The strange countess
questions.” And then, as an inspiration came to him: “I am from Mr.
Chesney Praye.”
This time the silence was so long that he thought they had gone. Then
the woman spoke.
“We don’t know Mr. Chesney Praye, and we’re going in.”
“We? Who’s your friend?” asked Michael, but there was no answer.
Presently the door was slammed ostentatiously. Behind the gates he
could hear the growling and snuffling of the dogs, and when he put his
toe cautiously under the space between earth and gate he heard the
vicious snap of a jaw, and smiled in the darkness. Soon after, the man
and woman at the upstairs window heard the whine of a motor and saw
the two white beams of its head-lamps moving towards London.
And Lois Reddle lay sobbing on her bed, and in her heart the despair
of hopelessness.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Two hours after Michael Dorn had gone, Dr. Tappatt sat in his
parlour, his elbows on his knees, his big face cupped in his hands.
Beside him was a half-filled tumbler of whisky, and he was gazing into
the fire, which was lit for him summer and winter since he had left
India. There had been a time when his name had ranked high in the
profession of medicine, but an unsavoury incident had driven him from
Edinburgh, where, although he was young, he had established an
excellent practice, and he found himself in India, with no other
assets than his undoubted skill, the meagre remnants of his savings,
and a taste for good wine. For a time he had been attached to the
court of an Indian prince, and then, in an evil moment, he had
conceived the idea of a mental home for wealthy Indians.
But for the growing craving for drink he might have retired after a
few years, with sufficient to keep him for the rest of his life. But
there was a kink somewhere in Dr. Tappatt’s nature and it showed
itself only too clearly in his conduct of the home. He had to leave
the North-West Provinces in a hurry and settle in Bengal, where there
were queer stories about the home he founded there. There were
applications at court by the relatives of patients who had been put
away by interested people, and in the end his home was closed and he
moved into the Punjab.
His brilliant brain had been sharpened by conflict with authority, and
he had become something of a strategist, for strategy is the art of
knowing your enemy’s mind.
Staring into the fire, he was studying the mentality of Captain
Michael Dorn and he reached certain conclusions. The woman attendant
had long since gone to bed, and was asleep when he shuffled down the
passage and knocked at her door.
“Come out; I want to speak to you.”
He heard her grumbling, and went back to the study. Once in the period
of waiting he looked at the telephone and reached out his hand
half-way to take it. But he knew that the person he had in mind was
not to be lightly disturbed again, and he had already made his report.
No, his method was the best, he decided; and if he was mistaken in his
estimate of Michael Dorn no harm would be done.
When the woman came blinking into the light, buttoning up her dress,
he nodded to a chair and for half an hour they talked, the woman
interpolating sour objections which he dismissed without ceremony.
“I haven’t had any sleep for two nights,” she complained, “and I don’t
see why----”
“Are you expected to see anything?” he snarled. “You’re a listener--no
more!”
She had served him for the greater part of twenty years and was afraid
of no other person in the world. And from grumbling she came to
whining, until he waved her out of the room.
At seven o’clock in the morning Dr. Tappatt, dressed in a thick
woollen overcoat, for he felt the chill air of the morning, drew up
the blinds and opened the windows of his parlour, having previously
made a tour of inspection. Heaping two more logs on the fire, he
gathered some scraps of meat and carried them out to the dogs, who
greeted him with hoarse barks of welcome. He took his time, finding a
malicious joy in his tardiness. Then, when he had toured the yard, he
went round to the front of the house again, turned the key, unbolted
the gate, and pulled it open. A man was standing squarely opposite the
entrance, and the doctor started.
“Good morning, Dr. Tappatt,” said Michael Dorn. “I had an idea I
should see you if I came early enough.”
“Good gracious!” said Tappatt, in feigned surprise. “This is an
unexpected pleasure, Captain Dorn!”
“I am glad you think so. Did Miss Reddle sleep well?”
The doctor’s brows furrowed.
“Miss Reddle? I can’t remember--oh, yes, of course, it was that
delightful young lady I met at the Countess of Moron’s house. What a
queer question to ask me!”
There was a silence.
“You haven’t invited me in. You’ve lost your old Anglo-Indian sense of
hospitality,” bantered Michael.
Tappatt stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his inflamed
face thrust forward.
“I don’t remember that we were especially good friends, Dorn,” he
said. “I seem to remember certain unpleasant encounters----?”
“Nevertheless--you are going to invite me inside, or else----”
“Or else?” repeated the doctor.
“Or else I shall invite myself. I have a particular wish to look round
your little place.”
Tappatt’s big mouth twisted in a smile.
“With or without a search warrant?” he asked politely.
“Without, for the moment. You and I are two old law-breakers, Tappatt;
we have never been great sticklers for formality.”
By this time he had walked through the gate, and, curiously enough, he
did not seem to expect the dogs. Tappatt noticed this and grew even
more alert. He had matched his brain against this sometime chief of
police, and so far the honours were with him, he felt.
“I can’t resist you, Dorn,” he said, and waved his hand to the open
door of the house. “Step right in.”
