‘Good going,’ said the girl.
A tram flashed past them, they were on the outskirts of London. They flashed in and out of the traffic. Edward’s heart stood in his mouth. She was a wonderful driver, this girl, but she took risks!
Quarter of an hour later they drew up before an imposing house in a frigid square.
‘We can shed some of our clothing here,’ said the girl, ‘before we go on to Ritson’s.’
‘Ritson’s?’ queried Edward. He mentioned the famous night-club almost reverently.
‘Yes, didn’t Gerald tell you?’
‘He did not,’ said Edward grimly. ‘What about my clothes?’
She frowned.
‘Didn’t they tell you anything? We’ll rig you up somehow. We’ve got to carry this through.’
A stately butler opened the door and stood aside to let them enter.
‘Mr Gerald Champneys rang up, your ladyship. He was very anxious to speak to you, but he wouldn’t leave a message.’
‘I bet he was anxious to speak to her,’ said Edward to himself. ‘At any rate, I know my full name now. Edward Champneys. But who is she? Your ladyship, they called her. What does she want to steal a necklace for? Bridge debts?’
In the feuilletons which he occasionally read, the beautiful and titled heroine was always driven desperate by bridge debts.
Edward was led away by the stately butler, and delivered over to a smooth-mannered valet. A quarter of an hour later he rejoined his hostess in the hall, exquisitely attired in evening clothes made in Savile Row which fitted him to a nicety.
Heavens! What a night!
They drove in the car to the famous Ritson’s. In common with everyone else Edward had read scandalous paragraphs concerning Ritson’s. Anyone who was anyone turned up at Ritson’s sooner or later. Edward’s only fear was that someone who knew the real Edward Champneys might turn up. He consoled himself by the reflection that the real man had evidently been out of England for some years.
Sitting at a little table against the wall, they sipped cocktails. Cocktails! To the simple Edward they represented the quintessence of the fast life. The girl, wrapped in a wonderful embroidered shawl, sipped nonchalantly. Suddenly she dropped the shawl from her shoulders and rose.
‘Let’s dance.’
Now the one thing that Edward could do to perfection was to dance. When he and Maud took the floor together at the Palais de Danse, lesser lights stood still and watched in admiration.
‘I nearly forgot,’ said the girl suddenly. ‘The necklace?’
She held out her hand. Edward, completely bewildered, drew it from his pocket and gave it to her. To his utter amazement, she coolly clasped it round her neck. Then she smiled up at him intoxicatingly.
‘Now,’ she said softly, ‘we’ll dance.’
They danced. And in all Ritson’s nothing more perfect could be seen. Then, as at length they returned to their table, an old gentleman with a would-be rakish air accosted Edward’s companion.
‘Ah! Lady Noreen, always dancing! Yes, yes. Is Captain Folliot here tonight?’
‘Jimmy’s taken a toss – racked his ankle.’
‘You don’t say so? How did that happen?’
‘No details as yet.’
She laughed and passed on.
Edward followed, his brain in a whirl. He knew now. Lady Noreen Eliot, the famous Lady Noreen herself, perhaps the most talked of girl in England. Celebrated for her beauty, for her daring – the leader of that set known as the Bright Young People. Her engagement to Captain James Folliot, V.C., of the Household Calvalry, had been recently announced.
But the necklace? He still couldn’t understand the necklace. He must risk giving himself away, but know he must.
As they sat down again, he pointed to it.
‘Why that, Noreen?’ he said. ‘Tell me why?’
She smiled dreamily, her eyes far away, the spell of the dance still holding her.
‘It’s difficult for you to understand, I suppose. One gets so tired of the same thing – always the same thing. Treasure hunts were all very well for a while, but one gets used to everything. “Burglaries” were my idea. Fifty pounds entrance fee, and lots to be drawn. This is the third. Jimmy and I drew Agnes Larella. You know the rules? Burglary to be carried out within three days and the loot to be worn for at least an hour in a public place, or you forfeit your stake and a hundred-pound fine. It’s rough luck on Jimmy spraining his ankle, but we’ll scoop the pool all right.’
