XX
How Bredon Spent the Evening
Bredon had undoubtedly secured the best occupation for the evening. For two whole days he had missed the feeling of cards between his hands, and now he returned with a great hunger to his favourite pastime. True, the circumstances were not ideal. It was thoughtless of Leyland to have insisted on his sitting so close to the window; there was, fortunately, a window-seat, but not generous enough in its proportions to secure a convenient layout of the cards. The rows, instead of lying flat, had to climb over downs and gullies in the faded chintz; the result was an occasional avalanche, and a corresponding loss of temper. In an ideal world, Bredon reflected, you would have a large building like a racquet-court to play patience in, and you would wheel yourself up and down between the rows in an invalid’s chair.
There was a soft rustle at the door, and Angela came in. “Oo, I’ve been feeling so nice and stealthy,” she said. “Mr. Eames and I crept back down the lane like burglars. It was better than a cinema, I can tell you! We dodged round the privet-hedge, and came in through the back of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen. And I thought the back stairs would never stop creaking. Did you hear me coming up?”
“I can’t say I did. But you see, I was otherwise engaged. To a man like Brinkman, on the alert for every noise, your progress probably sounded like a charge of cavalry. You’re sure you shut the door properly? I need hardly say that a sudden draught would be a disaster to all my best hopes. A little knitting is indicated for you, Angela, to steady the mind.”
“Don’t you talk too much. If Brinky came out and saw your lips moving it might worry him. Remember, you’re supposed to be alone in the room. Though indeed he probably regards you as potty by now in any case, so it wouldn’t surprise him to see you talking to yourself. Words cannot depict the shame I have felt this evening at having such a lazy husband. Talk of Nero fiddling while Rome was burning!”
“Say rather, Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls. Or was it William Tell? I forget. Anyhow, this is the fine old British spirit. What’s the word? Not undaunted—imperturbable, that’s what I mean. The myrmidons of Scotland Yard bustle to and fro outside; the great detective sits calmly within, with all the strings in his hands. My nets begin to close tighter round them, Watson. Dash it all, I believe Pulteney’s let me down. Where’s his other two of spades?”
“I don’t want to be unpleasant, but you will perhaps allow me to remind you that you are supposed to be on the lookout. If Brinky comes out in front, you are to report to me. And how are you to see him, if you will go scavenging about under the window-seat like that?”
“Well, you’ll jolly well have to find my two of spades, then, while I keep an eye on the street. Fair division of labour. Watchman, what of the night? There’s going to be a jolly fine thunderstorm. Did you see that flash? I deduce that there will shortly be a slight roll of thunder. There, what did I tell you?”
“It’s not so much the innate laziness of the man,” murmured Angela, as if to herself, “it’s his self-sufficiency! Here’s your beastly two of spades; don’t lose it again. You ought to have the cards tied round your neck with a piece of string. I say, aren’t you excited? Do you think Brinky will show fight when they nab him in the garage?”
“Don’t fluster me. I wish to be secluded from the world. Here before me lies a very pretty problem, represented by two hundred and eight pieces of pasteboard. Behind that, in the dim background of my half-awake consciousness, lies a very pretty problem in detection. It is my boast that I can do both at once. But how am I to do either if women will chatter at me?”
“Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel. All right, Aunty, go on with your silly game. I’m going to knit. It doesn’t feel quite womanly to knit, somehow, with a thing like you in the room.”
There was silence for a while, as Bredon sat over his cards, with an occasional glance at the street below him. There is said to be a man who has invented a Chinese typewriter; and since (they tell us) every word in the Chinese language has its own symbol—the fault of Confucius, for not thinking of letters—the machine is said to be of the size and shape of a vast organ, and the typist runs to and fro, pulling out a stop here, pressing down a pedal there, in a whirl of activity. Not otherwise did Bredon appear when he saw the possibilities of a particular gambit in his patience; then he would sit for a while lost in thought, puzzling out combinations for the future. Below him, the street lay in an unearthly half-darkness. Lamps should not have been needed by this time on a June evening, but the thick mantle of clouds had taken away all that was left of the sun’s departing influence, and it was a twilit world that lay below. He could see a broad splash of light from the front door, and, further along, the mellower radiance diffused by the bar windows, with their drawn red blinds. From time to time a sudden flare of lightning illuminated the whole prospect, and shamed these human lights into insignificance.
“Angela,” said Bredon suddenly, without turning round, “I don’t know if it interests you at all, but a stealthy figure has crept out into the moonlight. At least, there isn’t any moonlight, but still, those irritatingly twirled moustaches, that supercilious pince-nez—can it be? It is—our old friend Brinkman. He carries a despatch-box, but no other luggage. He is passing down the street in the direction of the turning; perhaps making for the garage—who shall say? He is looking round at this window. Ha! ’tis well, I am observed. Anyhow, it’s up to you to go to the telephone this time.”
