The Seven Dials mystery 18 – Christie · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Seven Dials mystery 18Jimmy'S Adventures
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Seven Dials mystery 18
Jimmy'S Adventures
ChristieEnglish
Our chronicle must here split into three separate and distinct portions. The night was to prove an eventful one and each of the three persons involved saw it from his or her own individual angle.
We will begin with that pleasant and engaging youth, Mr. Jimmy Thesiger, at a moment when he has at last exchanged final good-nights with his fellow conspirator, Bill Eversleigh.
"Don't forget," said Bill, "3 A.M. If you're still alive, that is," he added kindly.
"I may be an ass," said Jimmy, with rancorous remembrance of the remark Bundle had repeated to him, "but I'm not nearly so much of an ass as I look."
"That's what you said about Gerry Wade," said Bill slowly. "Do you remember? And that very night he--"
"Shut up, you damned fool," said Jimmy. "Haven't you got any tact?"
"Of course I've got tact," said Bill. "I'm a budding diplomatist. All diplomatists have tact."
"Ah!" said Jimmy. "You must be still in what they call the larval stage."
"I can't get over Bundle," said Bill, reverting abruptly to a former topic. "I should certainly have said that she'd be--well, difficult. Bundle's improved. She's improved very much."
"That's what your Chief was saying," said Jimmy. "He said he was agreeably surprised."
"I thought Bundle was laying it on a bit thick myself," said Bill. "But Codders is such an ass he'd swallow anything. Well, night-night. I expect you'll have a bit of a job waking me when the time comes--but stick to it."
"It won't be much good if you've taken a leaf out of Gerry Wade's book," said Jimmy maliciously.
Bill looked at him reproachfully.
"What the hell do you want to go and make a chap uncomfortable for?" he demanded.
"You're only getting your own back," said Jimmy. "Toddle along."
But Bill lingered. He stood uncomfortably, first on one foot and then on the other.
"Look here," he said.
"Yes?"
"What I mean to say is--well, I mean you'll be all right and all that, won't you? It's all very well ragging, but when I think of poor old Gerry--and then poor old Ronny--"
Jimmy gazed at him in exasperation. Bill was one of those who undoubtedly meant well, but the result of his efforts would not be described as heartening.
"I see," he remarked, "that I shall have to show you Leopold."
He slipped his hand into the pocket of the dark blue suit into which he had just changed and held out something for Bill's inspection.
"A real, genuine, blue-nosed automatic," he said with modest pride.
"No, I say," Bill said. "Is it really?"
He was undoubtedly impressed.
"Stevens, my man, got him for me. Warranted clean and methodical in his habits. You press the button and Leopold does the rest."
"Oh!" said Bill. "I say, Jimmy?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful, won't you? I mean, don't go loosing that thing off at anybody. Pretty awkward if you shot old Digby walking in his sleep."
"That's all right," said Jimmy. "Naturally, I want to get value out of Leopold now I've bought him, but I'll curb my bloodthirsty instincts as far as possible."
"Well, night-night," said Bill for the fourteenth time, and this time really did depart.
Jimmy was left alone to take up his vigil.
Sir Stanley Digby occupied a room at the extremity of the west wing. A bathroom adjoined it on one side, and on the other a communicating door led into a smaller room, which was tenanted by Mr. Terence O'Rourke. The doors of these three rooms gave on to a short corridor. The watcher had a simple task. A chair placed inconspicuously in the shadow of an oak press just where the corridor ran into the main gallery formed a perfect vantage ground. There was no other way into the west wing, and anyone going to or from it could not fail to be seen. One electric light was still on.
Jimmy ensconced himself comfortably, crossed his legs and waited. Leopold lay in readiness across his knee.
He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to one--just an hour since the household had retired to rest. Not a sound broke the stillness, except for the far-off ticking of a clock somewhere.
Somehow or other, Jimmy did not much care for that sound. It recalled things. Gerald Wade--and those seven ticking clocks on the mantelpiece.... Whose hand had placed them there, and why? He shivered.
It was a creepy business, this waiting. He didn't wonder that things happened at spiritualistic séances. Sitting in the gloom, one got all worked up--ready to start at the least sound. And unpleasant thoughts came crowding in on a fellow.
Ronny Devereux! Ronny Devereux and Gerry Wade! Both young, both full of life and energy; ordinary, jolly, healthy young men. And now, where were they? Dank earth ... worms getting them.... Ugh! why couldn't he put these horrible thoughts out of his mind?
He looked again at his watch. Twenty minutes past one only. How the time crawled.
Extraordinary girl, Bundle! Fancy having the nerve and the daring actually to get into the midst of that Seven Dials place. Why hadn't he had the nerve and the initiative to think of that? He supposed because the thing was so fantastic.
No. 7. Who the hell could No. 7 be? Was he, perhaps, in the house at this minute? Disguised as a servant. He couldn't, surely, be one of the guests. No, that was impossible. But then, the whole thing was impossible. If he hadn't believed Bundle to be essentially truthful--well, he would have thought she had invented the whole thing.
He yawned. Queer, to feel sleepy, and yet at the same time strung up. He looked again at his watch. Ten minutes to two. Time was getting on.
And then, suddenly, he held his breath and leaned forward, listening. He had heard something.
The minutes went past.... There it was again. The creak of a board.... But it came from downstairs somewhere. There it was again! A slight, ominous creak. Somebody was moving stealthily about the house.
Jimmy sprang noiselessly to his feet. He crept silently to the head of the staircase. Everything seemed perfectly quiet. Yet he was quite certain he had really heard that stealthy sound. It was not imagination.
Very quietly and cautiously he crept down the staircase, Leopold clasped tightly in his right hand. Not a sound in the big hall. If he had been correct in assuming that the muffled sound came from directly beneath him, then it must have come from the library.
Jimmy stole to the door of it, listened, but heard nothing; then, suddenly flinging open the door, he switched on the lights.
Nothing! The big room was flooded with light. But it was empty.
Jimmy frowned.
"I could have sworn--" he murmured to himself.
The library was a large room with three windows which opened on to the terrace. Jimmy strode across the room. The middle window was unlatched.
He opened it and stepped out on the terrace, looking from end to end of it. Nothing!
"Looks all right," he murmured to himself. "And yet--"
He remained for a minute lost in thought. Then he stepped back into the library. Crossing to the door, he locked it and put the key in his pocket. Then he switched off the light. He stood for a minute listening, then crossed softly to the open window and stood there, Leopold ready in his hand.
Was there, or was there not, a soft patter of feet along the terrace? No--his imagination. He grasped Leopold tightly and stood listening....
