Fear and Trembling
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Fear and Trembling

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

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eBook - ePub

Fear and Trembling

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

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About This Book

"As long as there is no more stupid talk of murder, or threats of any kind, you will find me ready and willing to be reasonable."

David Somerset, an industrial chemist, meets a mysterious syndicate in a Gloucestershire village. What exactly does David Somerset have to sell?

Somerset fails to return to London and his son Geoffrey disappears on the same day. The pair of them are soon found dead. With a killer's sights now set on the other son, Gerald, it falls to Anthony Bathurst to track down the mysterious syndicate and unmask a cunning murderer. But he's a little distracted by a femme fatale...

Inspector MacMorran is aware of this, and takes some pleasure when Bathurst is briefly baffled-and in love. Along the way there are chills, red herrings, highly original twists, and an amazing revelation at the end.

Fear and Trembling was first published in 1936. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

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Year
2020
ISBN
9781913527563

CHAPTER I
THE “GOLDEN LION”

David Somerset fumbled in a pocket, gave his ticket to the collector at East Brutton station, and passed through the barrier. As he was destined to become a figure of public interest for at least a month, a description of him, as he was at the time, may not be out of place. He was fifty-five years of age. Of middle height, he had square shoulders, a strong, well-formed body, wore horn-rimmed glasses, had thick dark-brown wavy hair that he brushed well away from his forehead, light-coloured blue eyes, prominent ears, a full-lipped mouth, and a chin that betokened both obstinacy and determination. The time of the year was mid-March. A day or so prior to the Ides. He wore a bowler hat, dark overcoat, dark lounge suit, and carried an attaché-case.
Coming to the outside of the small railway-station, he paused on the pavement and looked somewhat contemptuously down the narrow street that he saw in front of him. He had never been to East Brutton before, and from what he had so far seen of it he had little wish to come there again. Also, if he told the truth, he felt a certain amount of misgiving concerning his journey. Had he not, perhaps, taken too much for granted? Been too trusting in the matter? On the other hand, the offer was a good one, and there were his wife and his two boys to be considered, no matter which way you looked at things. After all, there came times in life when to refuse to do business because the other party was unknown to you would be the height of folly, and might result in opportunity being turned from your door.
He crammed his hat more tightly on his head and set off briskly down the narrow street which he had already found so unattractive and so uninviting. Argue as you might, an opportunity of this kind came only once in a lifetime, and it must be faced and dealt with, firmly and courageously. Halfway down the village street, he stopped and took a letter from his pocket. “May as well refresh my memory over the details,” he muttered to himself as he stood and read.

One cannot be too precise as to your instructions. At 2.15 p.m. in the smoke-room of the “Golden Lion”, High St., East Brutton. Inasmuch as it would be a blazing indiscretion for you to come by car, the 10.22 train from Paddington will suit you admirably. It is timed to arrive at East Brutton at 1.57, which will give you a margin of eighteen minutes to reach the rendezvous. You will find that this is ample. Actually, the walk from the station will not take you more than four minutes at the outside, so that you will be in no way pressed for time and can take matters comfortably.
When you reach the hotel, don’t ask for me by name. With so much at stake, from the point of view of each of us, you will readily see the soundness of the reason behind this precaution. When you arrive, go at once to the smoke-room. I shall be there waiting for you. I shall be wearing a dinner jacket with white vest, black bow, black studs and links, and a white gardenia. For my own part, I could never understand why His late Majesty, King George the Fifth of Blessed Memory, preferred the carnation to the gardenia for the purpose of sartorial decoration. But there you are: de gustibus non disputandum est. Till next Thursday, then, and in the very strictest confidence, I remain, your cheerful but unwilling victim, Adam Antine.

