Death on the Lizard (28 page)

Jenna moaned, and Kate turned back to her. What was it they had seen? Proof of life after death? Or of some form of hypnotic suggestion, or unconscious wish, or even a communal hallucination?

Beware,
Beryl muttered.
What does it mean?

It was a question Kate could not answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 
 
 
 
The discovery of the covert relationship between Miss Pauline Chase and Mr. Brian Fisher, both in the employ of the American De Forest Wireless Company, had given Bradford Marsden an enormous lift. There was nothing he could do to soften the impact of Maskelyne's letter to
The Times,
or to keep Marconi from replying to it, and thereby creating an even worse situation. There was nothing he could do to recover the missing tuner and the notebook— he'd had to put that business into Charles Sheridan's hands. But in the last few moments, it had begun to seem that there
was
something he could do to drive a wedge between the rapacious Miss Chase and Marconi, and by damn! he was going to do it.

Bradford stood by the window for a few minutes, his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk on his chest, deep in thought. Perhaps he could . . . No, not that, but alternatively . . . No, not that either—it was too complicated.

He frowned. How about . . . no, that wouldn't do, but what if . . . ?

Yes, by Jove, that just might be it! He turned the idea over in his mind for a few moments longer, looking at it from one angle, and then another, before deciding triumphantly that, yes, indeed, this was
exactly
the way to handle it. Then, with one last glance in the mirror and one more quick smooth of his hair, he went out.

His task was completed in very short order, for all of the pieces were ready to hand. The other business, finding the right place to conceal the thing he had made, was swiftly and privately attended to, and as he went downstairs to the lobby, he had every reason to anticipate a successful outcome of his plan. He paused at the desk for a moment to dispatch a note, and then went in search of Marconi.

“Ah, there you are, old chap,” he said pleasantly, finding the man sitting in front of the fire in the lounge, a melancholy look on his face and a Campari at his elbow. Bradford sat down and lit a cigarette. “I trust that you are feeling somewhat better.” To the waiter who came to stand beside him, he said, “Sherry, if you please.”

“Not a great deal better, by any means,” Marconi replied. He shook his head darkly. “Maskelyne is a cad, a bounder. I've made that plain in my letter to
The Times.
And another disheartening matter has come to my attention, in a newspaper clipping I received this afternoon from New York. You will find this hard to believe, Marsden, but De Forest Wireless is claiming to have bought out our American Marconi company.”

“Bought the company!” Bradford exclaimed. Outwardly, he was indignant, but inwardly he rejoiced, thinking ahead to his after-dinner arrangements and hoping that Marconi's anger, already stoked against the De Forest company, would blaze even more brightly when he was confronted with—

“Of course, there's not a word of truth in the report,” Marconi went on sourly. “That scoundrel Abraham White planted the rumor merely to boost De Forest's stock prices. But it will cause us a great deal of damage—and do them a great deal of good—before it can be squelched.”

“White is nothing but an unscrupulous villain,” Bradford growled.

Marconi's sigh was heavy with a sense of personal wrong and injustice. “The world is full of villains, Marsden. I spend far too much time fighting against enemies of the company, when I should be doing more developmental work.” He paused dejectedly, glancing toward the window. “Looks to be a foul night, I'd say. Glad I don't have to go out in it.”

“Indeed,” Bradford said. Outside, the landscape had turned drear, the sea was dull and darkly gray, and it was beginning to rain. There would be no sitting on the terrace tonight.

Marconi glanced at his pocket-watch and stood. “You'll join Miss Chase and me for dinner, won't you? I realize that you are somewhat acquainted with the lady, but I should like you to get to know her better. It's probable that she will be staying here at the Poldhu for a few days—perhaps even until the Royal visit. I believe she would be a delightful addition to our welcoming party, don't you think?”

“I'm sure,” Bradford said, in a diplomatic tone. He stretched out his legs to the fire. “But I'll let you and Miss Chase have a private dinner tonight, if it's all the same to you. I'll finish my sherry and have a quick bite, and then be off upstairs. I have some correspondence I must attend to.”

