Terror Tower

by Gerald Verner

‘What have you found, sir?’ inquired the voice of Hartley. He and McWraith had been walking more slowly than Lowe and Jim, and had only just caught up with them.

  The dramatist explained and the superintendent’s lips formed themselves into a silent whistle.

  ‘So someone has been removing traces, have they?’ he murmured.

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Lowe. ‘Let us see if they’ve done the same thing to the traces of the ambulance on the smaller path.’

  He turned into the narrow opening between the bushes and, stooping, peered at the ground.

  It was free from any sign of a wheel-track, but here, as in the drive, the marks of stiff bristles were plainly visible.

  ‘Somebody has been extremely busy,’ remarked Lowe, straightening up, ‘covering up all traces.’

  ‘And that somebody must have been my butler, North,’ said Jim.

  ‘It certainly looks extremely like it,’ agreed the dramatist, ‘or, at any rate, he must have known about it. I think I should like to follow this path round to the Tower and see if we can find anything there.’

  Without waiting for Jim to reply he set off walking slowly along the narrow path, while the others followed him. The person who had destroyed the tracks made by the ambulance had been thorough, for although Lowe kept his eyes fixed on the gravel, there were no signs of any wheel-marks. They came out presently by the Tower, and Lowe gazed at the grim pile of masonry with interest.

  ‘This looks as if it were very old,’ he said. ‘Much older than the rest of the house.’

  ‘I believe it is,’ answered Jim; ‘it was originally a Martello tower, and the rest of the house was built on to it.’

  Lowe nodded and examined the ground round the base of the Tower. But here, too, the broom had been busy, and there was nothing in the way of tracks. He tried the door, but it was locked.

  ‘It was in the room behind this door that you saw the ambulance affair, wasn’t it?’ he asked, turning to Jim, and the latter nodded. ‘I’d like to have a look inside,’ he went on. ‘Can you manage to get hold of the key?’

  ‘I’ll go and find North,’ said Jim, and set off on his errand.

  While they waited for his return Lowe took stock of the rest of the house. It was very solidly built; there was no modern building here, and it looked as though it could withstand a siege. The stone walls, with their covering of ivy, suggested a sense of strength and power. It required very little imagination to conjure up a drawbridge and a moat and guess at the portcullis that had probably at one time guarded the entrance.

  Jim was gone some time, but when he returned he returned alone.

  ‘I thought it was better in the circumstances not to let North know that you were here or what you were doing,’ he said, ‘so I managed to slip in and get the key without either he or his wife being aware of the fact.’

  ‘Good man!’ said Lowe, and took the heavy bunch from Jim’s hand. ‘I suppose you don’t know which of these is the right one?’

  Jim shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know anything about them,’ he said, ‘except that I noticed last night where North kept them, which was lucky.’

  Lowe went over to the massive oak door which years of exposure to all kinds of weather had rendered black and iron-hard and tried several of the keys in the lock. At his fourth attempt he found one that fitted. It turned easily, and as he withdrew it he saw that the wards were slimy with oil.

  ‘Your butler appears to take great care of the locks,’ he said to Jim as he pushed the big door and entered the gloomy dungeon-like room beyond.

  It was very difficult to see anything at first, for the single slit of a window allowed scarcely any daylight to filter through. But the dramatist had brought his torch with him, and its brilliant white light soon dispersed the darkness. So far as Jim could see the place was exactly as he and McWraith had seen it on the previous night. The packing-cases still stood against the wall, the broken chair was where it had been then, and by the iron bedstead stood the ambulance.

  Lowe went over to it and carefully examined it. There was no doubt that it had been recently used. There was no dust on it, and the wheels, though they had been wiped, still showed traces of mud where the tyres fitted into the rims. Suddenly he bent forward and peered at a crack in the enamelled headrest fitted into the remainder of the contraption.

  ‘There’s something here,’ he murmured, with narrowed eyes, and taking out his penknife, he opened it and inserted the point of the blade into the interstice.

