by Derek Smith
He leaned back again and rested his arm on the bag beside him. Querrin glanced at it. He said politely:
"I hope you had time to pack all you need."
Algy grinned. "I shan't need much more than a tooth brush." He added mildly: "And this."
He had unzipped the bag and was groping inside it. Then something gleamed dully in his hand. Peter Querrin saw with a slight shock of surprise that it was an automatic pistol.
Lawrence slipped out the cartridge clip and examined it. Then he smacked home the magazine with the heel of his hand and looked up with a slight glint of amusement in his lazy blue eyes. He said:
"This wouldn't be awfully effective against a ghost."
The gun snout moved in a gentle arc. "But it does have its uses." Peter Querrin made a tiny sound deep in his throat.
Lawrence said quietly:
"Let's be frank. Are you sure you've told me everything?"
Querrin said:
"Put that thing away."
"Does it bother you?”
Peter said flatly:
"I don't like guns."
"Neither do I." Algy thumbed down the safety catch and slipped the pistol into his pocket. "But then I don't like murderers either. Which is the main reason why I carry it. "
"The point is," said Peter with a trace of humour, "the point is, do you use it?"
Algy chuckled. "Not often. Steve doesn't like me to shoot people." His eyelids drooped. "I asked you a question, Peter."
Querrin made a brief, oddly despairing motion with his hand. "I've told you all I know."
Lawrence shook his head. "No. Never mind the family ghost. I'm a detective, remember. I want to know if your brother has any human enemies."
Something stirred at the back of Querrin's eyes and his mouth slackened suddenly. He said: "Oh," very quietly.
Lawrence grinned again. He said:
"You see what I mean. Secrets are hard to keep in a small village. You have servants, I suppose? They might be talking." Algy stopped smiling.
He finished grimly:
"Anybody may hear of your brother's intentions. And Bristley wouldn't be particularly surprised to hear tomorrow that Roger had come to some harm. Old Tom has an evil reputation."
His voice dropped. "Roger will be alone to-night. He'll be an inviting target. It's my business to see nobody takes a shot at him."
Peter seemed upset. "The Inspector thought this, too?"
"Of course. Why else should he call in Sergeant Hardinge?"
Querrin nodded slowly.
Lawrence said:
"Well then. Let's look for a motive. Who would be interested in your brother's—death?"
It was the first time the word had passed between them, and it had an ugly sound. The train's whistle blasted shrilly, and Peter began to speak hurriedly.
"Turner," he said, as though the name hurt his mouth "Simon Turner. He's the only one. The only man you could call Roger's enemy." He paused, then added: "As far as I know." He looked at Lawrence reproachfully, "I didn't want to tell you all this. It sounds so feeble."
"Never mind. Who is Simon Turner?"
"You remember I told you Querrin House had been closed for years. Well, old Simon was the caretaker who looked after it for us. He's a queer, skinnily built old fellow, crusty as the devil—and more than a little touched if you ask me. He'd lived in the house nearly all his life and looked on the place as his own."
Peter shrugged nervously. "I expect you can see what’s coming. We re-opened the building and had trouble with him right from the start. Roger had the place entirely re-decorated and repaired, and Turner didn't like it. One way or the other, he made such a nuisance of himself we had to get rid of him. Roger offered him a fair pension, of course, but insisted Simon left the Querrin House at once."
"I can guess the rest," murmured Algy. "The old boy cut up rough?"
"Yes. I told you before he seems more than a trifle mad. He went stumping about raving that Roger had robbed him of his birthright, or some such nonsense. I believe his father was some sort of old family retainer, come to think of it. Not that it makes any difference."
"Except to a mental case," replied Lawrence. "Did he threaten your brother?"
"Yes," said Peter carefully, "and no."
"That's a good answer. What does it mean?"
Querrin smiled faintly. "Sorry. This is going to sound dam' silly." He hesitated. "Simon Turner threatened my brother with—the ghost."
"Did he now." Lawrence seemed to be falling asleep. "How, exactly?"
