The Polo Ground Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “It was stuck in a guelder bush—I think you call it guelder—not twenty yards from your painting ground. It was just by chance I came upon it as I was beating about.”

  “Was it one of Mr. Armadale’s?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea. We’ll make inquiries and see if we can trace where it was bought. It wasn’t bought at Cogswell and Harrison’s in Piccadilly, where Mr. Armadale always bought his guns and equipment. I’m afraid it may have been purchased abroad. If so, the outlook’s pretty hopeless.’'

  “Is it the pistol Armadale gave to Collyer?” asked Vereker eagerly.

  “No. Collyer is absolutely certain of that. The weapon he possessed had his initials, S.C., scratched on the side of the blued steel barrel.”

  “Well, I’m hanged!” exclaimed Vereker. “You’ve proved, of course, that it’s the automatic which fired the cartridge case which I picked up on the polo ground?”

  “That’s where I’m bally well clean bowled, Mr. Vereker. From the micro-photograph of the shell it fires, it’s almost as certain as certain can be that it’s not the pistol which discharged that cartridge.”

  Vereker sank back in his chair with a long-drawn, low whistle.

  “Well, if that doesn’t simply beat creation!” he exclaimed. “Heather, it looks to me as if this job has got the better of us both. From what you say it’s clear you’re all wrong about Peach, and, as for me, my man simply couldn’t have shot Armadale. But I think the time has come to talk of most important things. While trying to solve the mystery of that burglary, I’ve naturally kept a skinned eye on the worse issue of murder. I was certain from the first that they presented two distinct lines of inquiry, and up to this moment I was cocksure I’d unravelled the murder puzzle as well. And now you tell me this astounding yarn about the cartridge shell which completely shatters my whole theory. Listen while I tell you the sorry tale.”

  Lighting another cigarette, Vereker settled himself in his chair and recounted to the inspector his startling discoveries in the Armadale murder case, finishing his narration with an account of his recent interview with Captain Fanshaugh, but carefully omitting any mention of the part Fanshaugh had taken in the shooting of the financier.

  “You see, Heather,” he concluded, “I was certain from the evidence that this story of a duel was all bunk. It simply couldn’t have taken place. It was clear to me that Degerdon had funked things at the last moment or had shot Sutton with malice prepense. He had plenty of time to think things out on Thursday morning and, coming to the conclusion that he was simply going to offer himself as a target to a deadly shot, he decided that targets weren’t exactly in his line. It seems probable to me that he saw his chance immediately after Armadale had handed him his pistol for the fight and promptly took it. If it had been a square duel, why did he run away? When all the circumstances of the case had been made known, he’d have stood a sporting chance of dodging the hangman’s rope, to put it at its worst. Instead, he bolted, and with a guilty man’s conscience at once decided to get rid of the pistol. He declares he was unmanned, and in his distracted state flung away the pistol in Wild Duck Wood at the very spot where you found it. And now we face the shattering discovery that his pistol was not the one which discharged the cartridge I picked up on the polo ground! In the name of all that’s good, read me the riddle!”

  “Perhaps the cartridge case you picked up was put there purposely to tie us in a knot. Strange that I didn’t find it on the first search, Mr. Vereker,” suggested the inspector.

  “It’s possible, Heather, but it sounds a bit too complicated to be true. One more point. There’s still that second wound—the one in Armadale’s head—to be accounted for. Now you know my story of the bogus duel, what’s your idea about that wound?”

  “That’s easy, Mr. Vereker. I’ve thought all along that that wound might have been self-inflicted. The terrible wound in the abdomen must have been hellish painful, and Mr. Armadale just did what many a man would do in similar circumstances. He put himself out of mess.”

  “Ah, well,” yawned Vereker, “I’m going to bed to think things out. There’s a gap somewhere that I’ve overlooked in my eagerness. I’m going to go over the ground and find that gap. Let's hope that to-morrow we’ll see things a bit clearer. We’re about to breast the tape, if I’m not mistaken!”

  For some minutes Heather sat looking gloomily into space, and then with a shrug of his broad shoulders remarked: “To-morrow I think I’ll take out a warrant for Peach’s arrest. He has threatened to murder Ralli, and that’ll do to go on with in any case. Good night!”

