The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  “You don’t seem to have stuck at much,” said Sir Clinton, in no amiable tone. “Broken your word of honour, snatched a car, and gone in for petty theft. This has been a narrow squeak for you, Oley, and you’d better bear that in mind. But go on with your story.”

  “Well, sir,” Oley continued, losing his assurance completely, “I’d snatched the car, so I thought I might as well get some fun out of it while I had it. Besides, I didn’t want to go home till I was sure the maids had gone to bed and wouldn’t hear me coming in. So I started driving about the country a bit to amuse myself and to pass the time. And then somewhere in Rickman’s Lane a policeman whistled, and I thought I was for it. I didn’t want to be caught, so when I got to Granby Holt, I ran the car into the wood a bit, meaning to leave it there. But there was an accident. I hit a fallen tree, somehow, and bled my nose in the smash-up. So after that I just left the car where it was and went home. It took me till well on in the morning to walk the distance, and I was dog-tired when I got home, for I didn’t dare to ask anyone for a lift in case they began asking questions about what I was doing on the road at that time in the morning.”

  Oley paused, as if he imagined that he had given Sir Clinton all that was necessary.

  “What became of the money you stole?” demanded the Chief Constable.

  “Oh, the money? There wasn’t much, sir, Under two pounds. I spent it buying some things for myself and things for Polly. It went in no time, and all I had left was a funny big silver coin, a thing I’d never seen before, with Victoria’s head on it. I knew it was no use trying to pass it in the ordinary way. Nobody would know what it was, and they’d ask questions. I didn’t like to take it to any of the curiosity shops for fear I might run across some shopman who happened to know me. And then I remembered a new man who’d opened a shop of that sort, a stranger who’d just come here to set up in business, and I thought he wasn’t likely to know anything about me. So I sold it to him. Wilmot’s his name, sir, I wish I hadn’t; but I’d spent all the money I had, and I wanted money for the pictures, so I risked it.”

  Sir Clinton said nothing for several minutes. Oley, under the strain of this silence, shuffled slightly from one foot to the other and gazed hopelessly about the room, avoiding the glances of Wendover and the inspector. At last the Chief Constable seemed to make up his mind.

  “You knew that Mrs. Callis had been murdered among the bracken that evening, Oley. It was in all the papers, and you couldn’t have helped hearing about it. Why didn’t you come forward and tell the police what you knew?”

  Oley broke down completely at this renewal of the attack which he had imagined was over.

  “How could I?” he retorted in an anguished voice, broken by gulps of terror. “I’d stolen that money I’d gone off in the car, I’d been with Polly. That would all have come out if I’d said a word about it. My father and mother would have known about me. And you said yourself that I’d have caught it from the police. I just couldn’t do it. I did think about it, once or twice. I got Polly to swear that she wouldn’t give us away. I’ve had the birch once, and I don’t want it again. I simply wasn’t going to run the risk.”

  “If you’d said you kept your mouth shut because of the girl, I might sympathise with you,” said Sir Clinton. “But apparently your own skin was all you cared about. Not much need to waste words over you, Oley. Now the inspector will take you into another room and read you the notes he’s made. You’ll sign them. And, as we’ll probably want you to give evidence, at the inquest, anyhow, you’d better see that none of these details slip Out of your memory before then. Understand? Then perhaps we may not think it necessary to lay our hands on you over this stealing, and so on.”

  Oley listened to this with deepening anxiety.

  “But, sir, does that mean that I’ll have to tell all this before people? In public, I mean. I don’t want to do that. It would mean that my father would get to know. . . .”

  “What does that matter to me?” asked Sir Clinton unsympathetically. “If you don’t like your doings to come out in public, then mend your manners in future and you won’t need to worry. You’ll have to give evidence now, whether you like it or not. And, before I let you go, get it quite clear in your mind that if you ever so much as speak to Polly Quickett after this, you’ll smart for it. Understand that? You’ll get no further chance. Take him into the dining-room, inspector, please, and get rid of him as soon as possible.”

