Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (36 page)

On this night, as on most nights, the chairs and couches were occupied by some dozen ladies and gentlemen of varying ages beyond that of threescore. They sat in a silence that, to an outsider, might have seemed almost funereal—the men reading the London Times or the Manchester Guardian with careful scrutiny, drinking brandy and soda or very old Scotch; the women crocheting antimacassars and doilies or knitting argyles while they sipped cream sherry or tea laced liberally with milk and sugar. They spoke to one another rarely, and then only in whispers. An elderly waiter named Peters circulated among the guests now and then to refill glasses and empty the heavy pewter ashtrays of cigar ash and pipe dottle.

The gentle crackle of the fire in the inglenook was the only sound when the stranger made his appearance at a quarter past ten.

The stranger was a big, florid-faced man in a bulky tweed overcoat, silk muffler, and expensive driving gloves. He came into the reception lobby with a flourish, letting the thick oaken door slam behind him, and stood for a moment blowing his breath noisily through his opened mouth. Then, having spotted the bar inside the lounge, he nodded once to old Hathaway, the night clerk, and strode purposefully through the archway.

"Scotch on the rocks," he demanded of Michaels, the barman, who was manufacturing a brandy-and-soda.

"Sir?" Michaels said, looking up. He was a somewhat younger, spryer version of Peters.

"Scotch on the rocks," the stranger repeated. "And hurry it up, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

Michaels finished mixing the brandy-and-soda and placed it on the silver serving tray that Peters held waiting. Then he turned to the rows of bottles and glasses on the backbar.

The stranger took off his driving gloves. "Where's the nearest garage?" he demanded.

"Garage, sir?"

"These damned roads of yours have done something to the steering on my car. I can't go any farther until a mechanic checks it out."

"The only mechanic hereabouts is Jerome Bosley, sir," Michaels said. "He mainly repairs tractors."

"Tractors?"

"Yes, sir." Michaels carefully placed a serviette before the stranger, then centered a crystal tumbler on the napkin. He made certain the Kings Head crest on both faced the newcomer. "And a lorry now and then. But he's gone into Bridlington to visit his mum and won't be back until tomorrow evening. I'm afraid there's no one else for forty miles, sir."

"Oh, that's fine, just fine," the stranger said with heavy sarcasm. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"I wouldn't know, sir," Michaels said. He poured a generous dollop of Scotch into the tumbler and stepped back. The stranger scowled. "The rocks," he said.

"Sir?"

"Damn it, man, the rocks, the rocks!" The stranger pointed accusingly at his drink. "You forgot the ice. You don't expect me to drink it warm, do you?"

"No, sir. Of course not, sir. Peters, would you. . . ?" Peters bowed and moved away slowly through the lounge and across the darkened dining room beyond. The stranger watched his retreating form for a moment, then turned to survey the remainder of the lounge. Its occupants studiedly ignored him.

The stranger made a derisive sound and swung back to Michaels, thumping his gloves on the polished surface of the bar. Then, in what to him was an undertone, he said to himself, "An archaeologist's dream—a tomb full of old fossils."

This comment stiffened the backbone of Michaels, produced a harsh intake of breath from Colonel (Ret.) Gloucester-Smith, and caused the widow Pemblington to drop a stitch. Other than that, the lounge was reminiscent of a forest glade on a windless day.

The stranger said, "I have to make an important call. Where's your telephone?"

"There is no telephone, sir."

"What's that?"

"We have no telephone here."

"Nonsense! Every hotel has a phone!"

"Not the Kings Head, sir. Not any longer. We had ours taken out some time ago."

"What the devil for?"

"Our guests have no use for them," Michaels said. "They've a nasty habit of ringing in the late hours. Very disturbing."

The stranger stared at him in exasperation. "I don't suppose there's anyplace I can send a wire?"

"No, sir. Not at this time of night."

"Damn it, man, I have to contact my business associates in London and tell them where I am. They have no idea I was driving up to Manchester today; won't have the faintest suspicion of where I've gone."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Damned well ought to be," the stranger muttered. He looked up as Peters returned with a bowl containing four ice cubes. "Well, it's about time. I thought maybe you got lost."

Some of the guests had now taken notice. There was a raising of eyes over the top edges of the Times and the Guardian, a lowering of unfinished antimacassars and doilies and argyles. Sir Pruitt, sitting in the corner near the disconnected phonograph, had sipped just enough brandy to sit up and glower at the stranger before sinking back out of sight behind his chair's wing.

If the stranger felt the gazes on him, he gave no indication. Impatiently he watched as Peters lowered two ice cubes into his Scotch with a pair of sugar tongs; then he swirled the liquid with his index finger and lifted the glass. "Well, here's mud in your eye!" he said and drained the Scotch in one swallow. He smacked his lips, put the glass down, and demanded a refill.

