Escapade Page 15

  The Great Man glanced toward her table, which held Sir David and Dr. Auerbach. He still ranked them as vermin, probably, because when he turned back to Mrs. Corneille his smile was small and polite. “Thank you,” he said, and nodded. “Perhaps in a short while.”

  She looked at me. “Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.” I nodded goodbye to the Great Man and then I walked to the table beside Mrs. Corneille and her perfume. Dr. Auerbach shot to his feet, his tiny teeth and his pince-nez gleaming. He gave me a small crisp nod. Mr. Beaumont. A great pleasure to see you again.”

  From his seat, Sir David nodded curtly and looked away.

  Sir David, Lord Bob, Cecily. I was making a big impression on the uptown swells.

  “Would you care for some food?” asked Mrs. Corneille as I sat down beside her. Opposite me, Dr. Auerbach neatly tugged up the knees of his trousers and he sat down and crossed his legs.

  Like Doyle’s table, this one was piled with food. I realized that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Yes,” I admitted. “Thanks.

  Mrs. Corneille leaned forward for the teapot. “Tea?”

  “Please”

  She ignored him and poured the tea. She looked over at me. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” I told her.

  She set the teacup before me. “The sandwiches are quite good,” she said.

  I took a plate, took a sandwich from the silver platter. Bit into it. Smoked salmon and creamed cheese. Quite good.

  Sir David said to Mrs. Corneille, “Dr. Auerbach was explaining that he has a literary as well as a psychological side.” He turned to Dr. Auerbach comfortably, almost proudly, like an inventor waiting for his favorite windup toy to start performing.

  “Oh no,” Dr. Auerbach said to Mrs. Corneille. “Literary, no. I have myself produced a very few original monographs only. Studies of some interesting cases I have encountered. But I have, as I told Sir David, translated Herr Doktor Freud’s ‘Wit and Its Relationship to the Unconscious.’ This I did for your University of Leeds.”

  Smiling, Sir David idly stroked his mustache with his index finger. “Leeds, was it?”

  Dr. Auerbach showed his little teeth to Mrs. Corneille. “But this was quite some work, I can tell you. Because of the nature of humor, it was necessary that I substitute English jokes of my own for Herr Doctor Freud’s German jokes.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir David, “you would favor us with some of these?”

  “Whatever is wrong with Lord Purleigh?” said Mrs. Corneille, looking off toward the entrance to the drawing room.

  I turned. Lord Bob had arrived. Standing a few feet from Doyle’s table, he was waving his bushy eyebrows up and down and running his hands back through his hair, his face twisted. Doyle stood frowning before him, his big fingers on Lord Bob’s elbow as though supporting the man. Across the table, Lady Purleigh had risen from her seat. She looked worried.

  “Excuse me,” I said. Reluctantly, I set my food back on the table and I stood up.

  Doyle and Lord Bob were walking now toward the Great Man’s table. Both their faces were grim. I reached the table at the same time they did. The Great Man had seen them coming and he was already standing.

  “Beaumont, good,” said Doyle. “We can use you, I expect.”

  “What happened?” I asked him.

  Doyle turned to Lord Bob, who scowled at me and then looked at the Great Man. “Some sort of accident,” he said. “The Earl. My father. His valet heard a noise in his room. Pistol shot, he thinks—but that’s impossible. Bloody impossible. Thing is, we can't get in and the Earl won’t answer. Bloody door is locked. Some problem with the key.”

  The Great Man raised himself to his full height. “Houdini will open it, Lord Purleigh. This I promise you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS A broad massive wooden door studded with black wrought-iron nails and belted with black wrought-iron bands. The little man named Carson who was the Earl’s valet showed us with trembling hands that his big metal key wouldn’t fit into the keyhole. He was in his white-haired seventies and right now he didn’t look as if he would make it very much further. “It won’t fit, sir,” he kept saying, stabbing the key again and again into the hole, looking back frantically at the Great Man.

  “Of course not,” said the Great Man. “The interior key is blocking the channel.”

  We stood behind them—Lord Bob, Doyle, Higgens, the butler, and me. Most of us were panting. Lord Bob was gasping, leaning forward with his hands on his knees like a marathon runner at the end of the race and the end of his tether. His face was as red and shiny as a glazed beet.

