XXXVIII
The Arrest of Thalia
It was the seventh day following the meeting of the Cabinet, and, so far from agreeing with the terms of the Crimson Circle, the Government had made it known, in the most unmistakable terms, that it refused to deal with the Circle or its emissaries.
That afternoon Mr. Raphael Willings prepared for a visitor. His house in Onslow Gardens was one of the show places of the country. His collection of antique armour and swords, his priceless intaglios and his rare prints were without equal in the world. But he had no thought of his visitor’s antiquarian interests when he made his preparations, and he was less deterred than stimulated by a confidential document which had come to him, intimating in plain language the character which Thalia Drummond bore.
Thief she might be—well, she could take any sword in the armoury, any print on the wall, the rarest intaglio among his show cases, so long as she was pleasant and complacent.
When Thalia came she was admitted by a foreign-looking footman and remembered that Raphael Willings had only Italian servants in the house.
Warily she surveyed the room into which she was ushered. There were open windows at each end—which surprised her. She had expected to find a little tête-à-tête tea table. That was missing, and yet in this room was the cream of his collection, as she could see at a glance.
Willings came in a few seconds later, and greeted her warmly.
“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die; perhaps today,” he said melodramatically. “Have you heard the news?”
She shook her head.
“I am the newest victim of the Crimson Circle,” he said gaily enough. “You probably read the newspapers, and know all about that famous company. Yes,” he went on with a laugh, “of all my colleagues I have the honour to be the first chosen for sacrifice; pour encourager les autres.”
She could not help wondering how, in these circumstances, Ralph Willings could preserve so unruffled a mien.
“As the tragedy is due to occur in this house some time this afternoon,” he was continuing, “I must ask you to extend your kindness—”
There was a tap at the door, and a servant came in to say something in Italian, which the girl did not understand.
Raphael nodded.
“My car is at the door, if you would honour me, we will have tea at my little place in the country. We shall be there in half-an-hour.”
This was a development she had not looked for.
“Where is your little place in the country,” she asked.
It was, he explained, between Barnet and Hatfield, and expatiated on the loveliness of Hertfordshire.
“I prefer to have tea here,” she said, but he shook his head.
“Believe me, my dear young lady,” he said earnestly, “the threat of the Crimson Circle distresses me not at all. Onslow Gardens is ‘paradise enow’ with so delightful a guest, but the police have been to see me this afternoon, and have changed all my plans. I told them that I had a friend coming to tea, and they suggested a more public rendezvous. The police, however, quite approve of my alternative scheme. Now, Miss Drummond, you are not going to spoil a very happy afternoon? I owe you a thousand apologies, but I shall be very disappointed if you refuse: I have sent two of my servants down to have everything in readiness, and I hope to be able to show you one of the loveliest little houses within a hundred miles of London.”
She nodded.
“Very well,” she said, and when he had gone, she strolled through the room examining its fascinating contents with every appearance of interest.
He came back wearing his greatcoat, and found her looking at a section of the wall which was covered with beautiful examples of the Eastern swordmaker’s art.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they? I’m so sorry I can’t explain the history of them,” he said, and then in a changed tone: “Who has taken the Assyrian dagger?”
There was undoubtedly a blank space in the wall where a weapon had hung, and a little label beneath the empty space was sufficient to call attention to its absence.
“I was wondering the same thing,” said the girl.
Mr. Willings frowned.
“Perhaps one of the servants have taken it down,” he suggested. “Though I have given them strict instructions that they are not to be cleaned except under my personal directions.” He hesitated, and then: “I’ll see about that when I come back,” he said, and he ushered her out of the room into the waiting limousine.
She could see that the loss of his precious trophy had disturbed him, for some of his animation had departed.
“I can’t understand it,” he said as they were passing through Barnet. “I know the dagger was there yesterday, because I was showing it to Sir Thomas Summers. He is keenly interested in Eastern steel work. None of the servants would dare touch the swords.”
“Perhaps you’ve had strangers in the room.”
He shook his head.
“Only the gentleman from police headquarters,” he said, “and I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have taken it. No, it is a little mystery which we can put on one side at the moment.”
