The Seven Dials Mystery

  “Commercially it should be worth millions,” said the Russian. “And internationally—well, one knows only too well the greed of nations.”

  Bundle had an idea that behind his mask he was smiling unpleasantly.

  “Yes,” he went on. “A gold mine.”

  “Well worth a few lives,” said No 5, cynically, and laughed.

  “But you know what inventors are,” said the American. “Sometimes these darned things won’t work.”

  “A man like Sir Oswald Coote will have made no mistake,” said Mosgorovsky.

  “Speaking as an aviator myself,” said No 5, “the thing is perfectly feasible. It has been discussed for years—but it needed the genius of Eberhard to bring it to fruition.”

  “Well,” said Mosgorovsky, “I don’t think we need discuss matters any further. You have all seen the plans. I do not think our original scheme can be bettered. By the way, I hear something about a letter of Gerald Wade’s that has been found—a letter that mentions this organization. Who found it?”

  “Lord Caterham’s daughter—Lady Eileen Brent.”

  “Bauer should have been on to that,” said Mosgorovsky. “It was careless of him. Who was the letter written to?”

  “His sister, I believe,” said No 3.

  “Unfortunate,” said Mosgorovsky. “But it cannot be helped. The inquest on Ronald Devereux is tomorrow. I suppose that has been arranged for?”

  “Reports as to local lads having been practising with rifles have been spread everywhere,” said the American.

  “That should be all right then. I think there is nothing further to be said. I think we must all congratulate our dear one o’clock and wish her luck in the part she has to play.”

  “Hurrah!” cried No 5. “To Anna!”

  All hands flew out in the same gesture which Bundle had noticed before.

  “To Anna!”

  One o’clock acknowledged the salutation with a typically foreign gesture. Then she rose to her feet and the others followed suit. For the first time, Bundle caught a glimpse of No 3 as he came to put Anna’s cloak round her—a tall, heavily built man.

  Then the party filed out through the secret door. Mosgorovsky secured it after them. He waited a few moments and then Bundle heard him unbolt the other door and pass through after extinguishing the electric light.

  It was not until two hours later that a white and anxious Alfred came to release Bundle. She almost fell into his arms and he had to hold her up.

  “Nothing,” said Bundle. “Just stiff, that’s all. Here, let me sit down.”

  “Oh, Gord, my lady, it’s been awful.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bundle. “It all went off splendidly. Don’t get the wind up now it’s all over. It might have gone wrong, but thank goodness it didn’t.”

  “Thank goodness, as you say, my lady. I’ve been in a twitter all the evening. They’re a funny crowd, you know.”

  “A damned funny crowd,” said Bundle, vigorously massaging her arms and legs. “As a matter of fact, they’re the sort of crowd I always imagined until tonight only existed in books. In this life, Alfred, one never stops learning.”

  Fifteen

  THE INQUEST

  Bundle reached home about six a.m. She was up and dressed by half past nine, and rang up Jimmy Thesiger on the telephone.

  The promptitude of his reply somewhat surprised her, till he explained that he was going down to attend the inquest.

  “So am I,” said Bundle. “And I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  “Well, suppose you let me drive you down and we can talk on the way. How about that?”

  “All right. But allow a bit extra because you’ll have to take me to Chimneys. The Chief Constable’s picking me up there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a kind man,” said Bundle.

  “So am I,” said Jimmy. “Very kind.”

  “Oh! you—you’re an ass,” said Bundle. “I heard somebody say so last night.”

  “Who?”

  “To be strictly accurate—a Russian Jew. No, it wasn’t. It was—”

  But an indignant protest drowned her words.

  “I may be an ass,” said Jimmy. “I daresay I am—but I won’t have Russian Jews saying so. What were you doing last night, Bundle?”

  “That’s what I’m going to talk about,” said Bundle. “Good-bye for the moment.”

  She rang off in a tantalizing manner which left Jimmy pleasantly puzzled. He had the highest respect for Bundle’s capabilities, though there was not the slightest trace of sentiment in his feeling towards her.

