Drury Lane’s Last Case (9 page)

“There's so little to tell,” he said with a shrug of his big shoulders. “It's just work, eat, the gym, and sleep. Work's the most important part of it, of course. There was something special in Shakespeare that gripped me. There never was such genius. Oh, it goes more deeply with me than admiring the polish of a phrase or the acute philosophy behind a Hamlet or Lear conception. It was the man himself. What made him what he was? What was his secret? From what source did he draw his inspiration, or was it just a fire inside himself? I wanted to know.”

“I've been to Stratford,” said Patience softly. “There's something there. It's in the old Chapel Lane, the Stratford Church, the air——”

“I spent a year and a half in England,” muttered Rowe. “It was hellish work. Following a trail so faint it was half imagination. And, by heaven——”

“Yes?” whispered Patience, her eyes glowing.

He cupped his chin in his hands. “The most important part of an artist's life is his formative years. It's the period of his intensest passions. His senses are at their fullest vigour.… And what do we know about the Maytime in the life of the greatest poet the world has ever produced? Nothing. There's a blank in the story of Shakespeare which must be filled in if we're ever to reach a sensitive and intelligent appreciation of the artist.” He paused, and something almost frightened crept into his tired hazel eyes. “Pat,” he said in a slightly unsteady voce, “I think I'm on the right track. I think——”

He stopped and fumbled for his cigarette-case. Patience sat very still.

He put the case back into his vest pocket without opening it. “No,” he muttered. “It's premature. I don't really know. Yet.” Then he smiled. “Pat, do let's talk about something else.”

She sighed with minute care, never taking her eyes from him. Then she smiled back. “Of course, Gordon. Tell me about the Saxons.”

“Well,” he said, slumping boyishly in his chair, “there's precious little to tell. I got old Sam Saxon interested in my—let's call it a hunch. I suppose he took a shine to me; he never had any children. And despite certain defects in his character he was a genuinely passionate lover of English literature. Gruff old boy, but he insisted on financing my researches in the approved way—took me under his wing, into his house.… Then he died. And I'm still working.”

“And Mrs. Saxon?”

“The incomparable Lydia.” He scowled. “Old fuss-budget, and that's a generous estimate. I suppose I shouldn't bite the hand that's feeding me, but she's a little trying at times. Knows absolutely nothing about literature, and even less than that about her husband's collection of rare books. Let's not talk about her. She's an unpleasant female.”

“Just because she can't discuss quartos and octavos with you!” laughed Patience. “Who takes care of the Saxon collection? You?”

“Now you're dipping into ancient history,” chuckled Rowe. “Fossil by the name of Crabbe. There's poetic justice for you! I? My dear girl! Old Eagle-Eye, I call him, and he is. He was Mr. Saxon's librarian for twenty-three years, and I believe he's more jealous of the stuff in his care than even old Sam himself was.” A shadow flitted over his face. “Now he's absolutely king-pin. Mr. Saxon provided in his will that Crabbe continue as curator of the collection. It will be more inaccessible than ever.”

“But weren't you working in the Saxon library?”

“Under very close surveillance, I assure you! Crabbe saw to that, and he sees to it now. I don't know one quarter the stuff that's there. For the last few months I've been cataloguing and overseeing the specific items willed to the Britannic; rather set me back in my work, but Mr. Saxon asked me to do it in his will and it was little enough.… Look here, Patience, I've bored you stiff. Please tell me about—you.”

“Me? There's nothing to tell,” said Patience lightly.

“I'm serious, Pat. I—I think you're the most … Oh, very well! But tell me.”

“If you insist.” She explored the recesses of her handbag for her mirror. “My career may be summed up in a single phrase: I'm a sort of modern Vestal Virgin.”

“That sounds formidable,” smiled the young man. “I don't think I quite understand.”

“I—I've dedicated my life to … something.” She poked her hair about as she peered into the tiny mirror.

He eyed her keenly. “To cultivation of mind?”

She put the mirror away, and sighed. “Oh, Gordon, I don't really know myself. I'm—I'm a little foggy sometimes.”

“Do you know what your destiny is, young woman?” said Rowe.

“Tell me!”

“You're destined to lead a very prosy life, my dear.”

“You mean—marriage, babies?”

“Something of the sort,” he said in a low voice.

