“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.”
Bundle narrated the events of the preceding day as briefly as possible. A look of fear and horror came into Loraine’s face.
“Then it is true. It is true.”
“What’s true?”
“What I’ve thought—what I’ve been thinking all these weeks. Gerry didn’t die a natural death. He was killed.”
“You’ve thought that, have you?”
“Yes. Gerry would never have taken things to make him sleep.” She gave the little ghost of a laugh. “He slept much too well to need them. I always thought it queer. And he thought so too—I know he did.”
“Who?”
“Ronny. And now this happens. Now he’s killed too.” She paused and then went on: “That’s what I came for today. That letter of Gerry’s you sent me—as soon as I read it, I tried to get hold of Ronny, but they said he was away. So I thought I’d come and see Jimmy—he was Ronny’s other great friend. I thought perhaps he’d tell me what I ought to do.”
“You mean—” Bundle paused. “About—Seven Dials.” Loraine nodded.
“You see—” she began.
But at that moment Jimmy Thesiger entered the room.
Eight
VISITORS FOR JIMMY
We must at this point go back to some twenty minutes earlier, to a moment when Jimmy Thesiger, emerging from the mists of sleep, was conscious of a familiar voice speaking unfamiliar words.
His sleep-ridden brain tried for a moment to cope with the situation, but failed. He yawned and rolled over again.
“A young lady, sir, has called to see you.”
The voice was implacable. So prepared was it to go on repeating the statement indefinitely that Jimmy resigned himself to the inevitable. He opened his eyes and blinked.
“Eh, Stevens?” he said. “Say that again.”
“A young lady, sir, has called to see you.”
“Oh!” Jimmy strove to grasp the situation. “Why?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“No, I suppose not. No,” he thought it over. “I suppose you couldn’t.”
Stevens swooped down upon a tray by the bedside.
“I will bring you some fresh tea, sir. This is cold.”
“You think that I ought to get up and—er—see the lady?”
Stevens made no reply, but he held his back very stiff and Jimmy read the signs correctly.
“Oh! very well,” he said. “I suppose I’d better. She didn’t give her name?”
“No, sir.”
“M’m. She couldn’t be by any possible chance my Aunt Jemima, could she? Because if so, I’m damned if I’m going to get up.”
“The lady, sir, could not possibly be anyone’s aunt, I should say, unless the youngest of a large family.”
“Aha,” said Jimmy. “Young and lovely. Is she—what kind is she?”
“The young lady, sir, is most undoubtedly strictly comme il faut, if I may use the expression.”
“You may use it,” said Jimmy graciously. “Your French pronunciation, Stevens, if I may say so, is very good. Much better than mine.”
“I am gratified to hear it, sir. I have lately been taking a correspondence course in French.”
“Have you really? You’re a wonderful chap, Stevens.”
Stevens smiled in a superior fashion and left the room. Jimmy lay trying to recall the names of any young and lovely girls strictly comme il faut who might be likely to come and call upon him.
Stevens reentered with fresh tea, and as Jimmy sipped it he felt a pleasurable curiosity.
“You’ve given her the paper and all that, I hope, Stevens,” he said.
“I supplied her with the Morning Post and Punch, sir.”
A ring at the bell took him away. In a few minutes he returned.
“Another young lady, sir.”
“What?”
Jimmy clutched his head.
“Another young lady; she declines to give her name, sir, but says her business is important.”
Jimmy stared at him.
“This is damned odd, Stevens. Damned odd. Look here, what time did I come home last night?”
“Just upon five o’clock, sir.”
“And was I—er—how was I?”
“Just a little cheerful, sir—nothing more. Inclined to sing ‘Rule Britannia.’ ”
“What an extraordinary thing,” said Jimmy. “ ‘Rule Britannia,’ eh? I cannot imagine myself in a sober state ever singing ‘Rule Britannia.’ Some latent patriotism must have emerged under the stimulus of—er—just a couple too many. I was celebrating at the ‘Mustard and Cress,’ I remember. Not nearly such an innocent spot as it sounds, Stevens.” He paused. “I was wondering—”
“Yes, sir?”
