The Witness for the Prosecution

  There was a pause, and then a new voice spoke, prefacing its remark with an evil demoniacal chuckle.

  ‘Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Better not go home. Better not go home. Take my advice.’

  ‘Who are you speaking to?’ asked Trent.

  ‘One of you three. I shouldn’t go home if I were him. Danger! Blood! Not very much blood—quite enough. No, don’t go home.’ The voice grew fainter. ‘Don’t go home!’

  It died away completely. Dermot felt his blood tingling. He was convinced that the warning was meant for him. Somehow or other, there was danger abroad tonight.

  There was a sigh from the medium, and then a groan. She was coming round. The lights were turned on, and presently she sat upright, her eyes blinking a little.

  ‘Go off well, my dear? I hope so.’

  ‘Very good indeed, thank you, Mrs Thompson.’

  ‘Shiromako, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, and others.’

  Mrs Thompson yawned.

  ‘I’m dead beat. Absolutely down and out. Does fairly take it out of you. Well, I’m glad it was a success. I was a bit afraid it mightn’t be—afraid something disagreeable might happen. There’s a queer feel about this room tonight.’

  She glanced over each ample shoulder in turn, and then shrugged them uncomfortably.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘Any sudden deaths among any of you people lately?’

  ‘What do you mean—among us?’

  ‘Near relatives—dear friends? No? Well, if I wanted to be melodramatic, I’d say there was death in the air tonight. There, it’s only my nonsense. Goodbye, Mrs Trent. I’m glad you’ve been satisfied.’

  Mrs Thompson in her magenta velvet gown went out.

  ‘I hope you’ve been interested, Sir Alington,’ murmured Claire.

  ‘A most interesting evening, my dear lady. Many thanks for the opportunity. Let me wish you good night. You are all going to a dance, are you not?’

  ‘Won’t you come with us?’

  ‘No, no. I make it a rule to be in bed by half past eleven. Good night. Good night, Mrs Eversleigh. Ah! Dermot, I rather want to have a word with you. Can you come with me now? You can rejoin the others at the Grafton Galleries.’

  ‘Certainly, uncle. I’ll meet you there then, Trent.’

  Very few words were exchanged between uncle and nephew during the short drive to Harley Street. Sir Alington made a semi-apology for dragging Dermot away, and assured him that he would only detain him a few minutes.

  ‘Shall I keep the car for you, my boy?’ he asked, as they alighted.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother, uncle. I’ll pick up a taxi.’

  ‘Very good. I don’t like to keep Charlson up later than I can help. Good night, Charlson. Now where the devil did I put my key?’

  The car glided away as Sir Alington stood on the steps vainly searching his pockets.

  ‘Must have left it in my other coat,’ he said at length. ‘Ring the bell, will you? Johnson is still up, I dare say.’

  The imperturbable Johnson did indeed open the door within sixty seconds.

  ‘Mislaid my key, Johnson,’ explained Sir Alington. ‘Bring a couple of whiskies and sodas into the library, will you?’

  ‘Very good, Sir Alington.’

  The physician strode on into the library and turned on the lights. He motioned to Dermot to close the door behind him after entering.

  ‘I won’t keep you long, Dermot, but there’s just something I want to say to you. Is it my fancy, or have you a certain—tendresse, shall we say, for Mrs Jack Trent?’

  The blood rushed to Dermot’s face.

  ‘Jack Trent is my best friend.’

  ‘Pardon me, but that is hardly answering my question. I dare say that you consider my views on divorce and such matters highly puritanical, but I must remind you that you are my only near relative and that you are my heir.’

  ‘There is no question of a divorce,’ said Dermot angrily.

  ‘There certainly is not, for a reason which I understand perhaps better than you do. That particular reason I cannot give you now, but I do wish to warn you. Claire Trent is not for you.’

  The young man faced his uncle’s gaze steadily.

  ‘I do understand—and permit me to say, perhaps better than you think. I know the reason for your presence at dinner tonight.’