  When Rufford had gone out with the boy, Wendover turned to Sir Clinton.

  “You let that unlicked cub off rather lightly, Clinton,” he declared in a censorious tone. “He needs another dose of the birch. And the girl’s younger still, isn’t she?”

  “Juliet was just under fourteen,” Sir Clinton reminded him. “Romeo wasn’t much older; and yet he managed to kill his man and commit suicide on account of his girl. Master Oley seems quite moderate in his doings, by comparison. A trifle sordid, I agree. Stealing pennies is a poor business. But we’ve got his evidence, which is the important matter.”

  Wendover shrugged his shoulders and decided not to continue the argument. The front door bell rang, and he expected to see someone ushered into the room.

  “That’s probably a constable in charge of young Miss Quickett,” Sir Clinton surmised. “The inspector will bring her in, once he has done with her boy-friend. Shall I unleash the thunders on her, Squire, just to please you?”

  “No, a girl’s different,” Wendover declared, true to his code.

  “Well, we’ll see what she’s like,” Sir Clinton conceded.

  When, a few minutes later, Rufford ushered Polly Quickett into their presence, Wendover summed her up at a glance. “A congenital hetaira,” was his verdict, for even in his unspoken thoughts he preferred euphemisms to plainer but coarser expressions in some cases.

  Polly Quickett looked older than her age. Wendover would have put her down as between seventeen and eighteen if he had not been forewarned. She was an obviously attractive girl; trim-figured, straight-backed, neat-legged, with a mass of naturally-curling brown hair and large brown eyes. But to Wendover’s mind, she would have been better without the over-lavish application of rouge and lipstick at her age. In contrast to Oley, she seemed perfectly at her ease and showed not the slightest trace of timidity. She waited in silence, filling in the time by examining each man in turn with a steady, cataloguing gaze which ran slowly from head to heel.

  “This is Polly Quickett, sir,” explained Rufford, unnecessarily.

  “What’s your age?” asked Sir Clinton.

  Polly seemed faintly surprised by this beginning. She opened her eyes more widely as she answered.

  “I’ll be sixteen in January.”

  “You arranged to meet young Oley the other night at the drinking-fountain in Mapesbury Road. What time did you meet him?”

  “About eight o’clock, it was,” Polly replied, composedly.

  “You spent the rest of the evening in his company. Where did you go with him?”

  “We took a bus to the Half Way House and after we got off, we went to a place down the lane, just below a house called the Hermitage.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “We went up among the bracken.”

  Wendover could not refrain from giving Polly a good mark as a witness. She volunteered nothing, but she answered the questions promptly and concisely.

  “Shortly after that, a car came along the lane,” continued Sir Clinton. “What happened then?”

  “A couple got out of it and stood for a moment or two on the road, a man and a woman.”

  “Did you notice how they were dressed?”

  “It was coming on to twilight,” Polly explained carefully. “I didn’t see them as clearly as I see you, of course. The man had on a dark lounge suit and he was wearing a soft black felt hat. I noticed that, because most men wear the same kind of hat, only in fawn or grey. It was the kind of hat that clergymen sometimes wear.”

  “You’re not say
ing that because you’ve heard about the Rev. Mr. Barratt having been there that night?”

  “Oh, no,” Polly declared definitely. “I saw it quite well at the time. The woman wasn’t old—she seemed to be about twenty-five, I’d say, but it’s only a guess—and she walked lightly, as if she’d plenty of go in her. She was wearing a dark coat and skirt, and light stockings. It was too dusky to tell exactly what colour her clothes really were, but I thought they were dark green. She wasn’t wearing a fur or anything like that; the night was quite warm. Her hat probably matched her dress, but I couldn’t see it clearly at that distance.”

  “What happened after they got out of the car?” asked Sir Clinton, evidently satisfied that Polly was a good witness who needed no prompting.

