by Peter Baron
“Well, Kate Alice?”
Mrs. Greer was not well and showed it only too plainly. She had had practically no rest on the preceding night, and she had been too worried that day to even think of rest.
“What’s going to happen about last night, Ian?” she asked nervously.
“Nothing. And don’t use my Christian name. You’re here as a domestic, not a dowager.”
“They can’t trace Clem, can they?” she persisted.
“Can’t? They have, but you’ve got nothing to worry about. I have had a request to attend the coroner’s inquest. So have you.” He tossed her a printed slip.
Mrs. Greer’s eyes dilated.
“They’ve found him?”
Ian nodded.
“Yes, they’ve found him all right. God alone knows how they did it, or even recognized him in those clothes and with his face half blown off. Keating must have moved pretty smartly, but it beats me how he lighted on Clem.”
Mrs. Greer peered anxiously at the door.
“I’m scared, Ian,” she whispered.
“No need to be,” he assured her. “I stuffed the Poacher’s note in his pocket, and there’s nothing to connect us with that gentleman. Besides, had we wanted to croak Clem we had plenty of time and opportunity to have done it before this. No, we’re safe enough as long as you don’t go blurting out anything that will damage us. We’re safe enough in any case until after the inquest.”
In a measure she was reassured. There seemed little enough to connect them with Clem’s death, but she had another bone to pick with Ian.
“All the same, something’s got to be done,” she said, with cryptic elegance.
“In connection with what?”
“This house. I’m getting the heebies and that’s a fact. If the Poacher’s sitting in on the game we’re in for it. He’s more dangerous than the rest of them put together. Gawd, I wish ‘Flash’ was here.”
Ian smiled coldly.
“Meaning you’re frightened?”
“Meaning just that. There’s you and Barbara out most all the day, and me here all on me lonesome. It isn’t good enough, Ian. Mebbe he’s not out for me, but if it’s you he’s after I stand a pretty good chance of getting something all for myself, and I don’t want it, Ian. You’ve got to get a man like Clem.”
The reference to Clem strengthened her resolution.
“I ain’t likely to forget what happened last night, and I don’t want no repetition.” She thought she had taken that fence rather well, and cantered back to essay it again. “I don’t want no repetition of that night’s work. Gawd only knows where this is going to lead. If we don’t get croaked in our beds, we’ll be hung for murder.”
Ian lighted a cigarette.
“I should have thought that the reasons for not having an outsider here were fairly obvious,” he suggested.
“What about Barbara?” Mrs. Greer demanded shrewdly. “Ain’t she a stranger—an’ mixed up with Flea Powder too. She don’t suspect nothin’ and she’s a woman. What a woman doesn’t suspect no man will ever find out.”
Ian conceded the point with a nod.
“Still, I could do without her about the place,” Mrs. Greer continued. “Why don’t she get married, Ian? When a girl’s getting on she’s got to get off, and if she doesn’t soon get a man she’ll die a spinster. Not that a man is any good. They clear off when they’ve got all they want, and while they’re being faithless to flannelette they’re sinning with silk. Talking of men, what about it?”
“You win. I’ll put an advert in the ‘Reigate Courier.’ I dare say you do need a man here when I’m out.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “Do you like pork?”
“Certainly, why?”
“The last lot made you bilious, and we’ve got it for dinner.” With which remark she departed, leaving Ian to draft the advertisement with a slight lessening of his anxiety. He realized that Mrs. Greer was recovering her poise, and was less likely to betray them. By the time Barbara returned he was almost cheerful.
“Going out?” he asked. “You might drop this in at the ‘Courier’s’ office, in the High Street, if you’re going that way.”
Barbara read the advertisement critically, and nodded her approval, but she paused at the door to ask a question that added at least three years to Ian’s age.
“By the way, what’s happened to my American swain?” He had carefully suppressed the papers that had announced the finding of Clem’s body, but he had known that she was bound to be curious about Clem’s absence.
“As a matter of fact,” he replied easily, “I’ve been a bit worried about him myself. He wasn’t home last night.”
