‘Here,’ said Ferguson, indicating an arm-chair by the fire.
‘Good; then will you sit there again and do whatever it was you did that night? The Fiscal shall take the opposite corner and I will sit here between you.’
‘Who are you supposed to be?’ asked Ferguson, with polite interest.
‘Nobody just yet. Later on, I’m going to be the murderer. It’s one of those things I’ve always wanted to be. Hullo! that sounds like the racket beginning.’
A series of heavy thumps testified to Dalziel’s conscientious attack on Campbell’s door.
‘Carry on, Ferguson,’ said Wimsey.
Ferguson, his face a little set and pale in the light of the petrol-gas lamp, moved across to the window and drew back the curtain.
‘Who’s that?’ he shouted. ‘For God’s sake stop making that filthy row. Oh, it’s you, Farren. What’s the matter?’
‘Whaur’s that – – Campbell?’ roared the Sergeant at the top of his lungs. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but my orders is tae reprojuice the conversation as reported. Where’s Campbell gone?’
‘Campbell? I haven’t seen him all day. I haven’t the faintest idea where he is. What do you want him for?’
‘I’m wantin’ tae twist his guts oot,’ yelled the Sergeant with relish. ‘I’ll no have the b – hangin’ roond after my wife. Jist yew show me whaur tae find the lousy – an’ I’ll blow his bloody brains oot.’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Ferguson.
‘I may be drunk an’ I may no be drunk,’ retorted Dalziel with spirit, ‘it’s no matter to you. I’m not too drunk tae ken a dirty – when I find him makin’ love tae my wife. Where is the bastard?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Farren. You know perfectly well Campbell’s not doing anything of the sort. Pull yourself together and forget it. Go and sleep it off.’
‘Go an’ so-and-so yerself,’ vociferated the Sergeant. ‘Leastways, that’s what it’s set doon fer me tae say. Ye’re a couple o’ what’s-his-names the baith o’ ye!’
‘Oh, go and hang yourself!’ said Ferguson.
‘Ay, that’s jist what I’m goin’ tae do,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’m away tae hang masel’ jist noo, but I’ll ha’e the life o’ Campbell first.’
‘Oh right-oh! hang yourself by all means, but don’t come making that bloody row. Go and do it somewhere else, for Christ’s sake.’
There was a pause. Ferguson remained at the window. Then a plaintive voice inquired from outside:
‘What’ll I do now, sir? My directions is tae hang aboot a bit.’
‘You kick the door violently,’ said Ferguson, ‘and walk round to the back and make a noise there. Then you come back and let off a lot of foul language and go off on your bicycle.’
‘Is that right, sir?’
‘Just about right,’ said Ferguson. ‘An excellent performance. I congratulate you.’
‘Will I go away, now?’
‘Put the bicycle in its place,’ said Wimsey, joining Ferguson at the window, ‘and then come back here.’
‘Verra gude,’ said Dalziel. His red tail-lamp moved away to the gate and vanished behind the hedge.
‘The worthy Sergeant is enjoying himself,’ said Ferguson. ‘His choice of language is not quite as good as Farren’s, though.’
‘Our presence probably cramped his style a bit,’ said Wimsey. ‘Eight-fifteen. The next act doesn’t take place till after ten. What shall we do, Fiscal? Play cards or tell stories? Or would you like me to read aloud to you? Ferguson has a fine collection of detective novels.’ He strolled over to the shelves. ‘Hullo, Ferguson, where’s that thing of Connington’s The Two Tickets Puzzle? I was going to recommend that to the Fiscal. I think he’d like it.’
‘I’ve lent it to the padre at the Anwoth,’ replied Ferguson.
‘What a pity! Never mind. Here’s an Austin Freeman. He’s always sound and informative. Try this one, The Eye of Osiris. Great stuff. All about a mummy. Or Kennedy’s Corpse on the Mat – that’s nice and light and cheerful, like its title. Or if you’re fed up with murders, try the new Cole, Burglars in Bucks.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Fiscal, in an austere voice, belied by the twinkle behind his glasses. ‘I have brought the latest number of Blackwood to while away the time.’
