THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE
"My mind ... rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give
me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the
most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper
atmosphere.... I crave for mental exaltation. That is why
I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather
created it, for I am the only one in the world ... the
only unofficial consulting detective.... I am the last
and highest court of appeal in detection.... I examine
the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's
opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures
in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding
a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest
reward."--SIR A. CONAN DOYLE: "The Sign of Four."
Premonitions--so far as my gross person is concerned--are a matter of
digestion, nerves and liver. If I woke up on the morning after Joyce's
flight to Adelphi Terrace with a dull sense of impending disaster, I
ascribe it to the fact that I had passed a more than ordinarily
hideous night. Unlike the Seraph, who never went to bed, I had
sufficient philosophy to turn in when the doctor had left and the
nurse was comfortably established. It had been made clear to me that I
could do no manner of good by staying up and getting in people's
way....
I started in my own room, but quickly took refuge in the library. If
there are two sounds I cannot endure, one is that of a crying child,
and the other of a woman--or man for that matter--moaning in pain.
Even in the library I could hear Joyce suffering. Maybury-Reynardson
had told us she was all right, and there is no point in calling in
experts if you are going to disbelieve them. But I do not want to
experience another night of the same kind.
And in the morning the papers were calculated to heighten the horror
of the worst premonitions I could experience. I opened the _Times_,
noted in passing that Gartside had fulfilled popular expectation by
being appointed to the Governorship of Bombay, and turned to the
account of the Clerkenwell raid. Culling was right in saying Mrs.
Millington's had been the only arrest of importance; but he had left
the battlefield at the end of the fighting, and had not waited to see
the conquerors march into the citadel.
I felt myself growing chilled and old as I read of the discoveries in
the printing office. Mrs. Millington would stand charged with
incitement to crime and public threat of abduction; serious enough, if
you will, but her debt was discharged as soon as she had paid the
penalty for a single article in a single paper. Her threats were
embryonic, not yet materialised. Joyce stood to bear the burden of the
three abductions carried out to date....
I am no criminologist, and can offer neither explanation nor theory of
the mental amblyopia that leads criminals to leave one weak link, one
soft brick, one bent girder, to ruin a triumph of design and
construction. They always do--men and women, veterans and tiros--and
Joyce was no exception. When the police broke open the safe in her
editorial office, the first document they found was the half sheet of
Chester Square notepaper that the journalists agreed to christen "The
Time Table."
It was written in Joyce's hand, and her writing could be identified
by a short-sighted illiterate at ten yards' distance. I have forgotten
the dates by this time, and can only guess at them approximately;
words and names have been added in full where Joyce put only initials.
This was the famous Time Table:--
500, Chester Square, S.W.
May 8. Rejection of W. (women's) S. (suffrage) Amendment.
May 9. M.R. (Mavis Rawnsley) letter R. (Rawnsley).
June 17. P.--(private) M. (members') Day. [This was ruled
through.]
June 16. R.'s (Rawnsley's) Time Table.
June 17. P. (Paul) J. (Jefferson) Letters R. and J. (Rawnsley
and Jefferson).
June 30. R. (Rawnsley) to decide re A.S. (Autumn Session).
July 2. R. (Rawnsley) in H. (House). No A.S. (Autumn Session).
July 9. S. (Sylvia) R. (Roden). Letters R. (Rawnsley) & R.
(Roden).
July 19. R. (Rawnsley) to reply re facilities.
July 20. W.G. [I am not sure whether this refers to Walter
Greatorex, the ten-year-old son of the President of the Board
of Agriculture and Fisheries, or Lady Winifred Gaythorne,
daughter of the Marquis of Berwick--of the India Office. Both
Greatorex and Berwick were opposed to the franchise, but in a
mild, unoffending fashion. The invariable typed challenge does
not help me to decide, as only one letter was to be sent, the
usual Letter R. (Rawnsley)].
"So far the police have been unable to discover the whereabouts of
Miss Davenant," the article concluded. That was the sole, poor
consolation I could offer to a white, tired Seraph as I threw him the
paper and went back to my gloomy premonitions.
