The Seven Dials mystery
"Such an ass as we all think."
Ronny stared at him.
"We all know old Gerald."
"Do we?" said Jimmy. "I've sometimes thought that--well, that it isn't
possible for anyone to be quite the ass old Gerry makes himself out to
be."
They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny's face.
"Jimmy," he said, "you've got brains."
"A second Pongo," said Bill encouragingly.
"Well, it just occurred to me, that's all," said Jimmy, defending
himself.
"Oh! don't let's all be subtle," cried Socks. "What are we to do about
these clocks?"
"Here's Pongo coming back again. Let's ask him," suggested Jimmy.
Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his
decision.
"Wait till he's gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very
quietly and put the clocks down on the floor."
"Little Pongo's right again," said Jimmy. "On the word one all park
clocks, and then we'll go downstairs and disarm suspicion."
Bridge was still proceeding--with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was
now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her
the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote
accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real
interest. She reiterated, not once but many times:
"I see, dear. It's so kind of you to tell me."
And she continued to make exactly the same errors.
At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:
"Well played, partner, jolly well played."
Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.
"Say he goes to bed about twelve--what do you think we ought to give
him--about an hour?"
He yawned.
"Curious thing--three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye,
but to-night, just because I know we've got to sit up a bit, I'd give
anything to be a mother's boy and turn in right away."
Everyone agreed that he felt the same.
"My dear Maria," rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation,
"I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are
wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table
information."
Lady Coote had a very good answer to this--namely that as Sir Oswald
was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But she
did not make it. Instead she smiled kindly, leaned her ample chest well
forward over the table, and gazed firmly into Gerald Wade's hand where
he sat on her right.
Her anxieties lulled to rest by perceiving the queen, she played the
knave and took the trick and proceeded to lay down her cards.
"Four tricks and the rubber," she announced. "I think I was very lucky
to get four tricks there."
"Lucky," murmured Gerald Wade, as he pushed back his chair and came
over to the fireplace to join the others. "Lucky, she calls it. That
woman wants watching."
Lady Coote was gathering up notes and silver.
"I know I'm not a good player," she announced in a mournful tone which
nevertheless held an undercurrent of pleasure in it. "But I'm really
very lucky at the game."
"You'll never be a bridge player, Maria," said Sir Oswald.
"No, dear," said Lady Coote. "I know I shan't. You're always telling me
so. And I do try so hard."
"She does," said Gerald Wade _sotto voce_. "There's no subterfuge about
it. She'd put her head right down on your shoulder if she couldn't see
into your hand any other way."
"I know you try," said Sir Oswald. "It's just that you haven't any card
sense."
"I know, dear," said Lady Coote. "That's what you're always telling me.
And you owe me another ten shillings, Oswald."
"Do I?" Sir Oswald looked surprised.
"Yes. Seventeen hundred--eight pounds ten. You've only given me eight
pounds."
"Dear me," said Sir Oswald. "My mistake."
Lady Coote smiled at him sadly and took up the extra ten-shilling note.
She was very fond of her husband, but she had no intention of allowing
him to cheat her out of ten shillings.
Sir Oswald moved over to a side table and became hospitable with whisky
and soda. It was half-past twelve when general good-nights were said.
Ronny Devereux, who had the room next door to Gerald Wade's, was told
off to report progress. At a quarter to two he crept round tapping at
doors. The party, pyjamaed and dressing-gowned, assembled with various
scuffles and giggles and low whispers.
"His light went out about twenty minutes ago," reported Ronny in a
hoarse whisper. "I thought he'd never put it out. I opened the door
just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?"
Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty
arose.
"We can't all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person's got to
do it and the others can hand him the what-nots from the door."
Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.
The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle.
Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and
heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he
fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered
possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of
Rupert Bateman.
"Pongo's the lad," agreed Jimmy. "Anyway, he walks like a cat--always
did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of
some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible
that'll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions."
"Something subtle," suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.
"Exactly," said Jimmy.
Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the
bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two
largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold
and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally
he emerged. Every one held his breath and listened. The rhythmical
breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered
and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr.
Murgatroyd's eight alarum clocks.
CHAPTER III
THE JOKE THAT FAILED
"Twelve o'clock," said Socks despairingly.