  When he withdrew it and looked at it in the light of his torch he drew in his breath with a sudden hiss.

  ‘Look at that, Hartley,’ he said, holding it up so that the superintendent could see it.

  Hartley stared at the shining steel and saw that a small portion of it was dyed red — a red that glistened in the light of the torch.

  ‘Good God, Mr. Lowe!’ he breathed, ‘it’s blood!’

  Trevor Lowe nodded grimly.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it’s blood, and it’s comparatively fresh!’

  Chapter Eleven – North is Frightened

  Jim looked at the sinister stain on the penknife, and, in spite of himself, gave a little shiver.

  ‘Although this trolley has been carefully cleaned,’ said Lowe, laying his hand on the ambulance, ‘the blood in this crack has been overlooked. Probably if the person who cleaned the thing had had more time he wouldn’t have overlooked it. But it proves that the man you saw, Mr. Winslow, was wounded, and wounded in the head, for this is where his head would naturally rest.’

  ‘And the man who was killed was shot through the head, sir,’ said Hartley.

  ‘Exactly.’ Lowe nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think there can be much doubt that they were the same, in which case it seems more than likely he was shot here.’

  He wiped the penknife on the arm of the old chair and, folding it, put it back in his pocket.

  ‘I think we’ll have a look round,’ he continued. ‘There is a chance we may find the bullet that killed him.’

  While Jim and McWraith looked on he and Hartley began a systematic search of the Tower room, but they found nothing.

  ‘What about this, sir?’ asked Hartley as he came upon the door under the winding stone staircase. ‘Where does this lead to?’

  Jim repeated what North had told them on the preceding night.

  ‘I wonder if he was speaking the truth,’ muttered Lowe, and going over he looked keenly at the iron barrier, running the light of his torch up and down the hinges and the jamb.

  ‘I’m inclined to think he was lying,’ he announced presently; ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, this door has been opened recently.’

  ‘Perhaps one of those keys you have will fit it,’ suggested Jim, and Lowe tried them.

  But none of them fitted.

  ‘There must be another key somewhere,’ said Lowe, ‘and until we find it it’s hopeless trying to do anything. Only a charge of dynamite would shift this door.’

  He left it and came back to the centre of the stone chamber.

  ‘I’d like to have a look over the rest of the Tower,’ he said, ‘though I don’t suppose we shall find anything. Whatever there may be is behind that door, in spite of your butler’s assertions that it has not been opened for years.’

  Jim led the way up the stone staircase, and Lowe and the other followed. The dramatist searched each room thoroughly on the way up, but, as he had expected, there was nothing. They reached the battlemented top and Lowe admired the wonderful view of the rolling country to the sea. It was a clear day, and the lightship marking the sand-bar and the Dungeness lighthouse were plainly visible. Neither he nor Jim guessed as they looked at the finger of stone projecting from the sea, the sun glistening on the glass of the lantern, what a big part it was to play in the events that were to follow.

  They returned to the ground floor, locked up the entrance to the Tower, and made their way round to the front of the house.

  There was
nobody about, but the table in the dining-room was laid for lunch. Jim suggested that they should help themselves to drinks which stood on a tray on the sideboard, and rang the bell. There was some delay before he got any answer, and then instead of North, as he had expected, Mrs. North tapped at the door and entered.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she apologised, ‘but my husband is not very well. He’s gone to lie down, sir. I hope you will excuse him.’

  She looked rather ill at ease, and for the first time Jim noticed a trace of emotion in that usually expressionless face.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. North,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘I don’t believe it’s anything serious, sir,’ she said hastily. ‘He’s suffering from a bilious headache. Would you like luncheon now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ answered Jim. ‘I’m sorry we’re late, but we were detained on business.’

  The woman’s eyes flickered round the group.

  ‘Will there be four of you?’ she asked, and Jim nodded.