  “I’m going up to town to-morrow, Heather,” replied Vereker, as he made his way to the door. “I shall apply for an order in lunacy. You’re getting dangerous, and the kindest thing we can do is to ‘have you put away,’ as it is called in the best circles. Good night!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Next morning Vereker did not rise at his usual early hour for breakfast. He lay awake in bed trying to find some solution to the puzzle which now confronted him in the Armadale case. He had met with one of the set-backs inseparable from this kind of pursuit, but the occasion of its occurrence seemed to have been arranged by something saturnine in that mystery we call Chance. At the very moment when he had thought that an answer was imminent and the whole sequence of events had appeared to be to him as clear as daylight, something cataclysmal had happened and the carefully reasoned structure which he had raised threatened to crumble to irreparable ruin. The more he pondered on it the more convinced he was that one vital link was missing in the chain of evidence, but he was utterly at a loss to know where to seek it. If only Heather had discovered that the automatic pistol found in Wild Duck Wood was the instrument which had fired the cartridge case which he had so luckily picked up on the polo ground, his task would have been satisfactorily completed. It would then have rested with Heather to arrest Degerdon as the murderer. As for Captain Fanshaugh, if he chose to confess to his shooting of the financier as an act of mercy, he must be prepared to accept the interpretation that an English judge and jury might care to pronounce thereon. It was, thought Vereker, completely outside his province to hold the scales of justice on such a debatable point. On thinking over the matter, he suddenly decided to call on Captain Fanshaugh and let him know the strange story of the automatic pistol which Degerdon had flung away and which was now in the hands of the police. Rising, he hurriedly dressed, breakfasted, and made his way down to Jodhpur. On passing Heather’s room, he found the door open and that everything within had been cleaned and tidied up by the inn chamber-maid. It was evident that the inspector was astir early and had already started off on some mission of his own, possibly to interview Degerdon. The officer had made some cryptic remark about getting out a warrant for Peach’s arrest when Vereker had left him the night before, but Vereker had dismissed his words as part of Heather’s usual playful banter.

  On arriving at Jodhpur, Vereker found Captain Fanshaugh seated on the veranda of his bungalow quietly enjoying one of his strong Indian cigars and looking the picture of healthy contentment.

  “Come and sit down and have a peg of whisky, Vereker,” he exclaimed, on seeing his visitor. “By the Lord Harry, I’m sorry, I forgot I finished the whisky last night after you left. Norah has gone down to Nuthill in her Austin and will bring some back with her, but Heaven knows when she’ll return. In any case, it’s too early for detectives to drink. What’s the news? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fairly up a gum tree, whatever that may mean,” replied Vereker, flinging himself into a deck-chair beside Fanshaugh.

  “Always sounds a jolly salubrious spot to me,” remarked the captain, “but let me know the worst. Are they going to put us through the ruddy hoop?”

  “Look here, Fanshaugh,” said Vereker calmly, “there’s something gloriously cock-eyed about this yarn of Degerdon’s.”

  “So you averred last night and proved to your own complete satisfaction. I simply fell in lov
e with your reasoning. It seemed unanswerable at the moment, but now, do you know, I simply can’t swallow it. It sticks half-way down my gullet. I know Degerdon fairly well, and I cannot think he told me just a bally pack of lies. Of course he’s in a tight corner and may purposely have foiled the line for my benefit, but I’m still feeling loyal to him. What’s the latest?”

  “The police have found his automatic in Wild Duck Wood,” said Vereker.

  “At last! I thought it would happen. Where on earth did they pick it up?”

  “It wasn’t on earth, it was in the air, caught in a tangle of guelder.”

  “Ah, well, the correct thing to say, I believe, is, ‘The game’s up. It’s a fair cop.’ I suppose the next thing will be to fit Degerdon with a pair of bracelets.”

  “I’m not so sure about that now,” said Vereker. “Last night I thought I’d wound up the business and put up the shutters. To-day the end seems as far out of sight as ever. Heather has had the automatic examined, and fired some shots out of it. They are still trying to trace where and by whom it was bought. That will take time. But the bombshell Heather flung at me, after telling me all this, was that it’s not the weapon which fired the cartridge case picked up by me on the polo ground!”

  “They’ve found that out under the microscope, I suppose, but can they be certain?”

  “Well, as certain as it is possible to be in such cases.”

  “Would they hang a man on such evidence?”

  “That’s a moot point, but I should say not solely on such evidence. The result of their examination, however, seems to prove that the weapon found in Wild Duck Wood is not the weapon Degerdon used. If it is Degerdon’s automatic, then where on earth did the cartridge case I picked up come from? To me it doesn’t seem reasonable to assume that some one has been faking clues to jigger up the circumstantial evidence.”

  “I can truthfully say that I haven’t faked those clues, and as I’ve said before, I don’t think Degerdon is wily enough to do so. I asked him about his spent cartridge case, and he hadn’t the vaguest idea that it was a matter of any importance. There’s another point, Vereker, which has puzzled me since yesterday. What’s your opinion of the number of shots fired? I wouldn’t be positive, but I thought I heard two reports before I arrived on the scene. They were in very quick succession, as one would expect, and I’m rather observant on such matters—army training, I suppose. If Armadale didn’t fire his weapon, as you seem to have proved, how do you account for that?”

  “It's very difficult to be certain. You may have heard the echo of the shot Degerdon fired. With these surrounding woods the place abounds with echoes. Collyer and Ralli both say they heard only two reports. It seems to be getting a more intricately tangled mystery than ever.”

  “Well, I’m nearly certain that there were two shots apart from my own, and that was why your statement about Sutton not having fired a round fairly took the feet from under me. But I’m getting hungry, and it’s tiffin-time. Norah left it all ready. It’s cold fodder but filling. Will you join me?”

  Vereker accepted the invitation, and the men were just about to leave the veranda and enter the bungalow when a car swung into the gates at a dangerous pace and pulled up on the gravel square in front of them. The door opened and Ralph Degerdon sprang out of the driver’s seat and joined them. He looked pale and in a highly nervous state.

  “What’s the matter, Ralph?” asked Fanshaugh, eyeing him with kindly concern.

  “The most amazing thing on earth has happened, ‘Fruity.’ Have you anything to drink?”

  “Plenty, boy. There’s no whisky, but there’s water. It’s good enough for lions and it’s good enough for you. But never mind drinks, tell us what’s happened.”

  “There has been a double shooting tragedy on the Vesey Manor estate this morning. The C.I.D. inspector was walking with Basil Ralli on their way up to Collyer’s cottage, when Peach, who used to be Sutton’s underkeeper, stepped out of Wild Duck Wood and, whipping out an automatic, plugged Ralli and then made a run for it. Jealousy, you know, over that rather lovely wench, Trixie. The inspector doesn’t look like a greyhound, but he gave chase. He must be a damned good sprinter and as tenacious as a bulldog. Peach blazed at him, but he hung on like a good ’un and was just about to grapple with his man when the fellow put the pistol to his own head and shot himself. It was a bungled job, and he didn’t die outright. He lived long enough to make a hurried confession of his sins. He said he had settled Ralli because the chap had pinched his girl, and then confessed he had shot Sutton Armadale on the polo ground last Thursday morning for interfering in his relations with the young lady, giving him the sack, and refusing to give him a reference to get another job. After getting this off his chest he apparently died quite happy.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Fanshaugh fervently. “This is about the rummest news I’ve ever heard in my life! But, Degerdon, before you begin to congratulate yourself, let me tell you the secret of your duel is out. Heather knows the whole story, if I’m not greatly mistaken.”

  “Oh, heavens!” groaned Degerdon. “I thought I was well out of the wood.”

  Sinking into a chair, he sat dazed—like a man who has received a staggering blow.

  “But how can Peach’s story about shooting Sutton Armadale be believed?” asked Vereker quietly. “The fellow wasn’t on the polo ground at the time.”

  “You’re mistaken, Vereker,” replied Degerdon slowly, recovering his composure. “Peach came on the scene just as we were about to fight. Although I was determined to go through with it, the more I thought of that duel after we’d arranged it, the more I disliked the look of it. For some time Armadale had had his knife in me over Edmée, and on several previous occasions had insulted me openly. I stuck it for Edmée’s sake until I could stick it no longer. There’s a limit even to my good nature. Finally, between two and three o’clock on Thursday morning, when he found me in her room and at once accused me of improper conduct, I cut loose and had the greatest difficulty in restraining myself from striking him. He pointed out that there was a way in which a gentleman could demand satisfaction, and on the spur of the moment we arranged a duel in a manner which wouldn’t give my youth any advantage.”

  “Excuse my interrupting you, Degerdon, but would you mind telling us the real reason for your going down to Miss Cazas’ room? Had you seen her entering her room from the balcony?” asked Vereker.

  “Is it necessary to bring Miss Cazas any further into this rotten affair?” asked Degerdon coldly.

