by John Creasey
‘None at all,’ said Dawbury.
‘Well, get a message through to London. We’ll want an SOS sent out so that we can get hold of any motorist who passed the quarry at whatever time Meakings did. When was that?’
‘Five past ten, sir, as near as I can say.’
‘Then say between ten o’clock and eleven. See to that, will you, without losing time. And you’ll want a search party on the go at once.’
‘Of course, sir. Will you be asking Scotland Yard for assistance?’
‘No,’ said Mannering testily. ‘We only want the general call; we can handle the rest. If anything develops, let me know at once.’
Dawbury saluted and left the Chief Constable, who was dressed in white flannels spoiled by a green patch on one knee, glancing impatiently at the clock. It was five past one. ‘Almost time for lunch,’ Mannering said aloud. ‘Blast this business; it would happen this week. If nothing’s turned up I’ll have to get busy myself.’
The clock in the library was fast, as it happened, and Mannering strolled towards the field as the last over was being called. A tall, lean player was at the batting-crease, and his sunburned face showed a smile which even at that distance revealed his white teeth. He lifted his bat waist-high, put his left foot forward, and came down hard on a fast ball, pitched well up. The leather flew along the grass, making a thin red line and rattling against the wooden walls of the pavilion. There was a little burst of hand-clapping, and the batsman waved his hand, still smiling and with reason happy. The yokel manipulating the scoring-board put the figure 50 opposite batsman number 3.
A little wizened man in spotless flannels strolled towards the Chief Constable. That was Cozens, hero of a hundred amateur centuries, a wizard with the bat and a man who had taken his toll off the best bowlers in England.
‘Rollison’s good,’ said Cozens, watching the half-century-maker turn a short bumping ball safely past square leg. ‘That cover drive of his—’
‘I like his late cut best,’ said Mannering. ‘So few people use it these days.’
‘He scores fast,’ said Cozens, ‘but he’s got a defence like a brick wall. I’d like to see him against the South Africans this year.’
‘D’you think he’s got any chance?’ asked Mannering.
‘All the chance in the world—if he’d play more first-class cricket. But I fancy it ties him down too much.’
‘Oh, does it?’ muttered the Chief Constable, suddenly thoughtful. He was still looking preoccupied when, during the luncheon interval, he intercepted Rollison.
‘Fine knock, Rolly,’ said Mannering. ‘It was good to watch.’
‘I’ve been missed twice,’ smiled Rollison. And then he saw the frown on his host’s face, and added: ‘Nothing disturbing the week, is there, Mannering?’
‘Lord, do I show it as much as that? I’m not sure, yet. Are you busy? In that—er—unofficial business of yours, I mean; I know you never do any work.’
‘Which is unkind, seeing how I’ve perspired to help your total,’ retorted the Toff. ‘No, I’m resting!’
‘Will a little problem interest you?’
‘Not if someone’s lost a wallet.’
‘This is serious. Look here, bring some sandwiches and a bottle of beer into my study, we’ll have a chat then. If you don’t mind,’ added Sir George, quick to realise that mere murder must not over-ride his hospitality as a host.
‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to like it,’ said the Toff.
He heard the story as he ate sandwiches and drank beer, which at all times except cricketing times he abominated, or claimed to. Mannering made it dramatic, in parts, but the Toff showed neither surprise nor concern. Nor did he ask whether the cyclist had been drunk, but: ‘Could it have been a hit-and-run accident?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Hmmm. I’d like a word with the cyclist, if it could be done without hurting the excellent Dawbury’s feelings.’
‘Oh, nonsense! Dawbury’ll do what I tell him. I’ll arrange it, Rollison. Very good of you. Hope it doesn’t spoil your game.’
‘Spoil it?’ smiled the Toff. ‘It won’t do that. You’ve asked for passing motorists, of course?’
‘Oh, naturally.’
Rollison wondered how far he could trespass without putting Mannering’s back up. ‘I wonder if any of our fellows passed about then? Between ten and eleven would be their time, wouldn’t it? The visiting team, I mean.’
Mannering stared.
