But where, oh where, was the countess?
And just as Bundle was asking herself this question, the silence of the night was suddenly broken, and in no uncertain manner.
The clamour came from below. In an instant Bundle had sped out of the Countess’s room and downstairs. The sounds came from the library—a violent crashing of chairs being overturned.
Bundle rattled vainly at the library door. It was locked. But she could clearly hear the struggle that was going on within—the panting and scuffling, curses in many tones, the occasional crash as some light piece of furniture came into the line of battle.
And then, sinister and distinct, breaking the peace of the night for good and all, two shots in rapid succession.
Twenty
LORAINE’S ADVENTURES
Loraine Wade sat up in bed and switched on the light. It was exactly ten minutes to one. She had gone to bed early—at half past nine. She possessed the useful art of being able to wake herself up at the required time, so she had been able to enjoy some hours of refreshing sleep.
Two dogs slept in the room with her, and one of these now raised his head and looked at her inquiringly.
“Quiet, Lurcher,” said Loraine, and the big animal put his head down again obediently, watching her from between his shaggy eyelashes.
It is true that Bundle had once doubted the meekness of Loraine Wade, but that brief moment of suspicion had passed. Loraine had seemed so entirely reasonable, so willing to be kept out of everything.
And yet, if you studied the girl’s face, you saw that there was strength of purpose in the small, resolute jaw and the lips that closed together so firmly.
Loraine rose and dressed herself in a tweed coat and skirt. Into one pocket of the coat she dropped an electric torch. Then she opened the drawer of her dressing table and took out a small ivory-handled pistol—almost a toy in appearance. She had bought it the day before at Harrods and she was very pleased with it.
She gave a final glance round the room to see if she had forgotten anything, and at that moment the big dog rose and came over to her, looking up at her with pleading eyes and wagging its tail.
“No, Lurcher. Can’t go. Missus can’t take you. Got to stay here and be a good boy.”
She dropped a kiss on the dog’s head, made him lie down on his rug again, and then slipped noiselessly out of the room, closing the door behind her.
She let herself out of the house by a side door and made her way round to the garage, where her little two-seater car was in readiness. There was a gentle slope, and she let the car run silently down it, not starting the engine till she was some way from the house. Then she glanced at the watch on her arm and pressed her foot down on the accelerator.
She left the car at a spot she had previously marked down. There was a gap there in the fencing that she could easily get through. A few minutes later, slightly muddy, Loraine stood inside the grounds of Wyvern Abbey.
As noiselessly as possible, she made her way towards the venerable ivy-coloured building. In the distance a stable clock chimed two.
Loraine’s heart beat faster as she drew near to the terrace. There was no one about—no sign of life anywhere. Everything seemed peaceful and undisturbed. She reached the terrace and stood there, looking about her.
Suddenly, without the least warning, something from above fell with a flop almost at her feet. Loraine stooped to pick it up. It was a brown paper packet, loosely wrapped. Holding it, Loraine looked up.
There was an open window just above her head, and even as she looked a leg swung over it and a man began to climb down the ivy.
Loraine waited no more. She took to her heels and ran, still clasping the brown paper packet.
Behind her, the noise of a struggle suddenly broke out. A hoarse voice: “Lemme go”; another that she knew well: “Not if I know it—ah, you would, would you?”
Still Loraine ran—blindly, as though panic-stricken—right round the corner of the terrace—and slap into the arms of a large, solidly built man.
“There, there,” said Superintendent Battle kindly.
Loraine was struggling to speak.
“Oh, quick!—oh, quick! They’re killing each other. Oh, do be quick!”
There was a sharp crack of a revolver shot—and then another.
Superintendent Battle started to run. Loraine followed. Back round the corner of the terrace and along to the library window. The window was open.
Battle stooped and switched on an electric torch. Loraine was close behind him, peering over his shoulder. She gave a little sobbing gasp.
On the threshold of the window lay Jimmy Thesiger in what looked like a pool of blood. His right arm lay dangling in a curious position.
Loraine gave a sharp cry.
“He’s dead,” she wailed. “Oh, Jimmy—Jimmy—he’s dead!”
“Now, now,” said Superintendent Battle soothingly. “Don’t you take on so. The young gentleman isn’t dead, I’ll be bound. See if you can find the lights and turn them on.”
Loraine obeyed. She stumbled across the room, found the switch by the door and pressed it down. The room was flooded with light. Superintendent Battle uttered a sigh of relief.
“It’s all right—he’s only shot in the right arm. He’s fainted through loss of blood. Come and give me a hand with him.”
There was a pounding on the library door. Voices were heard, asking, expostulating, demanding.
Loraine looked doubtfully at it.
“Shall I—?”
“No hurry,” said Battle. “We’ll let them in presently. You come and give me a hand.”
Loraine came obediently. The Superintendent had produced a large, clean pocket handkerchief and was neatly bandaging the wounded man’s arm. Loraine helped him.
“He’ll be all right,” said the Superintendent. “Don’t you worry. As many lives as cats, these young fellows. It wasn’t the loss of blood knocked him out either. He must have caught his head a crack on the floor as he fell.”
Outside, the knocking on the door had become tremendous. The voice of George Lomax, furiously upraised, came loud and distinct:
“Who is in there? Open the door at once.”
Superintendent Battle sighed.
“I suppose we shall have to,” he said. “A pity.”
His eyes darted round, taking in the scene. An automatic lay by Jimmy’s side. The Superintendent picked it up gingerly, holding it very delicately, and examined it. He grunted and laid it on the table. Then he stepped across and unlocked the door.
Several people fell into the room. Nearly everybody said something at the same minute. George Lomax, spluttering with obdurate words which refused to come with sufficient fluency, exclaimed:
“The—the—the meaning of this? Ah! It’s you, Superintendent; what’s happened? I say—what has—happened?”
Bill Eversleigh said; “My God! Old Jimmy!” and stared at the limp figure on the ground.
Lady Coote, clad in a resplendent purple dressing gown, cried out: “The poor boy!” and swept past Superintendent Battle to bend over the prostrate Jimmy in a motherly fashion.
Bundle said: “Loraine!”
Herr Eberhard said: “Gott im Himmel!” and other words of that nature.
Sir Stanley Digby said: “My God, what’s all this?”
A housemaid said: “Look at the blood,” and screamed with pleasurable excitement.
A footman said: “Lor!”
The butler said, with a good deal more bravery in his manner than had been noticeable a few minutes earlier: “Now then, this won’t do!” and waved away under servants.
The efficient Mr. Rupert Bateman said to George: “Shall we get rid of some of these people, sir?”
Then they all took fresh breath.
“Incredible!” said George Lomax. “Battle, what has happened?”
Battle gave him a look, and George’s discreet habits assumed their usual way.
“Now then,” he said, moving to the d
oor, “everyone go back to bed, please. There’s been a—er—”
“A little accident,” said Superintendent Battle easily.
“A—er—an accident. I shall be much obliged if everyone will go back to bed.”
Everyone was clearly reluctant to do so.
“Lady Coote—please—”
“The poor boy,” said Lady Coote in a motherly fashion.
She rose from a kneeling position with great reluctance. And as she did so, Jimmy stirred and sat up.
“Hallo!” he said thickly. “What’s the matter?”
He looked round him vacantly for a minute or two and then intelligence returned to his eye.
“Have you got him? he demanded eagerly.
“Got who?”
“The man. Climbed down the ivy. I was by the window there. Grabbed him and we had no end of a set-to—”
“One of those nasty, murderous cat burglars,” said Lady Coote. “Poor boy.”
Jimmy was looking round him.
“I say—I’m afraid we—er—have made rather a mess of things. Fellow was as strong as an ox and we went fairly waltzing round.”
The condition of the room was clear proof of this statement. Everything light and breakable within a range of twelve feet that could be broken had been broken.
“And what happened then?”
But Jimmy was looking round for something.
“Where’s Leopold? The pride of the bluenosed automatics?”
Battle indicated the pistol on the table.
“Is this yours, Mr. Thesiger?”
“That’s right. That’s little Leopold. How many shots have been fired?”
“One shot.”
Jimmy looked chagrined.
“I’m disappointed in Leopold,” he murmured. “I can’t have pressed the button properly, or he’d have gone on shooting.”
“Who shot first?”
“I did, I’m afraid,” said Jimmy. “You see, the man twisted himself out of my grasp suddenly. I saw him making for the window and I closed my finger down on Leopold and let him have it. He turned in the window and fired at me and—well, I suppose after that I took the count.”
He rubbed his head rather ruefully.
But Sir Stanley Digby was suddenly alert.
“Climbing down the ivy, you said? My God, Lomax, you don’t think they’ve got away with it?”
He rushed from the room. For some curious reason nobody spoke during his absence. In a few minutes Sir Stanley returned. His round, chubby face was white as death.
“My God, Battle,” he said, “they’ve got it. O’Rourke’s fast asleep—drugged, I think. I can’t wake him. And the papers have vanished.”
Twenty-one
THE RECOVERY OF THE FORMULA
“Der liebe Gott!” said Herr Eberhard in a whisper.
His face had gone chalky white.
George turned a face of dignified reproach on Battle.
“Is this true, Battle? I left all arrangements in your hands.”
The rock-like quality of the Superintendent showed out well. Not a muscle of his face moved.
“The best of us are defeated sometimes, sir,” he said quietly.
“Then you mean—you really mean—that the document is gone?”
But to everyone’s surprise Superintendent Battle shook his head.
“No, no, Mr. Lomax, it’s not so bad as you think. Everything’s all right. But you can’t lay the credit for it at my door. You’ve got to thank this young lady.”
He indicated Loraine, who stared at him in surprise. Battle stepped across to her and gently took the brown paper parcel which she was still clutching mechanically.
“I think, Mr. Lomax,” he said, “that you will find what you want here.”
Sir Stanley Digby, quicker in action than George, snatched at the package and tore it open, investigating its contents eagerly. A sigh of relief escaped him and he mopped his brow. Herr Eberhard fell upon the child of his brain and clasped it to his heart, whilst a torrent of German burst from him.
Sir Stanley turned to Loraine, shaking her warmly by the hand.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “we are infinitely obliged to you, I am sure.”
“Yes, indeed,” said George. “Though I—er—”
He paused in some perplexity, staring at a young lady who was a total stranger to him. Loraine looked appealingly at Jimmy, who came to the rescue.
“We—this is Miss Wade.” said Jimmy. “Gerald Wade’s sister.”
“Indeed,” said George, shaking her warmly by the hand. “My dear Miss Wade, I must express my deep gratitude to you for what you have done. I must confess that I do not quite see—”
He paused delicately and four of the persons present felt that explanations were going to be fraught with much difficulty. Superintendent Battle came to the rescue.
“Perhaps we’d better not go into that just now, sir,” he suggested tactfully.
The efficient Mr. Bateman created a further diversion.
“Wouldn’t it be wise for someone to see to O’Rourke? Don’t you think, sir, that a doctor had better be sent for?”
“Of course,” said George. “Of course. Most remiss of us not to have thought of it before.” He looked towards Bill. “Get Dr. Cartwright on the telephone. Ask him to come. Just hint, if you can, that—er—discretion should be observed.”
Bill went off on his errand.
“I will come up with you, Digby,” said George. “Something, possibly, could be done—measures should, perhaps, be taken—whilst awaiting the arrival of the doctor.”
He looked rather helplessly at Rupert Bateman. Efficiency always makes itself felt. It was Pongo who was really in charge of the situation.
