Pursuit of a Parcel (18 page)

Antony warmed to his task.

“Nowhere, my child—that is the point. Neatly pinned into a bun at the back.”

A faint moan escaped Miss Marsdens' lips.

“A bun?”

“A neat bun,” corrected Antony—“like this.” He twisted the hair deftly into a knot and holding it at the nape of her neck, stepped back to arm's length in order to contemplate his handiwork. “It's good!” he said.

“Is it?” Her tone was a little revived.

“Oh, definitely. Gives you a what-you-may-call-it—a cachet.”

“Does it?” The blue eyes were very appealing.

Antony became aware of danger and dropped the role of hair-dresser. He also dropped the hair, which once more fell negligently about Miss Marsden's shoulders.

“And no lipstick?” she breathed.

“Well—perhaps just a touch of
rose naturelle.
But definitely no eyeshadow or mascara—he'd only think you hadn't washed your face.”

A hand came up for his inspection.

“And no nail-polish?” This was the last word in tyranny.

“There's one that hardly shows. You could match the lipstick. And they're much too long, you know.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh,
yes.
He hasn't got a civilized eye at all—you've got to remember that. Talons dipped in blood—that's what they remind him of.”

Miss Marsden shuddered.

“How—how savage!”

“Yes, isn't it?” said Antony gravely.

If there was a sparkle in his eye, she did not notice it. She put her hands behind her and looked up at him in rather a seductive manner.

“How do you know such a lot about lipsticks and things?”

“Because I'm engaged,” said Antony in a hurry.

Miss Marsden's eyes lashes came down and covered her eyes. She murmured something that sounded like “What a pity!”

Antony walked round to the other side of the table. Even if he hadn't been engaged to Delia, life would certainly not be worth living if Frank were to find him kissing his typist—and that Miss Marsden was all set to be kissed stuck out at least a mile.

He looked at her across the table, kissed the tips of his fingers, and remarked,

“Business as usual, I think.”

Miss Marsden said, “Oh,
yes.”
Her voice had a disappointed sound, but she was a reasonable girl. She said,

“I'm engaged too. But he's in a submarine, and it's a long time between leaves.”

“I expect it is—for him.”

She nodded.

“I expect I oughtn't to flirt. But you know how it is—it doesn't mean anything, does it?”

“Not a thing!” said Antony, laughing.

Her face changed. She approached the other side of the table.

“What is it?” he said.

She picked up the telephone cord and fiddled with it.

“There was something I was wondering whether I ought to tell somebody about. I've really been wondering about it all along, only we got talking nonsense, and—well, you know—”

He nodded with a laughing look in his eyes.

“And it might be important, or it mightn't,” pursued Miss Marsden in a worried voice, “so I thought I'd better tell you.”

“What is it?”

She gave him a fleeting look and burst into narrative.

“Well, it was this morning—first thing after I'd got here. Colonel Garrett hadn't come. He had to go and see someone about something, and he didn't turn up till eleven. And I'm not supposed to answer the telephone, but Mr. Boswell's away with influenza and Mr. Hope had to take some papers down to Sir Edward, and as soon as he was gone the wretched thing began to ring. Well, you know how they go on ringing—I simply had to answer it. And there was a man who sounded as if he had been running, and he said, ‘Colonel Garrett—is he there?' And I said, ‘No, he hasn't come in yet. Can I take a message? Who is speaking?' and he said, ‘Cornelius—'”

Antony said,
“What?”

Miss Marsden looked startled.

“That's what he said.”

“Go on, go on!”

“There isn't any more.”

Antony said
“What?”
again.

She nodded mournfully.

“That's just it. There was a sort of crash and the line went dead. And I was going to tell Mr. Hope, but he came back frightfully busy and cross, and I thought perhaps he'd say I oughtn't to have answered the telephone, so I didn't. And there didn't seem to be much to tell anyway—did there?”

“You didn't tell Colonel Garrett?”