Michael did not require a second invitation. He strolled carelessly
into the house, and turned to the study as though he had been there
before. Following him, the doctor closed the door.
“Now, what do you want?”
“I wish to search these premises--I am seeking a lady named Pinder and
her daughter, Lois Margeritta Reddle, whom I believe are forcibly
detained here.”
Tappatt shook his head.
“I’m afraid you’re on a wild goose chase. Neither of these ladies are
inmates of my house. In fact, I have no patients just now----”
“Nor yet a licence to take patients,” added Michael. “I took the
trouble to look up the records--they are available even in the middle
of the night--fearing that short-memoried authority had overlooked
your many grievous faults; I was happy that the official mind has
showed commendable discretion.”
“I haven’t applied for a licence,” said Tappatt shortly. Any question
regarding his profession touched him on the raw. “I don’t see why I
should allow you to make a search,” he went on. “You have no more
authority to act as a detective than I have to run a mental home. You
can start here--look under the table or under the sofa,” he grew
heavily sarcastic, “I may have some unfortunate person concealed
there!”
Dorn walked from the room, along the passage, and stopped at the door
at the foot of the stairs, turning the handle.
“My housekeeper’s room.”
“Where is she?” asked Michael.
“She’s in the kitchen.”
Michael passed into the room, pulled up the blinds and again looked
round. Though he did not show by any sign his state of mind he was
neither uneasy nor unalarmed at the readiness with which permission
had been given to him to make the search. Rather were matters working
out according to his expectations.
“There are two rooms upstairs; would you like to see them?”
Dorn nodded and followed on the man’s heels to the landing.
“This is a ward I should use if I had luck enough to get a patient.”
He threw open the door of what had been Lois’ room. It was empty; the
bed was stripped of all its clothes and the blankets were neatly
folded at the foot. Michael walked into the room, inspected the little
bathroom, tried the windows, and came out without a word. Most women
use a distinctive perfume. He had noted that Lois was faintly fragrant
of lavender--the room had that scent too.
The room opposite was even less completely furnished, and it was also
tenantless. He knew that there was no space between the ceiling and
the roof to conceal any but a willing fugitive, and satisfied himself
with the briefest of scrutinies.
The other wing of the house was scarcely habitable; in some places the
sky showed through the gaps in the roof, and all the upper floors were
rotten with storm-water and would hardly bear the weight of a child.
“Where does that lead?” asked Michael when he came out from the
inspection of the lower floor of the old wing. He pointed to a flight
of steps that terminated in a door.
“It is a cellar of some kind; you can go in,” said the other
carelessly.
Michael pushed the door open and stepped into a little apartment. A
certain amount of light and air was admitted through a small grating
that had been let into the wall, but there was little of either. Other
light or ventilation there was none, except for the spy-hole in the
door. He flashed his lamp around, saw an old bed in one corner and a
washstand. He walked to the bed, turned over the folded blankets, and
then came into the daylight.
“Quite an airy apartment,” he said drily. “Is this for a patient too?”
“There is many a poor fellow sleeping out at night who would be glad
of that room,” said Dr. Tappatt virtuously, and Michael showed his
teeth for a moment in an unpleasant smile.
“Ever been in prison, Tappatt? I don’t think you have, have you?” he
asked, as he ascended the steps again.
Nobody knew better than Michael Dorn that the doctor had escaped
conviction, but it was his way of giving a warning.
“I have not had that distinction.”
“Yet,” finished Dorn. “The cells of Dartmoor are much more wholesome
than this black hole of yours--as you will find. Plenty of fresh air,
immense quantities of light--and the food is good.”
Tappatt licked his lips but made no answer.
“What is in here?” He stopped before a locked shed.
“A motor-car belonging to a friend of mine. Do you want to see it?”
“A blue Buick, by any chance?”
“Yes, I think it is a Buick.”
“Left here the night before last, I think?”
Tappatt smiled and shook his head.
“It has been here a week. There are times when you are just a little
too clever.”
“Let me see it,” said Michael.
The doctor went back to the house for keys, whilst Michael made a
rapid inspection of the remaining buildings. The two dogs broke into a
fury at his approach, straining at their chains until it seemed that
they must choke or the leashes break. Then the doctor returned and
found Dorn contemplating the back gate with absorbed interest; the
ground was hard and showed no footmark--even the car had left no
tracks.
“Here is a key.”
“I don’t think I want to see the car,” said Dorn slowly. “I know it
rather well and the owner more than a little.” He looked round. “I
don’t see your housekeeper anywhere.”
“I expect she’s gone into the village to do her marketing,” said the
other.
Slowly Michael took a gold case from his pocket, selected a cigarette
and lit it, throwing the match towards the dogs, an act which angered
them to madness.
“You want to be careful of those dogs,” warned the doctor. “They’re
not the kind to monkey with. I don’t know what they would do to you,
even if I were with you.”
“They want to be careful of me,” said Dorn. “I had the death of more
pariahs on my soul than any other police official in India during the
term I was serving.”
“They would get you before you got them,” said the doctor angrily.
Michael Dorn smiled, and stretched out his hand stiffly before him.