Leslie was genuinely astonished and shook her head.
“I had no idea, and I can’t think that what you say is true,” she said. “Mr. Coldwell made no mention of any such arrest; in fact, I was spending the night at his house, and I know he had arranged—”
Anita broke into her explanation.
“He applied. Whether the warrant was granted or not, I do not know. That is one point. Another is this: you visited Greta Gurden tonight, and she told you the one thing in the world I wished that she should not tell. I know, because I saw you go in and come out of her flat, and I have seen Greta since,” she added grimly. “It isn’t necessary for me to tell you the vital information you discovered.”
“It isn’t,” said Leslie. “But I might have found that out, anyway. In fact, I should, if I’d had the sense to go straight to Dr. Wesley and ask him how long before Donald Dawlish’s death he was unconscious. I’ve always suspected that the alteration of that will was a forgery. I saw a copy of it, and I have compared it with the signature of Donald Dawlish. It would not have been very difficult to prove that the new will, which gave Mrs. Dawlish the whole of her husband’s fortune and which disinherited Peter, was a forgery from beginning to end. The doctor will, of course, prove that beyond any question. On the day he was supposed to have made the new will, Mr. Dawlish did not recover consciousness. Surely, Princess, you don’t imagine that you will get away with that! Mr. Dawlish’s lawyers have always been dissatisfied with the will that was made without consultation, and which was only proved because they could not induce Peter Dawlish to contest its validity.”
Anita Bellini made no answer to this.
“I’m chiefly concerned with myself and my own safety,” she said at last. “You’ve got to help me, and Martha must look after herself. You’ve got to help clear me. I’m going to make you a very good offer—a hundred thousand pounds.”
Leslie shook her head.
“Not all the money in the world will influence me, Princess,” she said. “How could I clear you? You talk as though I were the chief of the detective bureau and had authority to divert the processes of the law. The person you must see is Lady Raytham, whom you have blackmailed for years, and even if she were agreeable, the law requires that you shall explain the death of Annie Druze.”
“It was an accident.”
Leslie nodded.
“I know—or, rather, I guessed. But that has got to come into the light, and it cannot come into the light unless the story of the blackmail is revealed. I am willing to do this: let me walk out of your door unharmed, and the little adventure of tonight will be forgotten. I will forget your smelly Javanese; I will forget what happened last night. Tell me where I can find”—she paused—“Elizabeth Dawlish.”
“There is no such person,” said Anita harshly.
“Elizabeth Dawlish,” repeated Leslie, “Peter’s daughter.”
Princess Anita Bellini was not smoking now. She had the holder in her hand, turning it over and over and examining it critically as though she were looking for some defect.
“You’ve got to get me out of this mess, Leslie Maughan.”
Leslie rose to her feet.
“I thought you were clever,” she said, with a note of contempt in her voice. “Nothing can get you out—nothing!”
“Is that so?” Anita’s voice was soft and silky. “Do you realize, my good woman, that if I can’t get out, who has put me in—you! You’ve been prying into the history of the Druzes, have you? Ah ha!” She laughed harshly. “I know a great deal more than you imagine. And you’ve been putting the little pieces together to trap Anita—poor old Anita, eh?” She showed her big white teeth in a mirthless smile, and suddenly slipped from the divan and drew near to the girl. “Let us have a marriage feast,” she said, and clapped her hands twice.
The room was seemingly empty; yet at that signal half a dozen little men, naked to the waist, appeared as if by magic from behind the long curtains. Anita, her face swollen with rage, spluttered something in the Javanese tongue, and the squat shapes came shuffling towards her.
Leslie did not move; she stood erect, her hands by her sides, her pale face turned to the woman. Even when they seized her, she did not resist, but allowed herself to be hurried behind the fold of a curtain and through a door into a stuffy little room into which she was thrust. The door was closed on her, a lock snapped; from the other side of the door a mocking voice called her.
“Hail to the bride!”
Then a few words in the strange tongue of Java, and, answering these, the chatter of the little men’s laughter.
Leslie stooped, pulled up her skirt, and unstrapped an appendage from a garter. It was a small calibre Browning. She slipped back the jacket, forced in a cartridge and brought the catch to safety. Then she began to explore.
The appointments of the room were a little tawdry. The divan, which seemed an indispensable adjunct to every room, was old and worn; a shaded light hung from the ceiling; there were two brass dishes attached to the wall. It appeared to be the apartment of a highly favoured upper servant, and this she confirmed when she turned over the coverings of the divan and saw what was apparently a suit of native clothing.
There was a second door to the room and this she tried. Then, to her surprise and delight, she saw that there was a key on the outside. She turned this, and to her relief it opened, and she found herself in a very conventional
