Hot Water (22 page)

And then suddenly hope dawned. Behind Mr Slattery's menacing form he perceived that his Gertie had stolen silently into the room, and – what was so particularly reassuring – she was carrying in her hand a good, stout vase.

From hard-won experience, Gordon Carlisle knew what his loved one could do with a vase. And this was a particularly large, hard, thick, solid vase, in every way superior to the one which a year ago she had bounced on his head. It was one of those vases which a Zulu chieftain would have been perfectly satisfied to make shift with while his knobkerrie was being cleaned at the club-maker's. The impact of it on a skull even so tough as that of Mr Slattery could scarcely fail to produce results, especially when wielded by one who believed in taking the full Vardon swing and getting plenty of follow-through.

All that was needed was for him to keep the prospective victim's attention engaged for just those few seconds which would enable this Angel of Mercy to gauge the distance and take her stance. And so stimulated was Mr Carlisle by the sight of rescue so close at hand that inspiration descended on him.

'No, no!' he said protestingly. 'You got me wrong, Soup, you got me wrong.'

He saw that the girl behind the vase had stepped on to the tee and had begun her preliminary waggle, and the sight lent him eloquence.

'Surely you don't think I'd double-cross you, Soupie? It was like this. After you told me what had happened that other night – you out on the window-sill and all – I said to myself: "The way it looks to me, poor old Soup may feel he don't want to come visiting here again...."'

Mr Slattery's was a single-track mind.

'Why didn't you wise me up that you could open petes?'

'I can't open petes.' Mr Carlisle's voice was all musical reassurance. 'But some guy once told me that if you listened for the tumblers you could get the combination, and I thought it was worth trying. You see, after what happened that night, it struck me that you might want to wish yourself out of the thing and...'

He had no need to say more. And if he had said more he would have been addressing an inattentive audience. There was a sound like the collision of two heavy pieces of wood, and Soup Slattery slid to the floor. Mr Carlisle expelled a long, whistling breath and passed the sleeve of his coat across his forehead.

''At-a-girl!' he said reverently.

His bride-to-be had no leisure to listen to verbal tributes. She was as brisk as Lady Macbeth giving instructions on what to do with the guest in the spare bedroom.

'Push him under the bed and get a move on,' she said crisply. 'I'll look after the broken china. You've got to work quick, Oily. Somebody may have heard that smash. How long'll it take you getting that thing open?'

'Coupla minutes.'

'Then snap into it. I'll be going down to the car. We may have to run for it any minute now.'

She hurried through the curtains, and Mr Carlisle, having disposed of his unfortunate friend as directed, returned to the safe.

His boast that only a period of two minutes would be required for its opening was completely justified. Ninety seconds had not gone by when the steel door swung free, revealing the interior.

And it was at this moment that there came to his straining ears the sound of soft footsteps in the passage outside.

Gordon Carlisle was primarily a man of intellect, but he could act. He switched off the torch and joined Mr Slattery under the bed.

He was not in darkness long. A half-minute later, light flooded the room. Somebody had pressed the electric button by the door.

It was Packy who had pressed the electric button. Arrived at his destination with the door shut behind him, he saw no reason why the proceedings should not take place with the fullest illumination possible. The house was asleep, and nobody could see through those curtains that the room was lighted.

All seemed quiet on the Venetian front. Despite her haste, the efficient Gertie had gathered up every vestige of the broken vase, and the hangings of the bed, reaching to within an inch of the floor, effectually concealed the Messrs. Slattery and Carlisle. Nevertheless, there came to Packy that same feeling of unreasoning nervousness which had gripped him on his first visit to this room. Now that he had actually met Mrs Gedge, the intimidating atmosphere of this boudoir of hers seemed intensified.

Jane, whose reaction to the vibrations of a woman's room was less pronounced, had hurried to the safe. And now, observing its condition, she uttered a squeak of astonishment.

'Why, it's open!'

Packy, too, had made a discovery.

'So,' he pointed out, 'is the window.'

Jane's eyes met his. He was touched to note that, brave girl though she was, she moved a little closer to him.

'Somebody.' she said with a slight quiver in her voice, 'has been here.'