  We were at the northwest corner of the manor house, on the third floor, and it had taken us a while to dash over here. Along the way, puffing, Lord Bob had explained to the Great Man and Doyle that Carson had been in the anteroom—where we stood now—when he heard the shot. He had tried to open the door, discovered he couldn’t, and gone next door to his own room, to call Higgens on the emergency telephone. Higgens had found Lord Bob, Lord Bob had come up here, tried the door, and then come for the rest of us.

  The anteroom was a kind of antique parlor with bare stone walls and heavy, roughly finished oak furniture scattered around, and another Oriental carpet on the floor. It was a strange room, looking like something out of the Middle Ages. But all of us were more interested in what was on the other side of the massive wooden door.

  “Permit me,” said the Great Man and stepped forward. Carson glanced anxiously at Lord Bob, who was upright now but still puffing. Lord Bob nodded and weakly waved his hand. Carson tottered back and wrapped his arms around himself as though he were afraid he was going to explode.

  The Great Man reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, slipped out a thin steel pick. He bent over, peered for an instant into the keyhole, eased the pick into the hole and gave a sudden flick of his wrist. Then, gently, once, he tapped the pick into the lock. Its length vanished in the hole and I heard a distant slapping sound that might have been a big copper key landing on a wooden floor.

  “Child’s play,” said the Great Man. He flicked the pick again and I heard a metallic click that might have been a bolt snapping back into a lock housing. The Great Man smiled and straightened up and pushed on the door. Nothing happened.

  He turned to Lord Bob and frowned. “It is barred, unfortunately.” He looked around the room, searching for something. “I need—”

  “Blast!” said Lord Bob. His white mustache was limp. He staggered around the Great Man and raised his fist and pounded it down on the door. The door didn’t move but the Great Man stepped nimbly aside, his eyebrows raised in alarm. Lord Bob pounded at the door again. “Open up!” he roared. He sucked in a deep ragged breath. “Open up, you blithering old fool! You reprobate! You filthy, sniveling, whining, reactionary swine! Open the bloody door!”

  “Calm yourself, Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle. He put his big hand on Lord Bob’s shoulder. “This doesn’t advance us. Is there no other way in?”

  Lord Bob wheeled away from the comforting hand and he shouted, “Not unless we fly in, like bloody ducks!”

  The Great Man said, “Gentlemen . . .”

  “The bench,” I said. I pointed to a long oak bench that ran beneath the windows. It had been a section of single peeled log once, years ago, before someone sawed away one side of it and stuck eight tapering wooden legs into its curved bottom surface.

  “Perfect!” said Doyle. “Lord Purleigh! Higgens! Quickly now!”

  “Sir Arthur,” said the Great Man, but Sir Arthur was busy.

  The four of us scrambled over to the bench and each of us grabbed a leg and we lugged the thing off the floor. It didn’t weigh much more than a ton. We gripped it beneath our curled right arms and swung it awkwardly up into the air. Doyle was at the front, Lord Bob and Higgens followed, I was last. I noticed that Higgens’s face was as blank and expressionless as usual. Maybe this was something he did
every day. Carson still hovered off to the side, hugging himself, shaking his gray head, biting his lower lip. The Great Man stood with his hands on his hips, frowning. “Phil,” he said to me.

  “Careful now,” said Doyle, who had taken charge. “Step back a bit, would you, Houdini, there’s a good chap.”

  The Great Man threw up his hands in frustration and then backed off to stand beside Carson.

  “On the count of three, men,” bellowed Doyle, like a scoutmaster. “One. Two. Three!”

  We ran forward and the end of the bench slammed into the door with a huge booming crash. The bench jumped and shivered under my hands. The door shuddered but didn’t give way.

  “Once more, men!” cried Doyle. “Back!”

  We took some clumsy shuffling steps backward. Doyle called out, “Ready? One. Two. Three!” We ran forward again and the end of the bench whammed into the door and this time metal screeched suddenly against stone and the door burst suddenly inward and slammed itself against the wall.

  “Down!” said Doyle, and we lowered the bench to the floor.

