The Seven Dials Mystery (Superintendent Battle 2)

“Jimmy Thesiger?”

“That’s what I said.”

“He’s got rooms in Jermyn Street—do I mean Jermyn Street or the other one?”

“Bring that class A brain to bear upon it.”

“Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I’ll give you the number.”

There was a pause.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m always here.”

“Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103. Got it?”

“103. Thank you, Bill.”

“Yes, but, I say—what do you want it for? You said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t, but I shall in half an hour.”

“You’re going round to his rooms?”

“Quite right, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but, I say—well, for one thing he won’t be up.”

“Won’t be up?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I mean, who would be if they hadn’t got to? Look at it that way. You’ve no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I’m behind time is simply appalling. You haven’t the least idea, Bundle, what a dog’s life this is—”

“You shall tell me all about it tomorrow night,” said Bundle hastily.

She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve. Despite Bill’s knowledge of his friend’s habits, she inclined to her belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street.

The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman’s gentleman. His face, expessionless and polite, was such a face as may be found by the score in that particular district of London.

“Will you come this way, madam?”

He ushered her upstairs into an extremely comfortable sitting room containing leather-covered armchairs of immense dimensions. Sunk in one of those monstrosities was another girl, rather younger than Bundle. A small, fair girl, dressed in black.

“What name shall I say, madam?”

“I won’t give any name,” said Bundle. “I just want to see Mr. Thesiger on important business.”

The grave gentleman bowed and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

There was a pause.

“It’s a nice morning,” said the fair girl timidly.

“It’s an awfully nice morning,” agreed Bundle.

There was another pause.

“I motored up from the country this morning,” said Bundle, plunging once more into speech. “And I thought it was going to be one of those foul fogs. But it wasn’t.”

“No,” said the other girl. “It wasn’t.” And she added: “I’ve come up from the country too.”

Bundle eyed her more attentively. She had been slightly annoyed at finding the other there. Bundle belonged to the energetic order of people who liked “to get on with it,” and she foresaw that the second visitor would have to be disposed of and got rid of before she could broach her own business. It was not a topic she could introduce before a stranger.

Now, as she looked more closely, an extraordinary idea rose to her brain. Could it be? Yes, the girl was in deep mourning; her black-clad ankles showed that. It was a long shot, but Bundle was convinced that her idea was right. She drew a long breath.

“Look here,” she said, “are you by any chance Loraine Wade?”

Loraine’s eyes opened wide.

“Yes, I am. How clever of you to know. We’ve never met, have we?”

“I wrote to you yesterday, though. I’m Bundle Brent.”

“It was so very kind of you to send me Gerry’s letter,” said Loraine. “I’ve written to thank you. I never expected to see you here.”

“I’ll tell you why I’m here,” said Bundle. “Did you know Ronny Devereux?”

Loraine nodded.

“He came over the day that Gerry—you know. And he’s been to see me two or three times since. He was one of Gerry’s greatest friends.”

“I know. Well—he’s dead.”

Loraine’s lips parted in surprise.

“Dead! But he always seemed so fit.”

Bundle narrated the events of the preceding day as briefly as possible. A look of fear and horror came into Loraine’s face.

“Then it is true. It is true.”

“What’s true?”

“What I’ve thought—what I’ve been thinking all these weeks. Gerry didn’t die a natural death. He was killed.”

“You’ve thought that, have you?”

“Yes. Gerry would never have taken things to make him sleep.” She gave the little ghost of a laugh. “He slept much too well to need them. I always thought it queer. And he thought so too—I know he did.”

“Who?”

“Ronny. And now this happens. Now he’s killed too.” She paused and then went on: “That’s what I came for today. That letter of Gerry’s you sent me—as soon as I read it, I tried to get hold of Ronny, but they said he was away. So I thought I’d come and see Jimmy—he was Ronny’s other great friend. I thought perhaps he’d tell me what I ought to do.”

“You mean—” Bundle paused. “About—Seven Dials.” Loraine nodded.

“You see—” she began.

But at that moment Jimmy Thesiger entered the room.

Eight

VISITORS FOR JIMMY

We must at this point go back to some twenty minutes earlier, to a moment when Jimmy Thesiger, emerging from the mists of sleep, was conscious of a familiar voice speaking unfamiliar words.

His sleep-ridden brain tried for a moment to cope with the situation, but failed. He yawned and rolled over again.

“A young lady, sir, has called to see you.”

The voice was implacable. So prepared was it to go on repeating the statement indefinitely that Jimmy resigned himself to the inevitable. He opened his eyes and blinked.

“Eh, Stevens?” he said. “Say that again.”

“A young lady, sir, has called to see you.”

“Oh!” Jimmy strove to grasp the situation. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“No, I suppose not. No,” he thought it over. “I suppose you couldn’t.”

Stevens swooped down upon a tray by the bedside.

“I will bring you some fresh tea, sir. This is cold.”

“You think that I ought to get up and—er—see the lady?”

Stevens made no reply, but he held his back very stiff and Jimmy read the signs correctly.

“Oh! very well,” he said. “I suppose I’d better. She didn’t give her name?”

“No, sir.”

“M’m. She couldn’t be by any possible chance my Aunt Jemima, could she? Because if so, I’m damned if I’m going to get up.”

“The lady, sir, could not possibly be anyone’s aunt, I should say, unless the youngest of a large family.”

“Aha,” said Jimmy. “Young and lovely. Is she—what kind is she?”

“The young lady, sir, is most undoubtedly strictly comme il faut, if I may use the expression.”

“You may use it,” said Jimmy graciously. “Your French pronunciation, Stevens, if I may say so, is very good. Much better than mine.”

“I am gratified to hear it, sir. I have lately been taking a correspondence course in French.”

“Have you really? You’re a wonderful chap, Stevens.”

Stevens smiled in a superior fashion and left the room. Jimmy lay trying to recall the names of any young and lovely girls strictly comme il faut who might be likely to come and call upon him.

Stevens reentered with fresh tea, and as Jimmy sipped it he felt a pleasurable curiosity.

“You’ve given her the paper and all that, I hope, Stevens,” he said.

“I supplied her with the Morning Post and Punch, sir.”

A ring at the bell took him away. In a few minutes he returned.

“Another young lady, sir.”

“What?”

Jimmy clutched his head.