The strange countess
Until Miss Reddle occupied that room in Chester Square the French
windows leading to the balcony had been kept locked up.”
Lizzy gasped.
“But the servants----”
“The servants were all new. None of them had been longer in the house
than a fortnight. Sergeant Braime came up from Newbury, and even he
knew nothing.”
“Sergeant Braime?” she repeated, wide-eyed.
“Braime is an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, who
has been in the countess’ household for six months,” was the
staggering reply. “Nobody was allowed to go on to the balcony. A gate
was fixed to prevent the servants from forestalling the plan--it was
removed the night Lois went to her room.”
“By whom?” asked Lizzy quietly.
Michael Dorn shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows? I shall discover later.”
“Where is Lois now?”
“That is exactly what I want to know. I’m going to Chester Square
right away. Will you come with me?”
She was out of the room in a flash.
“But, Mr. Dorn, this is a terrible thing you say; that any person
should conspire against the life of that innocent lassie!” said old
Mackenzie, horrified. “You will surely find Miss Reddle at the good
countess’ home.”
“I hope so, but I very much doubt it, Mr. Mackenzie,” said Michael.
The old man’s lips were tremulous.
“Is there anything I can do? It is not my habit to leave the house,
but I would even take that step----”
Michael shook his head.
“I am afraid you can do nothing, except in the unlikely event of Miss
Reddle returning here. You will see that she does not go out again,
and that she does not receive visitors in any circumstances. I very
much doubt,” he smiled faintly, “whether you will be called upon to
render this help. I can only wish to heaven that you will be!”
Lizzy was down in a very short time, dressed for the street, and, as
they drove towards Chester Square, she told him the part she had
played in securing Lois Reddle’s release.
“I went and found the countess; she was at a friend’s house, and told
her about Lois. She was very much upset. I’d never seen her before to
speak to, but she was quite decent to me.”
“Did she have anybody with her? Do you know Chesney Praye?”
Lizzy shook her head.
“No, I’ve heard of him from Lois, but I’ve never seen him.”
Michael described the man and again she shook her head.
“No, he was not there.”
“What did the countess do?”
“She telephoned to somebody and said she was sending a letter to the
police officer in charge. She told me to go home to Charlotte Street
and wait in patience until Lois came back.”
Michael nodded.
“You could rest in patience because she knew that Lois wasn’t going
back to Chester Square!” he said grimly. “And if she hadn’t come back
to Chester Square and you were there waiting for her, you would have
wanted to know where she had been taken.”
The car drew up before 307, and Michael got out and pressed the bell.
There was no reply. He rang again, and followed this up by knocking.
Still there was no answer. Stepping out from under the porch he looked
up at the windows, just as a sash was raised and a tousled head thrust
forth. It was Lord Moron, and apparently he was sleeping on the floor
which was usually given over to the household staff.
“Hullo! What’s the trouble, old thing?”
“Will you come down?” called Michael, and the head was withdrawn.
They waited for a longer time than it would have taken for him to
reach the ground floor, before the door opened, and then the
explanation for the delay was unnecessary, for with him the countess
stood in the hall, wrapped in her cloak, a majestic and imposing
figure.
Chapter Twenty-three
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“I’ve come for Lois Reddle,” said Dorn shortly.
“She is not here. I have put her beyond your vindictive reach.”
“Where is she?”
“I refuse to make any statement, after your disgraceful conduct last
night in arresting this poor innocent child----”
“You can leave that out, Lady Moron,” said Michael savagely. “Nobody
knows better than you why she was arrested. Where is she?”
“I’ve sent her away to friends of mine.”
“The address?”
The Countess of Moron smiled slowly.
“A very persistent young man,” she said, almost pleasantly. “Will you
come into the library? I cannot speak in this draughty hall. Is that
Miss Smith you have with you? She may come in too.”
“She’ll be safer outside,” said Michael coolly and passed into the
hall.
All this time Selwyn had said nothing, but now he turned to his
mother.
“Where is Miss Reddle? Perhaps your ladyship will tell me?”
“I shall tell you nothing,” was the cold reply. “You may go back to
your room.”
“I’ll be blowed if I’ll go back to my room,” protested Lord Moron.
“There’s something remarkably fishy here, and I want to know just what
the deuce it is all about.”
It was a most heroic speech for him, and Michael, who knew all the
courage that was required to oppose this woman, felt a little glow of
admiration for the bullied man. Even the countess was taken aback.
“Why, Selwyn,” she said in a milder voice, “that is not the tone to
adopt towards your mother!”
“I don’t care what it is or what it isn’t,” said Selwyn doggedly.
“There’s something fishy--I’ve always said there was something fishy
about--things. Now, where the deuce is Miss Reddle?”
“She is with some friends of ours in the country,” said her ladyship.
The reply seemed to exhaust his power of resistance.
“Very well,” he said meekly.
He looked through the open door at Lizzy, smiled and waved his hand at
her, looked back at his mother, and then, visibly bracing himself for
the effort, walked boldly down the steps in his pyjamas and attenuated
dressing-gown to talk to the girl.
“Are you satisfied, Mr. Dorn?”
“No, I am far from satisfied, your ladyship,” said Michael, as he
followed the woman into the library.
