‘My God! Dermot! Quick, don’t hang about here.’
Taking him by the arm, he led him down a by-street, then down another. A lonely taxi was sighted and hailed and they jumped in, Trent giving the man his own address.
‘Safest place for the moment. There we can decide what to do next to put those fools off the track. I came round here hoping to be able to warn you before the police got here, but I was too late.’
‘I didn’t even know that you had heard of it. Jack, you don’t believe—’
‘Of course not, old fellow, not for one minute. I know you far too well. All the same, it’s a nasty business for you. They came round asking questions—what time you got to the Grafton Galleries, when you left, etc. Dermot, who could have done the old boy in?’
‘I can’t imagine. Whoever did it put the revolver in my drawer, I suppose. Must have been watching us pretty closely.’
‘That séance business was damned funny. “Don’t go home.” Meant for poor old West. He did go home, and got shot.’
‘It applies to me to,’ said Dermot. ‘I went home and found a planted revolver and a police inspector.’
‘Well, I hope it doesn’t get me too,’ said Trent. ‘Here we are.’
He paid the taxi, opened the door with his latch-key, and guided Dermot up the dark stairs to his den, which was a small room on the first floor.
He threw open the door and Dermot walked in, whilst Trent switched on the light, and then came to join him.
‘Pretty safe here for the time being,’ he remarked. ‘Now we can get our heads together and decide what is best to be done.’
‘I’ve made a fool of myself,’ said Dermot suddenly. ‘I ought to have faced it out. I see more clearly now. The whole thing’s a plot. What the devil are you laughing at?’
For Trent was leaning back in his chair, shaking with unrestrained mirth. There was something horrible in the sound—something horrible, too, about the man altogether. There was a curious light in his eyes.
‘A damned clever plot,’ he gasped out. ‘Dermot, my boy, you’re done for.’
He drew the telephone towards him.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Dermot.
‘Ring up Scotland Yard. Tell ’em their bird’s here—safe under lock and key. Yes, I locked the door when I came in and the key’s in my pocket. No good looking at that other door behind me. That leads into Claire’s room, and she always locks it on her side. She’s afraid of me, you know. Been afraid of me a long time. She always knows when I’m thinking about that knife—a long sharp knife. No, you don’t—’
Dermot had been about to make a rush at him, but the other had suddenly produced an ugly-looking revolver.
‘That’s the second of them,’ chuckled Trent. ‘I put the first of them in your drawer—after shooting old West with it—What are you looking at over my head? That door? It’s no use, even if Claire was to open it—and she might to you—I’d shoot you before you got there. Not in the heart—not to kill, just wing you, so that you couldn’t get away. I’m a jolly good shot, you know. I saved your life once. More fool I. No, no, I want you hanged—yes, hanged. It isn’t you I want the knife for. It’s Claire—pretty Claire, so white and soft. Old West knew. That’s what he was here for tonight, to see if I was mad or not. He wanted to shut me up—so that I shouldn’t get Claire with the knife. I was very cunning. I took his latchkey and yours too. I slipped away from the dance as soon as I got there. I saw you come out from his house, and I went in. I shot him and came away at once. Then I went to your place and left the revolver. I was at the Grafton Galleries again almost as soon as you were, and I put the latch-key back in your coat pocket when I was saying good night to you. I don’t mind telling you all this. There’s no one else to hear, and when you’re being hanged I’d like you to know I did it … There’s not a loophole of escape. It makes me laugh … God, how it makes me laugh! What are you thinking of? What the devil are you looking at?’
‘I’m thinking of some words you quoted just now. You’d have done better, Trent, not to come home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look behind you!’ Trent spun round. In the doorway of the communicating room stood Claire—and Inspector Verall …
Trent was quick. The revolver spoke just once—and found its mark. He fell forward across the table. The inspector sprang to his side, as Dermot stared at Claire in a dream. Thoughts flashed through his brain disjointedly. His uncle—their quarrel—the colossal misunderstanding—the divorce laws of England which would never free Claire from an insane husband—‘we must all pity her’—the plot between her and Sir Alington which the cunning of Trent had seen through—her cry to him, ‘Ugly—ugly—ugly!’ Yes, but now—
The inspector straightened up again.
‘Dead,’ he said vexedly.
‘Yes,’ Dermot heard himself saying, ‘he was always a good shot …’
The Second Gong
Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out.
Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great washer hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction.
‘Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?’
‘Sorry, Harry. I didn’t see you.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Harry Dalehouse dryly. ‘But as I say, why the wild haste?’
‘It was the gong.’