But Bradford was still lingering over his after-dinner coffee when Miss Chase and Marconi—deeply engrossed in each other at their intimate table—finished their final course. Outside, there was a flash of lightning, a low growl of thunder, and the patter of rain on the window. It was indeed a foul night.

At that moment, Mr. Fisher, freshly shaven and dressed in evening clothes, appeared in the doorway, looked around, and made a great show of noticing the couple. He made his way toward them, bowed to Miss Chase, and appeared to be introducing himself to Marconi. A moment later the two men were deep in conversation, and Miss Chase had excused herself with a pretty smile and an affectionate pat on Marconi's shoulder.

Bradford gave her two minutes. Then he pushed back his chair, went out to the lobby, waited for half-a-minute, and then hurried back to the dining room. Bending over Marconi, he whispered something in an urgent tone.

Marconi's eyes widened, and he put down his napkin. “Excuse me, Mr. Fisher,” he said, hastily pushing back his chair. “A business matter has arisen which requires my immediate attention.”

Fisher threw Bradford a curious, speculative glance. “Sorry to interrupt, Fisher,” Bradford said apologetically. “Can't be helped, I'm afraid. But do stay and have a glass of wine. Mr. Marconi will be back in a few moments. Until then—” He signaled to the waiter. “Please be so good as to bring Mr. Fisher a glass of wine, and add it to the Marconi company bill.”

“Thank you,” Fisher said complacently. “Very kind of you, I'm sure. Very kind.”

Marconi hurried out of the dining room, and Bradford followed. In the lobby, Marconi put his hand on Bradford's arm. “You say you've found the tuner?” he asked excitedly.

“No,” Bradford replied. “I said I've learned something which may shed some light on the matter. But we have to hurry.” He went toward the stairs and took them, two at a time.

“Where are we going?” Marconi asked breathlessly, as they reached the second floor landing.

“This way,” Bradford directed, turning down the hall which led to Marconi's room.

“But where—”

“Shh.” Bradford put his finger to his lips. They were standing outside Marconi's door, which hung slightly ajar.

Marconi frowned. “I'm sure I closed and locked it,” he said. “And I turned off the light, as well.” He stepped forward, pushing the door open, and stopped just inside. “Paulie!” he exclaimed. “What the devil—”

Miss Chase gave a scream as she whirled from the wardrobe, a wooden box in her hand. She turned pale. “Marky, you startled me! I didn't expect . . . that is, I thought . . .”

“It is quite obvious that you did not expect me.” Marconi went into the room and Bradford, closing the door behind the two of them, exulted at the definite chill in his tone. “You will explain what you are doing in my room, and what that object is in your hand.”

Bradford stepped forward and took the box out of Miss Chase's hand. When she did not speak, he said, “She believes that this is Gerard's tuner, or a copy of it. You certainly have to give the lady full marks for following instructions,” he added admiringly.

“Instructions?” Marconi was imperious. “What instructions?” he demanded. “Who instructed you to invade my room, Miss Chase?”

Miss Chase put out her lower lip in a childish pout. “Oh, please, Marky, don't be angry with your Paulie,” she pleaded. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “She was only trying to—”

“
Who,
I said!” Marconi screamed. His face was twisted, his jaw was mottled red, and Bradford saw with satisfaction that he had flown into one of his famous Italian tantrums. “You will tell me who, by God, or I—” He seized her wrist and forced her into a chair.

“Ow!” she wailed, rubbing her arm. “You hurt me! You can't—”

“I will do much more than that,” Marconi said between gritted teeth. “Do you think I have no influence in Society, no influential friends? I will make it impossible for you to show your face in London henceforward. Who put you up to this?”

“I advise you to tell,” Bradford said comfortably. “I am sure that neither White nor de Forest will stand up on your behalf. And as for Fisher, he's in it just as deep as you are, you know.”

