The House Of The Bears Read online

  ‘I will try to,’ said Palfrey.

  What did it mean? What could she want to know from him? How had she ever come to know of his existence?

  Her lips moved again. ‘What’ – he had to lean forward to catch her words –’what year did Dr. Halsted break – his front – teeth? What year did –’ she stopped, as if she could not find the strength to go on, but her enormous eyes were staring at him.

  Palfrey stared back. What year had Halsted broken his front teeth? It was ridiculous, she was wandering, she –

  Realization dawned on him, and he remembered. Cricket, for Guy’s; a flaming summer’s day; a fast bowler who kicked dangerously; Halsted in great form; an awkward one which rose higher; Halsted’s bat flashing; a gasp from the bowler, and a spurt of blood from Halsted’s mouth. What year?

  Palfrey’s last year at Guy’s.

  ‘It was at Blackheath in 1929,’ he said, ‘in a cricket match against –’

  ‘You are Palfrey!’ Her lips puckered; she was trying to smile. Her eyes closed with relief; she lay there for some time before she opened them again. She said: ‘Look in the third post – of the minstrel gallery – from the door. The third post – of the minstrel gallery –’

  Palfrey murmured: ‘Yes, I will. The third post from the door.’ His mind was racing; so many things dawned upon him in those few seconds. She had confided in Halsted; Halsted had sent for him because of it; Halsted had been murdered because someone had learned that she had given him her confidence. Halsted had told her of that half-forgotten incident, so that she could be certain that she was talking to the real Palfrey. Perhaps, at that very time, Halsted had been afraid that he would die.

  The third post –

  Had the third or the fourth post been taken away after the ‘accident’? Would he find it intact, or had it been destroyed? A message, an explanation, a clue which she considered of vital importance, one of the reasons for her fears and for giving Garth shelter, was hidden in that post.

  Thank yon,’ she said, and a few moments afterwards she was asleep.

  ‘Well?’ Ross’s voice startled him. On the spur of the moment, Palfrey said: ‘She gave me a message for her father.’

  ‘Did she say why she gave it to you?’

  An answer sprang to his mind at once. ‘Yes, Halsted had mentioned me to her.’ He was suddenly annoyed by the bright blue eyes of the doctor. ‘It is confidential, of course,’ he said. ‘I must get out to Morne House at once.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. Of course,’ said Ross. He coloured, as if he knew that he had been rebuked. ‘I will cancel the reservation I made for you at the Esplanade Hotel. Unless your wife will be staying in Wenlock?’

  ‘I think she’d better,’ said Palfrey. ‘It’s been very good of you, Dr. Ross.’ Most decidedly, he disliked the man.

  Ross accompanied him along the rubber-floored passages in silence until they reached the hall. Then he asked whether Palfrey would like a snack.

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’ Immediately he had spoken, Palfrey realized he was hungry. He changed his mind, and smiled apologetically. ‘Well, if it could be ready in five minutes or so.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it can. Perhaps you would rather have something to take with you.’

  ‘That’s even better,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I’ll give the instructions myself,’ said Ross, and turned away. Palfrey lit a cigarette, glanced towards a bulky man who was sitting in an armchair in the hall, with a newspaper in front of his face. There was something familiar about him. Palfrey stared. The paper moved, and Inspector Hardy smiled up at him.

  ‘Why, hallo!’ exclaimed Palfrey. ‘You’ve been quick!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’ve been slow,’ said Hardy. ‘I started out half an hour after you and got here first! Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Palfrey lowered his voice and told the Corbin man exactly what Loretta had told him. He also gave his conclusions, voiced his questions, and waited, confident that Hardy would take a sensible view.

  ‘I think perhaps you’d better go out there by yourself,’ said Hardy, at last. ‘At least, without me, although I shall be on pins until I know that the third post is still standing. Of course, if you have any trouble in getting whatever is hidden there, I’ll step in, but I’ve a feeling that you’ll get more out of Morne than I ever shall. And, in any case, I’ve left two men at Morne House,’ he added, with his deep chuckle. ‘Ah, here come your sandwiches.’ He heaved himself up from his chair. ‘Now, how can I make myself useful?’

