Chapter XIX: Sir Toby Is Surprised

As Nick had guessed, Bobby Manvers found that drive to London a depressing one. Michael was silent, sliding lower and lower in the driving seat, staring sullenly at the road ahead. Bobby's few attempts at conversation met at the best with monosyllabic replies, and finally he abandoned the struggle. His only comfort lay in the fact that Michael was driving at a high rate of speed and that, in consequence, the journey would be over in the shortest possible time. The last half-hour through London, however, was a considerable strain to his nerves, and when Michael dropped him at his flat he got out thankfully, with a sigh of relief and a hypocritical 'Thanks awfully, old man. Topping run!'

Michael drove on, unnoticing, left his car at the garage he patronised, and went back to Quebec Street on foot. It was a close, stuffy evening, with a feeling of thunder about. Michael looked up at the tall houses that hemmed him in, and was conscious for the thousandth time of a desperate desire to get away from it all. There was no air, no sunshine, no freedom of mind or body in this swarming antheap of a city. Well, his legal affairs were finished, thank Heaven. He'd had a word with Sir Toby just before lunch, and had been assured that all was over bar the shouting, and that in another week's time he would be free to shake the dust of England from his feet. Free to go back to his own place, where the sun really shone, and a man could do as he chose. It would be good to be home again; to see the long, low coast-line, fringed to the shore with the dark, unchanging bush, and above, silhouetted against the sky, a bunch of lanky coconuts: then, as his cutter drew near to the shore, the surf breaking in a gleaming line, apparently endless but for the narrow break in the reef where the fresh water pierces the coral and opens the way into the clear, sunlit lagoon. The scrunch of the keel on the beach, the laughing natives, the low, white house with its broad veranda.

Michael drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He could almost hear the thunder of the breakers, smell the coconut oil and aromatic herbs. Lost in his thoughts, he let himself into the tall grey house in Quebec Street, and went to bed, to dream of blue seas and white surf.

The sun was streaming into his room when he woke next morning. 'Going home in a week's time,' he told himself, and whistled cheerfully as he ran his bath water. Even London seemed a comparatively good place on such a morning, and he felt disappointed when Milly, entering with his breakfast, failed to greet him with her usual beaming smile.

'It's a decent morning, Milly,' he observed reproachfully, as he hungrily attacked his eggs and bacon.

'I dessay.' She stood, arms akimbo, eyeing him disapprovingly. 'Where's Miss Mitchell?'

Michael stopped eating, and stared at her.

'She ain't bin 'ome, an' 'er bed ain't bin slep' in.'

'Good Lord! Where's she gone?'

'That's wot I'm arskin' _you_. You took 'er out yesterday. I'm anxious about 'er, I tell yer straight. It ain't like 'er to go orf without s'much as a word.'

Michael was silent, his thoughts racing.

'Fer Gawd's sake, speak up!' burst out Milly furiously. 'You was with 'er, wasn't you?'

'Yes, but I didn't bring her home.'

'Oo did?'

'Man called Nicholson.'

Milly's face cleared suddenly, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

'Mr. Nicholson? Oh, _that's_ all right then. She won't come to no 'arm along with 'im.'

'You know him well, of course,' said Michael, with the irritation of a badly worried man.

Milly regarded him pityingly.

'I ain't known 'im long, but you c'n take it from me, I knows a decent fella when I meets one. Don't you fret about Mr. Nicholson. _'E's_ all right.'

'Feminine intuition, I suppose,' said Michael, continuing his breakfast.

Milly's eyes danced naughtily.

'You ain't arf fetchin' when you smiles sarcastic that way,' she told him. 'Puts me in mind of a movie I seen last week. The 'ero, 'e ses: "Hah, wimmin!" he ses, an' smiles lopsided, same as you. Lovely 'e was.'

'Shut up!' said Michael, trying not to grin. 'And go away, Milly; that's enough.'

'Right y' are, sir,' assented Milly cheerfully. At the door she hesitated, her face grave.

'Mr. Doone....'

'Hullo?'

She flung out her hands with the abrupt, passionate, almost Latin gesture of the Cockney.

'Honest, Mr. Doone, 'e's all right, that bloke.'

