think so,” said Mr. Fortune. “There are points, Bell.”
Superintendent Bell arranged himself at the table, a large solemn
creature, born to inspire confidence. Mr. Fortune dragged an easy
chair to the window and sat on the small of his back and thus
disposed might have been taken for an undergraduate weary of the
world.
Mr. Montgomery Eagle brought another man with him. They both
exhibited signs of uneasiness. Mr. Eagle, whose physical charms,
manner and dress suggest a butler off duty, wrung his hands and asked
if the Superintendent had any news. The Superintendent asked Mr.
Eagle to sit down. “Er, thank you. Er--you’re very good. May I--this
is Mr. Woodcote--the--er--author of the play Miss Sheridan was
to--the--play I--er--hope to--very anxious to know if you----”
“Naturally,” said the Superintendent. “Pleased to meet you, Mr.
Woodcote.” The dramatist smiled nervously. He was still young enough
to show an awkward simplicity of manner, but his pleasant dark face
had signs of energy and some ability. “We’re rather interested in
your case. Now what have you got to tell us?”
“I?” said Woodcote. “Well, I hoped you were going to tell us
something.”
“We’ve heard nothing at all,” said Eagle. “Absolutely nothing.
Er--it’s--er--very distressing--er--serious matter for us--er--whole
production held up--er--this poor lady--most distressing.”
“Quite, quite,” Reggie murmured from his chair, and the two stared at
him.
“The fact is,” said Superintendent Bell heavily, “we can find no one
who has seen Miss Sheridan since she left her house. We’re where we
were yesterday, gentlemen. Are you?”
“Absolutely,” said Eagle.
“First question--did she leave her house?” Reggie murmured. “Second
question--why did she leave her house?” He sat up with a jerk. “I
wonder. Do you know anything about that?”
Eagle gaped at him. “Did she leave her house?” Woodcote cried.
“That’s not doubtful, is it? She’s not there.”
“Well, I like to begin at the beginning,” said Reggie gently.
“The local men have been over the house, Mr. Fortune,” Bell stared at
him.
“I suppose they wouldn’t overlook her,” Woodcote laughed.
“Second question--why did she leave it? You see, we don’t know the
lady and I suppose you do. Had she any friends who were--intimate?”
“What are you suggesting?” Woodcote cried.
“I don’t know. Do you? Is there anyone she liked--or anyone she
didn’t like?”
“I must say,”--Eagle was emphatic in jerks--“never heard a word
said--er--against Miss Sheridan--er--very highest reputation.”
“If you have any suspicions let’s have it out, sir,” Woodcote cried.
“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow!” Reggie protested. “It’s the
case is suspicious, not me. The primary hypothesis is that something
made Miss Sheridan vanish. I’m askin’ you what it was.”
The manager looked at the dramatist. The dramatist looked at Mr.
Fortune. “What is it you suspect, then?” he said.
“What does take a lady out alone after dinner?” said Reggie. “I
wonder.”
“We don’t know that she went out of the garden, sir,” Bell admonished
him.
Reggie lit a cigar. “Think there was a murderer waiting in the
garden?” he said as he puffed. “Think she was feeling suicidal? Well,
it’s always possible.”
“Good God!” said Eagle.
“You’re rather brutal, sir,” Woodcote grew pale.
“You don’t like those ideas? Well, what’s yours?” They were silent.
“Has it ever occurred to you somebody might have annoyed Miss
Sheridan?” Mr. Montgomery Eagle became of a crimson colour. “Yes,
think it over,” said Reggie cheerfully. “If there was somebody she
wanted to take it out of----” he smiled and blew smoke rings.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Woodcote stared at him.
“Really? It’s quite simple. Had anything happened lately to make Miss
Sheridan annoyed with anybody?”
“I’m bound to say, sir,” Eagle broke out, “there was a--a question
about her part. She was to play lead in Mr. Woodcote’s new comedy.