  “She’s been up to something,” he opined, as he took a last hasty drink of coffee. “Depend upon it, she’s been up to something.”

  Twenty minutes later, his little two-seater drew up before the Brook Street house and Bundle, who had been waiting, came tripping down the steps. Jimmy was not ordinarily an observant young man, but he noticed that there were black rings round Bundle’s eyes and that she had all the appearance of having had a late night the night before.

  “Now then,” he said, as the car began to nose her way through the suburbs, “what dark deeds have you been up to?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Bundle. “But don’t interrupt until I’ve finished.”

  It was a somewhat long story, and Jimmy had all he could do to keep sufficient attention on the car to prevent an accident. When Bundle had finished he sighed—then looked at her searchingly.

  “Bundle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Look here, you’re not pulling my leg?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Jimmy, “but it seems to me as though I’d heard it all before—in a dream, you know.”

  “I know,” said Bundle sympathetically.

  “It’s impossible,” said Jimmy, following out his own train of thought. “The beautiful foreign adventuress, the international gang, the mysterious No 7, whose identity nobody knows—I’ve read it all a hundred times in books.”

  “Of course you have. So have I. But it’s no reason why it shouldn’t really happen.”

  “I suppose not,” admitted Jimmy.

  “After all—I suppose fiction is founded on the truth. I mean unless things did happen, people couldn’t think of them.”

  “There is something in what you say,” agreed Jimmy. “But all the same I can’t help pinching myself to see if I’m awake.”

  “That’s how I felt.”

  Jimmy gave a deep sigh.

  “Well, I suppose we are awake. Let me see, a Russian, an American, an Englishman—a possible Austrian or Hungarian—and the lady who may be any nationality—for choice Russian or Polish—that’s a pretty representative gathering.”

  “And a German,” said Bundle. “You’ve forgotten the German.”

  “Oh!” said Jimmy slowly. “You think—?”

  “The absent No 2. No 2 is Bauer—our footman. That seems to me quite clear from what they said about expecting a report which hadn’t come in—though what there can be to report about Chimneys, I can’t think.”

  “It must be something to do with Gerry Wade’s death,” said Jimmy. “There’s something there we haven’t fathomed yet. You say they actually mentioned Bauer by name?”

  Bundle nodded.

  “They blamed him for not having found that letter.”

  “Well, I don’t see what you could have clearer than that. There’s no going against it. You’ll have to forgive my first incredulity, Bundle—but you know, it was rather a tall story. You say they knew about my going down to Wyvern Abbey next week?”

  “Yes, that’s when the American—it was him, not the Russian—said they needn’t worry—you were only the usual kind of ass.”

  “Ah!” said Jimmy. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator viciously and the car shot forward. “I’m very glad you told me that. It gives me what you might call a personal interest in the case.”

  He was silent for a minute or
two and then he said:

  “Did you say that German inventor’s name was Eberhard?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Wait a minute. Something’s coming back to me. Eberhard, Eberhard—yes, I’m sure that was the name.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Eberhard was a Johnny who’d got some patent process he applied to sell. I can’t put the thing properly because I haven’t got the scientific knowledge—but I know the result was that it became so toughened that a wire was as strong as a steel bar had previously been. Eberhard had to do with aeroplanes and his idea was that the weight would be so enormously reduced that flying would be practically revolutionized—the cost of it, I mean. I believe he offered his invention to the German Government, and they turned it down, pointed out some undeniable flaw in it—but they did it rather nastily. He set to work and circumvented the difficulty, whatever it was, but he’d been offended by their attitude and swore they shouldn’t have his ewe lamb. I always thought the whole thing was probably bunkum, but now—it looks differently.”

  “That’s it,” said Bundle eagerly. “You must be right, Jimmy. Eberhard must have offered his invention to our Government. They’ve been taking, or are going to take, Sir Oswald Coote’s expert opinion on it. There’s going to be an unofficial conference at the Abbey. Sir Oswald, George, the Air Minister and Eberhard. Eberhard will have the plans or the process or whatever you call it—”

  “Formula,” suggested Jimmy. “I think ‘formula’ is a good word myself.”

