“Good! What happened when you got there?”
“Well, sir, I put up at the Royal, and he said I was to be ready at tea-time. Well, tea-time come, sir, and he didn’t turn up; and six o’clock, sir, and seven, and I was getting the wind up pretty bad when he rolls up at half-past. He told me to start right away, sir, and all the way home he sat there and didn’t say a word; just grunted if I spoke to him, sir; so I got fed up and kept my mouth shut. When we got in he gave me a quid, sir; and he said he had a splitting headache, and he was sorry he’d been—well, not chatty, sir.”
“I see. And how’d you like him—personally?”
“Mr. Fewne, sir? A toff he was, sir; one of the best!”
Travers nodded. “Anything else happen?”
“Yes, sir. Next morning he come to me and asked me if I could tell him where he could hire a car. I told him he needn’t do that, sir: I could go anywhere he wanted. Then he said, sir, he wanted to go somewhere alone, so I told him Downers’, in Levington Church Street, and he gave me ten bob, sir, and said I wasn’t to say anything about it—and I haven’t sir, not till you just asked me!”
Travers nodded again. “Between ourselves, where did he go?”
“A chum of mine who’s at Downers’, sir, told me he had to drive him to Folkestone, sir. They went about eleven and got back just after three.”
“And what happened there?”
“Don’t know, sir—only they didn’t put up at the Royal but the Bristol, and Joe—that’s my chum, sir—didn’t clap eyes on him from the time he got out till the time he came back.”
Travers thought for a moment. “And when did Mr. Braishe get back that week?”
“Tuesday, sir—just before dinner.”
“Hm! Anything else happen between you and Mr. Fewne?”
“No, sir . . . that is, not between me and him, sir, only on the Wednesday—day you come down, sir—while I was at the station, they told me in the kitchen they’d seen Mr. Fewne coming from the garage.”
“The garage! What was he doing there?”
“Well, sir, I thought he was looking for me to tell me something, but as he gave me that ten bob to keep quiet, sir, I kept my mouth shut about it.”
That was all for Bruce. Travers took best part of an hour to get it all down, then joined the others at tea, then hunted up Pollock. There he found himself to a certain extent forestalled. Wharton had reaped that field—but he hadn’t raked or gleaned.
“As I told Mr. Wharton, sir,” said Pollock, “I knew Mr. Fewne had something on his mind. I saw him sit in that chair of his, sir, and look at the fire as if he was mesmerized. He was more like a corpse, sir, or one of those mummies.”
Travers nodded sympathetically. “And the Saturday morning when the letters came. Was there one for him?”
“No, sir. Nothing, sir!”
“You sure of that?”
“Positive, sir! I distribute the letters, sir. I should have seen it dispatched to the pagoda personally, sir.”
“When did a letter come?”
“There was a letter on the Monday, sir . . . and a parcel on the Wednesday night.”
“Good! Now, don’t be offended, Pollock. I’m not going to suggest spying or anything ridiculous like that, but do you remember the writing on the envelope?”
“I do, sir—and I know who it was from, sir! It was from Mrs. Fewne, because he told me so, sir—in so many words. He tapped his pocket, sir—all smiles—and he said, sir, ‘Mrs. Fewne’ll be down on Wednesday, Pollock!’ and I said, ‘Very good, sir. Pleased to hear it, sir!’”
“And Mr. Fewne wasn’t in to lunch on the Tuesday. You were surprised at that?”
“Well, I was in a way, sir. It was just a bit unusual, sir, if I may say so. He’d been here for five weeks and never left the house—and then he goes out three times in a matter of days, sir.”
“Between ourselves, Pollock, what was your opinion of him—as a man?”
“As a man, sir?” Pollock screwed up his mouth and rubbed his chin. “Well, sir, he was a gentleman, sir! And when I say that, I mean a real gentleman—like yourself, sir!”
Travers blushed, mumbled his thanks—and disappeared up the stairs. Franklin was in the room, frowning over some notes.
“Hallo! Where’ve you been all this time?”
“Folkestone, principally!”
“Really! . . . Oh, I see. Why the devil can’t you be direct occasionally?” Travers thought for a moment he was really annoyed. Then he told him all about it. Franklin was hopelessly at sea.
“Damned if I can make head or tail of it! The first time, he seems to have gone to look over antique shops—as Bruce said.”
“But I don’t see even that!” said Travers. “Why didn’t he go before lunch? He must have been very much of an ignoramus. Even I—and I say it with all humility—wouldn’t trust my judgment of antique furniture in artificial light.”
Franklin grunted, then changed the subject.
“Wharton’s sent Norris to town.”
“Really! What for?”
“Don’t know. He’s got to be back for the inquests to-morrow. Wharton’s got one of his enigmatical fits on, but I rather gathered he’s trying to see what happened in Switzerland.”
“Good God! What on earth for?”
Franklin shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know—unless he wants to see how much money she spent. Oh, and something else he said to me: I happened to say Fewne rushed through the snow because he’d already lost control. ‘Not necessarily!’ says George. ‘He might have been laying a deliberate trail—making footmarks that nobody could miss!’”
“What was behind it?”
“Lord knows! He’s just got a fit on—as I told you.... What about getting down? Bit cold up here.”
“You push on!” Travers told him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
It was several minutes that he spent, lying back deep in the chair with his eyes shut. What actually lay behind all that information of the afternoon he had no idea whatever. In a way, that was a very pleasing thought. If he’d had to set off on Fewne’s trail with a straight road to follow, there’d have been no thrill. As it was, what he’d listened to had been one continual mystery. At every step, Fewne had done unusual things without a suggestion of motive. There was not one mystery to trace but half a dozen! In Folkestone itself there seemed to be at least five distinct problems—the time of the first visit, the lateness of the return, the taciturnity on the way home, the bribing of Bruce, and the next day’s visit. And all in the absence of Braishe. And Braishe knew nothing about it! Travers nodded with satisfaction. Folkestone it should be—and first thing in the morning! Then he went to find Wharton and make his report.
Palmer brought the Isotta round to the front porch the following morning, and as Travers came across the hall, Wharton joined him for a final word.
“I’ll ring up the station at Folkestone,” he said. “After all, there’s no knowing when you might want the help of the police.”
“Thanks very much!” Travers got in. “Suppose you can’t do anything to make Crashaw talk? Make somebody commit himself in writing, for instance?”
“That’ll be all right!” nodded Wharton. Then he mumbled something. Then cleared his throat. “So you really expect to get something definite—about Fewne! Er—ever read the Bible nowadays?”
Travers laughed. “You mean ... as prose? ... or what?”
“As anything you like. Remember the story of the ewe lamb?”
“The ewe lamb?” Travers thought furiously. “There was something about a lost lamb—no! that wasn’t it. And the lamb caught in a thicket—no! that was a ram!”
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Hm!” said Wharton and made a wry face. “That’s a pity. You might have found it useful!”
He drew back. Travers looked at him curiously—then pushed out the clutch.
PART II
THE SOLUTION
CHAPTER XIX
STRANGE CONDUCT OF AN AUTHOR
AS TRAVERS drove the Isotta to Folkestone that morning, he was feeling quite a different person from the buoyant individual of the previous night, who had rejoiced at mysteries and counted on safety in numbers. The dangerous surface of the road was causing him far less anxiety than the realization that every action Fewne had taken at Folkestone could reasonably be accounted for. Fewne was taciturn, absent-minded, and subject to nervous headaches: that accounted for a lot in itself. Then he might have been displeased with either Bruce’s driving or his attitude and have hired a car for his second trip; and he’d tipped the chauffeur to keep quiet in case Braishe heard about the change and felt justifiably offended.
