Hue and Cry Read online

  It may be said at once that the voice was not a tuneful one. It was, however, hearty, and burst upon Mally with the loud suddenness of a base trombone.

  “Just a song at twilight,” bellowed the voice. There was a loud hammering sound and a pause. Mally suspected that the singer’s mouth was performing the more useful office of holding nails. After a moment music again held sway.

  “Just a song at twilight,

  When the lights are low—Oh damn!

  And the whispering shadows

  Softly come and go.

  When the heart is weary, (this very robustly)

  Sad the day and long,

  Then to us at twilight (bang, bang, thud)

  Comes love’s sweet song—Blast that nail!—

  Love’s old swee-ee-eet song.”

  The hammer dropped with a crash.

  Mally jumped up and began to shake the hay off her. The open hatch lay on the right. The sound certainly did not come from there. Half the loft was full of hay, but the rest lay bare and dusty and rather dark.

  She crossed into the darkest corner, and saw a door in the long wall facing the hatch. Behind the door there arose the sound of sawing and the sound of song:

  “Once in the dear dead days beyond recall

  (crunch, creak, buzz)—

  When on the—’m—the umpty-umpty-um

  Out of the—’m—that umpty-umpty throng,

  Low to my heart love sang his old sweet

  song—Oh, drat!”

  Mally turned the handle and pushed very gently. She began doing this whilst the singer was rendering the “umpty-umpty-ums” fortissimo and with a good deal of soulful expression.

  Three steps led down from the door into a bright, bare garret with two windows. The room itself contained a carpenter’s bench, a heap of scrap iron, a pile of wire netting, a great many odds and ends of wood, tools, shavings, and a very large young man engaged in making something that might have been either a hen-coop or a rabbit-hutch.

  Mally surveyed him with interest. She had an entirely irrational feeling that a young man who sang out-of-date sentimental ditties so very loudly, cheerfully, and unmelodiously must be absolutely chockfull of the solid qualities which make you feel that you can trust people even if you have never seen them before.

  The young man was very large; the hands that held the saw were an outsize in hands. His hair was black and inclined to stand on end. He had his back to Mally, so that all she saw of him was feet, hands, sunburned neck, black hair, and very old tweeds. A wisp of a furry gray kitten sat on his left shoulder and rubbed its head up and down against his ear. It was doubtless purring, but the tiny sound was swamped by “Love’s old sweet song.”

  Mally came through the door, shut it behind her, stood on the top step, and said, “Who are you?”

  The young man stopped sawing, turned slowly, and disclosed a cheerful, ugly, bewildered face. Mally saw that his skin would have been very white if it hadn’t been so burned; also that he had gray eyes, a turned-up nose, and a perfectly enormous mouth. He gazed at her, and Mally repeated her question, whilst the kitten stopped purring and arched its back.

  “Who are you?”

  The young man went on staring. When he saw Mally’s foot begin to tap the step, he said hastily:

  “Ethan Messenger.”

  “What?”

  “Messenger—Ethan. It gives every one the pip at first, but they get used to it. Er—won’t you come in?”

  “I am in.”

  “I mean down—won’t you come down?”

  Mally came down as though reluctantly. He was so very large. Being three steps up gave one a sort of moral advantage. She understood exactly why the kitten preferred his shoulder to the floor.

  Ethan Messenger was not stupid. It had really occurred to him at once that it was he who should have asked, “Who are you?” He looked at Mally and saw her crumpled clothes and the hay that stuck to them. In one hand she held a little black felt hat. Her short brown hair was wildly ruffled and had authentic straws in it. Her eyes reminded him of the kitten on his shoulder before he had made friends with it; they were bright, wary, alert. The kitten at his first advances had spat, scratched, and fled.

  He wasn’t quite sure whether he dared ask his question. Then it struck him that, under its defiance, this little crumpled creature was most forlornly pale.

  “I say, what can I do for you?” he said, and got up.

  “I don’t know.”

  The kitten rubbed its head against his ear again. Mally could hear it purring now; and as the kitten rubbed, she saw the big young man with the queer name put up one of those outsized hands and ruffle the little creature’s gray fur with an enormous, gentle finger. She had an impulse, and followed it without an instant’s hesitation.