‘I see,’ said Edward, drawing a deep breath. ‘I see.’
Noreen rose suddenly, pulling her shawl round her.
‘Drive me somewhere in the car. Down to the docks. Somewhere horrible and exciting. Wait a minute –’ She reached up and unclasped the diamonds from her neck. ‘You’d better take these again. I don’t want to be murdered for them.’
They went out of Ritson’s together. The car stood in a small by-street, narrow and dark. As they turned the corner towards it, another car drew up to the curb, and a young man sprang out.
‘Thank the Lord, Noreen, I’ve got hold of you at last,’ he cried. ‘There’s the devil to pay. That ass Jimmy got off with the wrong car. God knows where those diamonds are at this minute. We’re in the devil of a mess.’
Lady Noreen stared at him.
‘What do you mean? We’ve got the diamonds – at least Edward has.’
‘Edward?’
‘Yes.’ She made a slight gesture to indicate the figure by her side.
‘It’s I who am in the devil of a mess,’ thought Edward. ‘Ten to one this is brother Gerald.’
The young man stared at him.
‘What do you mean?’ he said slowly. ‘Edward’s in Scotland.’
‘Oh!’ cried the girl. She stared at Edward. ‘Oh!’
Her colour came and went.
‘So you,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘are the real thing?’
It took Edward just one minute to grasp the situation. There was awe in the girl’s eyes – was it, could it be – admiration? Should he explain? Nothing so tame! He would play up to the end.
He bowed ceremoniously.
‘I have to thank you, Lady Noreen,’ he said, in the best highwayman manner, ‘for a most delightful evening.’
One quick look he cast at the car from which the other had just alighted. A scarlet car with a shining bonnet. His car!
‘And I will wish you good-evening.’
One quick spring and he was inside, his foot on the clutch. The car started forward. Gerald stood paralysed, but the girl was quicker. As the car slid past she leapt for it, alighting on the running board.
The car swerved, shot blindly round the corner and pulled up. Noreen, still panting from her spring, laid her hand on Edward’s arm.
‘You must give it me – oh, you must give it me. I’ve got to return it to Agnes Larella. Be a sport – we’ve had a good evening together – we’ve danced – we’ve been – pals. Won’t you give it to me? To me?’
A woman who intoxicated you with her beauty. There were such women then . . .
Also, Edward was only too anxious to get rid of the necklace. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for a beau geste.
He took it from his pocket and dropped it into her outstretched hand.
‘We’ve been – pals,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ Her eyes smouldered – lit up.
Then surprisingly she bent her head to him. For a moment he held her, her lips against his . . .
Then she jumped off. The scarlet car sped forward with a great leap.
Romance!
Adventure!
At twelve o’clock on Christmas Day, Edward Robinson strode into the tiny drawing-room of a house in Clapham with the customary greeting of ‘Merry Christmas’.
Maud, who was rearranging a piece of holly, greeted him coldly.
‘Have a good day in the country with that friend of yours?’ she inquired.
‘Look here,’ said Edward. ‘That was a li
e I told you. I won a competition – £500, and I bought a car with it. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d kick up a row about it. That’s the first thing. I’ve bought the car and there’s nothing more to be said about it. The second thing is this – I’m not going to hang about for years. My prospects are quite good enough and I mean to marry you next month. See?’
‘Oh!’ said Maud faintly.
Was this – could this be – Edward speaking in this masterful fashion?
‘Will you?’ said Edward. ‘Yes or no?’
She gazed at him, fascinated. There was awe and admiration in her eyes, and the sight of that look was intoxicating to Edward. Gone was that patient motherliness which had roused him to exasperation.
So had the Lady Noreen looked at him last night. But the Lady Noreen had receded far away, right into the region of Romance, side by side with the Marchesa Bianca. This was the Real Thing. This was his woman.
‘Yes or no?’ he repeated, and drew a step nearer.
‘Ye – ye-es,’ faltered Maud. ‘But, oh, Edward, what has happened to you? You’re quite different today.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘For twenty-four hours I’ve been a man instead of a worm – and, by God, it pays!’
