Escapade (23 page)

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

“Harry?”

Nothing.

I knocked on the Great Man’s door again. “Harry?”

Nothing.

I tried the knob. The door was locked.

I rapped again at the wooden panel. “Harry. Open the door.” Nothing.

I said, “It’s about Bess, Harry.”

I waited. After a long moment, I heard his voice on the other side of the door. “What about her?”

“Open the door,” I said, “and I’ll tell you.”

I waited.

Finally I heard a click at the lock. I turned the knob and the door opened. The Great Man was walking away, his back to me. He was naked except for a pair of the black briefs he ordered by the gross from France. I looked down at the lock. No key. There hadn’t been one earlier.

I said, “You used a pick to lock it. And unlock it.”

But where had he put the pick afterward? His hands were empty.

He turned to me and he moved his muscular shoulders in a small shrug. He wasn’t going to tell me anything he didn’t want me to know. He crossed his arms over his chest and he said flatly, “What is it about Bess?”

Probably he’d just thrown it across the room, behind the bed. “The Earl’s death,” I said. “It’s going to make the newspapers. The
London Times
for sure, and maybe the French papers, too. Bess is going to read about it, in Paris. You know she’s worried about Chin Soo. She’s going to wonder, maybe, if there’s any connection.”

He thought about that. “Perhaps,” he said. He lowered himself gracefully to the floor and lay down along the rug. He didn’t look at me as he locked his hands behind his head and began to do sit-ups. “I shall ask Lord Purleigh,” he said, touching his left knee with his right elbow, “if I can send a wire. To reassure her.” He sank back to the floor.

I walked over to the desk, sat down in the chair.

“Listen, Harry,” I said. “I’m sorry I kicked you.”

He grazed his right knee with his left elbow.

“Harry, I apologize. I just didn’t want you saying anything to Honniwell about getting out of that room.”

“The man is a cretin,” he said to the ceiling.

“Exactly,” I said. “And if you started explaining how someone could get out of there, he would’ve hung around all night.”

“I was about to explain,” he said, on the upswing, “that no one had escaped from the room.”

“Honniwell’s not a guy you want to confuse with too many theories, Harry. This guy Marsh, the one who’s coming tomorrow, Sir Arthur says he’s smart. He’s the one you should talk to.” 

“I intend to.” On the upswing again.

“Good. That’s good, Harry. You should. He’ll probably be glad to hear whatever you have to say. Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

He straightened out his legs and sat up, his hands against the floor, and he looked at me. “Hurt me? Pain is nothing to Houdini. You should understand that by now. No, Phil, what disturbs me is the
rudeness
of it. Have I ever kicked
you
in the ankle?”

It was an interesting conversation to be having with a semi-naked man. “No, Harry,” I said, “I’ve got to admit you haven’t.” 

“Surely you could have devised some other means of signaling me?”

“Probably, yeah, but nothing sprang to mind. Maybe we could work out a code.”

“And, to tell you the truth, I do not understand why you are so fascinated by the death of the Earl. As I have established, this was definitely a suicide. And it has nothing whatever to do with Chin Soo. Who is, if my memory serves me, your sole reason for being here.”

“Well, Harry,” I said, “I’m not so sure that Chin Soo and the Earl’s death are unconnected.”

The Great Man frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Someone takes a rifle from the gun collection, uses it to shoot at you, and then puts it back. And then someone takes a revolver from the same gun collection, probably within a few hours, and the Earl gets shot with it.”

“But no one could have shot the Earl. Except himself. As I told you, Phil, I examined that door very carefully. No one had tampered with it. And if
Chin Soo
had done so—which is totally impossible—what reason would he have for killing the Earl?”

“I don’t know. But how did that revolver get into the Earl’s room?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps the Superintendent is right, and the Earl’s valet brought it to him.”

“I don’t think so. I talked to the valet.”

“It was another servant, then. One of them, perhaps, who was fond of the Earl. He brought the gun at the Earl’s request.”

“He was fond of the Earl, so he helped him commit suicide?” 

“Perhaps the Earl told him he wanted the gun for some other reason. Lord Purleigh suggested as much.”

“A lot of guns were being moved in and out of that hall today. He shook his head. “It is a coincidence, Phil. Nothing more.” 

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“Phil, I do not like being kicked in the ankle. But there are some things, apparently, that we must learn to live with.”