As he read, I thought over my last _alibi_ in the north smoking-room
at the Club. I wondered what story my friends, the Henley detectives,
were concocting in their report, and what action Nigel Rawnsley would
take when he had digested it.
It is not entirely my "wisdom after the event" that made me select
Nigel as our most formidable opponent, nor altogether my memory of the
lead he had taken in the discussion overnight; I was beginning to
appreciate his character. When he is Prime Minister of England, like
his father before him, it will be in virtue of the same qualities. A
brain of steel and a ruthless, iron resolution will force the +hoi
physei archomenoi+ to follow and obey him. He will be feared, possibly
even hated, but the hatred will leave him indifferent so long as power
is conceded him. I have met no young man so resolute or successful in
getting his own way; few who give me the impression of being so
ruthless and, perhaps, unscrupulous in their methods. He is still
preserved from active mischief by his astonishing self-consciousness
and lack of humour; when he has outgrown these juvenilities, he will
be really formidable. His wife--when she comes--will have my sympathy,
for what that is worth; but there will be many women less discerning
than Sylvia to strive for the privilege.
It was noon before the Amateur Detective invaded us. The Seraph's
man--who had already been admitted to our secret, and would at any
time have been crucified head-downwards for his master--flung open the
library door with the words--
"Mr. Nigel Rawnsley, Lord Gartside, Mr. Culling, Mr. Philip Roden."
The Seraph rose and offered chairs. You could to some extent weigh
and discriminate characters by the various modes of entry. Nigel
refused to be seated, placed his hat on the table and produced a
typewritten transcript of the two detectives' reports in the
traditional manner of a stage American policeman--which in passing, I
may say, is nothing like any American policeman I have ever met
anywhere in America or the civilised world. Philip and Gartside were
self-conscious and uncomfortable; Culling strove to hide his
embarrassment by more than usual affability.
"It's ill ye're looking, Seraph," he remarked, as he accepted a
cigarette. "And has this great ugly brute Toby been slashing the face
off you?"
Then the inquiry began, with Philip as first spokesman.
"Sorry to invade you like this, Seraph," he began, "but it's about my
sister. You know she's disappeared? Well, we were wondering if you
could help us to find her."
"I'll do anything I can...." the Seraph started.
"Do you know where she is?" Nigel cut in.
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Do you know any one who does?" Philip asked.
"I don't know that I do."
Philip hesitated, started a sentence, and closed his lips again
without completing it. Nigel took up the examination.
"You know Miss Davenant, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Does she know where Sylvia and Mavis are?"
"I have no idea. You must ask her."
"I propose to."
The Seraph turned to Philip, glancing at the clock as he did so.
"I'm afraid the limits of my utility are soon reached. If there's
anything I can do...."
"You can tell us where Miss Davenant is hiding," said Nigel.
"Can I?"
"You can and will."
The Seraph treated him to a long, unhurried scrutiny, starting from
the boots and working up to the freckled face and sandy hair. Then he
turned away, as though the subject had no further interest for him.
Nigel tried to return the stare, but broke into a blush and took
refuge in his typewritten transcripts.
"I have here," he said, "a copy of the reports of the two detectives
who watched Miss Davenant's house in Chester Square last night. They
saw a woman, with her hair loose, and a long coat over whatever
clothes she was wearing, jump into a car and drive to Adelphi
Terrace."
"They were certain of the identity of the car?" I asked.
"Perfectly."
"They weren't when I talked to them last night," I said. "No
number--no nothing. They thought it was the same car and called in on
chance, as there was a light here, to see if we knew anything. I
offered to show them round, but they wouldn't come in, so we prayed
for mutually sweet dreams and parted."
Nigel tapped his papers.
"I have here their sworn statement that the car which left Chester
Square was the car that turned into Adelphi Terrace."
"Perjury--like joy--cometh in the morning," I observed.
