The Sins of Sumuru, page 12
From where they stood, by the door of the office, it reached them, muffled—stamping of feet and the crying of Forrester's name.
“Ian Forrester...”
“Ian Forrester...”
“I'll slip through the pass-door,” Ives muttered, “and try to find out what's become of him.”
The inspector poked his head in at the box-office window, and the clerk's voice was heard—“You would have to see the manager—”
“Look at that!” Ives tossed a card on to the glazed plan. “Show me the pass-door.”
The clerk came out, and hurried off, closely followed by Ives.
“... Ian Forrester ...”
“Ian Forrester...”
Granville returned, looking more overworked than ever.
“If you will come this way, Dr. Maitland,” he said nervously—“the audience is getting quite out of hand. I can't imagine why they don't put up the house-lights. Ian Forrester is refusing to take his curtain, for some reason.”
Meanwhile, Inspector Ives was making a room-to-room search, amid a scene of consternation. People were running hither and thither quite aimlessly.
“Put up the house-lights!”
“Where's Granville? We shall want him on the stage...”
All dressing-room doors were open, and the occupants of the rooms not to be found—with one exception. On this, closed, door Ives rapped sharply.
“Is Mr. Forrester in there?”
“He is not, sir,” a voice replied. “My name is Merrick. I am Ian's understudy—and I have less than four minutes to dress...”
2
Granville rapped on the door of the box, opened it, and announced:
“Dr. Steel Maitland, who wishes to see you, Lady Carradale.”
Maitland stepped in, followed by Donovan. As the door had been opened, uproar from the auditorium burst upon them like a tempest. Apparently, hope had not been abandoned that the missing actor would be found, for the houselights remained obstinately lowered. But many people were filing out from the stalls. There was a charivari of excited comment. And, from upstairs, there came a concerted and deafening demand for Ian Forrester's appearance.
There were two people in the box: a big, burly man whose grey hair was cropped close to his skull, Teutonic fashion, and who wore tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles; and a woman, lying back in a chair set in the shadow, who surveyed the intruders somewhat superciliously through raised lorgnettes. She was of a dark, Spanish type, her heavily marked eyebrows tending to overpower her features. She wore black.
Maitland bowed, as Granville withdrew.
“I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you, Lady Carradale— and you, sir. But I was under the impression that you had another guest—”
“You were mistaken, Dr. Maitland.” Lady Carradale had a high, rather harsh voice. “A friend of yours, you thought?”
“Well—hardly a friend! My business was official.”
“Indeed! You don't look like a policeman.”
“No. Beards are unusual in the police, Lady Carradale. I can only ask you to forgive me for this unwarranted intrusion.”
“But not at all, Doctor. It is a pleasure. Will you and your friend honour us with your company?”
“Many thanks. My friend—Mr. Donovan—and I are most appreciative—”
The house-lights went up.
All those on their way out, stopped, and turned!—as the tableau curtains were drawn apart, and Granville stepped on to the stage. The gallery became silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen—”
“Forgive me again, Lady Carradale ... I must go. Good night, and thank you.”
Maitland and Donovan hurried from the box. As the door closed:
“Through to the stage!” said Maitland. “We have been tricked, Donovan! She slipped out! There was someone else in that box! We must look up the history of Lady Carradale... through here!”
On the stage, a nervous hush prevailed. Granville's voice could be heard, explaining to the audience that, owing to the sudden and inexplicable illness of Ian Forrester, the part of Hamlet during the rest of the play would be taken by Mr. Douglas Merrick. In these unhappy circumstances, he was sure, etc....
“But where can be possibly have gone?” a woman's voice whispered agitatedly.
And, quietly as possible, stage hands changed the set.
“Is that you, Ives?” Maitland asked suddenly.
Ives elbowed his way through a group and joined Maitland and Donovan.
“It's me right enough. Come outside, where we can talk.”
“What news?”
