“Her control?”
“Her Spirit Guide.” He grinned up at me and he rubbed his hands some more.
“Have you seen Lord Purleigh?” I asked him.
He shook his head impatiently. “Not since we spoke in the library.” “I talked to Sir Arthur about the London idea. The police. I think that’ll work.”
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice to my left, and a light touch upon my arm. The scent of ancient flowers.
“I apologize for interrupting,” said Mrs. Corneille, smiling first at me and then down at the Great Man. “I was returning to my table and I thought I might ask all of you to join us there.”
The Great Man glanced toward her table, which held Sir David and Dr. Auerbach. He still ranked them as vermin, probably, because when he turned back to Mrs. Corneille his smile was small and polite. “Thank you,” he said, and nodded. “Perhaps in a short while.”
She looked at me. “Mr. Beaumont?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.” I nodded goodbye to the Great Man and then I walked to the table beside Mrs. Corneille and her perfume. Dr. Auerbach shot to his feet, his tiny teeth and his pince-nez gleaming. He gave me a small crisp nod. Mr. Beaumont. A great pleasure to see you again.”
From his seat, Sir David nodded curtly and looked away.
Sir David, Lord Bob, Cecily. I was making a big impression on the uptown swells.
“Would you care for some food?” asked Mrs. Corneille as I sat down beside her. Opposite me, Dr. Auerbach neatly tugged up the knees of his trousers and he sat down and crossed his legs.
Like Doyle’s table, this one was piled with food. I realized that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Yes,” I admitted. “Thanks.
Mrs. Corneille leaned forward for the teapot. “Tea?”
“Please”
She ignored him and poured the tea. She looked over at me. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I told her.
She set the teacup before me. “The sandwiches are quite good,” she said.
I took a plate, took a sandwich from the silver platter. Bit into it. Smoked salmon and creamed cheese. Quite good.
Sir David said to Mrs. Corneille, “Dr. Auerbach was explaining that he has a literary as well as a psychological side.” He turned to Dr. Auerbach comfortably, almost proudly, like an inventor waiting for his favorite windup toy to start performing.
“Oh no,” Dr. Auerbach said to Mrs. Corneille. “Literary, no. I have myself produced a very few original monographs only. Studies of some interesting cases I have encountered. But I have, as I told Sir David, translated Herr Doktor Freud’s ‘Wit and Its Relationship to the Unconscious.’ This I did for your University of Leeds.”
Smiling, Sir David idly stroked his mustache with his index finger. “Leeds, was it?”
Dr. Auerbach showed his little teeth to Mrs. Corneille. “But this was quite some work, I can tell you. Because of the nature of humor, it was necessary that I substitute English jokes of my own for Herr Doctor Freud’s German jokes.”
“Perhaps,” said Sir David, “you would favor us with some of these?”
“Whatever is wrong with Lord Purleigh?” said Mrs. Corneille, looking off toward the entrance to the drawing room.
I turned. Lord Bob had arrived. Standing a few feet from Doyle’s table, he was waving his bushy eyebrows up and down and running his hands back through his hair, his face twisted. Doyle stood frowning before him, his big fingers on Lord Bob’s elbow as though supporting the man. Across the table, Lady Purleigh had risen from her seat. She looked worried.
“Excuse me,” I said. Reluctantly, I set my food back on the table and I stood up.
Doyle and Lord Bob were walking now toward the Great Man’s table. Both their faces were grim. I reached the table at the same time they did. The Great Man had seen them coming and he was already standing.
“Beaumont, good,” said Doyle. “We can use you, I expect.”
“What happened?” I asked him.
Doyle turned to Lord Bob, who scowled at me and then looked at the Great Man. “Some sort of accident,” he said. “The Earl. My father. His valet heard a noise in his room. Pistol shot, he thinks-but that’s impossible. Bloody impossible. Thing is, we can't get in and the Earl won’t answer. Bloody door is locked. Some problem with the key.”
The Great Man raised himself to his full height. “Houdini will open it, Lord Purleigh. This I promise you.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was a broad massive wooden door studded with black wrought-iron nails and belted with black wrought-iron bands. The little man named Carson who was the Earl’s valet showed us with trembling hands that his big metal key wouldn’t fit into the keyhole. He was in his white-haired seventies and right now he didn’t look as if he would make it very much further. “It won’t fit, sir,” he kept saying, stabbing the key again and again into the hole, looking back frantically at the Great Man.
“Of course not,” said the Great Man. “The interior key is blocking the channel.”
We stood behind them-Lord Bob, Doyle, Higgens, the butler, and me. Most of us were panting. Lord Bob was gasping, leaning forward with his hands on his knees like a marathon runner at the end of the race and the end of his tether. His face was as red and shiny as a glazed beet.
We were at the northwest corner of the manor house, on the third floor, and it had taken us a while to dash over here. Along the way, puffing, Lord Bob had explained to the Great Man and Doyle that Carson had been in the anteroom-where we stood now-when he heard the shot. He had tried to open the door, discovered he couldn’t, and gone next door to his own room, to call Higgens on the emergency telephone. Higgens had found Lord Bob, Lord Bob had come up here, tried the door, and then come for the rest of us.
The anteroom was a kind of antique parlor with bare stone walls and heavy, roughly finished oak furniture scattered around, and another Oriental carpet on the floor. It was a strange room, looking like something out of the Middle Ages. But all of us were more interested in what was on the other side of the massive wooden door.
“Permit me,” said the Great Man and stepped forward. Carson glanced anxiously at Lord Bob, who was upright now but still puffing. Lord Bob nodded and weakly waved his hand. Carson tottered back and wrapped his arms around himself as though he were afraid he was going to explode.
The Great Man reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, slipped out a thin steel pick. He bent over, peered for an instant into the keyhole, eased the pick into the hole and gave a sudden flick of his wrist. Then, gently, once, he tapped the pick into the lock. Its length vanished in the hole and I heard a distant slapping sound that might have been a big copper key landing on a wooden floor.
“Child’s play,” said the Great Man. He flicked the pick again and I heard a metallic click that might have been a bolt snapping back into a lock housing. The Great Man smiled and straightened up and pushed on the door. Nothing happened.
He turned to Lord Bob and frowned. “It is barred, unfortunately.” He looked around the room, searching for something. “I need-”
“ Blast! ” said Lord Bob. His white mustache was limp. He staggered around the Great Man and raised his fist and pounded it down on the door. The door didn’t move but the Great Man stepped nimbly aside, his eyebrows raised in alarm. Lord Bob pounded at the door again. “Open up!” he roared. He sucked in a deep ragged breath. “Open up, you blithering old fool! You reprobate! You filthy, sniveling, whining, reactionary swine! Open the bloody door!”
“Calm yourself, Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle. He put his big hand on Lord Bob’s shoulder. “This doesn’t advance us. Is there no other way in?”
Lord Bob wheeled away from the comforting hand and he shouted, “Not unless we fly in, like bloody ducks!”