by Derek Smith
Pushing open the inner door marked Inquiries, Lawrence went into the Charge Room.
John Hardinge was seated behind the desk, looking tired and a little worried. When he saw who had arrived, he stood up with a smile.
"Hallo, sir. I'm glad you're here."
"I came at once." Lawrence arched one eyebrow in a question. The Sergeant replied with brevity:
"It's Simon Turner."
Algy looked thoughtful. He fumbled for his silver cigarette-case, then let it slide out of his fingers once more.
He said:
"You're holding him, of course."
"Yes." Hardinge leaned against the desk. "We could hardly do anything else. He assaulted you, and he also attacked me." The lips beneath the dapper moustache curved in a brief grin. "That last offence is, I'm afraid, in the eyes of the police the more serious."
Lawrence laughed.
He said:
"Even that's trivial compared to the major crime last night."
Hardinge was serious. "I agree. That," he confessed, "is what's bothering me."
Lawrence was alert. "What is it?"
"I have the feeling," returned the Sergeant slowly, "that Turner knows something more than he's told us."
Lawrence said, not as a question:
"Hazlitt doesn't agree with you."
"No. Mind you, I don't blame him. I've no reason for thinking as I do. It's just a hunch."
Algy rasped the angle of his jaw.
"I'd like to see friend Turner."
"Ah," said the Sergeant, with relief. "That's what I thought. A talk may give you his measure. It's as well you came to-day," he added. "The Inspector is thinking of shifting old Simon away from the village. Bristley is a peaceful place. I'm not used to guarding important prisoners in our cells."
Lawrence nodded. "Lead on, then."
Hardinge opened a door at the rear of the main room and the two men stood for a moment in the short corridor to which it gave access. The Sergeant indicated a cubby hole to their left.
"We use that as an office, when necessary. Down there," he pointed, "are the cells."
He jangled the keys in his hand.
Lawrence glanced at the solitary barred window and let a faint grimace of distaste flit across his face. He felt vaguely depressed.
Interpreting the look, Hardinge said lightly:
"Whoever converted this place into our police station had a fondness for iron grilles. Heaven help me, even the windows in my living quarters are barred. What I should do in case of fire, I shudder to think." He smiled. "Still, never mind that."
He stopped by the door of Turner's cell and twisted a key in the lock.
Old Simon looked up as the two men entered. He made no attempt to rise, but merely blinked at them suspiciously.
Lawrence, gazing at the old fellow's skinny frame, could hardly believe that this was the man who had attacked him so viciously the previous evening. Another glance showed him the crustiness in Turner's features and the malignity in his faded eyes.
Lawrence sat down on the bunk beside him.
Hardinge stood with his back to the door and remarked unnecessarily:
"This is Simon Turner."
The young man said grimly:
"We've met."
He stroked the adhesive plaster on his temple.
Turner blinked again, apprehensively, but made no comment.
Algy said abruptly:
"How would you like to get out of here?"
A puzzling expression, almost of knowing amusement, peeped round the fear. Then Simon spoke, with a slur.
"Could y' fix it, then?"
"Well, now." Lawrence spoke slowly. "I might be persuaded to drop the charges against you."
Turner squinted at him.
"Y' wouldn't do that for nothing, would y' now?"
"No." Lawrence took the cigarette-case from his pocket. He asked politely:
"A smoke?"
Hardinge frowned but made no objection. Old Simon took a cigarette without noticeable gratitude. Lawrence shut the case and flicked up a flame from the lighter set in its spine.
He went on:
"You'd have to help me first."
"How?"
"Tell me anything you know about Roger Querrin's death."
Turner's response was a disgusted growl. He jerked a thumb towards the Sergeant. "Ask him. He already knows all I'm telling."
"Don't be impertinent." Hardinge's voice was a warning. "And answer Mr. Lawrence's questions."
