George Says Nothing, Much
Cynthia Nesbitt put the _Sunday Courier_ down on the table, shrugged
her shoulders despairingly and turned to her husband. “Guy, darling,”
she said, “you don’t mind my telling you that you’re utterly and
completely mad, do you?”
“Not in the least, dear,” Guy smiled. “I take it as a compliment. All
really nice people are a little mad, you know.”
“Yes, but there are limits even to the nicest people’s madness. Guy,
what is going to happen?”
“That,” said her husband, “is just what I’m so interested to know.” He
picked up the paper and glanced over the staring headlines with
affectionate proprietorship. “They’ve really done us quite proud,
haven’t they! By the way, can I have another cup of coffee, please?”
“I’m not surprised you need it,” said Cynthia, taking his cup.
Guy continued to run gratified eyes over _The Courier_’s hysterics.
_The Courier_ was in the habit of letting itself go when it felt that
it had got hold of something really good; this time it had not so much
let itself go as gone behind itself and pushed. Headlines half an inch
high broke the news to an astonished world; the two columns were
liberally interspersed with sentences, and sometimes whole paragraphs,
in heavy leaded type; such words as “incredible,” “amazing,”
“astounding,” and “epoch-making in the annals of crime,” appeared in
prodigal profusion.
Under Doyle’s own name one column was filled with his account of the
affair; the other was devoted to his interviews with “The Constable in
the Cupboard,” as _The Courier_ facetiously termed that functionary,
and Reginald Foster, Esquire, “who actually intercepted one member of
the nefarious gang and obtained from her facts of paramount
importance.” The Crown Prince _motif_ was played up to its utmost
capacity, and The Man with the Broken Nose was accorded the honour of
leaded type whenever his pseudonym occurred, which was very often. In
a screaming leader _The Courier_ laid it down that this lamentable
affair was a Disgrace to Civilisation and attributed it directly to
the pusillanimity of our present (so-called) Government, referred in
scathing terms to the Constable in the Cupboard as an example of the
ineptitude of our rural police force, and called upon its readers to
avenge this slight to England’s honour by themselves prosecuting the
search for the notorious Man with the Broken Nose.
_The Courier_ then sat back on its haunches and sent for its
circulation manager.
Let it not be thought that _The Courier_ had been too easily gulled.
The night editor, who was a naturally sceptical man, had caused a
telephone call to be put through to the Abingchester police station
before Mr. Doyle had been talking to him for three minutes. Subsequent
calls to the houses of Messrs. Reginald Foster and Guy Nesbitt at
Duffley confirmed the incredible. Doubting not that it was on firm
ground _The Courier_ acceded (more or less) to Mr. Doyle’s terms, and
so made certain of being the only one in the field the next morning
with this scoop of a lifetime; then it scrapped its old centre-page at
enormous cost, got behind itself and pushed.
The result was most gratifying to all concerned.
“Oh, put the horrible thing _away_!” Cynthia cried suddenly, snatching
the paper from Guy and throwing it violently on the floor. “I can’t
bear to look at it any longer.”
“Dear wife,” Guy murmured, “you’re taking this thing in the wrong
spirit.”
“I don’t want to take it in any spirit at all,” retorted his dear
wife. “What I was thinking of ever to let you embark on it, I can’t
imagine. I must have been out of my senses.”
“You were certainly an accessory before the fact, dear. But for that
matter, we were all out of our senses. And a very good thing too. The
chief merit of senses is that one is able occasionally to get out of
them. And then look how interesting life becomes.”
“Well, I hope you’ll find life in prison interesting. I don’t think I
shall. Because that’s where we shall certainly end up, when the real
story comes out.”
“I’ve never been to prison,” Guy meditated. “It’s an omission that
ought to be remedied. Everybody should go to prison at least once.
Yes, I think prison would be intensely interesting. Except for the
clothes, of course. But even in oakum and broad arrows, or whatever it
is, I’m sure you’ll look perfectly charming, darling.”
