by John Creasey
Brendon stared.
‘You really think that’s the swine’s game?’
‘I can’t think of anything more likely,’ said Rollison, and although he had pitched the story on the spur of the moment, to try to get Brendon’s mind off the possibility of tragedy, he almost considered it possible. ‘How well do you know James Sanderson?’
‘Oh, as well as anyone, I suppose. He’s not easy to know, although he’s as straight as they’re made. A lot of men who came in from the beyond—I mean who made a pile in gold or sheep before reaching the cities—are hard to get at, you know. Sylvia was absolutely devoted to him, and that’s a good enough answer for me. Jim’s all right.’
It was not only faith, but it was faith with some reason, Rollison admitted.
He was feeling shaken, but on the other hand the escape had made him realise that his prophecy of likely action had been fulfilled, and that Hi Ling – obviously it was the kind of scheme to occur to the Chinaman – would not be able to work so neat a plot again. Moreover, it suggested that the motive for his quick death was urgent – and when men were working hurriedly they were liable to do strange things, including wrong ones.
That urged him to act quickly.
And it urged him to find out all he could of Sanderson.
If his presumptions were right – and so far he had no reason for believing them wrong – Sanderson and the girl had been kidnapped by Chamberlain, through Dougall and Hi Ling. Chamberlain was directing the affair, and almost certainly his was the interest in Sanderson.
It seemed an even bet that Sanderson was dead, and the body had been mutilated to prevent definite identification. And the Toff kept his mind on one unalterable fact: the face had not been touched, but the fingers had. Finger-prints were more reliable than facial characteristics.
Everything, of course, depended on the presumption that Sanderson was the murdered man, and while there was nothing else to work on, Rollison proposed to Garry the theory as far as he could. And Brendon, worried about Sylvia and jolted by the affair of the car, was more likely to give things away that night than at any Lime previously. Rollison had imagined that his ‘Sylvia was devoted to him, and that’s good enough for me’ had been more dogmatic than wholly genuine.
If so, why?
‘Is he well known in Sydney?’ he asked.
‘Eh—oh, Jim. Yes, you’d say he was well known. Not that he’d many friends, and he didn’t conduct much business personally. But—what are you getting at, Rollison?’
‘You’ll see. Was he thinking of retiring?’
‘Oh yes—in fact he had retired from active business, although he was going to keep a controlling interest.’
‘Did you expect his retirement?’
Brendon looked thoughtful.
‘Well—“expect’s” rather a strong word. It was a bit of a surprise really, but then there’s no reason at all why he shouldn’t retire.’
‘Nor why he should?’
‘Well, no.’ Brendon looked uncomfortable. ‘Actually most of his branches were run by managers, and he always avoided the limelight. He worked hard, but always behind the scenes—I mean, he didn’t spend all his time in an office or anything like that.’
‘Any peculiarities about him?’
‘Just what do you mean?’
Rollison shrugged.
‘Let’s be wholly frank, Brendon. From what you’ve said of Sanderson, you don’t know him well. The impression is that he’s a kind of power behind the scenes—his influence is always there but he doesn’t obtrude himself. Right?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Brendon uncomfortably. ‘He—he would never have his photograph taken, for instance.’
‘Wouldn’t he, by Jove! The reason?’
‘I’m blessed if I know.’
‘If he’d met a party of Australians at the New Piccadilly,’ went on the Toff, ‘would they have recognised him? Is he a reasonably well-known figure, or does he keep in the background socially as well as commercially?’
‘He does rather, yes.’
‘I see.’ Rollison was sitting back in an easy chair, one leg drooping over the side. His eyes were narrowed and he was smoking a cigarette with apparent enjoyment. ‘On the whole, then, you’d say he was scared and hiding from something?’
Brendon started up.
‘Of all the rotten things to say! Of course he wasn’t—’
‘This is a murderous business,’ said Rollison quietly. ‘I tell you that the picture you’ve drawn of James Sanderson is of a man who was anxious not to be known, and a man anxious not to be known usually has some reason. Right?’
