Two Men Missing

Chapter 1

Major Dawlish is Reluctant

‘But why pick on me?’ asked Patrick Dawlish.

‘Well, you’re so solid,’ declared Amelia, smiling up at him warmly. ‘You are, you know, and I don’t mean that physically, although goodness knows—how much do you weigh?’ She made the digression with another warm, encompassing smile.

‘A little more than fourteen.’

‘And I know you’re six feet one inch and a bit,’ declared Amelia, ‘because you’re exactly the same height as my father. It must be comforting to be a big man. You’re very wide, too, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I’m wide,’ he assured her, ‘although I’ve never been measured as far as I can remember. If it weren’t for my nose, I would be quite good-looking. Such a pity—’

‘Do you know, I think you’re making fun of me,’ said Amelia, her smile disappearing and her wide-set, lovely eyes, as blue as Dawlish’s, regarding him with gentle, pained reproach. ‘Pat, I thought I could rely on you to be serious.’

‘The risk was yours,’ Dawlish assured her, without smiling.

Amelia contemplated him for several seconds, and then her lips curved as she allowed her famous smile to dawn again. It was often said that neither man nor woman could resist Amelia Shortt when she turned her smile towards them and allied it to a request, no matter how outrageous the request might be. Amelia was twenty-two and beautiful, but her beauty was as naught compared to the charm of her smile.

She tried again, a note almost of wheedling in her voice.

‘Pat, darling, please don’t joke. I know you’ve only a short weekend, but it won’t take you very long, and you’re just the man to solve it.’

Had anyone but Amelia Shortt implored his aid Dawlish would have declined; at the moment he was tired, and disinclined to mental effort; but there was the famous smile.

‘You know very well that everyone regards you as an oracle,’ Amelia went on. ‘If you needed to earn money, or anything like that’—her hand flicked the air, at the impossibility that Dawlish would ever be in such a predicament—‘you would only have to open an office and put: Patrick Dawlish, Private Detective on the door, and you’d be crowded out with clients. I think you’re wonderful.’

Dawlish narrowed his eyes and a deeper note entered his voice.

‘Amy, no one else I know would dare to be as blatantly ingenuous as you, or so naive, or so innocent. But if I must stir myself for you, don’t make it honey-sweet. I know perfectly well that the only person in this wide world whom you think is wonderful is Amelia Shortt. Shall we start from there?’

‘You know, you’re very nearly rude,’ said Amelia, regarding him through long, dark lashes. ‘If I didn’t want your help so much I think I’d ignore you for the rest of the weekend. Do you ever talk to Felicity like that?’

‘No,’ said Dawlish lazily. ‘Never.’

Amelia’s smile of amusement was not quite up to her normal standard.

She shrugged.

‘Let’s be serious for a moment.’ She leaned forward. ‘Pat, my father is being blackmailed.’

Dawlish had been given to understand that she needed his assistance, but the calm assurance and matter-of-factness with which she delivered this statement startled him out of his habitual poise.

‘Say that again,’ he said.

‘I knew it would interest you,’ said Amelia with satisfaction. ‘You see what a mistake you would have made if you’d refused to help?’ She pouted a little, provocatively. ‘You will do something, won’t you?’

Dawlish’s hand groped for his pipe.

‘Tell me all,’ he said.

‘Bless you, Pat!’

Head thrown back, white, slender throat stretched so that her small, pointed chin was thrust forward, Amelia watched him from narrowed eyes and waited until his pipe was drawing smoothly.

The leaves of the beech tree rustled in a gentle wind. Prom the road the hum of traffic provided an unceasing background of noise, for Clay House, in spite of its beeches and chestnuts and fine lawns, was in fact in the middle of London.

‘Father’s been worried for some time,’ continued Amelia at last, ‘but I haven’t known why. He just won’t talk to anyone about his troubles, you know, he lives in a world of his own and I don’t think he notices people. A week ago I discovered that he wasn’t sleeping at night. His light is on until four or five in the morning, and I hear him walking about. Pat,’ she went on dramatically, ‘I don’t think he’s slept a wink for at least ten days!’

‘Come, come,’ said Dawlish lazily. ‘That’s hard to believe. I talked to him for half-an-hour this afternoon, and I would have noticed the signs of sleepless nights.’

‘Do you mean you don’t believe me?’ ejaculated Amelia.

‘Roughly, yes,’ said Dawlish.

‘But—’ She looked amazed. ‘I tell you that he hasn’t even been to bed! Jameson, his man, told me that the bed hasn’t been slept in for nearly a week. And if he hasn’t been to bed he can’t have been to sleep.’

Dawlish smiled amiably.

‘There are such things as armchairs, you know.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ exclaimed Amelia, heatedly. ‘He may have managed to get forty winks now and again, but—he is being blackmailed. If you tell me that you don’t believe me I shall—’ She paused.

