Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 6

by R. Austin Freeman

  When he had laid the table, Andrew surveyed his work critically, and, having decided that all was in order, proceeded to cut some wafery slices of brown bread and butter, which he adroitly rolled up into little sausage-like scrolls. Of these he prepared quite an imposing pile, in view of Molly's partiality for them and of the fact that she usually returned from her expeditions in a state of ravenous hunger (she had gone over for an afternoon's shopping to the little town of Bunsford, some two miles away).

  At length he laid down his knife, and, having taken a glance at the kettle, went out to the garden gate and looked down the lane. His wife had just turned into it from the road and was now advancing briskly with an enormous parcel in either hand and a smaller one tucked under her arm. For a moment he was disposed to run and meet her and relieve her of her burdens, but, experience having taught him that Molly's parcels usually ran to bulk rather than weight, he turned back into the house, leaving the garden gate and the front door ajar, and went to the kitchen to make the tea.

  He had just placed the silver teapot and hot-water jug on the tray when he heard her coming up the garden path, whistling cheerfully to announce her approach. He went out into the hall to welcome her, and, when she had held up her face for the customary kiss, she tenderly deposited her parcels on the hall table. "You seem to have been going it," Andrew remarked, with an eye on the parcels.

  "I have," she admitted. "I've had a lovely time—a regular beano. They were simply giving the things away, so, of course, economy suggested that one should take the opportunity. And I did. I've bought no end of things. You shall see what I have brought with me, presently; the rest are being sent. Do I smell tea? I hope so, for I am simply starving."

  She entered the sitting-room and stood for a moment regarding the arrangements with smiling approval. "How nicely you've laid the table, Andy," she exclaimed, "and, my word! what a heap of roly-polys you've cut."

  She picked one up and bit off half. Then she continued, with slightly impaired enunciation: "There are some pastries in a box on the hall table. Puffs and things. I hope I haven't squashed them under my arm. I was nearly eating them in the train. Shopping does make you hungry."

  Andrew fetched in the box and transferred its contents—bilious little tarts and cakes and three-cornered puffs, apparently produced with the aid of a pair of bellows—to the cake-basket. Then he lifted Molly's hat off—it came off quite easily, being of the coalscuttle-extinguisher type then in vogue—while she placidly poured out the tea with one hand and fed herself with the other, continuing her cheerful babbling, punctuated with mastication.

  Andrew sat down at the table, and, as he sipped his tea, looked thoughtfully at his wife. Perhaps a little furtively, too, with an unpleasant and guilty consciousness of the letter in his pocket. But principally his mind was occupied, half-unconsciously, in admiring contemplation of his beautiful wife. Her charm seemed to him always new, as something freshly discovered. To look at her was a pleasure that never staled. It was not only that he was as much, or even more, in love with her as ever, but as an artist, and a figure-painter at that, he was peculiarly sensitive and appreciative of human beauty, and especially the beauty of women. "So you've had a good day's sport," said Andrew.

  "Rather!" she replied, in a tone of deep satisfaction. "Of course, Bunsford is not like London, but there are quite a lot of good shops there. And didn't I turn them upside down! And didn't I make the money fly! You'll have to hurry up and sell some more pictures or we shall be on the rocks."

  Now, Andrew knew quite well that this was all nonsense. Molly's little raids on the Bunsford shops were dissipations of the most inexpensive sort. She never nearly spent the hundred pounds a year that had come to her on her father's death. Nevertheless, he seized the opportunity. "Yes," said he, "it is about time I raked in some fresh supplies. There are one or two small things that I have got on hand, ready for the market. I must take them up to Montagu and turn them into cash."

  "You needn't, Andy," she said, with one of her delightful dimpling smiles. "I was only joking. I didn't really spend much, and I've got quite a lot in the bank."

  "I know, dear," he replied. "I wasn't such a mug as to take you seriously. But still, I think I may as well take those things up to Monty. It's no use keeping stuff in the studio cupboard. I think I will go up one day next week, probably Tuesday."

  She made no comment on this proposal, and their talk drifted into other channels. After tea she produced the two hats—the principal spoils of the raid—and exhibited them to Andrew; who looked at them as Lord Dundreary looked at the chimpanzee, with surprise and incomprehension. (The feminine hat is usually outside the scope of the masculine intellect, and the hats of that period were beyond belief as things intentionally created.) Then Molly went about her lawful domestic occasions, and Andrew sneaked out to drop his letter into the post-box down in the village. It was a harmless letter, devoid of significance and committing him to nothing. Yet, as he held it in the slit of the post-box, he felt an unaccountable reluctance to let it go; and when at length he released it and heard it fall to the bottom of the box, he had the sense of having done something portentous and irrevocable.

