The Crime at the ‘Noah’s Ark’: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  “Is anything the matter?” he asked nervously.

  “Lots!” was Soames’s rejoinder. “Burglary, among other things.”

  Melnotte started nervously.

  “Not really?” he protested.

  “It’s a fact,” Soames assured him. “You’d better come and help catch the thief.”

  “He’s not in that room, is he?” asked Melnotte, with an apprehensive glance at Carew’s door.

  “That’s just what we’re going to find out. You haven’t been disturbed by any noises next door, I suppose?”

  “Me? Oh, none, I assure you.”

  He ventured out into the passage a graceful if rather garish figure, clad in a dressing-gown that Stuart found himself envying, but which he would never have had the courage to wear.

  Stuart had been explaining the situation in a low voice to Ford.

  “I suppose you really did lock that door to-night?” he concluded.

  Ford nodded.

  “I’m quite sure I did. I remember trying it afterwards. I wanted to make sure that the fellow really was bottled up for the night. I can tell you one thing: I’m quite sure that he wasn’t shamming. He was as drunk as a lord when I brought him upstairs.”

  Stuart entirely agreed with him.

  “That’s what I should have said. No one in that condition could have got down that rope, broken into Mrs. van Dolen’s room, taken the girdle, and got off without waking her.”

  Girling’s voice came from the end of the passage.

  “Get you back, and don’t move from under that balcony till I give the word. I’ll see to this.”

  He appeared, carrying a large bunch of keys in his hand.

  “That was Joe,” he informed them. “He’s been round the house with a lantern, and he says there’s not a sign of anything. And the yard door’s shut and locked all right. I’ve sent him back to watch the balcony.”

  “The yard door was locked when I went down just now,” asserted Soames. “I had an idea the chap might have got away through it.”

  “Did you happen to notice whether the key was on the hook in the passage?” asked Girling. “It’s always hung up there last thing.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t. If I’d known where it was generally kept, I’d have looked for it.”

  “Seems as if I’d better go and cast an eye on the barn,” said Girling doubtfully. “The chap may have tried to get away in one of the cars.”

  Constantine intervened.

  “Get this door open first,” he said decisively. “We can’t very well break into the room except in your presence, and it’s high time we investigated matters here. Let one of the others go down to the barn.”

  “I’ll go,” volunteered Soames. “Stuart’s got wet through once already to-night.”

  Ford offered to accompany him.

  “You’ll find the key hanging next the other in the passage, close to the yard door,” called Girling after them, as they departed.

  Girling tried several keys before he found the right one, and, as he fumbled with the lock, Stuart was conscious of a curious and unpleasant sensation that was not entirely due to cold. Girling’s efforts were anything but noiseless, and there was something ominous about the unbroken stillness that reigned behind the closed door. Of course, he told himself, if Carew were lying in a drunken stupor.

  The key turned suddenly, and Girling threw open the door.

  An icy wind came out of the darkness, taking Stuart’s breath away. Then he remembered the open window from which the rope was dangling.

  Girling found the switch and turned on the light.

  The three men crowded in after him, their eyes with one accord focused on the bed which stood against the right-hand wall. At the sight of it Stuart gave an involuntary gasp of relief.

  Carew was there, after all, engaged in sleeping off his bout, and oblivious to all that was going on around him.

  His clothes were heaped untidily on a chair; his shoes lay on the floor beside it. One had fallen on its side, and a swift glance assured Stuart that there was no snow or any sign of damp on the sole.

  Constantine crossed to the bed and placed his hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder.

  He was lying, apparently, on his side, the bedclothes drawn up over his face. Only the top of his head was visible.

  Constantine leaned over him.

  “Major Carew,” he said urgently, giving the shoulder he grasped a little shake.

  Something caught his eye and he bent lower. Then, with an exclamation that brought the others to his side, he jerked the bedclothes away, and the reason for Carew’s silence was revealed.