  ‘Eh?’ The physician was clearly startled. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Call it a guess, sir. I am right, am I not, when I say that you were there in your—professional capacity.’

  Sir Alington strode up and down.

  ‘You are quite right, Dermot. I could not, of course, have told you so myself, though I am afraid it will soon be common property.’

  Dermot’s heart contracted.

  ‘You mean that you have—made up your mind?’

  ‘Yes, there is insanity in the family—on the mother’s side. A sad case—a very sad case.’

  ‘I can’t believe it, sir.’

  ‘I dare say not. To the layman there are few if any signs apparent.’

  ‘And to the expert?’

  ‘The evidence is conclusive. In such a case, the patient must be placed under restraint as soon as possible.’

  ‘My God!’ breathed Dermot. ‘But you can’t shut anyone up for nothing at all.’

  ‘My dear Dermot! Cases are only placed under restraint when their being at large would result in danger to the community.

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘Very grave danger. In all probability a peculiar form of homicidal mania. It was so in the mother’s case.’

  Dermot turned away with a groan, burying his face in his hands. Claire—white and golden Claire!

  ‘In the circumstances,’ continued the physician comfortably, ‘I felt it incumbent on me to warn you.’

  ‘Claire,’ murmured Dermot. ‘My poor Claire.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, we must all pity her.’

  Suddenly Dermot raised his head.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I say I don’t believe it. Doctors make mistakes. Everyone knows that. And they’re always keen on their own speciality.’

  ‘My dear Dermot,’ cried Sir Alington angrily.

  ‘I tell you I don’t believe it—and anyway, even if it is so, I don’t care. I love Claire. If she will come with me, I shall take her away—far away—out of the reach of meddling physicians. I shall guard her, care for her, shelter her with my love.’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort. Are you mad?’

  Dermot laughed scornfully.

  ‘You would say so, I dare say.’

  ‘Understand me, Dermot.’ Sir Alington’s face was red with suppressed passion. ‘If you do this thing—this shameful thing—it is the end. I shall withdraw the allowance I am now making you, and I shall make a new will leaving all I possess to various hospitals.’

  ‘Do as you please with your damned money,’ said Dermot in a low voice. ‘I shall have the woman I love.’

  ‘A woman who—’

  ‘Say a word against her, and, by God! I’ll kill you!’ cried Dermot.

  A slight clink of glasses made them both swing round. Unheard by them in the heat of their argument, Johnson had entered with a tray of glasses. His face was the imperturbable one of the good servant, but Dermot wondered how much he had overheard.

  ‘That’ll do, Johnson,’ said Sir Alington curtly. ‘You can go to bed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.’

  Johnson withdrew.

  The two men looked at each other. The momentary interruption had calmed the storm.

  ‘Uncle,’ said Dermot. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. I can quite see that from your point of view you are perfectly right. But I have loved Claire Trent for a long time. The fact that Jack Trent is my best friend has hitherto stood in the way of my ever speaking of love to Claire herself. But in these circumstances that fact no longer counts. The idea that any monetary conditio
ns can deter me is absurd. I think we’ve both said all there is to be said. Good night.’

  ‘Dermot—’

  ‘It is really no good arguing further. Good night, Uncle Alington. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

  He went out quickly, shutting the door behind him. The hall was in darkness. He passed through it, opened the front door and emerged into the street, banging the door behind him.

  A taxi had just deposited a fare at a house farther along the street and Dermot hailed it, and drove to the Grafton Galleries.

  In the door of the ballroom he stood for a minute bewildered, his head spinning. The raucous jazz music, the smiling women—it was as though he had stepped into another world.

  Had he dreamt it all? Impossible that that grim conversation with his uncle should have really taken place. There was Claire floating past, like a lily in her white and silver gown that fitted sheathlike to her slenderness. She smiled at him, her face calm and serene. Surely it was all a dream.

  The dance had stopped. Presently she was near him, smiling up into his face. As in a dream he asked her to dance. She was in his arms now, the raucous melodies had begun again.