“Oh, no. Ought I to have? There wasn't any message, and I thought, ‘Well, if he wants him he can always ring up again.'”

It was at this moment that the door opened and Garrett walked in. He wore mustard-coloured tweeds, and a bowler hat on the back of his head, but his expression was, for him, benign. It changed as Antony walked to meet him and said,

“Frank—Cornelius tried to get you this morning.”

“How do you mean, tried to get me?” said Garrett in a belligerent voice. He threw his hat on to a chair.

Antony said, “On the telephone—this morning about ten.” He turned to Miss Marsden, who had begun to look terrified. “Was that about the time?”

She said, “Y-yes.”

“Cornelius?” said Garrett. “What did he want? And why wasn't I told?”

“You'd better tell him now,” said Antony.

When Miss Marsden had stammered through her story again the storm broke. By the time Antony managed to make himself heard they had tears to contend with. Miss Marsden cried exactly like a baby, her eyes wide open and enormous drops rolling down to the corners of her mouth. When Antony put his hand on her shoulder she turned a quivering upward gaze to his. The hand shook her slightly.

“Stop crying!”

With miraculous suddenness the drops ceased to flow. Antony said,

“That's right. Now listen! You say the man sounded as if he had been running. I suppose you mean he was out of breath.”

She nodded.

“Sort of gaspy.”

“As if he was—ill?” Antony spoke slowly, watching her face. “Or—hurt?”

There was a faint startled reaction.

“Oh!” And then, “He might have been.”

“And when you say there was a crash and the line went dead, can you give us any idea what sort of a crash it was?”

“It was a—a crash,” said Miss Marsden helpfully. She had quite stopped crying, and there was even a gleam of interest in her eyes. From a couple of yards away Colonel Garrett surveyed her with sardonic fury.

Antony remained calm.

“Yes, but there are a lot of different kinds of crashes. Just try and think back. You answered the telephone. A man had just asked for Colonel Garrett in a panting voice—you would call it a panting voice?”

“Yes—sort of.”

“As if he was in distress?”

“Oh, yes—that's just how it sounded.”

“Then you asked his name, and he said, ‘Cornelius.' Was that in the same panting voice?”

“Oh, yes, it was.”

“And then there was this crash. Now think what sort of a crash it was.”

“I don't know.”

The hand shook her again.

“Think! Oh, yes, you can. Think back! What did it sound like—like a man falling—a chair going over—someone being hit plonk—or the receiver coming down with a crack?”

Miss Marsden's gaze was beautifully blank. Antony put some force into his grip.

“Four sorts of crash. A man would go down with a thud. A chair or any other bit of furniture would make more noise—harder, sharper. If someone knocked the man out, there'd be the plonk of bone hitting bone. And the receiver coming down would be just a sharp crack. You can't help knowing that one anyhow. Now which of those four is the nearest to what you heard?”

Miss Marsden brightened.

“Do you think someone hit him?” she enquired with interest.

Colonel Garrett dragged a violent bandanna out of his pocket. It failed to muffle a loud derisive “Tchah!”

Antony cast him a look of reproach. He himself could have murdered the girl with pleasure, but where was that going to get them? He said,

“I'm not thinking—I'm asking you.”

For the first time, she appeared to be going through some kind of mental process.

“I suppose there were a lot of sounds really. It might have been someone coming into the room and pushing something over and the receiver falling down. I couldn't say for certain, but I know I thought at the time what a lot of noise they were making—”

“They?”

She gazed at him.

“Did you think there was more than one person there?”

“Oh, yes, I did—at least I suppose I must have done, because I did think what a lot of noise they were making.”

Garrett blew his nose like a trumpeting elephant. Finality appeared to have been reached.

Antony took Miss Marsden to the door, put her out, and shut it on her instant flight. Then he came back and asked a single question.

“Do you think Cornelius is dead?”

Garrett stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket and grimaced horribly.

“Shouldn't be surprised,” he said.

After a prolonged pause Antony said,

“Rather horrible, Frank. And I left him to it!”