“How did you—” Miss Chase turned wondering eyes on him. “How could you—”

“White and de Forest!” Marconi cried incredulously. He stamped his foot. “Those scoundrels! And Fisher—the American who was chatting me up downstairs?”

“The very same,” Bradford said. “Miss Chase is lodged in the room next to mine. I was able to overhear her and Fisher discussing their assignment. It seems that they were hired by De Forest Wireless to make off with the tuner and—”

“So that's what happened to it,” Marconi said bitterly, looking down at Miss Chase. “You and Fisher took it! Why, you are nothing but a . . . a common thief! I shall have you prosecuted!”

“I resent being called ‘common,' ” Miss Chase replied petulantly, lifting her chin, her eyes flashing. “And we didn't take it, either. It was already gone by the time Mr. Fisher came to look for it.” She frowned. “If we'd had the blasted thing, you don't think I would have come up here to your room to look for it, do you?”

Marconi narrowed his eyes and muttered a string of what Bradford took to be Italian oaths. Bradford had to suppress a smile. Really—the situation would have been comic had it not been so serious.

“Anyway,” she went on, with an airy wave of her hand, “I don't know what all the fuss is about. So what if the original tuner was stolen? You've got another one. A copy. That box I found in the wardrobe.”

“Actually, it's not a copy,” Bradford said. He held up the box and shook it. It rattled. “It's only a wooden box filled with—as you so charmingly put it this afternoon— ‘thingys.' I placed it on Mr. Marconi's shelf after I overheard you and Fisher planning your search of this room.” He turned to Marconi. “I have been hesitant to tell you this, my friend, but our delectable Miss Chase has a rather speckled history of—”

“Mind what you say, Mr. Marsden,” Miss Chase hissed. “Remember those letters!”

Bradford smiled pleasantly. “Ah, but blackmail is a game which any number can play. When we're finished, I doubt if you'll have the appetite for it.” He turned to Marconi, who was staring at him, his jaw working, his lips compressed into a thin line. “As it turns out, Pauline Chase is not the only name this lovely creature has used. When I met her in Paris, she was Millicent Mitford. In Vienna, she was Francine Sterne, traveling with a wealthy American who had the misfortune to die rather unexpectedly. After the gentleman's death, neither Miss Sterne nor several of his valuable personal items could be found.”

“Pauline!” Marconi's voice was filled with a fierce anguish. “You have betrayed me, you
vile
creature!”

And that, it seems, was for Miss Chase the last straw. She rose, gathering her tattered dignity about her, and said, “Well. If you think I'm going to stand here and be insulted, you can think again. Mr. Marconi, I shall take my leave.”

Bradford went to the door and opened it. “If you feel you must,” he said regretfully.

“Marsden!” Marconi screamed. “Stop her! I intend to prosecute this woman! She was caught in the act of theft! She has joined with my enemies in a conspiracy against me! Stop her!”

Her chin raised defiantly, Miss Chase had swept out the door and was making for the stairs. She did not, however, get very far. For as Bradford and Marconi saw when they went out into the hall, Mr. Fisher was coming up the stairs toward her, a dark scowl on his face. His hands appeared to be manacled in front of him. And behind him, prodding him forward and upward, was Constable Thomas Deane. His hat was thoroughly wet and his mackintosh was dripping.

“Now see what you've got us into,” Fisher snarled at Miss Chase. He jerked his head. “This is the constable.”

“The constable?” Marconi asked in surprise. “How did he—”

Miss Chase stamped her foot. “What
I've
got us into!” she cried indignantly. “This was all your idea, you fool, and don't you try to duck out of it!”

“I understand, Mr. Marconi,” the constable said soberly, “that there's been a break-in.” He frowned at Miss Chase. “Is this the burglar?”

“I didn't break in,” Miss Chase said haughtily. “I had a key.” She gathered her skirt in her hand. “Now, if you will excuse me—”