Brendon glowered.
‘It’s all very well, but—’
‘Oh, to hell with you!’ snapped the Toff. ‘I’m wasting my time on the affair. I can approach Chamberlain from an angle that will be easier for me, and if you’re going to be obstinate I can’t help you. You’re not talking to the police, you know.’
‘Too right I’m not! I—’ Brendon stepped to the window and stared out into the lighted street. Rollison lit another cigarette, and it was five minutes before the youngster turned. His expression was set, but not with hostility.
‘Sorry, Rollison. This business has got me. I’m worried to hell about Sylvia. But Jim Sanderson was a worried man, I think. I always had that impression, and before he left Sydney Sylvia told me she thought he was. I’ve known them both for years—I’m in the timber business, too, although not in such a big way as Sanderson—and I’ve always thought Jim had a worry at the back of his mind.’
‘Did any one thing make you think so?’
‘Well, he always hated meeting new people. Wouldn’t go to dances and balls, and that kind of thing. When he went to a theatre he booked through an agency, and—well, he always seemed anxious to keep alone. But I’m as sure as I’m standing here that he’s straight,’ Brendon added slowly.
‘There’s no reason to think differently,’ said Rollison. ‘I’m glad to have the yarn, Brendon; it might help. Well, try to get some sleep now. The morning’ll give us a fresh start.’
Brendon went into the spare room, leaving the Toff to ponder. The sum total of it was that James Sanderson had some good reason for being afraid.
Afraid of whom?
In the Toff ’s mind was the name Arnold Chamberlain.
And, of course, the knowledge that Sanderson had not allowed himself to be photographed. Had the murderers known that? Was that why the face had been untouched but the hands ill-treated?
Chapter Twelve
Interview With Chamberlain
Sylvia had no idea how long she had been there.
It was the same room, and she had seen only one man, an old, wizened creature who spoke no word to her, but brought her food and drink three times each day, collecting the empty plates and crockery after an hour.
The small window allowed little light, but she was able to read – when she could bring her mind to do so – for there was ample electric light, and a small book-case had been provided containing a variety of reading. Several magazines, all old, were also in the room.
The night was the worst time.
Twice she had kept the light burning all the time, but on the third night – without realising it was the third – she had managed to sleep a little in the dark, only to awaken screaming, and with a picture of the moment when her father had been killed vivid in her mind, a nightmare that left her cold and shivering as if with ague.
No one to talk to.
No knowledge of what was going to happen.
No knowing why her father had been murdered.
Only the knowledge that he had always been afraid of something unknown, and that latterly he had seemed to grow more and more apprehensive. She believed that one of the reasons for the trip to England had been to escape the unknown.
What could it be?
Questions without answer. Dreadful memories. No one to talk to, nowhere to move but the small confines of the tiny room. Ther
e were moments when she thought she was going mad.
Into the telephone at the Ridings Sir George Mannering spoke with more vigour than he was wont to use. His cricket week, for the first time in his life, was proving a failure. One match scratched – one nearly lost – and now two without Rollison. And there was the unsolved murder of the tramp to put the final touch to his ill-temper.
Sir George did not consciously think like that.
Consciously his first anxiety was the apprehension of the murderer; and he let Dawbury realise it, as well as the Inspector who came down from Scotland Yard, but so far had failed to contribute anything useful to the investigation. From the first Mannering had believed that bringing in the Yard was unnecessary. Now he was sure; and that was Rollison’s fault.
He wished Rollison to perdition.
He did not say so in so many words, but Rollison gathered their drift as he heard what Mannering did say. Half-way through he interrupted the Chief Constable, and even chuckled.
‘It isn’t really as bad as that, old man. I didn’t commit your murder!’
‘You’re murdering my cricket week,’ growled Sir George.
‘You’re losing your sense of proportion,’ said the Toff. ‘But it remains a fact that I can’t come down solely to play cricket. Your murder has wider ramifications than you wot of, George.’
‘Eh?’