The young man said patiently:
"I've no connection with the police. Naturally, you wouldn't want to incriminate yourself. But I promise you faithfully that if you can throw any light at all on the mystery, you certainly won't suffer by it."
Simon scowled. "What makes y' think I know anything?"
"You were prowling round Querrin House all day, weren't you?"
"Maybe I was. Maybe," said the old man bitterly. "I wanted to see that stiff necked bastard get what he deserved. I—."
"That's enough of that," interrupted Algy sharply. "We're not interested in your grudges. And unless you want us to believe you had a hand in Roger Querrin's death, you'd better not abuse him in our hearing."
Simon said obscurely:
"I'm not worried."
"You should be. You've shown you don't shirk violence. Murder might be within your capacities."
Turner smacked his hands together. The cigarette jerked wildly between his lips.
"So I hit y'! That was your fault. Y' jumped on me, didn't y'? I had to get free."
"Why were you there in the first place?"
The faded eyes glowed with malice. Old Simon whispered:
"He robbed me of my home. Turned me out after a lifetime's service… I couldn't do anything about it." He laughed soundlessly. "I didn't have to. I just waited. I knew he wouldn't escape old Tom. Old Tom was my friend. Old Tom would avenge me…."
His voice dropped.
"I wanted to be there."
Hardinge broke the silence.
He said:
"I was on guard from eleven till midnight. You didn't come anywhere near the house."
Turner sneered. "You're clever, aren't y'?" His voice shifted tone. "I knew ye'd be there. So I wasn't outside Querrin's room. I was in the grounds, though. And I heard—the scream."
He finished on a note of obvious pleasure.
Lawrence felt momentarily sickened. "And then?"
A shutter seemed to drop behind the old man's eyes. He returned evasively:
"I wandered around. The police came. And I saw them take Querrin away."
Lawrence made a gesture. "Forget that. What else did you see, as you prowled about?"
"Nothing." Turner bit off the word sharply. "When the police left, so did I. At least I meant to, until—." Temper twisted his mouth. "Until the Sergeant caught me on the way out."
Simon drew hard on the cigarette, then dropped it on the floor and crushed the stub with his boot.
He looked up with a sneer.
He said deliberately:
"I didn't see or hear a thing."
Lawrence accepted defeat. He stood up. "Don't expect any help from me, then."
Again that puzzling expression, peeping round the weakness and the anger. Turner said slowly:
"The devil take y'."
Hardinge stood aside as the young man went past him out of the cell. Standing in the passage, Lawrence had one last glimpse of old Simon squatting disconsolately on his bunk, lips moving silently and faded eyes shifting, then the door swung shut and the Sergeant rattled the key in the lock.
The two men went back to the Charge Room.
Hardinge asked quietly: "What do you think, sir?"
He slipped the keys into his desk, and locked the drawer.
Lawrence said:
"I think you're right, Sergeant. That old rascal knows something."
"I'm glad you agree," Hardinge smiled wryly. "I was wrong about him once before—you r
emember, I told you there would be no more danger from him last night—so I was afraid I might be wrong again."
Lawrence perched on a hard backed chair. He mused:
"We needn't suspect him of any actual complicity in the murder. He obviously believes in his own ghost stories."
The Sergeant agreed. "He's not entirely normal. Some vague malice sent him prowling around Querrin House."
"Mmmm. But he may have seen or overheard something that could help us." Lawrence rubbed his cheek. "If we could only track his movements throughout the day."
"Quite impossible, I'm afraid, sir. The heavy rain obliterated every trace." Hardinge paused. "We did find some confused marks on the ground beyond the path skirting the building. They were probably made after midnight though, when we were all in the house. Turner saw Hazlitt arrive with his men, so he must have ventured as near to the room as he dared."
Lawrence nodded. "He'd be anxious to know exactly what had happened." He looked sleepy. "I wish we knew his precise position at the time of Roger's death."
Hardinge murmured:
"He says: in the grounds…."
"But was he?"
Interest sharpened the Sergeant's voice. "What do you mean, sir?"
