The Seven Dials Mystery (Superintendent Battle 2)

But where, oh where, was the countess?

And just as Bundle was asking herself this question, the silence of the night was suddenly broken, and in no uncertain manner.

The clamour came from below. In an instant Bundle had sped out of the Countess’s room and downstairs. The sounds came from the library—a violent crashing of chairs being overturned.

Bundle rattled vainly at the library door. It was locked. But she could clearly hear the struggle that was going on within—the panting and scuffling, curses in many tones, the occasional crash as some light piece of furniture came into the line of battle.

And then, sinister and distinct, breaking the peace of the night for good and all, two shots in rapid succession.

Twenty

LORAINE’S ADVENTURES

Loraine Wade sat up in bed and switched on the light. It was exactly ten minutes to one. She had gone to bed early—at half past nine. She possessed the useful art of being able to wake herself up at the required time, so she had been able to enjoy some hours of refreshing sleep.

Two dogs slept in the room with her, and one of these now raised his head and looked at her inquiringly.

“Quiet, Lurcher,” said Loraine, and the big animal put his head down again obediently, watching her from between his shaggy eyelashes.

It is true that Bundle had once doubted the meekness of Loraine Wade, but that brief moment of suspicion had passed. Loraine had seemed so entirely reasonable, so willing to be kept out of everything.

And yet, if you studied the girl’s face, you saw that there was strength of purpose in the small, resolute jaw and the lips that closed together so firmly.

Loraine rose and dressed herself in a tweed coat and skirt. Into one pocket of the coat she dropped an electric torch. Then she opened the drawer of her dressing table and took out a small ivory-handled pistol—almost a toy in appearance. She had bought it the day before at Harrods and she was very pleased with it.

She gave a final glance round the room to see if she had forgotten anything, and at that moment the big dog rose and came over to her, looking up at her with pleading eyes and wagging its tail.

“No, Lurcher. Can’t go. Missus can’t take you. Got to stay here and be a good boy.”

She dropped a kiss on the dog’s head, made him lie down on his rug again, and then slipped noiselessly out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She let herself out of the house by a side door and made her way round to the garage, where her little two-seater car was in readiness. There was a gentle slope, and she let the car run silently down it, not starting the engine till she was some way from the house. Then she glanced at the watch on her arm and pressed her foot down on the accelerator.

She left the car at a spot she had previously marked down. There was a gap there in the fencing that she could easily get through. A few minutes later, slightly muddy, Loraine stood inside the grounds of Wyvern Abbey.

As noiselessly as possible, she made her way towards the venerable ivy-coloured building. In the distance a stable clock chimed two.

Loraine’s heart beat faster as she drew near to the terrace. There was no one about—no sign of life anywhere. Everything seemed peaceful and undisturbed. She reached the terrace and stood there, looking about her.

Suddenly, without the least warning, something from above fell with a flop almost at her feet. Loraine stooped to pick it up. It was a brown paper packet, loosely wrapped. Holding it, Loraine looked up.

There was an open window just above her head, and even as she looked a leg swung over it and a man began to climb down the ivy.

Loraine waited no more. She took to her heels and ran, still clasping the brown paper packet.

Behind her, the noise of a struggle suddenly broke out. A hoarse voice: “Lemme go”; another that she knew well: “Not if I know it—ah, you would, would you?”

Still Loraine ran—blindly, as though panic-stricken—right round the corner of the terrace—and slap into the arms of a large, solidly built man.

“There, there,” said Superintendent Battle kindly.

Loraine was struggling to speak.

“Oh, quick!—oh, quick! They’re killing each other. Oh, do be quick!”

There was a sharp crack of a revolver shot—and then another.

Superintendent Battle started to run. Loraine followed. Back round the corner of the terrace and along to the library window. The window was open.

Battle stooped and switched on an electric torch. Loraine was close behind him, peering over his shoulder. She gave a little sobbing gasp.

On the threshold of the window lay Jimmy Thesiger in what looked like a pool of blood. His right arm lay dangling in a curious position.

Loraine gave a sharp cry.

