The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  He came into the coffee-room feeling tired and hot-eyed. After a little delay his breakfast was brought to him, and halfway through the meal the inspector put in an appearance. ‘I’ve got the prints,’ he said, laying some sheets of paper on the table, and accepting the cup of coffee which Farringdon ordered. ‘They’re the best I could do. I haven’t got a proper finger-print outfit, but I got these with some carbon paper from the typewriter. I think they’re clear enough.’

  ‘They look pretty good to me,’ said Farringdon, glancing at them. ‘These include everybody?’

  The local man nodded. ‘Except the butler at Feldon’s,’ he said. ‘I’ll get his before you go. I had to haul Mr. Blessington out of his bath to get his, and he wasn’t too pleased about it either. By the way, I think it’s worth making a particular note of Jones-Perry.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Farringdon, looking up.

  ‘Because he’d only just got in when I reached his house,’ replied the inspector, ‘and I noticed that he wore broad-toed shoes and that they were covered with fine white dust.’

  Farringdon raised his eyebrows. ‘You think he was the man at the quarry?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to go as far as that. But it struck me as rather queer.’

  As soon as he had finished his meal, Farringdon got out his little car and, accompanied by the inspector, drove up to ‘Silverleaves’. The butler’s fingerprints were added to the collection, to the obvious annoyance and dismay of that dignified personage, and taking leave of the inspector, Farringdon drove to London.

  His first call was at Scotland Yard, where he found that Hallick had just arrived, and to that interested and amazed man he sketched his adventures at Deneswood Valley. ‘They want you to check up these prints,’ he concluded, laying the sheets of paper in front of the Scotland Yard man. ‘You may or may not be able to place one of the owners. I’ll pop in during the afternoon and find out the result.’

  He left Hallick and drove to his flat. He occupied a comfortable suite of rooms in a quiet square at the back of Southampton Row, and here he had a cold bath and changed. By the time he had done this his tiredness had left him. He was anxious to acquaint the girl with the news of her uncle’s death, but it was still too early to disturb her, and making himself a cup of coffee he sat down to think things over, and there was quite a lot to think over.

  It was a quarter to ten when he arrived at the boarding house kept by the ex-constable, Williams, and the man opened the door to his ring himself. ‘Good morning, Mr. Street,’ he said with a smile. ‘I think we’ve made the young lady quite comfortable. She’s found a friend, too,’ he added.

  ‘A friend?’ Farringdon frowned questioningly. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘He’s a young American gentleman she used to know in New York,’ explained Williams. ‘It seems she cabled to him and told him she was coming over, but he only got the cable last night. He’d been up north on business. They told him at the hotel she’d moved here, and he called yesterday evening to take her out to dinner.’

  ‘H’m, I suppose it’s all right,’ said Farringdon. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Seems rather a decent chap — you’d never think he was an American,’ replied Williams with unconscious humour. ‘Mr. Holt, his name is.’

  Farringdon was a little worried. This friend of Lesley Thane’s might be all right; on the other hand he might not. He went into the breakfast-room, and presently the girl joined him.

  ‘Have you any news for me, Mr. Street?’ she asked when the first greetings were over.

  ‘I have, and I’m afraid it’s not good news,’ he replied gravely. He told her of Felix Dexon’s death and she took it calmly — better than he had expected.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Street,’ she said, ‘but it’s not such a shock as it would have been — I mean, I’ve been more or less expecting something of the sort.’

  He asked her the question which had been in his mind ever since Dexon’s death.

  ‘His money will come to me,’ she answered quietly. ‘He made a will to that effect several years ago, and I don’t think he ever altered it.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Farringdon gravely, and she stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Why —’ she began.

  ‘Because,’ he interrupted, ‘whoever was at the bottom of your uncle’s abduction is not going to lose the income he’s been drawing if he can possibly help it. You must take every precaution, Miss Thane.’