‘That’s all I can tell you,’ said the Toff, ‘but I knew you’d be delighted to know that I’m not idle. Things are happening. I rang to make sure that you’ve nothing new your end.’
‘We haven’t a thing,’ confessed Mannering, and then slyly: ‘Except more confirmation that the dead man was a tramp. Two or three villagers reckon that they recognise him as a man who was walking through a village near here last week.’
‘I hope they’re prepared to read their Bible before they swear on it,’ said Rollison. ‘Good luck for today’s match.’
‘A lot you care,’ retorted Mannering.
He wanted to ask several questions, but Rollison had rung down before the opportunity presented itself. Mannering turned round. Entering the room was his butler.
‘Yes, Adams?’
‘There’s a Mr. Meer to see you, sir.’ Adams contrived to say “Mr. Meer” in a way that conveyed Meer’s association with commerce. An antique dealer was no higher in Adams’s estimation than a butcher or grocer, and a gentle, white-haired, benevolent antique dealer remained just a shopkeeper.
‘Meer, Meer? Oh yes, the man from Hersham. What does he want?’
‘He refused to say, sir.’
‘Oh. All right, I’ll see him.’
Mannering, who despite his activities with the Surrey Constabulary contrived to interest himself in most of the local charitable organizations, knew Augustus Meer as a generous contributor to many of them. A shy, retiring man, and one who gave the impression of good breeding.
Mr. Meer entered, inclined his head and offered his hand. Mannering shook it, and indicated a chair.
‘Sit down, Mr. Meer. Will you smoke?’
‘Thank you, no. I indulge rarely—very rarely.’ Meer’s expression was not unlike it had been on the occasions when he had approached Simonson of the National Bank for an extension of his overdraft. Mannering was afraid that a request for some kind of assistance was coming, and unconsciously stiffened his attitude.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m a little vague,’ smiled Mr. Meer, as if that was so rare a thing that it puzzled him. ‘I’m by no means sure that I should come to you, Sir George, but—it’s most worrying, most worrying indeed.’
‘If you’ll tell me what it is I may be able to help,’ said Mannering.
‘Of course, of course. I—perhaps I should have gone to the police-station, but, frankly, Sir George, I much prefer to deal with—er—with you than your excellent Inspector. I have been most distressed by the death of that poor, poor fellow—the tramp, Sir George.’
‘Yes, most distressing, but—’
‘I think—I think I ought to tell you,’ said Mr. Meer, ‘that I took one of my rare, very rare walks on the morning of the murder. I am rather a cricketer, you know—in my humble armchair fashion.’ Sir George warmed to the man. ‘I walked out to see the first match here—a wonderful innings by Mr. Rollison; I—’
For perhaps the first time in his life Mannering was less interested in cricket than in another subject. The possibility that, in his quiet, sleepy fashion, Meer had seen something that might be of service made him speak with more abruptness than was his wont.
‘Yes, yes; but what did you see, Mr. Meer?’
The weak eyes behind the strong glasses blinked.
‘I hope, I do hope I am not saying something to injure an innocent person, Sir George, but in the field—the field where the—er—body was found—I saw a man, an unusual man for this part of England. I—’ Mr. Meer leaned forward, one hand lifted as if to prepare the other for the sensation – ‘A full-blooded negro, Sir George!’
Mannering sat back quickly in his chair and did not even try to hide his disappointment.
‘Oh yes, we’ve heard about him. You didn’t see a Chinaman too, did you?’
‘A—what? I beg your pardon, but—’
‘Sorry,’ rumbled Sir George. ‘It seems that a negro and a Chinaman are connected with this business, Mr. Meer, but I’m afraid we haven’t traced them yet, nor have we made much progress. I was hoping that you would mention something fresh.’
Mr. Meer looked his distress.
‘I am so sorry, so very sorry, to have raised your hopes unwittingly. I have thought this matter over so much since the unhappy news reached me, and I felt bound—’ Meer stood up, taking his glasses off for a moment and replacing them, to stare mildly at the Chief Constable – ‘I felt bound to report it, although I must confess that I feel glad that, even indirectly, I have not brought information that might lead a man to the gallows.’
