Complete works of peter.., p.451
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 451
There was a pause; then...
"What do you mean by that?" she asked. "If you think that I'm going to answer your silly questions because you threaten me, let me tell you that you're wrong—quite wrong."
"That's all right, Bardella," said Bitterly. "Don't you bother your head about questions.
"I've not rung up to ask any questions at all. I rang up to tell you one or two things. Would you be interested to know that I've discovered where some of your £100 went, the sum you were so secretive about this morning?"
Bitterly heard a gasp from the other end of the telephone. There was a long pause. Then, in a voice which was obviously shaky, Bardella spoke.
"I don't understand," she stammered.
Bitterly took advantage of the situation. "Look here, Bardella," he said, "this thing's getting pretty serious, and if you're not careful you're going to find yourself involved in a very nasty business. Don't you think that the best thing you can do is to tell me the truth?"
There was another pause. Bitterly was quick to take advantage of Bardella's hesitancy.
"Now, look here, my dear," he said, "take a tip from me. I think there's going to be a great deal of trouble over this Lariat business, and I think that if you're not careful you may easily be involved in it. I'm not suggesting for one moment," he continued, "that you've done anything which you consider to be wrong, but you know, Bardella, people often do things innocently, but other people get entirely mistaken impressions as to their motives. Now, supposing we talk this thing over again. Don't you think that it would be a good idea? Don't you think that you would be wise to put all your cards on the table?"
There was another pause.
Then Bardella spoke shortly. "Well, when?" she asked.
Bitterly grinned. It looked as if things were coming his way.
"There's no time like the present, Bardella," he said. "Why not put some clothes on and I'll meet you outside your flat in a quarter of an hour. I can do that easily in a cab. Then we'll go somewhere and have some coffee and talk things over. I know this sounds pressing, but, for your own sake, I think you ought to know just what is happening. I'll come over right away."
"Very well," said Bardella, "I'll be waiting for you outside. But you'd better make it half an hour. I've got to get dressed."
She clicked back the receiver. Bitterly breathed a sigh of relief. Once he got the information that he desired from Bardella, once he knew to whom she had given that money, then he could trace its further progress into the hands of Charles and Lariat. He felt definitely elated. Pausing only to fill and light a pipe, he seized his hat and went downstairs.
TWENTY-FIVE minutes afterwards found him walking up and down the deserted pavement outside the main entrance which led to Bardella's flat. But here Bitterly had ample time for cool reflection, for the minutes passed and there was no sign of Bardella.
Eventually, having waited fifteen minutes, he walked upstairs and tapped on the outside door of the flat. There was no reply.
An idea seized Bitterly and he cursed himself for a fool. Bardella had made it half an hour not because she wanted to get some clothes on, but because she wanted to cut her stick and run. Bardella was frightened; that had been obvious on the telephone, and, like a fool, he had deliberately led her into believing that he knew more than he actually did in the hope of making her talk.
After another minute's wait Bitterly tried the handle. The door was open. Inside, in the tiny hall, the light was on. Looking through the door into the sitting room, Bitterly could see dimly that Bardella's desk was in a state of confusion. Through the other door, leading to the bedroom, he could see the flung-back bedclothes, the open drawers and the general confusion which exists in a room when somebody has packed quickly. Bitterly whistled to himself.
He walked into the sitting room and switched on the light. The waste-paper basket was filled with hurriedly torn up correspondence. Stuck on the mantelpiece in front of the clock was an envelope. It was addressed to the caretaker. The flap was not stuck down and Bitterly opened in and read the note inside. In a few terse words Bardella had informed the caretaker that she was going away for an indefinite period and that any letters were to be forwarded to her care of her bank. So that was that. Rather than talk Bardella had run away.
Bitterly slumped down into a chair and refilled his pipe. What the devil was he to do now? Just when there had been a chance of really finding out something definite he had thrown it away simply by being in too great a hurry. He got up and made his way back into the hall. He thought that it might be a good idea to search the flat, that he might possibly come across a clue of some sort, but a moment's reflection told him that Bardella was not such a fool as to leave anything incriminating about the place. She had too much brains for that. Besides she would guess that he would come up to the flat and look around when he discovered that she had not kept her appointment outside. He stepped out of the hall and was just about to close it behind him when he heard the telephone in the bedroom ring. He slipped back, crossed the hall, and ran to the instrument.
"Hallo," said Bitterly quietly.
"Exchange speaking," came the reply. It was the telephone operator. "Do you still want that number?"
Bitterly thought quickly. So Bardella had wanted a number, had telephoned, obviously, after he had spoken to her on the telephone. The number which she had wanted had been engaged or unobtainable at the time and she had asked exchange to ring her. But she had been unable to wait for it: she had been afraid that she would run into him. Bitterly softened his voice.
"Yes, please, exchange," he said. "I'll have the number now."
He waited. After a few moments a voice spoke. Bitterly started. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Charles!
But he had to make certain.
"Who are you, please?" he asked.
"This is the Associated Garage Company," replied the voice.
Bitterly quietly replaced the receiver.
