Nude in Mink by Sax Rohmer (top reads .TXT) 📕

“Widow?”

“Widow,” Ives repeated with emphasis. “Oh! I see your point! But Sumuru can’t have married all these men!”

He pulled up, to stare at Maitland.

“Well—they are all dead!” Maitland commented dryly. “Was Carradale a wealthy man?”

As they resumed their tramp along the drive:

“Very wealthy,” Ives assured him. “He was killed in an air crash, early in the war. Why, at that time, she would have been married to Baron Rikter!”

Maitland permitted himself a chuckle.

“Sumuru has never considered trifles of that kind, or allowed them to stand in her way, Inspector! … At the time that I interviewed Lady Carradale—very briefly and in a poor light—I had not entirely appreciated Sumuru’s astonishing powers as a mimic. By gad! I believe I’m right! It was her silhouette, against the stage lights!”

“What? I don’t know what you mean—”

“Forgive me. I was thinking aloud. But my thoughts amount to this: Sumuru is not only the reputed widow of the Marquis of that name. She is, we know for a fact, also the widow of Baron Rikter. And, damn it! I believe she’s the widow of Lord Carradale into the bargain!”

A pillared porch, grey and forbidding, with an iron-scrolled door hiding in its shadows, came into view.

“If that’s true,” said Ives, “it’s time I resigned. This life is getting too complex for a simple man.”

“Never mind, Ives Try the bell.”

As Ives pressed a bell set in the masonry beside the iron-scrolled door:

“No sign of a car,” Maitland commented. “But you will note that the drive swings on right around the house… Hullo!”

A white-haired butler, sad of expression, had opened the door.

“Is Lady Carradale at home?’ ‘Maitland asked.

The butler looked at him intently for a moment.

“I will inquire, sir. What is the name?”

“Dr. Steel Maitland… Oh, and by the way, whose car was that—do you know—which drove up a while ago?”

The butler’s sad expression remained undisturbed. I was unaware that a car had been driven up, sir. Her ladyship has had no callers. Perhaps you would wait for a moment in the lobby “

The lobby of Porlock Park was bleak, sad as the butler. But the armchairs were comfortable. When they found themselves alone:

“A shot in the dark, Ives!” Maitland murmured.

“But it hit nothing, Doctor!”

Maitland shook his head. He was rapidly losing confidence.

“No. The devil of it is, we dare not trust anyone in this business. He seems like a respectable old fashioned family servant, for instance. But is he?”

“H’m!” coughed Ives.

The butler had returned.

“Her ladyship has apparently gone out, sir. Possibly only into the grounds. But I have been unable to find her. Would you care to leave a card, sir? Or could you call back later?”

Maitland stood up.

“Thanks. I’ll call later, if possible.”

“But.” Ives began in a low voice—

“No—we haven’t time, now. Come on.”

Maitland steered him tactfully towards the door, which the butler opened.

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day.”

As they crossed the porch and their feet began to crunch on wet gravel, Ives stopped, turned to Maitland.

“Listen, Doctor! Your methods are your own—but mine are mine! This case has been assigned to me by the Assistant Commissioner in person. It’s a murder case, and purely C.I.D. business. Now—”

Maitland flashed a tired smile—the ghost of his real one.

“Sorry, Ives! I should hate you to think I’m being uppish. But it’s far bigger than a mere murder case—”

“A mere murder case!”

Ives’s indignation was unassumed.

“Yes. This woman represents a greater menace to world peace than the men of the Kremlin. We dare not make any mistakes… Tell me, what is the extent of this property —Porlock Park?”

But Ives, glaring, was not to be mollified.

“I don’t know—”

A motor cyclist was roaring around the bends of the drive.

“What’s this?” Maitland muttered.

The cyclist swept into view.

“One of the local patrols,” said Ives.

Ives was thinking hard. He glanced aside at Maitland, beginning to regret his outburst.

The cyclist stopped, rested one foot on the gravel, and saluted. He had a red face and round, blue, ingenious eyes.

“Well, Constable?” said Ives.

“No car has entered either of those drives, sir—”

“I see.” Ives glanced again at Maitland. “Well, tell me something. What’s the size of Lady Carradale’s property?”

“I don’t know the acreage, but it’s one of the biggest properties this side of St. Albans,” the man replied promptly, his eyes becoming even rounder. “But—”

“Is it! Must extend to several high roads!”

“It does, sir. But I have an urgent report from Sergeant Thomson.”

Ives almost jumped.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he snapped. “What is it?”

“The wanted car has been found, sir—”

Now, it was Maitland’s turn to light up.

“What’s that? What do you say?”

“Two miles away, sir—on the other side of Porlock Park—abandoned in a lane!”

“Abandoned!” Ives shouted.

“Yes, sir. It’s lowlying down there, and getting foggy. One of our chaps nearly ran into it.”

“Damnation!” Ives growled—and began to run towards the gate lodge.

3

In a damp and misty lane which formed the north-east boundary of Porlock Park, visibility did not extend to more than ten paces. Out of the mist came, faintly, the sound of a queerly modulated whistle.

“This way, Philo…”

An interval, and then—the whistle was repeated, nearer.

“Bear more to your left. The gate is here…”

My Lady stood by the gate in question, peering into the mist. Out of it, presently, silent as a jungle creature, came the forbidding figure of Philo.

“My Lady!” His deep voice was husky. “It was a close thing. I had not left the car for more than a minute when a police cyclist rode up and found it!”

My Lady nodded.