  “They came up amongst the bracken and seemed to be making for where we were; but they stopped about twenty yards off, and sat down. Pat didn’t like them being there, and he whispered to me that we’d better go off into the spinney. I was to wait a minute or two and then follow along his track. He went away and I sat there, waiting till he whistled to let me know it was all right. As I was waiting, I got such a fright. I heard the woman saying: ‘No, no! Don’t, John, please don’t. . . . Oh!’ And then came a couple of sounds like shots, one immediately after the other.”

  “You didn’t hear any cry after the shots?” demanded Sir Clinton.

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “You’re sure you heard two shots? Only two?”

  “Quite sure,” said Polly, definitely. “And just then Pat whistled, and I began to creep through the bracken to join him. I didn’t look back. It never entered my head that anyone had been shot, of course. All I thought was that somebody was letting off a pistol and that a bullet might come in my direction. I just wanted to get away to a safe place as quick as I could.”

  “Why didn’t you stand up and let them see you, if you thought the pistol was just fired for fun?”

  “Because Pat and I weren’t supposed to be seeing each other, and if I’d stood up, these people might have wanted to know what I was doing there, and who was with me.”

  “You were in that spinney for a while. Then you came out again. What time was that?”

  “I looked at my watch just before that, and it was a minute or two to ten. I’m quite sure of that, because I wanted to be home by half-past ten at the latest, and we couldn’t have managed it by walking and taking the bus back. I was very worried about the time. That’s why I remember it.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Pat saw I was anxious, and he said the only thing to do was to snatch that car the couple had left in the lane and use it to get me home in. He’s mad about driving cars, and of course he’s too young to have a licence except for a motorcycle. He’s done car-snatching before, and he can drive well enough, though he goes far too fast sometimes and takes risks. There didn’t seem anything else for it, so we went down and took away the car. And that’s a funny thing. I was almost sure that when we saw the couple leave the car, it was left just as they drove up; I mean it faced the bridge under the railway. But when we got to it, they’d turned it round so that it faced towards the Half Way House. They must have done that while we were in the spinney, I expect. We kept a sharp look-out as we were getting in; but by that time it was pretty dark and probably they didn’t see us until the car had got started, and Pat drove off as hard as he could.”

  “They didn’t call after you? You didn’t hear any sound, while you were at the ear?”

  Polly shook her head decidedly.

  “Not a sound. I’d have noticed it, because I was in a bit of a state lest they’d catch us before we got away.”

  “You got home again in time?”

  “Yes, Pat drove pretty fast into town. He dropped me near our house, and went off by himself in the car.”

  “You learned, later on, that Mrs. Callis had been shot, up in the bracken? Why didn’t you come forward at once and tell this story?”

  “I wanted to; but Pat got into a blue funk about it and persuaded me to keep quiet. You see, he’d promised that he wouldn’t go about with me, and he went on and went on about how he’d get into terrible trouble if I said anything to anyone. I didn’t like it. I knew I ought to own up about the whole affair. But I couldn’t very well let Pat down, and he insisted on my keeping quiet. We had long arguments about it, for I felt miserable over the business. I knew I ought to own up. So at last I gave in and promised that I wouldn’t say anything off my own bat; but if the police got to know about our being there, then I’d tell the truth about it all when I was questioned. I don’t think he’d the least fear that the police would find out about us, so he seemed quite satisfied with that arrangement.”

  “And that’s the whole story, is it?”

  “Everything I can remember just now; and if anything else comes back to me, I’ll be sure to tell you about it. I only want to be quite straight, now that it’s all come out. And . . . you won’t do anything to Pat, will you? I know we oughtn’t to have been going about together, after what he promised. But he’s keen on me, and perhaps it isn’t really his fault. I wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see me. I put myself in his way. It wasn’t really his blame, altogether.”

  “You’ll have to repeat this evidence in public,” Sir Clinton warned her.

  “That’ll be beastly,” Polly confessed, ruefully, but looking him straight in the eyes. “But I don’t mind, if only you’ll not be hard on Pat.”

