He pushed back his cap and scratched his head.
‘Nae maitter,’ said he, cheerfully. ‘I’ll sort it yet.’
MRS. MCLEOD
Things were lively in the Close that night. Wimsey had escorted his visitors to their doors, and was thinking of turning in, when the sudden opening of the blue gate and the cries of a fellow-creature entangled and in pain urged him to go to the assistance of the Chief Constable, who had become involved with the bicycles in the narrow passage.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ said Sir Maxwell, when at length he was safely seated in Wimsey’s armchair and comforted with Scotch, ‘that I am greatly disturbed about all this business. If I could see any clear line to follow up, it would be more satisfactory. Even supposing that your list of suspects comprises the whole of the possibilities (which at present, mark you, I am not disposed to grant) — even then, I simply do not know where to start an inquiry. That one or two of them should have no good alibis is only what one might expect — but that practically all of them should be open to suspicion really bewilders me.’
‘Dear me!’ said Wimsey.
‘Graham and Strachan,’ went on the Chief Constable, were both out all night, as you know, and have no explanations. Ferguson appears, from what you say, to be all right, but he has not been interrogated yet, and really, after today’s experiences, I am beginning to doubt whether anybody’s movements will bear investigation. Farren’s disappearance is so suspicious that, if it were not for the extraordinary behaviour of the rest, I should get out a warrant for him straight away. Gowan—’
‘Surely not Gowan, too?’
‘Gowan has gone to England, and there are points in Inspector Macpherson’s report—’
‘I haven’t heard that yet.’
‘No.’ The Chief Constable gave the gist of the Inspector’s interview with the servants, and resumed:
‘There are undoubtedly points there that need looking into. And now comes a most infernal business about Waters.’
‘Unbosom yourself,’ said Wimsey. ‘Trouble shared is trouble halved.’
‘Well,’ said Sir Maxwell, ‘when Waters didn’t turn up today with the ladies yonder, Inspector Macpherson made a few inquiries of Mrs. McLeod, who seems to have misled you — though, I think and hope, unintentionally. And these inquiries brought to light a very remarkable circumstance.’
‘Apparently Waters did ask to be called early on the Tuesday morning and did make the remark that he rather thought of going to Glasgow. On the Monday night, Mrs. McLeod heard him come in with you and go up to bed. Then you went out again. She puts this at about 10.30. Is that right?’
‘Meaning, did I leave about 10.30? Yes, that’s near enough.’
‘Well, then, some time between 11 and midnight, Mrs. McLeod heard somebody throwing pebbles at Waters’ bedroom window. Her room is next but one to his, and they both look out on the High Street. She looked out, and saw a man down below. She couldn’t make him out very well, but he seemed to be shortish and broad, well wrapped up in an overcoat and muffler. She was just going to shout down and tell him to shut up, when Waters’ window opened, and she heard Waters say angrily:
“What the devil do you want?”’
‘The man in the street said something which she did not catch, and then Waters said:
“Well, don’t make that blasted row. I’m coming down.”’
‘She then leaned out a little further and saw a four-seater car standing a few yards down the street. Waters came down presently in some sort of outdoor togs — a sweater and trousers — she thinks — and he and the man went into Waters’ sitting-room. They talked there for a bit, and Mrs. McLeod went back to bed. Presently she heard somebody run up to Waters’ bedroom and down again, and the front door was opened and shut. Mrs. McLeod looked out once more, and saw both men climb into the car and move off. In about three-quarters of an hour — being thoroughly wakened up by that time — she heard the door open softly again, and footsteps tiptoeing up the stairs into Waters’ bedroom.’
‘Nothing more happened after that, and at 7.30 she knocked on Waters’ door as arranged, with his shaving-water, and at 8 o’clock she put his breakfast in the sitting-room. She then went out to the back of the house to do some household work, and at 8.20, when she came in again, Waters had eaten a sketchy sort of breakfast and gone.
‘Now, there are two more interesting points. First of all, Waters went — ostensibly to see an exhibition in Glasgow — in an old sweater, a pair of grey flannel bags, tennis-shoes and an old burberry. And secondly, he took his bicycle with him.’
