The Tall House Mystery. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ was intensely interested. How would this Alfreda and the lovely Winnie get on together? He hoped there would be no unpleasantness. So far, things had been such a success. Even Frederick Ingram's presence now and then had done no harm. He was dropping in more frequently with papers for Charles, and would sometimes stay and have a chat or even a bite with the house-party... yes, he repeated to himself, everything was going on splendidly. As for Haliburton's kindness in letting Gilmour ask this girl up, Moy liked Haliburton, but in this instance he saw no reason to fall over backwards because of his altruism. Ingram too must be charmed with the notion, he thought. Just then the door opened, and Ingram, looking anything but charmed, stepped in.

      "I heard voices, and thought my brother-in-law was here," he explained. "Why do one's relations always want to see one?" he asked in what might be assumed discomfort as he closed the door on himself.

      "I'm afraid, if rumor is correct in the case of this particular brother-in-law, it's because he hopes to touch Ingram for a fiver," Gilmour suggested with a grin. Moy nodded agreement. "What between Frederick and his brother-in-law Edward Appleton, Ingram must have plenty of use for his spare cash."

      "Yet he was once a first-class actor, I've been told," he said.

      "He's a first-class gambler now." Gilmour bent over the table again. "The two don't see much of each other. I don't think Appleton has been to the flat more than twice this year. Now, as to Frederick, he'd live on Ingram's doorstep if he could. After all, poor Appleton's no one's enemy but his own. Whereas Frederick is a regular out-and-out wrong un."

      "It was you who stopped Ingram from putting his money into that silver-fox ranch, wasn't it?" Moy asked. "Ingram consulted us, and, of course, we advised against it. But I rather thought he would do it, until he mentioned next time that you'd shown him regular proofs that it was all a clever swindle."

      Gilmour's teeth flashed out of his tanned face for a second. "I showed Frederick up proper, as the Tommies say, and enjoyed it. Mind you, on paper the scheme was beautifully worked out..."

      "It was." Moy remembered it. "We only advised caution on principle and Ingram refused to hear a word against it at first. Frederick had pleaded with him for a chance to earn an honest living, and Ingram thought if he could settle him in the wilds of Scotland it would be cheap at any price."

      "I hated to destroy his dreams of a future home without any Frederick around the corner," Gilmour said sadly, "but I had to do it."

      "Did Frederick thank you for it?" Moy asked, grinning in his turn.

      "At any rate, he's not the kind to bear malice," Gilmour said easily.

      Moy raised his eyebrows. "Think so? For a couple of years, I wouldn't go strolling along the edge of a volcano with him if I were you. Nor play at who can stay down longest under water." But he too was only chaffing and after a few more words about Miss Longstaff, Gilmour went in search of Mrs. Pratt.

      Meanwhile Ingram had found his brother-in-law. He shook hands, with the look of a man steeling himself against something—himself, or his visitor.

      Appleton looked at him very sharply as their fingers touched. Appleton had been a handsome man once, in a rather flamboyant way, and he still carried himself well. But everything about him twitched these days. His face was never still, and when for a moment his features seemed to rest, he would fall to pinching his ear or rubbing his nose with his thin, curved fingers. The hands were those of a fever patient, one would say, so hollow were the backs, so ridged and dry the nails.

      He stood looking at the other, as though longing to plunge into some all-absorbing subject of his own, and yet not quite daring to do so. Ingram caught the glance and shook his head with an almost apologetic smile.

      "Don't let's talk of it, Edward, there's a good fellow. It's far too dangerous a gift. My sister would never forgive me for one thing. And now, what about cocktails? Will you have them in here or in the garden?"

      Appleton did not speak for a moment; he was standing with his face turned to the fireplace, his back to Ingram. After a short pause he said that he would rather stay where they were and, so saying, he began to examine some of the prints on the walls. From them he passed to the furniture. He seemed so appreciative of both that Ingram, apparently anxious to make up for his very definite refusal of something much wanted by the other, took him upstairs, and showed him the floor on which his own bedroom was.

      Appleton seemed greatly interested. "I wonder if the chap who owns these would be willing to sell anything," he murmured. Ingram knew that Appleton often acted as intermediary in such transactions. The one-time actor had long ago run through the fortune left him and, except for his wife's steady income, his household would have been in straights long ago. Ingram had helped Appleton many a time, and would do so many a time more, but not to any large amount. He had learned that that was folly.

      He did not feel at liberty to show him the inside of any of the rooms except his own and Gilmour's, who, he knew, would not mind all the world tramping through his quarters. As it was, the two rooms and the corridor kept them quite a while, for Appleton seemed to have a passion for trying to date furniture. He suggested once or twice that his brother-in-law should leave him, but Ingram assured him that at the moment he had the time to spare. But at last he grew restive and frankly glanced at the clock on the landing below them. Appleton caught the glance. Ingram apologized. "I had no idea the time had flown so," he said then. "As a matter of fact I am rather rushing some work to its end—and to the printers. So if you really won't stop and have a drink?..."

      Appleton said that he too was rather in a hurry, and took himself off, after insisting that Ingram should not come down with him.

      Moy happened to be coming down the stairs as Appleton was shown out. In the shadowy recess of the landing sat Tark, his head bent over his note-book. He seemed to have as much love for figures as had Ingram. Whenever Moy ran across him, if he was by himself, Tark would be writing in his rather large note-book what looked like sets of figures. He would do this in the oddest places, perched on the side of a tub, squatting on the stairs or astride the window ledge. Wherever an idea struck him, if idea it was, Tark would bring out his note-book and well-sharpened pencil, and seem to lose the world for some few minutes. He never appeared to be afraid of being overlooked, though, as far as Moy knew, he never talked of what he was entering with such care.

      As Appleton took his hat from the butler he turned and faced the landing. At the same second Tark looked down to the front door. The two men looked at one another. It was an odd look, Moy thought, to pass between a couple of strangers, or mere acquaintances. It was so straight and so long and so utterly blank. Then the door closed behind Appleton and Tark, putting his note-book away, ran lightly down the stairs into a little room on the left of the front door. As it happened, Moy was on his way to the room on the right, and there, thinking of Appleton and Tark and that silent look, he glanced through the window netting. Appleton was lighting a cigarette on the pavement. He was just outside the window of the room where Tark was and, as he threw away the match, he looked at it and shook his head with a quick but decided shake, then he walked on. Moy told himself that writing plays, or trying to write them, was bad for one's brain. Appleton was always shaking his head or twitching his forehead or whisking something invisible off his cheek. And as for Tark, his indifference towards his fellow-men was quite real, Moy felt certain, and went to the bone. It was no acquired armor. True, he had seemed at first desirous of talking to Ingram, but that desire was so patently not shared by the mathematician that Tark seemed to have quite given up all attempts to have a word alone with him, and now to include Ingram in his cold lack of interest.

      CHAPTER 4

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