'Must have heard us coming and dashed out of the window,' agreed Packy.

'Perhaps they're on the balcony!'

'I'll look.'

'Oh, do take care!'

'No,' said Packy, returning, 'there's no one there. They must have got away. It's an easy drop.'

The pallor of her face attracted his notice. If ever there was a girl who needed a strong man to clasp her little waist and draw her to him and stroke her hair and breathe comforting words to her, it was the hitherto intrepid Jane Opal: and it was gall to Packy to think that, simply because she had got herself tangled up with the unspeakable Blair Eggleston, the honour of the Franklyns must cause him to censor the first three items on the list.

However, he could breathe comforting words, and he did so.

'Don't be scared,' he said. 'There's nothing to be frightened about. They have gone. I never saw anything like this house for burglars. They absolutely congest the place. The Château Blis-sac seems to have burglars the way other houses have mice. However, it's all for the best. They have very conveniently opened the safe for us, so I don't see what we've got to grumble at.'

Jane's composure had returned.

'Quick! Look inside and see if it's still there. The letter, I mean.'

Packy did so.

'Yes, this must be it. Yes, this is it, all right.'

'Are you sure?'

'Quite.'

'Then,' said Gordon Carlisle, emerging from beneath the bed, 'just hand it over.'

He pulled himself to his feet. There was an automatic pistol in his hand. He directed it at Packy.

'And make it snappy,' he said.

To a young couple engaged in burgling their hostess's bedroom the sudden appearance of an armed desperado is always disconcerting. Neither Packy nor Jane bore the experience with perfect composure. Jane made an odd little noise like a startled kitten and backed slowly towards the window. Packy stood where he was, regarding Mr Carlisle, astounded.

'Stand still,' said that nervous but determined man.

Jane ceased to retreat. She cast a questioning look at Packy. He had proved himself in these last few days so noteworthy a man of resource that she was not without some faint hope that he might be able to do something about this.

But Packy had no immediate plans. He was still staring at the Duc de Pont-Andemer with bulging eyes. This sudden transformation of one on whom he had looked till now as a respectable member of the French aristocracy had paralysed him.

His sojourn under the bed had not toned up Mr Carlisle's nervous system. Such close proximity to even an insensible Soup Slattery had affected him unpleasantly. More than ever, he wanted to get this business finished and return to his own less exacting walk in life. Growing panic lent a sharpness to his voice.

'Hand over that letter!'

'I won't,' said Packy, finding speech.

He wished that Mr Carlisle could have been just a few feet closer. He was just too far away for tackling purposes.

'I'll count ten.'

'Count all you want.'

'One... two...'

Packy attempted to appeal to his reason.

'You don't really want it. It's just a letter.'

'Three... four...'

'If you're collecting autographs...'

'Five... six... seven...'

Packy began to feel irritated.

'Do stop imitating a cuckoo-clock, and let's sit down quietly and talk it over. You can't possibly want a letter that's of no value whatever except to the owner.'

'Eight... nine...'

'Ten,' said Miss Putnam in the doorway. 'You're out!'

She walked composedly into the room, followed by Mrs Gedge.

On occasions when any little group of men and women are gathered together, nothing spoils the evening more than the absence of introductions. The perfect hostess will always attend to this branch of her duties first of all. Miss Putnam lost no time in making her identity clear.

'Presenting Kate Amelia Putnam, of the James B. Flaherty Detective Agency of New York,' she said amiably, holding the pistol in her hand on a steady line with Mr Carlisle's pelvis. 'Drop that gun. And you,' she added to Packy, 'keep your hands up.'

Mr Carlisle's automatic dropped to the floor. Miss Putnam seemed well content.

'Now we're all set,' she said. 'Mrs G., might I trouble you to step across and pick up that cannon. And while you're there...you see that little ninctobinkus on the writing-table...'

She indicated a small woollen rabbit of rather weak-minded aspect which had apparently been designed as a penwiper.

'Put it on top of his head. We may as well have a little demonstration in case any of them are tempted to try any funny business.'

Mrs Gedge laid the object on Mr Carlisle's hair and backed away.

'Now, then,' said Miss Putnam. 'William Tell stuff.'