For the rest of the journey he was attentive, polite, and mildly amusing. Not once did he give the slightest hint that he entertained any other emotion towards her than that of a well-bred man for a respected guest.
He had not exaggerated the charms of his “little place” on the Hatfield Road. In truth, it lay nearly three miles from the main road, and was delightfully situated in the midst of rolling and wooded country.
“Here we are,” he said, as he led her through a panelled hall into an exquisitely decorated little drawing-room.
Tea was laid, but there was no servant in sight.
“And now, my dear,” said Willings, “we are alone, thank heaven.”
His tone, his very manner had changed, and the girl knew that the critical moment was at hand. Yet her hand did not tremble as she filled the teapot from the steaming kettle, seemingly oblivious to all that he was saying. She had poured out the tea and was setting his cup in its place, when, without preliminary, he stooped over her and kissed her; another second, and she was in his arms.
She did not struggle, but her grave eyes were fixed steadfastly on his, and she said quietly:
“I have something I’d like to say to you.”
“Well, you can say anything you wish, my dear,” said the amorous Willings, holding her tightly, and looking into her unflinching eyes.
Before she could speak again his mouth was against hers. She tried to get her arm between them, and to exercise the jujitsu trick she had learnt at school, but he knew something of that science. She had seen on entering the room that at one end was a curtained recess, and toward this he was half-lifting, half-carrying her. She did not scream, indeed, to Raphael, she seemed more yielding than he had dared to hope. Twice she tried to speak, and twice he stopped her. She struggled nearer and nearer to the curtained brocade. …
The two Italian servants were in the kitchen which was somewhat removed from the room, but they heard the scream and looked at one another, and then with one accord they flew into the hall. The door of the drawing-room was unlocked: they flung it open. Near by the curtain Raphael Willings lay on his face, three inches of Assyrian dagger in his shoulder, and standing by him, staring down at him was a white-faced girl.
One of the men jerked the dagger from his master’s back, and lifted him groaning to a sofa, whilst the other rushed to the telephone. In his agitation the Italian who was endeavouring to staunch the flow of blood from the wound, jabbered unintelligibly at the girl, but she did not hear him, and would not have understood him if she had.
Like one in a dream she walked slowly from the room, through the hall, and into the open.
Raphael Willings’s car was drawn up some distance from the front of the house, and the chauffeur had left it unattended.
She looked round; there was nobody in sight; then all her energies awakened, and she sprang into the driver’s seat and pressed the plug of the starter. With a whine and a splutter the engines started up, and she sent the car flying down the drive—but here was an obstacle. The iron gates at the end were closed, and she remembered that the chauffeur had had to get down to unlock them. There was no time to be lost. She backed the car, then sent it full speed at the gates. There was a smashing of glass, a crash as the gates broke, and she was in the road with a damaged radiator, lamps twisted beyond recognition, and a mudguard that hung in shreds. But the car was moving, and she set it spinning in the direction of London.
The hall porter of the flats in which she lived did not recognise her, she looked so wild and changed.
“Aren’t you well, miss?” he asked as he took her up in the lift.
She shook her head.
Once behind the door of her flat she went straight to the telephone and gave a number, and to the man who answered, she poured forth such a wild, incoherent story, a story so punctuated by sobs, that he found it difficult to discover exactly what had happened.
“I’m through, I’m through,” she gasped. “I can do no more! I will do no more! It was horrible, horrible!”
She hung up the receiver, and staggered to her room, feeling that she was going to faint unless she took tight hold of herself; hours passed before she was normal.
And it was in that condition that Mr. Derrick Yale found her when he called that evening—her old calm, insolent self.
“This is an unexpected honour,” she said coolly, “and who is your friend?”
She looked at the man who was standing behind Yale.
“Thalia Drummond,” said Yale sternly. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Again?” she raised her eyebrows. “I seem always to be in the hands of the police. What is the charge?”
“Attempted murder,” said Yale. “The attempted murder of Mr. Raphael Willings. I caution you that what you now say may be taken down, and used in evidence against you.”
The second man stepped forward and took her arm.
Thalia Drummond spent that night in the cells of Marylebone Police Station.