‘Good Gad, and I thought I’d covered everything! Thanks, Rollison. I—hmm! Not a subject I like introducing, you know. Think it would be all right if I ask for anyone who saw anything unusual?’
Again Rollison was puzzled.
Mannering was a good C.C. and self-reliant. Now he was virtually deferring to the Toff ’s judgment, and that was not by any means typical.
‘I’d let ’em have the lot, I think; if they’d seen a body with the throat cut they’d have talked all right by now. Unless,’ he added with apparent casualness, ‘you think we’re harbouring a throat-cutter in our sylvan midst.’
‘God, no!’ Mannering sheered from the suggestion, and whatever had prompted him to defer to the Toff was not the possibility that someone at the Ridings knew more than he should about the body. ‘But I would like some action! I don’t want the Yard fiddling about, and once this gets into the Press they’ll be asking questions.’
‘Well, let’s get ours in first,’ said the Toff.
He finished his sandwiches, smiling to himself at the transparency of bluff in Sir George Mannering. Mannering did not want the Yard consulted officially, but needed quick action: a body that was not a body and a murder that was only a might-be made him feel that someone else’s judgment could be advisable – and there was the Toff, at hand.
The dining-room was a scene of some laughter, much talk, and many empty bottles. Not without regret the Toff regarded the stillloaded table and the many things he had missed. He began to feel a strong resentment against the man who had removed the body.
Mannering had a way with him. Two or three words had the attention of everyone present, and the blunt statement of facts caused a stir among some thirty men.
‘The thing is,’ said Mannering, ‘that we know most of you passed the spot, and if anything unusual was seen it might be a help.’
There was a short silence, a murmur of conversation in asides, and considerable owlish concentration. Cricket, thought the Toff regretfully, did not necessarily breed an acute intelligence. A wizard with a ball with the shine knocked off could be a positive wallflower in a drawing-room. In quick succession five gentlemen assured Mannering that they hadn’t seen a thing.
‘Let’s hear from those who did,’ suggested the Toff.
Two men volunteered that they had passed the quarry about half past ten, when an Austin 20 saloon had been pulled up at the side of the road.
‘Now I come to think of it,’ said Bill Holding, a big, jovial-looking man who could make the ball turn both ways, ‘there were a couple of fellows hauling a sack of something up. Turnips, I thought, or cabbages.’
‘What were they like?’ asked Rollison.
Holding rubbed his massive chin and concentrated.
‘Well, I passed ’em pretty fast, old boy. One bloke had a beard; at least I think he did.’
‘The other was a darkie,’ broke in Tim Carteret, who had driven down at the same time. ‘I was a few hundred yards behind Bill, and the couple had reached the top of the quarry. I saw the darkie’s face, I mean. I wouldn’t imagine it, would I?’
‘Seeing you’ll probably have to swear to it, I’d make sure,’ said Rollison dryly. ‘A negro, or just dark?’
‘Pure negro, I’d say,’ said Carteret. ‘Coal-black—you know the kind. Damn’ good fellows, some of them. I remember when the West Indians—’
‘Did you see the man with the beard?’ asked Rollison, quickly enough to make Carteret forget about the West Indies touring side.
‘Oh, yes. A y
oungish, yellow-looking cove, in spite of the fungus.’
‘Let’s call the game a draw and make it a murder-hunt,’ suggested a tall, wiry man who looked perpetually tired. ‘It’s damned hot already, and Rollison’s sure to make us sweat this afternoon.’
The Toff appropriated a tomato.
‘You leave murders to the police, Tommy,’ he said; ‘amateurs only bungle the job—ask Sir George. A word in your ear, Mannering …’
Five minutes later he was putting a call through to Scotland Yard, and Mannering was saying that he did not like it. But he was forced to admit that the Austin 20 could have passed through a dozen counties between 10.30 a.m. and 1.30 p.m., it was not a matter for the Sussex police exclusively, and since the Yard’s formal assistance had already been asked in this respect, there was little he could do about it.
