Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “It’s upstairs.”

  “Very well. Bring it down. Put it in the safe. Seal it up in an envelope with your name on it before putting it away. I’ll see what’s to be done about it to-morrow. Now, do that at once. Don’t argue.”

  “The money means nothing much to me now,” said Stenness angrily.

  “Then hand it back to the people it legally belongs to,” Sir Clinton said coolly. “If you don’t want it, other people may have a use for it. It’s a fair test of all that high falutin’ stuff you laid off a minute or two ago.”

  Stenness made no reply, but rose and went towards the door.

  “Oh, just another thing, Stenness. Meet me at the front of the house here at . . . at . . . Have you a time-table?”

  Stenness produced the ABC from a shelf and Sir Clinton turned over its pages before continuing.

  “The first train’s at 7.10 A. M.,” he said. “Meet me out at the house-door at half-past six sharp tomorrow morning. Now don’t fail!”

  Stenness was plainly bewildered, and in his astonishment he gave a grudging assent.

  “That’ll do, then,” Sir Clinton went on. “Just put that cash in the safe, now. And, by-the-by, send Ardsley to me as you go out.”

  Stenness nodded dully and moved towards the door. Now that he had made a clean breast of things, his mind seemed to have gone back to his loss; and his whole bearing was eloquent of his utter despair. Sir Clinton watched him leave the room.

  “A tough bullet for the poor devil to bite on,” he thought to himself. “Well, ‘joy cometh in the morning,’ it says somewhere or other. Perhaps he’ll find it so.”

  He lit a fresh cigarette and seemed to dismiss Stenness from his mind.

  “I wonder if that devil is wound up far enough to make a final effort?” he reflected in some perplexity. “I believe he is. At any rate, I’ll take the chance of it. He’s had it all his own way so far, and this ought to encourage him.”

  Ardsley came into the room and smiled on seeing that Sir Clinton was alone.

  “I’m in a hurry, Ardsley. Stenness has taken up a lot of valuable time with his woes. What I wanted is this. Will you be at the house-door here at half-past six o’clock to-morrow morning without fail? I’ll need you, perhaps.”

  He paused, then as an after-thought apparently, he added:

  “I don’t suppose you could give a death certificate in the case of a death by misadventure, could you?”

  Ardsley shook his head.

  “I’d need to know something about the case before I could venture on that sort of thing. The Coroner would want to have a say in business of that kind.”

  Sir Clinton reluctantly agreed.

  “Now suppose we pick up Wendover in the other room. No one will want to see Miss Hawkhurst tonight?”

  “I’ll see to that,” Ardsley assured him. “Another doctor will need to be called in, and so forth. Until he turns up, I think no one need go into that room.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Last Attack in the Maze

  When Ardsley and the Chief Constable entered the other room they found Wendover with Ernest Shandon and Arthur. In the stress of his emotion, Ernest seemed to have flown to his usual comforter, for he had a decanter and a syphon at his elbow. Arthur Hawkhurst seemed to be endeavouring to restrain his feelings to the best of his ability; but it was obvious at a glance that his nerves were all on edge.

  “Miss Forrest isn’t here?” Sir Clinton inquired, though the question was needless.

  “No,” Ernest hastened to explain. “She’s not here. I think she must be somewhere else—upstairs in her own room, perhaps, or else somewhere about the house. Or she may have gone out with Torrance. He’s gone for a walk. Quite possibly she went out with him. Very thoughtful of them to leave us to our grief, very thoughtful. I don’t know how we’ll get over this; I really don’t know. Sylvia was so useful about the place—made things run so smoothly, you know. We’ll miss her terribly.”

  He drank some of his whiskey and soda.

  “Where’s Stenness?” demanded Arthur, as though to show that he had himself under control.

  “He’s busy,” Sir Clinton explained.

  “He’s lucky to have something to be busy with,” Arthur commented. “I wish I’d something to do to take my mind off this business just now.”

  Ernest drank some more whiskey and soda thoughtfully, then put his hand into his pocket and seemed to feel for something.