  He felt her flag a little.

  ‘Tired? Do you want to stop?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. Can we go somewhere where we can talk? There is something I want to say to you.’

  Not a dream. He came back to earth with a bump. Could he ever have thought her face calm and serene? It was haunted with anxiety, with dread. How much did she know?

  He found a quiet corner, and they sat down side by side.

  ‘Well,’ he said, assuming a lightness he did not feel. ‘You said you had something you wanted to say to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were cast down. She was playing nervously with the tassel of her gown. ‘It’s difficult—rather.’

  ‘Tell me, Claire.’

  ‘It’s just this. I want you to—to go away for a time.’

  He was astonished. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.

  ‘You want me to go away? Why?’

  ‘It’s best to be honest, isn’t it? I—I know that you are a—a gentleman and my friend. I want you to go away because I—I have let myself get fond of you.’

  ‘Claire.’

  Her words left him dumb—tongue-tied.

  ‘Please do not think that I am conceited enough to fancy that you—that you would ever be likely to fall in love with me. It is only that—I am not very happy—and—oh! I would rather you went away.’

  ‘Claire, don’t you know that I have cared—cared damnably—ever since I met you?’

  She lifted startled eyes to his face.

  ‘You cared? You have cared a long time?’

  ‘Since the beginning.’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Then? When I could have come to you! Why tell me now when it’s too late. No, I’m mad—I don’t know what I’m saying. I could never have come to you.’

  ‘Claire, what did you mean when you said “now that it’s too late?” Is it—is it because of my uncle? What he knows? What he thinks?’

  She nodded dumbly, the tears running down her face.

  ‘Listen, Claire, you’re not to believe all that. You’re not to think about it. Instead you will come away with me. We’ll go to the South Seas, to islands like green jewels. You will be happy there, and I will look after you—keep you safe for always.’

  His arms went round her. He drew her to him, felt her tremble at his touch. Then suddenly she wrenched herself free.

  ‘Oh, no, please. Can’t you see? I couldn’t now. It would be ugly—ugly—ugly. All along I’ve wanted to be good—and now—it would be ugly as well.’

  He hesitated, baffled by her words. She looked at him appealingly.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I want to be good …’

  Without a word, Dermot got up and left her. For the moment he was touched and racked by her words beyond argument. He went for his hat and coat, running into Trent as he did so.

  ‘Hallo, Dermot, you’re off early.’

  ‘Yes, I’m not in the mood for dancing tonight.’

  ‘It’s a rotten night,’ said Trent gloomily. ‘But you haven’t got my worries.’

  Dermot had a sudden panic that Trent might be going to confide in him. Not that—anything but that!

  ‘Well, so long,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m off home.’

  ‘Home, eh? What about the warning of the spirits?’

  ‘I’ll risk that. Good night, Jack.’

  Dermot’s flat was not far away. He walked there, feeling the need of the cool night air to calm his fevered brain.

  He let himself in with his key and switched on the light in the bedroom.

  And all at once, for the second time that night, the feeling that he had designated by the title of the Red Signal surged over him. So overpowering was it that for the moment it swept even Claire from his mind.

  Danger! He was in danger. At this very moment, in this very room, he was in danger.

  He tried in vain to ridicule himself free of the fear. Perhaps his efforts were secretly half-hearted. So far, the Red Signal had given him timely warning which had enabled him to avoid disaster. Smiling a little at his own superstition, he made a careful tour of the flat. It was possible that some malefactor had got in and was lying concealed there. But his search revealed nothing. His man Milson, was away, and the flat was absolutely empty.

  He returned to his bedroom and undressed slowly, frowning to himself. The sense of danger was acute as ever. He went to a drawer to get out a handkerchief, and suddenly stood stock still. There was an unfamiliar lump in the middle of the drawer—something hard.

  His quick nervous fingers tore aside the handkerchiefs and took out the object concealed beneath them. It was a revolver.