Thus it was that Chief Inspector McNab heard of the mysterious affair in the quarry, and learned that the body had – presumably – been taken away by a negro and a man – perhaps yellow-skinned, with a beard – in an Austin car. Also that the Toff would be seeing him – McNab – some time, and meanwhile he hoped he was well.
Eleven weary fieldsmen, chasing the leather over the Ridings ground, wished that the Toff had taken the afternoon off. There was something in the peculiar affair of the morning which appeared to have sharpened his appetite for runs. He satisfied it by taking another hundred and seventeen off the perspiring visitors after lunch in something under seventy minutes, and then made a hash of an off-drive to give cover an easy catch.
‘It’s good to see you can make mistakes,’ Carteret said as he congratulated him. ‘Don’t get the wrong man on the missing body, Rollison!’
‘Want any help?’ called Holding.
‘Someone’s been talking,’ smiled Rollison.
He changed quickly, excused himself for dinner, and started for London soon after seven o’clock, thinking little about a drawn game. He wanted to find whether there was knowledge of a negro and a bearded man working together – a bearded man who, one of the members of the house-party had suggested, had looked Chinese. A combination which should be noticeable.
He did not intend to say too much to McNab, for he owed something to Mannering: but locating the negro and his companion was essential. A body with the throat cut, and then disappearing, had a touch of the bizarre that worried him. He felt rather than knew that this thing would go deep, unless it was stopped very quickly.
It was not stopped as quickly as he.
Five miles away from the Ridings a policeman came wobbling towards him on his cycle, with a hand outstretched.
‘Mr. Rollison, sir?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I just had a phone message, sir. Sir George Mannering wants you to call him, sir—there’s a police-box just down the road; here’s the key.’
He drove on thoughtfully.
Mannering was at the Ridings, and answered the call himself.
‘Who is … oh, Rollison, I’m glad I caught you. Will you go straight to the quarry—where the body was seen, you know it—at once? I’ll meet you there.’
‘Clues at the scene?’ demanded the Toff.
‘No,’ said Mannering, ‘not necessarily. The body’s back.’
Chapter Three
Puzzle For The Toff
The Toff replaced the receiver and pushed his hand through his dark hair. It was not his habit to admit a shock, but Mannering’s cryptic statement had contrived one. He stepped from the blue police-box almost into the arms of the perspiring constable, who hoped he had got through all right.
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘Good night, officer. I—oh, a moment. How long have you been on duty?’
‘Since nine this mornin’, sir.’
‘On this road all the time?’
‘On an’ off, sir, in a way of speaking. I goes round—’
‘Where were you about half past ten?’
‘Well, now, let me see.’ Taking the interrogation as permission to remove his helmet and wipe a beaded forehead, the constable concentrated and, after several mis-hits, came to the conclusion that he had been on the main road between 10.15 and 10.45. Not exactly watching for bad drivers, he explained, but just keeping an eye open. Well, he couldn’t remember every car that passed, but he did remember a black man driving a small one – too big for it, he seemed.
‘Nice work,’ said Rollison, ‘that might prove very useful. I’ll see that Sir George hears that you’ve got a memory.’ He slipped his hand into his pocket. ‘Was the car entirely on its own?’
The constable looked as if Rollison was asking whether it had had pups.
‘Yessir—oh, you mean a trailer; no, sir, no trailer.’
‘Ah,’ said the Toff, and repressed his impatience. ‘Was there another car in sight when it passed?’
‘Now you’re askin’,’ said the constable with reproach. ‘Maybe there was, an’ maybe there wasn’t. What kind of car would you be thinkin’ of?’
‘Largish. Like a big Austin. The driver might have been—’
‘Got it!’ cried the constable in triumph. ‘Funny little man with a beard. I remember because he looked a furriner and there was two furriners going close to each other, if you see what I mean. I wonder why I never remembered before? I—’
‘Don’t forget it now,’ urged the Toff.
He rewarded the man with a half-crown and revved the engine to drown – quite accidentally – a startled thanks. The constable was still wondering if it was a tip or attempted bribery when Rollison reached the quarry, to find Mannering’s car, with a small Morris nearby, already there. Three men were bending over something which they hid by their posterior bulk. Two uniformed men were standing nearby, and as Rollison slowed down, a police car with men carrying flashlight and finger-print apparatus arrived.
