“The poor boy must be in his room,” said Mr. Mortimer.
“Under the bed, if you ask me,” said Jane, blowing on the barrel of her gun and polishing it with the side of her hand. “He’s all right! Leave him alone, and the housemaid will sweep him up in the morning.”
“Oh, he can’t be!” cried Billie, revolted.
A girl of high spirit, it seemed to her repellent that the man she was engaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At that moment she despised and hated Bream Mortimer. I think she was wrong, mind you. It is not my place to criticise the little group of people whose simple annals I am relating—my position is merely that of a reporter—: but personally I think highly of Bream’s sturdy common-sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant gun at me in a dark corridor, I would climb on to the roof and pull it up after me. Still, rightly or wrongly, that was how Billie felt: and it flashed across her mind that Samuel Marlowe, scoundrel though he was, would not have behaved like this. And for a moment a certain wistfulness added itself to the varied emotions then engaging her mind.
“I’ll go and look, if you like,” said Jane agreeably. “You amuse yourselves somehow till I come back.”
She ran easily up the stairs, three at a time. Mr. Mortimer turned to Mr. Bennett.
“It’s all very well your saying Wilhelmina mustn’t go, but, if she doesn’t, how can we get the police? The house isn’t on the ‘phone, and nobody else can drive the car.”
“That’s true,” said Mr. Bennett, wavering.
“I’m going,” said Billie resolutely. It occurred to her, as it has occurred to so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis. The temporary withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which the removal of a rudder has on a boat. “It’s the only thing to do. I shall be back in no time.”
She stepped firmly to the coat-rack, and began to put on her motoring-cloak. And just then Jane Hubbard came downstairs, shepherding before her a pale and glassy-eyed Bream.
“Right under the bed,” she announced cheerfully, “making a noise like a piece of fluff in order to deceive burglars.”
Billie cast a scornful look at her fiancee. Absolutely unjustified, in my opinion, but nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all. Terror had stunned Bream Mortimer’s perceptions. His was what the doctors call a penumbral mental condition. He was in a sort of trance.
“Bream,” said Billie, “I want you to come in the car with me to fetch the police.”
“All right,” said Bream.
“Get your coat.”
“All right,” said Bream.
“And cap.”
“All right,” said Bream.
He followed Billie in a docile manner out through the front door, and they made their way to the garage at the back of the house, both silent. The only difference between their respective silences was that Billie’s was thoughtful, while Bream’s was just the silence of a man who has unhitched his brain and is getting along as well as he can without it.
In the hall they had left, Jane Hubbard once more took command of affairs.
“Well, that’s something done,” she said, scratching Smith’s broad back with the muzzle of her weapon. “Something accomplished, something done, has earned a night’s repose. Not that we’re going to get it yet. I think those fellows are hiding somewhere, and we ought to search the house and rout them out. It’s a pity Smith isn’t a bloodhound. I like you personally, Smithy, but you’re about as much practical use in a situation like this as a cold in the head. You’re a good cake-hound, but as a watch-dog you don’t finish in the first ten.”
The cake-hound, charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet like a young elephant.
“The first thing to do,” continued Jane, “is to go through the ground-floor rooms….” She paused to strike a match against the suit of armour nearest to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry of protest from Mrs. Hignett, and lit a cigarette. “I’ll go first, as I’ve got a gun….” She blew a cloud of smoke. “I shall want somebody with me to carry a light, and….”