‘What?’ cried Wimsey.
‘He took his bicycle with him. Or rather, to be accurate, his bicycle, which stands just inside the front door, was there on the Monday night and was gone at 8.20. The presumption is that Waters took it.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘What do you make of that?’ demanded the Chief Constable.
‘What you want me to make of it,’ said Wimsey, slowly, ‘is that the man in the street was Campbell, come back to finish out his row with Waters. That they went off together to fight it out. That in the row, Campbell got his head bashed in. That Waters then concealed the body somewhere. Then he came home, in order to look as ordinary as possible. That he then thought out a plan of concealment, and that next morning he went off at the time previously appointed, put the body and the bicycle in Campbell’s car, and hared off to the Minnoch to fake the accident.’
‘Can you make anything else of it?’
‘I might make fifty things,’ said Wimsey, ‘but — not to practise any mean concealment — I will admit that the circumstances seem to fit the crime. Except, perhaps, for one point.’
‘Yes, I thought of that. What did he do with the body between midnight and 8 a.m.?’
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘No — I see no difficulty about that. All he had to do was to put the body in the car and run it along to his studio. There is plenty of open space there where people stand cars and carts, and nobody would take any notice of an old car with junk in it, covered with a rug. It’s not as if he’d left it in Piccadilly Circus. People leave cars in the street all night in this place, and nobody bothers. No, that’s not what’s puzzling me.’
‘Well?’
‘Well! If all that is true, where is Waters? He ought to have been here yesterday, blatantly establishing his entire innocence. What’s the good of concocting an elaborate fake like that, and then drawing suspicion on yourself by running away?’
‘Perhaps he got cold feet when he’d done it. Anyhow, your objection applies to them all, except Strachan and possibly Ferguson.’
‘That’s true. Well, Chief, I think you’ll have to send out the hue and cry after Waters.’
‘I suppose I shall. Will this mean Scotland Yard, do you suppose?’
‘Well, you’ll have to get help in tracing these people all over the country. They may be anywhere. But I’m still inclined to think that it’s a case where local knowledge can make the running best. But I’m not in a position to pronounce, don’t you know.’
‘Of course, I’d rather we could work it ourselves. Macpherson is a good man and so is Dalziel.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Wimsey, ‘how about the young man they detained at Stranraer?’
Sir Maxwell groaned.
‘A wash-out. He turns out to be a perfectly respectable stranger employed in a linen manufactory at Larne. Apparently he had leave to visit his family, who live in some obscure farm near Pinwherry. He was given a long week-end, finishing up on Monday night. It seems there was some kind of jollification on the Monday night, and the lad was over-persuaded to stay on for it. On Tuesday, as soon as he had recovered his senses, he bolted off to the station, thinking he could get back that afternoon, but mistook the time-table and then found he could get no boat before 7 o’clock that evening.’
‘Having, of course, missed the morning boat.’
‘Exactly. That was what he originally intended to
catch, of course, but owing to the jollification, he didn’t. Well, having got to Stranraer, he decided that there was no point in returning that night, and that he might as well stay over and take the 6.10 boat on Wednesday morning. Consequently, Dalziel’s message to the Stranraer police caught him as he was boarding this morning’s boat. Dalziel has been working like a nigger all day, getting him identified by his family and by the station-master at Pinwherry and by the people at Larne, and the upshot of it is that his story is perfectly straight, and that he’s guilty of nothing worse than being too drunk to go back to work on Monday night. Confound the fellow! He’s wasted a whole day of our best man’s time, and left us exactly where we were before. I hope he’s sacked, that’s all.’
‘Oh, don’t be vindictive,’ said Wimsey. ‘He couldn’t know how inconvenient he was going to be. He “maun ha’ gotten a rare fricht,” as the man in Ian Hay’s book said about the lice in his blanket.’
The Chief Constable grunted.
‘Any more news of the man with the bicycle who took the train at Girvan?’
‘No, except that they’ve checked the tickets and decided that he went to Ayr all right.’
‘How about the bicycle?’
‘The bicycle-ticket appears to have been given up too, though we can’t trace any ticket-collector who remembers anything about it. It would be much easier if we knew what kind of bicycle we were looking for.’
