, sunlit
lagoon. The scrunch of the keel on the beach, the laughing natives, the
low, white house with its broad veranda.
Michael drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He could almost hear the
thunder of the breakers, smell the coconut oil and aromatic herbs. Lost
in his thoughts, he let himself into the tall grey house in Quebec
Street, and went to bed, to dream of blue seas and white surf.
The sun was streaming into his room when he woke next morning. 'Going
home in a week's time,' he told himself, and whistled cheerfully as he
ran his bath water. Even London seemed a comparatively good place on
such a morning, and he felt disappointed when Milly, entering with his
breakfast, failed to greet him with her usual beaming smile.
'It's a decent morning, Milly,' he observed reproachfully, as he
hungrily attacked his eggs and bacon.
'I dessay.' She stood, arms akimbo, eyeing him disapprovingly. 'Where's
Miss Mitchell?'
Michael stopped eating, and stared at her.
'She ain't bin 'ome, an' 'er bed ain't bin slep' in.'
'Good Lord! Where's she gone?'
'That's wot I'm arskin' _you_. You took 'er out yesterday. I'm anxious
about 'er, I tell yer straight. It ain't like 'er to go orf without
s'much as a word.'
Michael was silent, his thoughts racing.
'Fer Gawd's sake, speak up!' burst out Milly furiously. 'You was with
'er, wasn't you?'
'Yes, but I didn't bring her home.'
'Oo did?'
'Man called Nicholson.'
Milly's face cleared suddenly, and she heaved a sigh of relief.
'Mr. Nicholson? Oh, _that's_ all right then. She won't come to no 'arm
along with 'im.'
'You know him well, of course,' said Michael, with the irritation of a
badly worried man.
Milly regarded him pityingly.
'I ain't known 'im long, but you c'n take it from me, I knows a decent
fella when I meets one. Don't you fret about Mr. Nicholson. _'E's_ all
right.'
'Feminine intuition, I suppose,' said Michael, continuing his breakfast.
Milly's eyes danced naughtily.
'You ain't arf fetchin' when you smiles sarcastic that way,' she told
him. 'Puts me in mind of a movie I seen last week. The 'ero, 'e ses:
"Hah, wimmin!" he ses, an' smiles lopsided, same as you. Lovely 'e was.'
'Shut up!' said Michael, trying not to grin. 'And go away, Milly;
that's enough.'
'Right y' are, sir,' assented Milly cheerfully. At the door she
hesitated, her face grave.
'Mr. Doone....'
'Hullo?'
She flung out her hands with the abrupt, passionate, almost Latin
gesture of the Cockney.
'Honest, Mr. Doone, 'e's all right, that bloke.'
Michael looked at her curiously.
'Nicholson?'
'Yuss. If you was to tell me 'e'd bin jugged fer murder, I'd tell you
'e never; or, if 'e did, there was a damn good reason for it. 'E's all
right, straight 'e is. I _know_ it!'
She swung round and disappeared, leaving Michael staring. How much
did she know, he wondered. It might be far more than he knew himself;
it might be nothing at all. He went on with his breakfast, wondering
where Jerry was, and what he ought to do about it. Then he pulled the
telephone towards him, and rang up Nick's flat in Jermyn Street. The
porter answered him. Mr. Nicholson was not in. Mr. Nicholson had left
the previous morning and had not been home since. Michael rang off,
frowning thoughtfully. They might have had an accident, but Michael had
a deep respect for Nick's driving, and thought it unlikely. And even if
they were both in hospital, there would be some news of them. Secondly,
they might have eloped, but somehow that didn't seem very like Jerry.
Michael had heard her express her views on the subject of love affairs
and marriage. Thirdly--and a disquieting thought--suppose Bobby's
theory were right, and Nick had been concerned in the murder, he would
have a definite reason for wanting to get Jerry out of the way.
Michael looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. Sir Toby was coming up to
London this morning early. It might be worth while asking his advice.