So it was Charles! Bardella had telephoned Charles—or, rather, had tried to telephone him and had then cleared off because she had been afraid to face the interview with Bitterly.
He knocked out his pipe in the fireplace and switched off the light in the bedroom, which had been on when he had arrived. Then he walked slowly downstairs. Outside, after a moment's indecision, he turned his steps in the direction of his rooms. For a moment he had been tempted to go round to the garage office once more to see Charles and to use any sort of threats in order to get the truth out of him, but obviously this idea was useless.
There was not the slightest doubt in Bitterly's mind that Charles' story of the interview on Monday with Lariat was nothing but lies. It was becoming more and more obvious that there was something afoot—something ominous.
For the first time there came to Bitterly's mind an idea that, perhaps, Diane was in some sort of danger; that something else might happen. But by the time that he had reached home he had regained his usual coolness. Nothing was going to be gained by getting excited or hurrying things. Whatever he had discovered had been the result of coolness and decision. He would carry on along the same lines.
Walking up and down his sitting room he concentrated his mind on Charles. There was an increasing tendency in his mind to connect Lariat's death directly with the meeting that he had had with Charles on the Monday before. Bitterly thought that if only he could ascertain exactly what had happened at that interview the whole business might become fairly easy.
He wondered if there had been any truth at all in Charles' story—in anything he had said. After all, with reference to Charles' movements on Friday night—the night of the death—there was only Charles' word for them. Supposing be had not seen Bardon, the commercial traveller, on that night; supposing that was a lie, too...
Bitterly picked up the telephone directory and began to look through the Bardons. Eventually he found the number—Erasmus Bardon—he remembered Herbert joking, a long time ago, about the strangeness of the name. And, as he found the telephone number Bitterly experienced a slight shock. For Bardon's address was No. 1, Derham Crescent; that would be the opposite end—the Lonsford Road end of the Crescent, and on the opposite side of the road to the Vallery flat.
For some unknown reason Bitterly felt amazed that Bardon should live in the same road. He had always imagined him living somewhere in the country. Well, he was going to talk to Bardon.
He looked at his watch. It was 12.30; pretty late for making appointments, but there was also more chance of finding his man in. He walked over to the telephone and rang the number. Two minutes afterwards he was speaking to Bardon, and five minutes after that—having persuaded the traveller that his business was urgent—Bitterly was walking rapidly round to No. 1, Derham Crescent.
CHAPTER XV Monday, November 13, 12.45 a.m.
ON his way to Derham Crescent Bitterly found himself wondering at the casualness with which Bardon had received his telephone message. He had not seemed at all surprised and had contented himself with saying he would be very glad to see Bitterly and would he come round?
Having regard to the fact that the latter had said nothing beyond the fact that he wished to see the commercial traveller rather urgently, it seemed a trifle strange. Vaguely, it appeared that Bardon might have been expecting such a telephone call, despite the lateness of the hour—a surprising attitude.
This surprise, however, was dispelled considerably by the appearance of Bardon, when, in response to Bitterly's ring, he opened the door of No. 1, Derham Crescent. He was a tall, broad and florid man, radiating good humour and joviality—a veritable outsize in Mr. Pickwicks, Bitterly thought. His rotund body was enveloped in a plaid dressing gown, in one hand he held a bottle of whisky and in the other a corkscrew. It was apparent to Bitterly that Bardon was one of those people who would welcome anybody at any time or in any place, providing they were prepared to be as jovial as he was.
He looked inquiringly at Bitterly and smiled.
"Come in," he said. "Make yourself at home. I don't know what you want, but anyway come in and have a drink."
He led the way into a comfortable sitting-room, motioned Bitterly to a big armchair which stood on one side of the fire and, after taking his hat and coat, poured out two immense whiskies. Apparently, thought Bitterly, Bardon was not above having a merry night with anybody.
After giving Bitterly his whisky, the commercial traveller plumped himself in the other chair.
"Well, what can I do for you?" he said, with a glance at the card which Bitterly had handed him.
The journalist was careful. First of all he knew very little about Bardon; just how friendly he was with Charles, or Bardella, for that matter, was an unknown quantity and Bitterly did not intend to give anything away that might come to the ears of any of the characters who were playing in this strange drama, which was becoming more melodramatic with every hour.
He outlined the purpose of his visit to Bardon. He pointed out that, naturally, he was out to make a newspaper story out of the death of the unknown man at the bottom of Derham Crescent; that his paper was keen, as all newspapers are, on getting a new angle, and that he was checking up purely as a matter of form on the movements of different people who might, possibly, have come in contact with this unknown man; that one of these people was Charles Vallery, who had said he spent Friday night in Bardon's company.
Again, merely as a matter of form, said Bitterly, he was checking up on this information. He paused and sipped his whisky.
"Oh, that's right enough," said Bardon. "Vallery was with me on Friday night. Funny fellow, that chap Vallery, and I must say he rather disappointed me."
Bitterly pricked up his ears.
"I didn't know that he was a disappointing sort of man," he said. "I thought he was rather a good fellow."
Bardon grinned.