Michael looked at her curiously.

'Nicholson?'

'Yuss. If you was to tell me 'e'd bin jugged fer murder, I'd tell you 'e never; or, if 'e did, there was a damn good reason for it. 'E's all right, straight 'e is. I _know_ it!'

She swung round and disappeared, leaving Michael staring. How much did she know, he wondered. It might be far more than he knew himself; it might be nothing at all. He went on with his breakfast, wondering where Jerry was, and what he ought to do about it. Then he pulled the telephone towards him, and rang up Nick's flat in Jermyn Street. The porter answered him. Mr. Nicholson was not in. Mr. Nicholson had left the previous morning and had not been home since. Michael rang off, frowning thoughtfully. They might have had an accident, but Michael had a deep respect for Nick's driving, and thought it unlikely. And even if they were both in hospital, there would be some news of them. Secondly, they might have eloped, but somehow that didn't seem very like Jerry. Michael had heard her express her views on the subject of love affairs and marriage. Thirdly--and a disquieting thought--suppose Bobby's theory were right, and Nick had been concerned in the murder, he would have a definite reason for wanting to get Jerry out of the way.

Michael looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. Sir Toby was coming up to London this morning early. It might be worth while asking his advice.

Michael reached for the telephone, rang up Sir Toby's flat, and in due time was answered by Ruff. Yes, Sir Toby had arrived, but was lying down. He was not very well, had had a return of his heart trouble. Could he see Mr. Doone some time to-day? Ruff would inquire. Michael waited impatiently, till he heard Ruff's soft, respectful voice again. Sir Toby had a luncheon engagement, but would be delighted to see Mr. Doone at three. Sir Toby had said that Mr. Manvers might be looking in about that time, but that if Mr. Doone's business was private, he would put Mr. Manvers off. Michael had no objection to Bobby's presence, and said so. Ruff murmured, 'Very good, sir,' and faded away.

Michael rose to his feet and tramped restlessly across his room. What the blazes was Nicholson up to? Bobby's theory seemed infernally plausible, but somehow he hated the idea. Then again, had he any right to withhold the secret of Vive le Sport's identity? If anything happened to Jerry, both Sir Toby and Bobby would blame him for concealing the information. Quite rightly, too. After all, if Bobby were wrong, he could trust both him and Sir Toby to keep their mouths shut. Michael went out into the Park. He needed fresh air and exercise.

For once in his life he was punctual that afternoon, and arrived at the door of Sir Toby's block of flats on the stroke of three. He was just speaking to the hall porter when a cheerful voice hailed him.

'Hullo, Michael! You c-come to see Toby, too?'

'Yes.'

'Good work!' said Bobby heartily. 'Ruff tells me the old chap's had another heart attack. It's rotten for him, isn't it? Let's take the lift, shall we?'

They found Sir Toby in an armchair, propped up with pillows. His face was white and drawn, and he looked desperately tired, but he greeted them with a smile.

'Very nice to see you both. Well, Michael, has anything happened? You look very serious. Pull up that chair, Bobby. You'll find cigarettes in the box by your elbow.'

'You're not looking too fit, sir,' said Bobby, obeying. 'I say, would you rather I cleared out? I mean, won't one of us be enough for you just now, so to speak?'

'No, no, I like company. It's nothing to worry about. These absurd attacks come and go. I shall be all right to-morrow. Now, Michael, let's hear about it. I feel convinced you have something on your mind.'

'Very true,' said Michael. 'It's Jerry. She's disappeared.'

'Really?' Sir Toby looked interested. 'When was she--er--last seen?'

'When she left High Ash yesterday.'

'In Nicholson's car. Do you think they've made a runaway match?'

'I don't. To start with, she'd got no kit with her. And then, why should she? Even if she suddenly decided to marry Nicholson, there was no reason for secrecy. Besides, Jerry isn't that sort.'

Sir Toby smiled.

'When you're my age, Michael, you'll hesitate before you say, "She's not that sort," of any woman. They're unaccountable creatures. But I admit it sounds unlikely. She didn't seem terribly attracted by Nicholson when I saw them together.'