  “You see how this sort of thing ends up,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Now, Polly, will you promise to see nothing more of Oley in future? If you do, and if you give your evidence when it’s wanted, I’ll do my best for you. It’s a bit hard on your parents, though, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I’ve been a little beast, I know I have,” Polly admitted with a gulp. “But if you’ll not be hard on Pat, I’ll take my share of the blame. And I promise I won’t see him again—I mean I won’t have anything more to do with him after this.”

  “Not till the parents of both of you agree, anyhow,” suggested Sir Clinton. “Now, Inspector Rufford’s been taking notes. He’ll read them over to you and you’ll sign them. After that, he’ll see you get safe home. I’m not going to say I admire your doings, Polly, but I wish you luck, if you keep that promise.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Death Calls Again

  “THAT boy Oley’s a rank bad lot, without a redeeming characteristic,” declared Wendover, when Inspector Rufford had retired with his charge. “But I couldn’t help liking that little girl. In some ways, she’s a bad lot, too; but she gave me the impression that she was very straight in others. She was obviously out to tell the truth, cost what it might; and that’s a good trait. And she seemed anxious to shield the boy, so far as she could, which is more than he thought of doing for her. You showed more consideration than I expected, Clinton, when you started in to question her.”

  “I’m sorry for her, in a way,” Sir Clinton admitted, lightly. “She’s a physiological misfit. She’s developed quicker on one side than on the other, and our system frowns on that kind of lop-sidedness. She’ll make a better witness than that hangdog companion of hers; and that’s what counts, so far as I’m concerned.”

  He took a fresh cigarette from the box near him.

  “Now, Squire,” he continued, “you’ve got the whole evidence up to the stop press news. What do you make of it all? I’d like to hear your views.”

  “I’d like to hear yours,” retorted Wendover.

  “You’ll hear ’em in good time,” the Chief Constable assured him. “But remember that I’m paid, in part, to keep my mouth shut until the right time comes. Besides, I got in first with my request.”

  “I suppose you’re going to treat this Barratt affair in the same way as you handled that business of Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale,” said Wendover. “Given two deaths which might be due to accident, or suicide, or murder. Take all the possible combinations, and there are nine possible s
olutions. Eliminate the wrong ’uns, à la Sherlock Holmes, and the last remaining one must be correct. Is that what you’re doing in this Barratt affair?”

  Sir Clinton lit his cigarette before answering.

  “No,” he explained, as he put the spent match in his ashtray. “I think we could do better by falling back on a little rhyme that you’ve heard before. I’ll repeat it, just to get our minds clear:

  “What was the crime? Who did it?

  When was it done? And where?

  How done? And with what motive?

  Who in the deed did share?”

  “That puts the trouble in a nutshell, Squire. It ought to be the Manhunter’s Manual or Criminologist’s Constant Companion, as Peter would say. That mannerism of his is infectious, evidently; for I don’t talk alliteratively, as a general rule. Well, now, Squire. There are seven simple questions to answer.”

  “Before I heard the evidence of these two youngsters,” Wendover admitted, “I thought it was a very complex affair. But from what they told us, it seems much simpler than I supposed. The wrecked car, the blood on its floor, the disappearance of the cash from the bag: these things all worried me. But now they’re out of the picture. One doesn’t need to bother about them. That clears the board considerably.”

  “No doubt,” Sir Clinton acquiesced, gravely. “But it leaves a good deal still cumbering the ground. Don’t evade the issue, Squire. Question number one: ‘What was the crime?’ Speak up promptly, since you’re so sure about it all.”

  “There were two crimes,” Wendover pointed out. “Barratt and Mrs. Callis were both found dead.”

  “True, Squire. But let’s take them one at a time, if you don’t mind. Ladies first. How did Mrs. Callis come by her end?”

  “Murder,” Wendover declared without hesitation. “She was shot; the bullet that killed her had the rifling-marks of a certain pistol; that pistol was found close to Barratt’s hand; and the only finger-prints showing on it were Barratt’s.”