Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  He fitted on the head-band and moved the two tiny levers of the otophone until the adjustment of the instrument seemed to satisfy him. Then, very cautiously, he began to work the mechanism of the combination lock. For some time he seemed unable to get what he wanted; but suddenly he made a slight gesture of triumph.

  “It’s an old pattern, as I thought. There’s no balanced fence arbour. This is going to be an easy business.”

  Easy or not, it took him nearly a quarter of an hour to accomplish his task; for at times he obviously went astray in the work.

  “Try to keep your feet still,” he said. “Every movement you make is magnified up to the noise of a pocket avalanche.”

  At last the thing was done. The safe door swung open. Sir Clinton took off the head-band, received the microphone from Cecil, and packed it away in the case of the otophone along with the ear-phone.

  “You’d better jot down the number of the combination, Cecil,” he suggested. “It’s on the dial at present.”

  While Cecil was busy with this, the Chief Constable switched off the otophone and put it in a place of safety.

  “Now we’ll see what’s inside the safe,” he said.

  He swung the door full open and disclosed a cavity more like a strong-room than a safe.

  “Have you any idea where the medallions were usually kept?” he inquired.

  Cecil went over to one of the shelves and searched rapidly.

  “Why, there are only two of them here!” he exclaimed in dismay.

  “Hush!” Sir Clinton warned him sharply. “Don’t make a row. Have a good look at the things.”

  Cecil picked up the medallions and scanned them minutely. His face showed his amazement as he turned from one to another.

  “These are the replicas! Where have the genuine Leonardos gone?”

  “Never mind that for the present. Put these things back again. I’m going to close the safe. We mustn’t risk talking too much here; and the sooner we’re gone the better.”

  He picked up the otophone and led the way out of the museum.

  “You might bring Froggatt back to his post here,” he said. “We don’t need him at the stair any longer. I must go upstairs again for a moment with this machine.”

  Cecil piloted Froggatt back to his original post just as the Chief Constable rejoined them.

  “I don’t want to talk here,” Sir Clinton said to Cecil. “Get a coat and walk with us down to the car. We’ve done our work for the night.”

  The Chief Constable waited until they were well away from the house before beginning his explanation.

  “That otophone is—as I expect you saw—simply a microphone for picking up sound, plus a two-valve amplifier for magnifying it. The sounds that reach the microphone are amplified by the valve set to any extent, within limits, that you like to set it for. You can make the crumpling of a piece of paper sound like a small thunderstorm if you choose; and it’s especially sensitive to clicks and sounds of that sort. The mere involuntary shifting of your feet on that parquet floor made a lot of disturbance.

  “Now in the older type of combination locks, if the dial was carefully manipulated, a person with sharp hearing might just be able to detect a faint click when a tumbler fell into place in the course of a circuit; and by making a note of the state of the dial corresponding to each click the combination could finally be discovered. In the modern patterns of locks this has been got round. They’ve introduced a thing called a balanced fence arbour, which is lifted away from the tumblers as soon as the lock spindle is revolved; so in this new pattern there’s no clicking such as the older locks give.”

  “I see now,” said the Inspector.” That’s an old pattern lock; and you were using the otophone to magnify the sound of the clicks?”

  “Exactly,” Sir Clinton agreed. “It made the thing mere child’s play. Each click sounded like a whip-crack, almost.”

  “So that’s why Foss brought the otophone along? He meant to pick the lock of the safe and get the medallions out of it?”

  “That was one possibility, of course,” Sir Clinton said, with a grave face. “But I shouldn’t like to say that it was the only possibility.”

  He smoked for a few moments in silence, then he turned to Cecil.

  “Now I’ve a piece of work for you to do; and I want you to do it convincingly. First thing to-morrow morning you’re to find some way of spreading the news that you’ve recovered all the genuine medallions and that they’re in the safe. Don’t give any details; but see that the yarn gets well abroad.”

  “But all the real medallions are gone!” said Cecil in disgust. “And whoever’s got them must know they’re gone.”

  “There’s nothing like a good authoritative lie for shaking confidence,” Sir Clinton observed, mildly. “That’s your share in the business. You’d better mention it at breakfast time to as many people as you can; and you can telephone the glad news to me, with the door of the telephone box open so that anyone can hear it. Yell as loud as you please, or louder if possible. It won’t hurt me at the other end. In any case, see that the happy tidings wash the most distant shores.”

  “Well, since you say so, I’ll do it. But it’s sure to be found out, you know, sooner or later.”

  “All I want is a single day’s run of it. My impression is that, if things go well, I’ll have the whole Ravensthorpe affair cleared up by this time to-morrow. But I don’t promise that as a certainty.”

  “And this yarn is part of your scheme?”

  “I’m setting a trap,” Sir Clinton assured them. “And that lie is the bait I’m offering.”

  As they reached the car, he added:

  “See that your constable doesn’t say a word about this affair to-night—to anyone. That’s important, Inspector.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE SECOND CHASE IN THE WOODS

  “I’VE made all the necessary arrangements, sir,” Inspector Armadale reported to the Chief Constable on the following evening. “A dozen constables—two with rubber-soled shoes—and a couple of sergeants. They’re to be at the Ravensthorpe gate immediately it’s dark enough. The sergeants have the instructions; the constables don’t even know where they’re going when they leave here.”

  “That’s correct,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “Let’s see. That’s fourteen altogether. Less two, twelve. Plus you and myself, fourteen. I think we’ll add to our number. Nothing like being on the safe side. Mr Chacewater’s personally interested in the affair; I think we’ll take him in also. And Mr Clifton might reasonably claim some share in the business. That makes sixteen. You’re detaching two constables to watch that lakelet. Well, surely fourteen of us ought to be able to pick up the scoundrel without difficulty.”

  “You’re sure that he’ll make for the terrace over the pool, sir?”

  “Nothing’s sure in this world, Inspector. But I think there’s a fair chance that he’ll make in that direction. And if he doesn’t, why, then, we can run him down wherever he goes.”

  “If he goes up there, we’ll have him,” the Inspector affirmed. “There’ll be no amateur bungling this time, like the last affair. I’ll see to that myself. He won’t slip through a constabulary cordon as he did when he’d only a lot of excited youngsters to deal with.”

  “I leave that part of the business entirely in your hands, Inspector,” the Chief Constable assured him.

  “What I can’t see,” the Inspector continued, with a faint querulousness in his tone, “is why you’re going about the thing in this elaborate way. Why not arrest him straight off and be done with it?”

  “Because there’s one little party that you’ve omitted to take into your calculations, Inspector—and that’s the jury. Suspicion’s not good enough for us at this stage. Criminal trials aren’t conducted on romantic lines. Everything’s got to be proved up to the hilt. Frankly, in this case, you’ve been scattering your suspicions over a fairly wide field, haven’t you?”

  “It’s our business to be suspicious of e
verybody,” the Inspector pleaded in extenuation.

  “Oh, within limits, within limits, Inspector. You started by suspecting Foxton Polegate; then you branched off to Marden; after that you hovered a bit round Maurice Chacewater; and at the end you were hot on Cecil Chacewater’s heels. There’s too much of the smart reader of detective stories about that. He suspects about six of the characters without having any real proof at all; and then when the criminal turns up clearly in the last chapter he says: ‘Well, that fellow was on my list of suspects.’ That style of thing’s no use in real criminal work, where you’ve got to produce evidence and not merely some vague suspicions.”

  “You’re a bit hard, sir,” the Inspector protested.

  “Well, you criticized my methods, remember. If I were to arrest the fellow just now, I doubt if I could convince a jury of his guilt. And they’d be quite right. It’s their business to be sceptical and insist on definite proof. It’s that proof that I expect to get out of to-night’s work.”