“How horrible!” Patience rose, the pink blobs annoyingly red. She was conscious of them, for they seemed to be burning holes in her cheeks. “Shall we go, Gordon?”

Inspector Thumm reached his office in a lather of thought. He grunted at Miss Brodie, marched into his sanctum, hurled his hat across the room to the top of the safe, and threw himself into his swivel-chair with a scowl.

He put his large feet on the desk, and then after a moment drew them down. He fished in his pockets for a cigar and, finding none, rummaged in the depths of a drawer until he found an eroded old pipe, which he filled with an evil-looking shag tobacco, lit up, and puffed on sourly. He fingered his calendar. He rose and began to pound his floor. Then he sat down again, cursed beneath his breath, and jabbed a button on the underside of his desk-top.

Miss Brodie hurried in, breathless.

“Any calls?”

“No, Inspector.”

“Any mail?”

“Why, no, Inspector.”

“For God's sake, didn't Tuttle send me any report on that Durkin case?”

“No, Inspector.”

“Damn his pop-eyes——All right, all right, Miss Brodie!”

Miss Brodie's moon eyes were at the full. She gulped: “Yes, Inspector,” and fled.

For some time he stood staring out the window at Times Square. The pipe fumed with horrid fecundity.

Suddenly he sprang to his desk, pounced on the telephone, dialled Spring 7-3100. “'Lo!” he growled. “Put me on to Inspector Geoghan. Yeah, yeah, Geoghan! Listen, flattie, no arguments. This is Thumm talkin'.” He chuckled at the police operator's astonished bellow. “How's the family, John? Your oldest must be big enough to enter rookie college, I bet! … Fine, fine. Give me Geoghan, you old war-horse.… Hallo, Butch? Thumm!”

Inspector Geoghan swore fluently.

“Welcome home,” snarled Thumm. “That's a fine reception! Listen, Butch, and none of your Tenth Avenue lip.… Yes, yes, I'm in the pink. I know
you're
all right, because I saw that damned gorilla's face of yours in the papers this mornin' and you looked as disgustingly healthy as usual.… Yeah! Say, what d'ye remember about a cop named Donoghue who left the force about five-six years ago? I remember he was attached to H.Q. under you when you were a Captain—where you should 'a' stayed, you Commissioner-suckin' baboon!”

Inspector Geoghan chuckled. “Still the same pleasant old Thumm. How the hell do you expect me to remember a flatfoot that far back?”

“Why, he saved your life once, you ungrateful skunk!”

“Oh!
Donoghue
. Why the devil didn't you say so in the first place? Sure I remember him. What d'ye want to know?”

“Rate him for me. Any black marks against him? What kind of a record did he have, Butch?”

“A-one. None too many brains, as I recall, but so honest he wouldn't take a fin from a speakie. Too damned honest for his own good. Didn't play ball, an that kept him from stripes.”

“Clean slate, hey?” muttered the Inspector.

“As a whistle. Seem to remember I was sorry to see him go. Romantic Irishman, Donoghue. Only he got romantic about the wrong thing—Duty. Ha, ha!”

“Still harpin' on the same smelly old joke, I see,” growled Thumm. “Butch, I'll live to see the day when you're Commissioner. Good-bye, damn you, and come up to my office some time.”

He replaced the receiver tenderly and scowled at his calendar. After a moment he picked up the telephone again, repeated his call to Police Headquarters, and asked for the Missing Persons Bureau.

Captain Grayson, head of the Bureau, was an old friend. Thumm tersely related the story of Donoghue, the peculiar circumstances surrounding his disappearance, his description and habits. Grayson, whose duty it was to investigate all cases of missing persons under the jurisdiction of the New York Police Department, promised to institute a quiet inquiry. Then the Inspector switched his call back to Inspector Geoghan.

“Listen, Butch, I'm in again. Got a line on a smooth crook who makes a speciality of stealing rare books? Guy wore a funny kind of blue lid—I dunno, might be a habit of his.”

“Book-snatcher eh?” said Geoghan thoughtfully. “Blue hat.… Can't remember a mug of that description off-hand, but I'll find out and call you back.”

“Thanks. I'll be waiting.”

A half-hour later Geoghan telephoned. There was nothing in the criminal records of the Bureau of Identification which involved a man specializing in the theft of rare books and who moreover had a habit of wearing a blue or bluish hat.