The joke--as a joke--had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks,
on the other hand, had performed their part. _They_ had gone off--with
a vigour and _élan_ that could hardly have been surpassed and which had
sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the
day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next
door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in
the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.
He expected profanity--expected it confidently and with intelligent
anticipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard
nothing of what he expected. The clocks were ticking all right--ticking
in a loud, arrogant, exasperating manner. And presently another went
off, ringing with a crude, deafening note that would have aroused acute
irritation in a deaf man.
There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part
faithfully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for
them. But apparently they had met their match in Gerald Wade.
The syndicate was inclined to be despondent about it.
"The lad isn't human," grumbled Jimmy Thesiger.
"Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolled
over and went to sleep again," suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).
"It seems to me very remarkable," said Rupert Bateman seriously. "I
think he ought to see a doctor about it."
"Some disease of the ear-drums," suggested Bill hopefully.
"Well, if you ask me," said Socks, "I think he's just spoofing us.
Of course they woke him up. But he's just going to do us down by
pretending that he didn't hear anything."
Every one looked at Socks with respect and admiration.
"It's an idea," said Bill.
"He's subtle, that's what it is," said Socks. "You'll see, he'll be
extra late for breakfast this morning--just to show us."
And since the clock now pointed to some minutes past twelve the general
opinion was that Socks' theory was a correct one. Only Ronny Devereux
demurred.
"You forget, I was outside the door when the first one went off.
Whatever old Gerry decided to do later, the first one must have
surprised him. He'd have let out something about it. Where did you put
it, Pongo?"
"On a little table close to his ear," said Mr. Bateman.
"That was thoughtful of you, Pongo," said Ronny. "Now, tell me." He
turned to Bill. "If a whacking great bell started ringing within a few
inches of your ear at half-past six in the morning, what would you say
about it?"
"Oh! Lord," said Bill. "I should say--" He came to a stop.
"Of course you would," said Ronny. "So should I. So would anyone. What
they call the natural man would emerge. Well, it didn't. So I say that
Pongo is right--as usual--and that Gerry has got an obscure disease of
the ear-drums."
"It's now twenty past twelve," said one of the other girls sadly.
"I say," said Jimmy slowly, "that's a bit beyond anything, isn't it? I
mean a joke's a joke. But this is carrying it a bit far. It's a shade
hard on the Cootes."
Bill stared at him.
"What are you getting at?"
"Well," said Jimmy, "somehow or other--it's not like old Gerry."
He found it hard to put into words just what he meant to say. He
didn't want to say too much, and yet--He saw Ronny looking at him.
Ronny was suddenly alert.
It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked round him
hesitatingly.
"I thought Mr. Bateman was here," he explained apologetically.
"Just gone out this minute through the window," said Ronny. "Can I do
anything?"
Tredwell's eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then back
again. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him.
Tredwell closed the dining-room door carefully behind him.
"Well," said Ronny. "What's up?"
"Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sending
Williams up to his room."
"Yes."
"Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation,
sir." Tredwell paused--a pause of preparation. "I am afraid, sir, the
poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep."
Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.
"Nonsense," cried Ronny at last. "It's--it's impossible. Gerry--" His
face worked suddenly. "I'll--I'll run up and see. That fool Williams
may have made a mistake."
Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand. With a queer, unnatural
feeling of detachment, Jimmy realized that the butler had the whole
situation in hand.
"No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr.
Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the
door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must
now find Mr. Bateman."
Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.
"Gerry," he muttered to himself.
Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered him out through a side
door on to a secluded portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to
a seat.
"Take it easy, old son," he said kindly. "You'll get your wind in a
minute."
But he looked at him rather curiously. He had had no idea that Ronny
was such a friend of Gerry Wade's.
"Poor old Gerry," he said thoughtfully. "If ever a man looked fit, he
did."
Ronny nodded.
"All that clock business seems so rotten now," went on Jimmy. "It's
odd, isn't it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?"
He was talking more or less at random, to give Ronny time to recover
himself. The other moved restlessly.
"I wish that doctor would come. I want to know--"
"Know what?"
"What he--died of."
Jimmy pursed up his lips.
"Heart?" he hazarded.
Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh.