The Chief Inspector handed over the key, and his lordship departed.
The party assembled in the dining-room was in no very companionable mood. In fact, all the conversation was supplied by the police, who kept up a chatty exchange of fishing reminiscences, while Mr Payne glowered, the two Grimbolds smoked cigarette after cigarette, and the cook and the butler balanced themselves nervously on the extreme edges of their chairs. It was a relief when the telephone-bell rang.
Parker glanced at his watch as he got up to answer it. ‘Seven-fifty-seven,’ he observed, and saw the butler pass his handkerchief over his twitching lips. ‘Keep your eye on the windows.’ He went out into the hall.
‘Hullo!’ he said.
‘Is that Chief-Inspector Parker?’ asked a voice he knew well. ‘This is Lord Peter Wimsey’s man speaking from his lordship’s rooms in London. Would you hold the line a moment? His lordship wishes to speak to you.’
Parker heard the receiver set down and lifted again. Then Wimsey’s voice came through: ‘Hullo, old man? Have you found that car yet?’
‘We’ve heard of a car,’ replied the Chief Inspector cautiously, ‘at a Road-House on the Great North Road, about five minutes’ walk from the house.’
‘Was the number ABJ 28?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I thought it might be. It was hired from a London garage at five o’clock yesterday afternoon and brought back just before ten. Have you traced Mrs Winter?’
‘Yes, I think so. She landed from the Calais boat this evening. So apparently she’s O.K.’
‘I thought she might be. Now listen. Do you know that Harcourt Grimbold’s affairs are in a bit of a mess? He nearly had a crisis last July, but somebody came to his rescue – possibly his Uncle, don’t you think? All rather fishy, my informant saith. And I’m told, very confidentially, that he’s got badly caught over the Biggars-Whitlow crash. But of course he’ll have no difficulty in raising money now, on the strength of Uncle’s will. But I imagine the July business gave Uncle William a jolt. I expect –’
He was interrupted by a little burst of tinkling music, followed by the eight silvery strokes of a bell.
‘Hear that? Recognise it? That’s the big French clock in my sitting-room … What? All right, Exchange, give me another three minutes. Bunter wants to speak to you again.’
The receiver rattled, and the servant’s suave voice took up the tale.
‘His lordship asks me to ask you, sir, to ring off at once and go straight into the dining-room.’
Parker obeyed. As he entered the room, he got an instantaneous impression of six people, sitting as he had left them, in an expectant semi-circle, their eyes strained towards the french windows. Then the library door opened noiselessly and Lord Peter Wimsey walked in.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Parker, involuntarily. ‘How did you get here?’ The six heads jerked round suddenly.
‘On the back of the light waves,’ said Wimsey, smoothing back his hair. ‘I have travelled eighty miles to be with you, at 186,000 miles a second.’
‘It was rather obvious, really,’ said Wimsey, when they had secured Harcourt Grimbold (who fought desperately) and his brother Neville (who collapsed and had to be revived with brandy). It had to be those two; they were so very much elsewhere – almost absolutely elsewhere. The murder could only have been committed between 7.57 and 8.6, and there had to be a reason for that prolonged phone-call about something that Harcourt could very well have explained when he came. And the murderer had to be in the library before 7.57, or he would have been seen in the hall – unless Grimbold had let him in by the french window, which didn’t appear likely.
‘Here’s how it was worked. Harcourt set off from town in a hired car about six o’clock, driving himself. He parked the car at the Road-House, giving some explanation. I suppose he wasn’t known there?’
‘No; it’s quite a new place; only opened last month.’
‘Ah! Then he walked the last quarter-mile on foot, arriving here at 7.45. It was dark, and he probably wore galoshes, so as not to make a noise coming up the path. He let himself into the conservatory with a duplicate key.’
‘How did he get that?’
