A Caribbean Mystery

  A trap! He saw it now.

  ‘Where’s your mistress?’

  ‘Went out ten minutes ago.’

  A trap! And he had walked into it like a lamb. A clever devil, this Olga Stormer; she had rid herself of a rival, and he was to suffer for the deed. Murder! My God, they hanged a man for murder! And he was innocent – innocent!

  A stealthy rustle recalled him. The little maid was sidling towards the door. Her wits were beginning to work again. Her eyes wavered to the telephone, then back to the door. At all costs he must silence her. It was the only way. As well hang for a real crime as a fictitious one. She had no weapon, neither had he. But he had his hands! Then his heart gave a leap. On the table beside her, almost under her hand, lay a small, jewelled revolver. If he could reach it first –

  Instinct or his eyes warned her. She caught it up as he sprang and held it pointed at his breast. Awkwardly as she held it, her finger was on the trigger, and she could hardly miss him at that distance. He stopped dead. A revolver belonging to a woman like Olga Stormer would be pretty sure to be loaded.

  But there was one thing, she was no longer directly between him and the door. So long as he did not attack her, she might not have the nerve to shoot. Anyway, he must risk it. Zig-zagging, he ran for the door, through the hall and out through the outer door, banging it behind him. He heard her voice, faint and shaky, calling, ‘Police, Murder!’ She’d have to call louder than that before anyone was likely to hear her. He’d got a start, anyway. Down the stairs he went, running down the open street, then slacking to a walk as a stray pedestrian turned the corner. He had his plan cut and dried. To Gravesend as quickly as possible. A boat was sailing from there that night for the remoter parts of the world. He knew the captain, a man who, for a consideration, would ask no questions. Once on board and out to sea he would be safe.

  At eleven o’clock Danahan’s telephone rang. Olga’s voice spoke.

  ‘Prepare a contract for Miss Ryan, will you? She’s to understudy “Cora”. It’s absolutely no use arguing. I owe her something after all the things I did to her tonight! What? Yes, I think I’m out of my troubles. By the way, if she tells you tomorrow that I’m an ardent spiritualist and put her into a trance tonight, don’t show open incredulity. How? Knock-out drops in the coffee, followed by scientific passes! After that I painted her face with purple grease paint and put a tourniquet on her left arm! Mystified? Well, you must stay mystified until tomorrow. I haven’t time to explain now. I must get out of the cap and apron before my faithful Maud returns from the pictures. There was a “beautiful drama” on tonight, she told me. But she missed the best drama of all. I played my best part tonight, Danny. The mittens won! Jake Levitt is a coward all right, and oh, Danny, Danny – I’m an actress!’

  Chapter 2

  The Girl in the Train

  ‘The Girl in the Train’ was first published in Grand Magazine, February 1924.

  ‘And that’s that!’ observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposing smoke-grimed façade of the building he had just quitted.

  It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money – and Money, in the person of William Rowland, uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from being the apple of his uncle’s eye, the heir to his wealth, and a young man with a promising business career in front of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army of the unemployed.

  ‘And in these clothes they won’t even give me the dole,’ reflected Mr Rowland gloomily, ‘and as for writing poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or “what you care to give, lydy”) I simply haven’t got the brains.’

  It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor’s art. He was exquisitely and beautifully arrayed. Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone – unless he has had some considerable training in the art – and Mr Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.

  ‘And all because of that rotten show last night,’ he reflected sadly.

  The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat late – or rather early – hour – as a matter of fact, he could not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers, his uncle’s butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catastrophe. Mr Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had suddenly abandoned these tactics and revealed himself in a totally new light. The inconsequence of George’s replies (the young man’s head was still opening and shutting like some mediaeval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough. He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted survey of some oilfields in Peru.

  George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle’s office from off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing George at this unusual hour.

  ‘Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for me, will you? I’m leaving here.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?’

  ‘For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know anything about the boats, Rogers?’

  ‘Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?’

  ‘I’m not particular. Any of ’em will do. Let’s say Australia. What do you think of the idea, Rogers?’

  Rogers coughed discreetly.

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve certainly heard it said that there’s room out there for anyone who really wants to work.’

  Mr Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.

  ‘Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself. I shan’t go to Australia – not today, at any rate. Fetch me an A.B.C., will you? We will select something nearer at hand.’

  Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.

  ‘Perth – too far away – Putney Bridge – too near at hand. Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why – what an extraordinary thing! There’s actually a place called Rowland’s Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?’

  ‘I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo.’