  The pillow under his head was dark with blood. Stuart gave one glance at the ghastly, smeared face and turned away, sickened, for where the man’s right temple should have been was now a mass of bruised and bleeding tissue.

  Constantine straightened himself and stared at Girling across the body.

  “He’s dead,” he said at last. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Seems as if we ought to make sure, like,” muttered Girling dazedly.

  Constantine slipped his hand inside the front of Carew’s pyjama jacket. They stood waiting in silence, though they knew only too well what the verdict was bound to be.

  They watched him till he drew the sheet silently over the stained face. Then, suddenly, with a queer, crowing scream, Melnotte turned and made blindly for the door.

  Constantine passed his handkerchief over his forehead, and Stuart became aware that the palms of his own clenched hands were slippery with sweat.

  “Better leave everything as it is,” advised Constantine, “and get on to the police. Is your constable on the telephone?”

  Girling shook his head.

  “I’ll send Joe,” he said. “And he’d better go for the doctor as well.”

  He crossed to the window and called down to the man outside. Then he rejoined the two men standing by the bed. “Best lock this room, I suppose,” he said heavily.

  Constantine nodded.

  “We’ll clear out. There’s nothing further we can do here. How soon can your man get the constable?”

  “Matter of ten minutes, I should think, if he dresses himself quick. The doctor’s only at the end of the village, and he’s not likely to be out on a night like this. He couldn’t get far in that car of his, even if he was sent for.”

  They trooped out of the room, and Girling locked the door behind them. They reached the stairs just as Soames was coming up. He greeted them cheerily.

  “Lord, I’m wet!” he exclaimed. “Nothing doing outside. Both doors were locked, and there’s no indication that any one has tried to force the door of the barn. I went in, and, as far as I could see, the cars are all right. If the thief did manage to get away, he must have had wings.”

  He caught sight of Stuart’s face and stopped dead. “I say, anything wrong?” he asked.

  Stuart told him.

  Soames was shocked, but he was not an imaginative man, and he had been spared the sight of the body. His attitude was one of interest rather than horror.

  “The poor chap must have woke up just as the thief was going through his room,” he said. “Hard luck! Have they sent for the police?”

  “Joe’s gone,” answered Girling.

  “Then it’s no good going to bed, I suppose?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. We’re sure to be wanted.”

  “In that case I vote for a fire and something hot inside me,” announced Soames, with characteristic common sense. “You all look as though you needed it. Can you do anything about that, Girling?”

  “I can, Mr. Soames, and glad I’ll be to turn my hand to something and take my mind off what’s happened. It’s given me a proper turn, and that’s the truth. If you don’t mind that little office of mine, it’ll warm up the quickest.”

  He was as good as his word, and they were thawing comfortably enough over a wood fire by the time he returned, carrying a large tray on which were cups and
a huge coffee-pot.

  At Constantine’s invitation he poured himself out a cup and joined them.

  “Where’s the young gentleman?” he asked. “Doesn’t he want some coffee?”

  Constantine answered him. “Melnotte, you mean? I found him leaning against the wall in the passage. He was pea-green in the face, and all but fainting. I helped him back to his room, and he said he was going to bed, and that he’d be all right, so I left him.”

  “I don’t blame him,” said Stuart fervently.

  Constantine nodded.

  “He’s a bit of a weakling, but he had every excuse> I must admit. Though, from what he said, the thing that really upset him was that it had happened in the room next to his. He was really frightened.”

  “I’d give something to know where that there chap got to,” said Girling, staring gloomily into the fire. “Joe swears that there were no tracks anywhere near the house, and there’s no sign of any one’s having got away in front. I had a look when I was sending Joe off to the police station.”

  “What do you make of the whole business, sir?” Soames asked Constantine.

  The old man was leaning back in his chair, his head supported on his hand. His face was very weary, and, for the first time since he had met him, Stuart realized his age. As he answered Soames, however, his eyes lit up with something of their old fire.