'Of course, Stephen's a jolly dark horse,' put in Bobby. 'He's a bit of a devil with the ladies, you know, and Jerry's very young. She might have been swept off her feet and all that. And then he may have made her swear not to tell you. I've been told that Nicholson has a queer sort of power, if you know what I mean.'

'Bunk!' said Michael offensively.

Sir Toby took no notice of Bobby's theory.

'Go on, Michael,' he said quietly. 'Tell me what exactly is worrying you.'

'Well, I can't help wondering.... Did you get that letter from Jerry's bank?'

'Yes. I collected it on the way up. Here it is.' He tapped his pocket.

'Carrying it on the person, sir?' asked Bobby. 'Isn't that a bit dangerous?'

'Not more so than putting it into my safe. With the present crime wave, burglary's an everyday occurrence.'

'Talking about burglars,' said Michael. 'Do you think Vive le Sport could have had anything to do with the Mitchell affair?'

'In what way?'

'Oh, in Robertson's pay, for instance?'

'It doesn't sound likely,' said Sir Toby. 'After all, his line is burglary, and nothing was stolen. Besides, I shouldn't like to think of him as a murderer.'

Michael rose to his feet and walked over to the window, where he stood, hands in pockets, staring down into the street below.

'You know, I don't like this about Jerry,' said Bobby. 'I mean, it's all so dashed queer, isn't it? Suppose we try to trace Nicholson's car?'

'From what I've seen of Miss Mitchell I should imagine that she would not be likely to welcome any interference with her affairs,' said Sir Toby.

Bobby grew rather red.

'That's perfectly true,' he said, 'but all the same, she's only a child, and Stephen Nicholson ... well, I don't trust him. He's got a frightfully taking manner and all that, but there's something queer about him. I think he's dangerous.'

'Oh, my dear Bobby!' laughed Sir Toby, 'this is obviously the result of an overdose of detective fiction. Stephen Nicholson is an idle young plutocrat, with a curious passion for _vers libre_ and all the extravagant ugliness of modern art. I don't believe one-third of the rumours about him, and suspect them of being the invention of one or two silly women. I like Nicholson, and I think he's a shining example of how a good man can waste his life. What he needs is a little honest work. What do you say, Michael?'

'I--don't--know,' said Michael slowly. Then he turned and faced them. 'You see, Nicholson is Vive le Sport.'

There was a dead silence. Bobby's jaw dropped and he stared blankly. Then Sir Toby sat up, put his gouty foot to the ground, swore and fell back on his pillows, stretching out one hand weakly towards a glass of water which stood on the table. Michael handed it to him, startled by the old man's ghastly pallor, and Sir Toby sipped the water gratefully.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'Your announcement was so unexpected that I put too much weight on my bad foot, and the pain made me feel rather faint. It's all right now. Michael, this is the most amazing information. I find it almost incredible. How do you know?'

'Nicholson told me so himself.'

'Nicholson told you?' echoed Bobby. 'Good Lord! Well, I always said there was something queer about that man.'

Michael ignored him, and addressed himself to Sir Toby. 'That's why I'm worried,' he said. 'You see, Nicholson isn't only what he seems, and if he can play one part so perfectly, God knows how many more he may not be playing.'

'I entirely understand your anxiety,' said Sir Toby, 'and the evidence seems to be piling up against him. To start with, he was outside Mitchell's door immediately after the murder. Then he disappeared, didn't attend the inquest, made no reference to the affair. He didn't even make himself known to Miss Mitchell. In fact, he appeared to have lost all interest. It's very odd, that. Then, again, one can only assume that the first thing this fellow Robertson will try to do is to get hold of Miss Mitchell. He's got to get that paper before some date in June, hasn't he? I've forgotten the exact day.'

'The tenth,' said Michael.

'And to-day's the eighth. He hasn't got much time, you see. And he can't get the paper without Miss Mitchell's assistance. Yes, it seems to fit in only too well. Michael, I think we ought to open this letter. It may give us a clue to Mr. Robertson, and should at least tell us the identity of the man who gave it to Professor Mitchell.'

Michael considered.

'I think you're right,' he said.

Bobby held his peace, but he looked worried. Sir Toby took the long envelope from his pocket and tore it open.