  II. ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS

  The days that followed slipped by slowly and wearily, charged for Andrew with anxiety and unhappiness. Unhappiness because he had, for the first time in his married life, a secret which he was withholding from Molly. And in his heart he felt that it was a discreditable secret, of which he would be ashamed if it should ever leak out. This was the chief occasion of his anxiety. For there was the chance that something might upset his plan; and, if it did, he would have to explain. But what could he say? To Molly it would appear as if he distrusted her, and who could say that she would be wrong? Was there not some distrust implied in his repugnance to her meeting Ronald? It was a dreadful thing to think of, for, hitherto, the most perfect confidence had existed between him and his wife; and no woman could be more irreproachable in her conduct than Molly.

  Still he went on making the few preparations that were necessary. From his bank at Bunsford he drew out fifty pounds in cash (paying in an equivalent cheque on his London bank) in case Ronald should be unable to deal with a cheque; and, to meet the alternative case, he drew a cheque on the London account to the order of Ronald Barton, Esq., and put it in the attache case that he kept in the studio cupboard. Then, with great care, he drafted the letter which he proposed to send to Ronald. He dated it the 26th of August—Sunday—though, in fact, he proposed to post it early on Monday, so that it should be delivered on Monday evening or by the first post on Tuesday morning—in either case in time to prevent Ronald from coming, but not in time to allow of a reply. It was but a short letter, and, in its final form, ran thus:

  "Willow Cottage, Fairfield. 26th August, 1928.

  My dear Ronald,

  It happens by a fortunate chance that I have to run over to Crompton on business. I say 'fortunate' because we shall have certain matters of a rather private nature to discuss and we can do that better in your rooms than here.

  I don't know quite how long my business will take, but I shall turn up at your diggings punctually at one o'clock, when we may, perhaps, go somewhere and get some lunch, before beginning our discussions.

  Yours ever,

  ANDREW."

  It was not without some qualms that he concocted this mendacious epistle, and when he had finished it and addressed and stamped the envelope, he hid it away securely in the attaché case until the time should come for posting it. Finally, into the same receptacle he put one or two small and trivial paintings—little more than sketches—which he had hardly thought worth offering to his dealer. Of course, he was not going to offer them now. Their presence in the attaché case was merely a concession to sentiment. He didn't want to tell more lies than were absolutely necessary.

  Now that he had made all his preparations, it would have seemed reasonable for him to dismiss the matter from his mind until the time for action shoul
d arrive. But this he was quite unable to do. The emotional upset, which was at the root of the whole rather foolish business, kept his mind unsettled and exaggerated the effect of his guilty consciousness of his secret and his anxiety lest some unforeseen hitch should occur. The result was that he found himself everlastingly revolving the details of his plan, considering what he should say to Ronald and what he should do if, by any disastrous chance, his scheme should miscarry and his deception should become known to Molly.

  In order to be alone and free to think his futile thoughts, he spent much of his time in the studio. He tried to work. He had a rather important picture well started, and, in his normal state of mind, it would have been easy and pleasant to carry on. But after a single attempt he had to desist for fear of spoiling what he had already done.

  In the evenings, his restlessness and a curious shyness of his wife's society drove him out to stride impatiently across the fields or along the little-frequented road, chewing the cud of useless and purposeless reflection. He had better have stayed at home and listened to Molly's cheerful gossip, for thereby he would have avoided a world of trouble. But no man can foresee the little surprises that Fate has in store for him; and so it was that Andrew, taking his way along the darkening road, walked straight into the ambush that chance had prepared.

  The week had nearly run out, for it was the Monday evening, the evening before the appointed day of his visit to Crompton, when he set forth in his old studio jacket, hatless and unadorned by the spectacles that he wore in more populous places to mitigate the effects of his disfigurement, to tramp along the road and think out once again the details of his proceedings on the morrow. He had posted his letter to Ronald in time for the eleven o'clock collection and everything was ready for his journey. By this time to-morrow, he thought, his difficulties would be over. He would have paid out the money, have disposed of his wastrel cousin and would be free to take up again the normal course of his life.

  Thus preoccupied he swung along, taking little note of his surroundings. At long intervals the head-lights of an approaching ear started out of the gathering gloom, glared on him for a moment and were gone; or overtaking him, cast his attenuated shadow along the lighted surface of the road with increasing intensity until it culminated in an instant of dazzle, a whizz, a hum of mechanism and a dwindling red light fading into the darkness.

  It was at the cross roads, known locally as Kibble's Cross, that the incredible affair happened. Preoccupied as he was, a stationary car drawn up at the corner of the side road made little impression on him, though he saw it and could hear the engine running, and was dimly aware of two men lurking near the car. But wrapped in his own thoughts, he gave them but a passing, inattentive glance and straightway forgot their existence. A few moments later, a bright light streamed past him from behind, then a car came abreast of him and drew up abruptly with a shriek of the brakes and an irritable voice demanded: "Well, what is it?"

