Ashley looked at his watch. ‘It’s gone half five. Let’s start, shall we? At least this’ll tell us if one of our ideas is credible.’
‘OK.’ Jack started the car. ‘Hold on to your hat. This is going to be quick.’
Once out on the Chavermere Road, Jack opened up the throttle and the Spyker leapt forward, leaving a comet trail of dust behind. Within minutes they slowed to a crawl to negotiate their way through the vexingly quaint streets of Chavermere and over the narrow packhorse bridge on to the thankfully straight length of the Haverly Road. Jack put his foot down again. The needle flickered and settled to around fifty.
‘This is about as fast as I can go,’ shouted Jack over the sound of the engine. ‘Any more and we’d be in the ditch.’
They gunned up a hill and twisted away to the right, flashing past a solitary cart trudging its way home. They caught a glimpse of the carter’s white, startled face as he receded into the distance. Jack geared down as the road turned and Ashley felt the car lift slightly before Jack increased the speed at the sight of a long straight stretch before him. The sun was behind them, throwing long shadows forward as they raced between fields and ditches and lines of oaks and elms.
They were on the road to Lower Haverly when, far in the distance, a cowman stepped into the road and waved them down. Jack braked, skidded, and braked again, running the Spyker to a halt. The cowman stood in the middle of the road, looking placidly at the approaching car. He gave a sign to a boy standing by a field gate, behind which stood a herd of cows. The boy opened the gate, fastened it with a loop of rope to a stone post standing by the side of the grass verge and, stick in hand, slowly ushered the mooing cattle across the road. The cowman leaned against the gate, drew his pipe out of his pocket and lit it with great deliberation. In the evening light, with the banked-up clouds streaked pink against the clear blue of the sky, it was a scene which could have been painted by Constable. It was timeless, rustic and unbelievably irritating.
‘Look at the blasted man,’ said Jack in mounting exasperation as the cowman, wreathed in blue-grey fumes, watched his charges idle into the opposite field. ‘He could be posing for a still life.’
Ashley raised himself up from his seat. ‘Hey, you there! Do you always move the herd at this time?’
The cowman looked up, thought for a few moments, and sucked on his pipe before replying. ‘Yes, zur. Evening milking.’
‘Do you remember stopping a big car, a Rolls-Royce, the night before last?’
The cowman plunged into deep thought. ‘Yes, zur,’ he said eventually. ‘Very impatient, he was. Why, do you know him?’
‘If it was a bloke with a beard, yes,’ said Jack.
‘That’s the one.’ The cowman smiled slowly. ‘It’ll learn him to hurry. He had to stop so sharp he broke his lamp, he did, on that post,’ he said, pointing. ‘He asked me to hurry my cows, but you can’t hurry cows.’ As if to add point to his words, he turned to watch the dawdling cattle amble through the gate.
Jack, itching to get on, turned to Ashley in exasperation. ‘Honestly, if it was Vaughan, I’m surprised he didn’t murder this chap while he was about it. This is knocking minutes off our time.’
‘And off the Rolls-Royce’s,’ Ashley reminded him. ‘At least we know PC Marsh’s Rolls came along here. Get ready, Jack, they’re nearly through now.’ The cowman slapped a dilatory cow on the behind, closed the gate with painstaking care and sauntered across the road.
With a sigh of relief, Jack let in the clutch, and concentrated on getting the Spyker back up to speed. The long stroke of the engine growled, picked up the pace, and for a few brief, exhilarating minutes, the needle flickered around sixty. Then the road curved round the lee of a valley and started to snake between rolling downs. Jack had no choice but to drop down to forty and, as he crested a hill and saw the lights of Lower Haverly, throttled back to the sedate, if legal, limit of twenty.
They chugged through the narrow streets of the village. Ashley waved a friendly hand as he passed a police constable, toiling out of the village on his bicycle. ‘Quarter to six,’ he called out, glancing at his watch. ‘We’re keeping pace with the Rolls.’