  With the utmost astonishment Dermot examined it keenly. It was of a somewhat unfamiliar pattern, and one shot had been fired from it lately. Beyond that, he could make nothing of it. Someone had placed it in that drawer that very evening. It had not been there when he dressed for dinner—he was sure of that.

  He was about to replace it in the drawer, when he was startled by a bell ringing. It rang again and again, sounding unusually loud in the quietness of the empty flat.

  Who could it be coming to the front door at this hour? And only one answer came to the question—an answer instinctive and persistent.

  ‘Danger—danger—danger …’

  Led by some instinct for which he did not account, Dermot switched off his light, slipped on an overcoat that lay across a chair, and opened the hall door.

  Two men stood outside. Beyond them Dermot caught sight of a blue uniform. A policeman!

  ‘Mr West?’ asked the foremost of the two men.

  It seemed to Dermot that ages elapsed before he answered. In reality it was only a few seconds before he replied in a very fair imitation of his man’s expressionless voice:

  ‘Mr West hasn’t come in yet. What do you want with him at this time of night?’

  ‘Hasn’t come in yet, eh? Very well, then, I think we’d better come in and wait for him.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘See here, my man, my name is Inspector Verall of Scotland Yard, and I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of your master. You can see it if you like.’

  Dermot perused the proffered paper, or pretended to do so, asking in a dazed voice:

  ‘What for? What’s he done?’

  ‘Murder. Sir Alington West of Harley Street.’

  His brain in a whirl, Dermot fell back before his redoubtable visitors. He went into the sitting-room and switched on the light. The inspector followed him.

  ‘Have a search round,’ he directed the other man. Then he turned to Dermot.

  ‘You stay here, my man. No slipping off to warn your master. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Milson, sir.’

  ‘What time do you expect your master in, Milson?’

  ?
??I don’t know, sir, he was going to a dance, I believe. At the Grafton Galleries.’

  ‘He left there just under an hour ago. Sure he’s not been back here?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. I fancy I should have heard him come in.’

  At this moment the second man came in from the adjoining room. In his hand he carried the revolver. He took it across to the inspector in some excitement. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the latter’s face.

  ‘That settles it,’ he remarked. ‘Must have slipped in and out without your hearing him. He’s hooked it by now. I’d better be off. Cawley, you stay here, in case he should come back again, and you keep an eye on this fellow. He may know more about his master than he pretends.’

  The inspector bustled off. Dermot endeavoured to get at the details of the affair from Cawley, who was quite ready to be talkative.

  ‘Pretty clear case,’ he vouchsafed. ‘The murder was discovered almost immediately. Johnson, the manservant, had only just gone up to bed when he fancied he heard a shot, and came down again. Found Sir Alington dead, shot through the heart. He rang us up at once and we came along and heard his story.’

  ‘Which made it a pretty clear case?’ ventured Dermot.

  ‘Absolutely. This young West came in with his uncle and they were quarrelling when Johnson brought in the drinks. The old boy was threatening to make a new will, and your master was talking about shooting him. Not five minutes later the shot was heard. Oh! yes, clear enough. Silly young fool.’

  Clear enough indeed. Dermot’s heart sank as he realized the overwhelming nature of the evidence against him. Danger indeed—horrible danger! And no way out save that of flight. He set his wits to work. Presently he suggested making a cup of tea. Cawley assented readily enough. He had already searched the flat and knew there was no back entrance.

  Dermot was permitted to depart to the kitchen. Once there he put the kettle on, and chinked cups and saucers industriously. Then he stole swiftly to the window and lifted the sash. The flat was on the second floor, and outside the window was a small wire lift used by tradesmen which ran up and down on its steel cable.

  Like a flash Dermot was outside the window and swinging himself down the wire rope. It cut into his hands, making them bleed, but he went on desperately.

  A few minutes later he was emerging cautiously from the back of the block. Turning the corner, he cannoned into a figure standing by the sidewalk. To his utter amazement he recognized Jack Trent. Trent was fully alive to the perils of the situation.