  “Up to a point,” he said slowly, “it seems fairly simple. Ford, here, left the key in the lock outside Carew’s door, and whoever was after Mrs. van Dolen’s emeralds evidently found it there. Why he chose that room, rather than mine or Melnotte’s, is an open question, but I think it is significant. Carew had been drinking heavily, and no doubt everybody in the hotel knew it. He would obviously be less likely to wake than, say, myself. Old people are notoriously light sleepers. Which goes to support my theory, that the thief comes from inside, not outside, this hotel.”

  Girling stirred uneasily in his chair.

  “That’s a nasty thought, sir,” he remarked. “I’d rather think otherwise.”

  “So would I, and, I’ve no doubt, so would everybody else in this room. But you have admitted yourself that it’s practically out of the question for the man to have got away, and my own opinion is that he is in the hotel at this moment.”

  “Perhaps you’ll tell me where, sir.”

  Constantine smiled.

  “That’s a job for the police. But I hope they’ll make a more thorough search than we were able to do.”

  “Unfortunately there couldn’t be a better house than this, from a burglar’s point of view,” said Stuart. “There isn’t a passage that hasn’t an exit at either end, and the two staircases would be a help, too. I’d undertake to hide here myself, until hunger drove me into the open.”

  “Well, no one’s been after the food or the drink. That I can vouch for,” asserted Girling.

  “Which suggests that the person, whoever he is, is living here openly, and getting his food in the ordinary way, like the rest of us,” Constantine pointed out.

  “In fact, any one of us might be the murderer,” commented Soames grimly. “It’s a pleasant thought.”

  “It is one we shall have to face, once the police get here,” said Constantine. “What sort of person is your village constable, Girling?”

  “Tom Bates? Well, I’ve known him ever since he was a little shaver, and, seeing so much of any one, like, it’s difficult to say. He’s got his wits about him, Tom has, but he’s slow, if you understand me. There’s one or two have set out to make a fool of Tom Bates, but he’s bested them in the end. There’s one thing about him. You show Tom reason, and he’ll see it. Not like some folks as jumps to a conclusion and sticks to it through thick and thin. A very fair sort of chap, he is. I shan’t be sorry to feel he’s in charge here.”

  “I’m sure I’m glad to see you making yourselves so comfortable.”

  The group sitting over the fire swung round as one man.

  Mrs. van Dolen stood in the doorway, her eyes ablaze with wrath, and her fingers closing and unclosing on the lace handkerchief she held. She was still robed in pink silk, but both her complexion and her coiffure had undergone a change for the better since they had last seen her.

  “As nobody’s so much as thought of coming near me since my room was burgled, I thought I’d just have a look round and find out for myself if there was any one alive in this house. It hasn’t occurred to any of you, I suppose, that unless you get a move on, there’s very little chance of my ever setting eyes on my stones again?”

  There was an embarrassed silence, then Constantine rose gallantly to the occasion.

  “Girling here has sent for the police, and I’m afraid there is very little we can do till they arrive. They should be here at any moment now.”

  She swept forward and seated herself in the chair he had just vacated. “Well, I guess I’ll see them myself when they do come. It don’t look to me as if there’s a single soul in this one-horse little hotel that’s fit to give a clear account of what’s happened.”

  Geoffrey Ford strolled over to the table and poured out a cup of coffee. “We can at least offer you some refreshment while you’re waiting,” he said placatingly, as he handed her the cup.

  His manner was perfect, but the glance she shot at him was full of suspicion. The truth was that, in the stress of the moment, she had completely lost her carefully applied social veneer, and was beginning to be aware of the fact.

  A bell pealed loudly, and Girling hurried to answer it. Even Mrs. van Dolen listened in silence to the sound of the front door opening, and the low murmur of voices that followed.

  They heard heavy footsteps mounting the stairs, then the voices receded into the distance.