  ‘In several ways,’ said Palfrey. ‘You can take my wife to her hotel and get a maid to put her to bed.’ He laughed at Hardy’s expression. ‘No, she’s not drunk. She had a fall which upset her, but she’s all right. Then you can arrange for a car to follow mine across the moor, preferably with an armed man inside it.’

  ‘What trouble have you met tonight?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘I took the wrong road, went up the steep hill and was shot at while coming down,’ Palfrey told him. There were limits to what he need tell Hardy, and he was anxious not to betray Kyle. Later, he might have to give information about the man, but for the moment he had convinced Hardy that he was being frank. That was to try to stop me from coming to see Miss Morne,’ he went on. ‘The man outside lent me a hand and made himself generally useful. I brought him along and am going to give him the best dinner in Wenlock. I’ll have to leave you to arrange that, too, but I don’t think he will mind. Try to find him a whole bottle of whisky!’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardy. ‘So you were shot at. I saw headlights up the hill as I turned the corner. I thought it funny, but I was in such a hurry to get after you that I took no notice. I – now I know why the lights were off at the sign at that corner,’ he added, his voice rising. ‘I couldn’t understand it. The light was there even during the war.’

  ‘Oh, the trap was nicely laid and I obligingly walked into it,’ confessed Palfrey.

  Ross came up again, with a Thermos flask and a bakelite cup. Palfrey was effusive in his thanks. Outside, a man stirred from the side of the steps and said ‘Good evening, sir’ to Hardy. Palfrey concealed a smile, and walked down the steps, looking towards his car. Drusilla was still asleep, with her mouth open. Kyle must have slumped down in his seat, for Palfrey could not see him.

  A moment later he missed a step. Kyle wasn’t there.

  ‘Your friend doesn’t seem to want that dinner,’ remarked Hardy, dryly. ‘Be frank with me, Palfrey. Ought I to look for him?’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ said Palfrey. ‘I wouldn’t, personally. Everything else apart, I would think it a waste of time.’

  He helped to get a befuddled Drusilla from his own car to Hardy’s and drove off in a very puzzled frame of mind.

  5: THE THIRD POST

  The night was clear, without a trace of mist, and the road was good. Palfrey drove fast. Next to him sat one of Hardy’s men, dark and sombre. The detective officer had already had his supper, but he accepted when Palfrey suggested a drink. He opened the Thermos flask carefully, poured a little into the bakelite cup and said: ‘I’ll have the cap.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Palfrey. He took the cup with his left hand and sipped. ‘Lord, that’s hot!’ He nearly spilt the tea as he snatched the cup away. ‘I’ll wait until it’s cooled down.’

  Two hundred yards behind them, the headlights of the second police car swayed along the road and were reflected in Palfrey’s driving mirror. Hardy had taken extreme precautions, and Palfrey pondered over the situation ruefully. At one time he had thought that Hardy was a slow-moving, slow-thinking fellow, eager for the slightest help from Palfrey. Instead, Hardy was deep, and knew much more about the affair than he had revealed. The accident and the murder could not be the first incidents. The man next to him sipped the hot tea noisily. They were out of the hills now, and on the moors. The car behind him was keeping pace, sometimes drawing closer so that the lights reflected from the mirror and dazzled Palfrey.

  ‘I’ll
pour some tea out for you and hold it while it cools,’ offered his companion.

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  Palfrey turned a corner, saw a flat stretch of road in front of him and opened out. A few minutes should see them at Morne House, and he had to be prepared with an excuse for his return visit.

  Something wet fell on his leg, and he glanced round, sharply.

  ‘Look out,’ he said, ‘it’s spilling.’

  His companion did not move; he was sitting back with the cap of the flask in his hand tilted over. Suddenly the man slumped forward and dropped the cup. Palfrey looked sideways at his companion. ‘Wake up,’ he said, but there was ho conviction in his voice.

  This was not natural sleep; the man was drugged.

  A picture of Ross’s flashing smile appeared in Palfrey’s mind’s eye.

  There was no point in stopping to see if he could help his companion; that would be much easier inside the house. He trod more heavily on the accelerator, and as he did so he saw a yellow flicker of lights on his left.