‘Pinched Uncle William’s key off his ring last July, when the old boy was ill. It was probably the shock of hearing that his dear nephew was in trouble that caused the illness. Harcourt was here at the time – you remember it was only Neville that had to be “sent for” – and I suppose Uncle paid up then, on conditions. But I doubt if he’d have done as much again – especially as he was thinking of getting married. And I expect, too, Harcourt thought that Uncle might easily alter his will after marriage. He might even have founded a family, and what would poor Harcourt do then, poor thing? From every point of view, it was better that Uncle should depart this life. So the duplicate key was cut and the plot thought out, and Brother Neville who would “do anything for Mr Harcourt,” was roped in to help. I’m inclined to think that Harcourt must have done something rather worse than merely lose money, and Neville may have troubles of his own. But where was I?’
‘Coming in at the conservatory door.’
Oh, yes – that’s the way I came tonight. He’d take cover in the garden and would know when Uncle William went into the dining-room, because he’d see the library light go out. Remember, he knew the household. He came in, in the dark, locking the outer door after him, and waited by the telephone until Neville’s call came through from London. When the bell stopped ringing, he lifted the receiver in the library. As soon as Neville had spoken his little piece, Harcourt chipped in. Nobody could hear him through these sound-proof doors, and Hamworthy couldn’t possibly tell that his voice wasn’t coming from London. In fact, it was coming from London, because, as the phones are connected in parallel, it could only come by way of the Exchange. At eight o’clock, the grandfather clock in Jermyn Street struck – further proof that the London line was open. The minute Harcourt heard that, he called on Neville to speak again, and hung up under cover of the rattle of Neville’s receiver. Then Neville detained Hamworthy with a lot of rot about a suit, while Harcourt walked into the dining-room, stabbed his uncle, and departed by the window. He had five good minutes in which to hurry back to his car and drive off – and Hamworthy and Payne actually gave him a few minutes more by suspecting and hampering one another.’
‘Why didn’t he go back through the library and conservatory?’
‘He hoped everybody would think that the murderer had come in by the window. In the meantime, Neville left London at 8.20 in Harcourt’s car, carefully drawing the attention of a policeman and a garage man to the licence number as he passed through Welwyn. At an appointed place outside Welwyn he met Harcourt, primed him with his little story about tail-lights, and changed cars with him. Neville returned to town with the hired bus; Harcourt came back here with his own car. But I’m afraid you’ll have a little difficulty in finding the weapon and the duplicate key and Harcourt’s blood-stained gloves and coat. Neville probably took them back, and they may be anywhere. There’s a good, big river in London.’
A Shot At Goal
A MONTAGUE EGG STORY
A WORKMAN PUT IN his head at the door of the Saloon Bar.
‘Is Mr Robbins here?’
The stout gentleman who was discussing football with Mr Montague Egg turned at the sound of his name.
‘Yes? Oh, it’s Warren. What is it, Warren?’
‘A note, sir. Handed in at the Mills just after you left. As it was marked “Urgent” I thought I’d best bring it down. I’d have took it up to the house, sir, only they told me in the town as you’d stepped in to the Eagle.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mr Robbins. ‘Urgent only to the sender, I expect, as usual.’ He tore open the envelope and glanced at the message, and his face changed. ‘Who brought this?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. It was pushed in through the letter-flap in the gate.’
‘Ah, very good. Thank you, Warren.’
> The workman withdrew, and Mr Robbins said, after a moment’s thought:
‘If Mr Edgar should look in, Bowles, will you tell him I’ve changed my mind and gone back to the Mill, and I’ll be glad if he’d come and see me there, before he goes up to the house.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
‘I’ll take a few sandwiches with me. There’s a bit of work I want to put in, and it may keep me.’
Mr Bowles obligingly put up the sandwiches into a parcel, and Mr Robbins departed, with a brief ‘Goodnight, all.’
‘That’s the general manager up at the Mills,’ observed Mr Bowles. ‘Been here five years now. Takes a great interest in the town. He’s a member of the Football Committee.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Mr Egg.
‘I see you’re keen on the game,’ went on the landlord.
‘In a business capacity,’ replied Mr Egg, ‘I’m keen on whatever the gentleman I’m talking to is keen on. As it says in The Salesman’s Handbook, “The haberdasher gets the golfer’s trade by talking, not of buttons, but of Braid.” Isn’t that right, sir?’
He appealed to a quiet, dark man in plus-fours.