Somerset replaced the letter in his breast pocket, gave a hurried glance at his wrist-watch, saw that he was still well within his time, and started off again on his journey to the inn of assignation. He was not long in coming to it. The message that had been sent to him had not erred. Four minutes had been ample. The inn of the “Golden Lion” was, to all appearances, an old-time posting-house. It stood at four cross-roads in the middle of the little town. As he approached it from the railway-station, it faced him on the opposite left-hand corner. There was a wide cobble-stoned yard on its farther side that seemed almost an anachronism, and towards this, David Somerset made his way. His instinct proved sound. On the right of the cobbled turning was a door marked “Saloon”, which door he opened, to see immediately, and directly facing him, an indication in large lettering, “To the smoke-room”.
Somerset passed up a winding staircase, narrow and with old-fashioned stairs. Evidently, he judged, many centuries old. A sharp turn at the top brought him to the room that he sought. He pushed the door open and entered. The room, low-ceilinged, was warm and cosy. But, save for himself, empty. He glanced again at the time. It showed to be eleven minutes past two. That explained his solitude. The man whom he had come to meet was, no doubt, as precise in character as had been his instructions. He would not arrive until a quarter past two. Neither before that time nor after. As he surmised thus, David Somerset heard a noise behind him. Somebody had entered and closed the door. Turning, he saw a young fellow, clad in grey flannel trousers and a pullover.
“Your order, sir?” the man asked.
“Ah, yes. Bring me a Black Label, will you?”
“Water, or a splash, sir?”
“Neither,” returned Somerset curtly. “I like my whisky neat.”
“Very good, sir.” The barman disappeared, to return surprisingly quickly with Somerset’s whisky. The latter took his drink to a near-by table, sat there and waited. For a few minutes only, however. A voice behind him caused him to turn. A man had entered the room, who, from his attire, must be the person with whom David Somerset had made this unusual appointment. Somerset rose from his seat and bowed. He desired to waste no time.
“I presume that I am addressing Mr. Antine?”
The short, dark, foreign-looking man, in the dinner jacket with gardenia, smiled and showed his white teeth.
“And I, Mr. David Somerset. Yes?”
“That is so. I am David Somerset. I hope that our interview will not take too long.”
“A most commendable desire. Naturally. Be seated, I beg of you.”
The man coughed, and then a most extraordinary thing happened. Before the sound of the cough had died away, the door of the smoke-room opened again, and four more men entered. They were, as may be readily imagined, of varying physical types. But they had one thing in common with the man whom David Somerset had called “Antine”. Each was dressed in the same fashion. That is to say, in complete accordance with the terms that had been nominated in Somerset’s letter. Somerset looked round this strange company with an expression of bewilderment that he made no attempt to conceal.
“I don’t think that I . . .” He paused, but every sense of him was on his guard. Taut and at full tension. Into what hornets’ nest had he been foolish enough to stray? How he wished now that he had brought his revolver!
The five men took five chairs, and arranged themselves in a semi-circle that faced him. Antine had two of them on each side of him.
“You’re just a little surprised? Yes?” The man whom he had called Antine was the speaker.
“Certainly I am surprised! How else can I feel? There is no mention of such a contingency as this in the letter that you sent to me. I understood that I was to meet you, and you alone. May I inquire the meaning of the procedure?”
“You may. But you must content yourself with the answer that I give you. You must not ask the same question, or what is tantamount to being the same question, more than once. You understand, yes? Well, the answer to the question that you have just asked is—‘Five heads are better than one.’ I’m positive that a gentleman with the good sense and general intelligence that Mr. David Somerset is known to have, will not be disposed to argue as to the truth of that.” Antine’s eyes gleamed through his gold-rimmed spectacles. His voice was soft and unattractively sibilant. There was rather more than the suggestion of a lisp about it. To Somerset, as he listened, it was distinctly unpleasant, if not menacing. He resolved, however, to put as bold a face on the situation as possible.
“Of course. I will not dispute what you have said. Shall we get to business? I am a busy man, as I presume you know, and time means money to me.”
“Ah—money! What a thrice-blessed sound that word always has to English ears.”
“I don’t know that the English ear is unique in that respect. Indeed, my experience teaches me otherwise.”
“Mr. Somerset shows a little pique. Don’t you agree with me, César?” Antine shot the question at a tall, thin, dark man with an aquiline nose, seated immediately on his right.
“Perhaps. It is, though, a little understandable—but have a care! You are forgetting, I think.”
For a moment David Somerset thought that the warning was meant for him. To his surprise, though, it had been addressed to Antine. The latter took the rebuke with peaceful composure.
“You’re right, mon ami! The lapse shall not occur again, I promise you. It shall be my one ewe lamb of lapses. Have I not put that well?” Again he smiled through his glasses.