He caught her in his arms almost as Bill the superman might have done.
‘Do you love me, Maud? Tell me, do you love me?’
‘Oh, Edward!’ breathed Maud. ‘I adore you . . .’
Chapter 10
The Witness for the Prosecution
‘The Witness for the Prosecution’ was first published in the USA as ‘Traitor Hands’ in Flynn’s Weekly, 31 January 1925.
Mr Mayherne adjusted his pince-nez and cleared his throat with a little dry-as-dust cough that was wholly typical of him. Then he looked again at the man opposite him, the man charged with wilful murder.
Mr Mayherne was a small man precise in manner, neatly, not to say foppishly dressed, with a pair of very shrewd and piercing grey eyes. By no means a fool. Indeed, as a solicitor, Mr Mayherne’s reputation stood very high. His voice, when he spoke to his client, was dry but not unsym-pathetic.
‘I must impress upon you again that you are in very grave danger, and that the utmost frankness is necessary.’
Leonard Vole, who had been staring in a dazed fashion at the blank wall in front of him, transferred his glance to the solicitor.
‘I know,’ he said hopelessly. ‘You keep telling me so. But I can’t seem to realize yet that I’m charged with murder – murder. And such a dastardly crime too.’
Mr Mayherne was practical, not emotional. He coughed again, took off his pince-nez, polished them carefully, and replaced them on his nose. Then he said:
‘Yes, yes, yes. Now, my dear Mr Vole, we’re going to make a determined effort to get you off – and we shall succeed – we shall succeed. But I must have all the facts. I must know just how damaging the case against you is likely to be. Then we can fix upon the best line of defence.’
Still the young man looked at him in the same dazed, hopeless fashion. To Mr Mayherne the case had seemed black enough, and the guilt of the prisoner assured. Now, for the first time, he felt a doubt.
‘You think I’m guilty,’ said Leonard Vole, in a low voice. ‘But, by God, I swear I’m not! It looks pretty black against me, I know that. I’m like a man caught in a net – the meshes of it all round me, entangling me whichever way I turn. But I didn’t do it, Mr Mayherne, I didn’t do it!’
In such a position a man was bound to protest his innocence. Mr Mayherne knew that. Yet, in spite of himself, he was impressed. It might be, after all, that Leonard Vole was innocent.
‘You are right, Mr Vole,’ he said gravely. ‘The case does look very black against you. Nevertheless, I accept your assurance. Now, let us get to facts. I want you to tell me in your own words exactly how you came to make the acquaintance of Miss Emily French.’
‘It was one day in Oxford Street. I saw an elderly lady crossing the road. She was carrying a lot of parcels. In the middle of the street she dropped them, tried to recover them, found a bus was almost on top of her and just managed to reach the kerb safely, dazed and bewildered by people having shouted at her. I recovered the parcels, wiped the mud off them as best I could, retied the string of one, and returned them to her.’
‘There was no question of your having saved her life?’
‘Oh! dear me, no. All I did was to perform a common act of courtesy. She was extremely grateful, thanked me warmly, and said something about my manners not being those of most of the younger generation – I can’t remember the exact words. Then I lifted my hat and went on. I never expected to see her again. But life is full of coincidences. That very evening I came across her at a party at a friend’s house. She recognized me at once and asked that I should be introduced to her. I then found out that she was a Miss Emily French and that she lived at Cricklewood. I talked to her for some time. She was, I imagine, an old lady who took sudden violent fancies to people. She took one to me on the strength of a perfectly simple action which anyone might have performed. On leaving, she shook me warmly by the hand, and asked me to come and see her. I replied, of course, that I should be very pleased to do so, and she then urged me to name a day. I did not want particularly to go, but it would have seemed churlish to refuse, so I fixed on the following Saturday. After she had gone, I learned something about her from my friends. That she was rich, eccentric, lived alone with one maid and owned no less than eight cats.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Mayherne. ‘The question of her being well off came up as early as that?’
‘If you mean that I inquired –’ began Leonard Vole hotly, but Mr Mayherne stilled him with a gesture.