Well--er--I can’t deny--er--Miss Darcourt’s been with me before. Miss
Darcourt--she was--well, I had--er--representations from her the part
ought to be hers. I--er--I’m afraid Miss Sheridan did come to hear of
this.”
“Rose Darcourt couldn’t play it,” said the author fiercely. “She
couldn’t touch it.”
“No, no. I don’t suggest she could--er--not at all--but it was an
unpleasant situation. Miss Sheridan was annoyed----”
“Miss Sheridan was annoyed with Miss Darcourt and Miss Darcourt was
annoyed with Miss Sheridan. And Miss Sheridan goes out alone at night
by the river and in the river we find her bag. That’s the case, then.
Well, well.”
“Do you mean that Rose Darcourt murdered her?” Woodcote frowned at
him.
“My dear fellow, you are in such a hurry. I mean that I could bear to
know a little more about Miss Darcourt’s emotions. Do you think you
could find out if she still wants to play this great part?”
“She may want,” said Woodcote bitterly. “She can go on wanting.”
“In point of fact,” said Eagle. “I--er--I had a letter this morning.
She tells me--er--she wouldn’t consider acting in--er--in Mr.
Woodcote’s play. She--er--says I misunderstood her. She never thought
of it--er--doesn’t care for Mr. Woodcote’s work.”
Mr. Woodcote flushed. “That does worry me,” said he.
“And that’s that.” Reggie stood up.
Whereon Superintendent Bell with careful official assurances got rid
of them. They seemed surprised.
“That’s done it, sir,” said Bell. Reggie did not answer. He was
cooing to a pigeon on the window-sill. “You’ve got it out of them.
We’ll be looking after this Rose Darcourt.”
“They don’t like her, do they?” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. They do
enjoy their little emotions.” He laughed suddenly. “Let’s tell Lomas.”
That sprightly man was reading an evening paper. He flung it at
Bell’s head. “There you are. Six-inch headlines. ‘Famous Actress
Vanishes.’ And now I do hope we shan’t be long. I wonder how she’ll
manage her resurrection. Was she kidnapped by a Bolshevik submarine?
U-boat in Boulter’s Lock. That would be a good stunt. And rescued by
an aeroplane. She might come down on the course at Ascot.”
“He can’t take her seriously, Bell,” said Reggie. “It’s the other one
who has his heart. Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? She
captured him at a glance.”
Bell was shocked and bewildered. “What the deuce do you mean?” said
Lomas.
“Lady Macbeth by the river. You know how she fascinated you.”
“Rose Darcourt?” Lomas cried. “Good Gad!”
“The morning after Sylvia Sheridan vanished, Rose Darcourt was
looking unwell by the river and Sylvia Sheridan’s bag was found in
the river just below Rose Darcourt’s house. Now the manager and the
playwright tell us Rose has been trying to get the part which was
earmarked for Sylvia, and Sylvia was cross about it. Since Sylvia
vanished Rose has pitched in a letter to say she wouldn’t look at the
part or the play. Consider your verdict.”
“There it is, sir, and an ugly business,” said Bell with a certain
satisfaction. “These stage folk, they’re not wholesome.”
“My dear old Bell,” Reggie chuckled.
“Good Gad!” said Lomas, and burst out laughing. “But it’s
preposterous. It’s a novelette. The two leading ladies quarrel--and
they meet by moonlight alone on the banks of the murmuring
stream--and pull caps--and what happened next? Did Rose pitch Sylvia
into the dark and deadly water or Sylvia commit suicide in her
anguish? Damme, Bell, you’d better make a film of it.”
“I don’t know what you make of it, sir,” said Bell with stolid
indignation. “But I’ve advised the local people to drag the river.
And I suggest it’s time we had a man or two looking after this Miss
Darcourt.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas again. “And what do you suggest, Fortune? Do
you want to arrest her and put her on the rack? Or will it be enough
to examine her body for Sylvia’s finger-prints? If we are to make
fools of ourselves, let’s do it handsomely.”
“It seems to me we look fools enough as it is,” Bell growled.
“This is a very painful scene,” Reggie said gently. “Your little
hands were never made to scratch each other’s eyes.”
