THE DETECTIVE
Audrey and Miss Ingate were writing letters to Paris. Jane Foley had gone
forth again to a committee meeting, which was understood to be closely
connected with a great Liberal demonstration shortly to be held in a
Midland fortress of Liberalism. Miss Nickall, in accordance with medical
instructions, had been put to bed. Susan Foley was in the basement, either
clearing up tea or preparing supper.
Miss Ingate, putting her pen between her teeth and looking up from a
blotting-pad, said to Audrey across the table:
"Are you writing to Musa?"
"Certainly not!" said Audrey, with fire. "Why should I write to Musa?" She
added: "But you can write to him, if you like."
"Oh! Can I?" observed Miss Ingate, grinning.
Audrey knew of no reason why she should blush before Miss Ingate, yet she
began to blush. She resolved not to blush; she put all her individual force
into the enterprise of resisting the tide of blood to her cheeks, but the
tide absolutely ignored her, as the tide of ocean might have ignored her.
She rose from the table, and, going into a corner, fidgeted with the
electric switches, turning certain additional lights off and on.
"All right," said Miss Ingate; "I'll write to him. I'm sure he'll expect
something. Have you finished your letters?"
"Yes."
"Well, what's this one on the table, then?"
"I shan't go on with that one."
"Any message for Musa?"
"You might tell him," said Audrey, carefully examining the drawn curtains
of the window, "that I happened to meet a French concert agent this morning
who was very interested in him."
"Did you?" cried Miss Ingate. "Where?"
"It was when I was out with Mr. Foulger. The agent asked me whether I'd
heard a man named Musa play in Paris. Of course I said I had. He told me he
meant to take him up and arrange a tour for him. So you might tell Musa he
ought to be prepared for anything."
"Wonders will never cease!" said Miss Ingate. "Have I got enough stamps?"
"I don't see anything wonderful in it," Audrey sharply replied. "Lots of
people in Paris know he's a great player, and those Jew concert agents are
always awfully keen--at least, so I'm told. Well, perhaps, after all, you'd
better not tell him. It might make him conceited.... Now, look here,
Winnie, do hurry up, and let's go out and post those letters. I can't stand
this huge house. I keep on imagining all the empty rooms in it. Hurry up
and come along."
Shortly afterwards Miss Ingate shouted downstairs into the earth:
"Miss Foley, we're both just going out to post some letters."
The faint reply came:
"Supper at nine."
At the farther corner of Paget Square they discovered a pillar-box standing
solitary in the chill night among the vast and threatening architecture.
"Do let's go to a café," suggested Audrey.
"A café?"
"Yes. I want to be jolly. I must break loose somewhere to-night. I can't
wait till to-morrow. I was feeling splendid till Jane Foley went. Then the
house began to get on my nerves, not to mention Susan Foley, with her
supper at nine. Do all people in London fix their meals hours and hours
beforehand? I suppose they do. We used to at Moze. But I'd forgotten. Come
_along_, Winnie."
"But there are no cafés in London."
"There must be some cafés somewhere."
"Only public-houses and restaurants. Of course, we could go to a teashop,
but they're all shut up now."
"Well, then, what do people do in London when they want to be jolly? I
always thought London was a terrific town."
"They never want to be jolly," said Miss Ingate. "If they feel as if they
couldn't help being jolly, then they hire a private room somewhere and draw
the blinds down."
With no more words, Audrey seized Miss Ingate by the arm and they walked
off, out of the square and into empty and silent streets where highly
disciplined gas-lamps kept strict watch over the deportment of colossal
houses. In their rapid stroll they seemed to cover miles, but they could
not escape from the labyrinth of tremendous and correct houses, which in
squares and in terraces and in crescents displayed the everlasting
characteristics of comfort, propriety and self-satisfaction. Now and then a
wayfarer passed them. Now and then a taxicab sped through the avenues of
darkness like a criminal pursued by the impalpable. Now and then a red
light flickered in a porch instead of a white one. But there was no
surcease from the sinister spell until suddenly they emerged into a long,
wide, illumined thoroughfare of shut shops that stretched to infinity on
either hand. And a vermilion motor-bus meandered by, and this motor-bus was
so sad, so inexpressibly wistful, in the solemn wilderness of the empty
artery, that the two women fled from the strange scene and penetrated once
more into the gigantic and fearful maze from which they had for an instant
stood free. Soon they were quite lost. Till that day and night Audrey had
had a notion that Miss Ingate, though bizarre, did indeed know every street
in London. The delusion was destroyed.
"Never mind," said Miss Ingate. "If we keep on we're bound to come to a
cabstand, and then we can take a taxi and go wherever we like--Regent
Street, Piccadilly, anywhere. That's the convenience of London. As soon as
you come to a cabstand you're all right."
And then, in the distance, Audrey saw a man apparently tampering with a
gate that led to an area.
"Why," she said excitedly, "that's the house we're staying in!"
"Of course it isn't!" said Miss Ingate. "This isn't Paget Gardens, because
there are houses on both sides of it and there's a big wall on one side of
Paget Gardens. I'm sure we're at least two miles off our beds."
"Well, then, how is it Nick's hairbrushes are on the window-sill there,
where she put them when she went to bed? I can see them quite plain. This
is the side street--what's-its-name? There's the wall over there at the
end. Don't you remember--it's a corner house. This is the side of it."
