“Now let’s get this straight,” said Berry, possessing himself of the rule. “I’ll do the measuring off, Carson can do the cutting, Boy will lay them in place and you’ll tie them up.”
“Give me the rule,” said Jonah. “Two to a grille.”
With that, he drew a fresh rectangle, six feet away from the first.
As he stood up—
“You’ll work with me – I know you. And Carson will work with Boy.”
Berry swallowed.
“As you please,” he said. “All the same—”
“I shall do the cutting and laying, and you will do the ties.”
“I shall lacerate my fingers,” said Berry.
“Just to begin with,” said Jonah, mercilessly.
I picked up Joseph’s grille, to lay it aside. To my surprise, I found that it weighed a great deal. And Joseph had turned it about, as though it were a page of a book.
And there you are.
Joseph had made his grille in ten minutes of time. And he had been working alone. Carson and I took eighteen minutes exactly; and the others – thanks to Berry – took twenty-four. I felt most deeply ashamed…
Still, we did improve.
Before the day was out, Carson and I held the record with eight minutes dead; and Jonah and Berry had done it in under ten.
Joseph had left us alone – except that from time to time more rods were brought up. But at four o’clock he appeared, to see what we had done.
When he saw the piles of grilles, he pulled off the little beret he always wore.
“Messieurs,” he said, “I make you my compliments. If I had four workmen like you, what could I not achieve? What is more, I need not check them. I know they are true to the pattern in every way.”
“It’s our house,” said Berry, licking the blood from his fingers and wiping the sweat from his face.
Joseph smiled.
“And if it was not, Monsieur, they would be just the same. I know. It is amour propre. If one were to do bad work, one would not be able to sleep.”
Between us, we made all the grilles, while the men who should have made them did other work.
The steel cores of the pillars were boxed in the next two days, and, before the week was out, they had been embedded in concrete for almost the whole of their height. In every case a foot of steel was left bare; this would run into the beam which the pillar would help to support, so that pillar and beam would be locked together with concrete – so locked that even an earthquake could never tear them apart.
On Thursday the wings were finished; the cores of the beams were laid on that and the following day; and, as they were laid, they were coffered. By Saturday afternoon this work had been completed, and all the coffers were propped. And on Saturday evening Hadrian’s Wall was done – six weeks to the day since we saw its foundations laid.
It was, I think, a great triumph to have raised such a wall in six weeks; but a much more signal achievement remained to be won. In a word, in the following week, the steel-work of the platform had to be laid – and tied to that of the beams as well as to that of the girdle which was to lie on the top of the wings and the wall; and the platform had to be shuttered – that is to say, a staging had to be built beneath where the platform would lie, to hold up steel and concrete, until the latter had set. All this must be done in one week. And then, if the weather permitted, the concrete could be run in.
Till now I have said nothing of the interest our venture aroused not only in Lally and Besse but the neighbouring countryside. Any building upon Evergreen was bound to excite remark; rumour apart, such a thing could be seen for miles. Husbandmen could see it from the meadows and shepherds could gaze upon it from many a mountain lawn; from a third of the rooms in Lally, observation upon its progress could well be kept: and every car that used the main road on the farther side of the valley could keep the construction in view for more than a mile. Any building on such a site was bound to arrest the eye; as for Hadrian’s Wall…
I tremble to think of the number of working hours which were lost in contemplation of that great work of men’s hands. Husbandmen neglected their labour; flocks and herds cared for themselves; people sat still at windows, propping binoculars; the road between Lally and Besse became a promenade; and once I counted six cars drawn up by the side of the way, directly across the valley, two crow’s miles off. At first we declined to believe that people journeyed from Pau to see what we had done, but Therèse declared it was so, and at last I proved it myself.
On the Sunday morning which followed the actual completion of the wall, Berry and I walked leisurely up to the site. Daphne and Jill and Jonah had gone to Church. As we passed the elegant meadow, we saw four people ahead in the midst of the way – two men and two women, all French, engaged in argument. Their gestures left no doubt that they were discussing the wall.
As we made to pass by—
“Pardon, Messieurs,” said a voice.
The elder of the two men was speaking.
“It is possible that you can assist us. You see, we have come from Pau, to see this important construction of which we have heard. Even now, we dispute the matter.”
“How can I help you?” I said.
“Monsieur, we were informed that a château was being built. Very well. The walls are there: before long the roof will go on. But where are the windows that such a château should have?”
“That’s not the house,” I said. “That wall will support a platform upon which the house will be built.”
The other man put in his oar.
“I cannot accept that,” he said. He pointed to the construction. “Those are plainly the walls of the château, and there on the left is the doorway in which the front door will be hung. Some steps, no doubt, will approach it: and a porch of glass will protect it against the rain.”
One of the women leaned forward.
“My husband,” she said, “is expert. His cousin is a building-contractor with whom we are on excellent terms.”
Berry picked up his cue.
“A building-contractor?” he cried. He took off his hat. “I salute a colleague. I have a step-aunt who is a bricklayer’s mate.” He laid a hand upon my shoulder. “I present my wife’s brother – also, alas, my cousin. He has spent many years in prison, but is reformed. He will very shortly take orders.”