‘Crushed again!’ said Wimsey. ‘Ah! here’s Dalziel. Come on, Sergeant. I’ll take you on at dominoes for ha’-penny points. I’m a great dab at dominoes.’
Ferguson took up a book and sat down by the fire. Wimsey produced a box of dominoes from his pocket and slung them out on the table. The Sergeant pulled a chair in beside him. The Fiscal turned over the pages of Blackwood.
The silence became oppressive. The flutter of leaves, the click of the dominoes, and the ticking of the clock sounded unnaturally loud. Nine o’clock struck. Wimsey paid the Sergeant fourpence and the game went on.
Ten o’clock struck.
‘This is where you start getting ready for bed, isn’t it, Ferguson?’ said Wimsey without taking his eyes from the table.
‘Yes.’ Ferguson pushed back his chair and got up. He wandered round the room, putting away a newspaper here and a book there. Once or twice he dropped things and had to pick them up. He walked over to the shelf and selected a book, then poured out a glass of whiskey and soda. He drank this slowly, standing by the mantelpiece.
‘Do I put out the light?’ he asked, when he had finished.
‘Did you put out the light?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it out then.’
Ferguson turned off the petrol-gas. The light dimmed and sank. The mantle glowed redly for a moment or two, and faded gradually out.
‘Do I go to bed?’ came the voice from the dark.
‘Did you go to bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go to bed then.’
Ferguson’s footsteps passed slowly out of the door and up the stairs.
‘My God,’ said Wimsey, softly. ‘I had my revolver ready. Listen!’
The hum of a car came down the lane. It drew nearer, louder. The car was turning in at the gate. The headlights flashed across the window and passed. Wimsey got up.
‘Do you hear that, Ferguson?’ he called up the stairs.
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
‘Campbell’s car.’
‘Can you see it?’
‘I’m not looking at it. But I know the sound of the engine.’
Wimsey went out into the yard. The engine was still running noisily, and the driver appeared to be finding some difficulty in backing into the shed.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Campbell?’ shouted Wimsey. ‘Mind where you’re going, you drunken ass. You’ll have that wall down again.’
The reply was an outburst of very military language. Wimsey retorted, and a handsome slanging-match ensued. Sergeant Dalziel, stealing up the stairs in his stockinged feet, found Ferguson hanging with head and shoulders out of the bedroom window.
The voices of the men wrangling below came up loudly. Then there was a leap and a scuffle. Two dark bodies swayed backwards and forwards. Then came a crash and a heavy fall, followed by a most realistic groan.
‘Was that the way it was, Mr. Ferguson?’
Ferguson turned so sharply that he hit his head a crash against the window-frame.
‘How you startled me!’ he said. ‘No, not in the least, I heard nothing of that kind. Nothing like that happened at all.’
‘Och weel,’ said the Sergeant philosophically. ‘We’ll maybe be mistaken. An’ by the way, Mr. Ferguson, I was tae ask ye no tae gae tae yer bed jist noo, because we’ll be wantin’ the room for the pairpose of observation.’
‘What am I to do then?’
‘Ye’ll jist come doon an’ sit wi’ the Fiscal in the back room.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ said Ferguson, yielding to the Sergeant’s clutch upon his arm, ‘but you’ve got it all wrong, you know. And if I’m not to get any rest tonight, I think I’
d better go over and ask for a bed at the Anwoth.’
‘That’s no a bad idea, sir,’ replied the Sergeant, ‘but we’ll ask ye tae bide here till 12 o’clock. I’ll jist run over tae the hotel an’ tell them tae expect ye.’
‘Oh, I can do that, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll no be pittin’ ye tae the trouble, sir,’ replied Dalziel, politely. He had used his torch to guide them down the stairs and now led his victim into the studio, where the Fiscal was once more placidly reading Blackwood by the light of a candle.
‘Sit ye doon, sir,’ he urged pleasantly. ‘I’ll be back in a crack. Ah! here’s Inspector Macphairson comin’ in wi’ the observation car. He’ll be company for ye.’
In a very few moments the Inspector came in.
‘Whit’s happened?’ asked the Sergeant, eagerly.
‘His Lordship is carryin’ on terrible over the corp,’ said the Inspector with a grin, ‘tryin’ tae revive it wi’ whuskey.’