‘I have to look at the case as it will be presented by the other side. An ordinary observer would not have supposed Miss French to be a lady of means. She lived poorly, almost humbly. Unless you had been told the contrary, you would in all probability have considered her to be in poor circumstances – at any rate to begin with. Who was it exactly who told you that she was well off?’
‘My friend, George Harvey, at whose house the party took place.’
‘Is he likely to remember having done so?’
‘I really don’t know. Of course it is some time ago now.’
‘Quite so, Mr Vole. You see, the first aim of the prosecution will be to establish that you were in low water financially – that is true, is it not?’
Leonard Vole flushed.
‘Yes,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’d been having a run of infernal bad luck just then.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Mayherne again. ‘That being, as I say, in low water financially, you met this rich old lady and cultivated her acquaintance assiduously. Now if we are in a position to say that you had no idea she was well off, and that you visited her out of pure kindness of heart –’
‘Which is the case.’
‘I dare say. I am not disputing the point. I am looking at it from the outside point of view. A great deal depends on the memory of Mr Harvey. Is he likely to remember that conversation or is he not? Could he be confused by counsel into believing that it took place later?’
Leonard Vole reflected for some minutes. Then he said steadily enough, but with a rather paler face:
‘I do not think that that line would be successful, Mr Mayherne. Several of those present heard his remark, and one or two of them chaffed me about my conquest of a rich old lady.’
The solicitor endeavoured to hide his disappointment with a wave of the hand.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said. ‘But I congratulate you upon your plain speaking, Mr Vole. It is to you I look to guide me. Your judgement is quite right. To persist in the line I spoke of would have been disastrous. We must leave that point. You made the acquaintance of Miss French, you called upon her, the acquaintanceship progressed. We want a clear reason for all this. Why did you, a young man of thirty-three, good-looking, fond of sport, popular with your friends, devote so much time to an elderly
woman with whom you could hardly have anything in common?’
Leonard Vole flung out his hands in a nervous gesture.
‘I can’t tell you – I really can’t tell you. After the first visit, she pressed me to come again, spoke of being lonely and unhappy. She made it difficult for me to refuse. She showed so plainly her fondness and affection for me that I was placed in an awkward position. You see, Mr Mayherne, I’ve got a weak nature – I drift – I’m one of those people who can’t say “No.” And believe me or not, as you like, after the third or fourth visit I paid her I found myself getting genuinely fond of the old thing. My mother died when I was young, an aunt brought me up, and she too died before I was fifteen. If I told you that I genuinely enjoyed being mothered and pampered, I dare say you’d only laugh.’
Mr Mayherne did not laugh. Instead he took off his pince-nez again and polished them, always a sign with him that he was thinking deeply.
‘I accept your explanation, Mr Vole,’ he said at last. ‘I believe it to be psychologically probable. Whether a jury would take that view of it is another matter. Please continue your narrative. When was it that Miss French first asked you to look into her business affairs?’
‘After my third or fourth visit to her. She understood very little of money matters, and was worried about some investments.’
Mr Mayherne looked up sharply.
‘Be careful, Mr Vole. The maid, Janet Mackenzie, declares that her mistress was a good woman of business and transacted all her own affairs, and this is borne out by the testimony of her bankers.’
‘I can’t help that,’ said Vole earnestly. ‘That’s what she said to me.’
Mr Mayherne looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Though he had no intention of saying so, his belief in Leonard Vole’s innocence was at that moment strengthened. He knew something of the mentality of elderly ladies. He saw Miss French, infatuated with the good-looking young man, hunting about for pretexts that should bring him to the house. What more likely than that she should plead ignorance of business, and beg him to help her with her money affairs? She was enough of a woman of the world to realize that any man is slightly flattered by such an admission of his superiority. Leonard Vole had been flattered. Perhaps, too, she had not been averse to letting this young man know that she was wealthy. Emily French had been a strong-willed old woman, willing to pay her price for what she wanted. All this passed rapidly through Mr Mayherne’s mind, but he gave no indication of it, and asked instead a further question.