  Doyle was the first one into the room, then Lord Bob, then Higgens, then me. The Great Man and Carson trailed in behind us.

  The smell of gunsmoke hung in the stifling, musty air. A fire was burning in the huge stone fireplace and all the windows in the room were shut. It was a big room but a simple one, like the living room—a rough oaken dresser to the right, a rough oaken wardrobe to the left, a rough oaken bookcase beside it. In the center of the room, set against the far stone wall, was a huge bed with a towering, carved oak headboard. Beside the bed, on the left, sat a wheelchair of chrome and leather, smaller and more spindly than the wheelchair used by Madame Sosostris. Lying on the bed, the covers drawn up to his chest, was a very old man. He was cleanshaven and nearly bald. His thin right arm, sleeved in white flannel, lay above the covers and it was stretched out sideways. The withered right hand hung over the floor, palm up, long yellow fingers curled toward the ceiling. Beneath the hand, on the floor, was a dark revolver.

  There was a small black hole in the old man’s temple.

  “Dear God,” said Lord Bob.

  “Steady,” said Doyle, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  I moved toward the body. I put my fingertips against the wrist of the frail old arm. The thin translucent skin was still warm but there was no pulse beating beneath it. I looked over at Doyle, looked at Lord Bob, shook my head.

  Lord Bob said, “The swine’s gone and killed himself.” He took a step toward the pistol and he bent to pick it up.

  “Don’t!” I said.

  He glared up at me once, a quick annoyed glare, then picked up the weapon.

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “The police won’t want anything moved. And now your fingerprints are on the gun.”

  Lord Bob was inspecting the pistol. He moved it from his right hand to his left, frowned at his right hand, idly wiped it against the breast of his suit coat. “Dust,” he said vaguely.

  Doyle was glancing around the floor. “Ash,” he said. “From the fireplace. It’s everywhere. Blew out when we forced open the door.”

  On this side of the bed, the ash lay everywhere, a thin gray coating atop the wooden floor. I could see the footprints we'd made. There weren’t any others.

  Lord Bob was still looking at the gun, and still frowning.

  I said, “He didn’t keep a gun in here, did he?”

  Not looking up, Lord Bob shook his head.

  “Lord Purleigh,” I said. “Put the gun back on the floor.”

  Lord Bob glared at me again. He was dazed, I think, but even through the daze his indignation was automatic. “I beg your pardon.”

  “That’s an American thirty-eight Smith and Wesson,” I said. “Not a very common weapon over here, I’m guessing. It looks a lot like a Smith and Wesson I saw downstairs, part of that collection in the big hall.”

  Lord Bob looked down at the gun. “Yes.” Puzzled, he looked over at the old man lying in the bed. “But why . . . how did he get it?”

  “That’s what the police will want to know. Please, Lord Purleigh. Put the gun back.”

  Doyle said, “Best do as he says, Lord Purleigh.”

  Lord Bob glanced at him. “The police,” he said. “But I won’t have the police ...” His voice trailed off. He stood there staring off into the distance.

  “You’ve no choice, I’m afraid,” said Doyle. “Not in a situation like this.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder again. “Please, Lord Purleigh. Replace the gun.”

  Lord Bob looked at me, his face empty. He bent forward and put the gun on the floor, then stood up.

  Lord Bob turned to Doyle. He still seemed dazed. “And now . . . what now?”

  “We touch nothing else,” said Doyle. “We keep the room sealed and guarded.” He turned to the valet, who stood at the foot of the bed. “Carson? It’s Carson, isn’t it?”

  Carson looked up at him, his face pale. “Yes, sir.” His voice was quavering and his eyes were blinking. He raised his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Doyle. “I apologize. It’s just the shock of it, sir. The Earl ... he seemed indestructible, sir.” He blinked again. He pulled himself up, looked at Lord Bob. “I’m very sorry, milord.” To Doyle, he said, “Sorry, sir.” He moved his shoulders in a small sad shrug, a gesture without hope. “It’s the shock, I expect.”

  Behind the valet, the Great Man had moved to the massive wooden door, and he was bending forward to peer with what looked like professional curiosity at the wooden crossbar that had blocked our entrance to the room.