  She understood his meaning and her face paled. ‘You’re making me feel quite scared,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no need to be scared,’ answered Farringdon, ‘provided you take suitable precautions. Don’t go out alone at night. You’ll be safe enough here. Williams is an ex-policeman and he knows the circumstances. At any rate, until the fact becomes public that you’re Dexon’s heiress, I don’t think these people will make any move.’

  ‘Do you think they’re likely to attempt anything then?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t think anything is more likely,’ he replied, ‘and I don’t want you to walk out of your house and disappear as your uncle did.’

  Before leaving, he called Williams and reiterated the necessity of Lesley Thane being closely guarded.

  ‘You can trust me,’ said the ex-policeman confidently. ‘They’ll be clever people if they can get at the lady while I’m around.’

  The girl had said nothing of her newfound friend, and Farringdon felt a little diffident in questioning her about him. She might quite likely regard it as an impertinence, and to a certain extent she would be right.

  He went down to the offices of the Morning Herald and found Mr. Ebbs as nearly jovial as it was possible for that taciturn man to be.

  ‘This is good stuff, Street,’ he said. ‘Fine! Carry on and let me have any fresh developments. This is going to cause a sensation!’

  At half-past three Farringdon called at the Yard and found Hallick waiting for him with the information he required.

  ‘We’ve got no record of any of these,’ said the inspector, pushing over five of the slips of paper, ‘but we’ve got a record of this man — and it’s a pretty bad one. Here’s the card — you can see for yourself.’

  Farringdon looked at the official record and read: ‘Leonard Schwab, aka Horace Kennedy, aka Montague Weltman. Five years for fraud, 1902. Served a further sentence, six years, 1909, for forgery. Believed to have been connected with the Inluska Oil Company swindle, 1920, but no proof. Since then has disappeared. Dangerous. Carries firearms.’ There followed a long description of the man and full details of his various sentences.

  ‘Whose print does this refer to?’ asked Farringdon, laying down the card.

  ‘This fellow,’ replied Hallick, and flicked it over.

  The print was that of Mr. Sopley!

  Chapter Eleven – At the Seventh Tee

  Mr. Sopley lit a cigar with a hand that shook in spite of his efforts to steady it. Throughout the long hours of the night following the murder of Felix Dexon he had lay staring into the darkness of his bedroom, thoughtful and fearful, and the morning had brought no relief from his uneasiness. Everything was bound to come out now.

  He had been in the middle of a pretence at breakfast when the police had called and taken his fingerprints. He had not dared to refuse, and yet he knew that the result would be fatal. In the criminal records at Scotland Yard were duplicates of those prints attached to a dossier that was better left hidden. Mr. Sopley had passed the day, his nerves on edge, starting at every knock, in dread that it heralded the arrival of the men he knew would come sooner or later to question him. But the day dragged on without the fulfilment of his fears, and the dusk of evening began to settle over the valley.

  By the last post the letter came, and Mr. Sopley read it several times before consigning it to the blazing fire which, despite the time of year, burned in his sitting-room grate. Perhaps the suggestion it contained was the best way out after all — if there was still time.


  He spent the evening going through his desk destroying such papers and documents that might be better unread by prying eyes, and at eleven o’clock, his task completed, rose wearily to his feet. Helping himself to a stiff whisky and soda, he went upstairs to his bedroom and packed a suitcase with the few things he would need. They were not many. His plans necessitated that he should travel light. Once out of the country he could make a fresh start.

  Coming back to his sitting room, he unlocked a wall safe and took out a bundle of notes, thrusting them into the hip pocket of his trousers. It was a pity that he could not draw out the balance at his bank, but that was impossible. Anyway, the man he would be meeting later had promised a large sum — a sum that, in addition to the amount he already had, would represent a fairly solid basis upon which to start his new life.

  He looked at his watch. Not quite time to start yet.