“Guy,” said his wife with feeling, “there are times when I come very
near to wishing I hadn’t married you.”
“‘Don’t send my wife ter prisin,’” chanted Guy, in a very cracked
voice, grinning madly. “‘Hit’s the fust crime in ’er life,’ ‘Six
munfs!’ replied is wusship. ‘Ho, Gawd ’elp my herrin’ wife!’”
“Anybody in?” called a voice outside the window, fortunately
preventing the erring wife’s repartee.
“Come in, Doyle,” Guy responded, jumping up. “Through the window.”
Mr. Doyle’s face appeared at the open window and preceded its owner
into the room. “I’ve got George outside,” he observed, dropping to his
feet on the floor, “but whether he can follow me is open to question.
It’s a nice problem. Let’s see. Head first, George, and land on the
hands. Excellent! Well, we’ve come to see whether you people are going
to church.”
“Church!” said Cynthia.
“Good-morning, Cynthia,” said Mr. Doyle politely. “Or do I call you
Mrs. Nesbitt now it’s the morning after? Anyhow, I hope you slept
well.”
“Where’s Dora?” Cynthia asked, disregarding this facetiousness.
“Immured in the linen cupboard, I think, or concealed in the cistern.
Anyhow, safely out of sight. I suppose you know she’s wanted by the
police?”
“Only Dora?” replied Cynthia pithily.
“So far, yes. Another thing we wanted to know was whether Laura turned
up here in the small hours?”
“No,” said Guy. “Didn’t she get home, George?”
“No. Mind this pipe, by the way, Cynthia?”
“Not a bit; we’ve finished breakfast: You don’t seem very worried
about Laura, George.”
“I’m not,” replied that young woman’s brother. “If anybody’s capable
of taking care of herself, Laura is. At the present moment she’s
probably taking care of that chap Priestley as well if I know her.” A
certain light in George’s eye indicated a fellow-feeling for Mr.
Priestley.
“But supposing they haven’t been able to get that handcuff off?”
“Laura,” said George with conviction, “could wriggle out of anything.”
He picked up the fallen _Sunday Courier_ and begun to scrutinise it.
He had seen it already, but it is nice to look at one’s name in print
for the first time.
Guy and Doyle began to exchange congratulations over George’s
shoulders, pointing to the passages which particularly pleased them.
George, having examined the paragraph in which his name occurred to
make sure that they had not let it out of this copy, surrendered the
paper and grinned cheerfully at Cynthia.
Cynthia saw the grin and it jarred upon her. Cynthia was not feeling
at all like grinning that morning.
“What do you think of it all, George?” she asked.
“Me?” said George in some surprise; George was not used to having his
opinion sought. “Oh, I think it’s rather a rag.”
In spite of herself Cynthia laughed. “You hopeless _babies_!” she
said, and went out of the room.
Two minutes later she was back again. “It may interest you to know,”
she remarked coldly from the doorway, “that half the population of
Duffley seems to be in the road outside this house. Will one of you go
and send them away, please?” She withdrew again.
“The crowd collects,” murmured Guy with pleasure. “That’s quite in
order. Highly professional conduct on the part of the crowd.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Doyle. “I’d forgotten to mention that. I was
gloating over them at breakfast. It just wanted a crowd to top things
off. George, go and send them away.”
“Oh, come,” protested George. “I like that.”
“I thought you would. You’re the sort of person who can get a lot of
fun out of a crowd, George, providing, of course, that they’re
sufficiently rough. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Run along. You
heard what Cynthia said.”
“But why can’t one of you two go?”
“Because we’re the brains of the conspiracy, and the brains never
undertakes manual work like crowd-hustling. Besides, you’re bigger
than us. Out with you, George.”
George went out.
The crowd was a very peaceful one. It was just there to look, and it
was doing its job with silent relish. Hitherto it had been looking at
the house. Now it looked at George. So far as one could gather from
the crowd’s expression there was not very much to choose between the
house and George, but George was more of a novelty.
George looked at the crowd. The crowd looked at George.
