The strange countess
gambling houses which you have found so profitable in the past, I
shall be coming right along after you with a real policeman.”
“You damned amateur!” spluttered the other.
“You have found the chink in my armour.” Dorn was coolness itself, and
the shadow of laughter gleamed in his fine eyes. “I hate being called
‘amateur’! I have warned you.”
“You’re not in India now----” began Chesney, and recognised his
mistake too late.
“I am not in India now, nor are you,” Dorn’s voice was gentle, almost
silken. “Seven years ago I was in India--in Delhi--and there was a
certain smart young Government official, also a financial adviser to
some heads of departments, whose accounts went a little wonky. He was
some twenty thousand pounds short. The money was never discovered. It
was generally thought that the financial authority was more of a fool
than a rogue, and, although he was dismissed from the public service,
he was not prosecuted.”
Chesney Praye licked his dry lips.
“I, for my part, advised his prosecution,” Dorn went on. “In fact, I
knew that the money was lying at a bank in Bombay, in the name of a
lady friend. The Simla big-wigs were so scared of a scandal that the
thief”--he paused and watched the other wince--“this thief was allowed
to transfer his ill-gotten gains to Europe. And lo! I meet him again
in the rôle of financial adviser!”
Chesney found his voice.
“There’s a law of libel in this country,” he said.
“There are several other laws, including the very excellent criminal
law,” said Dorn. “And the statute of limitations does not apply to
felonies. One loud squeal in an irresponsible newspaper, and they’d
have to pinch you, whether the Government liked it or not.”
Chesney Praye looked first one way and then the other, and presently
his eyes caught the detective’s. He was paler than he had been.
“I didn’t associate you with that business,” he said. “I knew I had an
enemy somewhere in the background. It was you, was it?”
Dorn nodded.
“It was I--by the way, where is your dissolute friend, Dr. Tappatt,
located? I thought he must have drunk himself to death, but I hear
that he is in London--you introduced him to the countess a year ago.
Did you tell her about his queer record? Or is he now her medical
adviser? Or is he running one of the famous unregistered homes for
mental cases? That man will hang sooner or later.”
Praye did not reply. His face was working nervously; for a second he
had a mad impulse to strike at his tormentor, but thought better of
it. It was in a calmer voice that he said:
“I don’t see why we should quarrel over what is past. You’re wrong
when you think I made money out of that Delhi business, and I haven’t
seen Tappatt for months. But I know I can’t convince you. Let’s bury
the hatchet.”
Michael Dorn looked down at the extended hand, but made no effort to
take it.
“If I bury any hatchet with you, Praye,” he said, “it will only put me
to the expense of buying a new one. You go your way and let your way
be as straight as possible. If you run foul of me, I’m going to hurt
you, and I assure you I shall hurt you bad!”
He saw the flaming hate in the man’s eyes, and his own gaze did not
waver. Suddenly Praye turned on his heels and walked away.
The detective waited until the man was out of sight, then strolled
along the side-street, passed up the mews at the back of Chester
Gardens, and made a careful examination of the back premises of No.
307. The stables and garages on the other side of the mews interested
him considerably, and it was some time before he was clear of the
mews, and met the silent little man whom he had sent out on an errand
the morning Lois Reddle had visited his flat.
“Wills, there’s a garage to let in this mews. I have an idea that it
belongs to her ladyship--her own cars are at the Belgrave Garage. Go
along and see the agents, tell them you wish to rent the place and get
the keys--to-night if possible--to-morrow certain.”
He handed a note he had made of the agent’s address to the other, and
without a word the silent Wills strolled away. He never asked
questions--which, to Michael Dorn, was his chief charm.
Michael came into Chester Square from the opposite end. He saw Lady
Moron’s big Rolls standing at the doorway, and presently had the
felicity of seeing her ladyship, accompanied by her son, enter the car
and drive away. She was going shopping and would come back to lunch,
he thought, and loafed along the side-walk, slackening his pace as he
came opposite the house. There was no sign of the girl, but Michael
Dorn was a very patient man. It was not Lois whom he expected or
wished to see. The man for whom he was waiting came out ten minutes
after Lady Moron’s car had turned from Chester Square. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered man with a somewhat unpleasant face, whom Michael
knew to be Lady Moron’s butler. Him he followed at a distance, and
this time Michael made a very profitable trail.
Chapter Ten
The Countess of Moron, Lois discovered, had one amiable weakness; it
was for jigsaw puzzles, which were made especially for her--pictures
in greys and blues and elusive shades which would have driven an
ordinary puzzle expert to despair. They were cut in tiny pieces, and
her ladyship would spend hours before the big table in the library,
putting them together. This she confessed at luncheon, and it was the
first time that Lois had seen the human side of her employer. In the
main the conversation was confined to the two women, Lord Moron being
in the party, but not of it. When he spoke, as occasionally he did,
his mother either ignored him or answered him in monosyllables. And
apparently he was used to such treatment, which he did not seem to
resent. The only servant present throughout the meal was the butler,
Braime, for whom Lois conceived an instant dislike. He was a man with
a forbidding face, sparing of speech, and though he was polite enough,
there was something about his height and bulk which produced in the
girl a sensation of uneasiness.