‘M’m. Yes. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get hold of some exact descriptions. Mrs. McLeod ought to know what Waters’ bike looked like. I bet Andy could tell you every scratch and scrape on his old crock. It’s got new tyres on, by the way. That ought to be a help.’
‘And then there’s Farren’s bicycle.’
‘So there is. And there’s a very fine collection of bicycles, male and female, up our close. Anybody who urgently wanted to borrow one in Gatehouse or Kirkcudbright wouldn’t have very great difficulty. And they all look much alike — honest, hard-working bicycles, half as old as time. For all we know, the murderer’s bicycle, if he was a murderer, and used one, may have come peacefully back home by this time.’
‘That’s a fact,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘But we’ll circulate those descriptions all the same.’
SERGEANT DALZIEL
On the Thursday morning, Sergeant Dalziel woke unrefreshed and irritable. He had rather counted upon the young man at Stranraer. To have a murder reported at lunch-time on Tuesday, and to catch the murderer at 6.30 the next morning would, he felt, have been a smart piece of work. Now he had to start all over again. The voluminous, contradictory and confusing reports from Kirkcudbright worried him. Also he felt dissatisfied about the bicyclist at Girvan. Surely it must be possible to trace him and his bicycle. These inquiries by telephone were never satisfactory. There was nothing for it, he supposed, but to go himself. With a grunt of annoyance, he tucked himself into his shabby car, collected Police Constable Ross to act as his aide-de-camp, and set out to collect descriptions.
He began with the Anwoth Hotel. Here he had the advantage of interviewing the outraged owner of the missing bicycle. Information was forthcoming in abundance. He had to look for a six-year-old Raleigh, with two new Dunlop tyres. The frame was painted black; one of the handle-bar grips was slightly broken; the bell was missing and the brakes defective. There was a tool-bag containing a repair outfit; a pump on the cross-bar, and a carrier at the back. The Sergeant wrote down all the particulars, promised his best attention and passed on his way.
At Waters’ lodgings, his task was more difficult. Mrs. McLeod had seen the bicycle week after week standing in her front passage, but, like most people of her type and sex, had only the very vaguest idea of its appearance. It was ‘an auld yin,’ it was of ‘the ordinar’ colour,’ she ‘couldna charge her memory’ as to its fittings, though she thought there was, or had been, a lamp on it, because she had once had occasion to complain of drips on her floor. As for the maker’s name, it had not occurred to her to look for it.
Her small son, however, proved more observant. He declared that it was a very old Humber, very rusty, and that it had neither bell nor lamp nor pump. ‘But there’s Mr. Waters’ name on a wee luggage label,’ he added, pleased to supply so helpful a clue.
‘Ay, but I doot it’ll no be there the noo,’ said the Sergeant.
He passed on to Mrs. Farren’s. Here he at first drew a complete blank. Mrs. Farren ‘had not the faintest idea’ what was the make of her husband’s bicycle. She apologised for being so unpractical, and gave the Sergeant the impression that such details were beneath an artist’s notice.
‘I’m sure,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t even tell you what make my own is.’
‘H’m,’ said the Sergeant, struck by an idea, ‘could ye let me have a look at your own bicycle, ma’am?’
‘Oh, certainly.’ She led the way to an outhouse, and indicated a clean, well-kept Sunbeam, not new, but well-oiled, and with all its parts in good condition.
‘Ye keep it verra nice,’ said Dalziel, approvingly.
‘I like to have everything orderly and clean,’ said Mrs. Farren.
‘There is a real beauty in cleanliness and decency. Even in-animate things may breathe out a kind of loveliness if they are well cared-for. Do not you think so?’
‘Nae doot, Mistress Farren, nae doot, ma’am. Wad this machine and your husband’s have been bought at the same time?’
‘Oh, no — his is newer than this.’
‘Ah!’ said Dalziel, disappointed. ‘Imph’m. Aweel, nae doot Mr. Farren’ll be returnin’ home before verra long. Ye ha’ heard naething from him, I suppose?’
‘No. But that’s not really surprising. He does go off like this sometimes for days together. You know what men are — especially artists and fishers.’