  “He’ll have the formula with him, and the Seven Dials are out to steal the formula. I remember the Russian saying it was worth millions.”

  “I suppose it would be,” said Jimmy.

  “And well worth a few lives—that’s what the other man said.”

  “Well, it seems to have been,” said Jimmy, his face clouding over. “Look at this damned inquest today. Bundle, are you sure Ronny said nothing else?”

  “No,” said Bundle. “Just that. Seven Dials. Tell Jimmy Thesiger. That’s all he could get out, poor lad.”

  “I wish we knew what he knew,” said Jimmy. “But we’ve found out one thing. I take it that the footman, Bauer, must almost certainly have been responsible for Gerry’s death. You know, Bundle—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m a bit worried sometimes. Who’s going to be the next one! It really isn’t the sort of business for a girl to be mixed up in.”

  Bundle smiled in spite of herself. It occurred to her that it had taken Jimmy a long time to put her in the same category as Loraine Wade.

  “It’s far more likely to be you than me,” she remarked cheerfully.

  “Hear, hear,” said Jimmy. “But what about a few casualties on the other side for a change? I’m feeling rather bloodthirsty this morning. Tell me, Bundle, would you recognize any of these people if you saw them?”

  Bundle hesitated.

  “I think I should recognize No 5,” she said at last. “He’s got a queer way of speaking—a kind of venomous, lisping way—that I think I’d know again.”

  “What about the Englishman?”

  Bundle shook her head.

  “I saw him least—only a glimpse—and he’s got a very ordinary voice. Except that he’s a big man, there’s nothing much to go by.”

  “There’s the woman, of course,” continued Jimmy. “She ought to be easier. But then, you’re not likely to run across her. She’s probably putting in the dirty work, being taken out to dinner by amorous Cabinet Ministers and getting State secrets out of them when they’ve had a couple. At least, that’s how it’s done in books. As a matter of fact, the only Cabinet Minister I know drinks hot water with a dash of lemon in it.”

  “Take George Lomax, for instance, can you imagine him being amorous with beautiful foreign women?” said Bundle with a laugh.

  Jimmy agreed with her criticism.

  “And now about the man of mystery—No 7,” went on Jimmy. “You’ve no idea who he could be?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Again—by book standards, that is—he ought to be someone we all know. What about George Lomax himself?”

  Bundle reluctantly shook her head.

  “In a book it would be perfect,” she agreed. “But knowing Codders—” And she gave herself up to sudden uncontrollable mirth. “Codders, the great criminal organizer,” she gasped. “Wouldn’t it be marvellous?”

  Jimmy agreed that it would. Their discussion had taken some time and his driving had slowed down involuntarily once or twice. They arrived at Chimneys, to find Colonel Melrose already there waiting. Jimmy was introduced to him and they all three proceeded to the inquest together.

  As Colonel Melrose had predicted, the whole affair was very simple. Bundle gave her evidence. The doctor gave his. Evidence was given of rifle practice in the neighbourhood. A verdict of death by misadventure was brought in.

  After the proceedings were over, Colonel Melrose volunteered to drive Bundle back to Chimneys, and Jimmy Thesiger returned to London.

  For all his lighthearted manner, Bundle’s story had impressed him profoundly. He set his lips closely together.

  “Ronny, old boy,” he murmured, “I’m going to be up against it. And you’re not here to join in the game.”

  Another thought flashed into his mind. Loraine! Was she in danger?

  After a minute or two’s hesitation, he went over to the telephone and rang her up.

  “It’s me—Jimmy. I thought you’d like to know the result of the inquest. Death by misadventure.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Yes, but I think there’s something behind that. The coroner had had a hint. Someone’s at work to hush it up. I say, Loraine—”

  “Yes?”

  “Look here. There’s—there’s some funny business going about. You’ll be very careful, won’t you? For my sake.”

  He heard the quick note of alarm that sprang into her voice.

  “Jimmy—but then it’s dangerous—for you.”

