Heads You Lose (9 page)

“You ought to be a sob-sister on the Daily Whatsaname, darling, said Fran, but she smiled at her lovingly.

“What time is it?” said Henry suddenly.

“It’s well after midnight,” said Cockrill. “I got over as quickly as I could, but Torrington’s fifteen miles, and it’s the devil driving through these country lanes with the blackout lighting, not to mention the snow. Anyway, we were in good time,” he smiled at Fran, “and don’t worry, my dear, you’ll be safe enough now we’re here.” Out came the tobacco tin again. “But as for that phone call—that’s a puzzle, that is.” He swung round suddenly upon Pendock. “I want you to say something to me in a woman’s voice. Say: ‘I’m speaking from Pigeonsford House.’”

Pendock opened his mouth and shut it again, looking foolish. “Good heavens, I
can’t,
Inspector.” He opened his mouth again and had another try, but no sound came. “It won’t work,” he said, laughing.

“Come on, come on,” said Cockie irritably, lighting the new cigarette from the old one. “This is a murder case; we haven’t got time for silly self-consciousness. Say something in as feminine a voice as you can manage.”

It was a long time since Pendock had been spoken to in this tone, and for a moment indignation smouldered in the blue-green eyes; but he saw what the little man was driving at, and opening his mouth once more he said, in a ludicrous squeak: “I’m speaking from Pidg…” and broke down, laughing apologetically. “I’m awfully sorry, Inspector.”

“Don’t do it so loud,” said Cockrill, maintaining an irritated gravity. “Try and imitate a woman, speaking very low; come on, now—‘I’m speaking from Pigeonsford…’”

Pendock tried again. “Mr. Gold, you have a shot,” said Cockie, paying no further attention to him.

Henry gave his whole mind to it, as he gave it to everything he did. There was a twinkle in his eye, but he said, perfectly seriously, in a low, soft voice: “I’m speaking from Pigeonsford House.”

“Nicholl.”

“Who—me?” said James, waking up.

“Try it, please.”

“I’m speaking from Pigeonsford House,” squeaked James without a smile.

Inspector Cockrill went over to the dressing-table and flicked his ash into the lid of Fran’s powder-bowl. “Mr. Gold—what time did you leave the drawing-room?”

“I left with the others, whatever time that was. If you mean did I go to the telephone some time just after eleven and imitate a woman’s voice, that won’t wash; between half-past ten and half-past eleven, I was with at least four other people.”

“And all the other people were with
him,
if you see what I mean,” said Fran eagerly, sitting curled up in the middle of the bed, wrapped in the eiderdown. “So if you think it was any of us, well, it obviously wasn’t.”

“Can anybody swear to the exact time that Mr. Pendock left the drawing-room?” asked Cockie, ignoring her and steadily pursuing his own line of argument; and as nobody answered: “Was it ten past?”

“Just about,” said Pendock.

“Just about—just about! I’m not interested in just-abouts. Was it five past?”

“No,” said everybody at once.

“It was after five past?”

“Yes, definitely,” they said. “Definitely.”

But at five past eleven the unknown caller had been already on the telephone; he, or she, had insisted upon speaking to no one but himself, and it had taken a little time to locate him. The conversation had ended at eight minutes past eleven… the call must have been put through at eleven or almost immediately after. Besides, Cockrill thought he would have known if Pendock had not honestly been trying to imitate a woman’s voice just now: you couldn’t count too much on your instinct on these occasions, but it did mean a lot. He looked at them all quite fiercely. “Is everyone here present ready to swear,” he said, “ready to
swear,
I say, in a court of law, as you well may have to do, that the five of you—Lady Hart and the two girls and James Nicholl and Mr. Gold—were together in the drawing-room downstairs from before eleven o’clock till at least half-past?”

Everybody nodded assent.

“And that Mr. Pendock was with you till at least some minutes after five past eleven, even possibly till ten past?”

They might have been Chinese mandarins.

“And there is nobody in this house except the servants and yourselves?”

“Nobody,” said Pendock positively.

“Then I must be out of my mind,” said Cockie, and crushed out his second cigarette and sent it into the waste-paper basket, after the first. He stumped across the room towards the door, pushing-to the door of the wall-cupboard as he went. “You’d better all go to bed and get some sleep. Sorry, Fran, I seem to have made rather a mess round your fireplace.”

