The House Of The Bears (15 page)

‘Instead, you’ll see her first,’ said Palfrey. ‘While I telephone Hardy.’

‘All right,’ said Drusilla. She went out with such alacrity that Palfrey looked owlishly at the closed door. Drusilla was as anxious as he to know what Susan Lee had to say. But she was right. He lifted the telephone and gave Hardy’s number.

After five minutes he put out his cigarette and went downstairs to the small lounge. He could hear Drusilla talking; she stopped, and the other woman spoke. Hers was a pleasant voice with a faint American accent. Palfrey opened the door and walked in, then came to an abrupt halt and stared at Susan Lee – or the girl who called herself Susan Lee. She was not dark; she was fair. Her hair was not in a page-boy bob, but piled up Edwardian fashion, and most attractively, with a small hat perched on one side.

Was
she the same girl? He could see no likeness. The length of the face, perhaps, was there, but her cheeks were fuller than he remembered, and he could have sworn that her eyes were dark, not this china blue with their brimming laughter.

‘Quick change,’ said Palfrey.

‘Oh, not very quick. You haven’t seen me since yesterday evening, you know.’

‘Did
I see you?’

‘Well, I saw you,’ declared Susan Lee, ‘skulking behind a rock on the left-hand side of the gorge while Frenchie was talking to Old Nick.’

‘Old Nick?’

‘Yes. We have to have names for them both,’ said Susan Lee. ‘Nick is just Nick, and nothing else would suit him, but when our Lancashire friend comes on the scene we call him Old Nick.’

‘Apt, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Oh, he’s a dear,’ declared Susan Lee. ‘You’ll think so too when you know him better. He doesn’t look like Nick in real life, of course. But he’s about the same height, and he’s nearly bald, and when he takes out his teeth his cheeks sink in, rather like Nick’s. It doesn’t take a lot to make him look more like Nick, you see. We aren’t wizards. It’s just ordinary make-up.’

Palfrey sat down beside her.

‘Why are we so favoured, Miss Lee?’

‘I come to warn you, Cæsar, not to tempt you,’ said Susan.

‘So you’ve come to warn me, have you?’ He paused. ‘Odd line you used then. Not quite as originally written. Why misquote Shakespeare?’

‘I thought it would make you jump,’ said Susan. For the first time she looked serious, although her eyes were still smiling. ‘This man, McDonald,’ she went on. ‘How well do you know him?’

‘Not particularly well.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Nick that he came straight from the House of Morne? That wasn’t fair, was it?’

‘Fair?’ mumbled Palfrey. ‘I don’t know. He served a turn. A very good turn. We would never have found where they were hiding in the caves, but for Mac.’

Susan said gently: ‘Nick is an expert at his job, you know. Even his enemies admit that. For weeks he has haunted Cheddar Gorge, trying to find out where these people were hiding, and he failed. Don’t you think it was curious that an amateur like McDonald found the hiding-place at the first go?’

Drusilla leaned forward.

‘Rose was beside herself, and not careful,’ she reminded her.

‘Rose was, perhaps,’ said Susan, ‘but she had been to fetch Sol Krotmann, and Sol isn’t the fat fool that he looks. In fact, he had been to the caves before, in broad daylight, and disappeared as if off the face of the earth. Why, on a dark and windy night, did he lose his head and show an amateur the way?’

‘It’s a point,’ said Palfrey.

‘It’s a very strong point,’ Susan assured him. ‘Especially as McDonald is a Morne.’

‘Well, only half Morne.’

‘I think McDonald
knew
where they were,’ declared Susan.

‘Shall I tell you something else, Doctor? This morning, Nick and I have been very busy, looking up files of the
Corshire News
and finding pictures of the Mornes. Then Nick, who has even more nerve than I have, asked if he could buy prints of the photographs. It was easy, because the Mornes are well in the news again.’

She opened her bag and took out several photographs, so large that they caught at the sides of the bag and she had some difficulty in taking them out. Silently, she handed them to Palfrey. The top one was of Morne. McDonald followed, then Gerald Markham, his father, his mother and McDonald’s mother. ‘All the Mornes,’ said Susan. ‘Are they good photographs?’

‘Remarkably good.’

‘What about McDonald and Gerald Markham?’

‘Yes. Good enough.’

