“Twelve o’clock,” said Socks despairingly.
The joke—as a joke—had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks,on the other hand, had performed their part. They had gone off—with avigour and élan that could hardly have been surpassed and which hadsent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the dayof judgment1 had come. If such had been the effect in the room next door,what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in the pas-sage and applied2 his ear to the crack of the door.
He expected profanity—expected it confidently and with intelligent anti-cipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard nothing ofwhat he expected. The clocks were ticking all right—ticking in a loud, ar-rogant, exasperating3 manner. And presently another went off, ringingwith a crude, deafening4 note that would have aroused acute irritation5 in adeaf man.
There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part faith-fully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for them.
But apparently6 they had met their match in Gerald Wade7.
The syndicate was inclined to be despondent8 about it.
“The lad isn’t human,” grumbled9 Jimmy Thesiger.
“Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolledover and went to sleep again,” suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).
“It seems to me very remarkable,” said Rupert Bateman seriously. “Ithink he ought to see a doctor about it.”
“Some disease of the eardrums,” suggested Bill hopefully.
“Well, if you ask me,” said Socks, “I think he’s just spoofing us. Of coursethey woke him up. But he’s just going to do us down by pretending that hedidn’t hear anything.”
Everyone looked at Socks with respect and admiration10.
“It’s an idea,” said Bill.
“He’s subtle, that’s what it is,” said Socks. “You’ll see, he’ll be extra latefor breakfast this morning—just to show us.”
And since the clock now pointed11 to some minutes past twelve the gen-eral opinion was that Sock’s theory was a correct one. Only RonnyDevereux demurred12.
“You forget, I was outside the door when the first one went off.
Whatever old Gerry decided13 to do later, the first one must have surprisedhim. He’d have let out something about it. Where did you put it, Pongo?”
“On a little table close by his ear,” said Mr. Bateman.
“That was thoughtful of you, Pongo,” said Ronny. “Now, tell me.” Heturned to Bill. “If a whacking14 great bell started ringing within a few inchesof your ear at half past six in the morning, what would you say about it?”
“Oh, Lord,” said Bill. “I should say—” He came to a stop.
“Of course you would,” said Ronny. “So would I. So would anyone. Whatthey call the natural man would emerge. Well, it didn’t. So I say that Pongois right — as usual — and that Gerry has got an obscure disease of theeardrums.”
“It’s now twenty past twelve,” said one of the other girls sadly.
“I say,” said Jimmy slowly, “that’s a bit beyond anything, isn’t it? I meana joke’s a joke. But this is carrying it a bit far. It’s a shade hard on theCootes.”
Bill stared at him.
“What are you getting at?”
“Well,” said Jimmy. “Somehow or other—it’s not like old Gerry.”
He found it hard to put into words just what he meant to say. He didn’twant to say too much, and yet—He saw Ronny looking at him. Ronny wassuddenly alert.
It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked aroundhim hesitatingly.
“I thought Mr. Bateman was here,” he explained apologetically.
“Just gone out this minute through the window,” said Ronny. “Can I doanything?”
Tredwell’s eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then backagain. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him.
Tredwell closed the dining room door carefully behind him.
“Well,” said Ronny. “What’s up?”
“Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sendingWilliams up to his room.”
“Yes?”
“Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation15, sir.”
Tredwell paused—a pause of preparation. “I am afraid, sir, the poor younggentleman must have died in his sleep.”
Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.
“Nonsense,” cried Ronny at last. “It’s—it’s impossible. Gerry—” His faceworked suddenly. “I’ll—I’ll run up and see. That fool Williams may havemade a mistake.”
Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand. With a queer, unnatural16 feel-ing of detachment, Jimmy realized that the butler had the whole situationin hand.
“No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr.
Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking thedoor, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I mustnow find Mr. Bateman.”
Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.
“Gerry,” he muttered to himself.
Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered17 him out through a sidedoor on to a secluded18 portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to aseat.
“Take it easy, old son,” he said kindly19. “You’ll get your wind in aminute.”
But he looked at him rather curiously20. He had no idea that Ronny wassuch a friend of Gerry Wade’s.
“Poor old Gerry,” he said thoughtfully. “If ever a man looked fit, he did.”
Ronny nodded.
“All that clock business seems so rotten now,” went on Jimmy. “It’s odd,isn’t it, why farce21 so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?”
He was talking more or less at random22, to give Ronny time to recoverhimself. The other moved restlessly.