  “I’ve lost my cigar-case,” he announced disconsolately. “Really, everything seems to be going wrong together, these last few days.”

  Wendover opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as he caught Sir Clinton’s frown and remembered the Chief Constable’s caution to him about the case.

  “Lost your case?” Sir Clinton inquired. “That’s a nuisance.”

  Ernest was still feeling vaguely in his pocket as though he expected to unearth the cigar-case in some remote corner.

  “It’s been missing for a day or two,” he complained. “I can’t think what’s become of it. I’ve hunted through all my other suits, and it isn’t there. And I’ve searched all over the house, too; and yet I can’t find it. I suppose I’ll have to buy another. And that’s such a nuisance, you know. One gets accustomed to the thing one uses. A new one won’t feel the same for long enough.”

  “You can’t remember where you put it down last, I suppose?” Sir Clinton asked. “It’s always a good plan to go back to the time you can remember using it last. If I’m not mistaken, you had it with you in the Maze when you were attacked. You told me you took out a cigar then. Does that suggest anything? You may be able to pick up the thread now and remember using it again after that.”

  Ernest Shandon’s face lighted up with a certain dull satisfaction.

  “No. Now I remember quite well. You’ve reminded me of it. Isn’t it funny how one can forget a thing and then, if one gets a jog to one’s memory, the whole thing comes back again? I often find that, quite often.”

  “So you know where it is now? Well, that’s always a relief.”

  Ernest’s face fell again.

  “Yes, I remember where I dropped it. But I can’t get it to-night, that’s the worst of it. I dropped it in the Maze when I was shot at. I was sitting there in Helen’s Bower, and when I jumped up the thing fell off my knee. It must be lying there yet. I’d forgotten all about it. These cigars won’t be much good now,” he ended, regretfully.

  “Why not go and get it?” Wendover asked, with a tinge of malice. He had not forgiven Ernest for his pusillanimous display on the night that Sylvia was shot.

  Ernest look round at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. He took off his glasses, polished them carefully, replaced them on his nose, and continued his staring examination of Wendover.

  “Well, really,” he managed to say at last, “that’s a very strange suggestion, Wendover, very strange. Do you imagine that I’d go out in the dark, down to the Maze, and hunt about for my case? Why, it would be foolhardy, positively tempting Providence, to do that. This murderer fellow may be lurking outside the house door, for all we can tell; and you calmly propose that I should walk straight out and put myself in his way! Well, really . . .”

  He turned to the decanter at his side and poured out a fresh stiff glass.

  Arthur Hawkhurst had listened to his uncle’s exhibition of caution with unconcealed contempt; and he now broke in with all the brutality of youth.

  “Cold feet, eh?”

  Ernest seemed to resent the imputation with a certain dull animosity.

  “It seems to me only commonsense, Arthur. Why should I run any risks? I’ve been attacked once; and since they didn’t succeed in damaging me then, they’ll obviously be waiting for another chance. I think it would be a stupid move to put myself in the way, a very stupid move indeed. And I think most sensible people would agree with me. If you don’t, and if you want something to do, you might go down to the Maze and get me my cigar-case yourself. That would be
better than sitting there, sneering at your elders.”

  He assumed the air of one who has just administered a well-merited rebuke; but his dignity was slightly diminished by the necessity of putting his glasses straight. Arthur seemed to take his uncle’s protest as a taunt.

  “Think I’m in a funk, too? I’ll go and get your case if you like.”

  Ernest appeared to be horrified at the suggestion.

  “I couldn’t think of it!” he exclaimed, almost with animation. “Why, anything might happen out in the dark there. You’re not to go, Arthur. I forbid it.”

  Arthur’s lips shut tight for a moment as he looked at his uncle.

  “It doesn’t matter a damn to me whether you forbid it or not. I’ve offered to go; and I’m not going to draw back now and let people think I was only bragging. Besides, how do you know anyone’s after me? They’re after you all right; they’ve attacked you already. But that’s no reason why they should worry about me, is it? I guess you’re the one they’ve marked down, Uncle.”