  ‘Yes, can you manage something?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ she answered. ‘I’ll have it ready in a few minutes.’

  She made her strange little half bow, half curtsy, and withdrew.

  McWraith, who was pouring out whiskies and sodas, turned as the door closed behind her.

  ‘I wonder if that’s true — about North,’ he said.

  ‘I rather doubt it,’ replied Lowe. ‘If you want my opinion, he’s found out that you have taken the keys, saw that we were here, and provided himself with an excuse to keep out of the way.’

  ‘But what good would that do him?’ asked Jim, taking the glass that McWraith handed him. ‘He can’t use the excuse of being ill permanently.’

  ‘He may have some special object in wanting to keep out of the way to-day,’ said Lowe. ‘I think, however, we should be justified in insisting on seeing him after lunch. Don’t you, Hartley?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ agreed Hartley with emphasis; ‘there are quite a lot of questions I should like to put to him.’

  Lowe smiled.

  ‘I can think of one or two myself,’ he said. ‘Also I shall be very interested to see that dog of his which screamed last night.’

  ‘I’ve seen no sign of a dog,’ said Jim.

  ‘I don’t mind betting,’ put in McWraith, ‘that the dog only exists in North’s imagination. He knew what it was that made that horrible row, and he had to account for it somehow. The dog was the first thing that came into his head.’ He gulped down his drink and put the empty glass back on the tray. ‘What do you think is at the bottom of all this?’ he asked, looking from Lowe to Hartley.

  The dramatist shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he replied candidly. ‘I’m as much puzzled as anybody, but I’m hoping that we may strike something if we keep on long enough. Whatever it is, this murder is only part of it, and a very small part at that.’

  He considered a moment, looking from McWraith to Jim and back again. Would he be justified in taking them entirely into his confidence. He was a great believer in first impressions, and the first impression of both these men was a good one. He decided to risk it.

  ‘Stonehurst holds a secret far greater than the killing of this unknown man at the cross-roads,’ he said. ‘That was only an episode made necessary because he knew something which would have proved disastrous for somebody if he had been allowed to speak.’

  Rapidly he related the gist of his interview with Shadgold, and Jim and McWraith listened enthralled.

  ‘By Jove!’ exclaimed the big Scotsman. ‘This sounds jolly interesting. What do you think happened to these Scotland Yard men?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid that they’re dead,’ answered Lowe gravely. ‘In my opinion they, too, found out something connected with Stonehurst’s closely guarded secret and were silenced.’

  There was a moment’s hushed silence, broken at last by Jim.

  ‘What the dickens can be at the back of it all?’ he said.

  ‘That is what I’m trying to find out,’ declared Lowe. ‘And whatever it is, I think your butler knows all about it.’

  ‘Then we’ll jolly well make him talk!’ said McWraith.

  ‘We’ll try,’ agreed the dramatist, ‘but I doubt if it’s going to be as easy as you think. There’s somebody in the background directing operations who apparently sticks at nothing to ensure silence, and North — if he knows anything — will be aware of this. Fear is one of the strongest of human emotions to overcome.’

  Before they could discuss the matter further Mrs. North came in with a dish of beautifully grilled and very succulent-looking chops, and since they were all ravenously hungry by this time, the subject of the mystery surrounding Stonehurst was stopped by tacit consent while they fortified themselves with this excellent food. A very good Stilton followed, and when the housekeeper had set coffee before them and Jim had handed round a box of cigars McWraith expressed the feelings of everybody in words.

  ‘That’s better,’ he remarked with a sigh of content, settling his huge form back in his chair. ‘I don’t remember ever having felt so hungry.’

  ‘I felt hungry, too,’ said Hartley, carefully lighting a cigar. ‘I must say, Mr. Winslow, that your housekeeper knows how to grill a chop.’

  ‘I hope we shall be able to ‘grill’ Mr. North as well,’ said Lowe, smiling. ‘Suppose we have him in now?’

  Jim rose and rang the bell.

