“So far from frightening me, Santos, death appears as a rather pleasant thing. It means rest — utter rest. No, I’ve lived enough. If this madman wants to get me, he’ll get me.”
“Still—” began Loreto, but he was interrupted.
“He’ll get me,” repeated Sir George. “He’s mad and cunning, and he’s not a regular criminal. That’s why the police are helpless. You know what police methods are. They can only catch the regulars. Police know all the regulars — got ’em tabbed — know their methods. Crime committed, and the regular must account for himself at the time of the crime. Then their women and pals squeal to the police. But all that sort of thing is no good against a man like this. He’s not a regular; he’s got no pals. There’s no motive and no clue. He’s mad, as Jack the Ripper was, and the police never caught Jack.”
“But if the police were warned?” suggested Loreto. “If you showed them these diary pages at once—”
The old man shook his head obstinately.
“Don’t believe in the police,” he barked. “And I don’t want them fussing about me. Matter of fact, Santos, I’m telling you all this in confidence. And I have a favor to ask you.”
A wistful note crept into his voice.
“I’d like you to take up this case,” he said. “I’d like you to try and prevent this poor devil committing more insane crimes. In particular, I would like you to protect my poor wife.”
For a moment Loreto wondered whether he had heard aright.
“Your wife?” he echoed. “Do you mean that your wife, too, is threatened?”
Sir George nodded gravely.
“Lilian hated poor Kitty more than anyone else. She has received pages from the diary that make terrible reading. The thing has knocked Kitty out. Her nerves have gone to bits, and she’s in a nursing home now, at Cambridge, near Oxsfoot. This murderer has made a definite threat, too. He says he will kill me first, and Kitty will die within a week of my decease. We had a typewritten note to that effect.
“As I’ve said, I don’t care for myself, but I do for Kitty. I’ve got nurses watching her day and night, and detectives outside, round the nursing home. But this fellow is so cunning. I don’t trust the ordinary policeman, Santos, or ordinary police methods. I wonder if you’d look after Kitty for me?”
There was something in the old man’s face and voice — something very simple and pathetic — that touched Loreto, accustomed as he was to this world’s sorrows.
“Very well,” he said, slowly, “I’ll take the thing on, Sir George, and I promise to do my best to stop this madman and put him under restraint. The thing should be comparatively easy now that we are warned in advance.”
Sir George rose to his feet and held out his hand to the younger man.
“You’re a good fellow, Santos,” he observed. “If anyone can catch this murderer, you can, but I don’t think it will be easy. In any case, thanks ever so much for taking the job on. Now I must go and say a kind word to Flora Groombridge. She’ll scold me for leaving her so long.”
Loreto pressed the long, thin hand.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, earnestly. “I’ll arrange, to-morrow, to have you looked after properly. In the meantime, be careful of strangers, and lock your bedroom door at night.”
The old man chuckled.
“I’ll ask Flora to mount guard over me,” he said. “She’d drive off fifty assassins.”
Back in the drawing-room the house-party was beginning to think of bed. Loreto talked for a time to his sister, and then she bade him good night. Most of the men were taking a final whisky-and-soda before departing, but Adam Steele was playing the fool like a big schoolboy, and trying to perform some trick with a couple of chairs, despite Lady Groombridge’s frigid stare. Around him stood some of the younger women, laughing loudly, and Lionel Silk was urging the Australian to further efforts.
Sir George Frame spoke for a time to his hostess, and was introduced to Otisse. The two men began to discuss Brazil, and the Frenchman offered to lend the other a book on that country.
Gradually the big room emptied as one by one the guests went up to bed. Acting upon impulse, Loreto went to Sir George Frame’s bedroom. The baronet had one of the best bedrooms in the house, situated upon the first floor, and he looked rather surprised when he opened the door to Loreto.
“Hullo, Santos!” he exclaimed. “Anything you want, my boy? I was just starting to undress.”
“You ought to lock your door,” said Loreto, walking into the old man’s room. “Have you a valet with you?”
“No. I didn’t bring him down. Fact is, Fletcher is a shrewd, discreet fellow, and I sent him along to Cambridge to keep an eye on the detectives who are guarding Kitty. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
The old man chuckled over the tag, but Loreto was making a thorough examination of the big bedroom, and assuring himself that the windows were securely fastened, and that no one was concealed in the room.
“You must be careful, Sir George,” he urged. “Remember that your life is threatened, even in this house. This room seems secure enough, but you must lock your door and bolt it.”
He added the last words as he turned towards the door and saw that there were inside bolts at the top and bottom.
“All right, my boy,” said the old man, good-humoredly. “I like to read for an hour before sleeping, and Otisse is to bring me along a book of his on Brazil. Directly he’s gone, I’ll lock, bolt, and bar. Good-night, my boy. Thanks so much.”
With this assurance Loreto had to be content. He went upstairs to his own room, but it was a long time before he could sleep.
It was very improbable that Sir George would be in danger for this one night, and to-morrow Loreto would see that the absent-minded old man was properly guarded. Yet for an hour Loreto tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, thinking of anyone who could threaten or harm Sir George Frame. The French explorer was taking a book to the baronet’s room, but Otisse was all right, and had been in Brazil when the “Death Diary Murders” were committed.
Sir George’s windows were secure; there was no way of entry except by the door, or smashing a window, which would raise an alarm.
And upon this thought Loreto fell at last into a troubled sleep, and awoke with the autumn sun streaming across his face.
It was after nine o’clock, and consequently rather late when Loreto descended to the breakfast-room. Most of the house-party had gone to tennis or the links, but Lady Groombridge herself was breakfasting, and with her were Otisse, Adam Steele, and Lionel Silk. There were also four women, among whom was Cleta, who waxed ironical about her brother’s tardiness.
“Let him be, my dear,” said Lady Groombridge, tolerantly. “He’s not the last.”
“I slept rather badly,” explained Loreto.
“I always do,” drawled Lionel Silk. “The night is such a wonderful time to dream, but one should never sleep whilst one dreams. How we waste those wonderful hours of silence and moonlight in vulgar sleep!”
Adam Steele laughed loudly.
“Silk wants a ‘Moonlight Saving Bill’,” he suggested.
“The lovers would applaud that,” said Otisse. “Really we should ask Sir George Frame to propose the Bill in Parliament.”
“By the way,” said Lady Groombridge, sharply, “Sir George is very late, and he’s usually an early riser.”
A parlormaid was in the room at the moment, and the girl put in a word.
“I have just knocked at Sir George’s door, m’lady,” she said. “I knocked hard, but I could get no answer. I noticed that his shaving water hadn’t been taken in and it was cold.”
Lady Groombridge glared at the girl and then at her guests.