The Detective Club: The Noose by Philip MacDonald

Author:Philip MacDonald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2016-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

III

Colonel Brownlough’s ‘little tamasha’ was drawing towards its end. Guests had gone; guests were going. Dance-music spasmodically continued, but only six or seven couples danced. The hall was full of overcoated men and cloaked women. From the darkness without came muffled sounds of motor-engines racing to achieve warmth. The buffet held still a few adherents, now exclusively male.

Into the hall, from the western corridor, came Anthony and his partner. To meet them strode a tall, stooping man of sixty with white hair and imperial. From under pleasantly incongruous black brows a pair of bright brown eyes looked youthfully out. Miss Brocklebank introduced her father and her partner.

‘And, Daddy,’ she said, ‘we mustn’t call him “Colonel”. He doesn’t like it.’

‘I never,’ said Sir Richard Brocklebank, ‘call anybody Colonel—if I can help it … How d’ye do, sir.’ He held out a hand. Long, slim fingers gripped Anthony’s with quite astonishing power. The brown eyes twinkled. Anthony said:

‘I’ve a lot to thank you for, sir …’

The black brows were raised; beneath them the young eyes twinkled. ‘Thank me? How’s that?’

‘For your daugher’s intelligence and kindness,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ve thanked her. Or tried to.’

Sir Richard turned his bright gaze upon his daughter. ‘Intelligent?’ he said. ‘And kind?… What have you been up to, Peggy?’

Miss Brocklebank cast a look about her. She said, in a lowered voice:

‘I’ve been a Watson. At last!’

Anthony shook his head. He looked at Miss Brocklebank’s father. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘is self-libel. Watson asked idiot questions and got no answers. I’ve asked difficult questions and received more than adequate answers.’

‘Watson,’ said Miss Brocklebank, ‘never knew what Holmes was driving at. I didn’t know what you were driving at. I am, therefore, Watson.’

‘Holmes,’ said Anthony, ‘always knew his own mind. I hardly ever do. Tonight I certainly don’t. As I didn’t know what I was driving at myself, you couldn’t have done so. Ergo, you are no Watson. Bad logic but as good as yours. Anyhow, again thank you.’

Sir Richard Brocklebank looked at his watch. His daughter said:

‘All right, Daddy. I’m coming.’ She turned to Anthony and held out her hand. ‘Good night,’ she said.

Anthony shook it. Before he had spoken there came a sudden, angry exclamation from Brocklebank père, and, atop of it, a sudden flurry and a shock. A man’s shoulder, hard and heavy, caught Anthony. He swayed but did not stagger. Behind him a deep, harsh voice growled:

‘Sorry. Clumsy.’ It did not seem by its tone to be altogether applying the second word to its owner. Anthony turned. Captain Lake was facing Sir Richard. As Anthony saw him, he was stepping aside to pass Sir Richard, and saying as he stepped:

‘Excuse me, sir …’

‘Why?’ said the old man. His brown eye had now a reddish tinge to its glitter.

Anthony, turning back to speak with Miss Margaret Brocklebank, seemed suddenly to stumble. He recovered, but in recovery took three backward steps. And the last of these brought his heel down, with force, upon the toes of Captain Lake.

Anthony turned again.

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