“It’s all right, Cockie, pet,” said Fran, craning over the end of the bed to look at the scattered ash. “Better than in my powder-box, anyway.”

“Well, come along then. Everybody to your rooms, please.”

“I’ll stay with Fran,” said Lady Hart, not moving from her chair.

“Fran’s perfectly safe, Lady Hart. I’d rather you went back to your room.”

Fran was about to protest, but could not bear to seem lily-livered. “Good heavens, I’ll be all right. I mean, a man outside the window and another one outside the door, what more could a girl want—except perhaps one of them inside the room instead of out…?”

“Let
me
stay with her, Cockie,” pleaded Venetia.

Cockrill was worried, and when he was worried he was irritable. “Go back to your rooms,” he said impatiently, “and do as I tell you. Francesca will be all right. Mr. Pendock, I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you up a bit longer, and then we’d both better try and get some sleep.”

“There’s a sofa in the library,” said Pendock, as they followed the rest of the party out on to the landing. “I’ll bring down some rugs and things and you’ll be quite comfortable there; sorry there isn’t a spare bed to offer you. If you go down, I’ll catch you up in a minute.”

“I’ll wait for you here,” said Cockrill firmly, standing at the head of the stairs.

Pendock looked a little silly. “All right. But—do you mind if I say good-night to Fran? I won’t be a minute.”

The Inspector glanced at him sharply. He walked between the closed doors of the other bedrooms and knocked at Fran’s. “Francesca—if you’re not in bed, would you come to the door for a minute? Mr. Pendock would like to speak to you.” As Fran appeared at the door he moved back two or three paces and said briefly: “There you are—go ahead.”

Pendock eyed him, startled. “Good God, Cockie—surely you don’t think—I’m sorry,” he said to Fran;

“I just wanted to say good-night and ask you if there was anything you’d like me to do about—all this. I’ll sit outside your door, if you like.”

“Good lord, no, Pen darling. There’s a man on the landing and I’ll be as safe as houses now that the police are here. I’m not a bit frightened, honestly I’m not,” said Fran in a quavering voice.

“I’ll stay awake all night, darling, and keep my door open, just across the way. If there’s the least thing you want…”

“No, truly, Pen, I’m fine. I’m quite all right. Don’t stay awake—but thank you very much, darling, all the same.”

He caught her hand. The Inspector moved a step nearer, but Pendock ignored him. His voice was shaking as much as Francesca’s. He said: “Fran—before you go, give me a little kiss.”

She put her hands up to his shoulders and, holding him lightly, kissed him on the lips. He was shaken with longing to catch her close to him, to take her into his arms and hold her safe for ever against his heart, but he returned her innocent kiss and let her go. Her face smiled up at him as she softly closed the door. He made uncertainly for the stairs.

“Rugs,” said Cockrill gently.

“Oh yes. Rugs. Sorry, I forgot all about them. Rugs, rugs, rugs…” He stood for a moment in a sort of blinding glory; and then, returning to sanity, went to a chest on the landing and took out an armful of blankets and led the way downstairs. “What about a drink?” he said.

“I could do with a Scotch,” acknowledged Cockie gratefully. “It wasn’t much fun getting here, I can assure you. The snow had stopped, but there was quite a lot in the lanes, and we couldn’t see the road from the ditch. We got stuck once and had to heave her out; and all the time I was in a funk about Fran Hart.”

“Why didn’t you telephone?” said Pendock. “We could at least have looked after her until you got here.”

“We couldn’t get through. Lines must be down with the snow—and yet, dash it, it’s only been falling for a couple of hours. I wonder.” He turned back and went to the telephone in the corner of the big dim hall. The leaded wires that came through the small high window and across to the box were gashed through, and a pair of pruning-scissors lay on the sill. Cockie nodded with a little grimace, as who should say “Good Lord!” He said to Pendock: “We shall test both ’phones for fingerprints, but we shan’t find a thing. It looks as if this were the one she used.”

“She couldn’t have been using it when I came out of the drawing-room,” said Pendock, thinking back. “I used the door nearest the library, not the one in the L; but I’d certainly have seen her.”