There was a sharp report. The rabbit seemed to explode.

'That'll show you,' said Miss Putnam, simpering slightly.

There is always a somewhat breath-taking quality about a pistol shot. Miss Putnam's entire audience were visibly affected. The first to recover was Mr Carlisle. He turned to Mrs Gedge, spluttering.

'This is an outrage!' he said, speaking in the justly incensed tone which French Ducs always employ when they have had woollen rabbits shot off their heads. 'Figure to yourself, Madame, I hear a noise and I come at great risk and I find this man burgling your safe and I defend your property, and now this woman comes and shoots at me.'

Miss Putnam could not let this pass.

'I didn't shoot at you. If I had of, I'd of hit you.'

'By what right,' demanded Mr Carlisle, 'am I treated as if I were a...'

'All this,' said Miss Putnam, 'would go a lot stronger with me if I wasn't hep that you were Oily Carlisle. Take off those whiskers, Oily, we know you.'

'Oh, you do, do you?' said Mr Carlisle, starting with some violence and ceasing abruptly to portray a French aristocrat in a state of righteous indignation. He was aware that the retort was a weak one, but he was not feeling in good debating form.

Packy now spoke. He had had time to collect himself, and he saw his line of action clearly.

'Smart work!' he said in a crisp, approving sort of voice. 'Capital, capital! I dare say Mrs Gedge has told you that I, too, am in your line of business. I am one of the staff of detectives employed by the London, Paris and New York Insurance Company, and they sent me here to look after Mrs Gedge's jewels. Miss Opal came to me just now and told me she had heard noises in here, so I came down to investigate, and this fellow covered me with his gun. Most fortunately, you arrived, so all is well. You have done splendidly, Miss Putnam,' said Packy, hoping that he was not being too patronizing. 'I shall advise my employers to write a special letter to your firm commending you highly for your work to-night. Very smart work, indeed.'

'I could listen for ever,' said Miss Putnam, 'but I know all about you, too, buddy. I got the London and Paris on the wire this evening, and they've never heard of you in their lives. So don't bother about that letter.'

Packy subsided. He was blaming himself. The fact that Miss Putnam had not been drowned at birth was the fault, of course, of her parents. But to his personal negligence was due the fact that she had not been drowned in the Château Blissac's leaky cistern.

'Well,' said Mrs Gedge, 'you were right.'

'I always am,' said Miss Putnam.

'You said they would try to burgle the safe tonight.'

'I knew they would, as soon as I heard Mr Gedge hadn't been at dinner. One of them got him out of the way somehow. I don't know which of them it was, but it doesn't matter.'

'Where is Mr Gedge?' demanded the bereaved wife.

'Search me,' said Mr Carlisle sullenly.

'He's on my boat,' said Packy, feeling that nothing was to be gained by concealing this minor point.

Miss Putnam eyed him keenly.

'If you beaned him and tied him up, boy, that'll make things a lot worse for you.'

'No. He went quite willingly.'

'Well, we'll go into that when we get him back.'

She appeared to be about to speak further, but at this moment a voice spoke in the doorway.

'Goosh!'

Senator Opal was standing there in a mauve dressing-gown that matched his face. He stared in horror at the scene before him. An intelligent man, he had no need to ask what had occurred. He came totteringly into the room, and Miss Putnam uttered a piercing cry.

'Get out of the way, you mutt!'

It was too late. He had wandered across her line of fire, and Mr Carlisle was a swift thinker.

Of what occurred in the next few second it is reluctantly that the historian brings himself to write. He has been at pains all through this chronicle to lay stress on the intense gentlemanliness of Gordon Carlisle, and Mr Carlisle's behaviour now fell far below its customary standard. For, seeing a heaven-sent Senator in between him and his formidable foe, Gordon Carlisle definitely lapsed.

Darting forward, he seized Jane. Employing her as a shield, he dashed to the window. Then, reaching the window, he hurled her at the on-coming Miss Putnam with such force and shrewdness of aim that the efficient woman went down as if she had been pole-axed. And long before she had succeeded in regaining her feet the window had slammed and there came faintly from beyond it the sound of a heavy body dropping to earth.