“Go away,” said George to the crowd.
Somebody in the rear inadvertently blinked. Otherwise no movement was
perceptible. The inhabitants of Duffley are not a sprightly set of
people.
“Did you hear me?” said George to the crowd. “Go _away_!”
The crowd went on looking at George.
“Go AWAY!” said George to the crowd.
A large person in the front rank grinned.
George, realising that the time had come for action, took the large
person by the shoulder and walked him down the road. The large person
allowed George to do so with the greatest amiability. Then George went
back for his companion, and the large person strolled back, still with
the greatest amiability, to his place. Another large person in the
second rank guffawed.
At this point George gave the crowd up as hopeless and walked with
dignity into the house again. The crowd watched his retreating back
with stolid interest. It was not an exacting crowd, and George’s back
would furnish it with food for reflection for at least half an hour.
In the meantime Guy and Mr. Doyle had been comparing notes.
“Why didn’t you come back last night?” Guy was asking as George
entered the room with a slightly baffled air. Fortunately the others
were far too interested in the matter in hand to pay the slightest
attention to him.
“My dear chap, I couldn’t. We didn’t get rid of that Inspector till
nearly three o’clock, and all the time I was terrified that he’d
somehow find out that Dora was in the house. I was only just able to
nip into the library in front of him and warn George not to mention
her. It was jolly lucky we’d made her go to bed, according to plan. I
whispered to her through the key-hole to lie low, while George was
getting more whisky out for the Inspector in the library. Anyhow,
there’s one thing. The Inspector loves me like a brother. It was I who
put the idea of whisky into George’s head, wasn’t it, George?”
“You were chatting a good deal about it,” George admitted.
Guy began to steal jam with silent gusto. “You know,” he said after a
minute or two, “I feel rather guilty about that dear old Inspector.
He’s almost too easy.”
“Yes. I never imagined the official police could be hoodwinked quite
so simply. But don’t you worry about him. He’s having the time of his
life. He wouldn’t have missed this for worlds. For two solid hours by
the clock last night he was telling us about his other murder case. I
suggested half a dozen times as tactfully as possible that he’d better
go out and do a bit of detecting, but nothing happened.”
“But I say, Pat, he can’t be a complete old ass,” George pointed out.
“He solved that murder all right apparently, and it seems to have been
a bit of a mystery.”
“That’s as may be,” said Mr. Doyle, who had not listened for two hours
without gaining some suspicion of the truth. “By the way, I hope we
hear from Laura to-day; and I hope also that she’s dutifully watching
the gentleman’s reactions. We mustn’t lose sight of our primary
experiment in all this excitement about the second one. Don’t you
think——”
“Hush!” said Guy, holding up a hand.
They listened. Somewhere in the near distance a rumbling voice was
inquiring for Mr. Nesbitt.
“The Inspector,” Doyle murmured. “Let’s take him out to the scene of
the body’s embarkment and watch his reactions.”
Inspector Cottingham greeted them genially. “Morning, gents,” he said
with an air of importance. “Morning, Mr. Doyle, sir. I’ve had a look
at the _Sunday Courier_.”
“Oh, yes. Satisfied, Inspector?”
“They’ve done it pretty well,” the Inspector admitted. “Pretty well,
yes. Barring all that clap-trap about the police, of course.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take any notice of that. It’s the usual thing, you
know. They must put it down to somebody’s fault. Still, on the whole
it wasn’t so bad, eh? And you saw I brought your name well to the
front.”
“That’s right, sir,” agreed the Inspector, endeavouring to conceal his
gratification. “That’s right. Well, it won’t be long before you’ll
have something more to tell ’em, I’m thinking. I took the liberty, Mr.
Nesbitt, sir, of poking round a bit this morning before you were up.”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Guy. “It’s understood that the place is
open to you whenever you like. I suppose you didn’t find anything
much?”