  “Oh, indeed, do you think so?” said Ernest, uncomfortably. “I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say, Arthur. It’s one of these things that may have too much truth in them to be altogether a joke, you know. I wish you wouldn’t say them. I don’t like them, I really don’t. And I don’t want you to go out of the house to-night. Suppose anything were to happen to you!”

  He paused for a moment, then added as a final argument:

  “We’ve got trouble enough on our hands just now.”

  Sir Clinton was watching Arthur keenly; and the boy turned round in time to catch the expression on the Chief Constable’s face.

  “You think I was just bragging? All right, you’ll see. I’ll take one of the cars down to the Maze and I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. To Wendover’s surprise, Sir Clinton made no attempt to detain him. Ernest’s face showed marked annoyance. Evidently he could not help seeing that his super-caution had been brought into the limelight once again.

  “I think that’s a silly trick,” he complained. “What’s the good of running unnecessary risks? I can get along without my cigar-case till to-morrow. And here he goes off, posing to himself as a young hero—while really, you know, he’s only a foolhardy young ass. But he was always like that. I wish Sylvia had been here; she could manage him. I never seemed to have any influence with him, somehow.”

  Ardsley, obviously bored, rose and left the room. Sir Clinton took the opportunity of changing the subject.

  “While your nephew’s away, Mr. Shandon, I think I’d better take the opportunity of giving you some information. You remember telling me something about a cheque and a missing counterfoil?”

  “Yes,” Ernest admitted, apparently not averse to the fresh subject. “I thought I ought to tell you about that! It may not have been important; but I thought you ought to have all the information about everything, even if it didn’t seem to be anything very vital, you understand? One never knows how one thing may hinge on to another, if you see what I mean? And it certainly seemed a strange thing to me—very rum.”

  “I’ve looked into the matter,” Sir Clinton went on, “and I think I’ve succeeded in doing what’s probably the most important thing from your point of view. I’ve recovered a few thousand pounds, which somebody might have got away with. You’ll find it in your safe to-night. It will be in notes. You’d better take the numbers of them. I haven’t had time to do that; and it might be as well to know them.”

  Ernest’s eyes lighted up when he heard the result of Sir Clinton’s work; but the brief illumination died out and was followed by a depressed expression.

  “Does this mean there’ll be a prosecution; and I’ll have to give evidence? That’ll be a troublesome business.”

  Sir Clinton reassured him with a gesture.

  “Well, perhaps we’d better not start crossing bridges till we come to them. Let’s leave the matter for the present. It’s not for me to advise you whether to force on a case or not. I’ll even refrain from mentioning the name of the man who took the money.”

  “Oh, I’ve a pretty good notion of that,” Ernest protested, with a certain air of low cunning which sat ill on his dull features. “I may not be very clever, you know; but I can put two and two together all right.”

  “Then we’ll leave it at that,” said Sir Clinton, and his tone closed the discussion on that point.

  For a time they sat in silence. Wendover could not quite understand Sir Clinton’s manœuvres. Quite obviously he had given Arthur the last spur which had driven him into this expedition to the Maze; and Wendover was inclined to agree with Ernest that it was a foolhardy business. He waited with some anxiety for the boy’s return.

  All at once they heard the sound of hasty footsteps in the hall, the door was flung open, and Arthur hurried into the room. Wendover noticed that, though excited, he was in no panic.

  “You were right enough, Uncle!” he exclaimed, still standing with the handle of the door in his hand. “The beggar had a shot at me just at the entrance to the Maze.”

  Ernest nodded his head with an attempt at sapience.

  “I told you so,” he said. “I told you so! But of course you wouldn’t believe me. No, you knew more about it than I did. But you see now . . .”

  “Come along, the lot of you,” Arthur cried. “We’ll nab the beggar this time. He can’t be far away yet.”

  “Sit down!” Sir Clinton ordered calmly. “He’s had any amount of time to get clear away. We’d never catch him in the dark. I must hear how it happened, first of all. Now give me every detail you can think of.”

