Juggernaut Part 60

"Beg pardon, sir, I'd better see who that is, I expect."

"Yes, yes, Chalmers, you can finish telling me afterwards."

Revolving in his mind the astounding information he had just received, Roger reentered the sitting-room. The ghastly audacity of the idea that Sartorius had a moment ago been on the very point of introducing the germs of lock-jaw--teta.n.u.s to give it its proper name--into the wound on his hand seemed on the face of it beyond the bounds of possibility. Why, what man would dare to do such a thing? The risk of it! ... Yet was there so great a risk? Hadn't the doctor repeatedly warned him of the danger he was running? Why, if there was nothing in it, did he examine him so carefully just now, paying special attention to his face and jaw? It had certainly given the impression that he suspected the beginning of certain tell-tale symptoms. Had he done it in order that later the eye-witnesses could recall every detail and make it appear like a purely accidental seizure? Then that bit of white something which Sartorius had dropped into the fire. It might have been of no importance, yet again...

He looked curiously at the ragged cut on his thumb and barely repressed a shudder. If such a thing was true, by what a narrow margin had he escaped a horrible death.... Across the room the object of his suspicions continued to sit calmly figuring in a notebook, never glancing around. His att.i.tude was a declaration of the fact that the young man behind him was an excitable firebrand, whose behaviour was scarcely worth troubling about. Let him alone, he will come to his senses, that broad, imperturbable back seemed to say....

Suddenly a revulsion swept over Roger. He felt a bit of an a.s.s. Of course there could be no truth in this mad story, such things didn't happen. Though of course if it was entirely fiction, it put Esther in a queer light, however you looked at it. Either it was the result of those "confusional attacks" the doctor had hinted at, or she was, as both doctors now implied, a victim of morphia-mania.... Unthinkable!

Esther!

What was this noise outside the door? Confused voices reached him speaking in French, together with the heavy tread of several men, who apparently were tramping up the stairs. The following instant Chalmers threw open the door, his face a study.

"The police, sir," he announced.

Roger sprang to his feet.

CHAPTER x.x.xV

"The police!"

"Yes, sir, three officers. They say someone telephoned for them, but I can't for the life of me say who it could have been, sir. Who would want to?"

In blank astonishment Roger stared as three men in uniform filed into the room and stood at attention. Two wore the regulation dress of sergents-de-ville, the third was clearly of superior rank. He was an aggressive, youngish fellow with a sharp, sallow face and a black, bristly moustache, cut very short. He began by eyeing Roger all over with a sort of dark suspicion, then addressed him in French.

"I take it that you are Monsieur Clifford?" he interrogated accusingly, keeping his smouldering black eyes fixed on Roger's face, while with his right hand he brought a notebook out of his pocket.

"Certainly my name is Clifford, but perhaps you will be good enough to inform me why you----"

"That can wait. You are English, monsieur?"

"Naturally. And I refuse to answer another question until you tell me how in thunder you come to be here," replied Roger, rapidly losing his temper.

"English, British subject," muttered the officer, writing busily with a stump of a pencil and ignoring utterly Roger's statement. "Occupation, monsieur?"

"Who sent for you to come here?" demanded Roger, more and more irate.

The question had an unexpected reply.

"_C'etait moi, messieurs, qui viens de vous telephoner. Moi je suis Lady Clifford._"

The voice, metallic and defiant, rang out from the door leading into the right-hand bedroom. The officer stared in surprise, while Roger wheeled with a brusque movement of incredulity to behold Therese facing them.

"_You_ telephoned them?" he repeated, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Certainly. I simply reported the fact to police headquarters that I am being kept a prisoner in my bedroom."

She eyed him squarely, the yellow flecks in her grey irises plainly apparent. For two seconds she flashed him a challenge, while he regarded her steadily in complete silence. Then with a sudden softer air and a little gesture of appeal, she turned to the officer in charge and spoke rapidly in French.

"This is the gentleman, monsieur, my stepson, Mr. Roger Clifford."

"Your stepson, madame?" reiterated the man in a shocked tone.

"Yes, monsieur, the son of my late husband, Sir Charles Clifford, who has been dead less than a week."

There was a slight tremor in her voice, and, Roger could almost have sworn, tears in her eyes. The officers averted their eyes decorously, while Roger gazed at her with aloof impersonality, simply curious. He watched her score her point and wondered just how far she intended to pursue the advantage. What was her plan? Was she, after all, technically innocent, able to prove the fact? Or was this a bold stratagem, to throw dust in his eyes? He was totally unable to choose between the two diametrically opposed theories.

The officer in charge shot a black glance at him and made ready to write further particulars.

"Pray proceed, madame. Will you kindly inform me as to the exact nature of this gentleman's conduct towards yourself."

"Monsieur, it is simply what I told you on the telephone. My stepson, who is a guest in my house, had the audacity to force me, under threats, to enter my room, after which he turned the key on me."

The man looked nonplussed, but intensely respectful.

"But, madame, permit me to suggest that you do not appear to be a prisoner."

"I will explain, monsieur. He did not lock that door there, it was not necessary, since he has never left the room. He has, in, fact, been on guard here. But the outer door, leading to the hall, is fastened, as you will see if you care to look."

At a sign from the superior officer one of the sergents-de-ville stepped into the hall and quickly returned to confirm Lady Clifford's statement. The chief representative of the police then drew a long breath and spoke to Roger in a threatening voice.

"Monsieur, you have heard Madame's statement to the effect that you, a guest in her house, forced her to remain in her bedroom by locking the door and removing the key. Do you deny this?"

"Not at all, it is perfectly true."

The reply was so cool that the interlocutor's self-possession wavered for an instant.

"Ah, indeed, then, monsieur, you make no attempt to contradict Madame's accusation?" inquired the man importantly the repet.i.tion giving him time to arrange his thoughts.

"It is true as far as it goes," Roger replied coldly. "If you wish to know the whole of the matter I must refer you to Madame."

There was an uncomfortable pause while the officer bit the end of his stubby pencil, evidently uncertain how best to proceed. Twice he glanced at Lady Clifford, and once he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Suddenly, with an impulsive gesture, Therese turned directly to Roger.

"How can you say such a thing, Roger?" she inquired with an air of frankness and mild reproach. "I know only too well that in your heart you have always disliked me, have always been jealous of any little influence I may have had with your father, but how can you stand there and suggest that I can tell this gentleman why you behaved as you did when I don't know the reason?"

The stroke told; moreover, the absolute candour with its hint of lurking tears enhanced the strong appeal which her beauty had already exerted over the three limbs of the law. Not wishing to disclose anything more than was necessary Roger remained stonily silent, letting the officers think what they pleased. He felt the triumph in Therese's voice when she spoke again.

"You see, monsieur, Mr. Clifford does not care to reply. I leave you to draw your own conclusions. For me it is quite evident that he is unwilling to reveal his reasons for subjecting me to this treatment."

The man with the black moustache shifted from one foot to the other.

From his expression it became apparent that he was growing ill at ease, scenting the presence, perhaps, of some purely domestic difference which lay outside his province. As he hesitated his roving eye caught sight of Sartorius, who had risen un.o.btrusively and was regarding the scene with dispa.s.sionate interest.

"May I be permitted to inquire, madame, who this gentleman is?"

"But certainly, monsieur. This is Dr. Gregory Sartorius, who for some weeks has been my husband's private physician. He is still staying here, as a favour to me, in order to be of service to my stepson, who has not been well."