  Mrs. van Dolen rose to her feet. “They’re not going to my room without me there to receive them!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t trust a dog in this place now!”

  Constantine laid a hand on her arm.

  “I think you would be wise to leave them alone for the present,” he said quietly.

  She jerked herself free.

  “You do, do you? Considering I’m the person that’s been robbed, I should imagine I’ve a right to interview the police!” she snapped.

  “Unfortunately it has ceased to be a case of robbery,” Constantine informed her.

  She glared at him.

  “What would you call it?” she sneered. “A practical joke?”

  “I’m inclined to think that the police will call it murder,” was his quiet rejoinder.

  She gave a gasp of astonishment. Then her eyes travelled over the little group of men and read confirmation in their faces.

  “For God’s sake! Well, all I can say is, if your fool of a village policeman’s got a case of murder on his hands, it’s good-bye to my emeralds,” was her only comment as she dropped back into her chair.

  CHAPTER VII

  At first sight Tom Bates fitted the part of conventional village policeman to perfection. It was only as the night, or rather the morning, wore on that Stuart began to realize that under the heavy stolidity of the rustic was hidden all the shrewdness of the countryman. Bates went about his business in a manner which, though leisurely, was by no means so slow as it seemed.

  Within twenty minutes of his entry into the inn he joined them in the office, and Stuart discovered afterwards that not only had he already thoroughly inspected Carew’s room, but had made the round of the premises outside with the aid of a lantern. Whether or not Girling had prepared him for one of the chief obstacles in his path, he showed himself more than capable of dealing with the problem of Mrs. van Dolen.

  He had barely entered the room before she was on her feet and delivering her ultimatum.

  “See here, my good man,” she began aggressively. “Let’s understand one another! You’re after promotion like anybody else, and I suppose you think you’ll get it by catching a murderer. But I’d have you remember that I’ve been robbed, and that my emeralds are pretty well known at Scotland
Yard. I’ve had their men on guard over them before now, and they won’t think any the better of you if you fall down on that part of your job. If I have to get in a private detective I’ll see to it that every one knows the reason why!”

  Bates neither answered nor moved a muscle of his broad, fresh-coloured face, as he drew a chair up to the table, sat down, and produced his notebook from his pocket. Still in silence, he placed the book on the table before him, squared his elbows, looked critically at the point of his stub of pencil, moistened it with his tongue, and then at last spoke.

  “If you’ll kindly describe the jewels,” he said.

  Mrs. van Dolen, silent for once, had been watching his movements with a kind of fascination.

  “So you’ve got a tongue!” she exclaimed tartly.

  “Yes, madam.”

  Bates licked his pencil once more, and gazed at her expectantly.

  Mrs. van Dolen launched forth into an elaborate and verbose description of the girdle. Stuart noticed that only the salient features of her narrative found their way into Bates’s book, but he let her run on, waiting stolidly until her energy had spent itself.

  “Anything else missing?” he asked.

  “Two brooches and a ring; but it’s the emeralds I’m worrying about.”

  “If you’ll kindly describe them.”

  She did so.

  “Now, if you can give me an exact account of what happened, according to your knowledge, I needn’t keep you any longer,” he said, when she had finished.

  Mrs. van Dolen repeated her account of her movements during the night.

  “But if you think I’m going back to bed until I’ve heard what these gentlemen have got to say, you’re mistaken,” she concluded defiantly.

  Bates closed his notebook and tucked it away in his pocket.

  “I’m goin’ to ask these gentlemen to step upstairs with me to the corpse’s room. It’s no sight for any lady,” he stated heavily. “But, first of all, I’ll ask you to let me have a look at your bedroom, then I needn’t disturb you again.”

  He rose and stood by the door, waiting for her to pass out, and, after a moment of baffled hesitation, Mrs. van Dolen went. It spoke well for his methods of dealing with her that they saw no more of her that night.