“His light went out twenty minutes ago,” reported Ronny in a hoarse whisper. “I thought he’d never put it out. I opened the door just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?”
Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty arose.
“We can’t all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person’s got to do it and the others can hand him the whatnots from the door.”
Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.
The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle. Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of Rupert Bateman.
“Pongo’s the lad,” agreed Jimmy. “Anyway, he walks like a cat—always did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible that’ll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions.”
“Something subtle,” suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” said Jimmy.
Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally he emerged. Everyone held their breath and listened. The rhythmical breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr. Murgatroyd’s eight alarum clocks.
Three
THE JOKE THAT FAILED
“Twelve o’clock,” said Socks despairingly.
The joke—as a joke—had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks, on the other hand, had performed their part. They had gone off—with a vigour and élan that could hardly have been surpassed and which had sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.
He expected profanity—expected it confidently and with intelligent anticipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard nothing of what he expected. The clocks were ticking all right—ticking in a loud, arrogant, exasperating manner. And presently another went off, ringing with a crude, deafening note that would have aroused acute irritation in a deaf man.
There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part faithfully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for them. But apparently they had met their match in Gerald Wade.
The syndicate was inclined to be despondent about it.
“The lad isn’t human,” grumbled Jimmy Thesiger.
“Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolled over and went to sleep again,” suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).
“It seems to me very remarkable,” said Rupert Bateman seriously. “I think he ought to see a doctor about it.”
“Some disease of the eardrums,” suggested Bill hopefully.
“Well, if you ask me,” said Socks, “I think he’s just spoofing us. Of course they woke him up. But he’s just going to do us down by pretending that he didn’t hear anything.”
Everyone looked at Socks with respect and admiration.
“It’s an idea,” said Bill.
“He’s subtle, that’s what it is,” said Socks. “You’ll see, he’ll be extra late for breakfast this morning—just to show us.”
And since the clock now pointed to some minutes past twelve the general opinion was that Sock’s theory was a correct one. Only Ronny Devereux demurred.
“You forget, I was outside the door when the first one went off. Whatever old Gerry decided to do later, the first one must have surprised him. He’d have let out something about it. Where did you put it, Pongo?”
“On a little table close by his ear,” said Mr. Bateman.
“That was thoughtful of you, Pongo,” said Ronny. “Now, tell me.” He turned to Bill. “If a whacking great bell started ringing within a few inches of your ear at half past six in the morning, what would you say about it?”
“Oh, Lord,” said Bill. “I should say—” He came to a stop.
“Of course you would,” said Ronny. “So would I. So would anyone. What they call the natural man would emerge. Well, it didn’t. So I say that Pongo is right—as usual—and that Gerry has got an obscure disease of the eardrums.”
“It’s now twenty past twelve,” said one of the other girls sadly.
“I say,” said Jimmy slowly, “that’s a bit beyond anything, isn’t it? I mean a joke’s a joke. But this is carrying it a bit far. It’s a shade hard on the Cootes.”
Bill stared at him.
“What are you getting at?”
“Well,” said Jimmy. “Somehow or other—it’s not like old Gerry.”
He found it hard to put into words just what he meant to say. He didn’t want to say too much, and yet—He saw Ronny looking at him. Ronny was suddenly alert.
It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked around him hesitatingly.
“I thought Mr. Bateman was here,” he explained apologetically.
“Just gone out this minute through the window,” said Ronny. “Can I do anything?”
Tredwell’s eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then back again. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him. Tredwell closed the dining room door carefully behind him.
“Well,” said Ronny. “What’s up?”
“Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sending Williams up to his room.”
“Yes?”
“Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation, sir.” Tredwell paused—a pause of preparation. “I am afraid, sir, the poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep.”
Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.
“Nonsense,” cried Ronny at last. “It’s—it’s impossible. Gerry—” His face worked suddenly. “I’ll—I’ll run up and see. That fool Williams may have made a mistake.”
Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand. With a queer, unnatural feeling of detachment, Jimmy realized that the butler had the whole situation in hand.
“No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr. Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must now find Mr. Bateman.”
Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.
“Gerry,” he muttered to himself.
Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered him out through a side door on to a secluded portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to a seat.
“Take it easy, old son,” he said kindly. “You’ll get your wind in a minute.”
But he looked at him rather curiously. He had no idea that Ronny was such a friend of Gerry Wade’s.