Garrett clapped him on the shoulder.

“Damfool nonsense!”

“I ought to have got help and gone back to Silverthorn Road at once. He was being followed. They got him.”

“He was following you. Perfectly free agent, wasn't he? And avoiding both of us.”

Antony nodded.

“That's it, Frank—that's why I didn't like to butt in. The fact is, I've been afraid of what I might walk into. There's something I don't understand—this business about my being dead. Cornelius went down day before yesterday and told Delia I was dead. He repeated this yesterday and pitched her a highly circumstantial tale which came quite near the truth except for the fact that a Gestapo bullet cut my arm instead of getting me in a lethal place. But the night before he was following me back from your flat. If he thought I was dead, whom did he suppose he was following, and why was he doing it? I just can't make it fit in.”

Garrett walked round the table and sat down. His eyes were like points of steel, his manner that of a terrier at a rat hole.

“Sure it was Cornelius?” he said.

Antony looked startled.

“No, I'm not sure. I thought it was. That's all I'm really sure about—I
thought
it was Cornelius.”

“When he was following you—or when you found him in the porch?”

“I never thought about it being Cornelius when he was following me. There was simply nothing to go on. It was later, when I was following him, that I saw him in one of those flashes and thought it was Cornelius.”

“You didn't see his face?”

“No.”

Garrett banged the table.

“Then what made you think it was Cornelius?”

Antony had been holding himself in. His control broke, and he said in a voice of sharp exasperation,

“How on earth do I know? Height, figure, walk—whatever goes to make up that sort of impression. I did think so.”

“But you never saw his face?”

“No.”

“And in the porch—you still thought it was Cornelius?”

“I called him Con when I pulled him up.”

“Did he answer?”

“No—I don't think so. The door was open by then. Someone swore in Dutch. It wasn't Cornelius.”

Garrett had one of his ferocious frowns.

“Meaning it
wasn't
Cornelius—or it wasn't the man you'd pulled up?”

“It wasn't the man I had just pulled up, whether he was Cornelius or not—at least that was my very strong impression.”

“But you won't swear to it?”

“I won't swear to any of it.”

“A lot of use you are as a witness!” said Garrett in a vindictive tone.

“I know. I'm sorry about it, but there it is. The only things I can be sure of are my own impressions. And this is one of them. When I took hold of him and pulled him up I was quite sure it was Cornelius. It felt like him.”

Garrett gave a grunt.

“You said he had a cut on his wrist. Did you ask your Delia What's-her-name about that? She saw Cornelius next day—she'd have noticed if he'd a bandage, wouldn't she?”

“She might—I didn't ask her. I can ring her up about it. But look here, sir, the parcel's gone.”

Garrett threw himself back in his chair and glowered.

“What!”
he said.

“The bank was burgled in the night. Hole in the wall—oxyacetylene flame used on the safe. Very expert job. Net haul about five hundred pounds, the late Mrs. Canning's jewellery—some quite good pearls, and a diamond necklace. And the parcel. And, Frank, here's something. You know the yarn Cornelius put up about a wax cylinder full of blazing indiscretions—well, as far as I can make out he was leading everybody on—
de l'audace, de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace.”

Garrett stared.

“What's this?

“Delia opened the parcel,” said Antony with an agreeable smile.

“She opened it?
Why?”
The last word had the force of an explosion.

“She wanted to see what was inside. Might have been a bomb.”

Garrett said, “Tchah!”

“Undoubtedly. But the fact remains that she opened it and there wasn't any cylinder. And from what she said, it hadn't been taken out, because the box was full of papers. My own belief is that Cornelius got away with a most almighty bluff, and the people who took the parcel will have the devil to pay. Do you think they're going to be able to persuade the little man whom Cornelius has bluffed that there really wasn't any record in that parcel, or do you think he'll have some nasty suspicions about them and wonder whether they're not holding it up on him? Quite a lot of possibilities, don't you think?”