“What do you want to do?” Lomas turned on him.
“Well, it’s not much in my way. I like a corpse and you haven’t a
corpse for me. And I don’t feel that I know these good people. They
seem muddled to me. It’s all muddled. I fancy they don’t know where
they are. And there’s something we haven’t got, Lomas old thing. I
should look about.”
“I’m going to look about,” said Lomas with decision. “But I’m going
to look for Sylvia Sheridan’s friends--not her wicked rivals. I
resent being used as an actress’s advertisement.”
Reggie shook his head. “You will be so respectable, Lomas my child.
It hampers you.”
“Well, go and drag the river,” said Lomas with a shrug, “and see who
finds her first.”
Mr. Fortune, who has a gentle nature, does not like people to be
cross to him. This was his defence when Lomas subsequently complained
of his independent action. He went to lunch and afterwards returned
to his house by the river.
Swaying in a hammock under the syringa he considered the Sheridan
case without prejudice, and drowsily came to the conclusion that he
believed in nothing and nobody. He was not satisfied with the bag, he
was not satisfied with the pallid woe of Rose Darcourt, he was not
satisfied with the manager and the playwright, he was by no means
satisfied with the flippancy of Lomas and the grim zeal of Bell. It
appeared to him that all were unreasonable. He worked upon his
memories of Rose Darcourt and Sylvia Sheridan and found no help
therein. The two ladies, though competent upon the stage and at times
agreeable, were to him commonplace. And whatever the case was, it was
not that. He could not relate them to the floating bag, and the story
of jealousy and the disappearance. “This thing’s all out of joint,”
he sighed, “and I don’t think the airy Lomas or the gloomy Bell is
the man to put it right. Why will people have theories? And at their
time of life too! It’s not decent.” He rang (in his immoral garden
you can ring from the pergola and ring from the hammocks and the
lawn) for his chauffeur and factotum, Sam.
Mr. Samuel Smith was born a small and perky Cockney. He is, according
to Reggie, a middle-class chauffeur but otherwise a lad of parts,
having a peculiarly neat hand with photography and wine. But a
capacity for being all things to all men was what first recommended
him. “Sam,” said Mr. Fortune, “do you go much into society?”
“Meaning the locals, sir?”
“That was the idea.”
“Well, sir, they’re not brainy. Too much o’ the _nouveau riche_.”
“It’s a hard world, Sam. I want to know about Miss Darcourt’s
servants. I wouldn’t mind knowing about Miss Sheridan’s servants.
They ought to be talking things over. Somebody may be saying
something interesting--or doing something.”
“I’ve got it, sir. Can do.”
Mr. Fortune sighed happily and went to sleep.
For the next few days he was occupied with a number of new roses
which chose to come into flower together. It was reported among his
servants that Mr. Fortune sat by these bushes and held their hands.
And meanwhile the papers gave much space to Miss Sylvia Sheridan,
describing in vivid detail how the river was being dragged for her,
and how her corpse had been discovered at Bradford and how she had
been arrested while bathing (mixed) at Ilfracombe and seen on a
flapper’s bracket in Hampstead.
Mr. Fortune, engaged upon a minute comparison of the shades of tawny
red in five different but exquisite roses, was disturbed by
Superintendent Bell. He looked up at that square and gloomy visage
and shook his head. “You disturb me. I have my own troubles, Bell.
Darlings, aren’t they?” He made a caressing gesture over his roses.
“But I can’t make up my mind which is the one I really love. Go away,
Bell. Your complexion annoys them.”
“We haven’t found her, sir,” said Bell heavily. “She’s not in the
river.” Reggie dropped into a long chair and, watching him with
dreamy eyes, filled a pipe. Bell glowered. “I thought you were going
to say, ‘I told you so.’”
Reggie smiled. “I don’t remember that I told you anything.”
“That was about the size of it, sir,” Bell reproached him.
“Well, I thought it was possible the body was in the river. But not
probable.”