  ‘You’d better ask for him, Hartley,’ said the dramatist. ‘You’re the only person here with official standing.’

  Hartley nodded.

  ‘All right, sir,’ he said; ‘you leave it to me.’

  There came a preliminary tap at the door, and Mrs. North entered. She was crossing to the table, evidently under the impression that the bell had been a signal for her to clear away, when Jim stopped her.

  ‘Mrs. North,’ he said, ‘Superintendent Hartley wishes to speak to you.’

  The woman started, and her sombre face went a shade paler.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ She turned her large black eyes towards the superintendent.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. North,’ said Hartley genially, ‘but I should like to see your husband for a few minutes.’

  The pallor underneath her olive skin increased, and she passed the tip of her tongue over dry lips before she replied:

  ‘He’s in bed, sir. Was it very important?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the superintendent; ‘but if you like, I can go up to his room —’

  ‘There’s no need to do that, sir,’ she broke in quickly. ‘I’ll go and tell him, and ask him to come down.’

  She went to the door with a sharp jerky movement, and when she had gone Lowe looked across at the superintendent.

  ‘That woman’s scared,’ he said.

  ‘I hope North isn’t sufficiently scared to run away first,’ said Hartley. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Yes, it did cross my mind,’ answered the dramatist, ‘but I don’t think he’ll go as far as that. He’s sensible enough to realise that he could easily be caught, and flight would be as good as a confession of his guilt. I think now that he finds that he’s got to he’ll face it out.’

  Ten minutes passed, and then there came a gentle tap at the door and the butler entered. Except for his collar and tie, he was fully dressed beneath a dressing-gown he wore. His narrow, ferret-like face was yellow, and his appearance suggested that there might have been some truth in Mrs. North’s statement that he was suffering from a bilious attack.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, sir?’ he asked deferentially, standing just inside the doorway.

  ‘Yes.’ Hartley cleared his throat. ‘I want to ask you a few questions concerning the murder that took place outside the village last night.’

  Lowe, watching intently, saw the butler’s hands clench, but he gave no other sign that he was in the least perturbed.

  ‘I’ve hear
d about it, of course, sir,’ he said easily. ‘The tradespeople were full of it this morning, but otherwise I’m afraid I know nothing about it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, Gillman,’ said Lowe suddenly. ‘Blackmail is more in your line, isn’t it?’

  North started violently and his head shot round towards the speaker.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ he said, but his voice was high and shaky. ‘My name is North —’

  ‘Your name is Joseph Gillman,’ snapped Trevor Lowe, ‘and the last time I saw you was in the dock at the Old Bailey charged with blackmail!’

  Chapter Twelve – Through the Window

  North’s face changed from yellow to a dirty grey.

  ‘I assure you you are making a mistake, sir,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘My name is not Gillman; it’s North.’

  ‘It may be now,’ said Lowe, ‘but it was Gillman then. That’s seven years ago, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Are you sure of this, sir?’ asked Superintendent Hartley.

  ‘Quite sure,’ replied Lowe with conviction. ‘I never forget a face. I was spending some little time at the courts in order to get some technical details for one of my plays, and I remember seeing this man sentenced. But you can easily prove what I say. Take his fingerprints and send them up to the Yard.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that,’ muttered North; ‘you’re quite right; I am Gillman. But I’m running straight now, that’s why I changed my name. I got sick of going crooked, sir; it doesn’t pay in the long run, and after that last sentence I swore I’d go straight. I was lucky to get this job —’

  ‘On forged references?’ suggested Hartley.

  The butler shook his head.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘the old gentleman — old Mr. Winslow — knew all about me. He was kind enough to give me a job.’

  ‘We’ve only got your word for that,’ grunted the superintendent.

  ‘It’s the truth, sir,’ said North. ‘Honest, it is.’

  ‘If Mr. Winslow knew about you, why did you have to change your name?’ asked Lowe.

  The butler looked a little disconcerted.