Mr. Lushington wished-profanely-that someone would tell him how people got hold of these things.
“Well, they do,” said Algy. “The men tell their wives, and the women tell each other-everyone adds a little. But they all know that important papers have gone missing, and most of them are half way to believing I took them. Somewhere about day after tomorrow they’ll be quite sure I did. Then it’s finish for me.”
Montagu Lushington looked down at the envelope again.
“I don’t see why this was planted on you.”
Algy had one of those flashes. He said,
“Has no one suggested having my rooms searched?”
He got a quick upward glance. There was a pause, and Lushington said,
“I should not have entertained such a suggestion.”
“But it was made?” Algy’s tone warmed a little.
“I think that is a question which should not be put.”
“But I do put it, sir. I don’t see how I’m to meet this thing unless I know what I’m up against.”
“Very well then, you may take it that the suggestion has been made.”
“By whom?” Algy was pale.
“Do you expect me to tell you that?” said Montagu Lushington.
“Yes, I do, sir. You have just asked me why this envelope should have been planted in my pocket. I say it was planted in order that it might be found there. How was it going to be found there? My rooms were to be searched. Don’t you think I have a right to know who has been suggesting that my rooms should be searched?”
Montagu Lushington said abruptly, “It was Carstairs. That makes nonsense of your suggestion, but the person who planted the envelope might have had knowledge of the line which Carstairs was taking-there is that.”
“I’m not making any suggestion about Mr. Carstairs-he’s out of the question. But someone thought, or hoped, that there would be a search, and was willing to take a risk in order to make sure that something would be found. If you had authorized the search, and that envelope had been found in my coat, no one in the world would have believed that I was innocent. It would have been absolutely damning.”
Montagu Lushington said, “Yes.” Then, after a pause, “When do you think it was planted, and how?”
“Well, I found it last night when I was dressing to go to the Westgates‘, and it wasn’t there the day before. At least, it wasn’t there till four o’clock, because Barker-that’s the man at my rooms-had the suit to press and lay out. I’ve asked him, and he’s quite sure that there was nothing in any of the pockets. He put the things out for me somewhere about four o’clock, and then he and his wife went out. They go over to see her mother, and if I’m dining out they don’t hurry back. I meant to dine out, but Mr. Carstairs gave me the Babington stuff to type, and when I saw I wasn’t going to get done in time, I rang up and said I couldn’t get round till after dinner-and I didn’t get done till a quarter to nine. The point is that I had to rush back and dress in a hurry. If the envelope had been in my pocket then, I don’t think I should have noticed it.”
“You mean someone might have got into your rooms between four and nine and have planted it then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Montagu Lushington looked at him keenly.
“Very anxious to prove that it wasn’t so likely to have been done later, aren’t you, Algy?”
The blood came up into Algy’s face. He said,
“No, sir.”
“Oh, not unnaturally. Now I think we’ll have the rest of your evening.”
Algy stiffened a little.
“I called for a girl, and we went to the Ducks and Drakes.”
“Her name?”
“Gay Hardwicke.”
Montagu frowned slightly.
“Hardwicke-there’s a Miss Agatha Hardwicke who bombards me and the papers with letters on the subject of capital punishment. She’s secretary of some society or other. Rather a terrifying female.”
“An aunt,” said Algy gloomily. “Gay is staying with her. They’re cousins of Lady Colesborough’s.”
He got another keen look.
“Known this young lady long?”
“About three months, sir.”
“Well, you took her to the Ducks and Drakes. Were you alone, or in a party?”
“We went there alone, but we joined up with the Wessex-Gardners.”
“What!” It was more of an exclamation than a word. A disturbed look crossed Montagu Lushington’s face. “I should like to know who you danced with.”
“Poppy Wessex-Gardner, Sylvia Colesborough, and Gay-mostly with Gay.”
“Could one of them have put the envelope in your pocket?”
“Not while we were dancing.”
“But you sat out?”
“We sat at a table and had drinks, and things to eat-I hadn’t had any dinner.”
“Yes, it could have been done then. You agree?”
“I suppose so.”
“Who were the men of the party?”
“Wessex-Gardner and his brother. His brother’s wife was there too. And a man called Danvers -I don’t know anything about him-and Brewster.”
“I didn’t know Brewster went to night-clubs.”
Algy laughed, not very cheerfully.
“He doesn’t. Mrs. Wessex-Gardner dragged him, and he’s fallen for Sylvia Colesborough-a hopeless, respectful passion-she didn’t even know he was there half the time.”
“I can imagine that! What was this man Danvers like?”
“A bit of an outsider, I thought-the I’ll-tell-the-world-I-did-it touch. He seemed to go down very well with Mrs. Wessex-Gardner.”
“Yes,” said Montagu Lushington-“an old friend. At least so I gathered.”
“What-he was at Wellings?”
Lushington shook his head.
“Not quite. He was expected, but he didn’t turn up-at least not on the crucial Saturday. I believe he came over on the Sunday afternoon, but Maud and I had motored over to Hindon, so we did not see him. I wish now that we had, because it comes to this-any one of these people could have put that envelope in your pocket.”
Algy thought for a moment.
“I suppose they could-” he said.
XIII
Algy had plenty to think about all day. Monty had been very decent. “Stick to your job, and stick to your ordinary way of life. Go about the show yourself. Behave as if the whole thing was too ridiculous to be answered. That’s my advice to you both as a member of my family and as a member of my staff.” It was good advice too, and it fell in with Algy’s mood, which was a fighting one. All the same it was easier said than done. Carstairs, always remote, now hardly appeared to be aware of him at all. Communications reached him by way of Brewster, and Brewster, nervously correct, made things worse by a hint of embarrassment and a tinge of apology. Not a nice day at all.
The worst part was the recurrent remembrance of Gay looking at him with serious eyes and asking him what he would do if someone tried to blackmail him. He had been trying hard not to remember it, but it kept gate-crashing in among his thoughts, and behind it there came, sidling, peeping, whispering, a whole crowd of perfectly idiotic suspicions, fancies, fears. If Gay was being blackmailed, what was the threat, the compulsion? You can’t blackmail a girl with just nothing at all. You’ve got to have a hold over her. What sort of mess had Gay got herself into?
He revolted sharply. She wasn’t that sort. He felt an anger which surprised and discomfited him. He felt also a burning desire to weigh in and knock the blackmailer’s teeth through the back of his head.
He tried to remember what she had said. She had flared up. He had a vivid recollection of how she had looked with the bright angry colour in her cheeks. And she had said, “What do you think I’ve done?” and they had been very near a quarrel. And afterwards-afterwards she had said that what the blackmailer wanted wasn’t money, but something dreadful. One of those gate-crashing thoughts got in a word here. With perfect succinctness it observed, “He might have wanted her to put that envelope in your pocket.”