  Pacing up and down the pleasantly furnished room which he was so soon to leave for ever, he smoked the remainder of his cigar. It was half past twelve when he pulled on a light coat, picked up his suitcase, and after a last look round, switched out the lights and quietly let himself out of the house.

  The night was fine but dark. Here and there among the trees lights gleamed, showing that some of the residents of the estate were still wakeful. Mr. Sopley made his way down the short drive, keeping on the grass in order to deaden his footsteps, and passed through the low white gate. Crossing the gravel walk, he stepped onto the turf of the central garden and struck off towards the beginning of the golf course. Now that he had left the confines of the house he felt better. The police could come now as soon as they liked; there would be nobody there to answer their questions.

  He began to hum a little tune below his breath as he walked along the fairway. A sense of freedom, that was not entirely due to the thought that he would soon be out of the reach of the law, began to take possession of him. Once he was away from the environs of Deneswood Valley, he would be free also from the man who had ruled his life with a hand of fear . . .

  He passed the second tee and continued on down the valley. The place of his appointment was the seventh tee, a goodly way yet. His light suitcase offered little inconvenience, and as he swung along he began to make plans for the future.

  He would lie low in London until the hue and cry following his disappearance had died down, and then make his way abroad. London was the best place for a wanted man to hide. In that city of teeming millions it was easier to submerge oneself than anywhere else. A slight disguise, and it was doubtful if anyone would be able to recognise him. A great many criminals before Mr. Sopley had suffered from the same delusion. And then one of the warmer climates — South America, perhaps. He had always had a partiality for South America . . .

  He reached the seventh tee at last and set down his case. It was very still and dark and there was no sign of the man he had come to meet. He seated himself on the sand-box and took out a cigar. He had barely lighted it and drawn the first mouthful of smoke when the man he was waiting for appeared — a looming figure in the darkness.

  ‘You’ve decided to take my advice then?’ he grunted abruptly, and Mr. Sopley nodded.

  ‘I could do no less whether I wished to or not,’ he replied gruffly. ‘In this case I did wish to.’

  ‘I think it’s the only sensible thing to do,’ said the other. ‘I thought so immediately I heard that the police had taken everybody’s fingerprints, and sent you that note.’

  ‘Out of consideration for my safety,’ sneered Mr. Sopley.

  ‘No!’ was the retort. ‘Out of consideration for my own. I know that if the police questioned you you’d squeal.’

  ‘And you were right,’ said Sopley. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Gates, and sooner or later you’ll come a crash. You can’t always murder your way out of an unpleasant position.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Sam Gates coolly. ‘They can only hang you once, however many murders you’ve committed.’

  ‘There is such a thing as conscience —’ began Mr. Sopley, and the other laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘You’re not particularly qualified to talk about that,’ he said. ‘But we’re wasting time. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night hanging about this golf course.’

  ‘Well, hand over the money you promised and let me go,’ answered Sopley. ‘I don’t want to stop here longer than I can help, I assure you.’

  ‘I’ve brought it with me. Five thousand pounds,’ said his companion.

  ‘That’ll do to be going on with,’ growled Sopley.

  ‘What do you mean, to be going on with?’ snarled the other. ‘It’s all you’re going to get —’

  ‘Is it?’ There was a menace lurking in Mr. Sopley’s smooth voice. ‘We’ll see about that! You’ve taken a yearly income from me, Gates, because you knew a lot more about me than most people. Now it’s my turn. You can’t hold the threat of telling the police that Mark Sopley is another name for Montague Weltman because they know already, or will do within the next few hours. But I can tell them who Sam Gates is. A letter written to Scotland Yard would cause quite a sensation in that building. Unless you want to hang, you’ll pay me back some of that money I’ve been forced to hand over to you each year.’

  ‘Blackmail, eh?’ whispered Gates softly.

  ‘Poetic justice is a better description,’ said Mr. Sopley, feeling very sure of himself. ‘I’ll take that five thousand to be going on with, and you’ll pay a further five thousand each year. I’ll let you know where to send it, Gates.’