  Andrew gazed in astonishment at the speaker—a hard-faced elderly man who appeared to be addressing him—and stepped up to the open window to ask what he meant. As he put his head in at the window, the light of an electric torch flashed full in his face; but in spite of the dazzling light he could see that the man had his other hand thrust into his hip pocket. He could also see a middle-aged woman grasping the driving wheel and staring at him with an expression of consternation. He was about to put his question—in fact he had begun to speak—when he felt both his wrists seized in a vice-like grip and held together behind his back. Simultaneously, a hand grasping a pistol was thrust over his shoulder and a voice from behind him commanded: "Put 'em up. Both of you."

  Exactly what happened during the next few seconds Andrew never clearly knew. As he felt his wrists grasped, he struggled to turn round and became aware of two men whose faces were hidden by black masks. At the same moment, the man in the car made a quick movement with his farther hand. An instant later there was a double report with the sound of shattering glass; a piercing scream from the woman, a grinding noise from the engine, and the car leaped forward. In another moment it had gathered speed and was receding swiftly into the darkness. As the reports rang out, Andrew felt his wrists released, and, turning quickly, he saw the two men running furiously towards their car and heard a whimpering voice exclaim: "You blasted fool! Couldn't you see it was the wrong man? And you've done him in."

  Andrew stood, bewildered and half-stupefied, looking at the retreating bandits. They were still talking excitedly but he could not hear what they were saying. Soon, they reached their car, tumbled in hurriedly and slammed the door. Again, there was a grinding sound; the car started forward, turned up the side road, and was quickly lost to sight between the hedgerows. The hum of the engine, soon died away and Andrew was left standing alone in the silence of the deserted road.

  He tried to collect his scattered wits and to realize what had happened. It was an astounding affair. The audacity of these ruffians in attempting a highway robbery in the presence of a witness seemed amazing. Yet, but for the circumstance that the passenger in the car had been armed, it might easily have been done. The presence of an unarmed stranger would have offered no hindrance to two armed and masked men.

  But what had really happened? Was it true that that stern-faced elderly man had been "done in", or was this only a frightened man's conjecture? Almost certainly the latter, for there had been no time to ascertain the effects of the shot. Perhaps there was no harm done, after all, beyond the smashing of the wind-screen. Meanwhile, the question arose as to what he ought to do. At first he was disposed to hurry back to Fairfield and give information to the police; but on reflection, that seemed a futile thing to do, for, long before he could reach the village, the woman who was driving the car would have reported the outrage to the police at the next town. Moreover, there was no police station at Fairfield and only a police patrol who was sent out to the village from Bunsford. Finally, he decided to notify the police at Bunsford on the morrow, though even that would be of little use, seeing that he would be totally unable to identify either of the men or give any description of them.

  While he had been turning these questions over in his mind, he had been retracing his steps along the road; for the shock that he had sustained had effectually diverted his thoughts from his domestic troubles and the solitary countryside ceased to attract him. Presently he came to a stile at the entrance to a foot-path which led in a nearly straight line to the village. Here he paused for a few moments and looked back along the road. In the far distance the head-lights of a car appeared as bright sparks of light on the dark background. He watched them, as he stood with one foot on the lower step of the stile, with a feeling of faint dislike. At the moment, the idea of a motor-car seemed to have unpleasant associations. After looking for a few seconds at the distant lights, which grew brighter as he looked, he mounted the stile, and, stepping down on to the foot-path, set forth on the short cut across the fields.

  There was no lack of matter for conversation with Molly that night. As he poured out the thrilling story of his adventure, she almost lost interest in the hat, on which she was performing some kind of minor operation, in the wonder and horror of the tale. "But what impudence and bravado!" she exclaimed. "They seem to have gone on just as if you hadn't been there."

  "I shouldn't have been much good in any case," said Andrew. "They were probably both armed. At any rate one of them was, and he was pretty ready with his pistol."

  "Yes," said she, "I am glad you weren't able to interfere. You might have been lying dead at this moment. I wonder if that poor man in the car was really killed."

  "I hope not," said Andrew, "but I am afraid he was hit. He could hardly fail to have been seeing that the muzzle of the pistol was within a foot of him. I suppose I had better drop in to-morrow morning at the police station at Bunsford and give my name and address in case they want to call me as a witness."

  Molly laid down her work and looked at him anxiously. "Do you know, Andy," she said,
"I don't think I would if I were you. Why say anything about it to anybody? You have got nothing to tell that would help the police. You wouldn't know the men again if you saw them. It is a horrible affair. There may have been murder done. Don't you think it would be better for you to keep right out of it? Nobody knows that you were there, and nobody need ever know."

  "The woman in the car saw me, you know," said Andrew.

  "Yes," retorted Molly, whisking about with that mental agility which is the peculiar gift of woman, "and she probably took you for one of the gang. And if she did, she will swear through thick and thin that you were. You know how positive women are when they have got an idea into their heads."