The Seven Dials Mystery (7 page)

“I don't know how he could have been, but he was.”

“But why did you shoot him?”

“
I
didn't shoot him.”

“You shouldn't shoot people,” said Lord Caterham in a tone of mild remonstrance. “You shouldn't really. I daresay some of them richly deserve it—but all the same it will lead to trouble.”

“I tell you I didn't shoot him.”

“Well, who did?”

“Nobody knows,” said Bundle.

“Nonsense,” said Lord Caterham. “A man can't be shot and run over without anyone having done it.”

“He wasn't run over,” said Bundle.

“I thought you said he was.”

“I said I thought I had.”

“A tyre burst, I suppose,” said Lord Caterham. “That does sound like a shot. It says so in detective stories.”

“You really are perfectly impossible, Father. You don't seem to have the brains of a rabbit.”

“Not at all,” said Lord Caterham. “You come in with a wildly impossible tale about men being run over and shot and I don't know what, and then you expect me to know all about it by magic.”

Bundle sighed wearily.

“Just attend,” she said. “I'll tell you all about it in words of one syllable.”

“There,” she said when she had concluded. “Now have you got it?”

“Of course. I understand perfectly now. I can make allowances for your being a little upset, my dear. I was not far wrong when I remarked to you before starting out that people looking for trouble usually found it. I am thankful,” finished Lord Caterham with a slight shiver, “that I stayed quietly here.”

He picked up the catalogue again.

“Father, where is Seven Dials?”

“In the East End somewhere, I fancy. I have frequently observed buses going there—or do I mean Seven Sisters? I have never been there myself, I'm thankful to say. Just as well, because I don't fancy it is the sort of spot I should like. And yet, curiously enough, I seem to have heard of it in some connection just lately.”

“You don't know a Jimmy Thesiger, do you?”

Lord Caterham was now engrossed in his catalogue once more. He had made an effort to be intelligent on the subject of Seven Dials. This time he made hardly any effort at all.

“Thesiger,” he murmured vaguely. “Thesiger. One of the Yorkshire Thesigers?”

“That's what I'm asking you. Do attend, Father. This is important.”

Lord Caterham made a desperate effort to look intelligent without really having to give his mind to the matter.

“There
are
some Yorkshire Thesigers,” he said earnestly. “And unless I am mistaken some Devonshire Thesigers also. Your Great Aunt Selina married a Thesiger.”

“What good is that to me?” cried Bundle.

Lord Caterham chuckled.

“It was very little good to her, if I remember rightly.”

“You're impossible,” said Bundle, rising. “I shall have to get hold of Bill.”

“Do, dear,” said her father absently as he turned a page. “Certainly. By all means. Quite so.”

Bundle rose to her feet with an impatient sigh.

“I wish I could remember what that letter said,” she murmured, more to herself than aloud. “I didn't read it very carefully. Something about a joke, that the Seven Dials business wasn't a joke.”

Lord Caterham emerged suddenly from his catalogue.

“Seven Dials?” he said. “Of course. I've got it now.”

“Got what?”

“I know why it sounded so familiar. George Lomax has been over. Tredwell failed for once and let him in. He was on his way up to town. It seems he's having some political party at the Abbey next week and he got a warning letter.”

“What do you mean by a warning letter?”

“Well, I don't really know. He didn't go into details. I gather it said ‘Beware' and ‘Trouble is at hand,' and all those sort of things. But anyway it was written from Seven Dials, I distinctly remember his saying so. He was going up to town to consult Scotland Yard about it. You know George?”

Bundle nodded. She was well-acquainted with that public-spirited Cabinet Minister, George Lomax, His Majesty's permanent Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, who was shunned by many because of his inveterate habit of quoting from his public speeches in private. In allusion to his bulging eyeballs, he was known to many—Bill Eversleigh among others—as Codders.

“Tell me,” she said, “was Codders interested at all in Gerald Wade's death?”

“Not that I heard of. He may have been, of course.”

Bundle said nothing for some minutes. She was busily engaged in trying to remember the exact wording of the letter she had sent on to Loraine Wade, and at the same time she was trying to picture the girl to whom it had been written. What sort of a girl was this to whom, apparently, Gerald Wade was so devoted? The more she thought over it, the more it seemed to her that it was an unusual letter for a brother to write.

“Did you say the Wade girl was Gerry's half sister?” she asked suddenly.

“Well, of course, strictly speaking, I suppose she isn't—wasn't, I mean—his sister at all.”

“But her name's Wade?”

“Not really. She wasn't old Wade's child. As I was saying, he ran away with his second wife, who was married to a perfect blackguard. I suppose the Courts gave the rascally husband the custody of the child, but he certainly didn't avail himself of the privilege. Old Wade got very fond of the child and insisted that she should be called by his name.”

“I see,” said Bundle. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Something that puzzled me about that letter.”

“She's rather a pretty girl, I believe,” said Lord Caterham. “Or so I've heard.”

Bundle went upstairs thoughtfully. She had several objects in view. First she must find this Jimmy Thesiger. Bill, perhaps, would be helpful there. Ronny Devereux had been a friend of Bill's. If Jimmy Thesiger was a friend of Ronny's, the chances were that Bill would know him too. Then there was the girl, Loraine Wade. It was possible that she could throw some light on the problem of Seven Dials. Evidently Gerry Wade had said something to her about it. His anxiety that she should forget the fact had a sinister suggestion.

Seven

B
UNDLE
P
AYS
A
C
ALL

G
etting hold of Bill presented few difficulties. Bundle motored up to town on the following morning—this time without adventures on the way—and rang him up. Bill responded with alacrity and made various suggestions as to lunch, tea, dinner and dancing. All of which suggestions Bundle turned down as made.