‘Both
have been seen in Cheddar Gorge during the last week,” Susan told him serenely. ‘I don’t mean yesterday, either. Did McDonald tell you that it wasn’t his first recent visit to the gorge?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You mean that he didn’t,’ said Susan. ‘Of course he didn’t. But don’t you think it would be worth knowing
why
McDonald and his cousin are so interested in Cheddar Gorge?’

‘Possibly,’ admitted Palfrey, cautiously,

‘You hate admitting that you’ve been fooled, don’t you?’ asked Susan, gently. ‘I can sympathize. May I have those photographs back? . . . Thank you.’ She pushed them into her bag. ‘Of course, if you decide to try to find out why McDonald behaved like that, and care to pass the answer on to Nick or me, we’ll be delighted, but obviously we can’t strike a bargain.’

‘No. What else?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Susan Lee. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She was a refreshing creature – not lovely, as Drusilla, but with the light of the sun in her eyes and in her hair, quick and graceful in her movements. She held out her hand to Drusilla. ‘Good-bye. Thank you for being so sweet.’ She turned to Palfrey. He hesitated. She took his hand and squeezed it, and her laughter bubbled up. ‘You needn’t feel conscience-smitten, she said. If the police
do
detain me, it won’t be your fault, because I walked into here with my eyes open. And Nick’s eyes. They see much more.’ She turned and went out.

Drusilla shot a startled glance at Palfrey. They hurried to the door. Hardy was too sound to allow anything to go amiss, and the girl had no chance of getting out. She was entering the hall, and two men – including Detective-Sergeant Rundell – moved from their chairs and approached her. Another man hurried past Palfrey; he had obviously been watching the lounge. Serenely, Susan walked on. Rundell touched her arm. She paused and looked round, as if surprised.

‘Yes?’ She was haughty.

‘I would like you to come with me, please,’ said Rundell.

‘I
beg
your pardon.’ Susan threw back her shoulders indignantly, and at the same time glanced towards Palfrey.
She winked.
Then she wrenched herself free. Outside, someone shouted.

The shout was followed by another. Rundell glanced uneasily towards the door and at the same time stretched out his hand again. Then something was tossed into the hall from outside, and burst in front of Palfrey’s eyes. Smoke rose up, billowing out as if from a great fire. One moment there was only a small oblong thing, the size of an egg, on the floor, and the next moment Susan’s legs were hidden in smoke. Palfrey just had time to see her move from Rundell, and Rundell stagger back as if she had pushed him; then the smoke filled the middle of the hall.

There was pandemonium inside and outside. Hardy’s voice was raised: ‘Guard the door! Guard the door!’ Footsteps thundered; someone
laughed.

‘That’s Kyle!’ snapped Palfrey. ‘Come on!’

He grabbed Drusilla’s arm, rushed with her into the small lounge and through the french window. He dashed round the hotel towards a side gate, reached the street and ran towards the corner, with Drusilla close behind him. Smoke was spreading swiftly, enveloping the hotel.

A car sounded near at hand; Palfrey caught a glimpse of the front of the car looming out of the dense cloud of smoke. Palfrey could not see what else happened, for the smoke thickened.

At last they reached a clearer space. Palfrey looked at Drusilla and saw she was smiling, as if convulsed by secret laughter. She caught his eye. Kyle’s laugh seemed to echo about them, but Kyle and his Susie were a long way off by then.

The incident made Hardy really angry, which was understandable enough. It also angered Cartwright, and Wriggleswade was beside himself with mortification. It transpired that he had been in charge of the party of policemen who had surrounded the hotel to make sure that Susan Lee could not escape. Hardy had deferred to him, and Hardy’s only consolation was the fact that he had left the arrangements to Wriggleswade. All these things Palfrey learned when he saw Hardy and Cartwright at the Chief Constable’s office about half past six that evening.

Hardy was still covered with soot; Drusilla and Palfrey had changed. Wriggleswade was having a bath, Hardy said, and his tone inferred that he hoped the man would drown.

‘Well, we ought to admit that it was quite a notion,’ said Palfrey, mildly. ‘My wife and I were trying to imagine how on earth the girl could get out of that jam, and we were as surprised as anyone. No one was hurt, I hope?’

‘No,’ growled Hardy.

‘You see, Kyle wouldn’t go too far,’ murmured Palfrey.

‘Unlike you, Dr. Palfrey,’ said Hardy, a dangerous glint in his eyes, ‘I do
not
enjoy the spectacle of the police being made fools of, and an insolent American behaving as if he were in Chicago instead of in England.’

‘Oh, Chicago isn’t bad,’ said Palfrey.