“I was wondering whether under the aforementioned stimulus I had put an advertisement in a newspaper asking for a nursery governess or something of that sort.”
Stevens coughed.
“Two girls turning up. It looks odd. I shall eschew the ‘Mustard and Cress’ in future. That’s a good word, Stevens—eschew—I met it in a crossword the other day and took a fancy to it.”
Whilst he was talking Jimmy was rapidly apparelling himself. At the end of ten minutes he was ready to face his unknown guests. As he opened the door of his sitting room the first person he saw was a dark, slim girl who was totally unknown to him. She was standing by the mantelpiece, leaning against it. Then his glance went on to the big leather-covered armchair, and his heart missed a beat. Loraine!
It was she who rose and spoke first a little nervously.
“You must be very surprised to see me. But I had to come. I’ll explain in a minute. This is Lady Eileen Brent.”
“Bundle—that’s what I’m usually known as. You’ve probably heard of me from Bill Eversleigh.”
“Oh, rather, of course I have,” said Jimmy, endeavouring to cope with the situation. “I say, do sit down and let’s have a cocktail or something.”
Both girls declined.
“As a matter of fact,” continued Jimmy, “I’m only just out of bed.”
“That’s what Bill said,” remarked Bundle. “I told him I was coming round to see you, and he said you wouldn’t be up.”
“Well, I’m up now” said Jimmy encouragingly.
“It’s about Gerry,” said Loraine. “And now about Ronny—”
“What do you mean by ‘and now about Ronny?’ ”
“He was shot yesterday.”
“What?” cried Jimmy.
Bundle told her story for the second time. Jimmy listened like a man in a dream.
“Old Ronny—shot,” he murmured. “What is this damned business?”
He sat down on the edge of a chair, thinking for a minute or two, and then spoke in a quiet, level voice.
“There’s something I think I ought to tell you.”
“Yes,” said Bundle encouragingly.
“It was on the day Gerry Wade died. On the way over to break the news to you”—he nodded at Loraine—“in the car Ronny said something to me. That is to say, he started to tell me something. There was something he wanted to tell me, and he began about it, and then he said he was bound by a promise and couldn’t go on.”
“Bound by a promise,” said Loraine thoughtfully.
“That’s what he said. Naturally I didn’t press him after that. But he was odd—damned odd—all through. I got the impression then that he suspected—well, foul play. I thought he’d tell the doctor so. But no, not even a hint. So I thought I’d been mistaken. And afterwards, with the evidence and all—well, it seemed such a very clear case. I thought my suspicions had been all bosh.”
“But you think Ronny still suspected?” asked Bundle.
Jimmy nodded.
“That’s what I think now. Why, none of us have seen anything of him since. I believe he was playing a lone hand—trying to find out the truth about Gerry’s death, and what’s more, I believe he did find out. That’s why the devils shot him. And then he tried to send word to me, but could only get out those two words.”
“Seven Dials,” said Bundle, and shivered a little.
“Seven Dials,” said Jimmy gravely. “At any rate we’ve got that to go on with.”
Bundle turned to Loraine.
“You were just going to tell me—”
“Oh! yes. First, about the letter.” She spoke to Jimmy. “Gerry left a letter. Lady Eileen—”
“Bundle.”
“Bundle found it.” She explained the circumstances in a few words.
Jimmy listened, keenly interested. This was the first he had heard of the letter. Loraine took it from her bag and handed it to him. He read it, then looked across at her.
“This is where you can help us. What was it Gerry wanted you to forget?”
Loraine’s brows wrinkled a little in perplexity.
“It’s so hard to remember exactly now. I opened a letter of Gerry’s by mistake. It was written on cheap sort of paper, I remember, and very illiterate handwriting. It had some address in Seven Dials at the head of it. I realized it wasn’t for me, so I put it back in the envelope without reading it.”
“Sure?” asked Jimmy very gently.
Loraine laughed for the first time.