I smiled. “Harry, I said I was sorry.”

He put up a hand. “Yes, yes. I accept your apology, of course.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “Okay. Have you changed your mind about staying here?”

He seemed surprised. “Why should I change my mind?” 

“Harry. That rifle, the Winchester, I’m pretty sure it was the rifle that shot at you. If it was, and if Chin Soo fired it, that means he came into the house, took the rifle, left the house, fired the rifle, came back into the house, and put the rifle back.”

“Yes. So you said to Lord Purleigh. But Phil, I must tell you, in all honesty, that it would be impossible for Chin Soo to run in and out of the house in this manner. I tried to say as much to Lord Purleigh, earlier. Chin Soo is simply not skilled enough. He could manage the locks, yes, perhaps. But as for lurking within the house, and scooting back and forth to the outside—impossible.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Phil, I believe that it was not Chin Soo who fired that weapon.”

“Why?”

“Is it logical to believe that Chin Soo would go to all the trouble you describe, putting himself in jeopardy several times over, simply to obtain a rifle from the Great Hall? Why did he not merely bring along, to Maplewhite, a rifle of his own? He could have purchased one, or even stolen one.”

“Good question,” I admitted. “I don’t know. But the fact is, that Winchester was the rifle that got fired today.”

“Perhaps it was. But consider this, Phil.” He crossed his legs and leaned forward, like a small boy at a campfire. He was smiling the smile he smiled on stage whenever he was about to pull off some especially spectacular stunt. “Perhaps when the rifle was fired today, it was not, in fact, being fired at me.”

“Harry, the slug missed you by a few inches.”

“Yes,” he said, holding up a finger and smiling that smile, “but it also missed everyone else. By very much the same distance.” He put his hands on his knees. “You remember that we were all gathered together beneath that tree. You have been assuming all along that the famous slug was meant for me. But how do we know this is true?”

I sat back in the chair. I thought about it. “We don’t.” I nodded. “That’s pretty good, Harry.”

He shrugged with what he probably thought was modesty, but what looked more like satisfaction. “It is merely logical,” he said.

I was thinking. “It makes more sense that way,” I told him. “Your way. Somebody who was already here at Maplewhite would be able to get into the Great Hall a lot easier than a stranger.”

“Of course.”

“But if you’re right, who were they shooting at? Who was

there?” I thought back. “Miss Turner, Mrs. Corneille. Mrs. Allardyce. Lord Bob.”

“Lord Purleigh,” he corrected me. “The more interesting question, I believe, is—who was not there?”

“Right. Madame Whosis and her husband weren’t even here at Maplewhite yet. Neither was Sir Arthur. So who was? Cecily. Lady Purleigh. Dr. Auerbach. Sir David.”

“And a host of servants, do not forget.”

I smiled. “Everybody wants to blame everything on the servants.”

“But Phil, these are all cultured, wealthy people.”

“Wealthy people kill each other all the time, Harry. It’s what they do when they’re not counting their money.”

“You are a cynic, Phil.”

“Or maybe Sir Arthur’s right. He’s beginning to think it was some goblin who did it.”

The Great Man nodded sadly. “Yes. I sometimes worry about Sir Arthur.”

He lay back down on the rug, raised his knees, and put his hands back behind his head. “We have established the important thing,” he said, lifting his shoulders, touching his right elbow against his left knee. “That it was not Chin Soo who fired the rifle. Which means, therefore, that both of us can relax now.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

He looked over at me but didn’t stop his sit-ups.

“We’ve established,” I said, “that it probably wasn’t Chin Soo who fired the rifle. Even if it wasn’t, that doesn’t mean that he’s not hanging around somewhere.”

“But there are police guards here now, Phil.” Down went his shoulders.

“Chin Soo has gotten past the police before.”

“In Philadelphia. These are British police.” Down again. “Could you get past a pair of British cops, Harry?”

“Of course. But Chin Soo is not Houdini.” Down.

“Uh-huh. Well, listen. I’m going to go snoop around for a while. Do me a favor and put a chair up against the door?” 

“It is completely unnecessary, Phil. And why do you plan to snoop around?” Up went his shoulders.

“I want to make sure you’re right about the rifle.”

“It is only logical, Phil.” Up again.

“Right. You’ll put the chair up against the door?”