The Inspector swelled gently. “Didn’t I, then, sir? Didn’t I? Oh, yes,
I did. You come along with me, gents, and I’ll show you something
as’ll surprise you. Though mind you,” he added with a belated return
to officialdom, “all this is ’ighly confidential. You mustn’t,” he
explained kindly, “go telling people about it, if you please.”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” murmured Guy solemnly.
They processed out of the house and the Inspector led the way to the
bottom of the garden, his back rhetorical.
“This ’ere,” said the Inspector portentously, halting at a patch of
much trampled ground on the bank of the river, “is where they got out
of a boat and came ashore, _and_ where they took the body on board
subsequent to the murder.”
“By Jove, is it really?” said Doyle.
“How on earth do you know that, Inspector?” said Guy.
George said nothing.
Guy had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon him.
“See all them footprints on the ground, sir?” he replied with
legitimate pride. “That’s how I know. Now, you never made them
footprints, did you, sir?”
“Certainly not,” Guy said without truth.
“Of course you didn’t. Nor did any of your friends. _They_ made ’em.”
“Well I never!” said Doyle.
“That’s a good piece of deduction,” said Guy.
George said nothing.
Doyle scrutinised the prints with elaborate care. “But look here,
Inspector,” he remarked, “these seem to be all male prints. What about
the girl? Didn’t she come this way?”
This time Doyle had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon
him.
“The girl, sir, as we know from Mr. Foster’s evidence, stayed behind.
The others, becoming impatient, moved the boat a little farther along
and she went aboard there, after they’d gone on shore again to see
what was happening to her.”
“Good gracious!” said Doyle.
“Inspector, this is magical! How on earth do you know _that_?” said
Guy.
George said nothing.
Almost bursting with triumph, the Inspector led them along the bank.
This was where the Nesbitts usually landed, and the soft turf was
marked with many footprints, among which Cynthia’s high heels were
conspicuous. Quite speechless with admiration of his own perspicacity,
the Inspector pointed at them in silence.
Doyle made appropriate comments. So did Guy. George said nothing.
The Inspector took them back to the house to show them the track made
by the George-laden rug. He took them to the piece of lawn where Dora
had interviewed Mr. Foster and showed them her heel-marks. He took
them back to the bank again to show them some blood he had found on a
dandelion.
Doyle was loud in his praises. So was Guy. George said nothing. George
was not one of your chatty people.
The Inspector’s face became positively alarming in its mysteriousness.
He gathered the three close around them, as if suspecting
eavesdroppers behind every plantain, and spoke in a voice so low and
charged with such importance that the mere words could hardly be
distinguished. “And, gents,” whispered the Inspector reverently, “I’ve
got a Clue!”
“Not a _clue_?” cried Doyle.
“A clue, Inspector?” cried Guy.
George cried nothing. But then, George very seldom cried.
“A clue, gents,” affirmed the Inspector. With a flourish he drew from
his pocket a muddy and bloody handkerchief. “This ’ere was dropped on
the bank by one of the assassins,” he repeated proudly. “Assassin” is
a much better word than mere “murderer.”
Once more suitable comments arose.
“Is it marked in any way?” asked Guy, quite gravely. Guy had a
wonderful control over his facial muscles.
“It is, sir,” intoned the Inspector. “It’s marked with the initials
‘R. F.’ in black marking ink.”
“On a white ground,” added Doyle.
“That’s great, Inspector,” said Guy. “That ought to be a most valuable
clue.”
They went on to discuss the valuable clue at some length. Beyond it,
the Inspector had no further news. In reply to eager questions he was
forced to admit that he had not yet established the identity of the
murdered Crown Prince, nor had he any information regarding the Man
with the Broken Nose. He was, however, quite confident that the
answers to both these riddles would be in his hands before nightfall.
“Because some one’s bound to know, you see, gents,” said the Inspector
in confidence, “and they’ll send the information along to the officer
in charge of the case, you mark my words.”
His audience marked them, happily.
Finally, with regretful murmurs about duty and reports, the Inspector
tore himself away.
“We’re all right, we’re all right,” Doyle crooned, as the trio
strolled back to the house. “He feeds out of our hands. We’re all
_right_.”