As they stepped out into a narrow passage inside the stage door, Ives replied:
“He's got the news!”
Ives pointed to a man in his shirt sleeves seated in the door-keeper's box—a stout, red-faced man who had a glass of whisky beside him and who appeared to be the only person in the building unaffected by the night's happenings.
“Door-keeper—what do you know about all this?” Maitland demanded.
The door-keeper leaned through his little window.
“All there is to know, I reckon,” he replied. “Just before the curtain comes down, a chauffeur bloke hands me a note—or rather, two notes. One for me, and one for Mr. Forrester. He says the one in a envelope must be handed to Mr. Forrester the moment he comes off. See? Well, I gets hold of his dresser and tells him to stand by on the side—”
“Describe the chauffeur,” snapped Maitland.
“Big chap. Very hairy.”
“Go on!”
“I've just got back here, and I can tell the curtain's down, and I'm putting on my hat to nip along to the corner, when Mr. Forrester, dressed like he come off, runs past me and out into the street!”
He paused on this dramatic line.
“Well—go on!”
“There ain't no more to go on to. I can see there's a woman in the case, and I don't think a lot about it. I puts my hat on and goes along to the corner—”
“But why the hell didn't you report this before?” Ives growled.
“I've told you, Inspector. When I come back—and I'm not gone more'n three minutes—how am I to know Mr. Forrester ain't in the theatre? Nobody tells me—not till you tell me.”
“My God!” Maitland muttered, and grasped Donovan's arm—“She has got him! Why didn't I realise his danger in time? Why didn't I foresee this!... Under our very eyes, Donovan! Under our very eyes ...”
3
Night was giving place to morning when a man wearing a grey chauffeur's uniform entered, with almost silent tread, a charmingly feminine little boudoir, furnished in satinwood upholstered in violet, and stood before a long, narrow couch upon which Our Lady reclined.
She wore a loose rest-gown. A tray, with coffee and biscuits, stood beside it. She no more than glanced at the man. He stood, powerful fists clenched, head bowed.
“I am here, My Lady.”
“So I observe, Philo. To report—failure?”
“No, My Lady. Success.”
She sat up; and her remarkable eyes opened widely, so that their beauty became fearful.
“Then you have done well, Philo.” She lay back again, laughing gently. “From my box I saw the note handed to him in the wings as he left the stage. I knew that, so far, all went smoothly ... Sister Jean?”
“Has been prepared for her journey, My Lady.”
“He got into the car without—urging?”
“The moment he saw the little Jean lying back on the cushions, Madonna. I closed the door and drove off.”
“How did he behave?”
“Like a madman, My Lady. But he could open neither of the doors. She was unconscious. On the Heath—at the spot selected—I unlocked the door, and he leapt out and attacked me. In his fury he almost overpowered me. But I tripped him—and silenced him. I gave the injection near the top of the spine, as Ariosto had shown me... He did not awaken again ”
“And you left him standing, as I ordered?”
“As you ordered, My Lady.”
My Lady laughed again, softly, and extended her hand.
Philo bent and kissed the delicate fingers.
4
The next person to set eyes upon Ian Forrester was a man called Thorndale.
Thorndale was a gardener, one of whose duties was to tend the heating furnace of a house overlooking Reigate Heath. This necessitated his leaving home before six o'clock in the morning and walking from the town across a part of the Heath and golf-course. From a mound dominated by a giant fir he usually obtained his first glimpse of his employer's chimneys, visible from that point above the crowns of encircling trees.
This was a misty, cold morning. In fact, the mist was so dense in patches as to deserve the name of fog.
One such patch occurred in the dip immediately below the mound supporting the King fir, and here, grumbling to himself, Thorndale paused to try to re-light his pipe, which had gone out largely because of lack of tobacco.
However, an artist in coaxing a cinder into a flame, he contrived to get his pipe going again, and resumed his slow tramp, both hands thrust into his topcoat pockets. He climbed up the path to the mound, and to some extent, out of the mist. As he passed the great mast of the tree, he paused for a moment, staring.