There were nods of assent from two or three of the black-coated company.
“We will not strike an acrimonious note,” said Antine, “so early in the proceedings. It would be most regrettable. Mr. Somerset naturally has certain national sympathies and inclinations that are understandable. Who amongst us shall blame him?” He turned to either side of the semi-circle of seats, as though inviting criticism or approbation.
“You are our spokesman.” The voice was that of the last man seated on Antine’s right.
“Thank you. That is undeniably true. We are prepared, Mr. Somerset, to make you a most handsome and generous offer . . . for what you possess, and what we want of you. We trust”—he emphasized the word “trust”—“that you will see your way to accept it.”
“That depends. What is the offer?” Somerset’s reply was brusque and blunt.
“Do you mean ‘how much’, Mr. Somerset?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean.” The tone he used was still uncompromising.
Antine bent towards the man whom he had addressed as “César”, and conferred with him in a low voice. There were head-noddings and hand-gesticulations. Although he strained his ears Somerset was unable to hear anything of what was being said. At length the conference ceased. Antine nodded to his companion and looked directly at Somerset.
“The offer is one hundred thousand pounds! If you can satisfy us as to the strength of your claim. One hundred thousand pounds. A truly noble sum, if I may say so. A truly magnificent gesture on our part, Mr. Somerset.”
“The offer is refused.” Somerset was curtly precise.
There came a period of silence. The room was so still and the atmosphere so tense that Somerset could hear his wrist-watch ticking. Antine broke the silence.
“Mr. Somerset will think again. Yes?”
“Undoubtedly. But not at the figure which you have offered me.”
Antine shook his head deprecatingly.
“Mr. Somerset is the last person to act indiscreetly. I am convinced of that. We are all convinced of that.”
“And the last person also to act foolishly, and without due regard to his own interest.”
“There might be an extraordinarily narrow margin between indiscretion and foolishness. I should hate Mr. Somerset to overstep that margin. In fact, there could be nothing that I should like less. Because . . .” Antine paused and watched Somerset narrowly.
The latter was imperturbable. “Because what?”
“Because it might cause the breakdown of our little conference and put an end to our mutual condition of understanding. I could not bear that to happen. It would desolate me.” Antine smiled, but Somerset knew that behind the smile there lay, already banked up, the fires of malevolence.
“I am sorry.”
There ensued another silence. Somerset had not, for a second, shed any of his sangfroid. With some ostentation, which he intended all of them to see, he glanced at his wrist-watch. Antine’s four companions rose and gathered round their spokesman. There were murmurs and mutterings. Some of the phrases used, Somerset decided, were in French, others in German. Every now and then, his ear caught the snatch of a tongue with which he was totally unfamiliar. He made no comment, however, allowing them to find a solution of the “impasse” that had presented itself which would be satisfactory to both sides. Eventually Antine broke away from the group. He held up his hand. The movement had the nature of a command. Somerset felt that the moment of acute crisis had arrived.
“I have been instructed to ask you, Mr. Somerset, what is your price?”
“Thank you. That’s a lot better. I’ve been expecting you to ask that. It shows cool sense on your part. My price is one million pounds paid in notes—as I bargained. Neither a penny more nor a penny less, gentlemen! And, considering all the circumstances, a most reasonable offer.”
Antine’s face changed as though a mask had been suddenly jerked from it. “T’cha!” he snapped, bitterly. “What you ask is ridiculous! Utterly absurd.”
“I think not. Let me point out that it all depends upon the point of view,” countered Somerset. “Your price is ridiculous to me, my price is nonsensical to you. Therefore, gentlemen, we have reached a deadlock. A condition of stalemate. I will not take up your time any longer, gentlemen.”
He rose deliberately and pushed back his chair.
“Stay!” cried Antine. “Not so fast. This is indeed regrettable, but there may yet be a way out. It is for us to find it, for I am convinced that it can be found. Be seated again, please. And you, too, my friends. Let Mr. Somerset see that we are all still willing and ready to talk business with him.”
Somerset, half-regretfully, resumed his seat. The five others followed his example.
“There is a way out,” cried a harsh, guttural voice from Somerset’s right. That is to say, it came from a man seated on Antine’s left. Murmurs of assent greeted the remark. The voice continued. “Why parley with him? I have always been against it! We are fools—all of us. Brainless idiots.”
Again there were sympathetic cries. Antine stroked his chin reflectively. “Murder is an ugly word.” He paused, to continue, however, at once. “But I take it, gentlemen, that that is your meaning. I have not misunderstood you?”
Somerset rose and faced them, his teeth and his hands clenched. His outraged feelings showed in words of burning indignation. This condition mastered any fear that he might have felt.
“You can’t talk like that!” cried Somerset. “You’re in England—not in Chicag...

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