“But what about Scotland Yard?” demanded George, breaking half an
hour’s rigid silence. “You won’t be able to take him in so easily.”
Doyle looked at him rather pityingly. “My dear George, there won’t be
any Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard has nothing to do with crimes outside
the metropolitan area. They only come if they’re sent for and the
local police confess themselves baffled. Can you see our Inspector
confessing himself baffled?”
“Humph!” said George, not altogether convinced.
“Have you thought, Nesbitt,” Doyle continued to his host, “in regard
to that matter of feeding out of our hands, of feeding him with
clues?”
“I have, Doyle,” said Guy, and chuckled.
“So have I,” grinned Mr. Doyle. “Touching perhaps a certain
handkerchief?”
“You read my thoughts.”
“And you mine. Come, it’s a beautiful morning; let us manufacture a
few clues. I’m full of bright ideas this morning. I feel like a
veritable clue-factory.”
“Wait a minute, though. This needs rather careful handling. We must
find out what his movements were last night first, and arrange our
results accordingly.”
“Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle admiringly, “you think of everything. Let us
visit the gentleman. I have an idea that he won’t have gone to church
this morning. I also have an idea that he’ll have no objection to
talking to us—none at all.”
“That,” agreed Guy feelingly, “is very probable.”
George looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “What are you
chaps talking about?” he demanded.
They gazed at him pityingly.
“I don’t think,” said Mr. Doyle, “that we’ll take George in with us.
And we can’t very well tie him up outside. Do you mind if we leave him
here?”
“Not at all. He can talk to my wife. I think she rather needs somebody
to talk to.”
“George, you hear? You’re to stay here and talk to Mrs. Nesbitt. She
needs somebody to talk to, but you’re the only one available.
Good-bye.”
They went.
George watched them go. Then he went indoors obediently to talk to
Cynthia. People were always doing that sort of thing to George.
Cynthia was very ready for George to talk to her. She came downstairs,
fresh from helping the good woman who had come in for the day to
oblige in the absence according to orders of the maids, and engaged
George in conversation at once. Twenty minutes later George had said,
“Yes,” fourteen times, “No,” eleven, “Oh, come,” seven, and “Really, I
don’t think it’s as bad as that, Cynthia,” on an ascending scale,
four. Otherwise George had contributed nothing of value to the
conversation.
“But what’s going to _happen_?” Cynthia demanded, not for the first
time. “What’s going to be the end of it?”
“I don’t know,” said George, breaking fresh ground.
“How are they going to get out of it, when the time comes?” Cynthia
pursued.
George consulted his pipe. It gave him no help. “I expect they’ll
think of something,” he said feebly. “Trust old Guy, eh?”
It appeared that this was not a well-chosen observation. “Trust old
Guy?” repeated Cynthia with energy. “Yes, I’ll trust old Guy to get
himself, and all the rest of us as well, into the most appalling mess.
They’ll think of something, will they? Heaven forbid! They’ve thought
of quite enough already. Anything else will be just about the last
straw. What you were doing to encourage them, George, I can’t think.
You ought to have had more sense. Why didn’t you stop them?”
George might so easily have retorted: “Why didn’t you?” But George was
a perfect little gentleman. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely,
apparently accepting the implication that he could have stopped them
had he wished, an implication that was in no way at all based on fact.
“Rather—er—rather a rag, you know.”
“A fine rag!” said Cynthia with much scorn. “Prison will be a rag,
too, as Guy seems to think, won’t it? And there’s that poor Mr.
Priestley, or whatever his name is, trembling in his shoes somewhere
at this very minute under the impression that he’s committed a murder.
I suppose that’s a fine rag, too?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” George murmured uneasily. “Pat Doyle said he
wanted waking up.”
“And will it be a fine rag if he commits suicide, too?” inquired
Cynthia with awful sarcasm.
“Oh, come!” implored George, much startled. “I say, you don’t think
he’d be likely to do that, Cynthia?”