‘I know. But it’s only the first gong.’
‘No, it’s the second.’
‘First.’
‘Second.’
Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace.
‘It is the second,’ persisted Joan. ‘I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.’
Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock.
‘Just twelve minutes past eight,’ he remarked. ‘Joan, I believe you’re right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,’ he addressed the butler, ‘is this the first gong or the second?’
‘The first, sir.’
‘At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.’
A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler’s face.
‘Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master’s orders.’
‘Incredible!’ cried Harry Dalehouse. ‘Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease. What ails my revered uncle?’
‘The seven o’clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as—’ The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard.
‘What on earth—’ said Harry. ‘Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.’
A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left.
‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘It sounded exactly like a shot.’
‘It must have been a car backfiring, sir,’ said the butler. ‘The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Joan doubtfully. ‘But that would be over there.’ She waved a hand to the right. ‘And I thought the noise came from here.’ She pointed to the left.
The dark man shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the noise came from this direction.’ He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door.
‘East, west, and south, eh?’ said the irrepressible Harry. ‘Well, I’ll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?’
‘Well, there’s always murder,’ said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.’
‘Only a shiver,’ said Joan. ‘It’s nothi
ng. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.’
‘A good thought—murder,’ said Harry. ‘But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.’
‘Seems tame, but I suppose that’s it,’ agreed the other. ‘But it sounded so near. However, let’s come into the drawing room.’
‘Thank goodness, we’re not late,’ said Joan fervently. ‘I was simply haring it down the stairs thinking that was the second gong.’
All laughing, they went into the big drawing room.
Lytcham Close was one of the most famous old houses in England. Its owner, Hubert Lytcham Roche, was the last of a long line, and his more distant relatives were apt to remark that ‘Old Hubert, you know, really ought to be certified. Mad as a hatter, poor old bird.’
Allowing for the exaggeration natural to friends and relatives, some truth remained. Hubert Lytcham Roche was certainly eccentric. Though a very fine musician, he was a man of ungovernable temper and had an almost abnormal sense of his own importance. People staying in the house had to respect his prejudices or else they were never asked again.
One such prejudice was his music. If he played to his guests, as he often did in the evening, absolute silence must obtain. A whispered comment, a rustle of a dress, a movement even—and he would turn round scowling fiercely, and goodbye to the unlucky guest’s chances of being asked again.
Another point was absolute punctuality for the crowning meal of the day. Breakfast was immaterial—you might come down at noon if you wished. Lunch also—a simple meal of cold meats and stewed fruit. But dinner was a rite, a festival, prepared by a cordon bleu whom he had tempted from a big hotel by the payment of a fabulous salary.
A first gong was sounded at five minutes past eight. At a quarter past eight a second gong was heard, and immediately after the door was flung open, dinner announced to the assembled guests, and a solemn procession wended its way to the dining room. Anyone who had the temerity to be late for the second gong was henceforth excommunicated—and Lytcham Close shut to the unlucky diner forever.
Hence the anxiety of Joan Ashby, and also the astonishment of Harry Dalehouse, at hearing that the sacred function was to be delayed ten minutes on this particular evening. Though not very intimate with his uncle, he had been to Lytcham Close often enough to know what a very unusual occurrence that was.
Geoffrey Keene, who was Lytcham Roche’s secretary, was also very much surprised.
‘Extraordinary,’ he commented. ‘I’ve never known such a thing to happen. Are you sure?’
‘Digby said so.’
‘He said something about a train,’ said Joan Ashby. ‘At least I think so.’
‘Queer,’ said Keene thoughtfully. ‘We shall hear all about it in due course, I suppose. But it’s very odd.’
Both men were silent for a moment or two, watching the girl. Joan Ashby was a charming creature, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with an impish glance. This was her first visit to Lytcham Close and her invitation was at Harry’s prompting.
The door opened and Diana Cleves, the Lytcham Roches’ adopted daughter, came into the room.
There was a daredevil grace about Diana, a witchery in her dark eyes and her mocking tongue. Nearly all men fell for Diana and she enjoyed her conquests. A strange creature, with her alluring suggestion of warmth and her complete coldness.
‘Beaten the Old Man for once,’ she remarked. ‘First time for weeks he hasn’t been here first, looking at his watch and tramping up and down like a tiger at feeding time.’
The young men had sprung forward. She smiled entrancingly at them both—then turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene’s dark cheek flushed as he dropped back.