'It's empty!' he said. 'No, it isn't, begad!' He shook the envelope, and out fell a small visiting-card, which he read and then held up to the others, smiling a little.

'"Vive le Sport!"' read Bobby, in an awestruck tone. 'But, d-dash it all, how on earth----'

'Oh, that's dead easy,' broke in Michael impatiently. 'He got Jerry to get it for him last night, took the letter, and left his card instead. That proves he had got something to do with the murder, anyway. The question is, _what_?'

Sir Toby nodded slowly, his face very grave.

'As far as I can see, there are just three possible theories,' he said. 'Firstly, he may be the man who gave Mitchell the envelope.'

'Then why the secrecy?' asked Michael. 'Why hasn't he said so ages ago? He knew who Mitchell was, and he knew Jerry.'

'He must have convinced _her_ that he was the man, or he wouldn't have got the envelope,' remarked Sir Toby.

'He might have got it by force,' put in Bobby darkly.

Michael laughed, and Sir Toby smothered a smile.

'I don't think that's very likely,' he said, 'but, of course, anything's possible in this romantic age. The question that is occupying me is why he bothered to insert his card and seal the envelope up again. I can't believe he suspected me of being Mr. Robertson.'

'Hardly!' said Michael, with a grin. 'He may have put it there for the benefit of Mr. Robertson, though, feeling that he would certainly try to get it from you.'

'That's possible. The second theory is that Nicholson really did take a definite part in the murder. I still find it hard to believe that he actually committed the crime, but, as you said just now, he may be in Robertson's pay. In that case, I assume he left the card for the benefit of the real owner--the fellow who wrote the letter.'

'Yes, I see that,' said Bobby, nodding sagely.

'Robert sees it,' said Michael. 'Loud applause, instantly suppressed. What's your third theory?'

'That Nicholson has nothing whatever to do with the affair, but on hearing the story decided to take a hand in it for the fun of the thing. It would be quite in keeping with his character. He adores mystery, he adores adventure, and, if I'm not much mistaken, he adores Miss Mitchell.'

There was a moment's silence. Bobby moved restlessly, and stared unhappily at the floor. Michael lit a cigarette, his green eyes as blank as stones. Sir Toby studied the little card in his hand.

'It seems to me,' said Michael at last, 'that it all hangs on whether this'--he picked it up--'is the original envelope or not.'

Bobby gaped, and even Sir Toby looked a little surprised.

'I should think that probably it is,' he said.

'But what would it prove if it wasn't?' asked Bobby.

'Nothing,' said Michael. 'Look here, Bobby, suppose you have a look for Nicholson's car? It's about time you did a spot of useful work, and showed us what you can do in the sleuth line. Go and ask the police.'

'I don't think that's a good plan,' said Bobby. 'The police, I mean. They'd want to know why, and we can't tell 'em.'

'Why not?'

'Bobby's right,' interposed Sir Toby. 'We don't want a newspaper scandal if we can avoid it. After all, there may be a perfectly natural explanation.'

'And one can find out about the car without the help of the police,' added Bobby, his face brightening.

'How?' asked Michael sceptically.

'Oh'--Bobby shrugged his shoulders, and rose to go--'one has one's methods.'

Sir Toby laughed.

'That makes you quits, I think,' he said. 'Let's have a truce now.'

Michael grinned, and a smile spread over Bobby's chubby face.

'Right you are,' he said. 'Well, I must be off. Good-bye, sir. I hope you'll be all right soon.'

'I know I shall. These attacks never last long, thank Heaven. Good-bye, Bobby.'

'I'd better be moving too,' said Michael. 'Come and have dinner at my place to-night, Robert, and tell us your news, if any.'

'Love to. Thanks awfully. Good Lord, it's past four! I shall have to sprint.'

Michael collected his hat, said good-bye to Sir Toby, and took his leave. As he was closing the door behind him he heard Sir Toby's voice.

'Did you call me?' he asked, poking his head round the door.

'Yes; tell me, Michael'--Sir Toby had a smile in his eyes--'what would it prove if this were the original envelope?'

'A good deal,' said Michael. 'It's addressed in Nicholson's handwriting. So long.'

He went out, shutting the door behind him.