“Nothing’s probable that I can see. Roses are a bit simpler, aren’t
they, sir?”
“Simpler!” Reggie cried. “You’re no gardener. You should take it up,
Bell. It develops the finer feelings. Now, don’t be cross again. I
can’t bear it. I haven’t forgotten your horrible case. Nothing’s
probable, as you say. But one or two things are certain all the same.
Sylvia Sheridan’s servants have nothing up their sleeves. They’re as
lost as you are. They are being quite natural. But Rose Darcourt has
a chauffeur who interests me. He is a convivial animal and his pub is
the ‘Dog and Duck.’ But he hasn’t been at the ‘Dog and Duck’ since
Sylvia vanished. The ‘Dog and Duck’ is surprised at him. Also he has
been hanging about Sylvia’s house. He has suddenly begun an affair
with her parlourmaid. He seems to have a deuce of a lot of time on
his hands. Rose Darcourt don’t show. She’s reported ill. And the
reputation of the chauffeur is that he’s always been very free and
easy with his mistress.”
Bell grunted and meditated and Reggie pushed a cigar-case across to
help his meditations. “Well, sir, it sounds queer as you put it. But
it might be explained easy. And that’s what Mr. Lomas says about the
whole case. Maybe he’s right.” The thought plunged the Superintendent
into deeper gloom.
“What a horrible idea,” said Reggie. “My dear fellow, don’t be so
despondent. I’ve been waiting for you to take me to the parlourmaid.
I want a chaperon.”
Inspector Oxtoby in plain clothes, Superintendent Bell in clothes
still plainer and Mr. Fortune in flannels conducted an examination of
that frightened damsel, who was by turns impudent and plaintive, till
soothed by Mr. Fortune’s benignity. It then emerged that she was not
walking out with Mr. Loveday the chauffeur: nothing of the kind: only
Mr. Loveday had been attentive.
“And very natural, too,” Reggie murmured. “But why has he only just
begun?”
The parlourmaid was startled. They had had a many fellows round the
house since mistress went off. She smiled. It was implied that others
beside the chauffeur had remarked her charms.
“And Mr. Loveday never came before? Does he ask after your mistress?”
“Well, of course he always wants to know if she’s been heard of. It’s
only civil, sir.” She stopped and stared at Reggie. “I suppose he
does talk a deal about the mistress,” she said slowly.
“When he ought to be talking about you,” Reggie murmured.
The parlourmaid looked frightened. “But it’s as if he was always
expecting some news of her,” she protested.
“Oh, is it!” said Inspector Oxtoby, and Reggie frowned at him.
“Yes, it is!” she cried. “And I don’t care what you say. And a good
mistress she was”--she began to weep again, and was incoherent.
“I’m sure she was,” Reggie said, “and you’re fond of her. That’s why
we’re here, you know. You want to help her, don’t you? When was Mr.
Loveday going to meet you again?”
Through sobs it was stated that Mr. Loveday had said he would be by
the little gate at his usual time that night.
“Well, I don’t want you to see him, Gladys,” said Reggie gently.
“You’re to stay indoors like a good girl. Don’t say anything to
anybody and you’ll be all right.”
On that they left her, and Reggie, taking Bell’s arm as they crossed
the garden, murmured, “I like Gladys. She’s a pleasant shape. This
job’s opening out, Bell, isn’t it?”
“It beats me,” said Bell. “What’s the fellow after?”
“He knows something,” said Oxtoby.
“And he’s not quite sure what he knows,” said Reggie. “Well, well. An
early dinner is indicated. It’s a hard world. Come and dine with me.”
That night as it grew dark the chauffeur stood by the little gate of
Sylvia Sheridan’s garden, an object of interest to three men behind a
laurel hedge. He waited some time in vain. He lit a cigarette and
exhibited for a moment a large flat face. He waited longer, opened
the gate and approached the back of the house.
“Better take him now,” said Reggie. “Loitering with intent. I’ll go
down to the station.”
Inspector Oxtoby, with Bell in support, closed upon the man in the
kitchen garden.
