Chapter Eleven
I
Mr. Dubois was annoyed. He tore Adele Fortescue’s letter angrily across
and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Then, with a sudden caution, he
fished out the various pieces, struck a match and watched them burn to
ashes. He muttered under his breath:
“Why have women got to be such damned fools? Surely common
prudence1 …” But then, Mr. Dubois reflected gloomily, women never had
any prudence. Though he had profited by this lack many a time, it an-
noyed him now. He himself had taken every precaution. If Mrs. Fortescue
rang up they had instructions to say that he was out. Already Adele Fortes-
cue had rung him up three times, and now she had written. On the whole,
writing was far worse. He reflected for a moment or two, then he went to
the telephone.
“Can I speak to Mrs. Fortescue, please? Yes, Mr. Dubois.” A minute or
two later he heard her voice.
“Vivian, at last!”
“Yes, yes, Adele, but be careful. Where are you speaking from?”
“From the library.”
“Sure nobody’s listening in, in the hall?”
“Why should they?”
“Well, you never know. Are the police still about the house?”
“No, they’ve gone for the moment, anyhow. Oh, Vivian dear, it’s been
awful.”
“Yes, yes, it must have I’m sure. But look here, Adele, we’ve got to be
careful.”
“Oh, of course, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling through the phone. It isn’t safe.”
“Aren’t you being a little bit panicky, Vivian? After all, everybody says
darling nowadays.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But listen. Don’t telephone to me and don’t
write.”
“But Vivian—”
“It’s just for the present, you understand. We must be careful.”
“Oh. All right.” Her voice sounded offended.
“Adele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn’t you?”
“Of course. I told you I was going to do so.”
“That’s all right then. Well I’ll ring off now. Don’t phone and don’t write.
You’ll hear from me in good time.”
He put the receiver back in its hook. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully.
He didn’t like that moment’s hesitation. Had Adele burnt his letters? Wo-
men were all the same. They promised to burn things and then didn’t.
Letters, Mr. Dubois thought to himself. Women always wanted you to
write them letters. He himself tried to be careful but sometimes one could
not get out of it. What had he said exactly in the few letters he had written
to Adele Fortescue? “It was the usual sort of gup,” he thought, gloomily.
But were there any special words—special phrases that the police could
twist to make them say what they wanted them to say. He remembered
the Edith Thompson case. His letters were innocent enough, he thought,
but he could not be sure. His uneasiness grew. Even if Adele had not
already burnt his letters, would she have the sense to burn them now? Or
had the police already got hold of them? Where did she keep them, he
wondered. Probably in that sitting room of hers upstairs. That gimcrack
little desk, probably
sham4 antique Louis XIV. She had said something to
him once about there being a secret drawer in it. Secret drawer! That
would not fool the police long. But there were no police about the house
now. She had said so. They had been there that morning, and now they
had all gone away.
Up to now they had probably been busy looking for possible sources of
poison in the food. They would not, he hoped, have got round to a room by
room search of the house. Perhaps they would have to ask permission or
get a search warrant to do that. It was possible that if he acted now, at
once—
He
visualized5 the house clearly in his mind’s eye. It would be getting to-
wards6 dusk. Tea would be brought in, either into the library or into the
drawing room. Everyone would be assembled downstairs and the ser-
vants would be having tea in the servants’ hall. There would be no one up-
stairs on the first floor. Easy to walk up through the garden, skirting the
yew7 hedges that provided such admirable cover. Then there was the little
door at the side onto the terrace. That was never locked until just before
bedtime. One could slip through there and, choosing one’s moment, slip
upstairs.
Vivian Dubois considered very carefully what it behove him to do next.
If Fortescue’s death had been put down to a
seizure8 or to a stroke as surely
it ought to have been, the position would be very different. As it was—
Dubois murmured under his breath: “Better be safe than sorry.”
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