"Well, that depends on what you call a good fellow," he said. "Mark you, I was very sorry for Vallery, especially after he told me his hard-luck story some months ago. You know, he used to be fairly well off at one time; had a place in Ceylon. He's got a damn pretty wife, too, I must say; I've often seen her walking up this road. It was because I was rather sorry for him that I agreed to his driving me out to Beaconsfield on Friday nights.
"You see," explained Bardon, "I live out there, but my business keeps me in town all the week, and I usually go back on Friday night for the week-end. I used to hire a car and be driven out by one of the garage men from the Associated Garages—you know, Vallery is the office clerk there—but he asked me if he might do the job; said the extra money would be very useful to him, and I agreed. But he's a strange fellow," said Bardon, "a very strange chap."
He took a gulp of whisky, looked inquiringly at Bitterly's half-full glass, and proceeded to pour himself out another drink, after which he stirred up the fire and settled back in his chair with a sigh of contentment.
It was obvious to Bitterly that Bardon was a man who liked talking, and he proceeded to encourage him.
"Of course, you know, I've known Vallery for some time myself," he said. "I thought that he was a bit strange, too. I wonder if our ideas of his strangeness agree?"
"I don't know," said Bardon; "I find him strange because I think he does extraordinary things." He frowned. "I don't like people who do extraordinary things," he said.
It seemed to Bitterly that Bardon was remembering something to Charles' disadvantage. He thought that he would like to know what this was.
"Well, he must be an odd fellow if he's annoyed you," he said, "because I should think you're the very essence of good temper. What happened? Did he run you into a telegraph pole or something last Friday?"
"Good heavens, no," said Bardon. "He didn't drive me anywhere last Friday. He was round here."
Bitterly pricked up his ears. This was beginning to be interesting.
"So you didn't go to Beaconsfield after all?" he said. "That's funny. When I was talking to Vallery he rather gave me the impression that you did."
"Nonsense," said Bardon, passing the whisky bottle to Bitterly. "That was the whole thing. I didn't go anywhere near Beaconsfield last Friday night. I stayed here and I asked him to come round. That's when he behaved so strangely."
"Really?" said Bitterly. "What did he do?"
Bardon took another gulp of whisky.
"I'll tell you," he said. "You see, it was like this. This going down to Beaconsfield on Friday nights is a regular business and this last Friday night was the first time I've ever missed going home for the weekend; but, on the Monday before, in the morning, I heard of some business that would keep me in town over the following weekend, so I telephoned through to Vallery at the garage—so as to give him lots of notice—and told him I shouldn't be needing him on the Friday night. I was a little bit sorry because I knew it would mean the loss of about fifteen shillings to him, so, to make up for it, I asked him if he'd like to come round here about nine o'clock on Friday evening and drink some really good whisky—this whisky. I'm in the whisky business, you know. He said he was sorry, but he couldn't manage it, and we let it go at that.
"However, round about a quarter to four on the Monday afternoon he rang me up at my office. He was awfully funny on the telephone—nervous or something, and his voice sounded so different that at first I had difficulty in recognising it. However, he said he'd altered his plans and he'd like very much to come round on the Friday night, but he had a job to do which would keep him busy till about half past eleven and could he come then? I said that he could. I'm a pretty late bird and I seldom go to bed before about three. I've got out of the way of it, and so I said that would be all right and I'd expect him.
"Well, he didn't turn up at eleven thirty, and I thought that he wasn't coming, but about twenty past twelve he arrived and, to my surprise, he brought his mother with him—an old, hook-nosed woman; a nasty old piece. I didn't like her a bit. I thought that was a bit funny. I'd asked him round to sample a bottle of really fine old Scotch whisky, not to have a mothers' meeting; but he explained that the old lady had just come back from the country suddenly and that he'd met her at the station.
"This seemed a bit odd to me; after all they live at the other end of the street, and I wondered why he couldn't have taken her home first and then come back to me. It would only have made him three or four minutes later, and goodness knows, he was late enough. But, anyhow, there she was.
"Well, they came in here and they both had a glass of whisky, but when I asked them to have some more they wouldn't. That surprised me a bit, because Vallery knows I'm a man who likes good spirits and good company, and I always thought he was a man who liked liquor.
"Well, we sat and talked, and I've never felt so uncomfortable in my life, with that old woman sitting bolt upright in a chair and interjecting a word here and there. Presently I got tired of it. I began to wish that they'd go, but not a bit of it. Directly Vallery stopped talking—and he seemed to be talking just for the purpose of wasting time—his old mother would go on with it. They talked about Ceylon and the war and motor-cars. I've never been so bored in my life. I really began to wonder why Vallery had come at all.
"This went on until somewhere just before two o'clock and then, for some quite unknown reason, Vallery began to take an extraordinary interest in the weather; said that he wondered if we were going to have any rain and then he wondered if it were raining then. Eventually, nothing would content him but that he must go outside and see if it were raining."
Bitterly interrupted.
"How strange. I suppose you can't remember the exact time when he went out?"
"Oh, yes I can," said Bardon, "because the clock on the mantelpiece here struck two whilst he was away."