  ‘What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You know everything. Well, well, Rowland’s Castle! I wonder what sort of a place it is.’

  ‘Not much of a place, I should say, sir.’

  ‘All the better; there’ll be less competition. These quiet little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn’t wonder if they elected me mayor in a week.’

  He shut up the A.B.C. with a bang.

  ‘The die is cast. Pack me a small suit-case, will you, Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she oblige me with the loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is essential.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present moment.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning.’

  ‘You don’t say so. I thought its name was Peter.’

  ‘So it is, sir. A great surprise to all of us.’

  ‘A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh? Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things at once, will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  R
ogers hesitated, then advanced a little farther into the room.

  ‘You’ll excuse the liberty, sir, but if I was you, I shouldn’t take too much notice of anything Mr Rowland said this morning. He was at one of those city dinners last night, and –’

  ‘Say no more,’ said George. ‘I understand.’

  ‘And being inclined to gout –’

  ‘I know, I know. Rather a strenuous evening for you, Rogers, with two of us, eh? But I’ve set my heart on distinguishing myself at Rowland’s Castle – the cradle of my historic race – that would go well in a speech, wouldn’t it? A wire to me there, or a discreet advertisement in the morning papers, will recall me at any time if a fricassée of veal is in preparation. And now – to Waterloo! – as Wellington said on the eve of the historic battle.’

  Waterloo Station was not at its brightest and best that afternoon. Mr Rowland eventually discovered a train that would take him to his destination, but it was an undistinguished train, an unimposing train – a train that nobody seemed anxious to travel by. Mr Rowland had a first-class carriage to himself, up in the front of the train. A fog was descending in an indeterminate way over the metropolis, now it lifted, now it descended. The platform was deserted, and only the asthmatic breathing of the engine broke the silence.

  And then, all of a sudden, things began to happen with bewildering rapidity.

  A girl happened first. She wrenched open the door and jumped in, rousing Mr Rowland from something perilously near a nap, exclaiming as she did so: ‘Oh! hide me – oh! please hide me.’

  George was essentially a man of action – his not to reason why, his but to do and die, etc. There is only one place to hide in a railway carriage – under the seat. In seven seconds the girl was bestowed there, and George’s suit-case, negligently standing on end, covered her retreat. None too soon. An infuriated face appeared at the carriage window.

  ‘My niece! You have her here. I want my niece.’

  George, a little breathless, was reclining in the corner, deep in the sporting column of the evening paper, one-thirty edition. He laid it aside with the air of a man recalling himself from far away.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ he said politely.

  ‘My niece – what have you done with her?’

  Acting on the policy that attack is always better than defence, George leaped into action.

  ‘What the devil do you mean?’ he cried, with a very creditable imitation of his own uncle’s manner.

  The other paused a minute, taken aback by this sudden fierceness. He was a fat man, still panting a little as though he had run some way. His hair was cut en brosse, and he had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of his carriage denoted that he was more at home in uniform than out of it. George had the true-born Briton’s prejudice against foreigners – and an especial distaste for German-looking foreigners.

  ‘What the devil do you mean, sir?’ he repeated angrily.

  ‘She came in here,’ said the other. ‘I saw her. What have you done with her?’

  George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he roared. ‘Blackmail. But you’ve tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!’

  Already attracted from afar by the altercation, that functionary came hurrying up.

  ‘Here, guard,’ said Mr Rowland, with that air of authority which the lower classes so adore. ‘This fellow is annoying me. I’ll give him in charge for attempted blackmail if necessary. Pretends I’ve got his niece hidden in here. There’s a regular gang of these foreigners trying this sort of thing on. It ought to be stopped. Take him away, will you? Here’s my card if you want it.’

  The guard looked from one to the other. His mind was soon made up. His training led him to despise foreigners, and to respect and admire well-dressed gentlemen who travelled first class.

  He laid his hand on the shoulder of the intruder.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you come out of this.’

  At this crisis the stranger’s English failed him, and he plunged into passionate profanity in his native tongue.

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ said the guard. ‘Stand away, will you? She’s due out.’

  Flags were waved and whistles were blown. With an unwilling jerk the train drew out of the station.

  George remained at his observation post until they were clear of the platform. Then he drew in his head, and picking up the suit-case tossed it into the rack.

  ‘It’s quite all right. You can come out,’ he said reassuringly.

  The girl crawled out.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘That’s quite all right. It’s been a pleasure, I assure you,’ returned George nonchalantly.