"He said Roger could do what he wished but he'd never escape the wrath of old Tom Querrin."
"That doesn't have to mean anything," returned Algy quietly. "Turner may believe what he says. But the wish can be father to the thought."
Peter said wearily:
"It's all very silly at second hand. You didn't see the cold malevolence on the old man's face."
Algy Lawrence studied him in silence. Then he laughed, leaned over, and clapped a friendly hand on Ouerrin's shoulder.
"Cheer up, Peter. We'll put such a guard on Roger to-night—no human hand will reach him."
2
Their train arrived at Bristley in the early afternoon. Lawrence had already decided upon his opening move. He needed a dependable ally, and the obvious man to approach was the local Sergeant.
Peter had been expecting this. He guided his guest towards the village police station.
It conformed to a pleasant tradition by looking exactly like the converted country cottage it was. Only the bars at the frosted windows marred its placid attraction.
The two men came to a halt outside.
Peter asked hesitantly:
"Would you rather see Hardinge alone?"
"Yes, I think so," agreed Lawrence.
A shade of relief appeared on Querrin's face at the young man's answer. Though he had been largely responsible for Castle's decision to call in the Sergeant, he hadn't been looking forward to another three-handed discussion of ways and means. Both Hardinge and Lawrence had much steadier nerves than he, and the coming interview—which might prove rather difficult—would be better left to them alone.
Algy was thinking much the same thing, though for a different reason. He was shrinking from the almost impossible task of convincing a hard headed policeman that a man might need to be protected from a ghost. "Still," he reflected cheerfully, "I can always put this blame on Steve."
Peter said:
"I'll take your bag and put it in your room." He paused. "Shall I wait here, or—."
Lawrence cut him short. "Don't bother, I'll find somebody to direct me to the house."
He grinned. "See you later."
Querrin nodded. He went down the street with a lighter step, swinging the zippered grip.
Lawrence turned his back on the post office across the way and went into the station.
He stepped into the porch, pushed open the inner door marked Inquiries, and found himself in the Charge Room.
The uniformed man behind the desk looked up politely. "Yes?"
"Sergeant Hardinge?"
"That's right."
"My name's Lawrence," Algy began, a trifle diffidently. A bright self confidence in his intellectual capabilities still hadn't yet endowed him with the traditional brashness of the amateur detective.
Hardinge smiled, stood up and came round the desk to shake hands. "Why yes, sir. Chief Inspector Castle 'phoned me you were coming."
Relieved to find that his friend had prepared the way, Algy regarded his new ally with amiable interest. Hardinge was a short thick-set man of around forty. Grizzled grey hair cropped close to his skull, a dapper moustache, and an upright bearing intensified his noticeably military air. He had keen blue eyes (paler than the young man's own) and a pleasantly strident voice: Lawrence respected him immediately.
Their handshake was friendly and vigorous. Hardinge led the way into his living quarters. Since they adjoined the station proper, he had only to leave
open the communicating door to keep an eye on his official desk and the street entrance.
"Cosy," remarked Algy, "and compact."
Possibly suspecting a shade of patronage in his London visitor's comment, the Sergeant said dryly: "This isn't the Yard. But the cells are strong enough." Then relenting, he asked: "Would you like a cup of tea, sir?"
"Don't trouble, please."
"No trouble at all, sir," said Hardinge cheerfully. "The kettle's boiling."
A persistent whistle from the tiny kitchen emphasized the truth of this, and the Sergeant disappeared.
When he returned a little while later, he discovered Algy Lawrence at his ease in a comfortable chair. Putting down the tray, Hardinge said quietly:
"A council of war, sir?"
Lawrence said frankly:
"Yes. But I'll admit I'm at a disadvantage. You know these people, Sergeant, and I don't. Peter Querrin, now. What do you make of him?"
Hardinge shrugged. "Young Mr. Querrin? A likeable man. But impressionable and nervy. And when young gentlemen are nervy," pronouncing the word with a kind of good-humoured contempt, "they imagine things."