In the little office at Stanton police-station Albert Edward Loveday
was charged with loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house with intent to
commit a felony. He was loudly indignant, protesting that he had only
gone to see his girl. He was told that he could say all that to the
magistrates, and was removed still noisy.
Mr. Fortune came out of the shadow. “I don’t take to Albert Edward,”
he said. “I fear he’s a bit of a bully.”
Bell nodded. “That’s his measure, sir. A chap generally shows what
he’s made of when you get him in the charge room. I never could
understand that. You’d think any fellow with a head on him would take
care to hide what sort he is here. But they don’t seem as if they
could help themselves.”
“Most of the fellows you get in the charge room haven’t heads. I
doubt if Albert Edward has. He looks as if he hadn’t thought things
out.”
Inspector Oxtoby came back in a hurry. “My oath, Mr. Fortune, you’ve
put us on the right man,” he said. “Look what the beggar had on him.”
It was a small gold cigarette-case. It bore the monogram S.S., and
inside was engraved “Sylvia from Bingo.”
“That’s done him in,” said Bell. “Any explanation?”
“He wouldn’t say a word. Barring that he cursed freely. No, Mr.
Albert Edward Loveday wants to see his solicitor. He knows something.”
“Yes. Yes, I wonder what it is?” Reggie murmured.
“He had some pawn-tickets for jewellery too. Pretty heavy stuff.
We’ll have to follow that up. And a hundred and fifty quid--some
clean notes, some deuced dirty.”
Bell laughed grimly. “He’s done himself proud, hasn’t he?”
“Some clean, some dirty,” Reggie repeated. “He got the dirty ones
from the pawnbroker. Where did he get the clean ones? Still several
unknown quantities in the equation.”
“How’s that, sir?” said Inspector Oxtoby.
“Well, there’s the body, for instance,” said Reggie mildly. “We lack
the body. You know, I think we might ask Miss Darcourt to say a few
words. Send a man up in a car to tell her she’s wanted at the
police-station, because her chauffeur has been arrested. I should
think she’ll come.”
“That’s the stuff!” Inspector Oxtoby chuckled and set about it.
“You always had a notion she knew something, sir,” said Bell
reverently.
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
She did come. The little room seemed suddenly crowded, so large was
the gold pattern on her black cloak, so complex her sinuous
movements, as she glided in and sat down. She smiled at them, and
certainly she had been handsome. From a white face dark eyes
glittered, very big eyes, all pupil. “Oh, my aunt,” said Reggie to
himself, “drugged.”
“Miss Rose Darcourt?” Inspector Oxtoby’s pen scratched. “Thank you,
madam. Your chauffeur Albert Edward Loveday (that’s right?) has been
arrested loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house. He was found in
possession of Miss Sheridan’s gold cigarette-case. Can you explain
that?”
“I? Why should I explain it? I know nothing about it.”
“The man is in your service, madam.”
“Yes, and he is a very good chauffeur. What then? Why should you
arrest him?” She talked very fast. “I don’t understand it at all. I
don’t understand what you want me to say.”
“Only the truth,” said Reggie gently out of the shadow.
“What do you mean by the truth? I know nothing about what he had. I
can’t imagine, I can’t conceive”--her voice went up high--“how he
could have Miss Sheridan’s cigarette-case. If he really had.”
“Oh, he had it all right,” said Inspector Oxtoby.
“Why, then perhaps she gave it him.” She laughed so suddenly that the
men looked at each other. “Have you asked him? What did he say? I
know nothing about Miss Sheridan.”
“You can tell us nothing?” said Reggie.
“What should I tell you?” she cried.
There was silence but for the scratching of the Inspector’s pen.
“Very good, madam,” he said. “You have no explanation. I had better
tell you the case will go into court. Thank you for coming. Would you
like to have the car back?”
“What has Loveday said?” She leaned forward.
“He’s asked for his solicitor, madam. That’s all.”
“What is this charge, then?”
The Inspector smiled. “That’s as may be, madam.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not alone, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Bell.
