Patricia Wentworth
The Clock Strikes Twelve
Miss Silver – #07
Chapter 1
Mr. James Paradine leaned forward and took up the telephone receiver. Birleton had not yet adopted the dial system. He waited for the exchange to speak, and then asked for a personal call to Mr. Elliot Wray at the Victoria Hotel, after which he remained in the same position, waiting for the call to come through. The table at which he sat was a large and handsome piece of furniture carried out in mahogany, with a crimson leather top. All the furniture in the room was large and handsome. There were nests of drawers, filing cabinets, and bookshelves. There were chairs and armchairs of the same family as the writing-table-the best leather, the best wood, the best workmanship. A very deep crimson carpet covered the floor. Heavy curtains of the same warm shade were drawn across the windows. Above the black marble mantelpiece hung a life-size portrait of the late Mrs. Paradine, a fair, spacious lady in ruby velvet and diamonds-a great many diamonds. In spite of them she managed to give the impression of having been a kind, housewifely sort of person. Nothing in the room was new, nothing was shabby. Everything appeared to partake the vigorous and dignified quality of Mr. James Paradine himself. A massive gilt clock beneath the portrait gave out four chiming strokes and then struck the hour of seven. As the last stroke died, there was a crackling in the receiver, a girl’s voice from the exchange said “Your call,” and immediately upon that Elliot Wray was heard to say “Hullo!”
James Paradine said,
“That you, Wray? James Paradine speaking. I want to see you. Here. At once.”
“Well-sir-”
“There’s no well about it. I want you to come out here at once. Something’s happened.”
At the other end of the line Elliot Wray’s heart turned over. He took a moment, and said,
“What?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Another pause. Then Elliot, very controlled.
“Is anything wrong?”
In spite of the control there was something that made old James Paradine smile grimly as he said,
“Wrong enough. But it’s business-nothing personal. Come right along.”
“I’m dining with the Moffats, sir.”
“You’ll have to cut it out. I’ll ring them and say I’m keeping you.”
Elliot Wray stood frowning with the receiver at his ear. James Paradine was Robert Moffat’s partner, head of the Paradine-Moffat Works. He wouldn’t make him break a dinner engagement, and a New Year’s dinner at that, unless the matter was urgent. He said,
“All right, sir, I’ll come out.”
James Paradine said, “All right,” and hung up.
The River House was three miles out of Birleton- four miles from the hotel. Allowing for the blackout, it would take Elliot all of twenty minutes to get here.
He went over to the door and switched off the two brilliant ceiling lights, and then, crossing the dark room, passed between the heavy curtains. The curtains ran straight across in continuance of the wall, but behind them was a deep bay with windows to right and left and a glass door in the middle. Mr. Paradine turned a key, opened the door, and stood upon the threshold looking out. Two shallow steps gave upon a wide terrace. The parapeted edge showed dark against the moonlit scene beyond and far below. The house stood on a height above the river from which it took its name. James Paradine looked down upon a silvered landscape which passed from low wooded hills on the right, through the river valley, to the dark clustering mass of Birleton on the left. The moon lighted it, almost full in a cloudless sky. Wray would make better time than the twenty minutes he had allowed him with all this brightness abroad. The edge of the terrace stood out as clear as day below the window, and beyond it the deep, steep drop to the water’s edge.
He stood there looking out, pleased with the view but not thinking about it-thinking of other things, thinking his own sardonic thoughts-pleased with them, savouring them. Presently he turned the watch on his wrist. He could read the dial easily enough-a quarter past seven. He parted the curtains again, came back through the room, and put on the lights.
Exactly three minutes later Elliot Wray walked in, his face set hard, his fair hair ruffled, and his eyes as cold as ice. He had come, but he was damned if he was going to stay one split second longer than he need. He had not known how much he would mind coming into the house until he got there. What difference did it make- New York or London, Birleton or Timbuctoo? It was all the same, wasn’t it? As far as he was concerned Phyllida was dead. He hadn’t known till he came into the River House how damnably her ghost could walk-all the way up the stair beside him, whispering.
He shut the door and came over to the far side of the writing-table, every bit of him taut with protest.
“What is it, sir?”
James Paradine looked at him across the table, leaning back in his swivel chair with a hand upon either arm.
“You’d better sit down,” he said. “Those blueprints have disappeared.”
Elliot’s two hands came down on the table flat. He leaned on them and said,
“What?”
James Paradine nodded slightly.
“They’ve gone,” he said. “You’d really better sit down.”
Elliot took no notice of that.
“How can they have gone?” He straightened up and stepped back a pace. “I left them with you this afternoon.”
“Precisely. Cadogan sent you up with them yesterday. Bob Moffat, Frank, and I had a session over them. After a further session you left them with me this afternoon at three o’clock, and at six-thirty I discovered that they were missing.”
“But, sir-”
“Just a moment. I think you will agree that your dinner engagement must go by the board. I have told Bob Moffat that I am keeping you on business. Now listen to me. Don’t worry too much. The prints are gone, but we shall get them back. This is a family matter, and I propose to deal with it in my own way. In order that I may do so I shall require you to stay here tonight. Your old room is ready for you.”
Elliot’s face set harder still.
“No, sir-I can’t do that.”
“You propose to go back to Cadogan and tell him that the prints have gone? I tell you I’m going to deal with it in my own way, and I can guarantee-yes, guarantee-that the prints will be back in our hands before the morning.”
The two pairs of eyes met, both bright, and hard, and angry. If there was a contest of wills, there was nothing to show which way it went.
Elliot spoke first.
“You said it was a family matter. Will you explain that?”
“I am about to do so. You handed me the prints at three-thirty in my office at the works. I left at a quarter past four. During that three quarters of an hour the prints were inside an attaché case on my office table, and the room was never unoccupied. I myself left it three times. On the first occasion I was away for about five minutes. You will remember that I walked along the corridor with you, and that we met Brown, the works manager, who wanted a word with me. During that time my secretary, Albert Pearson, was in the office. When I got back I sent him to Bob Moffat with some figures which he had asked for. Shortly after that my stepson, Frank Ambrose, came in with my nephew, Mark Paradine. I was away for about a quarter of an hour whilst they were there. When I came back Frank had gone and Mark was just leaving. Lastly, my other nephew, Richard Paradine, looked in, and I asked him to stay whilst I went and washed my hands. He did so. When I came back I took the attaché case and drove out here. At half past six I opened the case and discovered that the blue-prints were missing. You asked why I said that this was a family affair. I am telling you that no one outside the family had any possible opportunity of taking those prints.”
Elliot moved abruptly.