  “I’m running away from the police,” she said. “My name is Mally Lee.”

  Then she did a thing which it enraged her to think about afterwards. She saw his lips pursed up to whistle; she saw his look of blank dismay—and she burst into tears.

  “How dare you!” she said, and sat down on the bottom step.

  “I—I didn’t do anything.”

  “You did!” said Mally, groping for a handkerchief.

  “Oh, I say, for the Lord’s sake don’t cry.”

  “I’m not c-crying.” The tears rushed down her cheeks. “I’m not. I never do.”

  Ethan produced a clean, folded handkerchief, approached cautiously, laid it on Mally’s knee, and withdrew to a safe distance.

  Mally dried her eyes, pinched herself, dried them again with angry determination, and said:

  “Why don’t you go and find the police—and give me up—and take me to prison—and——”

  “Why should I? I say, how on earth did you get here?”

  Mally relaxed a little.

  “I came in a car.”

  “When?”

  “In the night. I went to sleep in the back of it—in the garage—in London. And he drove all the way down and never knew I was there.” She gave a little laugh, and the wet eyes twinkled. “I don’t know who he is, and I don’t know where I am. I got into the hay-loft because I was so cold. Who is he, and where am I?”

  “You’re at Peddling Corner, in Surrey. This is Sir Charles Lennox’s place. You must have come down in Marrington’s car.”

  “Who’s Marrington?”

  “Lawrence Marrington—no end of a big bug—explorer—Aztecs and things. He’s staying here. He dined in town last night—some function or another.”

  “Lennox? But your name isn’t Lennox.”

  He laughed, a loud jolly laugh.

  “I’m only a visitor. Lady Lennox is a sort of umpteenth cousin. I’m on leave.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  “I don’t live anywhere. I say, do you mean that about the police?”

  She gave a queer little decided nod; a bright belated tear fell on her dark sleeve.

  “I say, why on earth——”

  “I d-don’t know.”

  “What on earth have you done?”

  Mally’s chin came up about an inch. She looked, and said nothing.

  “Look here, that’s all very well, but what do they think you’ve done?”

  Mally put her chin in her hand. Her expression changed. She said, in quite a different voice, “I don’t know—I don’t.” Then quite suddenly she smiled; her lashes flickered; an imp danced in her eyes. “I’m so frightfully hungry.”

  “Hungry?”

  “I’ve only had ginger biscuits since yesterday at lunch. I ate the last four when I woke up. I feel dreadfully thin. I expect you’d better go for the police.”

  Ethan took a banana out of his pocket.

  “I’ve got this. We were going to give it to the rabbit.”

  “We?”

  “Bunty Lennox and I. She got the rabbit yesterday at an awful bazaar, and I said I’d make it a hutch. Why do people have bazaars? D’you know, we were there for two solid hours.
And everybody was selling things to everybody else, and then raffling ’em and selling ’em all over again. The rabbit was sold eight times. But when it came to Bunty she howled and froze on it, and went on howling till her mother took her home. And I promised to make it a hutch. She’ll be up here as soon as she’s done her lessons. The rabbit’s in the parrot’s cage till I get the hutch done.”

  Mally finished the banana and laid the skin neatly on the floor, and at that moment somebody laughed outside. The sound floated in through the open window.

  Mally gave a gasp. It was impossible. It was quite impossible. But she got to her feet.

  “Who’s that?” in a breathless undertone.

  Ethan Messenger did not answer. He went over to the window and stood there blocking it.

  Mally, one hand on his arm, pushed him an inch aside and peeped. He felt, rather than heard her catch her breath.

  The window looked out on the vegetable garden. There was a path running up the middle. There were two men walking up the path.

  One of them was Mr. Paul Craddock.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The appearance of Mr. Craddock was due neither to coincidence nor miracle. It must be conceded that Paul was efficient, and that not only was he efficient, but that he had the capacity for taking pains which amounts to genius.

