Some Must Watch, Ethel Lina White [crime books to read txt] 📗

that his thin knotted fingers trembled slightly.

 

“I understand your feelings, Newton,” he said. “But I think the chances

are against your—maniac being outside in this storm. If he’s not back

in his home, he will be sheltering in some barn. I am sure Simone will

reach the Bull safely.”

 

“What a happy prospect.” Newton bit his lip. “All the more reason for

her husband to be there.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right. But before you go we’d better discuss our line of

procedure. We want to avoid a scandal”

 

“I don’t want to divorce Simone.” Newton’s voice cracked, “I only want

to get her away from that—from Rice.”

 

“Personally, I think she is in no danger from Rice,” remarked the

Professor. “He is very definitely not an amatory type.”

 

“He locked that poor girl in his room at Oxford,” declared Newton

heatedly.

 

“You forget, Newton, that I’ve been an undergraduate in my time. Such

episodes can be staged. I’ve always kept an open mind on that charge.

Wash out Rice. The question is—how to account for Simone running

through the rain, to a small public-house?”

 

“A brain-storm, caused by nerves,” suggested Miss Warren. “The murder

would explain her condition.”

 

The Professor nodded approval.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll both have to put up at the Bull, for the night,” he

said. “They have no conveyance, and Simone could not return through the

storm.”

 

“Couldn’t you come back, Newton, when you’ve explained everything and

made all arrangements for Simone?” asked Miss Warren.

 

Newton laughed as he thoughtfully buttoned his water proof.

 

“Excellent. I could leave her in Rice’s care… Don’t worry, Aunt.

Expect us back tomorrow morning.”

 

Helen was assailed by a fresh pang of loneliness when the chain was

re-fastened, after the exodus. As Newton went out of the house—his head

thrust forward as though he were butting the storm—the partially-opened

door revealed a section of chaos, interlaced with veins of slanting

rain, spinning round in the shaft of electric-light.

 

After that glimpse of a watery confusion, the atmosphere of the hall

appeared stagnant, and clogged with femininity. All the virility had

been drained out of it with the departure of the men. It was true that

the Professor remained, but he seemed exhausted by the excessive burden

of responsibility.

 

“Mr. Rice will have to come back tomorrow to fetch his dog,” said Miss

Warren.

 

Helen’s face brightened.

 

“Shall we free it, to roam the house?”

 

Miss Warren’s face betrayed indecision. “I fear and dislike all dogs,”

she said. “Still—the Creature might be a protection.”

 

“I’m used to dogs,” Helen told her. “May I feed him and then bring him

down, with me?”

 

“It has been fed, by Mrs. Oates, before I took it out to the garage.”

Miss Warren’s gaze challenged her brother. “Perhaps, Sebastian, you will

bring it in?”

 

Helen pricked up her ears as the secret of the strange noises upon the

back-stairs was explained. Mrs. Oates’ reticence was but another proof

of her loyalty to her employers.

 

The Professor was looking at his sister, a faint smile touching his

lips.

 

“Typical, my dear Blanche:’ he murmured. “Is the door of the garage

unlocked?”

 

“Locked. I have the key upstairs.”

 

As they waited for Miss Warren’s return, Helen tried to conquer her

dread of the Professor. Like a kitten, which pats a suspicious object,

and then springs sideways, she could not resist an attempt to explore

his mind.

 

“I admire Miss Warren’s strength of character,” she said. “Of course,

she can’t help being afraid of dogs.” She hastened to bring out the

classic excuse of analogy. “Lord Roberts was frightened of cats.”

 

“But my sister is not afraid in your sense of the word,” explained the

Professor. “That is to say, she is not afraid of being bitten or worried

by a dog. But she realizes the danger of bacteriological infection which

lurks in the parasites of animals.”

 

Helen did her best to reciprocate his intelligence.

 

“I know,” Helen said. “There are millions of germs everywhere. Enough to

kill all the people in the world. But—I understood that there were good

germs to fight the bad germs.”

 

The Professor’s faint smile did not conceal his scorn.

 

“Even as your good angels strive with devils?” he enquired. “There may

be some combat, but, in the Animal Kingdom, the Ultimate Good does not

prevail, as in your fairy-tale Creed.”

 

Although she felt choked with nervousness, Helen continued the argument.

 

“If the destructive germs were the more powerful,” she said, “we should

all of us be dead.”

 

“We soon shall be dead. Longevity is only comparative, while, many die

young. Think of infant mortality, which is Nature’s method of dealing

with surplus population. Unfortunately, medical science has interfered

with her good intentions, to a certain extent. Still, death wins.”

 

Helen felt too overawed by the Sardonic gleam in the scientist’s eye, to

dare to argue further. She knew herself outclassed, even while her heart

protested against his dreary materialistic outlook.

 

“What is Miss Warren’s special subject?” she asked timidly. “She ranges.

Her plane of vision is, consequently, different from your own. You see

with eyes, but she sees through a microscope. Terrors, which are lost to

you, are revealed to her.”

 

Helen rather liked the way the Professor was trying to gloss over his

sister’s imperfections. She believed that, even as shadows on the sea

betray the presence of rocks, so trifles indicate character.

 

Whatever his theological disbelief, the Professor was staunch.

 

“How interesting,” she said politely.

 

“My sister is of too sensitized nature to mix with the outside world,”

went on the Professor, “yet her nerve is of iron. She did valuable work,

during the War, at the Front, which took daily toll of her reserves. Yet

she never showed any sign of strain, and emerged with a fine record.

That is one of the reasons why she insists on a teetotal household—so

great is her horror of any kind of bestiality.”

 

“I think that was fine,” said Helen.

 

“It was. Especially; as you have already remarked, she suffers from a

deficient pituitary gland.”

 

Helen did not understand his allusion, so she gazed with new respect at

Miss Warren, when she came down the staircase. In silence she handed her

brother a key, and then walked into the library. Bolt the door after

me, please,” said the Professor, “and remain here to let me in again:’

 

It was dreary waiting in the hall which was now so empty and silent. No

sound of youthful voices, or strains of wireless floated from the

drawingroom.

 

“Thank goodness, I’ll soon have the dog,” Helen thought.

 

Even that consolation was denied her. When—a little Later—heralded by

his knock, the Professor was blown inside the lobby, he was alone.

 

“Rice has made good his threat,” he told her. “I found the padlock on

the garage door forced and the dog gone.”

 

Stripping off his dripping coat, he walked into his study.

 

Feeling doubly forlorn, Helen ventured to invade Mrs. Oates’ privacy.

She knocked several times on the kitchen door without attracting any

attention, although the light was shining through the frosted-glass

panels.

 

She was on the point of turning away when she was startled by an

unfamiliar thick voice.

 

“Come in, my dear.”

 

In spite of the genial invitation, Helen entered the kitchen with a

sinking heart—not knowing what she feared.

 

Mrs. Oates sat slumped back in her chair, like a sack of potatoes, a

stupid smile on her red face.

 

In spite of her inexperience, Helen guessed that the ultimate disaster

had befallen her. Her second guard had failed her. Mrs. Oates was drunk.