  “It will be very instructive for me, sir,” Inspector Armadale commented, with heavy irony.

  “You take things too seriously,” Sir Clinton retorted, with an evident double meaning in the phrase. “What you need, Inspector, is a touch of fantasy. You’ll get a taste of it to-night, perhaps, unless my calculations go far astray. Now I’m going to ring up Mr Chacewater and make arrangements for to-night.”

  And with that he dismissed the Inspector.

  Armadale retired with a grave face; but when he closed the door behind him his expression changed considerably.

  “There he was, pulling my leg again, confound him!” he reflected. “A touch of fantasy, indeed! What’s he getting at now? And the worst of it is I haven’t got to the bottom of the business yet myself. He’s been quite straight in giving me all the facts. I’m sure of that. But they seem to me just a jumble. They don’t fit together anyhow. And yet he’s not the bluffing kind; he’s got it all fixed up in his mind; I’m sure of that, whether he’s right or wrong. Well, we’ll see before many hours are over.”

  And with reflections like these Inspector Armadale had to content himself until nightfall.

  As they drove up to the Ravensthorpe gates the Inspector found Sir Clinton in one of his uncommunicative moods. He seemed abstracted, and even, as the Inspector noted with faint malice, a little anxious about the business before them. When they reached the gates they found the constabulary squad awaiting them. Sir Clinton got out of the car, after running it a little way up the avenue.

  “Now, the first thing you’ve got to remember,” he said, addressing the squad, “is that in no circumstances are you to make the slightest noise until you hear my second whistle. You know what you’re to do? Get up behind the house at the end opposite to the servants’ wing and stay there till you get my signal. Then you’re to come out and chase the man whom the Inspector will show you. You’re not to try to catch him. Keep a hundred yards behind him all the time; but don’t lose sight of him. The Inspector will give you instructions after you’ve chased for a while. Now which of you are the two with tennis shoes?”

  Two constables stepped out of the ranks. Sir Clinton took them aside and gave them some special instructions.

  “Now, you’d better get to your places,” he said, turning to the squad again. Remember, not a sound. I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait, but we must take things as they come.”

  As the squad was led off into the night, he moved over to where the Inspector was standing.

  “I want something out of the car,” he said. The Inspector followed him and waited while Sir Clinton switched off the headlights and the tail lamp. The Chief Constable felt in a locker and handed something to Armadale.

  “A pair of night-glasses, Inspector. You’ll need them. And that’s the lot. We’d better get to our position. There’s no saying when the fellow may begin his work.”

  Rather to the mystification of the Inspector, Sir Clinton struck across the grass instead of following the avenue up to the house. After a fairly long walk they halted under a large tree.

  “A touch of fantasy was what I recommended to you, Inspector. I think a little tree-climbing is indicated. Sling these glasses round your neck as I’m doing and follow on.”

  “Quite mad!” was the Inspector’s involuntary comment to himself. “I suppose, once we get up there, he’ll come down again and tell me I needed exercise.”

  He followed the Chief Constable, however; and was at last directed to a branch on which he could find a safe seat.

  “Think I’m demented, Inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded with the accuracy of a thought-reader. “It’s not quite so bad as that, you’ll be glad to hear. Turn your glasses through that rift in the leaves. I was at special pains to cut it yesterday evening, in preparation for you. What do you see?”

  The Inspector focused his glasses and scanned the scene visible through the fissure in the foliage.

  “The front of Ravensthorpe,” he answered.

  “Some windows?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, one of them’s the window of the museum; and this happens to be one of the few points from which you can see right into the room. If the lights were on there, you’d find that we’re looking squarely on to the door of the safe.”

  With this help the Inspector was able to pick out the window which evidently he was expected to watch.

  “It’ll be a slow business,” Sir Clinton said in a bored tone. “But one of us has got to keep an eye on that window for the next hour or two at least. We can take it in turn.”

  They settled down to their vigil, which proved to be a prolonged one. The Inspector found his perch upon the branch anything but comfortable; and it grew more wearisome as the time slipped past.