  Arthur seemed sobered by the matter-of-fact air of the Chief Constable. He sat down and began his story without more ado.

  “I took out the two-seater from the garage,” he explained, “and bucketed down to the Maze as quick as I could. It’s a dark night outside, not even a star showing. I left the headlights on when I stopped the car; and T left the engine running as well. It wasn’t going to take me any time to get to Helen’s Bower. I got out, and crossed over to the entrance to the Maze that’s nearest the road. It was pretty dark; but I could find my way all right.”

  “You heard nobody about?” asked Wendover.

  “Nothing but the beat of the engine. Just as I got to the entrance and was going inside, I heard an air-gun go off quite close to me—no distance at all, I should say—and I felt something hit me about the breast-pocket.”

  Sir Clinton leaned forward.

  “Don’t touch!” he said, pointing to the side of Arthur’s dinner-jacket. “You hadn’t a coat on, I see?”

  Arthur looked down. The feathering of one of the lethal darts was protruding from his jacket.

  “Oh, it stuck, did it?” he said. “I thought it had failed to get through the cloth. It’s driven into my leather cigar-case, I expect.”

  Sir Clinton made a rapid examination and then cautiously withdrew the dart. Inspection of the cigar-case showed that the point of the missile had embedded itself in one of the cigars.

  “That saved you a nasty prick,” was all the comment the Chief Constable made. “Let’s hear the rest.”

  “I was just going to start after the beggar,” Arthur went on, “when suddenly there was a yell from the road. When I looked round, there was old Mrs. Thornton having a fit of hysterics or something over on the road, right in the beam of the headlights.”

  “Who is Mrs. Thornton?” inquired Sir Clinton.

  “She’s the wife of the lodge-keeper at the East Gate.”

  “There is nothing wrong with the Thorntons,” Wendover hastened to interject. “I’ve known them for twenty years and a decenter old couple you couldn’t find anywhere.”

  Sir Clinton made a gesture as though brushing aside the interruption.

  “And then?” he demanded.

  “Well, there she was, screaming her head off,” Arthur continued. “She’d heard the sound of the air-gun; and of cours
e air-guns aren’t liked hereabouts nowadays. So she’d just started to yell at once. She thought it was meant for her, it seems. I hustled her into the car and drove her home, full tilt. Then when I’d got rid of her, I put up the hood and side-curtains and came back here again, hell-for-leather. I guessed that the side-curtains would stop anything, if the beggar had another try; and I had the throttle about full open as I passed the Maze, so he hadn’t much of a mark, anyway.”

  Wendover’s opinion of Arthur went up considerably during this narrative. The youngster seemed to have had sense enough to take precautions, once he was convinced of the reality of danger. And there was no doubt about the attack. Wendover had seen the depth to which the dart had penetrated the cigar-case and its contents. It must have been fired at very close range indeed.

  “H’m!” said Sir Clinton. “Now I think we’ll take your advice and get down to the Maze.”

  Much to the surprise of them all, Ernest got to his feet with the rest. He evidently saw their expressions, for he seemed rather shamefaced.

  “I think I’ll come along with you,” he said, diffidently. Then, with an assumption of confidence he added: “I know you’ve all been sneering at me for taking care of my skin. I’ll just show you that it was caution and not because I was afraid. I can take the same risks as the rest of you!”

  On reflection, Wendover was hardly so much impressed by this offer. Obviously, the murderer, having made his attack, would at once set about getting away from the neighbourhood of the Maze; and by this time he would probably be far enough away to avoid pursuit. Ernest, therefore, was risking very little by joining the party.

  “Take out the limousine, Arthur,” he suggested. “It’ll hold the lot of us—and the glass will give us good cover.”

  Wendover smiled at the return of Ernest’s caution, though he admitted that the choice was sound enough. They hurried to the garage and Arthur drove them down to the Maze.

  Once there, Ernest seemed to feel that he had perhaps been over-courageous.