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
‘Whoever killed the tramp deserves hanging, Mr. Meer. Hmm. Very good of you to come along.’
‘Oh, not at all, not at all. I’m going to watch the game for a few hours; such a delightful spot for cricket. I have always admired your pitch, and the setting—your efforts for the great game have such a beneficial effect on the surrounding neighbourhood, Sir George.’
Mannering thawed.
‘Glad you like it,’ he smiled. ‘I am proud of the pitch; there’s not a finer one in the country in its purely natural state. And a lot of runs have been knocked up here.’
‘Indeed yes. I like to watch from the copse of oaks,’ said Meer, revealing the enthusiasm only a cricketer shows, ‘where I can follow the flight of the ball so well. I must say that Mr. Rollison’s innings on Monday was a delight, a positive delight. Dare I hope he is playing today?’
I’m afraid not,’ said Mannering. ‘He’s busy in London, I think.’
‘Dear me! So unfortunate when the claims of business prevent one from following one’s heart’s desire.’
‘Hardly business,’ chuckled Mannering. ‘Mr. Rollison is well known in another sphere, although you would hardly know that. He is a clever criminologist, Mr. Meer.’
‘A—criminologist? Mr. Rollison! You astound me—astound me!’ exclaimed Meer. ‘Of all the unexpected things, I—but then, you are what one might also term a criminologist,’ he added, ‘and also a very useful cricketer. Obviously the two occupations can run side by side.’ He smiled in gentle congratulation. ‘Well, Sir George, I appreciate the kindliness with which you have listened to my somewhat belated story. I hope, I do hope, I shall not have to give evidence, but if duty demands it of me—’
‘I’ll see that it’s avoided, if possible,’ said Mannering heartily, knowing Meer would make a bad witness. A chiming of a hall clock told him that he would soon have to change into flannels, and he wanted to be rid of the dealer.
Meer wandered slowly towards the cricket field.
A handf
ul of the older folk from nearby villages had already gathered beneath the spreading branches of the oaks which made up Meer’s favourite corner. Several people from Hersham had also arrived, and many a cap was doffed as Mr. Meer passed.
The visitors batted, and their batting lacked enterprise – so much so that just before lunch Mr. Meer stood up from his seat and walked slowly towards the gates leading to the Hersham road.
He was half-way to the town when a car pulled up alongside him. Glancing up in surprise, Meer saw the heavy, reddened features of Dr. Lowerby.
‘Why, Doctor, good morning—’
‘This is more like,’ said Lowerby heartily. ‘Better than staying in bed all day. Care for a lift?’
‘That is most kind of you, thank you.’ Meer stepped into the car, and was soon discussing antiques. He had had few new pieces in since Lowerby had bought the Chippendale cabinet, but a small Sheraton table might be of interest to the doctor. Mr. Meer waxed enthusiastic about the Sheraton table, and Lowerby wondered whether it would be a good piece for buying and selling at a profit to Chamberlain.
He examined it, just inside the dusty, darkened interior of the shop, and asked the price.
‘Well—it’s so difficult to assess values,’ said Meer. ‘I paid—let me see—well, supposing we say thirty-five pounds, Doctor? I can’t guarantee its genuineness, but if I have made a mistake I shall be only too glad to buy it back from you at the same figure.’
Lowerby pursed his lips.
‘Thirty-five—well, it’s higher than I wanted at the moment. I might manage thirty—’
‘I can hardly refuse to meet you,’ said Meer. ‘Thirty pounds it is, Doctor. Are you going straight home, or—’
‘Yes, I’ll take it with me,’ said Lowerby.
He put it in the back of his Morris, chattered for a few minutes to Meer, the while he decided to try a three-figure price on Chamberlain. Lowerby, who was receiving regular supplies of drugs, was also finding life very satisfactory; and it amazed him now that he should ever have been so frightened of Chamberlain, particularly when the man continually bought ‘antiques’ from him at prices so far above their value.
