Complete works of peter.., p.449
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 449
Bitterly smiled back at Herbert.
Eventually, after a pause, that worthy negotiated the stairs and propelled himself across the room, flopping down in a chair at the news editor's side.
"Dear old Michael," he said thickly. "Just fancy seeing you here. You don't know how glad I am to see you. You're a great guy, Michael, and you just don't know how grateful I am to you for trying to look after Diane in this Lariat business. She's a great girl you know, Michael, and—" he continued heroically, "she's my sister. I'd do anything for her, absolutely anything."
He paused to order a double whisky and soda from a nearby waiter in an unnecessarily loud voice. When it was brought he took a gulp and continued to talk.
Bitterly, all ears, hoping that Herbert's inebriation might produce more truth than Herbert's sobriety, listened intently. Herbert rested his wobbly head on his hand which, supported by the table, waggled with the weight of his unsteady head.
"You know, Michael," he continued, "I've been thinking; I've been thinking about Bardella."
He leaned towards Bitterly with a mysterious air.
"I've come to a conclusion," said Herbert, with a sinister glance round the bar. "I've come to a definite conclusion about Bardella. I think Bardella's a bitch! And—" continued Herbert, "I always have thought so.
"As for my being in love with her, or there being anything between us, that's rubbish. But you can take it from me that Bardella was in love with someone. Do you remember how she used to doll herself up at the end of the week, when she used to go out in the evenings? What did she do that for?" continued Herbert. "If a woman dolls herself up it's because she's going to meet a man. Goodness knows, she looked lousy enough on the other nights."
Bitterly interrupted. "Well, what man do you think she went to meet, Herbert?" he asked.
"How do I know?" said Herbert. "I'm just putting up my ideas. I don't know what man she went to meet. You know, Michael, you're all wrong about this thing—you're absolutely wrong about the whole business. All this stuff about this guy Lariat being murdered by somebody is just rubbish; you can take it from me that he fell off whilst he was trying to climb up the side of the house. He was just a common or garden cat burglar. That's what he was.
"You can take it from me," Herbert continued, nodding his head sagely, "that the police are right. After all, Michael, they ought to know what they're talking about. They get paid for finding things out, you know."
Herbert flopped back in his chair and regarded Bitterly with an attempt at steadiness, obviously awaiting a reply.
"Maybe you're right, Herbert," said Bitterly. "Maybe!"
"Anyhow, let's forget it; what does it matter to us? You know, Michael, I'm very pleased with life. I had a good day yesterday. I won some money. Not that I back horses—I never do. I used to, but I gave it up; but I backed a horse yesterday; a pal of mine gave me the tip—sort of celebration you know, celebrating the fact that that blackmailing cuss Lariat would not bother me any more. The joke is," Herbert went on, "the horse arrived first. How it did it I don't know, but it did. That's why I'm going to buy you a very big drink because I like you, Michael, and you're a nice fellow."
Herbert summoned the waiter once more and ordered a double whisky and soda for Bitterly. When the drink was brought Herbert fumbled in his pocket and, eventually, with much gusto, he produced a ten-pound note which screwed up in a ball, he threw with an air of abandon on the table.
The waiter reached out for it, but Bitterly was first. Some instinct made him stretch out his hand, pick up the banknote and, under pretence of smoothing it out on the table, examine it.
"Nice things, tenners, you know, Herbert," he said.
He was surprised to find himself speaking coolly, for the banknote which he was now handing to the waiter, and which he had just smoothed out and inspected as it lay before him, was another of the banknotes drawn by Bardella from the bank the Monday before.
He got up. His one idea was to get out of the Green Fly before his face betrayed him, before he showed the half-drunken Herbert that he was aware of this last terrific development.
"I've got to be getting along, Herbert," he said. "I'd forgotten an appointment. I'll see you soon. Good-night."
At the door he looked back at Herbert, who, swaying about in his chair, was about to drink the whisky that Bitterly had left on the table. Was Herbert a murderer after all?
CHAPTER XII Sunday Evening, November 12, 8.30 p.m.
BITTERLY, his hands in his pockets, walked slowly back in the direction of his rooms. His amazement at the last discovery was leaving him. Why be astonished? After all, if it were true that there was some connection between Herbert and Bardella, there was no reason why he should not have one of her banknotes. It looked as if Herbert had been lying. Bitterly tried hard to formulate in his mind some definite scheme which would implicate both Bardella and Herbert, which would match up with Herbert's possessing the banknote and which would connect in some way with the death of Lariat. At the back of his mind, of course, was the definite idea that the whole story was false, that Herbert had not backed any horse and that he had got the money from Bardella or—and here was another idea—from Lariat himself. After all was it impossible that Lariat, being so very keen on being friendly with Herbert on the Monday night, might not offer to lend him some money? Surely this was not at all impossible.
And, even if it were not, this last idea opened up new fields of thought. If Lariat and Herbert had become so friendly that Herbert was prepared to accept money from the man who had threatened his sister, might not the young man have had some other appointment somewhere with Lariat—an appointment, for instance, on the Friday night, the night of the death? Here again, Bitterly remembered that he had only Herbert's word for his movements on that important night.
Again, if this presumption were true, if the banknote had been given or loaned by Lariat to Herbert, if they had succeeded in becoming such good friends, was it impossible that Lariat had gone to the flat on Friday night for the purpose of meeting Herbert? In other words, had there been some scheme, some plot of some sort or other, between Lariat and Herbert or, alternatively, between Lariat, Diane and Herbert?
If this presumption were correct, the following points might easily be explained: First, the discrepancy between Herbert's and Diane's stories about the milk and the cat; secondly, the uncertainty on Herbert's part as to what time he had actually arrived home.
He caught a bus at Marble Arch and, mounting the steps, suddenly came to the conclusion he was going to talk again to Diane. If necessary, he was going to tell her that Herbert was in possession of one of the Bardella. banknotes. There might be some reaction from her which would tell him something, but he would say nothing to her about Lariat having had some of the money. That was something which he intended to keep very much to himself.
Bitterly got off the bus at Lancaster Gate and telephoned Diane. She was in and he arranged to meet her in a quarter of an hour at the café near Lonsford Road Tube Station. This done, He continued his journey on foot. Ten minutes' time found him turning into the little café.
A few minuter after that Diane arrived. Bitterly, watching her walk into the place, looking at her with eyes that saw somebody whom he loved rather than the figure of a woman who was merely an acquaintance in a difficult situation, marvelled at her equanimity. She came towards him with the usual little smile playing about the corners of her mouth. He got up.
"Sorry to bother you again, Diane," he said.
She laughed. "Don't worry about that, Michael. I like talking to you. What's happened? Have you got some more information for me? Has anybody found anything fresh about this thing? Do you still believe that I'm a murderess?"
"I've never believed that you were a murderess, Diane," he said, "although I must say that I believe you are holding out on me somehow or somewhere. Anyhow, I wanted to see you. I haven't seen you for days and I was worrying a little about you. I am very fond of you, you know, Diane," he continued with a smile.
She laughed again. "I'm delighted to hear that, Michael," she said. "I need friends, especially nice, strong, reliable people like you. By the way, you haven't, by any chance, seen that brother of mine, have you? I'm worried about him."
Bitterly played for time.
"Now, why should I?" he asked. "You know, Herbert and I haven't got a great deal in common."
She laughed again loudly.
"I never thought that," she said. "In point of fact, I don't think that there are two people more different in the world than you and Herbert. You are the very opposites of each other, aren't you? He's weak and foolish and rather conceited and you're usually quiet and I should say"—she smiled mischievously—"very grim and very determined. But I am worried about Herbert. You know, he makes an awful ass of himself if he's got any money."
Bitterly raised his eyebrows. "And has he got any money?" he asked casually.
"Oh, yes," said Diane. "He's got the—for him—large sum of £15/13/6. He backed a winner yesterday. If I know anything of him he'll spend the whole lot to-night, probably on some rather indifferent female acquaintance."
Bitterly's heart beat a little quicker.
"That was a pretty good bet for Herbert, wasn't it?" he asked.
She nodded. "It wasn't his fault," she said. "Charles got a tip from his commercial traveller friend, Mr. Bardon. It was what they call a 'long shot'—an outsider—and, for once, it won."
"I see," said Bitterly, preparing himself for more shocks. "Did Charles back it, too?"
"I believe he did," she answered, "but only for very little. Herbert was terribly afraid yesterday that Charles might not have put the money on after all."
She laughed at the recollection. "The relief on Herbert's face when Charles appeared with his winnings was a sight for the gods," she said.
Bitterly, stealing a few seconds to think, lit a cigarette. Here was more mystery. So the Bardella banknote had come from Charles. Bitterly thanked his stars that he had not asked Diane the question, that the information had come to him of her own volition. So Charles had backed the horse, Charles had drawn the winnings and had paid Herbert his share with one of Bardella's banknotes. He thought quickly. One thing was obvious. He had got to talk to Charles. He gave her a cigarette and lit it.
"How is Charles?" he asked. "What's he doing this evening?"
She blew a little smoke ring and watched it sail across the room.
"He's very well," she said. "At least, as well as he ever is. Charles has a complex that he's bearing the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, and, as for what he's doing, to-night's one of his busy nights, He has to stay late at the garage tonight. He takes it in turns every other Sunday."
She looked at him again and Bitterly could detect the spark of mischief in her eyes.
"Don't tell me you're concerned about Charles, Michael," she said. "The next thing you'll be telling me is that you like him."
Bitterly grinned. "I wouldn't tell you that," he said. "To tell you the honest truth, I don't think a lot of Charles. But I like to think as much as I can of him merely because he happens to be your husband, which I think," he added, "is rather a pity. But, to be serious for a moment: tell me how is Charles taking all this business; this business about Lariat, I mean? Surely he must realise something is afoot. Have you or Herbert let him know that I'm particularly interested in this thing?"
Diane considered for a moment. "Charles is being definitely strange, for him," she said. "Oh, he knows you're snooping about on the case, of course; but probably he thinks you're doing that merely as a news-editor. I must say that I don't quite understand his attitude. He's never even mentioned it. Of course, Charles doesn't know that the man who was found on the bricks was Lariat; still, knowing Charles' liking for the macabre, I should have thought that he would have taken a great interest in the thing. No... he's very detached... extraordinarily detached and so—also for some unknown reason—is his mother."
"So she's back again," said Bitterly.
Diane nodded. "Yes... very much so; she came back this morning."
"And hasn't she discussed the local scandal—the Lariat business?" he asked.
"Not one word," replied Diane. "In point of fact, I wondered whether Charles hadn't found out, in some way or other, that the man was Lariat. Yet how could he? No one, except ourselves and Herbert, can know who he was; but Charles' very silence on the matter is suspicious. Every time I look at him or his mother I have a vague idea that they're trying to spare my feelings—and please can I have some coffee? You've forgotten to ask me if I want some. You're much too interested in finding things out, aren't you, Michael, to worry about my coffee?"
They laughed together and Bitterly ordered the coffee. Watching her as she drank it, being near to her, he found it an effort not to tell her in his odd, direct way, just what she meant to him, of his discovery that he loved her. But he dismissed the thought immediately. There was a great deal to be done first.
They shook hands and he watched her as she walked down the Crescent into the shadows. Then, after a moment, he turned and walked quickly back to the tube station. He was going to find Charles.
CHAPTER XIII Sunday, November 12, 10.30 p.m.
STANDING at the entrance to the garage, Bitterly could see the white wall at the far end and, in one corner, the big, lighted window behind which, at the desk, the sleek, red hair of Charles could be discerned. Bitterly walked quickly through the garage yard and tapped on the office window.