“I wonder would you have heard her from the drawing-room?” said Cockrill, judging the distance between the telephone and the drawing-room doors. “She spoke very low, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need have heard,” said Pendock, as they went on into the library. “The walls are tremendously thick as you can see, and the doors are heavy and solid. It’s a very sound-proof house; it was built in the days when things were made strong and sturdy; and, for example, I never hear guests arriving at the front door. I don’t think we need have heard her, definitely I don’t.” He added suddenly: “But now that I think of it—while I was talking in there, Venetia did look round for the dog. She said—what the devil did she say…? That she thought he must have got out when I came in, or something like that. Perhaps she had heard something in the hall?”

Cockie was very much excited by this recollection and was only with difficulty restrained from dashing up to Venetia’s room to have it corroborated. “But don’t you
see
? She may actually have heard the woman speaking from the hall, or passing through here to the library to use this ’phone!”

“Well, she won’t be able to tell you any more than I have,” said Pendock, pushing him down on to the sofa, and thrusting a glass of whisky into his hand. “She can’t have heard anything but the faintest possible sound, because she was perfectly satisfied as soon as she saw the dog.” He poured himself out a drink and sat down at the other end of the sofa.

“All right,” said Cockie, taking an enormous gulp. “We’ll leave it till the morning. Now, Pendock, about the front door: I understand that you see to its being locked?”

“Yes, I do. Bunsen shuts up the rest of the house but I always see to that.”

“And did you lock it after you when you came in from seeing Miss le May home?”

Pendock considered. “Well, the awful part is, Inspector, that I can’t remember whether I did it then, or after I came out of the drawing-room. It’s so much a habit… I
think
I’m right in saying that I must have locked it on my way up to bed.”

“It was locked when I got here; my man had to open it to me. If it was unlocked while you were talking in the drawing-room, someone could have got in from outside and gone to the telephone then.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so; but who?”

“Never mind who. At least it gives me some groundwork to build upon. But supposing, for the sake of argument, that during that period when it was unlocked and you were in the drawing-room, someone came in, through here to your library and was telephoning here when you came out of the drawing-room and locked the door and went upstairs—the question then arises: How did they get out? All the other doors and windows were bolted from the
in
side; my man checked them at about eleven-fifteen. The front door is not self-locking—could anyone have let themselves out and locked it from the outside, using a key?”

“That’s impossible, Inspector. I’m fussy about the keys to the front door. It hasn’t got bolts or chains or anything, so we have to be careful. There are two keys, and there have never been more. I keep one and Bunsen keeps one. Last night his had been given over to your man, so for practical purposes nobody had one but myself.”

“Duplicates?”

“Impossible,” said Pendock again. “Mine’s never been off my chain, and Bunsen is the most awful old fusspot. Anyway, why? Why should somebody have made preparations to break into my house, use my telephone, and then go away without doing anything else?” He sat up suddenly: “Good God—supposing they didn’t go away—supposing they came through any old door or window that happened to be open, and simply locked and bolted it from the inside—supposing they’re still in the house!”

Cockie looked at his brown fingers and smiled. “The police have these bright ideas too, Mr. Pendock. While we were in Francesca’s room, my men were searching the whole place from top to bottom. No need to alarm the young ladies by saying so.”

“But Fran’s room—you didn’t look there,” cried Pendock, half-way to the door.

“Didn’t I?” said Cockie coolly. As Pendock still looked anxious he added: “Fran is a blessedly untidy young woman. The doors of her cupboard were open; I glanced into it as I left the room. There’s nowhere else in her room where anyone could hide.”

Pendock felt oppressed and nervy, nevertheless. Wearily climbing the stairs, he hoped that the little old man was not too sanguine. Whatever happened, he himself would stay up and watch over Fran; he propped open the door of his bedroom, opposite hers, and switching on his electric fire, lighted a cigarette and sat down in a chair…

Fran closed the door after Pendock’s good-night, and, still smiling, went back to her bed. The big friendly room seemed to smile back at her in the light of her bedside lamp; she had slept in it, on and off, since she was a little girl, and Pendock and Bunsen delighted to call it hers. On the painted bed was a monogram of her initials, carved and coloured; she plumped up the big pillow and humped the eiderdown over her shoulders, wriggling herself into comfort with a sigh of content. Here at least she was warm and snug and safe, safe from the voice that had said: “Francesca’s next.”