  The flares of Morne House were on, so someone of the household was out that night. He saw the squat inn, on the right this time, turned and drove very fast towards the lighted house. The dancing flares shone on the dark stone walls and the huge bears; the whole had a satanic look and sent a shiver down his spine.

  He pulled the car up outside the front door and pressed his horn urgently. The other car was some way off now; he had gained half a mile. He helped his companion out, as the great door opened.

  Palfrey had no stomach pump, and he was not certain what drug had been used, but he gave orders crisply, and a footman hurried off. The police were still sitting outside in their car; Palfrey called them in and explained briefly. Mrs. Bardle came up, the policemen took their colleague to a bedroom, where he was to be given an emetic, watched closely, and kept warm with blankets and hot-water bottles.

  Palfrey lit a cigarette and stood smoking, reflecting that he had acted in a high-handed fashion, taking complete charge and issuing orders; but Mrs. Bardle had not hesitated to obey him, and it had all been necessary.

  Mrs. Bardle came back: a thin, angular woman with sharp features and fine, bold eyes.

  ‘Do you wish to see Sir Rufus, sir?’

  ‘I would like to, yes,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘If you will wait just one moment, sir, I will see whether he is downstairs.’

  Palfrey’s mind raced. Since the policeman’s collapse, he had forgotten that he needed a convincing reason for his return.

  Morne suddenly appeared in the doorway, like a great bull. No, thought Palfrey, like a bear. He wore a dinner jacket and looked well-groomed and composed. He held out his hand.

  ‘I am very glad to see you again, Dr. Palfrey.’

  ‘Thanks,’ smiled Palfrey. ‘I’ve just come from Wenlock. I saw your daughter. Progress is good. Better than we had any right to expect.’

  Morne said: ‘You are always a bearer of good tidings!’

  ‘My good fortune,’ dissembled Palfrey. ‘Not always a peaceful messenger, I’m afraid. I’ve had two upsets tonight. One on the road from Corbin to Wenlock, another from Wenlock to here. Details will bore you, but the facts are there.’ He no longer looked diffident, and his voice was incisive.

  ‘I don’t quite understand you,’ said Morne; ‘but come along and have a drink.’ He rested a hand on Palfrey’s shoulder, a gesture Palfrey thought was uncharacteristic, and led the way into the other room. No one else was there.

  Palfrey explained. He spoke quietly and Morne looked at him with keen interest.

  ‘I had intended only to satisfy myself about your daughter’s condition before I returned to London,’ Palfrey told him. The attempt to stop me from seeing her made me decide to see you again.’

  Morne said, as if puzzled: ‘Why should it, Dr. Palfrey?’

  ‘All these things happened after my first visit. I gave you information about your daughter’s accident which brought the police here. Someone did not like it, Morne. Someone did attempt to murder your daughter, and it’s reasonable to assume that the same person resented my interference and tried to stop it.’

  ‘You realize you are suggesting a member of my household caused the accident to my daughter, don’t you?’ asked Morne, in a very soft voice.

  ‘Yes. It’s right that you should know what I think.’

  After a long pause, Morne said: ‘Dr. Palfrey, by your prompt handling of the situation when you arrived here on Monday evening, I think you saved my daughter’s life. I am, therefore, for ever in your debt. You have placed me under a further obligation by your frankness and by the trouble you have taken to come here tonight. I hope you will not place yourself in any further danger.’

  ‘Now what does he mean?’ asked Palfrey of himself. ‘I don’t quite understand you,’ he said aloud.

  ‘I mean that I hope you will not venture out again tonight,’ said Morne.

  ‘Oh,’ said Palfrey, and relaxed again. ‘I was rather hoping that I need not. It means that three extra policemen –’

  ‘Mrs. Bardle has told me they are here, and I have given instructions for them to be looked after,’ Morne assured him.

  ‘You’re very good,’ said Palfrey. ‘Now, if I may use the telephone, I’ll let my wife know that I’m not going back tonight.’

