“Any idea what’s going on here?” I asked casually.
She raised her eyes in a startled way (they were wonderful eyes of a most unusual color; they set me thinking of amethysts) keeping her hands tucked in the pockets of her coat.
“Someone told me”—she spoke broken English—”that something terrible had happened in this house.”
“Really! I couldn’t make out what the crowd was about. So that’s it! Who’s the owner of the house? Do you know?”
“Someone told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”
“Oh yes—he writes books, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know. They told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”
She glanced up again and smiled. She had a most adorable, provocative smile. I could not place her, but I thought that with that face and figure she might be a mannequin or perhaps a show girl in a cabaret.
“Do you know Sir Malcolm Locke?” she asked, suddenly growing serious.
“No”—her change of manner had quite startled me—”except by name.”
“May I speak truly to you? You look”—she hesitated—“sensible.” There was a caressing note in her voice. “I know someone who is in that house. Do you understand?”
Nayland Smith had made the right move. Here was a spy of the enemy. Whatever my personal predilection, this charming young lady should be in the hands of Detective Inspector Leighton without delay.
“That’s very interesting. Who is it?”
“Just someone I know. You see”—she laid her hand on my arm, and inclined ever so slightly towards me—“I saw you come out of the side entrance! You know—and so, if you please, tell me. What has happened in that house?”
Satisfied that I should not let her out of my sight:
“A gentleman known as Mr. Victor has died.”
“He is dead?”
“Yes.”
Her slim fingers closed on my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Thank you.” Dark lashes were raised; she flashed up at me an enigmatical glance. “Good night!”
“Just a moment!” I grasped her wrist. “Please don’t run away so quickly.”
At which she lifted her voice:
“Let me go! How dare you! Let me go!”
Two men detached themselves from the group of loiterers and dashed in our direction. But the behavior of my beautiful captive, who was struggling violently, was certainly remarkable. Pressing her lips very close to my ear:
“Please let me go!” she whispered. “They will kill you. Let me go! It’s no use!”
I released her and turned to meet the attack of two of the most ferocious-looking ruffians I had ever encountered. They were of Mongolian type with an incredible shoulder span in proportion to their height. I had noticed them in the group about the door but had not seen their faces. Viewed from the rear with their glossy black hair they might have been a pair of waiters from some neighboring hotel. Seen face to face they were altogether more formidable.
The first on the scene feinted and then by a trick, which fortunately I knew, tried to kick me off my feet. I stepped back. The second was upon me. Other loiterers were surrounding us now and I knew that I was on the unpopular side. But I threw discretion to the winds. Until I could turn my face from these two enemies I had no means of knowing what had become of the girl. I led off with a straight left against my second opponent,
He ducked it perfectly. The first sprang behind me and seized my ankles. The house door was thrown open and Inspector Leighton raced down the steps. Fey came up at the double, so did the driver of the police car. The attack ceased. I spun around, and saw the black-haired men sprinting for the corner.
“After that pair,” cried Leighton gruffly. “Don’t lose ’em!”
The police driver and Fey set out.
“’E was maulin’ ’er about!” growled one of the loiterers. “They was in the right. I ’eard ’er cry out.”
But the girl with the amethyst eyes had vanished . . .
Three Notices
“She has got clear away,” said Nayland Smith, “thanks to her bodyguard.”
We stood in the library, Smith, myself, Mr. Bascombe and Inspector Leighton. Sir James Clare was seated in an armchair watching us. Now he spoke:
“I understand, Smith, why General Quinto came from Africa to the house of his old friend, secretly and asked me to recall you for a conference. This is a very deep-laid scheme. You are the only man who might have saved him—”
“But I failed.”
Nayland Smith spoke bitterly. He turned and stared at me.
“It appears, Kerrigan, that your charming acquaintance who so unfortunately has escaped—I am not blaming you—differs in certain details from Mr. Bascombe’s recollections of the general’s visitor. However, it remains to be seen if they are one and the same.”
“You see,” the judicial voice of the home secretary broke in, “it is obviously impossible to hush this thing up. A postmortem examination is unavoidable. We don’t know what it will reveal. The fact that a very distinguished man, of totally different political ideas from our own, dies here in London under such circumstances is calculated to produce international results. It’s deplorable—it’s horrible. I cannot see my course clearly.”
“Your course, Sir James,” snapped Nayland Smith, “is to go home. I will call you early in the morning.” He turned. “Mr. Bascombe, decline all information to the press.”
“What about the dead man, sir?” Inspector Leighton interpolated.
“Remove the body when the loiterers have dispersed. Report to me in the morning, Inspector.”
It was long past midnight when I found myself in Sir Denis’ rooms in Whitehall. I had not been there for some time, and from my chair I stared across at an unusually elaborate radio set with a television equipment.
“Haven’t much leisure for amusement, myself,” said Smith, noting the direction of my glance. “Television I had installed purely to amuse Fey! He is a pearl above price, and owing to my mode of life is often alone here for days and nights.”
Standing up, I began to examine the instrument. At which moment Fey came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “electrician from firm requests no one touch until calls again, sir.”
Fey’s telegraphic speech had always amused me. I nodded and sat down, watching him prepare drinks. When he went out:
“Our return journey was quite uneventful,” I remarked. “Why?”
“Perfectly simple,” Smith replied, sipping his whisky and soda and beginning to load his pipe. “My presence tonight threatened to interfere with the plot, Kerrigan. The plot succeeded. I am no longer of immediate interest.”
“I don’t understand in the least, Smith. Have you any theory as to what caused General Quinto’s death?”
“At the moment, quite frankly, not the slightest. That indefinable perfume is of course a clue, but at present a useless clue. The autopsy may reveal something more. I await the result with interest.”
“Assuming it to be murder, what baffles me is the purpose of the thing. The general’s idea that he could hear drums rather suggests a guilty conscience in connection with some action of his in Africa—a private feud of some kind.”
“Reasonable,” snapped Smith, lighting his pipe and smiling grimly. “Nevertheless, wrong.”
“You mean”—I stared at him—”that although you don’t know how—you do know why General Quinto was murdered?”
He nodded, dropping the match in an ash tray.
“You know of course, Kerrigan, that Quinto was the right-hand man of Pietro Monaghani. His counsels might have meant an international war.”