Michaels poured.

"Got anything to eat around here?" the stranger asked. "The dining room is closed, sir."

"I can see that. What about sandwiches, or some cheese and crackers?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Peanuts, then? Pretzels? Onion rings?"

"I shall see, sir," Michaels said.

After some searching, he located a half-empty box of arrowroot biscuits. He shook some of the biscuits into a silver serving dish and placed the dish before the stranger.

"What're these things?"

"Biscuits, sir. We serve them at teatime, occasionally."

"Biscuits?" The stranger picked one up, nibbled it, made a face, and said, "Chalk, you mean!"

"I believe they are all we have at the moment, sir."

The stranger mumbled something incoherent and ate another biscuit. He chewed with a harsh grating intensity that caused the widow Pemblington to drop another stitch.

His mouth still full of biscuit, the stranger said, "You have any rooms available here, or do I have to sleep in my car tonight?"

"We have accommodations, sir."

"Well, well, don't tell me." The stranger turned toward the archway and shouted, "Clerk! Hey, clerk!"

Several of the guests started at this outburst. There was a scuttling sound in the reception lobby and Hathaway appeared. "Sir?"

The stranger pitched him a leather keycase. Hathaway failed to raise his arms in time to catch it, and the case made a loud jangling noise as it hit the floor. The old fellow bent over slowly to retrieve it, one hand braced on his knee for support.

"Take my bags out of the orange Porsche outside and check me in, will you? Name's Rasmussen, Harold J. Rasmussen."

Hathaway was having difficulty regaining an upright position. "For the night only, sir?"

"I damned well hope so. But who knows what's wrong with my car? I could be here days, God forbid." He popped another biscuit into his mouth. "Make that a room with a bath—and there'd better be some hot water to go with it."

"Yes, sir," Hathaway said. He took his leave.

The stranger turned back to the bar. "I hope he doesn't have a heart attack or something, carrying my bags." He seemed to think such a prospect was uproariously funny; his laugh was sharp and loud, almost a bark.

After a time he stopped laughing, wiped his eyes, blew his nose into a silk handkerchief, and said to Michaels, "How about some music?"

"Sir?"

"Music. You hard of hearing? If I'm going to be stuck in a place like this tonight, I might as well enjoy myself. So come on, let's liven up this mausoleum."

He had finally managed to collect the undivided attention of each of the guests. His words were like a sudden chill wind through that proverbial forest glade. An almost imperceptible rustling, like that of disturbed leaves, could be heard throughout the lounge.

Colonel (Ret.) Gloucester-Smith sighed softly and rose from his chair. He glanced around the room, sighed again, then crossed to the bar in a stiff military stride.

"Who're you?" Rasmussen demanded.

"Colonel Gloucester-Smith, Retired, at your service. I wonder, sir, if you would care to join me in a drink."

"What's that? You offering to buy a round, Corporal?"

"Colonel," Gloucester-Smith corrected, wincing. "Yes, my good man, I am so offering. Local hospitality, you know."

"Well, that's damned decent of you, Corporal."

"Indeed," Gloucester-Smith said. He looked at Michaels.

"Some of the vintage blend for our guest, I believe."

"Very good, sir." Michaels withdrew a short, amber-colored bottle from beneath the bar and poured a generous dollop over the melting ice cubes in Rasmussen's glass.

"Aren't you having any, Corporal?"

"Brandy is my tipple and I've a full snifter."

"Your loss," Rasmussen told him. "Nothing like good Scotch. Well, cheers, old boy." He lifted the glass, sniffed, nodded approvingly, and tossed off half the drink. He smacked his lips, nodded again, and finished it. "Not bad, Corporal, not bad at all. It—"

Rasmussen's eyes suddenly bulged wide, and his mouth opened and a strangled sound came from his lips. His right hand clutched his throat. Then, abruptly, he toppled over onto the carpet, twitched once, and lay still.

The room was very quiet. Colonel Gloucester-Smith knelt beside the stranger and felt his wrist. Then he rose and motioned to Peters and to Michaels. The two servants lifted Rasmussen's inert form and carried it through the darkened dining room, through the kitchen and out the rear door and away onto the fog-shrouded moors.

In the still and silent lounge, circumspect hands resumed their chores and the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the inglenook. No one spoke until Colonel Gloucester-Smith returned once more to his chair.

Cecil Whitehead, on his immediate right, leaned forward. "How many does that make now, Colonel?"

"Six, I believe."

"I do hope there won't be any more," Whitehead whispered. "I so enjoy this lovely quiet."

"Quite," Colonel Gloucester-Smith whispered back, and folded his copy of the London Times carefully so the newsprint would not rustle.

T
he last person on earth lay dead in a room, a victim of foul play.