As for Wharton’s hint that Fewne had left a deliberate track in the snow, that, in Travers’s opinion, was manifestly absurd. Whatever Fewne had done before he left the house for the pagoda, he’d had no hand in the murder of Mirabel Quest. That theory of cleaning the family escutcheon was gorgeously romantic but incredibly remote from possibility. A much stronger urge would have been needed to make Fewne commit murder, and Travers very much doubted if anything on earth could have done it. And Fewne wasn’t the harlequin. And he’d been murdered himself, under circumstances as fantastic as a nightmare. That part Travers was sure of. He knew who had done it—and how, or he thought he did; moreover, once a motive was established he’d put his cards on the table. As for Wharton’s cryptic remarks about ewe lambs, Travers wasn’t so sure. The General never leaped before he’d looked; every reason therefore to take a safe line by being enigmatical.
He garaged the car at the Bristol, ordered his lunch, then found the police station. Of the two photos of Fewne which he’d managed to get hold of, he kept one and produced the other. The superintendent, after Wharton’s phone message, was keen enough. He suggested rushing through a couple of dozen reproductions and handing them out to such of his men who might have run across the original. Travers thought the idea a capital one, said he’d look in again after lunch, then started off with a complete list of the antique shops in the town.
The first shop was soon found, and the proprietor was in. Travers pulled out his photo and delivered the official speech he’d rehearsed for the occasion.
“Sorry to be a nuisance to you, but I’m making certain inquiries on behalf of the police authorities. Superintendent Dollis will give you my credentials, if you ring him up. All we want to know is whether this gentleman called in here last Monday or Tuesday.”
The proprietor had a quick look at the hander-over of the photo, then decided to dispense with phoning. The photo itself appeared to interest him.
“Yes, sir; the gentleman came in—on the Monday afternoon. I attended to him myself.”
After that came a quarter of an hour of exhaustive inquiries, and all that could be gathered was this: Fewne had entered the shop so diffidently that the owner had at once placed him as an inexperienced amateur. He was, nevertheless, a “perfect gentleman”; had said he was shortly furnishing a smallish flat in town and wanted one or two nice pieces—an oak dresser and a bureau, for instance. The latter wasn’t available in the quality required, but a Georgian dresser with shelved top was actually set aside for the “Denis Fewne” of the card, who agreed to send in a day or two the address where the dresser was to be sent, if his wife, whom he was bringing along, decided to have it. That was all. The conduct of the gentleman was normal throughout. He did not complain of a headache.
Here something important is to be noted. It was the Royal from which Fewne started out on the Monday. Proceed from there a hundred yards due south, and you arrive at the police station. Turn sharp left, and you are in the High Street. Cross the road, and fifty yards on, with windows so prominent that the most uninformed of amateurs could tell it, was the antique shop Travers had just quitted. Proceeding in the same direction, a hundred yards on, came the next. Travers entered, produced his photo, said his little piece, then got his first surprise.
“Yes, sir; the gentleman came in on the Monday. He particularly wanted a bureau.”
“Did you sell him one?”
“No, sir; not actually sell it. Here is the actual bureau,” and he pointed to a Chippendale effort which the dealers euphemistically call “late.” “He liked the look of this one and asked if I’d give him an option for a couple of days, when his wife would be coming along to see it.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“Oh, yes! He came in again on the Tuesday morning and said he’d like another look. I showed him this secret drawer . . . and this one—”
“That’s all right,” said Travers. “No need to show ’em. Did he give you an answer?”
“No, sir; he said he’d wait till his wife had seen it. Mind you, sir, it’s a very nice piece!”
Travers smiled. “Oh, quite! Anything happen?”
“Yes. On the Tuesday he took a poker to show his wife!”
“A what!”
“A poker, sir. You see, on the Tuesday he had another look at something he’d taken a fancy to on the Monday.” He led the way to the back of the shop. “This pierced fender and set of irons to match. He said he liked them and he’d probably have them. Then on the Tuesday I said to him, ‘And what about the fender, sir?’ He said he couldn’t bring his wife over for a day or two, but might he have a look over the oddments—this lot, sir—to see if there was a poker, as his wife had laughed at him when he said there were such things as antique pokers.” He smiled. Travers smiled in keeping. “So he found one up, sir, and I let him have it for five bob, and he took it with him. Oh, and something else: I had to give him a receipt which distinctly said, for his wife’s benefit, that the poker was a genuine antique.”