“I can imagine nothing more probable,” Cynthia retorted, and for the
moment really believed she was speaking the truth. “What would you do
if you thought you’d murdered somebody? The horror, the shame, the
awful remorse. . . . Naturally suicide would be the first thing to
occur to you. It all depends on Mr. Priestley’s strength of will
whether he gives way to it or not. Of course I knew that was the
danger all along.”
Once again George proved his perfect gentility. Not for once did he
dream of saying: “In that case, my dear Cynthia, why in the name of
all that’s holy didn’t you say so before it was too late?” He just
remarked, in very blank tones, “Good Lord!” It was easy to see that
George had not known that that was the danger all along.
“Somebody ought to tell him,” Cynthia affirmed. “This thing’s gone
quite far enough. You must tell him, George.”
“But I don’t know where he is.”
“Pat knows his address. Find it out. And, as for the police side of
it, if those two precious idiots don’t have that cleared up within
twenty-four hours, I’m going to take a hand in it myself. Three can
play at that game as well as two, and better. And in any case,
somebody’s got to step in and sweep up the mess.” Cynthia paused,
rather charmingly flushed with the heat of her indignation, and stared
ominously at George, causing that perfect gentleman to wriggle his
toes in his Oxford brogues. “And if you repeat a single word of what
I’ve been telling you to either of those two, George,” she added quite
fiercely, “I’ll never speak to you again.”
George quailed before this horrible threat; but old loyalties are
stronger than new ones, even where such a nice person as Cynthia was
concerned. He grabbed his courage in both hands.
“Yes, that’s all right,” he said very quickly. “I’ll be mum. But look
here, Cynthia, about old Priestley, you know. I—I’m afraid I couldn’t
tell him the truth without Guy’s permission. It’s—well, this is Guy’s
pigeon, you know. Can’t very well go behind his back.” He grew very
red and floundery. “Not—er—not playing the game exactly, eh?”
A woman is always astounded when she finds another man taking her own
husband seriously. “But, George,” Cynthia said in genuine surprise,
“that’s really rather a distorted view, isn’t it? You surely don’t
mean that you’d condemn this Mr. Priestley to unbelievable misery
rather than go behind a silly whim of Guy’s? You’re not one of these
ridiculous criminologists, or whatever they call themselves; you ought
to be able to take a sane view. The whole thing’s exceedingly cruel,
and—and very horrible.”
George squirmed, but stuck to his guns. “Couldn’t go behind old Guy’s
back,” he mumbled. “Rotten trick.”
“Then you’re as silly as he is!” Cynthia flared at him suddenly. “Very
well, leave poor Mr. Priestley to his fate. And if he commits suicide,
as he’s almost certain to do, console yourself with the reflection
that you never went behind Guy’s back. Excellent, George!” Cynthia
very seldom flared, very, very seldom; but she was only human, and she
really was worried. Besides, she had had very little sleep and her
nerves were inclined to jangle. It was George’s misfortune to provide
a safety-valve for some of the steam they had been generating.
An awkward silence ensued. Then the front door-bell rang.
“Don’t you bother,” said George, humbly anxious to make some sort of
amends for his disgusting loyalty to Cynthia’s husband. “I’ll go. I’ll
say you’re out, shall I?”
“Oh, say anything you like,” snapped Cynthia, “only don’t say anything
behind Guy’s back.” Cynthia was being unfair, and she knew it.
Moreover, she didn’t care. Moreover, still, she was determined to go
on being as unfair as she possibly could. Women, the very nicest of
them, are sometimes taken like that.
George went, hastily.
On the doorstep stood the Inspector, but not alone. Accompanying him
was a dapper man in a well-cut lounge suit with a gardenia in his
button-hole.
The crowd watched them owlishly.
The Inspector spoke, in a voice pregnant with fate. “This is Mr.
Howard, sir,” he said.
“Morning,” said the dapper man unsmilingly. “I’m Colonel Ratcliffe,
the Chief Constable. I want to see Mr. Nesbitt.”