“You don’t like Braime, Miss Reddle?” asked the countess, when the man
was momentarily absent from the room.
Lois marvelled at the intuition of her employer, and answered
laughingly:
“I don’t know whether I like him or not.”
“He is a very satisfactory person,” said the countess in her majestic
manner. “I like tall servants, and the fact that he is unpleasant
looking is an advantage. None of my callers will try to steal him. In
society one finds one’s best servants so frequently enticed away by
people who pretend they are one’s friends.”
It was then that she told of her passion for jigsaw puzzles.
“Braime is very helpful and quite clever at that sort of thing, and I
have frequently had to call on him for help.”
“Have you had him long?”
“Some six months. He was recommended to me by some people anxious to
reform criminals,” was the startling thing she added.
Lois nearly jumped from her chair.
“You mean that he has been in prison?” she asked, bewildered.
Lady Moron inclined her head in a stately agreement.
“Yes, I believe he has been in prison for some foolish
offence--stealing silver, I think. I have given him a new start, and
the man is grateful.” When the butler returned, Lois gave him a more
careful, if more furtive, scrutiny. Despite his powerful physique, he
moved with a gentle, almost feline tread and his big clumsy hands
manipulated the delicate china with a dexterity which was surprising.
Partly to her amusement, but more to her embarrassment, Lois found
that a maid had been allocated to her--a fresh-faced country girl who
had been recruited from her ladyship’s own village in Berkshire. For
the Earls of Moron were wealthy landowners, and Moron House, near
Newbury, was one of the show places of the county.
The maid had all the loquacity of her kind, and Lois had not been very
long in her room before she learnt that her distrust of the butler was
generally felt throughout the servants’ quarters.
“He’s always prying and spying, miss,” said the maid. “He’s just like
a great cat, the way he walks; you can’t hear him until he’s behind
you. And us servants are not good enough for him. He has all his meals
in his pantry, and whenever we get a new servant here he watches her
as if she was a mouse. I wonder her ladyship stands such an ugly,
bad-tempered man about the house.”
“Is he very bad-tempered?” asked Lois.
“Well,” admitted the girl with reluctance, “I can’t exactly say that.
But he looks bad-tempered,” she said triumphantly, “and you can always
judge a man on his looks. Her ladyship took a lot of trouble about
you, miss.”
“About me?” said Lois in surprise.
The girl nodded.
“She had these chairs put in for you and chose your bed, and--hullo,
what’s this? Is this yours, miss?”
She had pulled open the empty drawer of a bureau, and now she held in
her hand a large cabinet photograph. Lois took it from her; it was the
picture of a young man; she judged him to be in the early twenties. He
was singularly good-looking, and there was about the face something
that was vaguely familiar.
“I don’t know how that got there,” said the chattering girl. “I
cleared these drawers out myself yesterday. Her ladyship must have
brought it up and left it.”
Lois saw, though it was only a bust photograph, that the young man
wore the uniform of a Highland regiment, and she tried to recall the
badge. As a child she had been interested in regimental insignia.
“He’s good-looking, isn’t he, miss?”
“Very good-looking,” said the girl. “I wonder who he is?”
“We’ve got lots of photographs in the house and nobody knows who they
are. Her ladyship collects them,” said the girl.
“I will take it down to Lady Moron,” said Lois.
She found the countess sitting with her head in her hands before a
half-completed puzzle picture.
“Where was that? In your room?”
Lady Moron took the photograph from her hand, looked at it
disparagingly and dropped it into a table drawer.
“He was a boy I knew some many years ago,” she said, and did not
trouble to discuss how the photograph had appeared in Lois’ room.
Lois went back to her own room. It was a sunny afternoon and rather
warm. The long windows were open and one of these led on to a small
stone balcony, one of the many which ornamented the front of the
house. Across the window opening, however, was a light wooden gate
which barred access to the inviting place.
“We’re not allowed to go out on the balconies in the daytime,” said
the girl. “Her ladyship is very particular about that.”
“Does that apply to me?”
“Oh yes, miss,” said the girl. “Her ladyship doesn’t go out on to her
own balcony, except in the evenings. Nobody is allowed out by day.”
Lois was wondering what induced the eccentric countess to prohibit a
very pleasant lounging place during the day.
The afternoon post brought a number of letters, which, contrary to
Lady Moron’s express principles, had to be answered that afternoon,
and she was busy until an hour before dinner. And then the stately
lady made a suggestion for which the girl was very grateful.
“If you have any girl friend you would like to ask to tea you may--any
afternoon I am out. To-morrow will be a free evening for you. I shall
be going out to dinner.”
That night, before she retired to her comfortable bed, she wrote a
long letter to Lizzy Smith and posted it herself, and Lizzy’s reply
was characteristically prompt. Lois was eating a solitary breakfast
the next morning when a footman came in to say that she was wanted on
the telephone. It was Lizzy.
“That you, kid? I’ll be coming along to-night. Are you sending the
car, or am I taking the old No. 14? Don’t dress for me; I’m a plain
woman without any side.”