Hue and Cry (29 page)

They disappeared together, and Miss Serena shut the door.

“Oh, Ethan!” said Mally.

“I know.”

“Is she always?”

“Pretty much of a muchness. I'm used to her.”

Mally pressed close to him.

“Ethan, don't let her—please!”

“Don't let her what?”

“T-talk to me about being a degraded slave.”

He burst into a roar of laughter.

“Oh, Mally—you funny little thing! Yes, you are. Never mind, you shall be my degraded slave, and I'll be your degraded slave, and we'll both cock snooks at Aunt Serena and live happy ever after.”

Mally made a horrible face at the closed door.

“Yes, we w-will,” she said.

She put out her tongue and dropped an impish curtsey.

CHAPTER XXXV

“What a romantic mind you've got, Mansell!” said Sir Julian Le Mesurier pleasantly. He leaned back in his office chair as he spoke and smiled with an indulgence which infuriated his brother-in-law.

“I? A romantic mind? What next?”

“Inveterately romantic. Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. And the lad Ethan only a subaltern, too! Well grown—but a mere child. Fie, Mansell, fie!”

“He's expecting his step any day. The well-grown child, my dear Piggy, is nearly thirty. Anyhow it's nothing to do with me, except professionally. I approach you on behalf of a client—
a client
, Piggy.”

Sir Julian waved a large fat hand.

“Then there's nothing doing—absolutely nothing. This is a pleasant family chat, far, far removed from the sordid associations of the criminal law. Beautiful things, family ties—nearly as beautiful as love's young dream. Er—have you got this alleged cipher on you?”

“Miss Lee has it.”

“There's a warrant out against her,” said Sir Julian irrelevantly.

“So she said. She's a frank young thing. Are you going to see her?”

“Not my job. The excellent Murgatroyd has the case in hand. But, as a matter of fact, I think—yes, I think I'd like to meet her—er—socially, you know. Have you got her with you?”

“Yes.”

Sir Julian touched a bell and spoke into a telephone. Then he drew forward a clean sheet of paper and began to enliven it with a frieze of sleeping cats with folded paws and neatly curled-up tails. Outside the door of the room Mally gave Ethan a last desperate pinch. Then she let go of his arm, stuck her head well in the air, and walked in.

“Er—how do you do, Miss Lee?” said Sir Julian. His little light eyes met Mally's and for a moment held them.

Then Ethan came in and shut the door, and Mr. Mansell Messenger gave her a chair. And then she had to begin all over again and tell this big, queer, fat man how it was that she had come to be Barbara Peterson's governess and just what had happened from that minute to this present one. All the time that she was talking, the big man fidgeted with his pencil. Sometimes he appeared to be engrossed in drawing cats; sometimes he looked at her. And when he looked at her, Mally felt as if she were made of very thin, transparent glass.

Oddly enough, this did not frighten her at all. If she had had anything to hide, it would have frightened her dreadfully; but as it was, she only felt sure that the big man would understand. He did not say a single word until she had finished. Then he held out his hand.

“Let me see this cross-word puzzle.”

She took it out of her pocket and passed it across the table. Sir Julian spread it out, looked at it for some moments in silence, and then turned it over. Mansell came round and stood beside him, pointing, explaining; and Sir Julian said, “Yes, yes,” and tapped the paper with his pencil.

“Ethan decoded these two words ‘in England.' The rest was done already.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sir Julian.

He read the message through to himself. Mally knew it by heart. She watched him as he read, and found the big face blank.

Shipments made as arranged. Authorities alert. Suspect Pedro Ruiz. Advise no more shipments at present. Do not communicate with me in England. Varney.

The paper was folded in two where the message ended. Sir Julian lifted it, unfolded it, and looked suddenly and quickly at Mally Lee.

“There's a drawing of a man's head here.”

“Is there?”

“Haven't you seen it?”

“No. I looked at the other side, and then Ethan had it.” She hesitated.

“Well?”