Someone appeared to be standing there—a man in black.
“Good morning, sir,” called Thorndale. “Bit foggy like.'
He went on his way—but received no reply.
This simply led him to suppose that the stranger who stood by the big tree was a surly fellow... then, led him to wonder.
Had there been someone there? Or had he imagined it?
He turned back.
Reclimbing the mound from the other side, he obtained a clear view of the figure. He had not been mistaken. There was a man there right enough. But...
Thorn dale's pipe fell on to the turf.
A moment later he was running, headlong, even his precious old pipe forgotten, in the direction of a garage fronting the Heath at which as he passed he had seen men at work...
“What are you talking about, mate? What's the panic?”
An older man, and a daft looking boy, joined the mechanic to whom Thorndale had tried to tell his strange news.
“I'm talking about a ghost!” said Thorndale, breathless, but defiant. “There's a man up there”—he made vague gestures in the direction of the mist wantoning over the Heath—“standing under a tree... He's all in black—with a dagger in his belt—Jewels on his hands ... A ghost, I tell you!”
The two men and the boy exchanged glances.
“Barmy,” said the boy.
The mechanic aimed a blow at him—which the daft boy ducked.
“No harm done if we go and see.”
“'That's all I'm asking!”
“I'm staying here,” the older man announced, with a suspicious look at Thorndale.
And so a procession of three inquirers set out for the big fir tree.
Within ten paces of it, the mechanic pulled up.
“Blimey!” he remarked.
“What did I tell you?”
It was the daft boy who approached the pallid statue of Hamlet—who touched it—who fell back, shrieking—who ran like a hunted, wild thing across the Heath, directionless, without purpose.
“He's turned to stone!” he shrieked as he ran. “He's turned to stone ...” So was found the body of Ian Forrester.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1
“NICE view of the Embankment from this part of Scotland Yard, Ives.”
“Yes, Doctor, very nice. Every time I look out I wonder if Sumuru is walking by down there. Because I shouldn't know her if I saw her.”
“M'no...” Maitland lighted a cheroot. “This case must be giving you nightmares, Inspector. I hear that the Commissioner has been blowing off steam.”
“He has,” said Ives grimly. 'There was a conference yesterday. You see, although breaking up this organisation, Order, or whatever the gang may be called, is a Secret Service job—and your pidgin—their murders are my job... and I can make no headway ”
He banged a large, muscular hand on the desk, angrily. Maitland nodded, and:
“The newspapers are getting very sarcastic, too,” he remarked. 'The death of Sir Miles Tristram was passed over without much fuss, but the death of a popular actor is another cup of tea entirely. Then, all these disappearances are beginning to arouse public uneasiness. Questions in the House and so on.”
“Don't I know it!” groaned Ives. “My particular, private hell is due to the fact that I'm perfectly well aware who is responsible for them. But (a) I have no evidence against her; (b) I don't know who she is or where she is!”
Maitland replaced his lighter in his pocket.
“Personally, I never go far without a bodyguard. Sumuru doesn't jib at trifling obstacles, and I'm undoubtedly a nuisance to her. It's true that she recovered all the tangible evidence I possessed, but she can't strangle my memory without strangling me!”
He stood up, and began to pace restlessly about the office.
“You know,” said Ives, slowly, “the death of that poor young actor gave me an idea. I don't know how it'll appeal to you—but I think it's worth considering.”
Maitland paused, looking at him.
“What is it?”
“Well, Ian Forrester was murdered—a spectacular business —merely because of an affair with a girl (who can't be traced) belonging to this female Stalin—I take it, as a sort of warning to others. Very well. What about your American friend—Mr. Donovan?”
“Well, what about him?”
“He's tied up with one of these girls, too, isn't he?”