"That is as may be. I happen to know that Miss Davenant is seriously
ill; I imagine, wherever she has gone, she has not gone far. The
number of houses within easy reach of Chester Square--houses that
would take her in when there's a warrant out for her arrest--is
limited. These considerations lead me to believe that the statement of
these men is not perjured."
"I will apologise when next we meet," I said. When a young man like
Nigel becomes stilted and dignified, I cannot repress a natural
inclination to flippancy.
Philip intervened before Nigel could mature a crushing repartee.
"Look here, Seraph," he began. "Just as a favour, and not because we
have any right to ask, will you say whether Miss Davenant's anywhere
in this flat? If you say she is, I'm afraid we shall have to tell the
police; if you say she isn't, we'll go away and not bother you any
more."
"You must speak for yourself," Nigel interposed, before the Seraph
could answer.
We sat for a moment in silence. Then Nigel continued his statement
with unmistakable menace in his tone.
"If once the police intervene, the question becomes more serious and
involves any one found harbouring a person for whom a warrant of
arrest has been issued. I naturally do not wish to go to extremes." He
turned to me: "You offered to show the detectives round these rooms
last night; will you make me the same offer?"
I pointed to the Seraph.
"They aren't my rooms. I'm only a guest. I took it upon myself to make
the offer in the Seraph's absence."
He repeated his request in the proper quarter, but was met with an
uncompromising refusal.
"May I ask your reason?" he said.
"It is a question of manners," answered the Seraph.
"Then you wish me to apply for a search-warrant?"
"I am entirely indifferent. If you think it worth while, apply for one.
As soon as it is presented, the police--are--welcome--to--any--
discoveries--they--may--make."
The Seraph spoke with the quiet scorn of injured innocence. I saw a
shadow of uncertainty settle on Nigel's face. The Seraph must have
seen it, too; we preserved a strategic silence until uncertainty had
matured into horrid doubt. I felt sorry for Nigel, as I feel sorry for
any successful egoist in the toils of anticipated ridicule.
"It would be quicker to clear the matter up now," he said.
"My whole day is at your disposal."
"But mine is not. What is that room?"
"A spare bedroom, now occupied by Toby, if you ask for information."
Nigel started to cross the room.
"I like to check all verbal information," he remarked.
The Seraph had shorter distance to cover, and was standing with his
back to the door when Nigel got there.
"I allow no unauthorised person to search my rooms without my leave,"
he said.
"You cannot always prevent it."
"I can in this case."
"We are four to one."
"You are one to two."
"My mistake, no doubt." He waved a hand round the room to indicate his
allies.
"Assuredly your mistake, if you think Toby will stand by and let you
search my rooms without my leave, or that any one of the others would
raise a finger to help you."
Not one of his three allies had moved a step to support him. Nigel was
impressed. Without retreating from his position he tried the effect of
bluff.
"You forget the circumstances are exceptional. My sister has been
spirited away, and so has Phil's. If we think you know the whereabouts
of the woman who kidnapped them, we shall neither of us hesitate to
employ timely physical force on you, perhaps inflict salutary physical
pain."
"You may try, if you like."
"If I try, I shall succeed."
"You don't really think that, you know."
Gartside felt it was time to restore the peace. Walking up to Nigel,
he led him firmly back to his place at the table and motioned the
Seraph to his old position in the armchair by the fireplace. There was
a long, awkward silence. Then Culling crossed the room, and sat on the
arm of the Seraph's chair.
"Ye're white and ill, Seraph," he said, "and ye know I'm not the man
would badger you. We're in a hole, and maybe ye can give us a hoist
out of it. Do ye, or do ye not, know where Miss Davenant's hiding
herself?"
The Seraph looked him steadily in his eyes.
"Yes."
"Well, is she, or is she not, in these rooms?"
"Would _you_ like to search them?"
"Damn it, no, man! Give us yer word, and that's enough."
For a fraction of time the Seraph gazed at the faces of Culling,
Philip and Gartside, weighing the characters and measuring the men.