Michael reached for the telephone, rang up Sir Toby's flat, and in due
time was answered by Ruff. Yes, Sir Toby had arrived, but was lying
down. He was not very well, had had a return of his heart trouble.
Could he see Mr. Doone some time to-day? Ruff would inquire. Michael
waited impatiently, till he heard Ruff's soft, respectful voice again.
Sir Toby had a luncheon engagement, but would be delighted to see Mr.
Doone at three. Sir Toby had said that Mr. Manvers might be looking in
about that time, but that if Mr. Doone's business was private, he would
put Mr. Manvers off. Michael had no objection to Bobby's presence, and
said so. Ruff murmured, 'Very good, sir,' and faded away.
Michael rose to his feet and tramped restlessly across his room. What
the blazes was Nicholson up to? Bobby's theory seemed infernally
plausible, but somehow he hated the idea. Then again, had he any
right to withhold the secret of Vive le Sport's identity? If anything
happened to Jerry, both Sir Toby and Bobby would blame him for
concealing the information. Quite rightly, too. After all, if Bobby
were wrong, he could trust both him and Sir Toby to keep their mouths
shut. Michael went out into the Park. He needed fresh air and exercise.
For once in his life he was punctual that afternoon, and arrived at the
door of Sir Toby's block of flats on the stroke of three. He was just
speaking to the hall porter when a cheerful voice hailed him.
'Hullo, Michael! You c-come to see Toby, too?'
'Yes.'
'Good work!' said Bobby heartily. 'Ruff tells me the old chap's had
another heart attack. It's rotten for him, isn't it? Let's take the
lift, shall we?'
They found Sir Toby in an armchair, propped up with pillows. His face
was white and drawn, and he looked desperately tired, but he greeted
them with a smile.
'Very nice to see you both. Well, Michael, has anything happened? You
look very serious. Pull up that chair, Bobby. You'll find cigarettes in
the box by your elbow.'
'You're not looking too fit, sir,' said Bobby, obeying. 'I say, would
you rather I cleared out? I mean, won't one of us be enough for you
just now, so to speak?'
'No, no, I like company. It's nothing to worry about. These absurd
attacks come and go. I shall be all right to-morrow. Now, Michael,
let's hear about it. I feel convinced you have something on your mind.'
'Very true,' said Michael. 'It's Jerry. She's disappeared.'
'Really?' Sir Toby looked interested. 'When was she--er--last seen?'
'When she left High Ash yesterday.'
'In Nicholson's car. Do you think they've made a runaway match?'
'I don't. To start with, she'd got no kit with her. And then, why
should she? Even if she suddenly decided to marry Nicholson, there was
no reason for secrecy. Besides, Jerry isn't that sort.'
Sir Toby smiled.
'When you're my age, Michael, you'll hesitate before you say, "She's
not that sort," of any woman. They're unaccountable creatures. But
I admit it sounds unlikely. She didn't seem terribly attracted by
Nicholson when I saw them together.'
'Of course, Stephen's a jolly dark horse,' put in Bobby. 'He's a bit of
a devil with the ladies, you know, and Jerry's very young. She might
have been swept off her feet and all that. And then he may have made
her swear not to tell you. I've been told that Nicholson has a queer
sort of power, if you know what I mean.'
'Bunk!' said Michael offensively.
Sir Toby took no notice of Bobby's theory.
'Go on, Michael,' he said quietly. 'Tell me what exactly is worrying
you.'
'Well, I can't help wondering.... Did you get that letter from Jerry's
bank?'
'Yes. I collected it on the way up. Here it is.' He tapped his pocket.
'Carrying it on the person, sir?' asked Bobby. 'Isn't that a bit
dangerous?'
'Not more so than putting it into my safe. With the present crime wave,
burglary's an everyday occurrence.'
'Talking about burglars,' said Michael. 'Do you think Vive le Sport
could have had anything to do with the Mitchell affair?'
