The Seven Dials Mystery

That amiable youth, Jimmy Thesiger, came racing down the big staircase at Chimneys two steps at a time. So precipitate was his descent that he collided with Tredwell, the stately butler, just as the latter was crossing the hall bearing a fresh supply of hot coffee. Owing to the marvellous presence of mind and masterly agility of Tredwell, no casualty occurred.

“Sorry,” apologised Jimmy. “I say, Tredwell, am I the last down?”

“No, sir. Mr. Wade has not come down yet.”

“Good,” said Jimmy, and entered the breakfast-room.

The room was empty save for his hostess, and her reproachful gaze gave Jimmy the same feeling of discomfort he always experienced on catching the eye of a defunct codfish exposed on a fishmonger’s slab. Yet, hang it all, why should the woman look at him like that? To come down at a punctual nine-thirty when staying in a country house simply wasn’t done. To be sure, it was now a quarter past eleven which was, perhaps, the outside limit, but even then⁠—

“Afraid I’m a bit late, Lady Coote. What?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Lady Coote in a melancholy voice.

It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked round him hesitatingly.

“I thought Mr. Bateman was here,” he explained apologetically.

“Just gone out this minute through the window,” said Ronny. “Can I do anything?”

Tredwell’s eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then back again. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him. Tredwell closed the dining-room door carefully behind him.

“Well,” said Ronny. “What’s up?”

“Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sending Williams up to his room.”

“Yes?”

“Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation, sir.” Tredwell paused⁠—a pause of preparation. “I am afraid, sir, the poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep.”

Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.

“Nonsense,” cried Ronny at last. “It’s⁠—it’s impossible. Gerry⁠—” His face worked suddenly. “I’ll⁠—I’ll run up and see. That fool Williams may have made a mistake.”

Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand.

With a queer, unnatural feeling of detachment, Jimmy realised that the butler had the whole situation in hand.

“No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr. Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must now find Mr. Bateman.”

Bundle jumped out and ran back. She had never yet run over anything more important than a stray hen. The fact that the accident was hardly her fault did not weigh with her at the minute. The man had seemed drunk, but drunk or not, she had killed him. She was quite sure she had killed him. Her heart beat sickeningly in great pounding thumps, sounding right up in her ears.

She knelt down by the prone figure and turned him very gingerly over. He neither groaned nor moaned. He was young, she saw, rather a pleasant-faced young man, well dressed and wearing a small toothbrush moustache.

There was no external mark of injury that she could see, but she was quite positive that he was either dead or dying. His eyelids flickered and the eyes half opened. Piteous eyes, brown and suffering, like a dog’s. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Bundle bent right over.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes?”

There was something he wanted to say, she could see that. Wanted to say badly. And she couldn’t help him, couldn’t do anything.

At last the words came, a mere sighing breath:

“Seven Dials⁠ ⁠… tell⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes,” said Bundle again. It was a name he was trying to get out⁠—trying with all his failing strength. “Yes. Who am I to tell?”

“Tell⁠ ⁠… Jimmy Thesiger⁠ ⁠…” He got it out at last, and then, suddenly, his head fell back and his body went limp.

When he reappeared again, she could hardly help giving a gasp of surprise.

His face was now covered by a mask⁠—but hardly a mask in the conventional sense. It was not shaped to the face. It was a mere piece of material hanging in front of the features like a curtain in which two slits were pierced for the eyes. In shape it was round and on it was the representation of a clock face, with the hands pointing to six o’clock.

“The Seven Dials!” said Bundle to herself.

And at that minute there came a new sound⁠—seven muffled taps.

Mosgorovsky strode across to where Bundle knew was the other cupboard door.

She heard a sharp click, and then the sound of greetings in a foreign tongue.

Presently she had a view of the newcomers.

They also wore clock masks, but in their case the hands were in a different position⁠—four o’clock and five o’clock respectively.

Both men were in evening dress⁠—but with a difference. One was an elegant, slender young man wearing evening clothes of exquisite cut.

The grace with which he moved was foreign rather than English. The other man could be better described as wiry and lean. His clothes fitted him sufficiently well, but no more, and Bundle guessed at his nationality even before she heard his voice.

“I reckon we’re the first to arrive at this little meeting.”

A full pleasant voice with a slight American drawl, and an inflection of Irish behind it.

The elegant young man said in good, but slightly stilted English:

Loraine’s heart beat faster as she drew near to the terrace. There was no one about⁠—no sign of life anywhere. Everything seemed peaceful and undisturbed. She reached the terrace and stood there, looking about her.

Suddenly, without the least warning, something from above fell with a flop almost at her feet. Loraine stooped to pick it up. It was a brown paper packet, loosely wrapped. Holding it, Loraine looked up.

There was an open window just above her head, and even as she looked a leg swung over it and a man began to climb down the ivy.

Loraine waited for no more. She took to her heels and ran, still clasping the brown paper packet.

Behind her, the noise of a struggle suddenly broke out. A hoarse voice: “Lemme go”; another that she knew well: “Not if I know it⁠—ah, you would, would you?”

Still Loraine ran⁠—blindly, as though panic-stricken⁠—right round the corner of the terrace⁠—and slap into the arms of a large, solidly built man.

“There, there,” said Superintendent Battle kindly.

Loraine was struggling to speak.

“Oh, quick!⁠—oh, quick! They’re killing each other. Oh, do be quick!”

There was a sharp crack of a revolver shot⁠—and then another.

Superintendent Battle started to run. Loraine followed. Back round the corner of the terrace and along to the library window.