“What occurred then? Did the general seem to be disturbed in any way? Unusually happy or unusually sad?”
“He was smiling when he returned to the study, which he did immediately, going in and closing the door.”
“And today Count Bruzzi?”
“Count Bruzzi lunched with him. There have been no other visitors.”
“Phone calls?”
“One at half past seven. It was immediately after this that General Quinto came out and told me that you were expected. Sir Denis, between ten and eleven, and were to be shown immediately into the study.”
“Yes. I was recalled from Berlin for this interview which now cannot take place. This brings us, Mr. Bascombe, to the ghastly business of tonight.”
“The general and I dined alone in the library. Greaves waiting.”
“Did you both eat the same dishes and drink the same wine?”
“We did. Your suspicions are natural. Sir Denis, but such a solution of the mystery is impossible. It was a plain and typically English dinner—a shoulder of lamb with mint sauce, peas and new potatoes. Greaves carved and served. Followed by apple tart and cream of which we both partook, then cheese and young radishes. We shared a bottle of claret. That was our simple meal.”
Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again. Mr. Bascombe continued:
“I went out for an hour after dinner. During my absence General Quinto received a telephone call and afterwards complained to Greaves that there was something wrong with the extension to the study—that he had found difficulty in making himself audible. Greaves informed him that the post office was aware of this defect and that an engineer was actually coming along at the moment to endeavor to rectify it. As a matter of fact the man was here when I returned.”
“Where was the general?”
“Reading in the library, outside. The man assured me that the instrument was now in order, made a test call and General Quinto returned to the study and closed the door. I remained in the library.”
“What time was this?”
“As nearly as I can remember, a quarter to ten.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I sat at the library table writing personal letters, when I heard Greaves in the hall outside putting a call through to the general in the study. I heard General Quinto answer it, dimly at first, then more clearly. He seemed to be shouting into the receiver. Presently he came out in a state of some excitement—he was, I may add, a very irascible man. He said: That fool has made the instrument worse. The lady to whom I was speaking could not hear a word.’
“Realizing that it was too late to expect the post office to send anyone again tonight, I went into the study and tested the instrument myself.”
“But,” snapped Nayland Smith, “did you observe anything unusual in the atmosphere of the room?”
“Yes—a curious odor, which still lingers here as a matter of fact.”
“Good! Go on.”
“I put a call through to a friend in Chelsea and was unable to detect anything the matter with the line.”
“It was perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly. I suggested to the general that possibly the fault was with his friend’s instrument and not with ours. I then returned to the library. He was in an extraordinarily excited condition—kept glancing at his watch and inquiring why you had not arrived. Some ten minutes later he threw the door open and came out again. He said:
‘Listen!’
“I stood up and we both remained quite silent for a moment.
“‘Did you hear it?’ he asked.
“‘Hear what. General?’ I replied.
“‘Someone beating a drum!’“
“Stop!” snapped Smith. “Those were his exact words?”
“His exact words . . . ‘Surely you can hear it?’ he said. ‘An Arab drum—what they call a darabukkeh. Listen again.’
“I listened, but on my word of honor could hear nothing whatever. I assured the general of this. His face was inflamed and he remained very excited. He went in and slammed the door—but I had scarcely seated myself before he was out again.”
‘“Mr. Bascombe’ he shouted (as you probably know he spoke perfect English),”someone is trying to frighten me! But by heavens they won’t! Come into the study. Perhaps you will hear it there!’
“I went into the study with him, now seriously concerned. He grasped my arm—his hand was trembling. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘it’s coming nearer—the beating of a drum—’
“Again I listened for some time. Finally: ‘I’m sorry, General, I had to say, “but I can hear nothing whatever beyond the usual sounds of distant traffic.’
“The incident had greatly disturbed me. I didn’t like the look of the general. This talk of drums was unpleasant and uncanny. He asked again what on earth had happened to you. Sir Denis, but declined my suggestion of a game of cards, so that again I left him and returned to the library. I heard him walking about for a time and then his footsteps ceased. Once I heard him cry out: ‘Stop those drums!’ Then I heard no more.”
“Had he referred to the curious odor?”
“He said: ‘Someone wearing a filthy perfume has been in this room.’ At about twenty to eleven, as he had become quite silent, I rapped on the door, opened it and went in.” He turned shudderingly in the direction of the settee: “I found him as you see him.”
“Was he dead?”
“So far as I was able to judge, he was.”
The Girl Outside
To that expression of agonized surprise upon the dead man’s face was now added, almost momentarily, a deepening of the greenish tinge. A fingerprint expert and a photographer from Scotland Yard had come and gone. After a longish interview, Nayland Smith had released Lord Moreton and Dr Sims. He put a call through on the desk telephone which General Quinto had found defective. Smith found it in perfect order. He examined the adjoining bedroom and the bathroom beyond and pointed out that it was just possible, although there was no evidence to confirm the theory, that someone might have entered through the bathroom window during the time that the general was alone in the study.
“I don’t think that’s how it was done,” he said, “but it is a possibility. This dispatch box must be opened, and if Mr. Bascombe can’t find the key we must force it. In the meantime, Kerrigan, you have a nose for news. I have observed that quite a number of people remain outside the house. Slip out the back way, go around and join the crowd. Ask stupid questions and study every one of them. It would not surprise me to learn that there is someone there waiting to hear of the success or failure of tonight’s plot.”
‘Then you are satisfied that General Quinto was—murdered?”
“Entirely satisfied, Kerrigan.”
When presently I came out into the square I found that Lord Moreton’s car had gone. Smith’s, that of the home secretary and a Yard car were still standing there. Ten or twelve people were hanging about, attracted by that almost psychic awareness of tragedy which ahead of radio or newspaper in some mysterious way creeps through.
I examined them all carefully and selected several for conversation. Apart from the fact that they had heard that “something had happened,” I gathered little news of value.
Then standing apart from the main group, I saw a girl.
This was a dark night but suddenly the house door was opened to admit someone who had driven up in a taxi. In the light from the doorway, I had a glimpse of her face. She was dressed like a working girl, wearing a light raincoat which, however, did not disguise the lines of her slim, trim figure. She wore a brown beret. But her face, as the light shone fully upon it, was so really lovely—a word which rarely can be applied—that I was astonished. In the shadows she looked like a brunette; in the swift light I saw red glints in her tightly waved hair beneath the beret, exquisitely modeled features, lips parted in what I can only describe as an expectant smile. She fumed and stared at the departing taxi as I strolled in her direction.