"I'm wondering if Turner could possibly have made his way into the house."
"After you were knocked out," Hardinge pointed out, "all the doors and windows were locked from the inside."
Lawrence agreed wryly. It was a piece of evidence, and an objection, which he had already provided himself. "I know. Oh, Lord. I'm spinning round in circles."
Hardinge inclined his head sympathetically.
Lawrence stood up with a sigh.
He said:
"I might as well go back to Querrin House."
The Sergeant followed him to the door, his pleasantly strident voice ringing loud in Algy's ear and providing a not unwelcome distraction to the young man's troubled thoughts.
The two men stood for a moment in the porch, gazing down the village street. Then Lawrence caught a movement behind the curtained windows of the post office opposite, and smiled.
"Miss Watson," he murmured, "is still on guard."
Hardinge responded with a cynical yet tolerant laugh.
He said:
"That's only to be expected. Bristley has never known a more sensational affair than this."
"Neither," said Lawrence flatly, "have I."
The Sergeant snapped his fingers. "Inearly forgot. Your gun, sir. I can return it to you now."
Since Lawrence's automatic had to some extent figured in the case, the police had confiscated the pistol to make their routine checks.
Hardinge re-opened the door marked Inquiries, and they re-entered the station.
The Sergeant indicated the communicating door on their left. "I left it in my quarters. I'll get it for you."
Lawrence rested one hip on the desk top and glanced after him lazily.
Hardinge came back with the pistol in his hands. "If you'll sign a reciept, sir—."
Algy scribbled his signature on an official scrap of paper and pocketed the automatic.
Hardinge sat down in the chair behind his desk.
He asked hesitantly:
"Had you any special reason for returning to Querrin House?"
Lawrence admitted:
"No. There's not a thing I can do there."
"Then," pursued the Sergeant, "I have copies of every report on the case. Would you like to study them? They might give you a lead."
Algy grinned ruefully. "I doubt it. Steve Castle and I—Wait a second. There was one report we didn't consider. The fingerprint analysis."
Hardinge slid open a drawer and produced a folder. He extracted some papers and passed them over.
Lawrence thanked him and sat down.
The Sergeant said politely:
"I'd suggest we went into my quarters, but I'd rather not leave the Charge Room as I've a prisoner to guard."
"Mmmm? Oh, never mind that. I'm comfortable enough." Lawrence flipped through the report. "You've studied this, of course."
"Yes." The Sergeant said slowly:
"It's not very helpful. We can account for all the identifiable prints. There was a confused medley of finger marks in the room, including the dead man's, your own, Mr. Peter's, Miss Craig's, the servants'—as you might expect, on the various surfaces. Mr. Roger's were the plainest, of course, overlying the others on the door, the key, the table, the mantel, the lamp, the bolts, the handles—."
Lawrence was paying no great attention. He interrupted:
"The dagger, now. There's a curious point here. The haft, I see, was wiped clean."
Hardinge was puzzled.
"What of it? We didn't expect the killer to be so obliging as to leave his prints."
Lawrence gesticulated.
"You're missing the point. If the murderer had been wearing gloves, as I'd have expected, you would have found smudges on the knife."
"Yes. But in this case the haft of the dagger had been wiped clean—polished, almost. With a handkerchief perhaps." A query indented the Sergeant's forehead. "I still don't see any particular oddity there."
Lawrence said:
"It's the time element. Think of it. The killer was crouched over the body of his victim, and thinking only of escape. He must have needed all the time he could get to work his vanishing trick. Every second would be valuable. Why waste time rubbing the knife with a cloth when it's so much easier to slip on a glove before?"
Hardinge wrinkled his brow. He suggested:
"Perhaps the dagger was thrown. Then the killer would not have touched the haft. He'd hold the tip of the blade, which would wipe itself clean as it passed into Querrin's body."
Algy rubbed his cheek. "It wasn't a throwing knife. The weights and balances were all wrong."