‘Where’s the evidence?’ demanded Dawlish.

‘It was last night,’ said Amelia shortly. ‘He was in the study late again, and I couldn’t sleep. So I went down to remonstrate with him, and I heard voices. The door was ajar, and a man was speaking to Father, a man I’ve never seen before. He said—’ Amelia half-closed her eyes, as one recalling a scene. If you don’t bring it, every penny of it, tomorrow night, I’ll blow the gaff. It couldn’t be more categorical than that, could it? I heard the man and saw him—he was a rather big fellow with dark, oily hair. Well, do you believe me now?’ Her gaze became direct and challenging.

It was on the tip of Dawlish’s tongue to tell her that he did not. He felt convinced that she had made up that quotation. He allowed that there might have been a stranger in Shortt’s room, and that some kind of threat might have been uttered, but he considered that as by no means established.

The one thing evolving from this unexpected conversation was that Amelia wanted his help; particularly for that night. Nothing was less pleasant a prospect, for of all things he felt that he needed sleep. Even then he had the utmost difficulty to keep his eyes open.

Whether Amelia was telling the truth or whether she had invented the story solely to arouse his interest, he did not know.

As she regarded him, her poise of youthful ingenuousness was forgotten. He had the impression that she was more than a little afraid lest he should refuse to believe her.

‘And what happened when the man saw you?’

‘Oh, but he didn’t!’ exclaimed Amelia. ‘Our house is one of those unexpected ones, full of unnecessary alcoves and big pieces of furniture. I hid behind one of them until the man left. Then I started to follow him, but he went so quickly that he was out of the house before I was at the foot of the stairs. So’—Amelia paused again, then added with a flash of inspiration—‘It was so dark outside that I knew it was useless to try to find out where he’d gone. And when I went back, the study was locked.’

Dawlish said slowly: ‘Is this gospel truth, or are you embellishing it?’

‘It’s gospel truth,’ said Amelia very promptly, and without batting an eye.

‘Then what do you want me to do?’

‘Well, I thought perhaps you’d spend the night at our place, and then when Father goes out, follow him,’ said Amelia, giving him a quick look. ‘Of course, if it wasn’t for harassing the Old Man, I would have insisted on going to the police. But he’s—he’s not worldly, Pat. You can’t reason with him—at least, can’t. You will come, won’t you?’

‘All right,’ agreed Dawlish. ‘I’ll come.’

Although he spoke reluctantly and almost gracelessly, the effect on Amelia was to make her spring to her feet in a single movement which was graceful beyond words. Reaching him, she bent down and brushed his forehead with her lips.

He prepared himself for an orgy of thanks, but after squeezing his hand and saying: ‘I knew you would,’ Amelia stepped swiftly towards the house.

‘Now I wonder who she’s going to tell?’ ruminated Dawlish as he watched her go.

Chapter 2

The Reputation of Dr Shortt

Without eagerness Dawlish followed in Amelia’s wake. Crossing a sunlit stretch of lawn, his large figure, clad in casual grey flannels could not be better appreciated. Such a man might have been expected to walk cumbersomely, but Dawlish moved almost as gracefully and quite as swiftly as Amelia. He ran up the short flight of stone steps leading to the side entrance to Clay House, entered a subsidiary hall, and then reached the main one, a vast chamber beset with statues of modern design, grotesque and rather horrible, the walls adorned with equally hideous surrealist paintings.

A grey-haired maid was coming from the lounge.

‘Have you seen Miss Shortt?’ asked Dawlish.

‘Someone just ran upstairs, sir,’ said the maid. She smiled; most women smiled at Dawlish.

He heard a door close towards the right of the landing.

He mounted the stairs quickly and pushed the door open an inch. Almost immediately he heard the lifting of a telephone receiver, and presently Amelia’s voice, which just carried to Dawlish’s ears.

‘Bing, darling, thank heavens, I thought you might be out…. Yes, he’s fallen for it! … Absolutely, he was really very easy…. What? … Yes, exactly what we arranged. Of course I’m sure … yes, tonight. I’ll get him there about ten o’clock, that ought to be all right…. Yes, darling, I do.’ There was an appreciable pause, and then a light laugh. ‘I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. I must go now, the door might open at any minute …’

The ting of the receiver being replaced and the faint sound of the door closing were simultaneous.

Dawlish sped along the passage, nipping behind a door marked ‘Cloaks’.

It was several minutes before Amelia passed him heading for the stairs. From his vantage point he could see that her lovely eyes were very bright. She walked as a woman who was delighted with herself, the full skirt of her frock swirling triumphantly about her shapely legs.