  “It may be quite unimportant now, Degerdon, but I have a pet theory which I should like to substantiate, and I’m only asking you as a personal favour,” replied Vereker tactfully.

  “Strange that you should mention the point, but when I was standing at my window early on Thursday morning—I have already mentioned the occasion to you, Vereker—I saw a young man clamber over the balcony balustrade and enter the house by Edmée’s door. I was flabbergasted and could scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes. About this time, let me say, I was getting rather fed up with Edmée’s treatment of me. In fact, I had seriously begun to question her good faith in a certain matter which I would rather not mention, so I made up my mind to go down and investigate. I pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers and descended to her room. To my great surprise, I found her all rigged up in a man’s togs, and asked her what the devil she was up to. She simply burst out laughing, and having changed into her pyjamas in her dressing-room, came out and explained that she had been playing a prank on Angela next door. She said that as Angela was so frightfully proper she had often wondered how an English girl would deal with a handsome male intruder...”

  “A remarkable sense of humour! Thanks, Degerdon, that’s all I want to know. Go on with the main story,” interrupted Vereker.

  “Well, after Sutton and I had fixed up the fight, I began to see that I had practically condemned myself to death. He was a crack shot with an automatic; I had never handled one before and, what
was particularly galling, he had practically driven me into this duel against my will and common sense. It was then I suggested that ‘Fruity’ should witness the combat to see that everything was above board. Sutton rather bucked against this, but couldn’t very well refuse my request. ‘Fruity,’ as you probably know, refused the job, and there was no one else in the house I cared to call on to act as director. I was bally uneasy about the whole business and had really begun to doubt whether Sutt was going to play fair. However, I was determines not to show the white feather, and we went grimly through with our plans. My good faith in Sutton was not strengthened by a curious little incident which occurred just after we’d marked off our stances and he had handed me my automatic. I had previously examined both pistols, rather ineffectually, I admit, and now I discovered that the safety-catch of mine had been locked. A man used to revolvers isn’t on the look-out for such a device on a pistol, and it was just by accident that I spotted this peculiarity. Lucky for me that I did! Otherwise it would have been impossible for me to fire the pistol at the crucial moment. This safety-catch incident was disturbing, and I was now perhaps unduly suspicious of Sutton, whom I had never really distrusted before. At this juncture, just as we were about to take up our positions, Frank Peach, who used to be Sutton’s underkeeper, came across the polo ground on his way to Nuthill Station. In my nervous state and being determined to ensure perfect fairness in our fight, I called upon him as a sportsman to act as director. Sutton was agreeable, and we gave Peach careful instructions to shout, ‘Attention! Fire! One! Two! Three!’ and told him that either combatant might shoot after the word ‘fire’ and keep on shooting until, but not after, the word ‘three.’ After taking it all in, Peach consented to act on condition that, whatever happened, neither of us would divulge the part he had played in the business or drag his name into any subsequent proceedings, should any arise. We both swore on our honour as gentlemen to keep our lips sealed, and walked to our positions. We had tossed for ends and I had won. Thinking that there was nothing in it either way, I took up my ground nearer the house and facing west. The sun hadn’t risen, so there wasn’t much advantage in the choice. Peach told us to get ready, and we stood facing one another with our pistol butts on our thighs, mine on my right and his on his left. I discovered in that moment that Sutton was left-handed. I had never noticed this peculiarity previously. Also I saw that his right ear stuck out from and his left ear hugged the side of his head. Strange what irrelevant trivialities bulge out on your vision as something terribly important in a crisis! We were ready. Peach glanced first at me and then at Sutton. He was standing about two yards from Sutton at the most. ‘Attention!’ came the shout, and my whole soul seemed to be located in my trigger finger. I had never felt life rush to a point like that before. It was the wildest exhilaration I had ever experienced. I seemed to be waiting hours for the word ‘fire’ when Sutton all at once loosed off without raising his pistol from his thigh. Instantly I pulled my trigger. I don’t remember Peach ever shouting the word ‘fire!’ but I wasn’t going to stand like a deserter to be shot down without replying. The next thing I knew was that Sutton was lying on the ground writhing in pain, and Peach was running like the wind for Wild Duck Wood. Panic seized me. and without giving Sutton a thought, I simply bunked and followed Peach into the covert. I didn’t overtake him, and when I reached the wood he had completely vanished. I have never seen him to speak to since that moment. That’s the unvarnished story of what happened on Thursday morning.”