“Yes—Claudette Duquesne. He's desperate about her. But, of course, she has disappeared!”
“Quite so. But—and I'm working entirely on your own theory here, Doctor—this woman Sumuru may have some use for Mr. Donovan, or think she has. It certainly looks that way to me. So, suppose you were to disappear?”
Maitland walked over to the desk and stood looking down at the inspector. His cheroot assumed a very truculent angle.
“What!”
“It could easily be arranged. Give the impression that Mr. Donovan's movements were no longer under supervision. The gang might take the opportunity to bring him and the girl together again. You see my point?”
Maitland laughed, but not mirthfully.
“Yes—I see your point, Ives. But Donovan is an old friend. I wouldn't dare to expose him to such danger ...”
Ives leaned forward.
“I don't believe the danger would be so great as you think. I could undertake never to let him out of sight of the C.I.D., day or night. And, if we could convince the gang that you were not in London, but really have you tucked away somewhere handy—you see?”
“Yes,” Maitland murmured. “I see.” He began to walk about again. “Oddly enough, Ives, the idea of disappearing had already occurred to me!”
“Really?”
“Yes. I thought it might help to extend my span of life. What I had in mind was this: All my friends, yourself included, have commented upon the beard which I grew in the Navy. Well—I propose to remove it. If, secondly, I can get my hair bleached, the result, if not attractive, should be striking! The bother is the intermediate stage—”
“Easy enough!” Ives declared. “Do what the attendants at Drury Lane Theatre used to do: rub in wet pipeclay and let it dry.”
Maitland paused and stared.
“H'm. Messy—but, I suppose, effective. I have discovered a bearded Naval Lieutenant—through Naval Intelligence—who could pass for me anywhere—that is, by sight. I thought if he went up to Edinburgh to look into the disappearance of those two Ross girls who vanished last week, I might, as you suggest, tuck my new self away somewhere—”
“We should have to keep a close watch on the lieutenant,” Ives broke in anxiously.
“That is understood. He will have full instructions as to his behaviour whilst in Scotland, where accommodation has been arranged in the name of Dr. Maitland. But—what about Donovan?”
“I don't think Mr. Donovan should know anything about it. Not because I doubt him for a moment, but because—”
“He is far too naive to be a convincing actor? I agree. Deluding Donovan is going to be a beastly business, but I think it must be done, all the same ...”
2
The taxi was rattling through morning mist. Mark Donovan felt unhappy. He glanced anxiously at Maitland.
Maitland was muffled up in his check travelling coat, the collar raised and the brim of his hat pulled down so that it cast a shadow on his face.
“You look none too well, Maitland. You're quite pale. Whatever started you off on this sudden journey North?”
“Well—I suppose it was a sudden decision, Donovan. Two girls, sisters, and famous beauties in Edinburgh, disappeared, leaving no trace. Both were highly cultured, and held degrees —one, of Arts, the other, of Science. It looks like Sumuru's work!”
“Sure. It does. But I'm sorry you decided to go, personally, all the same. You are certain, Maitland, that you will be well taken care of?”
“Certain. For yourself, Donovan, take no chances. We are nearly at the station, and there's an important question I have to ask: Did you ever, during your interviews with Claudette Duquesne, notice her ankles?”
Donovan stared, perturbed by an idea that Maitland might be running a temperature.
“Her ankles!”
Maitland laughed.
“Sounds odd, I know. But one of the few things I have learned about the Order of Our Lady (for so it is known) is that members of the gang have a design representing a snake with its tail in its mouth, delicately tattooed around the left ankle. I believe I have mentioned this before? It's done so lightly as to be practically invisible through even the finest stocking. But it's always there.”
“And you are suggesting that Claudette—”
“I don't say so. It was merely a conjecture. Hullo! Here we are!”
The taxi pulled up amongst many others discharging passengers at the great terminus. Donovan glanced at the station clock.
“You have run it pretty close, Maitland.”