“What was it like, exactly?”
“Ah! there you’ve got me.” He fussed round the collection of odd candlesticks, trivets, bellows, and fire gadgets till he found what he wanted. “Something like this it was. Of course, I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Exactly!” Travers had a look at it and saw—nothing but a poker. “Tell me,” he went on; “did you pick out the poker or did he?”
“He picked it out.”
“And any difference in his attitude on the Tuesday? Was he nervous or strange in any way?”
The other frowned. “Can’t say he was. Mind you, the gentleman was a bit nervy, but I put that down to the fact that he didn’t know very much.”
Travers set off again. A hundred yards or so on his left was the post office, and well beyond this the third of the shops he had to visit. This time he drew blank. The proprietor called in his wife and an assistant, but neither had seen the gentleman in question. Then, finally, well off the main road, he found the last shop—a small affair with a mixture of modern and pseudo-antique. Here again he drew absolutely blank.
During lunch he tried to think it all out. Apparently Fewne had set off for Folkestone with a very definite object in view. He had mentioned at the first shop two pieces of furniture he must have planned to fit into his new flat. At the first he’d found one; at the second the possibility of the other. What would he do then? It was getting well on to the time he’d given Bruce as that of the return, otherwise he’d have sought out the other shops for a second string to his bureau. But he hadn’t gone to the other shops; therefore he’d remembered Bruce was expecting him. And he hadn’t gone back to the Royal; he’d disappeared for another three hours. Where—and why?
Finding no answer, he tested the Tuesday. Fewne hadn’t gone to see his dresser again: he’d gone to see the bureau. He’d therefore made up his mind about the dresser but not about the bureau. But wouldn’t it have been more natural to have a look at the remaining shops in the town to see if they had a bureau more likely to suit him?
Then there’d been that poker—purchased on the plea that he and his wife had had an argument! Travers checked his smile—then frowned. After all, why not? The argument might have taken place months before. But, if Fewne had taken that poker with him, then
what had he done with it? Not sent it by post. That would have been absurd, with his wife coming down the next day. Then where was it? Not in the pagoda—he’d swear to that.
All the same, he decided to test that one point. At the police station he got through to Levington Town Hall. Mrs. Fewne was still there, so Wharton told him. And that was all that happened. She knew nothing whatever about a poker—and, as far as she remembered, had never had an argument with a soul about one. Wharton’s tone, as he reported it, showed that he knew still less.
Travers was puzzled. Within half an hour he was to be more so. While he’d been phoning, the superintendent had seemed to be waiting expectantly, and as soon as the receiver was hooked up he produced his news.
“We’ve got something about your man, sir. He was seen going towards Dover—about four-thirty. My man’s here if you’d like to question him. And as he isn’t so sure, would you mind giving extra details about dress and so on?”
The constable’s story was this: At about four-fifteen on the Monday he’d been on duty at the end of Albert Road and had noticed a man, whom he now definitely recognized. The man appeared to be under the influence of drink, since his gait was none too steady and he was muttering to himself. He watched the man till he got out of sight, along the cliff road towards Dover. Later on that evening he’d met a colleague who’d been on duty still farther along that road, and he’d seen the gentleman still proceeding in the same direction.
That was all the news at the moment. Travers sauntered back to the smoke room of the hotel and sat and thought things over. Immediately after leaving that second shop Fewne had seen or heard something that had sent him, half distracted, away from the definitely appointed place of meeting towards the open country. What had been the deciding impulse that had set him going? Had there been no external cause? Was the whole thing a sudden breakdown, temporary in character, foreshadowing the far more serious one that was to come a few days later? Travers wondered. Everything was so hypothetical and problematic that conjecture seemed a waste of time.
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