"It's not enough for Rawnsley," he said.
"It'ull have to be."
"He likes to check all verbal information."
Culling shook his clenched fists in the air and involved us all in a
comprehensive curse. The Seraph lit himself a cigarette, blew out the
match with a deliberation Nigel could not have surpassed, and
addressed the company.
"We seem to have reached a deadlock," he began. "Shall I offer a
solution? The four of you come here and charge me with harbouring the
woman who is supposed to have made away with Miss Rawnsley and Miss
Roden. Very good. Every man is free to entertain any suspicions he
likes, and to ventilate them--provided he doesn't forget his manners.
Three of you behaved like gentlemen, the fourth followed his own
methods. I should like to oblige those three. Rawnsley, you have
menaced me with personal violence, and threatened me with a search
warrant. You have done this in my own library. If you will apologise,
and undertake not to enter these rooms again or to molest me here or
anywhere else, and if you will further undertake not yourself to
apply--or incite any one else to apply--for a warrant to search the
flat, I shall have pleasure in accompanying Gartside wherever he
chooses to go, unlocking any doors that may be locked, and offering
him every facility in inspecting every nook and cranny in these rooms.
As you may not accept verbal information even from him, I shall have
pleasure in extending my offer to Culling. The one will be able to
check the other."
He blew three smoke-rings and waited for an answer.
There was another moment of general discomfort. Nigel jibbed at the
idea of apologising, Gartside and Culling would have done anything to
avoid accepting the offer; from Philip's miserable fidgeting I could
see that he had been persuaded into coming against his better
judgment. For myself, I waited as a condemned man waits for the drop
to fall. It was bound to come in a few seconds' time, but--illogically
enough--I had ceased to dread it. My one fear was that Joyce should
betray herself by one of those pitiful moans that had mingled with my
dreams and vexed my sleep throughout the night. To this hour I can
remember thinking how horror-stricken I should be if that sound broke
out again. It had begun to get on my nerves.... The discovery itself
was inevitable; I could imagine no trick or illusion that would enable
the Seraph to steer his inquisitors past one of the principal rooms in
the flat.
"I apologise for any offence I may have given, and I undertake all
that you ask."
It was not gracefully done, but the Seraph accepted the words for the
spirit.
"Come on, and let's get it over!" Culling exclaimed, jumping up and
cramming his hat on the back of his head. With sinking heart I saw the
three of them framed in the doorway, Gartside's huge form towering
over the other two.
"Devilish sorry about the whole business," I heard him begin as the
door closed. It was opened again for a moment as the Seraph reminded
me where the drinks were kept, and suggested I should compound a
cocktail. Then it closed finally.
Outside in the hall Culling added his contribution to the general
apology.
"Come quietly," was all the Seraph would answer. "I hope she's
sleeping."
Both men paused abruptly and gazed first at the Seraph and then at
each other. He returned their gaze unwaveringly, surprised apparently
that they should be surprised. Then he led them wide-eyed with
expectation across the hall; wide-eyed they watched him bend and
listen, tap and gently open a bedroom door. The nurse rose from her
chair at the bedside and placed a finger on her lips--
"Praise God, she's sleeping!" murmured Paddy Culling, with instinctive
reverence removing his hat. Gartside looked for a moment at the
flushed cheeks and parched lips, then turned away as the Seraph closed
the door.
"Mustn't go back yet," he said. "We'd better look at one or two more
rooms just to fill in time."
One of the shortest recorded councils of war was held in the bathroom.
Culling, with his quick, superficial sympathy had already made up his
mind, but Gartside stood staring out of the window with head bent and
hands locked behind his back, struggling and torn between an
unwillingness to hurt Joyce and a deep hungry desire to bring Sylvia
safely out of her unknown hiding-place.
"You'll kill her if you move her," the Seraph remarked,
dispassionately but with careful choice of time. Gartside's foot
tapped the floor irresolutely. "Toby's engaged to marry her," he added
softly.
With a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders Gartside turned to Culling,
nodded without speaking, and linked arms with the Seraph.