‘Very smart,’ said the latter, smiling. ‘And apt,’ he added, with a glance at his own golf clubs leaning against the counter. Mr Egg permitted himself a modest smirk.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bowles, ‘from a business point of view, you’re dead right. In a place like this you’ve got to keep on the right side of them you live by. And so I told Hughie Searle only yesterday.’
Mr Egg nodded. The Twiddleton Mills were a very small factory, reproducing only a limited output of the superior homespuns known as Twiddleton Tweeds; but Twiddleton was a very small town, and the Mills formed the axis about which its life revolved.
‘Who’s Hughie Searle?’ demanded Mr Egg.
‘Best goal the Twiddleton Trojans ever had,’ replied Mr Bowles. ‘Born and bred in the town, too. But he got across Mr Robbins over that business about young Fletcher, and he’s been dropped out of the team. I don’t say it’s fair, but you can’t blame the committee. They’re all business men and they’ve got to eat out of Robbins’s hand, as you might say. And I told Hughie, Bill Fletcher might be a friend of his, but there’s two sides to every question, and when it comes to language and threats to a gentleman in Mr Robbins’s position, you can’t hardly expect him to pass it over.’
‘No,’ said Mr Charteris, the quiet man, suddenly, ‘unless you take the view that footballers should be picked on their form as players, and not for personal considerations.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Bowles, ‘but that’s what Vicar would call a counsel of perfection. People talk a lot about the team spirit and let the best side win, but if you was to sit in this bar and listen to what goes on, it’s all spite and jealousy, or else it’s how to scrape up enough money to entice away some other team’s centre-forward, or it’s complaints about favouritism or wrong decisions, or something that leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. The game’s not what it was when I was a lad. Too much commercialism, and enough back-biting to stock an old maids’ tea-party.’
‘What happened to Bill Fletcher, by the way?’ asked the quiet man.
‘Chucked up his job and left the town,’ said the landlord. ‘I think he’s gone to live with his father at Wickersby. They’re still using that invention of his, whatever it was, up at the Mills, and they do say it saves them a lot of money, and he wasn’t rightly done by. But Mr Entwistle told me Fletcher hadn’t a leg to stand on, according to the terms of the contract, and being a solicitor, he should know.’
‘The way of an inventor is hard in this country,’ said the quiet man.
‘Very likely, sir,’ agreed Mr Bowles. ‘I never had no turn that way myself, and perhaps it’s just as well. Ah! Good evening, Mr Edgar. Your dad was in here a few minutes back and left a message as he’d changed his mind and gone back to the Mills and he’d be obliged if you’d go and see him up there right away.’
‘Oh, did he?’ said the young man who had just come in. He was a tall, loose-limbed, loose-lipped youngster, somewhat showily dressed, and appeared to have been drinking rather more than was good for him. ‘Give us a double whisky, Bowles, and look here, if anybody asks you, I didn’t come in here, and I never got the Governor’s message. See?’
‘Very good, Mr Edgar,’ said the landlord, with a surreptitious wink at Monty. He eyed Edgar Robbins thoughtfully, as though gauging his capacity, seemed to decide that he could just take a double whisky without overflowing, and fulfilled the order. Edgar put the drink down at a gulp, glanced at the clock, which marked twenty minutes to eight, muttered something and banged his way out of the bar, nearly colliding in the doorway with another young man, who scowled angrily at his retreating back.
‘Did you see that?’ said the newcomer. ‘I’d like to teach that young – manners. Him and his – old father are a pair, the dirty –!’
‘Now then, Hughie!’ protested Mr Bowles. An elderly man, who had been reading his paper by the fire, got up and went out with a look of disgust. ‘I can’t allow that sort of language in my bar. You’ve driven that gentleman away, and him a stranger to the town. A nice idea he’ll get of Twiddleton. And in front of Mr Charteris, too. I’m surprised.’
‘Sorry, Mr Charteris. Sorry, Mr Bowles. But I’ve had about enough of Robbinses. The old man’s got his knife into me, all right. Dropping me for that fool Benson, against the Swallows! I don’t mind standing aside for a better man – but Benson! Him keep goal – keeping chickens is all he’s fit for. It’s a damned insult. And young Edgar charging into me like a clumsy great goat and never saying so much as “Pardon,” the insolent lout!’