He noticed the dull patch on the carpet where the water had been
thrown upon Braime, and saw her eyes also fixed upon the spot.
“And now, Mr. Dorn,” she said, almost amiably, “there is no reason why
we should quarrel. What is this mystery that you are making about Miss
Reddle? The poor girl was beside herself last night. It was an act of
mercy to send her off into the country.”
“Who drove her?”
“My chauffeur.” His keen eyes were fixed upon her, but she did not
falter.
“Not Mr. Chesney Praye by any chance?” he asked softly.
“Mr. Praye is in Paris. He has been there some days,” was the
staggering reply. “You’ve found a mare’s nest. Really there is no
mystery at all about anything that has happened to this young lady in
my house. What reason in the world was there for me to engage her,
except my desire to find a comfortable job for a very very nice girl?”
And then: “Is Braime better?”
“Sergeant Braime is much better,” said Michael, and saw that he had
got beneath her guard.
She cringed back as at a blow, and her voice had lost a little of its
assurance when she faltered:
“Sergeant Braime? I am talking about my butler----”
“And I’m talking about Sergeant Braime of the Criminal Investigation
Department, who has been in your service for six months.”
Her mouth was an O of amazement.
“But--but he was recommended to me by----”
“By a spurious Prisoners’ Aid Society,” said Michael. “The idea was
that, if you believed that the man had a criminal record, he had a
better chance of coming into your ladyship’s service.”
She had recovered herself in an instant.
“But why?” she drawled. “Why put a detective in my household? It is an
abominable outrage and I shall report the matter to the Commissioner
of Police immediately.”
He was looking round the room and his eyes rested upon that section of
the bookshelves which was protected by the wire-covered door.
“You have a book there that I should like to see. I intended coming
last night, only something prevented me.”
“A book?”
“A book called _The Life of Washington_--sounds a fairly innocuous
title, doesn’t it?”
She walked to the bookcase, and, taking a key from the drawer of her
desk, opened the wire net cover.
“There it is,” she said. “Read it and be improved.”
She turned to walk to the door and stood there watching him. And then
he did the last thing she expected. From his pocket he took a thick
red glove and drew it on his right hand. Reaching up, he seized the
back of the book and jerked it loose. There was a click, a spark of
blinding white light, but nothing else happened, and he laid the book
with some difficulty on the table.
“A very good imitation,” he said quietly, “but it is less of a book
than a steel box, and any person who attempts to pull it out
automatically makes contact with a very powerful electric current.
Where is the switch?”
She did not reply. Her face, under the powder, was drawn and haggard.
Walking to the door, Michael searched for a while, then, stooping
down, he turned over a big switch that was well concealed by a hanging
portière.
“Have you the key of this box?”
“It is not locked,” she said, and, coming to his side, pressed a
spring. The lid sprang open.
The “book” was, as he surmised, hollow. It was also empty.
“Is there a law against having a safe-box made like a book?” she
asked, and her voice was almost sweet. “Does one get into _very_
serious trouble for protecting one’s property from thieving butlers
and--inquisitive amateur detectives?”
“There’s a law against murder,” said the other shortly. “If I had
touched that book without rubber gloves, I should have been as near
dead as makes no difference. It did not kill Braime, because he is
constitutionally a giant.”
“I did not ask you to take down the book,” she said.
“Neither did you warn me,” Michael smiled crookedly. “Empty, eh? Of
course, it would be. You suspected Braime, and left a little notebook
around carelessly in your bedroom, in which you made reference to the
_Life of Washington_. Braime saw it and fell into the trap. He came to
the library, and would have been a dead man if I hadn’t applied first
aid.”
There was a silence.
“Is that all?” asked Lady Moron.
“Not quite all. I want to know where is Miss Reddle?”
“And I’m afraid I cannot tell you. The truth is, when she was released
last night, or in the early hours of this morning, she refused to come
either here or to her house in--wherever her house may be. She said
she wanted to go into the country----”
“And did Mrs. Pinder express a desire to go into the country?” he
asked, his cold eyes fixed on hers.
“Mrs. Pinder? I do not know Mrs. Pinder.”
“Did Mrs. Pinder express a desire to go into the country?” he asked
again. He raised a warning finger. “Madam, there is very considerable
trouble coming to you, and to those who work with you.”
She shrugged her broad shoulders.
“If it takes any other form than an early morning call by a
melodramatic detective I shall bear it with equanimity,” she said, and
stalked through the doorway into the hall, Michael following.
As she stood aside for him to pass through the door, she saw the
grotesque figure of Selwyn leaning over the side of the car--intently
occupied--and her lips curled.
“My son has found his intellectual level,” she said, and called him by
name.
To Michael’s surprise the young man merely turned his head and resumed
his conversation with the girl.
“Selwyn!”
Even then he took his time.
“Good-bye, young lady. Don’t forget”--in a stage whisper--“pork
sausages, not beef. Beef gives me indigestion.” And, waving her an
airy farewell, he went back to the woman whose face was a thundercloud
of wrath.
“It sounded almost as if you were making a date with that young man,”
said Michael as they drove off.
“He’s coming to supper,” said Lizzy. “Was Lois there?”
“No, I didn’t expect she would be.”