The eyes of his audience were starting out of their heads.
“And now for the problem,” said Berry. “Did I understand you to say that a flight of steps will protect the porch from the rain?”
With a visible effort, ‘the expert’ marshalled his wits.
“The – the château has no windows,” he stammered. “We perceive a doorway worthy of such a house: but we have been finding it strange that there should be no windows through which the occupants might consider this very beautiful view.”
Berry roared with laughter and clapped him upon the back.
“My old friend and colleague,” he chirruped, “you are behind the times. An architect from Paris has designed this residence. Those who live there will do so by artificial light. It is the rage, you know. In all the best quarters of Paris the windows are being filled in.”
The Frenchman swallowed.
“But that,” he said, “is formidable. To build a house in the sunshine and live in the dark.”
“Everyone to his taste,” said Berry. “And how did you leave my uncle?”
The other put a hand to his head.
“Monsieur, I think, mistakes me for somebody else. I have not the honour—”
“You are Monsieur Le Dung,” said Berry. “We met in Montmartre one morning at two o’clock. My uncle was regrettably drunk; and you and Fifi were—”
“Never,” shouted the other. “I am not Monsieur Le Dung.”
“That was the name,” said Berry, “which Fifi used. Ah, Fifi!” He blew a kiss into the air. “Never mind. The next time you see my uncle—”
“I tell you,” screamed the other, “that
you have made a mistake. I do not know this Fifi. As for your uncle…”
Berry was looking back, whistling, as though for some dog.
Then he returned to our companions.
“Never keep a bear,” he said gravely. “A dog, yes. But a bear is disobedient.”
“A bear?” cried one of the women.
“I used to have two,” said Berry; “but one took a fancy to babies and so I gave it away. I’m not too sure about this one. They get very jealous, you know. If they see you talking to someone…” He turned to me. “See if he’s coming, will you? I want to get on.”
I walked back towards Lally, calling “Butcher!”
By the time I looked round, Berry had the road to himself.
He led the way to our ledge and threw himself down.
“We shall get into trouble,” I said, “if you go on like this.”
“Impertinent fools,” said Berry, “must be discomfited. When four adult beings, the youngest of whom will never see forty again, after well marking these bulwarks, decide that they are those of a windowless house, and are then offensive to people who put them wise – well, such persons must be corrected.”
“Madame Le Dung will correct her husband all right. Her face, when you mentioned Fifi, argued suspicion confirmed.”
“The point is,” said Berry, “they won’t come back this way. When they heard you call Butcher, they fairly legged it for Besse. You know, that wall is a corker. If it was not well done, it would let the landscape down. As it is, it’s right in the picture… Walls are so old. They’re nearly as old as the hills. Balbus and Romulus built them. We’ll have to take care with the house: but, whatever we build above it, that wall will always be the feature of the estate.”
“We should,” I said, “have put a canister within it containing our names and particulars, some coins of the realm of England and a copy of The Times.”
“So we should,” said Berry. “Never mind. We’ll put one in a wall of the house. A proper document on parchment, which you shall draw up. Oh, and what do we do tomorrow?”
“Help to run the concrete into the beams.”
Berry fingered his chin.
“That doesn’t sound too bad. Entirely between you and me, I’ve lost interest in grilles. They’ll be improved by burial. The thought that I’m treading their graves will warm my heart. By the time I’m through, I shall probably feel the same about the beams. ‘Run in.’ I suspect the transitive use of such intransitive verbs. It sounds as if we were going to suffer some liquid to pass. My instinct tells me that that is too good to be true.”
“We may have to work it a bit.”
“Quite so. Again the transitive use of an intransitive verb.” He examined his hands. “I suppose they can graft on new finger-tips. And I can wear some false nails.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, “will impose a strain on the palms – the juncture of the palms with the fingers.”
“Blisters?” said Berry.
“It’s just possible. Crowbars are unsympathetic.”
“Hell’s guts,” said Berry. “They wouldn’t allow this at Dartmoor. They dress for dinner there now. And now let’s examine the latest work of men’s hands. I remember a crumb of mortar I meant to remove.”
Eight hours later we learned that our stock had soared in the little village of Besse. Therèse was our informant.
“But Monsieur is terrible. How the village of Besse has laughed. All were emerging from Mass, when four strangers arrived at a run. They were greatly deranged. They said there was a bear in the way, and, when they were asked whereabouts, they said that it was approaching ‘the windowless house’. Then all the world discerned the footprints of Monsieur. The strangers were interrogated, and, sure enough, Monsieur le Major Pleydell was found to be the owner of the bear. And of a second bear which had devoured infants in arms. Imagine how Besse has roared. And all the windows in Paris which are being bricked up! But who would believe that four grown-up individuals could be such imbeciles? And Monsieur le Capitaine, the felon, who is soon to become a priest! But when they came to Monsieur Le Dung, then Besse has broken quite down. Monsieur le Maire had to be helped to the café, and tears were running on Monsieur le Curé’s cheeks. And the strangers are furious, because they have not been believed. And they would not walk back down this road, but sent for a car from Lally to take them back. Ah, Monsieur has made a number of friends today; for the bourgeois despises the peasant, but now the country has had the laugh of the town.”