  Mr. Alfred Dawson had had orders to report at dawn. He found Mr. Craddock extremely disinclined to accept his account of Miss Lee’s disappearance. Before he knew where he was, he was being conveyed swiftly to the spot where he had last seen her; and the moment Mr. Craddock set eyes on the red garage door he lost his temper and used language very injurious to Alfred Dawson’s self-esteem. Most of what he said was unprintable. And he continued to say it with remarkable fluency and ease during the interval which elapsed whilst the manager of the garage was sending for the young man who had been on duty the night before.

  Mr. Craddock went sharply to work with the young man; a large tip, some rapid questions, and he had elicited what he had come to find out.

  1. The young man had stepped out to have a breath of air and to look at the weather.

  2. It might have been half-past ten, or it might have been elevenish.

  3. A gentleman who had left his car there about seven o’clock had come back for it somewhere about midnight.

  4. It was a Wolseley four-seater. (Floods of technical details firmly checked.)

  5. Yes, he knew the gentleman—recognized him at once—portrait in the Mail.

  6. It was Mr. Lawrence Marrington, the explorer.

  7. No other car had gone out whilst he was on duty.

  8. No, he hadn’t seen any young lady.

  Having turned the young man inside out, Paul Craddock had a few more caustic words for Alfred.

  “See the man who came on when this fellow went off. Get particulars of every car that went out. If we don’t get on to Miss Lee to-day, we shall take the matter out of the hands of your firm.”

  Mr. Lawrence Marrington’s whereabouts being public property, it will be seen that Mr. Craddock’s arrival at Peddling Corner requires no further explanation.

  To Mally, looking from the window, it was the sort of thing that doesn’t happen unless you are having a bad dream. She pinched Ethan Messenger as hard as she could, and pulled him away from the window.

  “Don’t, don’t let him! Oh, don’t!”

  Ethan looked at her gravely.

  “Who do you mean? Paul Craddock?”

  Mally flung out her hands.

  “You know him? Oh!” It was a cry of angry despair.

  “He’s a sort of cousin. As a matter of fact, I loathe him. Look here, it’s all right—if you don’t want to see him, you shan’t. I’m not talking.”

  Mally breathed an “Oh!” of pure relief. Then she said “S’sh!” ran up the three steps that led to the loft, turned, kissed her hand, and was gone.

  The door shut without a sound. On the other side of it she stood and made a plan. She would stay by the door just like this. If any one came up the ladder to the loft, she would slip through into the workshop. If they came through from the workshop, she must dive into the hay. But somehow, somehow, she didn’t think Ethan would let them come through. He was nice. He was a dear. He was frightfully, frightfully strong, and most reassuringly ugly.

  She thought of Roger Mooring’s handsome features, and rejoiced in the ugliness of Ethan Messenger. Once and for all, Roger had spoiled her for beautiful young men.

  Ethan was hammering again, when Sir Charles Lennox flung open the door.

  “There’s a step, Paul. Ethan, here’s Paul Craddock. Quite a surprise visit.”

  “Er—morning, Craddock. I’ve nearly done the hutch, sir. What d’you think of it?”

  Sir Charles was a kindly man. The kindliness was at this moment obscured by a tendency to fuss. Most extraordinary yarn this of Craddock’s—disturbing—annoying—unpleasant. Never had cared much for Craddock—a damned sight too pink and white, too fond of the sound of his own voice, too clever, too full of theories.

  He glanced at the hutch, and felt annoyed all over again. Why hadn’t Maud been firm about that damn rabbit? Why give way to a child because it cries? Firmness, firmness was what was needed. He looked crossly at Ethan, disparagingly at the hutch, and began an aggrieved explanation.

  “Paul says he’s reason to believe Marrington brought a girl down with him last night. Most unpleasant insinuation—hey, what? Marrington’s my guest and a very distinguished man.”

  “There’s no suggestion that Marrington had any idea——”

  “Idea? How d’you mean idea? A man doesn’t drive a girl down from town—and, hang it all, if he does, he don’t give her away. Dashed unpleasant for me, going in and waking the man up, and asking him that sort of personal question in my own house. What can the man do but say he don’t know a damn thing about it—hey, what? I suppose he’s a gentleman?”