'In what way?'
'Oh, in Robertson's pay, for instance?'
'It doesn't sound likely,' said Sir Toby. 'After all, his line is
burglary, and nothing was stolen. Besides, I shouldn't like to think of
him as a murderer.'
Michael rose to his feet and walked over to the window, where he stood,
hands in pockets, staring down into the street below.
'You know, I don't like this about Jerry,' said Bobby. 'I mean, it's
all so dashed queer, isn't it? Suppose we try to trace Nicholson's car?'
'From what I've seen of Miss Mitchell I should imagine that she would
not be likely to welcome any interference with her affairs,' said Sir
Toby.
Bobby grew rather red.
'That's perfectly true,' he said, 'but all the same, she's only a
child, and Stephen Nicholson ... well, I don't trust him. He's got a
frightfully taking manner and all that, but there's something queer
about him. I think he's dangerous.'
'Oh, my dear Bobby!' laughed Sir Toby, 'this is obviously the result
of an overdose of detective fiction. Stephen Nicholson is an idle
young plutocrat, with a curious passion for _vers libre_ and all the
extravagant ugliness of modern art. I don't believe one-third of the
rumours about him, and suspect them of being the invention of one or
two silly women. I like Nicholson, and I think he's a shining example
of how a good man can waste his life. What he needs is a little honest
work. What do you say, Michael?'
'I--don't--know,' said Michael slowly. Then he turned and faced them.
'You see, Nicholson is Vive le Sport.'
There was a dead silence. Bobby's jaw dropped and he stared blankly.
Then Sir Toby sat up, put his gouty foot to the ground, swore and fell
back on his pillows, stretching out one hand weakly towards a glass of
water which stood on the table. Michael handed it to him, startled by
the old man's ghastly pallor, and Sir Toby sipped the water gratefully.
'Forgive me,' he said. 'Your announcement was so unexpected that I put
too much weight on my bad foot, and the pain made me feel rather faint.
It's all right now. Michael, this is the most amazing information. I
find it almost incredible. How do you know?'
'Nicholson told me so himself.'
'Nicholson told you?' echoed Bobby. 'Good Lord! Well, I always said
there was something queer about that man.'
Michael ignored him, and addressed himself to Sir Toby. 'That's why I'm
worried,' he said. 'You see, Nicholson isn't only what he seems, and if
he can play one part so perfectly, God knows how many more he may not
be playing.'
'I entirely understand your anxiety,' said Sir Toby, 'and the evidence
seems to be piling up against him. To start with, he was outside
Mitchell's door immediately after the murder. Then he disappeared,
didn't attend the inquest, made no reference to the affair. He didn't
even make himself known to Miss Mitchell. In fact, he appeared to have
lost all interest. It's very odd, that. Then, again, one can only
assume that the first thing this fellow Robertson will try to do is to
get hold of Miss Mitchell. He's got to get that paper before some date
in June, hasn't he? I've forgotten the exact day.'
'The tenth,' said Michael.
'And to-day's the eighth. He hasn't got much time, you see. And he
can't get the paper without Miss Mitchell's assistance. Yes, it seems
to fit in only too well. Michael, I think we ought to open this letter.
It may give us a clue to Mr. Robertson, and should at least tell us the
identity of the man who gave it to Professor Mitchell.'
Michael considered.
'I think you're right,' he said.
Bobby held his peace, but he looked worried. Sir Toby took the long
envelope from his pocket and tore it open.
'It's empty!' he said. 'No, it isn't, begad!' He shook the envelope,
and out fell a small visiting-card, which he read and then held up to
the others, smiling a little.
'"Vive le Sport!"' read Bobby, in an awestruck tone. 'But, d-dash it
all, how on earth----'
'Oh, that's dead easy,' broke in Michael impatiently. 'He got Jerry to
get it for him last night, took the letter, and left his card instead.