“What?” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“The car’ll take you back, ma’am.”
She stared at him a long minute. “The car?” she started up. “I don’t
need your car. I’ll not have it. I can go, can I?” she laughed.
Bell opened the door. “Phew!” he puffed as he closed it. “She looked
murder, didn’t she?”
“Nice young woman for a quiet tea-party,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.
I wonder. I think I’ll use that car.”
As it drew out upon the bridge he saw the tall shape of Miss Darcourt
ahead. She was going slowly. She stopped. She glanced behind her at
the lights of the car. She climbed the parapet and was gone.
“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fortune. “Stop the bus.” He sprang out, looked
down for a moment at the foam and the eddies and dived after her.
Some minutes afterwards he arrived at the bank with Miss Darcourt in
tow and waddled out, dragging her after him without delicacy and
swearing in gasps. She was in no case to protest. She did not hear.
Mr. Fortune rolled her over and knelt beside her.
“What’ll I do, sir? Can’t I do something?” cried the chauffeur.
“Police-station,” Reggie panted. “Bring down the Inspector or the
Superintendent. Quick! Damn quick!” And he wrought with Miss
Darcourt’s body. . . .
He looked up at the large shape of Superintendent Bell. “Suicide,
sir?”
“Attempted suicide. She’ll do, I think. Wrap her in every dam’ thing
you’ve got and take her to hospital quick.”
“I know this game, sir,” Bell said, and stooped and gathered the
woman up: “you run along home.”
“Run!” said Reggie. “My only aunt.”
In the morning when he rang for his letters, “Superintendent Bell
called, sir,” said the maid. “About eight it was. He said I wasn’t to
waken you. He only wanted to tell you she was going on all right. And
there’s a message by telephone from Mr. Lomas. He says you should be
at Paddington by twelve, car will meet you, very urgent. And to tell
you he has the body.”
“Oh, my Lord!” said Reggie. He sprang out of bed. Superintendent Bell
was rung up and told to commit himself to nothing over Albert Edward
Loveday and his mistress.
“Remanded for inquiries--that’ll do for him, sir,” said Bell’s voice.
“And she can wait. Hope you’re all right, Mr. Fortune.”
“I’m suffering from shock, Bell. Mr. Lomas is shocking me. He’s begun
to sit up and take notice.”
Inadequately fed and melancholy, Mr. Fortune was borne into
Paddington by a quarter-past twelve. He there beheld Lomas sitting in
Lomas’s car and regarding him with a satirical eye. Mr. Fortune
entered the car in dignity and silence.
“My dear fellow, I hate to disappoint you,” Lomas smiled. “You’ve
done wonderfully well. Arrested a chauffeur, driven a lady to
suicide--admirable. It is really your masterpiece. Art for art’s sake
in the grand style. You must find it horribly disappointing to act
with a dull fellow like me.”
“I do,” said Mr. Fortune.
Lomas chuckled. “I know, I know. I can’t help seeing it. And really I
hate to spoil your work. But the plain fact is I’ve got the body.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Fortune.
“And unfortunately--I really do sympathize with you--it isn’t dead.”
“When did I say it was?” said Mr. Fortune. “I said you hadn’t a
corpse for me--and you haven’t got one now. I said it was all
muddled--and so it is, a dam’ muddle.”
“Don’t you want to know why the fair Sylvia left home?”
“Yes. Do you know, Lomas?”
“She’s gone off with a man, my dear fellow,” Lomas laughed.
“Well, well,” said Reggie mildly. “And that’s why the Darcourt’s
chauffeur had her cigarette-case in his pocket! And that’s why the
Darcourt jumped into the river when we asked her to explain! You make
it all so clear, Lomas.”
“Theft, I suppose, and fright.” Lomas shrugged. “But we’ll ask
Sylvia.”
“Where is she?”
“I had information of some one like her from a little place in the
wilds of Suffolk. I sent a fellow down and he has no doubt it’s the
lady. She’s been living there since she vanished, with a man.”
“What man?”