“Poor old Gerry,” he said thoughtfully. “If ever a man looked fit, he did.”
Ronny nodded.
“All that clock business seems so rotten now,” went on Jimmy. “It’s odd, isn’t it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?”
He was talking more or less at random, to give Ronny time to recover himself. The other moved restlessly.
“I wish that doctor would come. I want to know—”
“Know what?”
“What he—died of.”
Jimmy pursed up his lips.
“Heart?” he hazarded.
Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh.
“I say, Ronny,” said Jimmy.
“Well?”
Jimmy found a difficulty in going on.
“You don’t mean—you aren’t thinking—I mean, you hav
en’t got it into your head—that, well I mean he wasn’t biffed on the head or anything? Tredwell’s locking the door and all that.”
It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny continued to stare straight out in front of him.
Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn’t see that there was anything to do except just wait. So he waited.
It was Tredwell who disturbed them.
“The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if you please, sir.”
Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him.
Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face. He greeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and spectacled than ever, performed introductions.
“I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade’s,” the doctor said to Ronny.
“His greatest friend.”
“H’m. Well, this business seems straightforward enough. Sad, though. He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit of smoking stuff to make him sleep?”
“Make him sleep.” Ronny stared. “He always slept like a top.”
“You never heard him complain of sleeplessness?”
“Never.”
“Well, the facts are simple enough. There’ll have to be an inquest, I’m afraid, nevertheless.”
“How did he die?”
“There’s not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuff was by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are.”
It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on his friend’s lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get out.
“There’s no question of—foul play?”
The doctor looked at him sharply.
“Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?”
Jimmy looked at Ronny. If Ronny knew anything now was the time to speak. But to his astonishment Ronny shook his head.
“No cause whatever,” he said clearly.
“And suicide—eh?”
“Certainly not.”
Ronny was emphatic. The doctor was not so clearly convinced.
“No troubles that you know of? Money troubles? A woman?”
Again Ronny shook his head.
“Now about his relations. They must be notified.”
“He’s got a sister—a half sister rather. Lives at Deane Priory. About twenty miles from here. When he wasn’t in town Gerry lived with her.”
“H’m,” said the Doctor. “Well, she must be told.”
“I’ll go,” said Ronny. “It’s a rotten job, but somebody’s got to do it.” He looked at Jimmy. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Slightly. I’ve danced with her once or twice.”
“Then we’ll go in your car. You don’t mind, do you? I can’t face it alone.”
“That’s all right,” said Jimmy reassuringly. “I was going to suggest it myself. I’ll go and get the old bus cranked up.”
He was glad to have something to do. Ronny’s manner puzzled him. What did he know or suspect? And why had he not voiced his suspicions, if he had them, to the doctor.
Presently the two friends were skimming along in Jimmy’s car with a cheerful disregard for such things as speed limits.
“Jimmy,” said Ronny at last, “I suppose you’re about the best pal I have—now.”
“Well” said Jimmy, “what about it?”
He spoke gruffly.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you. Something you ought to know.”
“About Gerry Wade?”
“Yes, about Gerry Wade.”
Jimmy waited.
“Well?” he inquired at last.
“I don’t know that I ought to,” said Ronny.
“Why?”
“I’m bound by a kind of promise.”
“Oh! Well then, perhaps you’d better not.”
There was a silence.
“And yet, I’d like—You see, Jimmy, your brains are better than mine.”
“They could easily be that,” said Jimmy unkindly.
“No, I can’t,” said Ronny suddenly.
“All right,” said Jimmy. “Just as you like.”
After a long silence, Ronny said:
“What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“This girl. Gerry’s sister.”
Jimmy was silent for some minutes, then he said in a voice that had somehow or other altered:
“She’s all right. In fact—well, she’s a corker.”
“Gerry was very devoted to her, I knew. He often spoke of her.”
“She was very devoted to Gerry. It—it’s going to hit her hard.”
“Yes, a nasty job.”
They were silent till they reached Deane Priory.
Miss Loraine, the maid told them, was in the garden. Unless they wanted to see Mrs. Coker.
Jimmy was eloquent that they did not want to see Mrs. Coker.
“Who’s Mrs. Coker?” asked Ronny as they went round into the somewhat neglected garden.
“The old trout who lives with Loraine.”