Lawrence laughed briefly, deep in his throat. Taking the teacup offered him, he said: "Then you don't believe in the Querrin ghost?"
"Scepticism," said the Sergeant politely, "is a policeman's stock in trade."
They sat in silence for a moment, drinking a tea brewed almost black. Then Hardinge said abruptly:
"Chief Inspector Castle made certain arrangements for to-night, sir. Are you satisfied with them?"
Lawrence said slowly: "I think so. Steve's a good organizer. I haven't explored the ground yet, though."
"The layout's simple enough," supplied the Sergeant. "There are only two approaches to that room, as you'll see. You and young Querrin can take the one and I'll guard the other." He glanced out the window at a lowering rain-filled sky. "My post outside the house isn't going to be any too comfortable, I'll warrant."
"I'll take it, if you'd rather."
"No thanks." Hardinge shook his head. A slight smile played round his lips under the dapper moustache. "You keep an eye on young Mr. Peter. Else he'll see phantoms in every shadow."
Lawrence chuckled. "This business is going to look dam' funny when it goes into a report."
"No need for that, sir. To-night I'm off duty: on my own time. A private citizen, as you might say."
"That's very good of you."
"Not at all. I'm glad to help."
This polite interchange was followed by a slightly embarrassed pause. Then Lawrence said doubtfully: "You've realized—that is, I mean," he floundered, "a ghost isn't all we're worried about."
Then he looked into the Sergeant's shrewd blue eyes and stopped fumbling. Hardinge said softly:
"I understand, of course, sir."
Algy relaxed with a grin. "You don't miss much, do you?"
"We're trained to use our heads, sir." A twinkle of amusement showed in the Sergeant's voice. "And our eyes. That pistol, now—."
"Eh?"
"That pistol, Mr. Lawrence, which is ruining the hang of your coat. You do have a licence for it, I hope?"
Algy laughed. "You win, Sergeant. Yes, I do. And I'm sorry I tried to teach you your job." He sat up straight in his chair. "All right then. The question is, has Roger Querrin any human enemies?" He added slowly: "Peter suggested a man named Simon Turner."
"Old Simon Turner?" Hardinge seemed surprised.
"You sound doubtful, Sergeant."
"I am, rather. They've had words, I know. But Simon's a harmless old windbag. I doubt if he has either the brains or the courage—to stand in for a ghost."
Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "Uh huh. I might speak to him though."
"You might," agreed Hardinge, "but you won't. The old man's disappeared."
"What?" Lawrence was mildly startled.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to be melodramatic." The Sergeant stood up and began to load his tray again. Then he went back to the kitchen, saying as he went: "Turner has left the village. There's been no sign of him since yesterday."
Lawrence wondered what, if anything, the ex-caretaker's absence meant. He fished in his pocket for the silver cigarette-case, then let it slip out of his fingers again… Tobacco helped him to think but he liked his thinking to be constructive: and he needed more facts.
Hardinge came back. The young man asked a question.
The Sergeant said:
"No, I don't think it means anything—anything sinister, that is. Did I mention he left all his things at his lodgings? Well, he did." He sank back in his chair. "He's done this before, you know. He's probably gone on the booze somewhere."
Lawrence found his ally's calmness refreshing.
"That's all?"
"That's all. We don't have to worry. Believe me," said Hardinge firmly. "Nothing happens in Bristley."
Algy grinned. "You say that as if you were sorry."
"I am," said the Sergeant. For a fleeting moment the shadow of a deep rooted malaise peeped round the placidity in his eyes. "Believe me, sir, this is no place for an ambitious man."
He said no more, but Lawrence knew what was in his mind. No chance here for the bright piece of work that means quick promotion… Then Hardinge smiled. "Still," he admitted, "the quiet life has its advantages." He changed the subject. "I'll come over to Querrin House this evening, then. Just as soon as I come off duty and have a meal."
Algy nodded gratefully. "Thanks." He stood up. "With any luck," he added, half to himself; "I'll be home to-morrow." He turned to the door, then a sudden recollection made him swing round again. "Steve will want news before I get back to London, though. Can I 'phone him from Querrin House?"
