The Vanishing Point. Coningsby Dawson
kind of man who was too influential to be bulldozed by the police methods of a country whose citizenship he did not share. He urged himself into a mood of contempt by recalling the beefy caricatures which pass currency in English fiction for veracious portraits of Scotland Yard detectives. This fellow would look like a constable off duty. When he sat down, he would bulge at the neck and mop his forehead with a multicolored handkerchief. He would be awed by elegance into sulky stupidity—but would become pompously affable when offered a cigar.
“May I enter?” The door creaked.
“Surely. Come in. But you must excuse me for a moment.” Hindwood spoke without turning. He pretended to be sorting the last of his documents. The cultured tone of the voice had surprised him. Perhaps, after all, his guest might not be a detective.
“Sorry to keep you. Time's valuable. My stay in England is short. There, that's finished. What can I do for you?” He pushed back his chair and rose to face his guest.
If the man's intonation had surprised him, his appearance amazed him still more. He could have passed for the colonel of a crack cavalry regiment. His bearing was erect and dapper. His dark lounge suit, with the light stripes running through it, was so smartly tailored that one was apt to suspect that he was corseted. His hair was white, his cheeks tanned, his manner cheerful and commanding. He was of less than medium height. With his bristling mustache and pointed imperial he bore a distinct resemblance to Lord Roberts of Kandahar.
Hindwood held out his hand with undisguised relief. “Won't you sit down, sir? I'm afraid I must have seemed discourteous. The truth is, I was expecting some one quite different. The boy didn't announce your name or business.”
The stranger accepted his hand with an ironic smile. He did not sit down. Instead he asked a question. “Wouldn't it be wise to shut the door?” Without waiting for permission, he went to the door and closed it. Before he closed it, he glanced out into the passage. Having regained the middle of the room, he gazed searchingly about him.
“No one here who can listen?”
Again taking matters into his own hands, he made a swift and thorough investigation, peering into the bathroom, stabbing draperies with his cane as with a sword, feeling behind clothes in cupboards. He left no corner uninspected in which an eavesdropper might be secreted. Last of all he approached the window near which Hindwood had dined. For a few seconds he stood there, staring down into the well of blackness and the mysterious fairyland of shifting lights. Laying aside his hat and gloves, but still retaining his cane, he remarked:
“Beautiful! Very beautiful! Exquisite with the witchery of a woman's face, which masks a hidden wickedness!”
Hindwood had been regarding him in silence. “I have yet to learn your name and business,” he reminded him.
The stranger chuckled. “My name! I have almost forgotten it. I assume so many. As for my business, I'm a secret service agent in the employ of the British Government.”
“Have you credentials?”
“A letter.”
He produced from his breast pocket an envelope, containing this message, typed on American Embassy notepaper, “This will serve to introduce the gentleman who is anxious to consult you on the subject of which we spoke this afternoon.”
“Satisfactory?”
“Quite. Perhaps now you'll be seated. If you smoke, I can recommend these cigars.”
Again the stranger, with unruffled urbanity, betrayed his alert independence. “If you have no objection, I prefer my own.”
“As you like.” Hindwood was determined to conduct the interview along the lines of social politeness. Selecting a cigar himself, he notched the end. “I'm entirely at your disposal. There's little I can tell. I suppose the subject on which you're anxious to consult me is what happened on the Ryndam?”
“Yes and no.” The stranger puffed leisurely for a few moments. “The answer is yes, if by 'what happened on the Ryndam you mean Santa Gorlof.”
III
Santa Gorlof?” Hindwood feigned surprise. “A very charming lady!”
The shrewd face puckered in a smile. The gray eyes grew piercing beneath the beetling, white brows. “So I've been given to understand. She has a way with the men, has our Santa. Even Prince Rogovich, old hand that he was, fell for her. I believe that's your expressive phrase in America. He fell for her in every sense, especially when she pushed him overboard.”
Hindwood frowned. He realized that a cat-and-mouse game had commenced, in which he had been allotted the rôle of mouse. He resented the levity with which Santa's name had been mentioned. If the man was in earnest, the matter was too terrible for jest. Though he had harbored the same suspicion, to hear it stated as a fact appalled him. The charge sounded dastardly, spoken in that pleasant voice by this courtly English gentleman who was old enough to be her father.
With an effort he kept command of his composure. “Of course you're joking?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then, in plain American, you're accusing a beautiful and fascinating woman of murder.”
“Of what else?”
Hindwood shrugged his shoulders. “Pardon my density. I didn't catch on. It was your appearance misled me; you look so much a gentleman.”
“I flatter myself that there are occasions when I am.”
“Then I guess we'll have to reckon this occasion an exception. I might remind you that it's a woman you're accusing and that the penalty for murder is death. Scarcely a subject to make merry over with a play upon words!”
“And you're reminding me,” the stranger added gently, “that, if she's a woman, you and I are men. You're trying to tell me that, if my supposition is correct, then all that ravishing caprice that we know as Santa Gorlof will have to be ruthlessly blotted out. Possibly you're picturing, as so many of her victims have pictured before you, the wealth of happiness that might be yours if you could win her for yourself.”
Hindwood's hand trembled as he flicked his ash. “My dear sir,” he drawled, “I'm not twenty. I'm a hard-bitten man of the world. You credit me with too much romance. In your profession you're trained to spin theories. Please leave me out; stick to your assertion. You come to me, accusing a woman of my acquaintance—I can hardly call her a friend—of having committed murder. The charge sounds preposterous. Why you should come to me at all I can not guess. Before we go further, I have a right to ask a question: is this mere conjecture or can you prove it?”
“I can prove it.” The stranger paused, studying the despair his words had caused. “I can prove it.” Then he added, “If you'll help.”
“If I'll perjure myself.” Scowling, Hindwood leaped to his feet. “That was what you meant. At your time of life I should have thought you could have found a less infamous way of gaining your livelihood. There's your hat, and there's the door.” The mocking old gentleman went through the dumb show of clapping his applause. He settled himself more deeply in his chair. When he spoke, it was with the lazy good-humor of a man at his club. “You fill me with admiration. Your last attitude was superb. I have only one criticism to offer of your play-acting; by letting your cigar go out, you betrayed the perturbation you were trying to disguise. It's been dead three minutes.” He raised his hand, delaying interruption. “Don't be angry. I'm not doubting your momentary sincerity. But think back and then own that you also have suspected that she's guilty.”
“Never.”
“Humph! Your memory must be faulty. Allow me to prompt you with a few facts.”
Then and there, without