He paused and took a pull at his tankard, while the others waited.
“Yes, Captain Drummond,” he repeated, “we succeeded—so far as the reporters are concerned—which, believe me, is no mean feat. But we have not succeeded entirely. Some unauthorized person knew of this conference four days ago.”
“At any rate, he seems to have kept the information to himself,” remarked Drummond. “Incidentally, how did you find out that somebody knew?”
“I’m coming to that,” continued Andrews. “Four days ago, when I went to my office in the morning, I was as certain as a man could be that everything was all right. The only people who knew about the weekend were Lord Surrey himself, the three statesmen and their confidential secretaries—Mr. Stedman and the other two—and, of course, myself. I had fixed all the staff work over cars and, as I say, I felt quite confident that all was well. You can judge then my consternation when I received a letter by the second post that blew my optimism sky high. It was undated, bore no address, and naturally was not signed. And it ran as follows. ‘Guard the Comte de Dinard at Oxshott. Guns are useless.’ ”
He took another pull at his beer.
“Short and pithy, you’ll agree,” he went on. “It gave me the devil of a jolt. To trace the writer was, of course, an utter impossibility, even if there had been time. And there we were confronted with the fact that what we thought was a jealously guarded secret was nothing of the sort. So I went off posthaste to see Lord Surrey. Should we alter the arrangements, postpone the conference, or what?
“Well, postponement was out of the question: Mr. Meteren has to be back in Brussels on Monday. To alter arrangements would have been difficult since the Comte had just flown back to Paris and was only returning that night. So we decided to carry on—and do as the anonymous writer had suggested, guard the Comte. And it was then that I took the liberty, when I found out that his Lordship knew you both, of asking him to invite you. Your methods, Captain Drummond, may at times be irregular, but there are few people I would sooner have beside me if there’s any trouble about than yourself.” He made a little bow.
“Very nice of you to say so,” said Drummond. “I should like to play.”
“The trouble is,” continued Andrews, “that I have no idea whatever as to what the game is likely to be.”
“It’s just possible,” put in Algy, “that the letter is a hoax.”
“Possibly, but not likely, Mr. Longworth. And even if it were, it doesn’t alter the fact that somebody, inadvertently or otherwise, has spilled the beans. Because it’s preposterous to think that any of the other seven people in the know could have sent me that note. No: I don’t think that letter is a hoax. It is, I believe, a definite warning, sent by someone who has found out about this weekend, who knows that an attempt may be made on the Frenchman’s life, and whose conscience has pricked him. You see, there’s no secret about the fact that there is a large section of people in France, and in other countries, too, who would rejoice if the Comte was out of the way.”
“Has he been told about it?” asked Drummond.
“He has. And pooh-poohs the whole thing. Takes the line that if people in his position paid any attention to threats of that sort they might as well chuck up the sponge straight away. Which is quite true. But the last thing I or Lord Surrey want is that the chucking up should occur here.”
“Naturally,” agreed Drummond. “You’ve got some men down, I suppose?”
“Four,” said Andrews. “They’re on the grounds now—they’ll be in the house tonight.”
“ ‘Guns are useless.’ I wonder what that means. Poison?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Possibly. But unless he eats or drinks something different to everybody else, the whole house party is in for it.”
“Thanks,” said Drummond with a grin. “What about the servants?”
“Been with his Lordship for years. Besides, it’s inconceivable that one of them should have sent the note, or given the show away. It would mean that Lord Surrey himself had been indiscreet—otherwise they could never have known.”
“Still, somebody has given it away,” remarked Drummond. “And assuming what you’ve said to be correct, it must be one of you eight.”
“My own belief is that it’s the Comte himself,” said Andrews. “Quite unintentionally, of course. He’s one of those men who is reckless to the point of foolhardiness where his own safety is concerned. For all that, he’s got to submit to some safety measures tonight, whether he likes it or not.”
“Are they hush-hush?” asked Drummond.
“Not from you,” said the Inspector, “though I don’t want you to pass them on at present. But he’s not going to sleep in the room he occupies now. He will dress for dinner there, and then just before he goes to bed a strange defect will be discovered in a fuse. Or else Lord Surrey will tell him the truth point-blank. He will sleep in another room, with one of my men outside his door, and I shall spend the night in his present one. Which may lead to us finding out something.”
“You evidently take this as serious,” said Drummond.
“I do. But in any case it’s just as well to be on the safe side. And I think my arrangements, simple though they are, give the maximum of security with the minimum of inconvenience. If trouble comes from the outside, it finds me; if it comes from the inside, it has to pass one of my men.”
“And what do you want us to do?”
“Keep your eyes open during the evening for anything that strikes you as being suspicious. I shall be on hand in one of the sitting rooms, if you want to get hold of me. And if the phrase ‘Guns are useless’ means anything in the nature of a rough house, you won’t want any prompting,” he added with a grin as he rose. “No, I won’t have another, thanks. I must go and inspect my myrmidons. Probably see you later.”