For the next few miles the road twisted between a necklace of villages, strung out along the road. To Jack, feverish to get on, it seemed as if he’d scarcely nursed the Spyker into fourth before he had to gear down again. They climbed the gradient to Upper Haverly and coasted down to Hampwood. All the villages, Holt Common, Brabant Marsh, Gifford St Mary, Gifford St Stephen, Gifford St Luke and Shapbridge, had to be negotiated at the legal limit and, in between, there were farms with straying chickens and plodding, patient horses. Even if it were possible, Vaughan couldn’t have risked drawing attention to himself by racing through, even though his life depended on it. Which might literally be true, thought Jack, with an odd sensation. It was impossible to do much more than thirty, and that only in short straights. From the crest of a hill they caught a distant glimpse of the river Breeden, gleaming in the last light of the sun, then it was swallowed up as they plunged between high hedges once more.
In Gifford St Luke he turned on the lights and concentrated solely on driving in the gathering dusk on the unfamiliar road. He let her go after Shapbridge, encouraged by the comparative straightness of the road, took a bend too fast, slid, lurched and rolled as they clipped the ditch. Any more like that and they’d burst a tyre. Sobered, he throttled down to around thirty and it was with a real feeling of relief he saw the dark bulk of Hammerholt on top of the next hill. He drew in to the entrance to the Hammer Valley and switched off the engine. ‘How long did it take us?’ he asked, his voice loud in the sudden silence.
Ashley slowly shook his head, looking at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Haldean. It took forty-one minutes and I can’t believe he could have driven any faster than you. You gave that everything you had, didn’t you? But if you couldn’t do it, Vaughan can’t possibly have done it. We have to allow at least ten minutes for him to get the car into the glade and arrange the crash. Even if he had a confederate to rig up the accident, so all he did was drive straight back home, he couldn’t have managed it. It just isn’t physically possible.’
Jack rested his head on the steering wheel. ‘It’s one to chalk up to experience, I suppose. So Vaughan’s innocent.’ He rubbed his face with tired hands and smiled ruefully. ‘So much for Isabelle’s insights. And my theorizing, come to that,’ he added.
‘It’s well worth knowing,’ said Ashley. ‘To rule anyone out is invaluable, especially with this mysterious pair in their car knocking about and with Mr Madison having disappeared. We have to clear the wood to see the trees, so to speak.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jack. ‘Do you want to go back to the police station?’
‘If you don’t mind. You’re coming to look at the card case, aren’t you? That might tell us something. But,’ he added with a smile, ‘stick to the speed limit, there’s a good chap,’
Jack grinned and started the car. ‘Scout’s honour. D’you know,’ he added as he turned out on to the main road once more, ‘I think the solution might lie in London. I wonder if we’ll turn anything up in the Savoy tomorrow?’
‘I wonder,’ said Ashley, ‘what we’ll find in that card case.’
The tarnished metal of the card case sat on the table. It had been a slim, handsome, silver thing with a now illegible name engraved on the front. ‘Here goes,’ said Ashley and picked up the metal cutters. Jack held the case while Ashley snipped through the end.
Jack turned the case in his hand, picked up a pair of tweezers and delicately probed inside. With a grunt he drew out a set of cards. They were browned with the heat but still perfectly legible: Adler Z.Y. Madison: Fine Art and Antiquities, 1168, Fourteenth Avenue, Manhattan.
‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘That puts a different complexion on things.’
Ashley looked at the cards on the table as if he’d been thunderstruck. ‘Damn me,’ he breathed. ‘Madison! It was Madison who was killed, not
Craig.’ He looked at Jack sharply. ‘You suspected this, didn’t you?’ Ashley sat down and rested his chin in his hand. ‘I thought it was strange that Madison should have disappeared. But look, Haldean, if Madison’s dead, then presumably Craig killed him.’
‘Well, we know Vaughan can’t have done it. I’ve just taken about five quids’ worth of rubber off my tyres proving he can’t have done it. Besides that, Madison and Vaughan were chattering to Brough after PC Marsh saw the bearded bloke in the Rolls-Royce.’
‘But that means no-one could have done it,’ said Ashley in frustration. ‘Madison can’t be curled up dead under a rug in the back of the Rolls and be seen alive and well three-quarters of an hour later. It’s impossible.’