“I know what you think, and I admit that women are curious. But, you see, this didn’t even look interesting. It was a kind of list of names and dates.”
“Names and dates,” said Jimmy thoughtfully.
“Gerry didn’t seem to mind much,” continued Loraine. “He laughed. He asked me if I had ever heard of the Mafia, and then said it would be queer if a society like the Mafia started in England—but that that kind of secret society didn’t take on much with English people. ‘Our criminals,’ he said, ‘haven’t got a picturesque imagination.’ ”
Jimmy pursued up his lips into a whistle.
“I’m beginning to see,” he said. “Seven Dials must be the headquarters for some secret society. As he says in his letter to you. He thought it rather a joke to start with. But evidently it wasn’t a joke—he says as much. And there’s something else: his anxiety that you should forget what he’s told you. There can be only one reason for that—if that society suspected that you had any knowledge of its activity, you too would be in danger. Gerald realized the peril, and he was terribly anxious—for you.”
He stopped, then he went on quietly:
“I rather fancy that we’re all going to be in danger—if we go on with this.”
“If—?” cried Bundle indignantly.
“I’m talking of you two. It’s different for me. I was poor old Ronny’s pal.” He looked at Bundle. “You’ve done your bit. You’ve delivered the message he sent me. No; for God’s sake keep out of it, you and Loraine.”
Bundle looked questioningly at the other girl. Her own mind was definitely made up, but she gave no indication of it just then. She had no wish to push Loraine Wade into a dangerous undertaking.
But Loraine’s small face was alight at once with indignation.
“You say that! Do you think for one minute I’d be contented to keep out of it—when they killed Gerry—my own dear Gerry, the best and dearest and kindest brother any girl ever had. The only person belonging to me I had in the whole world!”
Jimmy cleared his throat uncomfortably. Loraine, he thought, was wonderful; simply wonderful.
“Look here,” he said awkwardly. “You mustn’t say that. About being alone in the world—all that rot. You’ve got lots of friends—only too glad to do what they can. See what I mean?”
It is possible that Loraine did, for she suddenly blushed, and to cover her confusion began to talk nervously.
“That’s settled,” she said. “I’m going to help. Nobody’s going to stop me.”
“And so am I, of co
urse,” said Bundle.
They both looked at Jimmy.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, quite so.”
They looked at him inquiringly.
“I was just wondering,” said Jimmy, “how we were going to begin.”
Nine
PLANS
Jimmy’s words lifted the discussion at once into a more practical sphere.
“All things considered,” he said, “we haven’t got much to go on. In fact, just the words Seven Dials. As a matter of fact I don’t even know exactly where Seven Dials is. But, anyway, we can’t very well comb out the whole of that district, house by house.”
“We could,” said Bundle.
“Well, perhaps we could eventually—though I’m not so sure. I imagine it’s a well-populated area. But it wouldn’t be very subtle.”
The word reminded him of the girl Socks and he smiled.
“Then, of course, there’s the part of the country where Ronny was shot. We could nose around there. But the police are probably doing everything we could do, and doing it much better.”
“What I like about you,” said Bundle sarcastically, “is your cheerful and optimistic disposition.”
“Never mind her, Jimmy,” said Loraine softly. “Go on.”
“Don’t be so impatient,” said Jimmy to Bundle. “All the best sleuths approach a case this way, by eliminating unnecessary and unprofitable investigation. I’m coming now to the third alternative—Gerald’s death. Now that we know it was murder—by the way, you do both believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Loraine.
“Yes,” said Bundle.
“Good. So do I. Well, it seems to me that there we do stand some faint chance. After all, if Gerry didn’t take the chloral himself, someone must have got into his room and put it there—dissolved it in the glass of water, so that when he woke up he drank it off. And of course left the empty box or bottle or whatever it was. You agree with that?”
“Ye—es,” said Bundle slowly. “But—”
“Wait. And that someone must have been in the house at the time. It couldn’t very well have been someone from outside.”
“No,” agreed Bundle, more readily this time.