"I believe you're right," admitted Miss Ingate. "What can that man be doing
there?"
They plainly saw him open the gate and disappear down the area steps.
"It's a burglar," said Audrey. "This part must be a regular paradise for
burglars."
"More likely a detective," Miss Ingate suggested.
Audrey was thrilled.
"I do hope it is!" she murmured. "How heavenly! Miss Foley said she was
being watched, didn't she?"
"What had we better do?" Miss Ingate faltered.
"Do, Winnie?" Audrey whispered, tugging at her arm. "We must run in at the
front door and tell Supper-at-nine-o'clock."
They kept cautiously on the far side of the street until the end of it,
when they crossed over, nipped into the dark porch of the house and rang
the bell.
Susan Foley opened for them. There was no light in the hall.
"Oh, is there?" said Susan Foley, very calmly, when she heard the news. "I
think I know who it is. I've seen him hanging round my scullery door
before. How did he climb over those railings?"
"He didn't. He opened the gate."
"Well, I locked the gate myself this afternoon. So he's got a key. I shall
manage him all right. We'll get the fire-extinguishers. There's about a
dozen of 'em, I should think, in this house. They're rather heavy, but we
can do it."
Turning on the light in the hall, she immediately lifted from its hook a
red-coloured metal cone about twenty inches long and eight inches in
diameter at the base. "In case of fire drive in knob by hard blow against
floor, and let liquid play on flames," she read the instructions on the
side. "I know them things," she said. "It spurts out like a fountain, and
it's a rather nasty chemistry sort of a fluid. I shall take one downstairs
to the scullery, and the others we'll have upstairs in the room over Miss
Nickall's. We can put 'em in the housemaid's lift.... I shall open the
scullery door and leave it a bit open like, and when he comes in I'll be
ready for him behind the door with this. If he thinks he can come spying
after our Janey like this----"
"But----" Miss Ingate began.
"You aren't feeling very well, are ye, miss?" Susan Foley demanded, as she
put two extinguishers into the housemaid's lift. "Better go and sit down in
the parlour. You won't be wanted. Mrs. Moncreiff and me can manage."
"Yes, we can!" agreed Audrey enthusiastically. "Run along, Winnie."
After about two minutes of hard labour Susan ran away and brought a key to
Audrey.
"You sneak out," she said, "and lock the gate on him. I lay he'll want a
new suit of clothes when I done with him!"
Ecstatically, joyfully, Audrey took the key and departed. Miss Ingate was
sitting in the hall, staring about her like an undecided bird. Audrey crept
round into the side street. Nobody was in sight. She could not see over
the railings, but she could see between them into the abyss of the area.
The man was there. She could distinguish his dark form against the inner
wall. With every conspiratorial precaution, she pulled the gate to,
inserted the key, and locked it.
A light went up in the scullery window, of which the blind was drawn. The
man peeped at the sides of the blind. Then the scullery door was opened.
The man started. A piece of wood was thrown out on to the floor of the
area, and the door swung outwards. Then the light in the scullery was
extinguished. The man waited a few moments. He had noticed that the door
was not quite closed, and the interstice irresistibly fascinated him. He
approached and put his hand against the door. It yielded. He entered. The
next instant there was a bang and a cry, and a strong spray of white liquid
appeared, in the middle of which was the man's head. The door slammed and a
bolt was shot. The man, spluttering, coughing, and swearing, rubbed his
eyes and wiped water from his face with his hands. His hat was on the
ground. At first he could not see at all, but presently he felt his way
towards the steps and began to climb them. Audrey ran off towards the
corner. She could see and hear him shaking the gate and then trying to get
a key into it. But as Audrey had left her key in the other side of the
lock, he failed in the attempt.
The next thing was that a window opened in the high wall-face of the house
and an immense stream of liquid descended full on the man's head. Susan
Foley was at the window, but only the nozzle of the extinguisher could be
seen. The man tried to climb over the railings; he did not succeed; they
had been especially designed to prevent such feats. He ran down the steps.
The shower faithfully followed him. In no corner of his hiding did the
bountiful spray neglect him. As soon as one supply of liquid slackened
another commenced. Sometimes there were two at once. The man ran up the
steps again and made another effort to reach the safety of the street.
Audrey could restrain herself no more. She came, palpitating with joyous
vitality, towards the area gate with the innocent mien of a passer-by.
"Whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, stopping as if thunderstruck. But
in the gloom her eyes were dancing fires. She was elated as she had never
been.
The man only coughed.
"You oughtn't to take shower-baths like this in the street," she said,
veiling the laughter in her voice. "It's not allowed. But I suppose you're
doing it for a bet or something."
The downpour ceased.
"Here, miss," said he, between coughs, "unlock this gate for me. Here's the
key."
"I shall do no such thing," Audrey replied. "I believe you're a burglar. I
shall fetch a policeman."
And she turned back.
In the house, Miss Ingate was coming slowly down the stairs, a
fire-extinguisher in her arms, like a red baby. She had a sardonic smile,
but there was diffidence in it, which showed, perhaps, that it was directed
within.
"I've saved one," she said, pointing to an extinguisher, "in case there
should be a fire in the night."
A little later Susan Foley appeared at the door of the living-room.
"Nine o'clock," she announced calmly. "Supper's ready. We shan't wait for
Jane."
When Jane Foley arrived, a reconnaissance proved that the martyrised
detective had contrived to get away.