Jack sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said after a while. ‘Put like that it is impossible, therefore we’re putting it wrongly. It’s like watching someone pull rabbits out of a hat, isn’t it? You know they can’t be in there but they are. Pick a card, any card . . .’ He relapsed into silence once more. ‘Let’s say Craig swiped the Rolls,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Let’s also say that Vaughan reacted exactly as Brough told us he did. Now we know Vaughan can’t have got up to any rannygazoo after seven o’clock. Not only did the servants see him, he was driven to the Stuckleys’ by his chauffeur. So that’s him out of it.’ He looked up at Ashley and grinned. ‘You’re watching me awfully intently, old thing.’
‘I’m waiting for the rabbit,’ said Ashley. ‘I’m sure you’ve got one tucked up your sleeve.’
‘And jolly uncomfortable it is, too. However, although we know Vaughan’s OK, we can’t say Madison’s OK, because no-one saw him after he left for the station, and he didn’t catch the train.’
‘If he ended up dead, he’s certainly not OK, poor beggar.’
‘No . . . Where was I? Durant Craig, in a towering rage, has just pinched a highly expensive Rolls-Royce. So he drives off in the direction of the Hammer Valley, scaring cows and passing the time of day with Constable Marsh on the way. Now, I don’t know if it was the sight of PC Marsh or what, but he could have regretted acting so hastily. On the other hand, knowing how filthy his temper is, he might have wanted to continue the quarrel. Either one is possible. So he drives back to Stour Creek and, on the way, sees Madison walking to the station, stops the car and asks Madison to get in. Then things turned nasty.’
‘You mean Craig murdered Madison in the car?’ asked Ashley.
‘That’s right. He could have easily hit him with a wrench or something.’
‘He could have done,’ said Ashley thoughtfully. ‘There was probably some sort of tool to hand by the driver’s door and if there were bloodstains or marks of violence in the car, that’d give him a pressing reason to get rid of the Rolls. Yes, I quite like that idea. But look, what about the rug or whatever it was PC Marsh saw in the back of the car? It sounded as if it was covering something up.’
Jack shrugged. ‘It’s hard to know what he saw, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ashley. ‘Leaving that aside, where does this couple fit in?’
‘Well, much as we thought, only they’re Craig’s friends and help-meets, so to speak. He phones them up, arranges to meet them near Vaughan’s and together they drive off to the Hammer Valley, with Craig in the Rolls and the help-meets in the diamond-tyred car. Then Craig sets fire to the Rolls and makes himself scarce in the other car.’
Ashley digested this in silence. ‘That’s fairly convincing, as a matter of fact,’ he said eventually. ‘It gets rid of the tight timetable and it explains what everyone’s doing and why.’ He stood up and stretched his shoulders. ‘With any luck we should know more when we’ve had a look round Madison’s room. I asked Inspector Rackham to cable New York to see what they could dig up about him.’ He glanced at the business cards on the table, their condition bearing mute witness to the fury of the fire. ‘I didn’t realize I was enquiring about a murder victim, though.’
SEVEN
It was nearly twelve o’clock the following day when Jack and Ashley got to the Savoy, which was, as Jack hopefully pointed out, just in time for lunch.
Ashley, who had entered the hotel in a slightly defensive frame of mind, wasn’t thinking of lunch. He didn’t eat in places like this. The Savoy: images from some of the more lurid sections of the Sunday newspapers jostled in his mind. Duchesses laden with diamonds, Indian Maharajas, American millionaires, licentious clubmen and Mata Hari-type temptresses, all summed up by that satisfying phrase, The Idle Rich.
He envied Haldean’s self-assurance as they walked into the lobby together. Mind you, he thought grumpily, Haldean was the sort of person who would feel at ease here. He was used to this sort of thing. After all, he lived in London and he looked the part, damn it, so easily elegant in a dove-grey suit, a violet in his buttonhole and a dark blue tie, with his coat casually unbuttoned. Ashley’s mackintosh was both buttoned and belted. His wife had wanted him to buy a new coat last autumn. He wished he hadn’t insisted that there was plenty of wear left in it and it would do for another year.
The first person he saw was Inspector William Rackham, deep in conversation with a worried-looking man in pinstripe trousers and a frock coat. Ashley had telephoned Rackham that morning to bring him up to date. He was pleased Rackham was there, but, damn it, even Rackham, although as big, as untidy, and as ginger-haired as Ashley remembered, was perfectly at ease in these luxuriant surroundings.