“And the moral?” said Berry. “Don’t say that Besse missed the moral.”
“The moral, Monsieur? Ah, no. But that is too much. Monsieur cannot deceive Therèse.”
“There’s an excellent moral,” said Berry, “a present of which I make to Monsieur le Curé free of charge. He must use it in his sermon next Sunday. If those four strangers had gone to Mass, as they should, they would not have fallen foul of a disobedient bear.”
“And Monsieur?” said Therèse. “Monsieur was not at Mass.”
“Monsieur was receiving instruction from his cousin, the priest to be.”
Therèse gave a shriek of laughter and disappeared.
7
In Which Fortune Favours the Bold,
and Two Strangers Approach Our Gates
The next morning brought a letter from Falcon.
September 12th.
DEAR CAPTAIN MANSEL,
Sir Steuart Rowley.
I promised to let you know what progress I made.
I left Lally, as you know, on August 20th. From there I drove to Oloron, where I spent two nights. Then, for a week, I rambled about the country, visiting villages and towns, till I came to the sea. There I turned north and made my way to Bayonne. At Bayonne I turned east and made my way back to Salies. There I spent two nights. I reached Orthez the following day. That was September 3rd. I stayed at La Belle Hôtesse, which no doubt you know – to find that I had missed Shapely by thirty-six hours.
I won’t detail the action I took, but will tell you what I found out.
Shapely reached Pau from Paris by the early-morning express on Thursday September 1st. He drew from the cloakroom some baggage which he had left there in June and drove direct to the garage at which he had left his van. He gave orders for the van to be serviced and ready by half-past ten. At that hour he returned, paid his bill and left, driving the van. That evening, at half-past six, he came to La Belle Hôtesse, where he spent the night. The next day, September 2nd, he drove to Bordeaux. There he made arrangements to ship the van and caught the night train to Paris, arriving at Croydon at four o’clock the next day.
I saw him on September 7th.
I pointed out that Orthez was twenty-five miles from Pau – a distance which even a van can cover in less than eight hours. I asked which way he had taken and how he had spent that time.
His answer was this. That, whilst he was touring with Tass, he had made a photographic record of the way by which they had gone. That record had been incomplete, because he had run out of films. Having occasion to fetch his van, he had taken the opportunity of making good that gap. He showed me the pictures he had taken of the country by Navarenx.
I do not believe his explanation. I think that he went to meet Tass. He was plainly shaken by my questions and feared I knew more than I did.
The region south of Orthez is being carefully combed.
Yours very sincerely,
RICHARD FALCON.
“My God,” I said. “What shocking bad luck! Falcon was sitting at Salies, while Shapely was ten miles off.”
“Wicked,” said Jonah. “But observe, if you please, that Falcon doesn’t complain. He’s used to hard knocks.”
“I hope he’s used to hard nuts. Shapely will take some cracking. Fancy having those photographs ready.”
“Yes,” said Jonah. “He’s up against something there.”
“There remain,” I said, “two things which are too hard for me. First, why did Shapely lie – say that he
passed through Lally the day before he did?”
“You believe that it was a lie, and not a mistake?”
“Yes,” I said. “For this reason. If you are right, and Shapely directed the crime, the vital dates would have been engraved on his mind.”
“So they would,” said Jonah. “That’s one to you.”
“Secondly, why didn’t he tell Falcon that his passport was with the Customs on the day that the crime was done? I know you say that he probably shrank from producing so perfect an alibi. But I don’t feel that that’s the answer.”
Jonah raised his eyebrows.
“I can give you no other,” he said. “But, whatever answer you get, it won’t alter the facts of the case. That Shapely directed the murder, I do believe: that would explain the timing – and other things: but he took the greatest care to secure himself. By staying beyond that post at the critical time, he made himself as safe as he would have been if he’d been locked up in some jail. To all intents and purposes, he was under lock and key.”
“That’s very true,” said I. “How easy it is to fail to see the wood for the trees.”
With that, we went up to the site: but all that day I was thinking of Falcon’s letter and how Fate seemed to favour the men who had conspired to put Old Rowley to death. Of Shapely’s guilt in the matter, I now had no doubt. Shapely had a strong motive – a very strong motive – for sending his stepfather down. Tass had gone straight from Shapely – straight as an arrow from Shapely, to do the deed. Shapely’s alibi bore the stamp of design. And Tass was not to be found; but Shapely had visited the district where Falcon believed him to be – and had paled when Falcon had asked him how he had spent his time. Here was no proof; but add together these facts, and they made, to my mind, a strong case – not a case, of course, for a jury; but many a felon has never come to be tried.
I shall always maintain that such an outlook was fair. I admit that we had liked Old Rowley, had never liked Shapely, had never set eyes upon Tass. But Shapely’s cast-iron alibi got me under the ribs. That it was accidental, I simply could not believe. And if it was not accidental – well, what of a man who does wilful murder by proxy, and takes the greatest care to secure himself?
House That Berry Built Page 11