He sighed theatrically. This isn’t an easy thing to do while you’re in the middle of a sit-up.

I said, “Humor me, Harry.”

“Oh, very well. If you insist.” With another sigh, he swung himself up again.

I stood.

He said, “Oh. Phil?” Down went the shoulders.

“Yeah?”

He smiled. “It was very obvious, what you were doing when you mentioned Bess. You merely wanted me to open the door.” Down.

I smiled back. “It worked, though, Harry. There’s more than one way to get through a locked door.”

“It worked,” he said, coming back up off the floor, “only because it is impossible for Houdini to hold a grudge.”

As usual, he had the last word.

I went looking for Briggs.

Briggs wasn’t in the drawing room and neither was anyone else.

I went wandering through the corridors and after a while I found another servant who told me he had seen Briggs near the conservatory. I trudged off in that direction.

The outer door to the conservatory was open. It led onto a flagstone terrace, where a group of the guests were gathered around a circular white table beneath a tall oak tree. Sir Arthur was there, and he saw me and waved for me to join them. The others were Mrs. Corneille, Dr. Auerbach, Madame Sosostris in her wheelchair and her amazing hair, Mr. Dempsey, and Sir David. They all had drinks in front of them, so maybe a servant would be coming soon, and maybe it would be Briggs.

It had been a long day but the air was still warm and the sky was still bright. To the west, across the enormous lawn, the sun was finally sliding down through the expanse of blue. It hadn’t reached the treetops yet, but its light was yellow now as it slanted from beneath the flat bottom of a small white cloud.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Doyle said. “Please. Have a seat.”

There was an empty white-enameled chair to Mrs. Corneille’s right. I took it and I smiled at her. “Hello,” I said, and breathed in the scent of her perfume. She was wearing the white dress but not the straw bonnet. Sunlight shimmered along the black gloss of her hair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beaumont,” she said, smiling back at me. “It is Mr. Beaumont, isn’t it? You haven’t some other, cryptic, Pinkerton sort of name?”

“Just Beaumont.”

She said, “But you haven’t been entirely honest with us, it seems.”

“Didn’t have any choice,” I told her.

“I sensed somet’ing,” said Madame Sosostris, narrowing the dark shrewd eyes in her round white face. “Did I not, Charles? I said, t’ere is some dark deep currents in t’at man.”

Grinning, Mr. Dempsey patted her hand. She wore big jeweled rings on every finger and he was careful not to hit any of them. They would have poked holes in his palm. “You sure did,” he said. He looked at me proudly. “Dark deep currents, that’s what she said, word for word.”

“I was explaining,” said Doyle, “that it was most likely Chin Soo who fired that rifle this afternoon.”

I shook my head. “I was just talking to Mr. Houdini. He made a good point. I’ve been assuming that the rifle shot this afternoon was fired at him. But, like he says, there’s no reason to assume that. It could’ve been meant for anyone.”

Doyle frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Houdini mentioned that notion to me earlier.”

Mrs. Corneille said to me, “It wasn’t Chin Soo who fired the rifle?”

“It makes more sense,” I said, “that somebody else was firing it, and at somebody besides Houdini.”

“And who,” said Sir David blandly, “do you conclude it was?” 

“The person doing the shooting?”

He smiled. Blandly. “Whichever. The shoot-er or the shoot-ee.”

“No idea. But the police will probably figure it out. There's an inspector coming down here tomorrow morning, from London. He’ll want to talk to all the people who weren’t out on the lawn this afternoon. Between twelve-thirty and one o clock. Like you, I guess, Dr. Auerbach.”

Dr. Auerbach adjusted his pince-nez. “I? But I was nowhere near to Maplewhite at that time.”

“And where were you, Doctor?” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Not at all. Between twelve-thirty and one, you say? Yes, I was in the village then. In the lovely little cemetery behind the church. I was making the rubbings from the tombstones. It is a hobby of mine. And this cemetery, it has some truly quite beautiful stones. Some of them date back even to the fourteenth century.”

“Anyone see you?”

He nodded. “Aha, yes, I understand, for the purposes of verification. As it happens, yes, I had a long and a quite fascinating discussion with the vicar of the church. An extremely charming man. He also has an interest in these stones.” He looked at me hopefully. “I have the rubbings, if you would like to examine them?”