“So that’s why we were honored, Algy,” said Drummond as the door closed behind the Inspector. “I had hoped that my advice was going to be asked on high matters of state, but life is full of disappointments. However, if we’ve got to do the Sherlock Holmes stunt, more beer is indicated. And then we’d better toddle back. But one wonders,” he continued as another tankard was put before him, “why the letter-writer was so cryptic. Having gone to the trouble of saying what he did, why the dickens didn’t he say more? Didn’t he know himself, or what stung him?”
“It’s that that made me suspect a hoax,” said Algy.
“You frightful liar,” remarked Drummond dispassionately. “You never thought of the point till I mentioned it. Now mop up your ale, and wipe your chin, and then you must go back and change your dickey. And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell old Dinard that French story of yours or all Andrews’s precautions will be wasted. Though I admit,” he added brutally, “that death could only be regarded as a merciful release from listening to it.”
* * *
—
Any setting less suggestive of violence or murder than Oxshott Castle that night it would have been hard to imagine. They had dined in state in the large banqueting hall, a dinner which reflected credit on even Lord Surrey’s far-famed chef—and the conversation at times had been amazingly indiscreet. It had taken the three diplomats a certain amount of time to understand the reason for Drummond’s and Algy’s presence, since by tacit consent no mention was made of the threatening note. The Comte especially appeared to think that Algy was mental—a skeleton in the family cupboard and Drummond his keeper—but the fact did not prevent him making one or two remarks that Fleet Street would have paid thousands for. And Meteren was not far behind in frankness.
It was a dinner to remember.
No women were present, and no other guests had been asked in. And as the meal progressed, Drummond found himself so absorbed in the glimpses—the human, scandalous glimpses—that lie at times behind the wheels of state that he almost forgot the real reason for his presence
. And then, the drawn curtains—drawn ostensibly to keep out the mosquitoes—with the motionless bulges behind them on each side of the open window would bring him back to reality. For the bulges were two of Andrews’s men, and two more were outside the door.
He was sitting between the Belgian minister and Mark Stedman, who seemed to have recovered from his temporary irritation of the afternoon.
“I had no idea, Captain Drummond,” he said over the port, “that you were such a friend of Lord Surrey’s.”
“Hardly the way to put it,” smiled Drummond. “His eldest son, who married my first cousin, and I were at Sandhurst together, and the old boy has asked me to shoot several times. Hence grandson Billy calls me uncle.”
“Quite. I thought you were a sort of unofficial bravo brought in to help to protect our guest.”
“You’re perfectly right—I am. I shouldn’t be here but for the anonymous threat.”
“What’s your opinion of it?” asked Stedman.
“I haven’t one,” said Drummond frankly.
“I saw Inspector Andrews before dinner, and he seems equally at sea. However, he’s neglecting no precautions. Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your role?”
“Not at all,” answered Drummond. “Since neither Andrews nor his merry men can actually join the party, my job is to keep my eyes skinned in the room itself for anything unusual that may happen.”
“But what could happen?” said Stedman with an amused smile. “It sounds like the thriller of fiction: a secret death-dealing ray or something ridiculous of that sort.”
“It does rather, I admit,” agreed Drummond. “Certainly nothing could appear more removed from anything of that sort than the table at present.”
“And yet,” said Stedman thoughtfully, “it’s an amazing thing how science has helped crime, though it sounds rather as if I were contradicting myself.”
“It has helped the detection of crime just as much,” Drummond argued.
“I wonder. I agree with you, of course, over crude commonplace crime, but in those cases the criminal is not availing himself of science, whereas the detective is. The crime I’m alluding to belongs to a higher category, and of necessity must be murder.”
“Why, of necessity?”
“Because in burglary or forgery, let us say, however much science is employed in the committing of the crime, the criminal can only obtain his reward by a process where science is of no avail. He must go to a fence: he must pass his dud fivers. And it is in the disposal of his goods, a thing over which the technique is much the same as it was last century, that he gets caught. That does not apply to murder.”
“Perhaps not. But since the time of Cain and Abel there is one thing that has always applied to murder, and no science can alter that.”
“And supposing there is no motive.”
“Then the murderer is a madman,” said Drummond. “Or someone of the Jack the Ripper type.”
“I will amend my remark. Supposing there is no motive that points to any particular individual.”
“I don’t quite get you,” remarked Drummond.
Stedman hitched his chair a little nearer and lowered his voice.
“Let us take an academic case,” he said, “our friend over whom the precautions are being taken tonight. Now the reasons why anyone desires his removal are nothing whatever to do with his private life. There is no question of love, or jealousy, or personal hatred pointing at a specific being and saying, ‘Thou art the man.’ The reasons are purely public and apply to his political views, which are intensely unpopular amongst thousands of people. That is why I say that if the Comte was murdered tonight, though the motive would be obvious, it wouldn’t help the police to find the murderer.”