  Paul Craddock raised his eyebrows.

  “There’s really no suggestion that Mr. Marrington suspected that Miss Lee was in his car. It would certainly have been without his knowledge. She might have slipped out and hidden herself.”

  “Marrington says he locked the garage and came away. If she was in the car, she’d have been locked in too, and Lane ’ud have found her when he went to wash the car this morning. Talk about cock and bull stories—hey, what?”

  Ethan Messenger balanced the hutch on one corner. The kitten had scrambled down from his shoulder and was in retreat under a tilted plank; its eyes were green in the shadow, its tiny tail twitched.

  “But who is Miss Lee?” said Ethan.

  Behind the door Mally held her breath and listened. The blood rushed into her face at the tone of Paul Craddock’s answer:

  “Miss Lee is a light-fingered young person who, unfortunately, deceived Sir George Peterson into taking her into his house as a governess for Barbara. She lifted a valuable diamond pendant and some papers which we are anxious to recover. She was traced to the garage where Mr. Marrington left his car last night. It occurred to me that she might have stolen a ride.”

  Ethan Messenger burst into hearty laughter.

  “The sleuth upon the trail! From Garage to Gaol! You’re wasted as a secretary—fiction’s your line, Paul. The Clue of the Explorer’s Car, by Paul Pry, Private Investigator!”

  This light badinage had the same effect on Mr. Craddock as a certain historic anecdote on Queen Victoria—he was not amused. Sir Charles, on the other hand, cheered up visibly. Ethan was an ally. He became more than ever convinced that the whole affair was outrageous nonsense.

  “If Marrington didn’t see anything, and the men didn’t see anything, I don’t know what you expect to see,” he grumbled.

  “One never knows,” said Paul Craddock slowly. He was looking at the three steps that led up to the hay-loft, and at a banana skin lying neatly folded over on itself on the floor beside the bottom step.

  “Who put that there?” he said, and pointed.
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br />   Ethan roared with laughter.

  “The super-Sherlock! Height, weight, age, and sex of criminal all deduced from a banana skin.”

  “Who put it there?” said Paul sharply.

  He had lunched a dozen times with Miss Mally Lee and seen her lay a banana skin down like that after eating the fruit. She had a little quick way of doing it, a flick of the fingers.

  “Who—” he began; and Ethan interrupted.

  He had lounged across the room and picked up the skin. He dangled it between thumb and finger now, and said, “Tut, tut! You mustn’t ask the wretched Watson a leading question like that, my dear Holmes. It simply isn’t done. It is you who tell us who put it there, with the fullest and most circumstantial details. Remember your little monograph on bananas. There are, I believe, some thirty or more different sorts, and the skin of each kind takes a different length of time to dry. You have, therefore, only to examine this interesting relic in order to give us the past history of the person who ate it, with all particulars.”

  Craddock turned his back on him.

  “Sir Charles, she’s been here—I’m ready to swear to it. What exactly did you say to Marrington? Did you tell him it was a matter of my chief’s private papers?”

  “No, I didn’t—hey, what? Why should I?—what’s it got to do with him?”

  “Nothing, of course. May I ask what you did say?”

  Sir Charles did not like being cross-examined; his manner showed it in an extra touch of vexation.

  “Say? What should I say? I asked him if he’d noticed anything unusual when he got the car home—any one hanging about, and so forth. And he said no, he hadn’t. And there was an end of it. If you want to cross-examine him, you’d better do it yourself.”

  “I think I will. But I think”—he walked towards the steps—“I think I’ll have a look inside that door first.”

  Mally’s heart went bang against her side. Little fool! She ought to have hidden in the hay long ago. Now it was too late. But he would look in the hay—he would look in the hay—he would look everywhere. She had the horrible, horrible trapped feeling that stops thought, and will, and action.

  The steps creaked under a heavy foot; a hand fell on the handle. It was mere instinct that sent her cowering into the corner, her face to the wall, her hands, breast-high, pressed flat against the rough boards.