"You're a good little devil," he said with a forced smile. "When this
poor girl's better, get her to say where Sylvia is. She'll tell you.
And let me know when the whole damned thing's straightened out. I'm
off to Bombay in ten days' time. And it isn't very cheerful going off
without knowing where Sylvia is. Now we've been out long enough," he
added in firm, normal tones.
All three of us looked up quickly as the door opened. Culling's hat
was once more on his head, and he was trying to pull on a pair of
gloves and light a cigarette at the same time.
"All over but the cheering," he began abruptly. "High and low we've
searched, and not found enough of a woman would make a man leave Eden,
and she the only woman in the world."
"You've searched every room?" asked Nigel with a suspicious glance at
the Seraph.
"Cellar to garret," answered Culling serenely, "and no living creature
but a pair of goldfinches, and one of them dead; unless you'd be
counting the buxom matron that the Seraph dashes my hopes by sayin'
has a taste for drink like the many best of us, and she married
already, and the mother of fourteen brace of twins and a good plain
cook into the bargain."
Nigel picked up his papers and turned to Gartside for corroboration.
"We searched every room," he was told, "and Miss Davenant's not here.
Seraph, we owe you...."
The apology was cut short, as speaker and listeners paused to catch a
sound that floated through the silent hall and in at the open library
door. A long, troubled moaning it was, the sound I had heard all night
and dreaded all the morning.
"I shall have to check the verbal information after all," said Nigel
as he put back his hat and papers on the table.
"Where are you off to?" asked Gartside as he approached the door.
"It seems I must search the house myself."
"You undertook to accept our finding."
"I thought I could trust you."
"I have said Miss Davenant is not in these rooms," said Gartside in a
warning voice.
"If you said it a hundred times I should still disbelieve you. Let me
pass, please."
He raised a hand to clear himself a passage, but in physical strength
he had met more than his match. Seizing both wrists in one hand and
both ankles in the other, Gartside carried him like a child's doll
across the room to the open library window, thrust him through it, and
held him for ninety seconds stretched at arm's length three storeys
above the level of the street. The veins stood out on his forehead,
and I heard his voice rumbling like the distant mutter of thunder.
"When I say a thing, Nigel, you have to believe me. The moon's of
green cheese if I tell you to believe it, and when I say Miss
Davenant's not in this flat, she's not and never has been, and never
will be. You see?"
Stepping back from the window, he dropped his burden on a neighbouring
sofa. Nigel straightened his tie, brushed his clothes, and once more
gathered up his hat, his papers, and the remains of his dignity.
"Culling says there is no woman but a cook in the house," he began,
with the studied tranquillity of an angry man. "He clearly lies.
Gartside says Miss Davenant is not in the flat. He probably lies, but
it is always possible that the sound we heard may have come from some
woman Aintree thinks fit to keep in his rooms. In either event, I do
not feel bound by the undertaking I have given." He pulled out a
note-book and pretended to consult it. "To-day's Wednesday. If my
sister and Sylvia have not been restored to their families by midday
on Monday, I shall apply for a warrant to have these rooms searched.
They will, of course, be watched in the interval. If Lord Gartside or
any other person presumes to lay a finger on me, I shall summon him
for assault."
Pocketing the note-book he passed out of the flat with the air I
suspect Rhadamanthus of assuming, when he is leaving the court for the
luncheon interval, and has had a disagreeable morning with the
prisoners. Culling accompanied him to prevent a sudden bolt at a
suspicious-looking door, Philip followed with the Seraph, I brought up
the rear with Gartside. All of us were smarting with the Englishman's
traditional dislike of a "scene."
"I never congratulated you on the Bombay appointment," I said, with
praiseworthy design of scrambling onto neutral territory. "How soon
are you off?"
"Friday week," he answered.
"It's little enough time--nine days."
"Oh, I've known for some little while beyond that. It was only made
public to-day."
"It's a pleasant post," I said reflectively. "In a tolerably pleasant
country. I shall probably come to stay with you; I'm forgetting what
India's like."