He recovered himself, however, a moment later as Mrs Lytcham Roche came in. She was a tall, dark woman, naturally vague in manner, wearing floating draperies of an indeterminate shade of green. With her was a middle-aged man with a beaklike nose and a determined chin—Gregory Barling. He was a somewhat prominent figure in the financial world and, well-bred on his mother’s side, he had for some years been an intimate friend of Hubert Lytcham Roche.
Boom!
The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced:
‘Dinner is served.’
Then, well-trained servant though he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room!
That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs Lytcham Roche gave a little uncertain laugh.
‘Most amazing. Really—I don’t know what to do.’
Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting.
At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host had himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house.
But the newcomer was not Lytcham Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking-like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes.
His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs Lytcham Roche.
‘My apologies, madame,’ he said. ‘I am, I fear, a few minutes late.’
‘Oh, not at all!’ murmured Mrs Lytcham Roche vaguely. ‘Not at all, Mr—’ She paused.
‘Poirot, madame. Hercule Poirot.’
He heard behind him a very soft ‘Oh’—a gasp rather than an articulate word—a woman’s ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered.
‘You knew I was coming?’ he murmured gently. ‘N’est ce pas, madame? Your husband told you.’
‘Oh—oh, yes,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche, her manner unconvincing in the extreme. ‘I mean, I suppose so. I am so terribly unpractical, M. Poirot. I never remember anything. But fortunately Digby sees to everything.’
‘My train, I fear, was late,’ said M. Poirot. ‘An accident on the line in front of us.’
‘Oh,’ cried Joan, ‘so that’s why dinner was put off.’
His eye came quickly round to her—a most uncannily discerning eye.
‘That is something out of the usual—eh?’
‘I really can’t think—’ began Mrs Lytcham Roche, and then stopped. ‘I mean,’ she went on confusedly, ‘it’s so odd. Hubert never—’
Poirot’s eyes swept rapidly round the group.
‘M. Lytcham Roche is not down yet?’
‘No, and it’s so extraordinary—’ She looked appealingly at Geoffrey Keene.
‘Mr Lytcham Roche is the soul of punctuality,’ explained Keene. ‘He has not been late for dinner for—well, I don’t know that he was ever late before.’
To a stranger the situation must have been ludicrous—the perturbed faces and the general consternation.
‘I know,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche with the air of one solving a problem. ‘I shall ring for Digby.’
She suited the action to the word.
The butler came promptly.
‘Digby,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche, ‘your master. Is he—’
As was customary with her, she did not finish her sentence. It was clear that the butler did not expect her to do so. He replied promptly and with understanding.
‘Mr Lytcham Roche came down at five minutes to eight and went into the study, madam.’
‘Oh!’ She paused. ‘You don’t think—I mean—he heard the gong?’
‘I think he must have—the gong is immediately outside the study door.’
‘Yes, of course, of course,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche more vaguely than ever.
‘Shall I inform him, madam, that dinner is ready?’
‘Oh, thank you, Digby. Yes, I think—yes, yes, I should.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche to her guests as the butler withdrew, ‘w
hat I would do without Digby!’
A pause followed.
Then Digby re-entered the room. His breath was coming a little faster than is considered good form in a butler.
‘Excuse me, madam—the study door is locked.’
It was then that M. Hercule Poirot took command of the situation.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that we had better go to the study.’
He led the way and everyone followed. His assumption of authority seemed perfectly natural. he was no longer a rather comic-looking guest. He was a personality and master of the situation.
He led the way out into the hall, past the staircase, past the great clock, past the recess in which stood the gong. Exactly opposite that recess was a closed door.
He tapped on it, first gently, then with increasing violence. But there was no reply. Very nimbly he dropped to his knees and applied his eye to the keyhole. He rose and looked round.
‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we must break open this door. Immediately!’
As before no one questioned his authority. Geoffrey Keene and Gregory Barling were the two biggest men. They attacked the door under Poirot’s directions. It was no easy matter. The doors of Lytcham Close were solid affairs—no modern jerry-building here. It resisted the attack valiantly, but at last it gave before the united attack of the men and crashed inward.
The house party hesitated in the doorway. They saw what they had subconsciously feared to see. Facing them was the window. On the left, between the door and the window, was a big writing table. Sitting, not at the table, but sideways to it, was a man—a big man—slouched forward in the chair. His back was to them and his face to the window, but his position told the tale. His right hand hung limply down and below it, on the carpet, was a small shining pistol.
Poirot spoke sharply to Gregory Barling.
‘Take Mrs Lytcham Roche away—and the other two ladies.’
The other nodded comprehendingly. He laid a hand on his hostess’s arm. She shivered.