‘Och, ay,’ said Dalziel, comfortably. ‘Weel, if we should meet wi’ him onywhere, we’ll tell him he’s expectit hame. Could I speak a bit word wi’ the lassie? She’ll maybe ken what kind o’ bicycle it is.’
‘Jeanie? Oh, certainly — though I doubt if she’ll know much about it. I am always telling her she should be more observant — though I’m afraid I’m a bad example to follow. By the way, Sergeant, do you mind telling me why—’
She stopped and laid her hand on her throat as if the words were difficult to say, or as though, while feeling bound to ask the question, she were reluctant to hear the answer.
‘Why what, were ye aboot tae say?’
‘Why all this fuss about my husband’s bicycle?’
The Sergeant looked hard at her for a moment, then turned his eyes away and answered pleasantly:
‘Och, ’tis naething. But there’s several bicycles missin’ lately, and we’ve found a dealer at Castle Douglas wi’ twa-three machines he disna seem able tae gie a verra gude account on. Sae we’re juist mekkin’ a sort o’ round-up throughout the district, tae see if we can identify ony o’ them. However, ye’re quite sure, Mr. Farren has his bicycle wi’ him?’
‘So far as I know. Why not? He — went away on it. But — I don’t know of course — he may have left it somewhere — how should I know? He might have had it stolen since Monday, anywhere, by anybody. I — have you found it anywhere?’
Under Dalziel’s steadfast eye, she was fumbling and stammering.
‘I’ll tak’ ma aith,’ said Dalziel to himself, ‘she kens fine there is some importance tae be attached tae the bicycle, and she disna ken whether tae say her man had it or no. Wha could ha’ tell’t her? It’s no that Lord Peter, for he’s clever, wi’ a’ his bletherin’ talk. And it’s no Macpherson, he’d never let oot a word. There’s some yin is expectin’ you bicycle tae be found in a queer place, I reckon.’
Jeanie proved, indeed, to know as little about the bicycle as was to be expected, and produced no information beyond the fact that Mr. Farren was accustomed to clean both machines himself, and took ‘a wheen o’ trouble’ over them. A man who cared for his tools, evidently, and particular in certain matters, thoug
h he was an artist.
A bicycle-shop in the town was more helpful. The machine was a Raleigh, not new, but in very good condition, black, with plated handle-bars. The shop had fitted a new Dunlop tyre to the back wheel a few weeks previously; the front tyre was of the same make and about six months old. Bell, brakes, lamps and brackets were all in good order.
Armed with these particulars, the Sergeant made his way to Girvan Station. Here he found the porter concerned, a middle-aged man named McSkimming, who repeated to him, in rather more detail, the account he had already given to the station-master.
The train from Stranraer was due in at 1.6, and on the Tuesday it had come in well up to time. It had just entered the station, when a gentleman had come in hurriedly, wheeling a bicycle. He had called to McSkimming, and the man had noticed the high, affected English voice, with its ‘Heah, portah!’ The gentleman had told him to label the bicycle for Ayr, quick, and the porter had wheeled the machine to the little case containing luggage-labels. While he was labelling it, the gentleman was undoing a strap which held a small leather case to the carrier, saying that he would take it in the carriage with him. As time was short, he had pulled out a note-case from his pocket and sent McSkimming off to buy him a third-class ticket and bicycle-ticket for Ayr. Running back with these, the man had seen his passenger standing at the door of a third-class smoker. He had handed over the tickets and received his tip, and had then placed the bicycle in the rear van. The train had moved out almost immediately afterwards.
No, he had not noticed the gentleman’s face particularly. He was wearing a grey flannel suit and a check cap, and he had passed his handkerchief over his face from time to time, as though he were very hot with bicycling in the sun. As he gave the tip he had said something about being glad he had caught the train, and that it was a stiff pull from Ballantrae. He wore slightly tinted spectacles — the sort that is used to shield the eyes from sun-glare. He might have been clean-shaven, or he might have had a small moustache. McSkimming had had no time to notice details, forbye he had been feeling very unwell at the time with the awful pain in his stomach. If anything, he was feeling still worse today, and dooted that handling heavy luggage on a hot day did a man no good.
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