Dawlish’s lips curved, for he was amused in spite of the somewhat disparaging terms in which Amelia had discussed him. For a brief second he had contemplated walking in on her, but that temptation had quickly gone. For the time being it was better for Amelia to think him completely deceived.

He was puzzled as he made his way to his room, but too tired to give the matter much thought.

Not a man who tired easily, he had spent five days and nights in a small and airless room at Whitehall wrestling with problems which had confronted his particular segment of the British Intelligence Department. Now all he wanted was to rest.

Clay House had appeared the ideal spot for that. Sir Jeremy Clay, its owner, was a man of great wealth, his charming and attractive wife much given to good works. Out of the two things and the fact that the house was too large for them in time of war, had sprung the Services Leave Club. The mansion had been turned into a combination of hotel, hostel, and hospital—or more accurately convalescent home—where the only visa required was a uniform and a leave pass. The Leave Club was run on non-profit lines, no charge being made except for drinks: payment was left to the discretion of the guests.

Amelia, on leave from the W.A.A.F., had every right to be there. For that matter Dawlish’s fiancee, Felicity, hoped to spend the Sunday there provided she could get away from the pressing duties of an A.T.S. unit in the Home Counties. Dawlish had considered it an ideal spot for his precious weekend; and thus it would have been but for the persistance of Amelia.

His room, a small one, overlooked a part of the garden. Tall trees shielded it from the Park beyond. The hum of traffic was very faint. Dawlish opened the window to its fullest, then stepped across to the door and locked it. Reasonably satisfied that there would be no further interruptions until the evening, he took off his shoes and laid down on the bed. Within five minutes, he was asleep.

It was still broad daylight when he woke up.

Glancing at his watch, he exclaimed aloud: ‘Ten to seven, by George!’

Dinner was an elastic meal at Clay House, and, taking things easily, Dawlish lingered over a hot bath and a cold shower. A brisk rub down invigorated him, and when he returned to his room he felt fresher than he had done for some days past. Dressing, his thoughts touched only lightly on the subject of Amelia. He wondered what Felicity would have to say about it, then shrugged the thought away; in all probability it would be over by Sunday, Amelia’s problem melting away before a few inquiries.

The dining-room was half-empty. A dozen diners called or waved or smiled towards him before he took a window seat where there was room only for one. The waiter whispered that there was a half-bottle of Burgundy, and Dawlish said ‘yes’ with alacrity.

When he thought back over this interim period, the thing which impressed him most was that he relished every moment of the meal, the leisureliness of Clay House, the quiet efficiency of the service. That other things were happening at other places was an immutable fact, that some of them might be intimately connected with his own actions in the course of the next few weeks did not occur to him.

The first thing to disturb him, even mildly, was a note from Amelia, delivered by a waiter who explained that the note had been mislaid and should have been delivered to him much earlier. Dawlish waved the apologies aside, glanced at Amelia’s careless writing, slit the envelope with the back of a knife, and read:

Pat, I did want to have dinner with you tonight, but I’ve had to go out unexpectedly. I’ll ring you by half-past seven at the latest. Don’t forget your promise, will you? A.

Frowning, Dawlish called the waiter and inquired whether there had been a telephone call for him; at half-past seven he had been finishing his bath, and might not have received the summons to the telephone. The waiter promised to inquire, and returned after five minutes with the assurance that there had been no telephone call for Major Dawlish since that morning.

Vaguely troubled, for it was not like Amelia to be unpunctual in such circumstances, he took a stroll in the garden, wondering what he should do first. It was obvious that before he went to Shortt’s house he needed to know a little more about the man.

He ran through the names of his acquaintances.

Shortt was a well-known man in medical research, and to him were due several outstanding discoveries on the treatment of hitherto incurable diseases. The most likely man to give him information, thought Dawlish, was Dr Abel Rister, but although Rister knew him well and in most ways was a reliable confidant, he was also a consultant pathologist to the people at Scotland Yard.

‘And it might not be wise to make him curious,’ mused Dawlish.

He kept within sight of the main door, half-expecting a summons to the telephone, but none came.

His uneasiness about Amelia’s failure to telephone him deepened. It was half-past eight, and she would surely want to get in touch with him about her plans for the night. He set the fears aside, and ran through his list of medical acquaintances again. Finally he decided to have a word with Dr Grayling, a family doctor and a familiar of Dawlish’s boyhood. He telephoned Grayling, and was lucky to find him in.

He arranged to meet him at Wigmore Street, giving precise instructions with the telephone operator at Clay House for any call to be transferred to Grayling’s number. As he left the house, he looked about him for any indication of Amelia’s return. There was none, nor was there a message for him when he reached Grayling’s house, and was ushered into the doctor’s first-floor study.

Grayling was a short, square man, sturdy of body and heavy of