"I wish you would," he said warmly.
"How are you going? P. and O. I suppose?"
"No, I shall go in my own yacht."
Culling turned round to reprove me for my forgetfulness.
"We Gartsides always take our own yachts when we cross the ocean to
take up our new responsibilities of Empire," he explained.
"Where do you sail from?" I ask. "Marseilles?"
"Southampton. Are you coming to see me off?"
"I might. It depends whether I can get away. Half London will be
there, I suppose?"
Candidly I cannot say whether my questions were prompted by what the
Seraph would call a sub-conscious plan of campaign. Gartside
undeniably thought they were, and met me gallantly.
"I'm eating a farewell dinner every night till I sail," he said. Then,
sinking his voice, he added, "You know the yacht--she's roomy, and
there will be only my two aide-de-camps and myself. No one will be
seeing me off, because I haven't told them when I'm sailing. It's the
usual route--anywhere in the Mediterranean. But I can't sail before
Friday week."
"I see. Well," I held out my hand, "if I _don't_ see you again, I'll
say good-bye."
"Good-bye. Best of luck!" he answered, and waved a hand as I walked
back and rejoined the Seraph in the hall.
He was so white that I expected every moment to see him faint, and his
clothes were wet with perspiration. I, who am not so fine-drawn, had
found the last hour a little trying.
"You're going to bed in decent time to-night," I told him. "I'm going
to see Nurse, and find out if she knows of any one she can trust to
come and help her. And I'm going to keep you out of the sick-room at
the point of a bayonet if you've got one."
I had expected a protest, but none came. He sat with closed eyes,
resting his head on his hand.
"I suppose that will be best," he assented at last.
"And now you're coming to get something to eat," I said, leading him
into the dining-room.
"I'm not hungry," he complained.
"But you're going to eat a great deal," I said, pushing him into his
chair and selecting a serviceable, sharp-pronged pickle-fork.
After luncheon I had my usual siesta, prolonged rather beyond my usual
hour. It was five o'clock when I awoke, and I found the Seraph playing
with a sheet of paper. He had written "Thursday, Friday, Saturday,
Sunday, Monday" on it, and after "Monday," "12.0 P.M."
"What's all this?" I asked.
"Our days of grace."
I added "Friday week" to the calendar.
"If we can get Joyce well enough to move away from Nigel's damned
cordon of police," I said, "and if we can hide her somewhere till
Friday week, friend Gartside's yacht is going to solve a good many
problems."
"It's not going to find Sylvia," he answered.
That was unquestionably true.
"I don't know how that's going to be managed," I said.
We sat without speaking until dinner-time, and ate a silent dinner. At
eleven o'clock he left the room, changed out of his dress clothes into
a tweed suit, and put on a hat and brown walking boots.
"Where are you off to?" I asked when he came back.
"I'm going to find Sylvia."
The expression in his eyes convinced me--if I wanted any
convincing--that the strain of the last few days had proved too much
for him.
"Leave it till the morning," I said in the tone one adopts in talking
to lunatics and drunken men.
"She wants me now."
"A few hours won't make any difference," I urged. "You'll start
fresher if you have a night's rest to the good."
The Seraph held out his hand.
"Good-bye. You think I'm mad. I'm not. No more than I ever am. But
Sylvia wants me, and I must go to her."
"Where is she?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Then how are you going to find her?"
"I don't know."
"Well, where will you start looking?"
"I don't know."
He was already halfway across the hall. I balanced the rival claims of
Joyce and himself. She at least had a doctor and nurse, and a second
nurse was coming in the morning. He had no one.
"Damn you, Seraph!" I said under my breath, and then aloud: "Wait a
bit and I'll come too."
"Hurry up then!" he answered chafing visibly at the delay.
I spoke a hurried word to the nurse, took a last look at Joyce,
changed my clothes and joined him on the landing.
"Which way first?" I asked, and received the answer I might have
expected.
"I don't know."