“He’s dead,” she wailed. “Oh, Jimmy—Jimmy—he’s dead!”

“Now, now,” said Superintendent Battle soothingly. “Don’t you take on so. The young gentleman isn’t dead, I’ll be bound. See if you can find the lights and turn them on.”

Loraine obeyed. She stumbled across the room, found the switch by the door and pressed it down. The room was flooded with light. Superintendent Battle uttered a sigh of relief.

“It’s all right—he’s only shot in the right arm. He’s fainted through loss of blood. Come and give me a hand with him.”

There was a pounding on the library door. Voices were heard, asking, expostulating, demanding.

Loraine looked doubtfully at it.

“Shall I—?”

“No hurry,” said Battle. “We’ll let them in presently. You come and give me a hand.”

Loraine came obediently. The Superintendent had produced a large, clean pocket handkerchief and was neatly bandaging the wounded man’s arm. Loraine helped him.

“He’ll be all right,” said the Superintendent. “Don’t you worry. As many lives as cats, these young fellows. It wasn’t the loss of blood knocked him out either. He must have caught his head a crack on the floor as he fell.”

Outside, the knocking on the door had become tremendous. The voice of George Lomax, furiously upraised, came loud and distinct:

“Who is in there? Open the door at once.”

Superintendent Battle sighed.

“I suppose we shall have to,” he said. “A pity.”

His eyes darted round, taking in the scene. An automatic lay by Jimmy’s side. The Superintendent picked it up gingerly, holding it very delicately, and examined it. He grunted and laid it on the table. Then he stepped across and unlocked the door.

Several people fell into the room. Nearly everybody said something at the same minute. George Lomax, spluttering with obdurate words which refused to come with sufficient fluency, exclaimed:

“The—the—the meaning of this? Ah! It’s you, Superintendent; what’s happened? I say—what has—happened?”

Bill Eversleigh said; “My God! Old Jimmy!” and stared at the limp figure on the ground.

Lady Coote, clad in a resplendent purple dressing gown, cried out: “The poor boy!” and swept past Superintendent Battle to bend over the prostrate Jimmy in a motherly fashion.

Bundle said: “Loraine!”

Herr Eberhard said: “Gott im Himmel!” and other words of that nature.

Sir Stanley Digby said: “My God, what’s all this?”

A housemaid said: “Look at the blood,” and screamed with pleasurable excitement.

A footman said: “Lor!”

The butler said, with a good deal more bravery in his manner than had been noticeable a few minutes earlier: “Now then, this won’t do!” and waved away under servants.

The efficient Mr. Rupert Bateman said to George: “Shall we get rid of some of these people, sir?”

Then they all took fresh breath.

“Incredible!” said George Lomax. “Battle, what has happened?”

Battle gave him a look, and George’s discreet habits assumed their usual way.

“Now then,” he said, moving to the d

oor, “everyone go back to bed, please. There’s been a—er—”

“A little accident,” said Superintendent Battle easily.

“A—er—an accident. I shall be much obliged if everyone will go back to bed.”

Everyone was clearly reluctant to do so.

“Lady Coote—please—”

“The poor boy,” said Lady Coote in a motherly fashion.

She rose from a kneeling position with great reluctance. And as she did so, Jimmy stirred and sat up.

“Hallo!” he said thickly. “What’s the matter?”

He looked round him vacantly for a minute or two and then intelligence returned to his eye.

“Have you got him? he demanded eagerly.

“Got who?”

“The man. Climbed down the ivy. I was by the window there. Grabbed him and we had no end of a set-to—”

“One of those nasty, murderous cat burglars,” said Lady Coote. “Poor boy.”

Jimmy was looking round him.

“I say—I’m afraid we—er—have made rather a mess of things. Fellow was as strong as an ox and we went fairly waltzing round.”

The condition of the room was clear proof of this statement. Everything light and breakable within a range of twelve feet that could be broken had been broken.

“And what happened then?”

But Jimmy was looking round for something.

“Where’s Leopold? The pride of the bluenosed automatics?”