Prelude to a Certain Midnight Read online

  Asta Thundersley managed, by some unprecedented effort of will, to hold back an avalanche of icy, crushing words. It occurred to her that this learned man Schiff might be of service to her. She said: “I never looked at these things that way before. I should be very glad indeed to help – I mean to say that I have been wondering for a long time what to do with a few hundred pounds that I have lying loose. But before I can really give my mind to these things – before I can rest content – I must see that the man who killed Sonia Sabbatani goes where he belongs. I wonder if you can help me?”

  Schiff’s round face became alternately red and white with hope and fear while she was speaking. He thought deeply, biting his nails, and at last said: “Do you suspect anybody?”

  “I suspect everybody.”

  “If I were you, Miss Thundersley, do you know what I’d do? I’d have a party. Invite everybody, everyone you know. Let everyone come who might possibly have anything to do with this affair. Let one or two of your most trusted friends listen. I’m a psychologist. I’ll help to guide the conversation into certain channels. I tell you that one must wash and dredge the conversation of one’s friends as one of these prospectors for gold dredges the mud of a dirty, shallow river. Through listening to my friends, I have found out many interesting things about them. And sometimes I’ve been of service to many friends by listening to what their friends said. The thing to do is to get them, dear lady, to relax. At a social gathering there is nothing like alcohol to make people relax, reveal themselves, as it might be described, a catalyst – which hastens the human-chemical reaction. I have a recipe for a drink which I believe I am not far wrong in describing as, psychologically speaking, a catalyst. I evolved it myself. It comes out of much trial and error, dear lady. It does not taste strong, and yet it is strong. In point of fact, the power of this drink lies in the fact that the most potent combination of ingredients are made to seem innocuous. As a matter of fact, I had half hoped to put it on the market. I couldn’t think of a good name for it. You will see for yourself. Besides, it might be a little difficult to market this product on account of the high cost of essential ingredients. For you, I will write down the recipe. The point is this. Ladies and gentlemen, who like to drink, have a tendency after a glass or two, to talk. Then something starts. People reveal themselves. Give a party, dear lady, give a party to all whom you suspect – keep your eyes open and your ears open, and let me keep my ears and eyes also open for you, eh?”

  Asta scratched her head, and said: “Schiff, I haven’t got any faith at all in your psychological revelations. But I begin to feel that a little party would do me no harm at all.”

  “And you will invite everybody?”

  “Look here, I must go home now and make a list. So give me a ring to-morrow.”

  “One little thing. My formula, the one for the fruit cup, as it is so called, was the result of research. Of this I want to make you a present. But a certain something I was expecting has not arrived. Will you lend me fifteen pounds?”

  “I can let you have ten.”

  The psychological Schiff was right again. If he had asked for twenty pounds, Asta would have said that this was out of the question: if he had asked for ten pounds, he might have got five. But asking for fifteen pounds, he got ten. He went his way north-westwards and she went hers, to the mellow and elegant little red-brick house in Frame Place, by the river.

  ∨ Prelude to a Certain Midnight ∧

  Twenty-One

  On her threshold Asta was shocked at the sight of a heap of massive leather luggage, stamped with the initials T.O.T. There were portmanteaux, hat-boxes in which one might have grown rhododendron bushes, dressing-cases, portable writing-desks, shoe cases, cabin trunks, and old-fashioned tropical zinc-lined trunks – all made of massive cow-hide and constructed to last for a hundred years. This luggage, and the initials, belonged to her elder sister, Thea Olivia Thundersley, another old maid, who had spent the past thirty years of her life wandering over the face of the earth, visiting members of her family. She had devoted the last half-century to the manufacture of a patchwork quilt. Thea Olivia’s ambition was to herring-bone-stitch into this quilt a little bit of everything. It already contained relics of precious old brocade, tapestry, and paduasoy of forgotten pattern and texture; a fragment of an engineer’s dungarees; a portion of a silk shirt; clippings of rich cravats and neck-ties; a corner of one of old Sir Hanover Thundersley’s fancy waistcoats; polygons of magnificent satin, snippets of ribbon, pieces ‘of the robes of mandarins looted at the time of the Boxer Rebellion, triangles hacked out of gorgeous Paisley shawls, and oddments of rare cashmere. She carried her Work, as she called it, in a receptacle like a dispatch case made of real leather and stamped with initials in gold. This contained as much of the quilt as she had finished. In another article of luggage – this was not unlike an octagonal hat-box, but at the pressure of four little springs, it shot out four legs to stand on so that it became a sewing basket – she kept, in their proper compartments, gold-eyed needles, multi-coloured silks, scissors, piercers, and other pearl-handled tools, all highly polished. Most of the space inside this extraordinary receptacle was filled with countless bits of material which she had accumulated for her patchwork. When she was tired of sewing, she sorted, categorized, and made little bundles of duplicate patterns in the manner of a stamp collector.