"Oh, yes." Hardinge chuckled. "Only if you've any notions of privacy, be careful what you say."
Lawrence flicked an eyebrow.
Interpreting this as a question, the Sergeant went on equably: "Our village post mistress handles all the calls. Now Miss Watson is a nice old girl, one of the best, but she does have the habit—."
"Of forgetting to hang up?"
"Exactly."
"Maybe I'd better talk in shorthand."
"It won't make much difference," said the Sergeant blandly. "I'll wager all Bristley knows why you're here by nightfall."
Algy blinked.
"Miss Watson's post office," Hardinge reminded him gently, "is opposite the police station."
"Oh." The young man grinned. "And I came here with Peter."
"Did you? Then the secret is certainly out. She must have seen you. And there's only one reason why the Querrins should be entertaining strangers to-day."
"She knows about Roger's appointment?"
"The whole village knows about it."
"I gather," commented Lawrence, "that the lady can put two and two together?"
"And make forty-four."
Algy Lawrence strolled up the drive towards Querrin House, his grey raincoat open, and his hands plunged comfortably if inelegantly in the depths of his trouser pockets. The soft green hat, crushed as usual on the back of his blond haired head, had a certain air of jauntiness. Even his automatic pistol, thwacking as he walked, against his thigh with a troubled urgency, did little to disturb his new-found peace of mind.
Sergeant Hardinge's air of calm efficiency had impressed him greatly. He had, Algy told himself, at least one dependable ally. As for Peter… Lawrence thought rather smugly that the younger Querrin's fears were distinctly neurotic. A level headed Londoner would never have succumbed to them….
Algy continued cheerfully on his way.
He hadn't bearded the inappropriately named Miss Watson in her lair, but he had caught a glimpse of her as he left the police station. The flash of glasses behind a hurriedly adjusted curtain in the post office opposite had convinced him that the lady's official duties didn't prevent her from keeping the station under fairly constant observation.
He didn't mind. If the village knew he was there to guard Roger
Querrin, idle mischief makers might be scared off. So much the better, thought Algy. I don't want trouble.
Following a bend in the path, Lawrence rounded a tall cluster of bushes, took his hands out of his pockets, and stopped in mild surprise.
A very attractive young lady appeared to be walking backwards down the drive towards him.
This, as he realized immediately, was just an illusion. The young lady was in fact staring back at the house.
Algy Lawrence had just enough time to note approvingly that her hair was a delectable shade of red-brown, sleek, and kissable, when she took another absent-minded step to the rear and stumbled into his arms.
"Oh!"
She twisted and nearly fell, but he held her securely. Then he looked into rounded, grey-green eyes; and felt his heart bump alarmingly.
He smiled down at her. "Hallo, there."
The alarm faded from her face as she smiled in return. "Hallo, yourself." The curve of her lips was intriguing. She added:
"You can let me up now."
"Oh, yes." She thought there was a distinct tinge of regret in the stranger's voice; and was flattered. He set her on her feet again and they smiled at each other once more.
Lawrence, who was an impressionable young man, decided she was lovely.
Her hair was long and curled mistily about her shoulders. Her grey-green eyes, piquant and mischievous, sloped slightly upwards; and thick lashes curved gaily at the corners. The moulding of her face wasn't classically beautiful, but it was clean and frank and free. Her hair swept softly behind her ears, leaving them bare.
She was engagingly Puckish; and wholly adorable.
Plunging slim hands in the pockets of her swagger coat, she inquired gravely:
"Mr. Lawrence, I believe?"
He returned with equal solemnity:
"Miss Craig, I presume."
Then they both laughed.
Audrey stepped forward, laid one hand on his arm, then pointed with the other towards the house.
"You're a detective," she said. "Make something of that."
Algy looked, but saw nothing unusual.
She stood no higher than his shoulder; he glanced down at her upturned face inquiringly.
"Those bushes," she said. "There by the house. They were moving."
