“Carry on,” he said; and into the transmitter: “Hallo!”
She snatched at the black disc, to hear: “That you, Gethryn?”
“Yes. Hastings?”
“Yes. I’ve done that job—”
“What did you find?” Anthony snapped, laying a reassuring hand on the white shoulder beside him. He felt that her whole body was shaking.
The telephone made meaningless cackles.
“What—”
“I said,” came a squeak of a voice, “that the man your message referred to—er—said that it was he who had pulled off that deal you were asking about.”
Anthony flashed a glance at the woman beside him. With surprise and admiration he saw that there were no signs of collapse. The hand which held the extra receiver was steady as his own, the head was held erect. Only the pallor of the face, extending even to the lips, told of the shock.
The telephone had again relapsed into mere cackling and buzzing.
Anthony gave vent to his feelings. “Blast you! Speak more clearly. Go on from where he said that it was his deal.”
“And blast ye, too, scum!” came in a hilarious wheeze. “I said that the extraordinary part of the business was that I found out that the merchant must have—cackle—cackle—bahk-bahk—”
“Hell! Repeat! What did you find out?”
“I said that the chap must have dreamed it all. I found out that he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the thing. Why on earth he thought he’d—er—put this deal through, I can’t say—unless the explanation is that he got the idea that he would do it when he began to be so ill, put in a goodish bit of brooding, and then, when it was done and he heard about it, got all mixed and thought he was really the—er—manipulator of the business. Anyway, it’s certain he couldn’t’ve had anything to do with it at all. Take it from me.”
Lucia staggered, then sank weakly into a chair, still clasping the black disc to her ear. Anthony glanced at her; saw that the colour had come flooding back to her face.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked the telephone.
“See it wet, see it dry. The man lives by himself. He’s been ill for five days. I got that from the porter of the flats. This porter told me that J. M. hasn’t been outside his front door for a week. The story’s right enough. You’ve only got to look at the chap to see he’s too ill to have been trotting about. There’s not a doubt. You disappointed?”
“God, no! Hastings, my brother, I kiss your hands. And I congratulate you. From what I know, your explanation of why J. M. thought what he did is right. But tell me, how ill is he?”
“Baddish, but by no means dying. Er—as a matter of fact, the doctor’s with him now. Severe flu, I think it is, plus old-standing shell-shock or something like that probably.”
Lucia stirred uneasily in her chair.
“Oh, the doctor’s with him, is he? Now, what doctor?” Anthony said.
“Well—er—as a matter of fact—er”—bubbled the telephone in embarrassed accents—“I—we—have taken him back to my place. D’you know the man?”
“I’m, well, interested in him.”
“Well, he’s all right now, you know. You see, we—I felt rather sorry—fellow’s seedy and no one to look after him. We felt rather that we owed him something for false suspicion, what? Hope you don’t mind my taking charge.”
“Mind? I’m very grateful! You’re an excellent man. But why the hesitancy, the embarrassment? Why all this we—I—us—we? I become aware of a rat.”
“Because I’ve done it!” roared the telephone ecstatically. “I’ve asked her. I’m going to be married. She—”
“One moment. Miss Warren, I gather?”
“Yes!” cried the telephone. “Congratulate me!”
“I pound your spirit on the back. Tell Miss Warren this is the only mistake I’ve ever known her to make. I’ll offer my felicitations in person tomorrow. Now, listen.”
“Right.”
“I want you,” said Anthony, “to come down here—you’ll find it best to do it by car—tomorrow and attend the inquest. It’s being held at the house—Abbotshall—and it begins at eleven o’clock in the morning. If you bring Miss Warren with you, please ask her whether she will take a complete shorthand note of the proceedings. If she can’t come, get an ordinary shorthand person. I’d rather she did it, of course. After the inquest go to the Bear and Key in Marling and ask for me. I shall want to pump you. Got that?”
“Very good, sergeant.”
“If you see me at the house during the inquest don’t speak to me or do anything to attract attention to me. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Goodbye, and again congratulations.” Anthony hung up the receiver.
He turned to Lucia. She lay limply in the chair. After the first wild surge of relief had come reaction.
The spare receiver had fallen from her hand. Her breast heaved as if she fought for breath.
Anthony poured whisky into a tumbler; added a little soda-water. He forced the glass into her hand.
“Drink that,” he said.
Obediently, like a child, she drank, looking up at him over the rim of the glass.
When she had finished, “Feeling better?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed gratitude. “Ever so much. Oh! you don’t know how—what a horrible, awful day I’ve had!”
“I can guess,” Anthony said.
“Oh, I know; I know you can! I didn’t mean that you—How can I ever thank you enough?”
“Thank me? Why, you know, it seems I’ve done nothing much yet except make a fool of myself running down blind alleys.”
She sprang to her feet. “Done nothing! Done nothing!” she blazed at him. “How dare you say such a thing! Why, if it hadn’t been for you and—and your cleverness I would never have known Jimmy was safe. I’d just have gone on and on thinking horrors to myself.” Suddenly all the fire died out of her. “And I think I should have died,” she added quietly.
Anthony said: “You overwhelm me. You can reward me best by allowing me to hope our acquaintance isn’t ended.”
Her eyes opened in amazement. “Why, of course!” she said. “But we’re friends already, aren’t we? At least, I am.”
Anthony was silent.