  “Fantasy!” he commented bitterly to himself as he shifted his position for the twentieth time. “Cramp’s more likely.”

  But at last their tenacity was rewarded. It was during one of the Inspector’s spells of watching. Suddenly the dark rectangle of the window flashed into momentary illumination and faded again.

  “There he is!” exclaimed the Inspector. “He’s carrying a flash-lamp.”

  Sir Clinton lifted his glasses and examined the place in his turn.

  “I can see him moving about in the room,” the Inspector reported excitedly. “Now he’s going over towards the safe. Can you see him, sir?”

  “Fairly well. What do you make of him?”

  The Inspector studied his quarry intently for a while.

  “That’s the otophone, isn’t it, sir? I can’t see his face; it seems as if he’d blackened it. . . . No, he’s wearing a big mask. It looks like . . .”

  His voice rose sharply.

  “It’s Marden! I recognize that water-proof of his; I could swear to it anywhere.”

  “That’s quite correct, Inspector. Now I think we’ll get down from this tree as quick as we can and I’ll blow my whistle. That ought to startle him. And I’ve arranged for that to be the signal for a considerable amount of noise in the house, which ought to give the effect we want.”

  He slipped lightly down the branches, waited for the slower-moving Inspector, and then blew a single shrill blast on his whistle.

  “That’s roused them,” he said, with satisfaction, as some lights flashed up in windows on the front of Ravensthorpe. “I guess that amount of stir about the place will flush our friend without any trouble.”

  He gazed through his glasses at the main door.

  “There he goes, Inspector!”

  A dark figure emerged suddenly on the threshold, hesitated for a moment, and then ran down the steps. Armadale instinctively started forward; but the cool voice of the Chief Constable recalled him.

  “There’s no hurry, Inspector! You’d better hang your glasses on the tree here. They’ll only hamper you in running.”

  Hurriedly the Inspector obeyed; and Sir Clinton leisurely hung up his own pair. Armadale turned again and followed the burglar with his eyes.


  “He’s making for the old quarry, sir.”

  “So I see,” Sir Clinton assured him. “I want the fellow to have a good start, remember. I don’t wish him to be pressed. Now we may as well get the chase organized.”

  Followed by the Inspector, he hurried towards the front of Ravensthorpe.

  “I think that’s a fair start to give him,” he estimated aloud. Then, lifting his whistle, he blew a second blast.

  Almost immediately the figures of Cecil Chacewater and Michael Clifton emerged from the main door, while a few seconds later the police squad rounded the corner of the house.

  “Carry on, Inspector!” Sir Clinton advised. “I leave the rest of the round-up to you. But keep exactly to what I told you.”

  Armadale hurried off, and within a few seconds the chase had been set afoot.

  “We must see if we can wipe your eye this time, Mr Clifton,” the Chief Constable observed. “It’s a run over the old ground, you notice.”

  Michael Clifton nodded in answer.

  “If you’d let me run him down I’d be obliged to you,” he suggested. “You’ve given him a longish start, certainly; but I think I could pull him in.”

  Sir Clinton made a gesture of dissent.

  “Oh, no. We must give him a run for his money. Besides, it wouldn’t suit my book to have him run down too early in the game.”

  The fugitive had reached the edge of the pine-wood as they were speaking, and now he disappeared from their sight among the arcades of the trees.

  “The moon will be down in no time,” Cecil pointed out as they ran. “Aren’t you taking the risk of losing him up in the woods there? It’ll be pretty dark under the trees.”

  He quickened his pace slightly in his eagerness; but the Chief Constable restrained him.

  “Leave it to Armadale. It’s his affair. We’re only spectators, really.”

  “I want the beggar caught,” Cecil grumbled, but he obeyed Sir Clinton’s orders and slowed down slightly.

  A few seconds brought them to the fringe of the wood; and far ahead of them they could see the form of the burglar running steadily up the track.