‘Will ye bide here a moment, Inspector, while I rin over tae the Anwoth tae bespeak a room for Mr. Ferguson?’
Macpherson glanced from the frail figure of the Fiscal to Ferguson, kneading his handkerchief into a ball between his clammy hands. Then he nodded. The Sergeant went out. There was a long silence.
Sergeant Dalziel went no farther than the gate, where he flashed his torch. The bulky form of Constable Ross rose silently out of the hedge. Dalziel dispatched him to the hotel with a whispered message, and then went to see what was happening in the yard.
Here he found the Chief Constable extended flat on the ground, apparently receiving frantic first-aid from Wimsey.
‘Is he deid yet?’ asked Dalziel sympathetically.
‘As mutton,’ replied the murderer, sadly. ‘I daresay we ought to have spun the riot out a bit longer, but the great thing is that he’s dead. What’s the time? Half-past ten. That’s good enough. He breathed stertorously for a few minutes, and then, you know, he died. How did Ferguson take it?’
‘Badly’ replied the Sergeant ‘but he denies it.’
‘Naturally he would.’
‘He’s away tae the Anwoth for a quiet night.’
‘Then I hope he’ll sleep well. But we shall want him here till 12.’
‘Ay, I’ve settled that.’
‘Good. Carry on now. I’m supposed to be thinking out my plan of escape.’
The Sergeant waited for the return of P.C. Ross, and then went back to Ferguson’s house to announce that all was well.
‘How did your bit go, sir?’ he asked the Inspector.
‘Fine – the time worked out beautifully. We allowed five minutes for the struggle and five for the hair-cuttin’ business.’
‘Did anyone pass ye?’
‘Not a solitary soul.’
‘That was gude luck. Weel, I’ll away tae his lordship.’
‘Ay.’
‘But this is all wrong, you know Inspector,’ protested Ferguson. ‘A thing like that couldn’t have happened without my hearing it.’
‘It’ll maybe have taken place in the road,’ said the Inspector, diplomatically, ‘but it’s mair convenient tae du’t in private.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The Sergeant returned to the yard to find Wimsey laboriously hoisting the Chief Constable on his back. He carried the inert body into the garage and dumped it on the floor, rather heavily, ‘Hi!’ said the corpse. ‘You shut up,’ said Wimsey, ‘you’re dead, sir. I couldn’t drag you. It might leave marks.’
He stood looking down on the body.
‘No blood,’ he said, ‘thank God there’s no blood. I’ll do it. I must do it. I must think, that’s all. Think. I might pretend to be out fishing. But that’s no good. I’ve got to have a witness. Suppose I just leave him here and pretend that Farren did it. But Farren may have gone home. He’ll be able to prove he wasn’t here. Besides, I don’t want to get Farren into trouble if I can help it. Can’t I make it look like an accident.’
He went out to the car.
‘Better put this in,’ he said, ‘Farren might come back. If he does, I’ve got him. Or he’s got me. One or the other. No, that won’t do. Anyway, I can’t count on it. The accident’s the thing. And an alibi. Wait!’
He backed the car into the garage and switched the lights out.
‘Whiskey’s the next move, I think,’ said he. He picked up the bottle from where he had left it. ‘Probably, Dalziel, I did my thinking in the cottage, but just for the moment I’ll do it in the garage. I’ll just fetch a couple of glasses and the water-jug.’
A smothered shout from the garage indicated at this point that the corpse was growing restive.
‘All right, corpse,’ yelled Wimsey, cheerfully. ‘I’m getting drinks.’
He fetched the glasses and the water, Dalziel moving dog-like at his heels, and brought the whole consignment back to the garage.
‘We’ll all have a drink,’ he said. ‘Corpse, you may sit up. Now, listen. It’s difficult for me to think this plan out aloud now, because I know beforehand what it’s going to be. But I know that when I was detecting it, it took me about an hour to hit on the general outline of it, and a bit more to fill in the details. So we’ll give Ferguson all that time to play with. At about half-past eleven I shall begin to get to work. Meanwhile I think I’ll make out a list of the things I’ve got to do. It would be fatal to forget anything.’