“I wish that doctor would come. I want to know—”
“Know what?”
“What he—died of.”
Jimmy pursed up his lips.
“Heart?” he hazarded.
Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh.
“I say, Ronny,” said Jimmy.
“Well?”
Jimmy found a difficulty in going on.
“You don’t mean—you aren’t thinking—I mean, you haven’t got it intoyour head—that, well I mean he wasn’t biffed on the head or anything?
Tredwell’s locking the door and all that.”
It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny con-tinued to stare straight out in front of him.
Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn’t see that therewas anything to do except just wait. So he waited.
It was Tredwell who disturbed them.
“The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if youplease, sir.”
Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him.
Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face. Hegreeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and spectacledthan ever, performed introductions.
“I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade’s,” the doctor said toRonny.
“His greatest friend.”
“H’m. Well, this business seems straightforward23 enough. Sad, though.
He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit ofsmoking stuff to make him sleep?”
“Make him sleep.” Ronny stared. “He always slept like a top.”
“You never heard him complain of sleeplessness24?”
“Never.”
“Well, the facts are simple enough. There’ll have to be an inquest, I’mafraid, nevertheless.”
“How did he die?”
“There’s not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuffwas by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are.”
It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on hisfriend’s lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get out.
“There’s no question of—foul play?”
The doctor looked at him sharply.
“Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?”
Jimmy looked at Ronny. If Ronny knew anything now was the time tospeak. But to his astonishment25 Ronny shook his head.
“No cause whatever,” he said clearly.
“And suicide—eh?”
“Certainly not.”
Ronny was emphatic26. The doctor was not so clearly convinced.
“No troubles that you know of? Money troubles? A woman?”
Again Ronny shook his head.
“Now about his relations. They must be notified.”
“He’s got a sister — a half sister rather. Lives at Deane Priory. Abouttwenty miles from here. When he wasn’t in town Gerry lived with her.”
“H’m,” said the Doctor. “Well, she must be told.”
“I’ll go,” said Ronny. “It’s a rotten job, but somebody’s got to do it.” Helooked at Jimmy. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Slightly. I’ve danced with her once or twice.”
“Then we’ll go in your car. You don’t mind, do you? I can’t face it alone.”
“That’s all right,” said Jimmy reassuringly27. “I was going to suggest it my-self. I’ll go and get the old bus cranked up.”
He was glad to have something to do. Ronny’s manner puzzled him.
What did he know or suspect? And why had he not voiced his suspicions,if he had them, to the doctor.
Presently the two friends were skimming along in Jimmy’s car with acheerful disregard for such things as speed limits.
“Jimmy,” said Ronny at last, “I suppose you’re about the best pal28 I have—now.”
“Well” said Jimmy, “what about it?”
He spoke29 gruffly.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you. Something you ought to know.”
“About Gerry Wade?”
“Yes, about Gerry Wade.”
Jimmy waited.
“Well?” he inquired at last.
“I don’t know that I ought to,” said Ronny.
“Why?”
“I’m bound by a kind of promise.”
“Oh! Well then, perhaps you’d better not.”
There was a silence.
“And yet, I’d like—You see, Jimmy, your brains are better than mine.”
“They could easily be that,” said Jimmy unkindly.
“No, I can’t,” said Ronny suddenly.
“All right,” said Jimmy. “Just as you like.”
After a long silence, Ronny said:
“What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“This girl. Gerry’s sister.”
Jimmy was silent for some minutes, then he said in a voice that hadsomehow or other altered:
“She’s all right. In fact—well, she’s a corker.”
“Gerry was very devoted30 to her, I knew. He often spoke of her.”
“She was very devoted to Gerry. It—it’s going to hit her hard.”
“Yes, a nasty job.”
They were silent till they reached Deane Priory.
Miss Loraine, the maid told them, was in the garden. Unless they wantedto see Mrs. Coker.
Jimmy was eloquent31 that they did not want to see Mrs. Coker.
“Who’s Mrs. Coker?” asked Ronny as they went round into the some-what neglected garden.
“The old trout32 who lives with Loraine.”
They had stepped out into a paved walk. At the end of it was a girl withtwo black spaniels. A small girl, very fair, dressed in shabby old tweeds.
Not at all the girl that Ronny had expected to see. Not, in fact, Jimmy’susual type.
Holding one dog by the collar, she came down the pathway to meetthem.