“That’s true,” agreed Drummond. “And provided the crime was committed with such skill that the criminal made a clear getaway and left no obvious clues behind him, doubtless he would never be discovered.”
“Which is what I was getting at in the first place,” said Stedman. “Fifty years ago, with the precautions that have been taken tonight, a getaway would have been impossible because the methods of committing the crime were so crude. Short of a gang of men overpowering the police and shooting him, or someone poisoning his whiskey, there was no method of doing the deed. Today that is not the case. And that is where science has helped the criminal more than the detective.”
“I wonder if the Yard would agree with you,” remarked Drummond with a smile.
“Somewhat improbable,” grinned Stedman. “Though it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s the truth. I am firmly convinced that, given time, brains, and a sufficiency of money, it would be a comparatively simple matter to commit an undiscoverable murder.”
“A good many people have thought the same thing and found they were wrong,” said Drummond as they all rose from the table.
“And quite as many have found they were right,” replied Stedman as they moved into the hall. “However, let’s hope there’s no question of its being put to the test tonight. I’ve promised to finish two more soldiers for Billy, and high art of that sort requires a steady hand.”
* * *
—
Certainly there had been no question of it when the house party reassembled about midnight prior to going to bed. The three statesmen had disappeared with their host into secret conclave. Stedman, refusing to join the others at drink, had devoted himself to things military in a corner of the billiard room. And now, as everyone helped himself to his own particular nightcap, he pointed with pardonable pride to the result of his labors.
Ranged in single file on a tray were the twelve gallant infantrymen and the field marshal on his prancing black horse. The command was small, Stedman admitted, for such an exalted officer, but any attempt to reduce him in rank had been firmly vetoed by Billy. And his actual position on parade was hardly according to the drill book. Instead of leading his Army into action, the cowardly old gentleman very nearly brought up the rear. Behind him strode a Greenjacket, a stout-hearted warrior leading an Army mule, and the sanitary squad in the shape of an R.A.M.C. orderly. The remainder of the force led by the drum major stretched out in front, glistening in their scarlet tunics.
“Don’t touch,” warned Stedman. “They’re still wet.”
“I don’t envy the Highlander,” laughed his Lordship. “It seems to me that the off fore of the field marshal’s charger is down his neck.”
“Specially arranged by Billy, sir,” said Stedman. “The Highlander is the field marshal’s own private guard.”
He put the tray on the windowsill and glanced at Drummond.
“We compromised on the Black Watch,” he laughed. “So honor is satisfied. Hullo—what has stung the Comte?”
He was gesticulating freely by the fireplace, and Lord Surrey was soothing him down.
“But, my dear fellow,” cried the Frenchman, “it is absurd! I appreciate greatly your care for my safety, and the precautions of the good Inspector, but to change my bedroom because some madman has written a crazy note—it is surely ridiculous! You will be asking that I look under the bed next, like a hopeful old lady. However—if you insist, I can only obey my so charming host. I will go, I think now, if I may.”
“What’s all the excitement?” whispered Stedman to Drummond.
“One of Inspector Andrews’s precautions,” answered Drummond. “Even the servants don’t know. The Comte’s bedroom has been changed, and Andrews himself is occupying the one he had originally. What on earth is the matter?” he added with a laugh. “You seem quite distressed about it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Stedman. “Why should it distress me? Though I’m inclined to agree with the Comte as to its being most unnecessary.”
“Perhaps. Still, it’s as well to be on the safe side.”
He turned away. Why had Stedman registered any reaction a
t all on hearing the news? It had only been momentary—gone in a flash—but to a shrewd observer like Drummond it had stuck out a yard. And how could it possibly affect Stedman personally if the Comte slept in his own bedroom or in the coal hole?
He sipped his drink thoughtfully, the conversation at dinner coming back to him. Also Stedman’s annoyance over the matter of the kilt. Could it be possible that they were two widely different manifestations of the same failing—conceit? The kilt, irritability because he had been proved wrong; the other, a sort of inverted pride in something planned, and which he could not resist bragging about even though his audience should be unaware of the fact.
“ ’Old ’ard,” muttered Drummond to himself, “you ain’t even trotting—you’re galloping. You’re accusing this bloke Stedman of being the thorn in the flesh. And that’s rot.
“Then why,” came the reiterated question, “should he care the snap of a finger which is old Dinard’s bedroom? And he did. Of that there’s not a shadow of doubt.”
He turned round to find Algy at his elbow.
“Coming to bed, old bird?” remarked that worthy. “I thought of taking up one of the pikes out of the hall in case a general action occurs during the night. The only thing against it is that a man impaled on the end of a pike would be a dreadful sight at three in the morning. He wouldn’t go with my yellow pajamas at all well.”
He looked at Drummond curiously. “What’s stung you, Hugh? You seem devilish thoughtful.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 88