He switched on the lights again, then switched them off.
‘Better not do that. Can’t run the risk of letting the batteries run down. Lend me your torch, Dalziel. I don’t want to do it at the cottage, under Ferguson’s nose. He might, of course, betray himself and confess, but he might not. Besides, I’d rather he didn’t really. I’ve set my heart on this reconstruction.’
He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and began to write. The Chief Constable and the Sergeant passed the whiskey bottle from hand to hand and conversed in whispers. Eleven o’clock struck from the church tower. Wimsey went on writing. At a quarter-past eleven, he read his notes through very carefully, and stowed them away in his pocket. After ten minutes more, he stood up.
‘I’m supposed to have made my plans now,’ he said, ‘more or less, that is. Now I’ve got to start work. I’ve got to sleep in two beds tonight, so I’ll start with Ferguson’s. Dalziel, you must be getting ready to be Strachan.’
The Sergeant nodded.
‘And the corpse had better stay here. Cheerio, folks. Leave a drink or two in the bottle for me.’
The corpse and the Sergeant stood for a moment at the door and watched Wimsey’s dark figure cross the yard. It was dark, but not pitch-dark, and they saw him slip through the door. Presently the light of a candle flickered in the bedroom. Dalziel moved away, got into the observation car and started it up.
‘Ferguson!’
Wimsey’s voice sounded a little hoarse. Ferguson rose and went to the foot of the stairway.
‘Come up here.’
Ferguson went up rather reluctantly, and found Wimsey with his shoes off, and in his shirt-sleeves standing by the bed.
‘I’m going to lie down and have a rest. I want you to wait here with me till something happens.’
‘This is a silly game.’
‘It is, rather. I’m afraid. But you’ll soon be out of it.’
Wimsey got into bed and drew the clothes over him. Ferguson took a chair by the window. Presently the noise of an approaching car was heard. It stopped at the gate, and footsteps passed hurriedly across the yard.
Knock, knock, knock.
Wimsey consulted his watch. Ten minutes after midnight. He got out of bed and stood close behind Ferguson, almost touching him.
‘Look out of the window, please.’
Ferguson obeyed. A dark form stood on Campbell’s threshold. It knocked again, stepped back and looked up at the windows, walked round the house and came round to the door again. Then it moved aside and seemed to fumble behind the window shutter. Then came the scrape of a key being fitted into a lo
ck. The door opened, and the figure went in.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
They watched again. There came a flash of light on the side window of the downstairs room. Then it passed away and presently appeared in the bedroom, the window of which faced Campbell’s. It moved as though it were being flashed about the room; then vanished. After a little time it reappeared downstairs and remained stationary.
‘Is that right?’
‘Not quite. It was matches, not a torch.’
‘I see. How did you know that, by the way? I thought you only heard this person come and didn’t see anything.’
He heard the hiss of Ferguson’s breath. Then:
‘Did I say that? I didn’t mean to give quite that impression. I heard the door open and saw the light upstairs. But I didn’t actually see the person who came.’
‘And you didn’t see him come out again?’
‘No.’
‘And you had no idea who it was?’
‘No.’
‘And you saw nobody else that night?’
‘Nobody.’
‘And you saw Campbell go off in his car at 7.30 next morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Then you can hop it now, if you want to.’
‘Well I think I will . . . I say Wimsey!’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh nothing! Good night!’
‘Good night.’
‘He nearly told me then’ said Wimsey. ‘Poor devil!’
Ferguson went out of the house and out of the gate. Two stealthy shadows crept out from the hedge and followed him.
Wimsey waited at the window till he saw Dalziel leave the next-door cottage and carefully lock the door behind him replacing the key in its hiding-place. When the hum of the car had died away in the distance, he ran hastily down the stairs, and across to the garage.
‘Corpse!’ he cried.
‘Yessir!’ said the corpse, smartly.
‘While that ghastly blighter was nosing round – I – in my role as murderer you understand – had an awful thought. All this time you’re getting stiff. If I leave you like that I shall never be able to pack you into the back of the car. Come out, sir, and be arranged in a nice hunched-up position.’
‘Don’t you dump me in the car earlier?’
Five Red Herrings Page 32