He approached the trio.
The ragged clothes of a man who was in a huddled heap beyond them suggested a tramp, thought Rollison, who went so quietly that he was nearly on top of the trio before Mannering heard him. The C.C. turned sharply, and then his face cleared.
‘Oh, Rolly. I’m glad you’ve made it. Well—here it is.’
He motioned downwards, and the Toff regarded the huddled body, and the terrified face, of the dead man.
There was no doubting the manner of his death.
The phrase ‘from ear to ear’ was amply justified, but the crescent round his throat was no longer crimson, but a dirty brown, where the blood had coagulated. His face was unshaven, and twisted in sheer horror – here was a man who had looked death in the face and had not liked it. Yet he could not have lived a second after the first incision, and only a terribly fierce blow could have inflicted such a wound.
‘Well,’ said Mannering.
‘Not much to “well” about,’ said the Toff. ‘He knew it was coming, of course.’
‘Ye-es,’ said Mannering, while the Toff looked closer, without appearing to do so, at a patch of blood on the man’s ragged trousers.
It was an odd fact, he noticed, that a piece of sacking lay across the body, covering the torso and the hands and arms, but revealing the legs and shoulder. He wondered why, but there were moments when he preferred not to ask questions. He did so then, as he straightened up and looked at a worried Mannering, a slightly outof-his-depth-and-showing-it inspector, and the red and almost rheumy face of the doctor – or whom he presumed was a doctor. A big man, apparently in rude health, with rather prominent blue eyes which held an expression almost of insolence. Not a man to like, decided the Toff, while his experience of police-surgeons was that they were either likeable or tolerable. He did not feel tolerant towards Dr. Lowerby, which was odd, for he was a man tolerant in most things.
More: he had seen the man before, but he could not recall where.
Mannering made a patent effort to return to normal.
‘Nothing we can do, except get it photographed, I suppose. You’ll carry on, Dawbury. Oh—Rolly, this is Inspector Dawbury, wh
o is looking after the case for us, and this is Dr. Lowerby.’
Rollison made the necessary acknowledgments, rather taking to the bluff features and the almost naive puzzlement of Dawbury. When his own name was mentioned he saw Lowerby’s eyes widen like those of a man who had received an unpleasant shock. The only people who received shocks upon hearing the Toff ’s name were those who specialised in doing what they should not.
‘Oh, well,’ said Lowerby, his voice with a hectoring note, ‘nothing more I can do for you, Sir George. Glad to assist any way I can, of course; call on me if necessary.’ He nodded bluffly to the trio and walked off. Ascending the side of the quarry by means of a flight of natural steps, he stumbled.
‘A pity Dr. Manson’s away,’ said Dawbury, half to himself and half to Mannering.
‘Lowerby isn’t your regular man?’ asked Rollison.
‘No, sir.’ Dawbury either did not, or could not, try to conceal a dislike of Lowerby. ‘He’s acting locum, sir, while the P.S. is away. Ah, but this is a nasty business—not much for a doctor to do, when all’s said and done. There’s one thing you haven’t seen, I think.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Mannering looked apologetic. ‘Move the sack, Dawbury.’
By intent or not, Dawbury whisked the sacking away from the dead man’s body to reveal the hands folded at his chest. The Toff, experienced in so many ways of violence, felt a momentary flood of nausea. For the hands were no more than mangled stumps, red and raw as though they had been caught up in a machine. He did not look away, but overcame his repugnance, and then glanced again at the blood on the trousers.
‘Distinctly odd,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ – from Mannering.
‘I think I know what you mean, sir.’ Dawbury glanced at Rollison with a newer respect. ‘The damage to the hands was done after the first injury—it looks like that, doesn’t it?’
‘Very much so,’ said the Toff. ‘The trousers puzzled me—more wet than dried, the blood there, and it didn’t seem to come from the neck. Why kill a man, dispose of his body, take it away again and mangle his hands?’
‘Good God!’ gasped Mannering.