‘We must get on with the job,’ interrupted Cartwright. ‘What did the woman have to say to you, Palfrey?’

Palfrey said: ‘Not a great deal, but what there was should interest you.’

He told the story faithfully, not without some misgivings.

Cartwright said that obviously McDonald and Gerald Markham must be questioned. Murder had been committed. There was
prima facie
evidence that one of the men now under detention had killed Rose – who’s other name, it proved, was Lindsay – and it had been generally assumed that the crime had been committed at the time of the scream. It was possible, however, that it had been committed before that. The accused man flatly denied knowing anything about it.

‘Well, you’d expect him to,’ said Palfrey. ‘Are you suggesting that McDonald might have gone into the cave, killed her, come out and fetched us, and –’

‘Isn’t it possible?’ asked Cartwright.

‘No,’ said Palfrey. ‘Most decidedly not. That would have meant that the girl had been dead for nearly an hour when I reached her. She hadn’t. There was little or no surface coating of the blood, and in the temperature of the caves it would have had at least a coating. The body was too warm, too. That isn’t opinionative; that’s medical evidence.’

‘Do I take it that you are advising us
not
to question McDonald and Gerald Markham?’ asked Cartwright.

‘I am not advising you,’ said Palfrey. ‘I can only tell you the facts within my province as a doctor.’ He picked up his hat. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Cartwright, speaking heavily. ‘There is one other thing, Dr. Palfrey. When you worked for Intelligence Z.5, from whom did you receive orders?’

Palfrey said: ‘That’s no secret. The Marquis of Brett.’

‘And is he still the leader of Z.5?’

‘Technically. I don’t think it’s working now. Why all this? You’re not still harping on that idea, are you?”

Cartwright said: ‘Perhaps you will tell me that you did not know that the Marquis of Brett is staying at Wanling Lodge.’

Palfrey stared. ‘I don’t even know where Wanling Lodge is.’

‘It is three miles out of Corbin,’ said Cartwright, ‘the home of Mr. William Jefferson,’ He stood up. ‘I think you might have been more frank with us, Dr. Palfrey.’

Palfrey felt a surge of furious anger. ‘I am
not
working for the Marquis of Brett or for any Government department.’

At the hotel, where cleaners were working in the hall and the grounds, they found a letter waiting for them. Mr. William Jefferson requested the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Palfrey at dinner that night . . . .

Jefferson was a short, bald-headed man, wealthy, quiet and mellow; a man of influence behind the scenes, a banker, a philanthropist, a friend of kings. After dinner he led the others to a small room where liqueurs and brandy were served, and then unobtrusively left them.

Brett cracked a nut. ‘What’s troubling you, Palfrey?’ he asked.

‘You,’ said Palfrey, angry now with himself and yet still feeling justified. ‘You should have given us some warning. After a lot of trouble, I convinced Cartwright and Hardy that I was here in my private capacity. When they learned you were here, they didn’t believe me. I don’t blame them.’

‘What is really worrying Sap is the suspicion of McDonald,’ Drusilla said. ‘He liked McDonald; we both did.’ She had told Brett and Jefferson about that, for the conversation in the dining-room had been mainly about the Morne affair. ‘And there’s something else too,” she went on, smiling at her husband. ‘He feels like a fish out of water. There’s nothing he would like better than to plunge into this particular pool, but he can’t. He isn’t used to police restrictions.’

‘I want you to work on the Morne affair,’ said Brett.

‘So that
is
the game,’ murmured Palfrey. His heart was suddenly lighter. Brett would not be interested in the Mornes because of a murder or two; he was too highly placed in Government circles for that. Brett was the man who had conceived the idea of setting representatives of the United Nations to work together in a spy organisation called, for convenience, Z.5, and had controlled that organisation. And Brett was interested in the Mornes.

‘I was afraid of that,’ said Drusilla, but she was smiling.

Brett spread his hands out before the fire. ‘I don’t think I need beat about the bush, Sap. It was the police capture of Garth – yes, yes, I know how that came about – which started things moving in London. It sounded an alarm.’

‘Why?’ asked Palfrey.

‘Because Garth was at one time one of our atom bomb experts.’

There was silence in the room, a tense, electric silence.

‘Garth was in America during the first trials,’ said Brett, very softly. ‘He had been working on it for years, at the same time as Rutherford at Cambridge. He was brilliant. I knew him slightly then, and I’ve seen him this afternoon. Why do you think they have done that to him?’