“How do you do,” she said. “You mustn’t mind Elizabeth. She’s just hadsome puppies and she’s very suspicious.”
She had a supremely33 natural manner and, as she looked up smiling, thefaint wild-rose flush deepened in her cheeks. Her eyes were a very darkblue—like cornflowers.
Suddenly they widened — was it with alarm? As though, already, sheguessed.
Jimmy hastened to speak.
“This is Ronny Devereux, Miss Wade. You must often have heard Gerryspeak of him.”
“Oh, yes.” She turned a lovely, warm, welcoming smile on him. “You’veboth been staying at Chimneys, haven’t you? Why didn’t you bring Gerryover with you?”
“We-er-couldn’t,” said Ronny, and then stopped.
Again Jimmy saw the look of fear flash into her eyes.
“Miss Wade,” he said, “I’m afraid—I mean, we’ve got bad news for you.”
She was on the alert in a moment.
“Gerry?”
“Yes—Gerry. He’s—”
She stamped her foot with sudden passion.
“Oh! tell me—tell me—” She turned suddenly on Ronny. “You’ll tell me.”
Jimmy felt a pang34 of jealousy35, and in that moment he knew what up tonow he had hesitated to admit to himself. He knew why Helen and Nancyand Socks were just “girls” to him and nothing more.
He only half-heard Ronny’s voice saying bravely:
“Yes, Miss Wade, I’ll tell you. Gerry is dead.”
She had plenty of pluck. She gasped36 and drew back, but in a minute ortwo she was asking eager, searching questions. How? When?
Ronny answered her as gently as he could.
“Sleeping draught37? Gerry?”
The incredulity in her voice was plain. Jimmy gave her a glance. It wasalmost a glance of warning. He had a sudden feeling that Loraine in herinnocence might say too much.
In his turn he explained as gently as possible the need for an inquest.
She shuddered38. She declined their offer of taking her back to Chimneyswith them, but explained she would come over later. She had a two-seaterof her own.
“But I want to be—be alone a little first,” she said piteously.
“I know,” said Ronny.
“That’s all right,” said Jimmy.
They looked at her, feeling awkward and helpless.
“Thank you both ever so much for coming.”
They drove back in silence and there was something like constraintbetween them.
“My God! that girl’s plucky,” said Ronny once.
Jimmy agreed.
“Gerry was my friend,” said Ronny. “It’s up to me to keep an eye onher.”
“Oh! rather. Of course.”
On returning to Chimneys Jimmy was waylaid39 by a tearful Lady Coote.
“That poor boy,” she kept repeating. “That poor boy.”
Jimmy made all the suitable remarks he could think of.
Lady Coote told him at great length various details about the decease ofvarious dear friends of hers. Jimmy listened with a show of sympathy andat last managed to detach himself without actual rudeness.
He ran lightly up the stairs. Ronny was just emerging from GeraldWade’s room. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Jimmy.
“I’ve been in to see him,” he said. “Are you going in?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jimmy, who was a healthy young man with a nat-ural dislike of being reminded of death.
“I think all his friends ought to.”
“Oh! do you?” said Jimmy, and registered to himself an impression thatRonny Devereux was damned odd about it all.
“Yes. It’s a sign of respect.”
Jimmy sighed, but gave in.”
“Oh! very well,” he said, and passed in, setting his teeth a little.
There were white flowers arranged on the coverlet, and the room hadbeen tidied and set to rights.
Jimmy gave one quick, nervous glance at the still, white face. Could thatbe cherubic, pink Gerry Wade? That still peaceful figure. He shivered.
As he turned to leave the room, his glance swept the mantelshelf and hestopped in astonishment. The alarum clocks had been ranged along itneatly in a row.
He went out sharply. Ronny was waiting for him.
“Looks very peaceful and all that. Rotten luck on him,” mumbled40 Jimmy.
Then he said:
“I say, Ronny, who arranged all those clocks like that in a row?”
“How should I know? One of the servants, I suppose.”
“The funny thing is,” said Jimmy, “that there are seven of them, noteight. One of them’s missing. Did you notice that?”
Ronny made an inaudible sound.
“Seven instead of eight,” said Jimmy, frowning. “I wonder why.”
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收听单词发音
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1
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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3
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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4
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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5
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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6
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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7
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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8
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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9
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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10
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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14
whacking
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| adj.（用于强调）巨大的v.重击，使劲打( whack的现在分词 ) | |
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15
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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18
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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30
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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37
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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38
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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39
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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