  Palfrey got out of bed and contemplated the grey ash in the grate. He had been so tired that he had not wanted to stay up until the house was silent, and Hardy’s man had raised no objection to calling him, saying that he was on duty all night. He had said also that the Markhams were out but that Morne’s sister Rachel had been in her room all the evening.

  Palfrey dressed quickly. At last he went into the passage, and found the policeman sitting on an upright chair near the landing.

  ‘How’s your friend who was drugged?’

  ‘Sleeping naturally, sir.’

  ‘Good!’ Palfrey moved off, down the stairs. If he found anything in that third post, Hardy would undoubtedly insist that it be given up. Yet the girl would not have taken such precautions had she wanted the police to know.

  Palfrey took out his torch – Fyson’s torch! – and walked to the gallery door. The curtain was half drawn, and he could see the lower steps. His slippers made no sound as he went up, shining the torch. It was piercingly cold, and he was excited – not nervous, but excited. Repressing his eagerness earlier in the evening had sharpened it. He was tensely anxious lest the third post had been removed.

  He reached the gallery and approached the balustrade, still shining his torch. One post – two – three –

  The repair was beyond the third and beyond the fourth post!

  He went to the third and shone the torch upon it. Nothing seemed unusual; the hand-carved wood was dark with oil and gleamed dully in the light. Bears surrounded it, tiny carvings exquisitely done. He touched them one after the other, but nothing happened. There must be a way of opening the post; it was almost certainly hollow; Loretta must have meant that. He leaned over the balustrade to examine the front. He touched the first bear-head, twisted and turned it; it was loose! With increasing excitement he concentrated on it, leaning right over, one hand holding the torch, the other exploring. He pulled at the head, and it moved outwards.

  The torch shone into a narrow cavity. He put the torch into his pocket and gripped the balustrade, so as to lean further over, and explored again.

  Someone gripped his ankles!

  His hand slipped from the balustrade and he felt himself being heaved over.

  He kicked out. The grip was too firm to be shifted, but he gained a moment’s respite. He grabbed the post. He could see and hear nothing, but the pressure was increasing. A sudden heave and a gasp and he was over. The jolt on his shoulder and his wrist made him cry out, but he managed to hold; it was a matter of life and death to hold on. He hung, swaying.

  Suddenly a torch light shot out, carving a straight line through the darkness. He could not see who was holding it, but
he felt a hand brush against his fingers; his assailant meant to make him fall.

  He hung straight, but a sharp pain at his knuckles made him wince. He drew in his breath and let go, bending his knees, trying to judge the distance to the floor. He struck it with his toes, lurched forward and fell. His head struck something which slithered along the floor.

  The light of the torch went out.

  And then another light came on, much brighter, one of the chandeliers. He heard a rustle of movements, several heavy, booming footsteps, followed by the sharp sound of someone running up the staircase. Hardy’s man, he thought. A door slammed. The footsteps now sounded hollow; Hardy’s man was on the balcony.

  He looked up and saw a stranger looking down, a man dressed in a light grey suit and smiling a droll smile.

  ‘ “Flat burglary as ever was committed”,’ quoth the man.

  Palfrey gaped. ‘What?’

  ‘Othello,’ declared the man. ‘Shakespeare.’ He had a long, narrow face with a long chin and a humorous mouth, large dark eyes and curly hair.

  Palfrey got up and felt for a cigarette. The man stood smiling down at him. Palfrey shifted his gaze and looked towards the third post. There was an open slit there, as he had left it.

  ‘Did the beggar get it?’

  ‘No. I did.’

  ‘I hope that’s a good sign,’ said Palfrey. ‘Are you coming down or shall I come up?’

  ‘I will come down. The great Dr. Palfrey must be put to no inconvenience. True, King Rufus might think differently if he knew that the great Dr. Palfrey was “by night a stealthy, creeping thing, a marauder with ill-intent”, but –’

  Palfrey said; ‘ “An honourable burglary, if you will, for naught I did for gain, but all in honour.” ‘

  ‘Nicely turned!’ The man laughed lightly and, to Palfrey’s astonishment, started to climb over the balcony. ‘If you can, I can.’ The other climbed over, lowered himself, hung at full length and dropped. He did not fall, but staggered against the piano.