“Shall I come up with you, sir?”
George accepted the offer with relief. Here, he felt, was someone on whom he could lean. He experienced that sense of complete trust in Mr. Bateman’s efficiency which came to all those who encountered that excellent young man.
The three men left the room together. Lady Coote, murmuring in deep rich tones: “The poor young fellow. Perhaps I could do something—” hurried after them.
“That’s a very motherly woman,” observed the Superintendent thoughtfully. “A very motherly woman. I wonder—”
Three pairs of eyes looked at him inquiringly.
“I was wondering,” said Superintendent Battle slowly, “where Sir Oswald Coote may be.”
“Oh!” gasped Loraine. “Do you think he’s been murdered?”
Battle shook his head at her reproachfully.
“No need for anything so melodramatic,” he said. “No—I rather think—”
He paused, his head on one side, listening—one large hand raised to enjoin silence.
In another minute they all heard what his sharper ears had been the first to notice. Footsteps coming along the terrace outside. They rang out clearly with no kind of subterfuge about them. In another minute the window was blocked by a bulky figure which stood there regarding them and who conveyed, in an odd way, a sense of dominating the situation.
Sir Oswald, for it was he, looked slowly from one face to another. His keen eyes took in the details of the situation. Jimmy, with his roughly bandaged arm; Bundle, in her somewhat anomalous attire; Loraine, a perfect stranger to him. His eyes came last to Superintendent Battle. He spoke sharply and crisply.
“What’s been happening here, officer?”
“Attempted robbery, sir.”
“Attempted—eh?”
“Thanks to this young lady, Miss Wade, the thieves failed to get away with it.”
“Ah!” he said again, his scrutiny ended. “And now, officer, what about this?”
He held out a small Mauser pistol which he carried delicately by the butt.
“Where did you find that, Sir Oswald?”
“On the lawn outside. I presume it must have been thrown down by one of the thieves as he took to his heels. I’ve held it carefully, as I thought you
might wish to examine it for fingerprints.”
“You think of everything, Sir Oswald,” said Battle.
He took the pistol from the other, handling it with equal care, and laid it down on the table beside Jimmy’s Colt.
“And now, if you please,” said Sir Oswald, “I should like to hear exactly what occurred.”
Superintendent Battle gave a brief résumé of the events of the night. Sir Oswald frowned thoughtfully.
“I understand,” he said sharply. “After wounding and disabling Mr. Thesiger, the man took to his heels and ran, throwing away the pistol as he did so. What I cannot understand is why no one pursued him.”
“It wasn’t till we heard Mr. Thesiger’s story that we knew there was anyone to pursue,” remarked Superintendent Battle dryly.
“You didn’t—er—catch sight of him making off as you turned the corner of the terrace?”
“No, I missed him by just about forty seconds, I should say. There’s no moon and he’d be invisible as soon as he’d left the terrace. He must have leapt for it as soon as he’d fired the shot.”
“H’m,” said Sir Oswald. “I still think that a search should have been organized. Someone else should have been posted—”
“There are three of my men in the grounds,” said the Superintendent quietly.
“Oh!” Sir Oswald seemed rather taken aback.
“They were told to hold and detain anyone attempting to leave the grounds.”
“And yet—they haven’t done so?”
“And yet they haven’t done so,” agreed Battle gravely.
Sir Oswald looked at him as though something in the words puzzled him. He said sharply:
“Are you telling me all that you know, Superintendent Battle?”
“All that I know—yes, Sir Oswald. What I think is a different matter. Maybe I think some rather curious things—but until thinking’s got you somewhere it’s no use talking about it.”
“And yet,” said Sir Oswald slowly, “I should like to know what you think, Superintendent Battle.”
“For one thing, sir, I think there’s a lot too much ivy about this place—excuse me, sir, you’ve got a bit on your coat—yes, a great deal too much ivy. It complicates things.”