“I remember he did say there was a drawing. Barbara must have done it. That's why she took the paper—to draw on, and perhaps because she thought that it would vex Paul Craddock.”

“Barbara did it?”

“She must have done it—it was with her other drawings.”

“How old is she?”

“About eight and a half.”

“Have you got those other drawings you speak of?”

She shook her head.

“They're in my coat pocket. I just brought this one down to show Ethan, and then the policeman came up the path and we had to run away.”

“You didn't make this drawing yourself?”

“Oh no. I can't draw.”

“And you haven't seen it? You're sure you haven't seen it?”

“No, I haven't—really.”

Mally felt a queer rising sense of excitement. She wasn't frightened, but she felt breathless.

“This message is signed, ‘Varney'—‘Varney.' Does that convey anything to you?”

“No, it doesn't!”

“Never heard the name before?”

Mally's brows drew together.

“In—a—book,” she said slowly.
“Scott
—the one about Amy Robsart. He—he was the villain, wasn't he?”

Piggy looked at her, very intent. She looked back at him a little eagerly, with the color rising in her cheeks; her eyes were wide and clear.

“I can't remember what it's called,” she said.

“‘Kenilworth,'” said Sir Julian affably. “Yes, I think ‘Kenilworth' is what you mean. And Varney is the villain. The name doesn't suggest—er—any younger villainy than that—something a little more recently criminal?”

“No, it doesn't?”

He turned the paper and pushed it over the table. In the right-hand bottom corner was a man's scrawled profile, and under it, in Barbara's tumble-down writing, the faintly pencilled words: “Varney. I
hate
him.”

Mally stared at the face, and she stared at the words. Her eyes saw a sheet of paper—a white sheet of paper with a pencil scrawl on it; but her mind held a much more vivid picture—the dark stable; the flashlight; the man's profile, seen for a moment, and for a moment only.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

She took the edge of the table in a hard little grip and stood up.

“You know the face?” said Sir Julian.

“Yes, it's the man—the man in the stable. I saw him.”

“Steady, Miss Lee! What man?”

“Ethan knows. It was where he was staying. I hid in his car—the man's car—and when I woke up, we were in the stable at Peddling Corner. I saw him just for a moment. I don't know his name. Ethan knows.”

Sir Julian turned to Ethan with the paper in his hand.

“Oh, Lord!” said Ethan. “It's impossible!”

“Only a very few things are impossible. I'm afraid this isn't one of them. You recognize this ‘sketch?”

“There isn't enough of it to recognize—is there?”

“Whom does it remind you of?”

“I'd rather not
say
.”

“In whose car did Miss Lee come down from town? Perhaps you'll answer that.”

“Ethan!”
said Mansell Messenger.

Ethan looked profoundly uncomfortable.

“She came down in Lawrence Marrington's car.”

Mally looked from one to the other.

“Who is Lawrence Marrington?”

Sir Julian laid down the paper with the sketch on it.

“Miss Barbara Peterson says that he is Varney,” he observed in a quiet, detached voice. “It will fall to the excellent Murgatroyd to discover whether she is speaking the truth.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

Mally held on to the edge of the table.

“What does it all mean? There's something horrid.” She drew a long, shivering breath and fixed her eyes on Sir Julian. “There
is
—isn't there?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Then Sir Julian rang his bell again.

“I'm going to ask you to wait for a few minutes.”

He turned to his brother-in-law.

“Where is Miss Lee staying? Murgatroyd will want to see her.”

Mally looked at him seriously.

“Are you going to send me to prison?” she said in a little faint voice.

Ethan made a movement But Piggy held out his hand.

“Not this time. But we shall want your evidence. Where do you say she is staying, Mansell?”

“I'm not staying anywhere,” said Mally.

“I thought”—Mansell's voice was low and confidential—“I thought—I hoped that Miss Lee would give us the pleasure. Janet, I know, will be delighted.” He turned to Mally. “My wife and I hope that you will stay with us.”