Rackham turned as they entered the lobby and greeted them both with a broad smile. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said in his rich Northern accent. ‘Thanks for your call this morning,’ he added to Ashley. He indicated his companion. ‘This is Mr Bonner, the assistant manager, who’s very kindly offered to help us.’ He turned to the manager. ‘You’ll excuse us, sir, if we have a brief word in private.’
Rackham drew Ashley and Jack off to one side, lowering his voice confidentially. ‘There’s something a bit rum about your Mr Madison. I got a reply to my cable to New York. Mr Madison doesn’t exist.’
‘What?’ Ashley and Jack stared at each other. ‘But he must exist,’ said Ashley. ‘You gave them his address, didn’t you?’
Rackham nodded. ‘1168, Fourteenth Avenue, Manhattan. Yes, I gave them that, but it’s not an art dealer’s, it’s a large, cheap hotel called Beletsky’s. They’ve got no record that anyone called Madison ever stayed there.’
‘But he must have stayed there,’ said Ashley, his voice rising. ‘Vaughan wrote to him there. He sent a cable, he was so anxious to meet the man. Damn it, the British Museum recommended Vaughan to Madison. They must have written to Madison too.’
Rackham shrugged. ‘If he was under a false name, he could have arranged to collect any post or wires that came in the name of Madison.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Jack. ‘He could have bribed the desk clerk or simply said he was doing a favour for a friend.’
Ashley let out his breath in a long whistle. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Look, before I completely go off my head, tell me this hotel knows something about this Madison bloke. He stayed here, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rackham. ‘He stayed here all right.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Ashley glanced to where the assistant manager stood patiently waiting. ‘Does he know there’s anything fishy about Madison?’
‘Not a thing. There’s something else, though. You know you were looking for a mysterious couple? Well, a woman came here, first thing on Sunday morning, asking for Mr Madison.’ He tapped his breast pocket where he kept his notebook. ‘I’ve got a description of her. She’s in her twenties, fair-haired and quite a looker, apparently.’
Jack’s brow wrinkled. ‘But if she’s our woman, so to speak, she must know Madison’s bought it. Why’s she asking to see him?’
‘I think it was a ruse to get into his room. She didn’t seem surprised that Madison wasn’t here, but immediately asked if she could go up to his room to wait for him.
She was so quick off the mark, it put the clerk on his guard. The clerk refused, as they had no instructions from Madison to admit anyone. He asked her if she wanted to wait, but she said she didn’t have the time and pushed off. And – what d’you think of this? – there was a bearded man waiting for her in the entrance to the lobby. They left the hotel together.’
Jack gave a slow smile of satisfaction. ‘Wow. And again, wow. I don’t want to leap to conclusions, but that sounds like Craig to me.’
‘But if it was Craig,’ said Ashley, ‘he took a dickens of a risk coming here.’
Rackham shook his head. ‘As I said, it was first thing on Sunday morning, and that’s only hours after the fire. No one was looking for him then and it was the woman who spoke to the clerk. It was only pure chance that the clerk saw the bearded chap. I think there must be something worth finding in Madison’s room, though.’
‘I think you’re absolutely right,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’
They walked to where Mr Bonner was standing beside the registration desk.
‘I believe you’re looking for a guest of ours, Superintendent,’ said Mr Bonner. His voice had a pleasant Welsh lilt. ‘The Inspector tells me Mr Madison may have met with an accident.’
Yes, thought Jack, to Mr Bonner it was an accident. He didn’t know if Bonner had read the account of the Tragic Fatality in East Sussex that had appeared in that morning’s newspapers, but even if he had, the victim was Durant Craig, the Noted Explorer, not an obscure American art dealer. The real identity of the dead man wouldn’t be published until tomorrow and even then Jack doubted if it would receive more than a few lines. Accidents, unlike murder, weren’t news.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ashley. ‘Can we see the register?’
‘Of course.’ Bonner opened the book on the desk. ‘As you can see,’ he said, turning to the relevant page, ‘Mr Madison arrived on the twenty-sixth. Last Friday.’
A Hundred Thousand Dragons Page 9