Angela’s self-possession was more of a pose. She sprang up in a hurry, dropping her knitting as she rose, and threw the door open silently but swiftly; then, as silently, as swiftly, it shut again behind her. But not before irretrievable damage had been done. The evening was full of those sudden gusts and air-currents which a thunderstorm brings with it. One of these, synchronizing with the sudden opening of the door, neatly lifted up three of the cards from the window-seat, and swept them out into the open air.
Bredon was intensely annoyed, and somewhat puzzled as to his duty. On the one hand, it was impossible to go on with the game when three cards, whose values he could not remember, were missing from a row. On the other hand, Leyland’s instructions had been explicit; he was to sit at the window without stirring. Then common sense came to his aid. After all, Brinkman was no longer in sight; even if he were still watching from the corner, he would never suspect that a movement in the room upstairs portended discovery. With a great effort Bredon heaved himself up from the chair into which he had sunk, opened the door delicately for fear of fresh draughts, and in half a minute’s time was searching before the front of the inn for his truant pasteboard.
The king of spades, good. And here was the three of diamonds. But there was one other card; he was certain of it. A friendly flash of lightning gave him a sudden snapshot of the road; Brinkman was out of sight; another figure, Eames presumably, was already making for the turning. But there was no card in the street; no deceptive fragments of paper, even, to catch the eye. He looked round, baffled. Then his eye caught the sight of an open ground-floor window, that of the “best room.” Could the fluttering runaway have dived indoors again? He put his head in through the window; there it lay, close to the occasional table with the photograph album on it. He was back through the front door in an instant, and making his way upstairs again with his prize.
“Great Scott!” he said, aloud, as he regained his room, “could that possibly be it? That would mean, of course … hang it all, what would that mean? Ah! That’s more like it.” The patience lay all round him, forgotten for the moment; his eyes sparkled, his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
When Angela came back from the telephone, she was astonished at the change that had come over her husband. He was standing on the fender with his back to the empty grate, swinging himself to and fro while he carolled a snatch from an out-of-date musical repertoire:
“All the girls began to cry, ‘Hi, hi, hi, Mister Mackay,
Take us with you when you fly back to the Isle of Skye,’ ”
were the actual words that greeted her entrance.
“Miles, dear,” she expostulated, “whatever’s the matter? Have you got it out?”
“What, the patience? No, I don’t think the patience is coming out just yet. But I’ve got a very strong suspicion that our little detective mystery is coming out. As you are up, I wonder if it would be troubling you too much to ask you to step down to Mrs. Davis and ask her if she ever cut any sandwiches for Mr. Brinkman?”
“My poor, poor dear!” said Angela; but she went. She knew the signs of a victory in her husband’s erratic deportment. He was still crooning softly to himself when she came back with her message.
“Mrs. Davis says that she doesn’t remember ever to have cut any ‘sangwiches,’ not for Mr. Brinkman she didn’t. Mr. Pulteney, now, he often takes a nice ‘sangwich’ with him when he goes out fishing. Not that she always makes them herself, because the girl cuts as nice a ‘sangwich’ as you’d wish to see. But Mr. Brinkman he didn’t order any ‘sangwiches,’ not all this week he hasn’t. That’s all the message. At least, I came away at that point.”
“Good! The case progresses. Let me call your attention to this singular absence of ‘sangwich’-cutting on the part of Mrs. Davis. Angela, I’m right on the track of the beastly thing, and you mustn’t disturb me.”
“Have you really worked it all out?”
“No, not quite all; but I’m in the sort of stage where the great detective says, ‘Good God, what a blind bat I have been!’ As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve been a blind bat at all. On the contrary, I think it’s dashed clever of me to have got hold of the thing now. It’s more than you have.”
“Miles, you’re not to be odious. Tell me all about it, and I’ll see what I think of you.”
“Who was it laughed at me for staying at home and playing patience while other people did the work? No, you shan’t hear about it; besides I haven’t fitted it all together yet.”
“Well, anyhow, you might tell me whether you’ve won the forty quid or lost it.”
“Not a word shall you get out of me at present.”
“Then I’ll make Mr. Leyland arrest you and torture you with thumbscrews. By the way, I wonder what Mr. Leyland’s doing? Brinky must have got to the garage by now, and I should have thought he would have brought him straight back here.”
“The garage? Oh, yes. At least, wait a minute. … Of course, now I come to think of it, there’s no real reason to suppose that Brinkman meant to take the car out at all.”