“Oh!” said Mally. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “Oh, you
are
a brick! I'm going to cry—I know I am. You—you're
both
such nice bricks!”

She looked round at Sir Julian, winked away two big tears, and ran out of the room. Ethan followed her.

“Well?” said Mansell rather slowly. “Well?”

“Engaging damsel,” said Piggy. “Not pretty exactly, but undeniably heart-smiting. The lad Ethan is pretty far gone, I observe. A bit of a thruster—eh, Mansell?”

“What does it all mean?” said Mansell.

“Something pretty nasty. Murgatroyd will be delighted with the cross-word puzzle.”

“What's it all about? Or mustn't I ask?”

“Yes, you can ask. The answer's only for you at present. Not a word even to Janet, please.” He paused and tapped the paper on his desk. “Dry stuff to damn a man, isn't it? ‘Shipments made as arranged.' Shipments”—his voice hardened—“the shipments are cocaine, Mansell. And this dry message in the handwriting of Peterson's secretary is going to damn Peterson. It's just a link in a chain, but it's the link we've wanted. And, now we've got it, I'm remembering that Peterson and I were at school together and that he used to be a very decent sort.”

“How on earth?”

“Oh, easily enough. It's easy enough to slip into Avernus. Ten years ago, I suppose, he'd have been quick enough with his ‘Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' and to-day, apart from the risk, I don't suppose it keeps him from his sleep. I know just when it took him. He was smashed, Mansell. The war left him smashed, and then this easy way of making money was pushed at him—shoved right under his nose by Varney, who was already an old hand. He had to do so little. There were his ships; he had only to afford facilities for the stuff to be concealed. It was easier then than it is now. And Varney—now there's another queer bit of human nature for you—Varney is Lawrence Marrington. He was at this game in China twenty years ago. But mind you, it's all in the sacred cause of science. The man's a mad keen enthusiast—a fanatic. He lives for his researches, and he must have money to carry them out; so he's head over ears in this rotten business.”

“And Craddock?”

“Ambitious young pup with a taste for politics. Depressing business, Mansell—a very depressing business. Murgatroyd'll be pleased—that's one bright spot. And the heart-smiting damsel's another. Plucky kid! I don't know whether trying to stick her with a mean charge of theft isn't about the dirtiest bit of the whole business. They were scared stiff, of course, when they missed the paper. But if they hadn't run amuck and started trumped-up accusations against Miss Mally Lee, this particular bit of evidence would never have come into our hands. One could write a tract about it.”

“How important is it?”

“Well, just a useful link. Pedro Ruiz has made a statement which we got; but Pedro Ruiz is the sort of gentleman whose statements require corroboration. Here we get Varney, who is Lawrence Marrington, warning Peterson's secretary about Pedro. It fits in, you see—it fits in.”

He pushed back his chair, got up, and stretched himself.

“Take your damsel errant away and keep her out of sight and mischief till we've called the warrant off. So long, Mansell.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Paul Craddock came quickly out of the telephone room on the half-way landing of Sir George Peterson's house and ran down the broad flight of stairs past the marble bust which had frightened Mally on her first arrival.

He came into the study, shut the door, and said in a hurried undertone:

“They've got her!”

Sir George Peterson looked up from the letter he was writing. He frowned slightly as he said, “You're losing your nerve, Paul. If you can't pull yourself together, get out!”

“They've got her!”

“And any one who heard you run down the stairs and burst in here has been informed that you've just had—shall we say—interesting news, and that you're in a great hurry to tell me what it is.” His manner changed a little. “By her, I suppose, you mean Miss Lee.”

“Of course. They came up with the car in Sutton, and she's been brought here to be charged. They want one of us to go and identify her. Shall I go?”

“Yes, I think so. If the paper's there, get it. But don't stress anything. I think the line you should take is that you think you made a memorandum on the back of a puzzle sent you by a friend——Yes, I think that's the line to take. I wish now that we'd left the whole thing alone.”

“Why now—just when we're out of the wood?”

Sir George raised his eyebrows.