Charles looked up; then he saw Bitterly and smiled his usual peculiar smile. Always Charles laughed, or smiled, or looked pleasant. Bitterly had had the impression that he was entirely mirthless; that, to him, a smile was a mere alteration of the features without any of the good humour or good fellowship which should accompany it.
Charles, who was writing, threw down his pen, walked to the door, opened it and stood there waiting for Bitterly.
"Good evening, Charles," Bitterly said, as he stepped into the office.
Charles grinned.
"You look wet," he said. "I wonder what it can be that brings the great Michael Bitterly to see me on such a nasty night? Don't tell me I'm news!"
He grinned again.
As Bitterly undid and shook his raincoat, a definite idea came to him, an idea that Charles was, in some way, prepared, that Bitterly's appearance was not entirely unexpected. By this time Charles had returned to his desk and, fumbling in a drawer, produced two or three rather bent and generally bedraggled cigarettes. One of these he handed to Bitterly. The journalist lit it and looked at Charles through a cloud of smoke.
"Congratulations on your win, Charles," he said. "I was glad to hear from Herbert that both of you had cleaned up. I didn't know you were such an expert in horse-racing."
Charles did not answer. He looked at Bitterly with something very akin to a stare on his face. He sucked at his cigarette, which was hanging at the corner of his mouth. Watching him, Bitterly could see something which looked like caution come into his eyes. It was as if Charles were expecting some trouble and was prepared for it.
"Now, don't tell me that you've come all this way to talk to me about that," he said.
Through the smoke Bitterly could see his eyes gleaming a little, rather like the eyes of an animal. His expression had changed. He seemed a little more at ease. He began to look as if he were rather enjoying himself. So Charles was being clever, was he? thought Bitterly. Well, two could play at that game.
"Oh, I don't know, Charles," he said. "Why shouldn't I come round here to congratulate you on your win? Besides I might have an ulterior interest. We writers are always supposed to have some hidden motive, you know."
Charles nodded.
"That's as may be," he said sarcastically. "But, you know, Bitterly, I've got a lot of work to do. I hope you're not going to keep me too long talking about this win. By the way, where did you hear about it? Did Diane tell you?"
The sneer deepened. Bitterly lied easily.
"Oh, dear, no," he said, "just a little bird; maybe, Herbert himself; maybe somebody else. I'm sorry you're so busy, Charles, but I want to talk to you, and don't take me too seriously when I say it's for your own good."
Charles turned on his revolving chair. Bitterly thought that he could detect a tenseness about his mouth. At the same time, there came to him a feeling that he was now rather in charge of the situation. Somehow, there was conveyed to him an idea that Charles was rather frightened of something. He seemed less cocksure.
And this feeling gave Bitterly a definite sense of moral superiority. He threw away the end of the battered cigarette and produced a fresh one from his case, which he lit. Bitterly took his time over everything that he did toward lighting the cigarette, rather in the manner of a professional pugilist who likes to keep his opponent waiting in the ring. Eventually, he spoke.
"You know, Charles," he said, "I've been wanting to come and see you for two of three days, because there are one or two things that I think you ought to know, things which may be of importance to you. As you're so busy, I won't waste any time. It's about this man who was found dead at the bottom of your Crescent."
Charles looked up. Bitterly saw he was still smiling.
"Well, what's it got to do with me?" he asked quickly.
"I don't know," said Bitterly. "You see, Charles, it may have nothing to do with you. On the other hand, it may have a great deal to do with you. I think I ought to be candid with you, Charles. Have you ever heard the name Lariat?"
Bitterly stopped speaking. He was watching the other like a cat. Charles said nothing. He licked his lips. Bitterly know that he was thinking, or rather trying to think, quickly trying to make up his mind as to what he should say. Bitterly, with a certain Machiavellian joy, saved him the trouble.
"Well, never mind, Charles," he said. "It's really not of great importance at the moment, except that I think you ought to know that the unidentified man who was found dead on those bricks was Vincent Lariat, the same individual who, I believe, caused you a certain amount of trouble twelve years ago in Ceylon."