  He laughed.

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’m the cat that had nine lives. Bye-bye, old thing.”

  He rang off and remained a minute or two lost in thought. Then he summoned Stevens.

  “Do you think you could go out and buy me a pistol, Stevens?”

  “A pistol, sir?”

  True to his training, Stevens betrayed no hint of surprise.

  “What kind of a pistol would you be requiring?”

  “The kind where you put your finger on the trigger and the thing goes on shooting until you take it off again.”

  “An automatic, sir.”

  “That’s it,” said Jimmy. “An automatic. And I should like it to be a bluenosed one—if you and the shopman know what that is. In American stories, the hero always takes his bluenosed automatic from his hip pocket.”

  Stevens permitted himself a faint, discreet smile.

  “Most American gentlemen that I have known, sir, carry something very different in their hip pockets,” he observed.

  Jimmy Thesiger laughed.

  Sixteen

  THE HOUSE PARTY AT THE ABBEY

  Bundle drove over to Wyvern Abbey just in time for tea on Friday afternoon. George Lomax came forward to welcome her with considerable empressement.

  “My dear Eileen,” he said, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you here. You must forgive my not having invited you when I asked your father, but to tell the truth I never dreamed that a party of this kind would appeal to you. I was both—er—surprised and—er—delighted when Lady Caterham told me of your—er—interest in—er—politics.”

  “I wanted to come so much,” said Bundle in a simple, ingenuous manner.

  “Mrs. Macatta will not arrive till the later train,” explained George. “She was speaking at a meeting in Manchester last night. Do you know Thesiger? Quite a young fellow, but a remarkable grasp of foreign politics. One would hardly suspect it from his appearance.”

  “I know Mr. Thesiger,?
?? said Bundle, and she shook hands solemnly with Jimmy, who she observed had parted his hair in the middle in the endeavour to add earnestness to his expression.

  “Look here,” said Jimmy in a low hurried voice, as George temporarily withdrew. “You mustn’t be angry, but I’ve told Bill about our little stunt.”

  “Bill?” said Bundle, annoyed.

  “Well, after all,” said Jimmy, “Bill is one of the lads, you know. Ronny was a pal of his and so was Gerry.”

  “Oh! I know,” said Bundle.

  “But you think it’s a pity? Sorry.”

  “Bill’s all right, of course. It isn’t that,” said Bundle. “But he’s—well, Bill’s a born blunderer.”

  “Not mentally very agile?” suggested Jimmy. “But you forget one thing—Bill’s got a very hefty fist. And I’ve an idea that a hefty fist is going to come in handy.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right. How did he take it?” “Well, he clutched his head a good bit, but—I mean the facts took some driving home. But by repeating the thing patiently in words of one syllable I at last got it into his thick head. And, naturally, he’s with us to the death, as you might say.”

  George reappeared suddenly.

  “I must make some introductions, Eileen. This is Sir Stanley Digby—Lady Eileen Brent. Mr. O’Rourke.” The Air Minister was a little round man with a cheerful smile. Mr. O’Rourke, a tall young man with laughing blue eyes and a typical Irish face, greeted Bundle with enthusiasm.

  “And I thinking it was going to be a dull political party entirely,” he murmured in an adroit whisper.

  “Hush,” said Bundle. “I’m political—very political.”

  “Sir Oswald and Lady Coote you know,” continued George.

  “We’ve never actually met,” said Bundle, smiling.

  She was mentally applauding her father’s descriptive powers.

  Sir Oswald took her hand in an iron grip and she winced slightly.

  Lady Coote, after a somewhat mournful greeting, had turned to Jimmy Thesiger, and appeared to be registering something closely akin to pleasure. Despite his reprehensible habit of being late for breakfast, Lady Coote had a fondness for this amiable, pink-faced young man. His air of irrepressible good nature fascinated her. She had a motherly wish to cure him of his bad habits and form him into one of the world’s workers. Whether, once formed, he would be as attractive was a question she had never asked herself. She began now to tell him of a very painful motor accident which had happened to one of her friends.