That proves he had got something to do with the murder, anyway. The
question is, _what_?'
Sir Toby nodded slowly, his face very grave.
'As far as I can see, there are just three possible theories,' he said.
'Firstly, he may be the man who gave Mitchell the envelope.'
'Then why the secrecy?' asked Michael. 'Why hasn't he said so ages ago?
He knew who Mitchell was, and he knew Jerry.'
'He must have convinced _her_ that he was the man, or he wouldn't have
got the envelope,' remarked Sir Toby.
'He might have got it by force,' put in Bobby darkly.
Michael laughed, and Sir Toby smothered a smile.
'I don't think that's very likely,' he said, 'but, of course,
anything's possible in this romantic age. The question that is
occupying me is why he bothered to insert his card and seal the
envelope up again. I can't believe he suspected me of being Mr.
Robertson.'
'Hardly!' said Michael, with a grin. 'He may have put it there for the
benefit of Mr. Robertson, though, feeling that he would certainly try
to get it from you.'
'That's possible. The second theory is that Nicholson really did take
a definite part in the murder. I still find it hard to believe that
he actually committed the crime, but, as you said just now, he may be
in Robertson's pay. In that case, I assume he left the card for the
benefit of the real owner--the fellow who wrote the letter.'
'Yes, I see that,' said Bobby, nodding sagely.
'Robert sees it,' said Michael. 'Loud applause, instantly suppressed.
What's your third theory?'
'That Nicholson has nothing whatever to do with the affair, but on
hearing the story decided to take a hand in it for the fun of the
thing. It would be quite in keeping with his character. He adores
mystery, he adores adventure, and, if I'm not much mistaken, he adores
Miss Mitchell.'
There was a moment's silence. Bobby moved restlessly, and stared
unhappily at the floor. Michael lit a cigarette, his green eyes as
blank as stones. Sir Toby studied the little card in his hand.
'It seems to me,' said Michael at last, 'that it all hangs on whether
this'--he picked it up--'is the original envelope or not.'
Bobby gaped, and even Sir Toby looked a little surprised.
'I should think that probably it is,' he said.
'But what would it prove if it wasn't?' asked Bobby.
'Nothing,' said Michael. 'Look here, Bobby, suppose you have a look for
Nicholson's car? It's about time you did a spot of useful work, and
showed us what you can do in the sleuth line. Go and ask the police.'
'I don't think that's a good plan,' said Bobby. 'The police, I mean.
They'd want to know why, and we can't tell 'em.'
'Why not?'
'Bobby's right,' interposed Sir Toby. 'We don't want a newspaper
scandal if we can avoid it. After all, there may be a perfectly natural
explanation.'
'And one can find out about the car without the help of the police,'
added Bobby, his face brightening.
'How?' asked Michael sceptically.
'Oh'--Bobby shrugged his shoulders, and rose to go--'one has one's
methods.'
Sir Toby laughed.
'That makes you quits, I think,' he said. 'Let's have a truce now.'
Michael grinned, and a smile spread over Bobby's chubby face.
'Right you are,' he said. 'Well, I must be off. Good-bye, sir. I hope
you'll be all right soon.'
'I know I shall. These attacks never last long, thank Heaven. Good-bye,
Bobby.'
'I'd better be moving too,' said Michael. 'Come and have dinner at my
place to-night, Robert, and tell us your news, if any.'
'Love to. Thanks awfully. Good Lord, it's past four! I shall have to
sprint.'
Michael collected his hat, said good-bye to Sir Toby, and took his
leave. As he was closing the door behind him he heard Sir Toby's voice.
'Did you call me?' he asked, poking his head round the door.
'Yes; tell me, Michael'--Sir Toby had a smile in his eyes--'what would
it prove if this were the original envelope?'
'A good deal,' said Michael. 'It's addressed in Nicholson's
handwriting. So long.'
He went out, shutting the door behind him.