Hardinge said reasonably:
"Such a minor point hardly matters when the whole case is a blazing impossibility."
Lawrence was rueful. "Maybe you're right… Were there any prints on the sheath above the mantel?"
"Yes," replied Hardinge, with a twinkle. "Yours."
"What?" The young man's mouth opened wide. Then he remembered handling the dagger the previous afternoon, and grinned. "Forget I asked." He pondered. "Roger's prints were on the oil lamp, you said. Did he turn it out, then?"
The Sergeant did not reply immediately.
He said slowly:
"I don't know. The prints were slightly smudged, so it's possible the murderer extinguished the light himself. With a handkerchief wrapped round his fingers, perhaps."
Lawrence felt a twinge in his temples.
He said:
"My head's aching. Let's change the subject."
Hardinge smiled:
"Shaw will relieve me at six o'clock. Till then we won't be disturbed. Let's just talk quietly. I'd be grateful for your company."
Lawrence nodded. He slumped back in his chair.
They chatted for a while, desultorily. Algy began to relax.
And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a new idea was seeking the consciousness of thought.
A heavy footfall sounded on the porch outside, interrupting their talk. Lawrence turned his head and saw a formless blur behind the glass panels set in the upper part of the door marked Inquiries.
Then the door pushed open to disclose the figure of Russell Craig.
Uncle Russ said benignly:
"Ah, Lawrence, my boy. I thought I'd find you here."
"Your niece told you where I was?"
"Er, no." Craig said, with the appearance of great frankness:
"I happened to overhear your talk on the telephone to our friend the Sergeant."
Ignoring their quizzical glances, Uncle Russ removed his Homburg hat, placed it on a small filing cabinet, laid his gloves beside the hat, then crooked his walking stick through the metal handle.
He turned towards them, smoothing his silver-grey hair with delicate fingers.
He
announced impressively:
"Gentlemen, I have solved the mystery of Roger Querrin's death."
Hardinge scratched his jaw. "The Inspector will be delighted to hear it."
Lawrence murmured unkindly:
"But he won't supply any reward."
Craig gazed at him reproachfully.
"My dear boy, I'm not a mercenary man. I shall be only too happy to fulfil my duty as a citizen, without the vulgar expectation of financial gain. I—."
"Yes, sir," returned the Sergeant. "But what have you to tell us?"
Craig was not to be hurried.
He seated himself, produced his spectacles from his breast pocket, polished them, and adjusted the horn rims over his large nose.
He said:
"I shall now begin."
"Please do," replied Lawrence politely.
Uncle Russ coughed.
"You must understand, my boy," he commenced blandly, "that the theories I am about to propound are largely tentative. I may need assistance with some minor facts of the case."
Lawrence concealed a grin and peeped towards the Sergeant. Despite the official gravity of his face, there was an answering twinkle in Hardinge's keen blue eyes.
Russell Craig cleared his throat.
He said:
"First, the scream that you heard at midnight. Has it occurred to you that cry may not have been genuine?"
Lawrence nodded. "It has. I don't see that it makes the problem any easier, though."
Craig squinted at him thoughtfully.
He said:
"You appreciate the fact it's very difficult to locate the source of sound, especially in the dark?"
"Yes."
Craig said slowly:
"There was another person with you. Suppose he threw his voice? It's not very difficult. You keep your lips still while talking, like this"—he demonstrated—"and produce a strangled muffled cry, deep in your throat."
He emitted a ghastly croak.
Algy laughed. He couldn't help it.
When he regained his breath, he said dazedly:
"Peter's no ruddy ventriloquist. And if you're suggesting that Roger was unharmed at the time, and Peter stabbed him as he entered the room—well, I can tell you now, Querrin never went near his brother's body."
"Oh." Uncle Russ was disappointed, but didn't seem nonplussed.
He said:
"I thought it advisable to test your reactions to the theory. However it doesn't affect my main hypothesis at all."