  In a separate silk compartment she kept snipped-off geometrical clippings of soldiers’ uniforms; a neat oblong of scarlet from the tunic of one of her uncles who had been in the Guards; a segment of green khaki from the breeches of her brother who had gone down in South Africa; and half a trouser-leg of dark blue from the mess uniform of a cousin who, Asta suspected, had been her sweetheart.

  Asta’s first recollection of Thea Olivia was of a downward-looking, soft-spoken girl of twelve – drooping, almost voiceless, sweet-natured, dreamy-eyed – and damnably obstinate.

  Thinking of her, Asta never failed to remember a curious exhibition she had seen in a booth when she was a girl. A tiny-boned Japanese ju-jitsu man, with a fixed sweet smile on his face, was demonstrating his skill against all comers. An enormous oafish navvy, with muscles as hard and fists as terrible as the sledge-hammer he was accustomed to wield, came forward and got hold of him in what seemed an unbreakable grip. Still sweetly smiling, the Japanese submitted. With a scornful laugh the labourer threw his arms about him and dashed him to the ground; and then was lying on his stomach five yards away, yelping with pain while the little smiling Japanese was kneeling upon him in a business-like way with one hand in the small of his immense back and the other clamped about the toe of the big-booted right foot. Thea Olivia reminded her sister of that little Japanese wrestler.

  Asta gave all the orders and did most of the talking; and was feared in the family. The Thundersleys protested, argued, slammed doors, recriminated; but obeyed her. Thea Olivia never argued with her, never protested, never recriminated, never >could stand the sound of slamming doors, yet never in any circumstances obeyed anyone, unless obedience exactly suited her convenience. Asta, therefore, felt her heart sink as she looked upon the half-ton of cow-hide luggage which The Tiger Fitzpatrick was dragging, hundredweight by hundredweight, into the house.

  “Why, Tot!” she cried, with uneasy heartiness.

  “Asta!”

  The sisters embraced.

  ∨ Prelude to a Certain Midnight ∧

  Twenty-Two

  “You might have let me know you were coming, Tot.”

  “Oh, but I did, Asta dear.”

  “I don’t remember getting a letter or a telegram, Tot darling.”

  “But, Asta dear, I said in July that I’d come and see you in the winter.”

  “Oh well, oh well, you’re welcome, you’re welcome. How’s the quilt going?” asked Asta with a snorting laugh.

  “Coming along very nicely, Asta dear, thank you. How is the Cruelty to Animals?”

  Asta detected an undertone of mockery in her sister’s voice and s
aid shortly: “It still goes on.”

  “I told you it would,” said Thea Olivia, with her shy, pale smile. “Oh dear, look at you, Asta! How in the name of goodness did you manage to get yourself so dirty? What on earth is that on your shoes? Soot?”

  “Coal dust,” said Asta, and told her sister how she had got it.

  Drinking tea and smiling, Thea Olivia said: “Dear Asta – dear, darling Asta!”

  “What the devil’s the matter with you?”

  “We do, all of us, love you so very much – you are so kind. Dear Asta.”

  “What are you driving at now? Spit it out, woman, and don’t beat about the bush.”

  “I met Cousin Shepperton at Lausanne.”

  “What is there particularly funny about that, Tot darling?”

  “Don’t lose your temper or I shan’t tell you, Asta dear. Sheppy said: ‘If I remember rightly, Asta has been putting the world right for the past twenty years, and it’s a hundred times worse than it ever was’.”

  “Shepperton is a blithering dolt and you, Tot, are a nitwit.”

  “Oh, I know I’m silly, Asta my love, but do tell me. I’m only asking to be informed. What are you going to do that Scotland Yard can’t do?”

  This question threw Asta into a state of blind exasperation, because she had not the faintest idea what she could do. She would have overwhelmed anyone else with frantic abuse. But she always felt the need to explain herself to Thea Olivia, who reminded her of their father – a quiet, prying, gentle, perfumed, poisonous little old man. “Someone I know did it,” she said.

  “No, really?” asked Thea Olivia, putting down her cup and sitting upright. “Do I know him? But how do you know, Asta dear? Do be careful, won’t you? Remember what an awful silly you made of yourself when you accused that poor lady of giving her baby gin out a bottle, and it turned out to be pure milk in a green gin bottle? Don’t be too impulsive. How do you know? Who is he? Do tell me.”

  “That’s exactly what I am going to find out.”

  “Dear, good, kind Asta! Kind, sweet Asta! You always were the same. Wild, impulsive, angry for everyone else but yourself. Nice Asta!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Tot, go and patch your quilt.”

  “Of course I will, if you want me to, Asta dear.”