‘Steady,’ said Mr Bowles. ‘’Tisn’t the first time you’ve stood up to a charge, Hughie. Young Edgar’s had one over the eight. And he’s a bit put out. His dad left a message he was going up to the Mills and wanted to see him there, and Mr Edgar wasn’t having any. Told me to say he hadn’t been in and didn’t get the message. Spot of trouble there, I wouldn’t wonder. Maybe the old gentleman’s on to some of the ways he spends the money.’
‘Time, too,’ said Hughie. ‘Half of old-an’-mild, Mr Bowles, if you please. Young Edgar’s too much of a gentleman to work at the Mills, but he’s not to grand to take the cash and spend it on skirts. Be damned to the lot of them! I haven’t finished with old Robbins yet.’
‘The less you have to do with Mr Robbins the better,’ said Mr Bowles, severely. ‘You’ll let that temper of yours get the better of you once too often, and say something you’ll be sorry for. What’s the time? Quarter to. Your chop’ll be just about ready now, Mr Egg, if you’ll kindly step through to the parlour?
‘I must be getting along, too,’ said Charteris. He picked up his clubs, bestowed a pleasant farewell upon the company and went out, leaving Hughie Searle alone before the bar, his dark eyes glowering, and his bullet head humped sulkily between his broad, square shoulders.
At half-past eight, Mr Egg, having consumed his chop and chips, strolled back into the bar. Hughie Searle had gone, but the room had filled up and Mr Bowles, assisted now by a barman, was doing a brisk trade. The Eagle was the only hotel of genuine importance in the little town, and all Twiddletonians of any standing passed through its hospitable door most evenings in the week. Mr Egg had not been working that district of late, but he rediscovered several patrons and acquaintances who remembered him from six years back and were glad to see him. He was deep in conversation with Mr Harcourt, the bank manager, when the door was hastily flung open and a man rushed in breathlessly, his eyes starting out of his head.
‘Help! Murder! I want the police!’
Every head turned; every mug and glass hung suspended; Mr Bowles, grasping the handle of the beer-engine, let half a pint of bitter overflow the pot and go flowing down the pipe.
‘Why, Ted, what’s up?’
The man staggered to the settle and dropped down, panting. Eager faces bent over him.
‘Anything wr
ong up at the Mills?’
‘Mr Robbins – lying in his office – with his ’ead bashed in – all of a mask of blood. Get the police! It’s murder!’
‘Old Mr Robbins!’
‘Yes, the boss. A dretful sight it was.’
‘But ’oo done it?’
‘Think I stopped to see? I come off, fast as me legs could carry me.’
‘Didn’t you ring up the police?’
‘Wot? And ’ave ’im come up behind me and dot me one? Not me! There might be a gang of ’em ’anging round the place.’
‘Well, you’re a fine night-watchman,’ said Mr Bowles, ‘I don’t think. Racing down here that-a-way and the murderer maybe escaping all this while. Didn’t think to lock the gate after you, I suppose? ’Course you didn’t. Now, you pull yourself together and take a couple of the lads and go straight on back to the Mills, and I’ll ring up Inspector Weybridge. That’s right, George. You give ’im a brandy and try to make a man of ’im.’
‘I’ll run him up to the Mills,’ suggested Mr Egg, to whom a murder or a mystery was very nearly as satisfying as an order for 12 dozen ports at 190s. the dozen. ‘My car’s just out in the yard. I can start her up in two seconds.’
‘That’s fine,’ said the landlord. ‘And I don’t mind if I come myself. George, reach me my big stick, in case we meet anything, and ring up the police-station and tell the Missus I’ve gone out for a bit and can she come and ’elp in the bar. Now then, Ted, my lad. Up you come! Mr Robbins murdered! That’s a nice thing to ’appen.’
Mr Egg, by this time, had got his car started. Mr Bowles climbed in beside him and Ted was accommodated in the back seat, between the banker and a young farmer, who had added themselves to the party.
Dorothy L. Sayers Page 4