“In a day or two, I'll come and frivol with you, Bill. But for the moment I'm up on business.”

“Oh,” said Bill. “What a beastly bore.”

“It's not that kind,” said Bundle. “It's anything but boring. Bill, do you know anyone called Jimmy Thesiger?”

“Of course. So do you.”

“No, I don't,” said Bundle.

“Yes, you do. You must. Everyone knows old Jimmy.”

“Sorry,” said Bundle. “Just for once I don't seem to be everyone.”

“Oh! but you must know Jimmy—pink-faced chap. Looks a bit of an ass. But really he's got as many brains as I have.”

“You don't say so,” said Bundle. “He must feel a bit top heavy when he walks about.”

“Was that meant for sarcasm?”

“It was a feeble effort at it. What does Jimmy Thesiger do?”

“How do you mean, what does he do?”

“Does being at the Foreign Office prevent you from understanding your native language?”

“Oh! I see, you mean, has he got a job? No, he just fools around. Why should he do anything?”

“In fact, more money than brains?”

“Oh! I wouldn't say that. I told you just now that he had more brains than you'd think.”

Bundle was silent. She was feeling more and more doubtful. This gilded youth did not sound a very promising ally. And yet it was his name that had come first to the dying man's lips. Bill's voice chimed in suddenly with singular appropriateness.

“Ronny always thought a lot of his brains. You know, Ronny Devereux. Thesiger was his greatest pal.”

“Ronny—”

Bundle stopped, undecided. Clearly Bill knew nothing of the other's death. It occurred to Bundle for the first time that it was odd the morning papers had contained nothing of the tragedy. Surely it was the kind of spicy item of news that would never be passed over. There could be one explanation, and one explanation only. The police, for reasons of their own, were keeping the matter quiet.

Bill's voice was continuing.

“I haven't seen Ronny for an age—not since that weekend down at your place. You know, when poor old Gerry Wade passed out.”

He paused and then went on.

“Rather a foul business that altogether. I expect you've heard about it. I say, Bundle—are you there still?”

“Of course I'm here.”

“Well, you haven't said anything for an age. I began to think that you had gone away.”

“No, I was just thinking over something.”

Should she tell Bill of Ronny's death? She decided against it—it was not the sort of thing to be said over the telephone. But soon, very soon, she must have a meeting with Bill. In the meantime—

“Bill?”

“Hullo.”

“I might dine with you tomorrow night.”

“Good, and we'll dance afterwards. I've got a lot to talk to you about. As a matter of fact I've been rather hard hit—the foulest luck—

“Well, tell me about it tomorrow,” said Bundle, cutting him short rather unkindly. “In the meantime, what is Jimmy Thesiger's address?”

“Jimmy Thesiger?”

“That's what I said.”

“He's got rooms in Jermyn Street—do I mean Jermyn Street or the other one?”

“Bring that class A brain to bear upon it.”

“Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I'll give you the number.”

There was a pause.

“Are you still there?”

“I'm always here.”

“Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103. Got it?”

“103. Thank you, Bill.”

“Yes, but, I say—what do you want it for? You said you didn't know him.”

“I don't, but I shall in half an hour.”

“You're going round to his rooms?”

“Quite right, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but, I say—well, for one thing he won't be up.”

“Won't be up?”

“I shouldn't think so. I mean, who would be if they hadn't got to? Look at it that way. You've no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I'm behind time is simply appalling. You haven't the least idea, Bundle, what a dog's life this is—”

“You shall tell me all about it tomorrow night,” said Bundle hastily.

She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve. Despite Bill's knowledge of his friend's habits, she inclined to her belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street.

The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman's gentleman. His face, expessionless and polite, was such a face as may be found by the score in that particular district of London.

“Will you come this way, madam?”

He ushered her upstairs into an extremely comfortable sitting room containing leather-covered armchairs of immense dimensions. Sunk in one of those monstrosities was another girl, rather younger than Bundle. A small, fair girl, dressed in black.

“What name shall I say, madam?”

“I won't give any name,” said Bundle. “I just want to see Mr. Thesiger on important business.”

The grave gentleman bowed and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

There was a pause.

“It's a nice morning,” said the fair girl timidly.

“It's an awfully nice morning,” agreed Bundle.

There was another pause.

“I motored up from the country this morning,” said Bundle, plunging once more into speech. “And I thought it was going to be one of those foul fogs. But it wasn't.”

“No,” said the other girl. “It wasn't.” And she added: “I've come up from the country too.”

Bundle eyed her more attentively. She had been slightly annoyed at finding the other there. Bundle belonged to the energetic order of people who liked “to get on with it,” and she foresaw that the second visitor would have to be disposed of and got rid of before she could broach her own business. It was not a topic she could introduce before a stranger.

Now, as she looked more closely, an extraordinary idea rose to her brain. Could it be? Yes, the girl was in deep mourning; her black-clad ankles showed that. It was a long shot, but Bundle was convinced that her idea was right. She drew a long breath.

“Look here,” she said, “are you by any chance Loraine Wade?”

Loraine's eyes opened wide.

“Yes, I am. How clever of you to know. We've never met, have we?”

“I wrote to you yesterday, though. I'm Bundle Brent.”

“It was so very kind of you to send me Gerry's letter,” said Loraine. “I've written to thank you. I never expected to see you here.”

“I'll tell you why I'm here,” said Bundle. “Did you know Ronny Devereux?”

Loraine nodded.

“He came over the day that Gerry—you know. And he's been to see me two or three times since. He was one of Gerry's greatest friends.”

“I know. Well—he's dead.”

Loraine's lips parted in surprise.

“
Dead!
But he always seemed so fit.”