“No matter. A minute was long enough. But, now, we must act quickly. I went into the house by the side door, but I was seen by old Haley, the butler, as I crossed the dining room—”

“Then it’s too late! We are finished!”

“Be silent.” The glorious voice was calm, but imperious. “He is accustomed to my unannounced comings and goings. But—”

“If anyone inquires at Porlock Park—”

“Haley will go to look for me—naturally. And someone will inquire. The police have been busy in this neighbourhood. Moreover, there are only three places into which we could have disappeared. Yes—we must act swiftly.”

“But this fog—this accursed fog, Madonna!”

“It may help rather than retard. Come. This is the way. Use your flashlamp.”

She moved away.

“The light will be seen.”

“It cannot be seen far in the mist. We must find the stile…. Your flashlamp, fool.”

4

“This car’s no Buick,” growled Ives. “It’s got a Rolls engine. It’s a proper gangster’s outfit, built for a quick getaway.”

“A getaway it is, Ives,” Maitland agreed. “She’s burning her boats. It’s more than possible that she had another car waiting here, and has transferred to it.”

But there was no hope of tyre marks on that drenched and gravelly surface.

“I’d bet a pound to a penny,” said Ives, “that the masked Rolls was driven right across Porlock Park and out by some gate near here. We’ve lost her! Damn this fog!”

Out of the fog so anathematised came a faint hail:

“Hi!”

Maitland and Ives stood still, listening. A sound of running footsteps became audible. And presently the round-eyed constable manifested out of mist.

“There’s a stile back there, sir,” he reported—“and I’ve found a fragment of some kind of fur stuck to a splinter on the rail!”

Maitland grabbed the man’s arm.

“Show me! Lead the way!”

A short sprint brought them to the stile.

“I haven’t moved it. There it is, right under my light.”

Maitland stooped.

“Mink! It’s mink… And Sumuru often wore mink!”

Ives pressed forward.

“Let me look!”

As the two peered down at this alien fragment adhering to ancient timber:

“You see?” Maitland said rapidly. “Few women possess mink coats in these parts, I assume. Fewer still would climb a stile wearing one! Come on! Over we go! Along this footpath!” And, as they all scrambled over: “Where does this path lead, Constable?”

“So far as I know, sir, to Jenkins’s Farm and then out into Spinney Lane.”

“Where does Spinney Lane lead to?” Ives demanded breathlessly.

“East, to a secondary road between Hatfield and Lower Porlock; west—main road to London.”

On they went.

“She had another car waiting, Ives!” Maitland said. “That’s it! She’s slipping away!”

“She won’t slip far unless this fog lifts!” was Ives’s reply. “And the chief is flat out for her now! That discovery about his wife set him on fire. Whatever road she takes will be patrolled by this time—but I wish we could get the news through, all the same… Listen!”

All three halted, listening.

A discordant choir of farm creatures, familiar to and beloved by country dwellers, gave voice in unrhythmic music. A dog—a large dog—was the soloist.

“Someone passing through the farmyard!” Maitland muttered. “Double up, Ives! Perhaps we’re not too late!”

They blundered along an ill-defined path—to be confronted by an angry Alsatian. The animal appeared to be there on business, and an awkward situation was averted by the local constable.

“All right, Tiger! You know me, old boy!”

Fortunately, the dog acknowledged the acquaintance, and they proceeded amongst misty outlines of farm buildings.

“Hi!” Maitland shouted. “Is there anyone about?”

The Alsatian seconded his efforts, and presently a woman came out, middle-aged and stout, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What is it?” She peered from face to face… “Oh, Constable Sims—is that you?”

“It’s me right enough, Mrs. Jenkins, and—”

But Ives broke in impatiently.

“Excuse me—but did a lady pass through here a few minutes ago?”

Mrs. Jenkins was flustered.

“I don’t rightly know, sir. I was in my kitchen. But Tiger set up a fearful row, so it’s likely somebody did walk through.”

“Thank you,” said Maitland. “Come on, Ives.”

They doubled off, leaving the woman standing by the farm door, bewildered.

“Is anything the matter?” she called after them.

“Nothing to worry you, ma’am,” Constable Sims shouted back.

“Here’s the other stile.”

Ives was breathing hard. Mist was no longer the word to define atmospheric conditions, Maitland thought as he scrambled over. This was real fog.

“Now the question is,” Ives panted—“which way?”

They stood there, as in a wet blanket. Farm sounds grew dim behind them.

“We’re hot on her heels, Ives!” Maitland declared.

“We mustn’t make a mistake… Listen!”

They stood alert, listening…

“Not a sound in the lane… Do we turn east, or west?”

5

“They are right behind us!” came a hoarse whisper.

“Which means that we are still in front, Philo … Be silent. We must listen. They will divide into two parties, one searching east, and the other west. When they set out, we can move … Listen!”

My Lady rested a gloved hand upon a ladder propped against the buttressed, ancient brick wall. A second ladder, which had enabled them to scale the wall from the lane, now lay at the foot of a fig tree. Philo had drawn it up after him.

And, as they stood there, Inspector Ives’s voice reached them from the lane beyond …

“There’s a high wall for half a mile, so she must have gone along the road… Constable! You and Dr. Maitland try east. I’ll go west…”

“I said so!” Sumuru murmured. “If Dr. Maitland had been going alone, we might have balanced our accounts, even now—”

“My Lady!”

“S’sh! Be silent. It was but a passing thought…”

“If you find anything,” Ives’s voice grew faint as he moved off—“blow your whistle, Constable.”

“Right, sir.”

Sumuru laughed softly.

“The possibility of our having ladders placed for our convenience has never occurred