They had stepped out into a paved walk. At the end of it was a girl with two black spaniels. A small girl, very fair, dressed in shabby old tweeds. Not at all the girl that Ronny had expected to see. Not, in fact, Jimmy’s usual type.
Holding one dog by the collar, she came down the pathway to meet them.
“How do you do,” she said. “You mustn’t mind Elizabeth. She’s just had some puppies and she’s very suspicious.”
She had a supremely natural manner and, as she looked up smiling, the faint wild-rose flush deepened in her cheeks. Her eyes were a very dark blue—like cornflowers.
Suddenly they widened—was it with alarm? As though, already, she guessed.
Jimmy hastened to speak.
“This is Ronny Devereux, Miss Wade. You must often have heard Gerry speak of him.”
“Oh, yes.” She turned a lovely, warm, welcoming smile on him. “You’ve both been staying at Chimneys, haven’t you? Why didn’t you bring Gerry over with you?”
“We-er-couldn’t,” said Ronny, and then stopped.
Again Jimmy saw the look of fear flash into her eyes.
“Miss Wade,” he said, “I’m afraid—I mean, we’ve got bad news for you.”
She was on the alert in a moment.
“Gerry?”
“Yes—Gerry. He’s—”
She stamped her foot with sudden passion.
“Oh! tell me—tell me—” She turned suddenly on Ronny. “You’ll tell me.”
Jimmy felt a pang of jealousy, and in that moment he knew what up to now he had hesitated to admit to himself. He knew why Helen and Nancy and Socks were just “girls” to him and nothing more.
He only half-heard Ronny’s voice saying bravely:
“Yes, Miss Wade, I’ll tell you. Gerry is dead.”
She had plenty of pluck. She gasped and drew back, but in a minute or two she was asking eager, searching questions. How? When?
Ronny answered her as gently as he could.
“Sleeping draught? Gerry?”
The incredulity in her voice was plain. Jimmy gave her a glance. It was almost a glance of warning. He had a sudden feeling that Loraine in her innocence might say too much.
In his turn he explained as gently as possible the need for an inquest. She shuddered. She declined their offer of taking her back to Chimneys with them, but explained she would come over later. She had a two-seater of her own.
“But I want to be—be alone a little first,” she said piteously.
“I know,” said Ronny.
“That’s all right,” said Jimmy.
They looked at her, feeling awkward and helpless.
“Thank you both ever so much for coming.”
They drove back in silence and there was something like constraint between them.
“My God! that girl’s plucky,” said Ronny once.
; Jimmy agreed.
“Gerry was my friend,” said Ronny. “It’s up to me to keep an eye on her.”
“Oh! rather. Of course.”
On returning to Chimneys Jimmy was waylaid by a tearful Lady Coote.
“That poor boy,” she kept repeating. “That poor boy.”
Jimmy made all the suitable remarks he could think of.
Lady Coote told him at great length various details about the decease of various dear friends of hers. Jimmy listened with a show of sympathy and at last managed to detach himself without actual rudeness.
He ran lightly up the stairs. Ronny was just emerging from Gerald Wade’s room. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Jimmy.
“I’ve been in to see him,” he said. “Are you going in?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jimmy, who was a healthy young man with a natural dislike of being reminded of death.
“I think all his friends ought to.”
“Oh! do you?” said Jimmy, and registered to himself an impression that Ronny Devereux was damned odd about it all.
“Yes. It’s a sign of respect.”
Jimmy sighed, but gave in.”
“Oh! very well,” he said, and passed in, setting his teeth a little.
There were white flowers arranged on the coverlet, and the room had been tidied and set to rights.
Jimmy gave one quick, nervous glance at the still, white face. Could that be cherubic, pink Gerry Wade? That still peaceful figure. He shivered.
As he turned to leave the room, his glance swept the mantelshelf and he stopped in astonishment. The alarum clocks had been ranged along it neatly in a row.
He went out sharply. Ronny was waiting for him.
“Looks very peaceful and all that. Rotten luck on him,” mumbled Jimmy.
Then he said:
“I say, Ronny, who arranged all those clocks like that in a row?”
“How should I know? One of the servants, I suppose.”
“The funny thing is,” said Jimmy, “that there are seven of them, not eight. One of them’s missing. Did you notice that?”
Ronny made an inaudible sound.
“Seven instead of eight,” said Jimmy, frowning. “I wonder why.”
Four