The Inspector stared dismally out of his window. The world seemed very dreary at the moment. Finally he sighed, fished a sheet of note-paper out of his desk, unscrewed the cap of his fountain-pen, and began laboriously to write:

D
EAR
L
ANE
:

Here's something I know you'll be interested in. It's that little mystery I told Quacey about over the 'phone this morning. To tell the God's honest truth me and Patty are sort of stuck, and we would like your advice.

Now it seems that an ex-cop named Donoghue …

7

“The Passionate Pilgrim”

Miss Brodie stumbled into her employer's sanctum, her vapid young face working. “Oh, Inspector! It's—it's Mr. Lane!”

“What's that?” asked the Inspector blankly. It was Wednesday, and he had quite forgotten having written Lane the day before.

“Now, now, Brodie,” said Patience kindly, “get a grip on yourself. What's this about Mr. Lane?”

Miss Brodie made Spartan efforts. She gulped, pointed tremblingly at the door, and said: “
He's outside
.”

“Well, for the love of Mike!” bellowed the Inspector, springing for the door. “Why didn't you say so?” He yanked the door open; a tall old man with a mat of pure white hair sat on the bench in the ante-room, smiling at him and Patience by his side. Miss Brodie sucked her thumb nervously in the background. “Lane! It's good to see you. What the devil brings you into town?”

Mr. Drury Lane rose, tucked his blackthorn under his arm, and gripped the Inspector's hand very creditably for a septuagenarian. “Your fascinating letter, of course. Patience! Charming as usual. Well, well, Inspector, aren't you going to ask me in?”

Miss Brodie slipped by, an agitated wraith awed by a higher Presence. Mr. Drury Lane smiled at her in passing, and she gasped faintly. Then the three retired to the Inspector's office.

The old gentleman looked about him with affectionate eyes. “It's been some time, hasn't it? The same stuffy old hole, Inspector. A sort of modern Teach's brig. How are you both?”

“Physically prime,” said Patience, “but not so healthy mentally—at the moment. But how have you been, Mr. Lane? The last time——”

“The last time, my dear,” said the old gentleman solemnly, “I was slipping on an earthslide into my grave. To-day—as you see me. I feel better than I've felt for years.”

“Sure makes me feel good to see you sittin' here,” growled the Inspector.

Lane spoke with his eyes shifting from the lips of Patience to the lips of Thumm; in a practised, fluid way they were never still. “The truth is your letter revived me, Inspector. A case! Particularly a case involving my humdrum little Britannic. It seems too good to be true.”

“That's the difference between you and Father,” said Patience, laughing. “Mysteries irritate him and stimulate you.”

“And what do they do to you, my dear?”

She shrugged. “I'm the Balm of Gilead.”

“The Britannic,” murmured Lane. “Patience, have you met young Gordon Rowe?”

Instantly she blushed, and tears of exasperation came to her eyes. The Inspector muttered bitterly to himself. The old gentleman eyed them with a smile. “Oh—oh, yes, I've met him,” said Patience.

“So I gathered,” said Lane dryly. “Smart young chap, eh?”

“Quite, quite.”

The Inspector fidgeted. “Fact of the matter is, Lane, we're in something crazy. I'm not getting any money out of it, it's the nuttiest yarn you ever heard, and I've got to do something about it for old time's sake.”

“An unenviable position,” chuckled the old gentleman. “I suggest we go at once to the museum. Something in your description of that shattered cabinet in the Saxon Room, Inspector, makes me want very much to examine it.”

“Oh!” cried Patience. “Something I missed?”

“It's just a conjecture,” said Mr. Drury Lane thoughtfully. “I dare say it's nothing. Shall we go? Dromio is downstairs with the car.”

They found Dr. Alonzo Choate in his office deep in conversation with a tall, spidery-limbed man dressed in curiously foreign clothes. He possessed the lean hatchety face of a certain physical type of Englishman—very sharp eyes, too, and screwed easily under the brow-ridge of his right eye there was a rimless monocle, from which a slender black silk ribbon fell to circle his neck. There was a bony clean-shavenness about his face which strongly recalled the scholars of the Renaissance. When he spoke it was with a quiet positiveness, and in the charming accent of the cultured Briton. He was perhaps fifty. Dr. Choate introduced him as Dr. Hamnet Sedlar, the incumbent curator, whose boat from England had docked this morning.