  He smiled at her reassuringly. There was a slightly puzzled look in her eyes. She seemed to be missing something to which she was accustomed. At that moment, she caught sight of herself in the narrow glass opposite, and gave a heartfelt gasp.

  Whether the carriage cleaners do, or do not, sweep under the seats every day is doubtful. Appearances were against their doing so, but it may be that every particle of dirt and smoke finds its way there like a homing bird. George had hardly had time to take in the girl’s appearance, so sudden had been her arrival, and so brief the space of time before she crawled into hiding, but it was certainly a trim and well-dressed young woman who had disappeared under the seat. Now her little red hat was crushed and dented, and her face was disfigured with long streaks of dirt.

  ‘Oh!’ said the girl.

  She fumbled for her bag. George, with the tact of a true gentleman, looked fixedly out of the window and admired the streets of London south of the Thames.

  ‘How can I thank you?’ said the girl again.

  Taking this as a hint that conversation might now be resumed, George withdrew his gaze, and made another polite disclaimer, but this time with a good deal of added warmth in his manner.

  The girl was absolutely lovely! Never before, George told himself, had he seen such a lovely girl. The empressement of his manner became even more marked.

  ‘I think it was simply splendid of you,’ said the girl with enthusiasm.

  ‘Not at all. Easiest thing in the world. Only too pleased been of use,’ mumbled George.

  ‘Splendid,’ she reiterated emphatically.

  It is undoubtedly pleasant to have the loveliest girl you have even seen gazing into your eyes and telling you how splendid you are. George enjoyed it as much as anyone could.

  Then there came a rather difficult silence. It seemed to dawn upon the girl that further explanation might be expected. She flushed a little.

  ‘The awkward part of it is,’ she said nervously, ‘that I’m afraid I can’t explain.’

  She looked at him with a piteous air of uncertainty.

  ‘You can’t explain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How perfectly splendid!’ said Mr Rowland with enthusiasm.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, How perfectly splendid. Just like one of those books that keep you up all night. The heroine always says “I can’t explain” in the first chapter. She explains in the last, of course, and there’s never any real reason why she shouldn’t have done so in the beginning – except that it would spoil the story. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be mixed up in a real mystery – I didn’t know there were such things. I hope it’s got something to do with secret documents of immense importance, and the Balkan express. I dote upon the Balkan express.’

  The girl stared at him with wide, suspicious eyes.

  ‘What makes you say the Balkan express?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘I hope I haven’t been indiscreet,’ George hastened to put in. ‘Your uncle travelled by it, perhaps.’

  ‘My uncle –’ She paused, then began again. ‘My uncle –’

  ‘Quit
e so,’ said George sympathetically. ‘I’ve got an uncle myself. Nobody should be held responsible for their uncles. Nature’s little throw-backs – that’s how I look at it.’

  The girl began to laugh suddenly. When she spoke George was aware of the slight foreign inflection in her voice. At first he had taken her to be English.

  ‘What a refreshing and unusual person you are, Mr –’

  ‘Rowland. George to my friends.’

  ‘My name is Elizabeth –’

  She stopped abruptly.

  ‘I like the name of Elizabeth,’ said George, to cover her momentary confusion. ‘They don’t call you Bessie, or anything horrible like that, I hope?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well,’ said George, ‘now that we know each other, we’d better get down to business. If you’ll stand up, Elizabeth, I’ll brush down the back of your coat.’

  She stood up obediently, and George was as good as his word.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rowland.’

  ‘George. George to my friends, remember. And you can’t come into my nice empty carriage, roll under the seat, induce me to tell lies to your uncle, and then refuse to be friends, can you?’

  ‘Thank you, George.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Do I look quite all right now?’ asked Elizabeth, trying to see over her left shoulder.

  ‘You look – oh! you look – you look all right,’ said George, curbing himself sternly.

  ‘It was all so sudden, you see,’ explained the girl.

  ‘It must have been.’

  ‘He saw us in the taxi, and then at the station I just bolted in here knowing he was close behind me. Where is this train going to, by the way?’

  ‘Rowland’s Castle,’ said George firmly.

  The girl looked puzzled. ‘Rowland’s Castle?’

  ‘Not at once, of course. Only after a good deal of stopping and slow going. But I confidently expect to be there before midnight. The old South-Western was a very reliable line – slow but sure – and I’m sure the Southern Railway is keeping up the old traditions.’

  ‘I don’t know that I want to go to Rowland’s Castle,’ said Elizabeth doubtfully.