  ‘Oh, you will?’ grunted Sam Gates. ‘Do you think I’m going to stand for this, Sopley?’

  ‘You can’t help yourself,’ said Sopley. ‘You’ve got to shell out or that letter I spoke of will give the heads at Scotland Yard something to think about.’

  ‘You really should have known me better by this time,’ murmured the other, and he chuckled . . .

  At half past nine on the following morning Inspector Blagdon, who had heard from Hallick, presented himself at Mr. Sopley’s house to question the owner regarding what he knew concerning the murders of Feldon and Felix Dexon. But he was disappointed, for Mr. Sopley could not be found. His bed had not been slept in, and a suitcase and several articles of clothing were missing. The inspector went back to the station and a ‘hurry’ call was sent out with description of the wanted man. At eleven o’clock he was found by a labourer taking a short cut across the golf course on his way to the village to buy a new spade handle. But it is impossible to question a dead man, and Mr. Sopley must have died instantly from the terrible wound in his throat which had almost severed his head from his body.

  Chapter Twelve – Lesley’s Friend

  The chief constable of the county which embraced Deneswood Valley within its environs had a conference with Inspector Blagdon following the discovery of Mr. Sopley’s body, with the result that Scotland Yard was invited to co-operate with the local police. Inspector Hallick and a sergeant came down and everybody on the estate was subjected to a vigorous examination, but without result.

  Mr. Blessington was in despair. Over and over again he reiterated tearfully that the publicity would ruin him, until Hallick got tired of hearing his lamentations. ‘It’s very unpleasant for everybody, sir,’ he said. ‘But murder is murder.’

  ‘The newspapers are full of this new crime,’ wailed the stout man. ‘The Herald has even had the audacity to publish a full length portrait of me taken, needless to remark, without my consent —’

  ‘Yes, yes. Most unfortunate,’ said the inspector soothingly. ‘How came you to accept this man Sopley as one of your tenants? He was a well-known crook and had been in prison —’

  ‘I am horrified whenever I think of it,’ declared Mr. Blessington — the interview took place in his study — ‘but I can only assure you that his references were unimpeachable. I have always been most careful.’ He unlocked a large safe, searched in the interior, and brought out a bulky envelope. From this he took several letters
and handed them to Hallick. ‘See for yourself,’ he said.

  The inspector glanced at the documents and was forced to admit that the references were excellent. ‘They are all right,’ he admitted, ‘if they are genuine, which I doubt. There are places in London, Mr. Blessington, where it is possible to obtain the finest references in the world, for any purpose, at the cost of a ten-pound note.’

  ‘I know nothing about such things,’ said Mr. Blessington. ‘Naturally I accepted these as genuine. When I think of all my trouble and care to keep the estate select . . .’

  ‘The poor old chap can do nothing but bleat about the damage to his pet estate,’ said Hallick later to Farringdon Street, in the bar of the village inn. ‘I suppose it is a bit hard on him.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ said Farringdon callously, for he rather disliked the stout and selfish Mr. Blessington. ‘Have you discovered anything fresh?’

  Hallick shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘There’s a killer at large somewhere in this valley, and I’m willing to bet his name’s Sam Gates, but that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘I know that myself,’ grunted the reporter. ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘I’m having every man jack on the estate watched,’ answered the inspector, munching a sandwich. ‘And I’ve got one of our fellows at the local telephone exchange listening in to all calls coming from, or received by, the residents, but whether it’ll lead to anything or not I don’t know.’

  That was all he could do, as Farringdon realised. There was no evidence to warrant more drastic steps, and questioning had resulted in nothing.

  ‘How’s that girl of yours?’ asked the inspector suddenly. ‘You’d better look after her.’

  ‘If you mean Miss Thane,’ replied Street a little coldly, ‘she is quite all right, and being well looked after.’