  Carson’s shock had jarred Lord Bob out of his. He crossed the room and came around the bed to the old valet. “Carson,” he said. His voice was soft. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes, milord.” He was staring straight ahead, over the body of the dead man.

  Behind them, the Great Man looked up from his examination of the wooden bar, and he examined Lord Bob and the valet.

  Lord Bob gently said to Carson, “Course you are. Course you are. But still, you know, all this excitement, better to catch our breath, eh? Snatch a bit of rest while we can. You go have a lie down. I’ll ask Mrs. Blandings to look in on you. And I’ll be ’round myself, once we’ve sorted all this out.”

  His lips compressed, still staring ahead, Carson nodded. “Yes, milord.” He blinked again, turned to Lord Bob. “Thank you, milord.”

  Lord Bob reached out and briefly put his fingers against the man’s arm. “Good man. Good man.” Carson blinked. Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “Eh, Doyle?” he said heartily. “That’s for the best, don’t you think?”

  Doyle nodded his big head. “I agree completely, Lord Purleigh.”

  “Right,” said Lord Bob to Carson in the same bluff tones. “Off you go, then.”

  “Very good, milord.” His glance flickered down at the old man in the bed. He blinked and then turned and walked away. His body was still rigid, his movements stiff.

  Lord Bob turned to Doyle. “You were saying, Doyle?”

  “We keep the room sealed. And guarded.”

  “Higgens can perform guard duty,” Lord Bob said. “Temporarily. We’ll be needing him downstairs. Eh, Higgens? I’ll send someone up to relieve you.”

  Higgens nodded. “Very good, milord.”

  Doyle said to Higgens, “No one to enter the room until the police arrive.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “The police?” said Lord Bob.

  “We must inform the police.”

  Lord Bob frowned.

  “If I may use the telephone,” said Doyle, “I can speak with a friend of mine at Scotland Yard. I feel certain that he’ll be helpful. And discreet.”

  After a moment resisting the idea, Lord Bob finally surrendered. “Very well.”

  Doyle turned to me. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Beaumont?”

  I said, “I’d like to take a look at that gun collection.”

  Doyle nodded. He turned to Lord Bob
. “Lord Purleigh, no doubt you wish to inform Lady Purleigh of this tragedy.”

  Lord Bob lowered his bushy eyebrows, as though just now remembering that Lady Purleigh existed. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He shook his head slightly, looked away. “She’ll take it badly. Fond of the swine.” He glanced at the body on the bed. “Mustn’t tell the guests, though.”

  “Not tell them?” said Doyle.

  Lord Bob turned to him. “Put a bit of damper on the weekend, wouldn’t it? They’d leave, wouldn’t they?”

  “No doubt they would. But in the circumstances ...”

  Lord Bob shook his head. “Won’t have it. Came for a pleasant weekend, that’s what they’ll get. Not their fault the old swine died. Alice will agree with me. Sure of it.”

  “And how will you explain the presence of the police?”

  “Don’t see that I need to. Trot ’em in, trot ’em out. Stop ’em tracking muck about, of course. And no one the wiser, eh?” Doyle looked doubtful, but he said, “As you wish.”

  I said, “You are going to tell them about Chin Soo.”

  He looked at me, blinked. Irritation flickered briefly across his face. “Yes, yes.”

  “Houdini?” said Doyle.

  The Great Man was bent at the waist, peering at the big copper key that lay on the floor, just inside the door. He looked over at Doyle.

  “Have you anything to add?”

  The Great Man looked at him for a moment. He pursed his lips. Finally he said, “No. Houdini has nothing to add.”

  “Very well, then,” said Doyle. “I propose that we all meet again in the Great Hall.” He slipped a watch from his vest pocket, glanced down at it, looked up. “In, shall we say, half an hour. Is that acceptable?”

  It was.

  WE LEFT HlGGENS in the anteroom, guarding the door to the bedroom. The rest of us trooped downstairs. When we got there, Lord Bob and Doyle went off together. Houdini tagged along with me. Probably because I was the only person he could complain to.

  “You know, of course,” he said, “that I could have removed that ridiculous bar.” We were pacing through the corridors, toward the Great Hall. “In an instant. Less than an instant.”