  Asta crossed the room in two great strides, embraced Thea Olivia, and said: “No, no. Please don’t. You mustn’t. You know me. I’m an absolute beast. I’m sorry I’m so bad-tempered. But all this has got on my nerves. Imagine how I feel. That poor child! And nothing done. Something the detective-inspector – a nice man, if I was a man I’d like to be a detective – something he said gave me a kind of crazy idea that someone around here killed that poor little girl. I haven’t got any evidence, but it rang, so to speak, a bell in my mind. Have some more tea. Eat a bun. Have some brandy. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings: I’m all wound up, and don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “Something about bells ringing in your head?”

  “Somehow I’m sure in my mind that somebody around here did it. And I know everybody, and they all know me. It’s the sort of murder that one of those plausible, educated types of man goes in for. Don’t start laughing at me, Tot, because I’m not happy about this, not a bit happy, Tot. You mustn’t laugh if I tell you that what I’m going to do is invite pretty nearly everyone I know to the house to a party and somehow try to get…”

  As she paused, angry with herself at her own embarrassment, Thea Olivia suggested: “Clues?”

  “There’s no need to say clues in that tone of voice!”

  “Well, if you want my advice – drop it, Asta. You can’t do any good, and you’re almost certain to make a silly of yourself again – the same as you did that time when you got mixed up about that business of cruelty to a horse; when you had the terrible quarrel with Aunt Elizabeth because she said we ought to get two doctors to have you certified. No, please, please, Asta darling, don’t fly into one of your rages – they terrify me out of my wits. Who are you going to invite to your party?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  That evening, after Thea Olivia had bathed and rested and bathed again and eaten – with the ethereal look of someone whom two spoonfuls of soup will choke – as much solid food as would satisfy a hungry farmer’s boy, she sipped a cup of coffee and a glass of anisette while Asta, consulting a foolscap sheet blackened with wild scrawls and agonized doodles, told her whom she proposed to invite to her party.

  ∨ Prelude to a Certain Midnight ∧

  Twenty-Three

  “Tot, if I didn’t know that you were as secretive as the grave, I shouldn’t have breathed a word about all this,” said Asta. “But; I know you. You’re sweet and kind and co-operative, and you won’t breathe a word to a soul.”

  “I won’t, Asta dear, if only because I’m awfully afraid you’re going to make a silly of yourself again over this.”

  “Whatever else you were, you never were a sneak, Tot; that much I will say for you. A sly little – however, you could always be trusted with a secret; I can say that, at least. You like keeping secrets!” cried Asta, in a rage. “God knows what secrets you keep!”

  “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

  “Look here, Tot, are you going to start all that over again? Are you looking for a quarrel?”

  “Dear Asta! Do go on.”

  Asta composed herself and continued: “Well, all right. Party. You know Mr Pink, you know Tom Beano, you know Peewee. You’ve met Doctor Schiff.”

  “I’ve met him, yes.”

  “And what’s the matter with him?”

  “Nothing, nothing, Asta darling; nothing.”

  “For God’s sake, Tot, control your vicious tongue! You know Mrs Dory, Catchy Dory? Girl with beautiful figure? No? You’ll like her…Sir Storrington Thirst?”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  Asta would have said to anyone else that Sir Storrington was a wide flat man shaped like a bed-bug, who crept into the cracks of conversation and crawled out between rounds of drinks. She said, simply: “A baronet. You’ve heard of Cigarette?”

  “The woman who was mixed up with that burglar?”

  “Was it her fault, poor girl? She isn’t the first girl to be misled by a crook, and mark my words, she won’t be the last. She’s coming, anyway. Have you met Tobit Osbert?”

  “Not that I remember, Asta.”

  “A critic.”

  “Dramatic?”

  “I forget. It doesn’t matter. A critic. He’s coming. Detective-Inspector Turpin, of course, you haven’t met. A charming man – I wish I was a man: I’d be a detective. Oh, and you won’t know the fellow they call ‘Shocket the Bloodsucker’.”

  “They, Asta?”

  “Boxers. Shocket’s a fight promoter.”

  “I don’t think I quite understand, Asta darling.”

  “He promotes boxing-matches. Don’t you understand? He’ll come. But I’ll have to invite Titch Whitbread – Shocket the Bloodsucker won’t move an inch without Titch just now. And Titch wouldn’t come unless I invited Cigarette, because he’s keen on her. Then there’s Sean Mac Gabhann.”

  “Pardon, dear?”

  “Sean Mac Gabhann – an Irishman. Sean Mac Gabhann is Irish for John Smith: he comes from Cumberland.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s an Irishman. Then there’s Ovid Moffitt, the poet, and Dawn Knight, the actress. Inga Balzac, George Cheese, and Beeps Wilking – ”

  “Pardon, dear? Beeps, did you say? Male or female?”

  “Male,” said Asta, impatiently.

  “But why ‘Beeps’?”

  How could Asta explain that Wilking, when drunk, liked to sound the hooters of parked cars, crying “Beep-beep-beep”? She brushed the question aside.

  “Who else, Asta sweetheart?”

  “I have Monty Bar-Kochba – ”