“I suppose it’s no good asking you to be frank,” she suggested, and he received another nasty shock. “I know something about Clem’s wild youth. Is he in stir by any chance?”
Ian gaped, and she laughed at his discomfiture.
“Borrowed from Clem’s extensive vocabulary,” she explained. “I know lots more like it. ‘Well, is he?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“One other thing. Can he drive a car?”
“No, why?”
“Because some one drove mine last night sifter I’d used it. Well—I’m for town. Cheery-bye.”
She walked out before he could think of a suitable reply. As she pulled up outside the “Courier” Office a few minutes later she experienced a slight shock. Crossing the road towards her was Inspector Keating.
“You!” she wondered. “Good heavens, don’t police ever work, or do they leave that part behind when they become Inspectors? Why are you down here?”
“To be near you,” he chaffed amicably.
“You can be even nearer,” she laughed. “Come and buttle for us. You’ll get all that mystery which is so dear to you in our house.”
He took the advertisement she proffered and read it.
“You remember that peculiar American man who is Ian’s valet——”
“Was,” he corrected, and as she eyed him wonderingly, “He’s dead.”
Barbara gasped. “My dear man, if this is your idea of light repartee——”
“Fact,” he assured her. “Coroner’s inquest this afternoon. That’s why I’m here.”
“Dead? Do you mean that? But how——”
“Murdered,” he explained. “Kaye found him in Reigate Woods.”
She was silent, and Keating regarded her sympathetically. Unknowingly she had entered the world of shadows—the world of unexplained deaths—police inquiries—furtive comings and goings.
Under his regard she strove to regain her normal composure.
“But this is—oh, it’s too horrible. I’m beginning to be almost afraid. Oh, I’m silly I suppose, but—Ralph—Dennis—Clem——”
She looked away.
“It’s rather terrible,” she said slowly. “These crimes—particularly when one seems to be right in the center of things—with horrors all round—do they know who—did it?”
“Not yet. They can guess I suppose. I can. They didn’t even know who he was until I told them. I brought Larry Wade down this afternoon to identify his brother.”
“Will he be at the inquest?”
“Naturally.”
“Then so shall I. I rather want to see what that mysterious person looks like in the flesh.”
Keating groaned.
“You’ll put years on me, Barbara. Here am I trying my hardest to work it so that you won’t be called at the inquest, and you go and spoil all I’ve done. Oh, woman, thy name is——”
He broke off, not for effect, but because he had forgotten the end of the quotation.
“Is Ian to be present?” she asked.
“He is, and Mrs. Greer. We’re rather curious about their movements.”
“Ian said nothing about the inquest this morning,” she said slowly. “I wonder if there was anything funny about that headache I had.”
“Perhaps he was trying to spare you unnecessary w
orry,” he suggested, and knew, as he said it, that this was not the reason.
So did she.
He became aware of her puzzled scrutiny and faced her, smiling.
“Who did this awful thing?” she asked. “Isn’t there any clue to his identity at all?”
“There is and there isn’t,” he answered. “We know this is the Poacher’s work, and Kaye says he knows who the Poacher is, but that’s probably all my eye.”
She smiled. “I hope it isn’t. Somehow I shan’t feel safe until the Poacher is brought to book. I can’t get away from the idea that his interests lie in Marske House, and that Ian and Mrs. Greer are somehow bound up in them. And I’m more than casually interested, myself. You know that someone drove my car last night while I was asleep—and as Ian tried to suggest, drugged.”
Inspector Keating frowned. He was seeing that incident in an entirely new light. She could see that he was absorbed, and his preoccupation lasted till he left her a few minutes later.
She was feeling almost excited when she arrived at the court that afternoon.
By silent but mutual consent, she arrived without Ian or Mrs. Greer, and they sat apart during the inquest.
She listened to the rather dull proceedings apathetically, and evinced no particular interest when Ian gave evidence. She also noticed that the Coroner spoke very gently to Mrs. Greer, as though he did not wish to excite or frighten the old lady, but—and this astonished Barbara—Mrs. Greer gave her evidence quite calmly and firmly. So calmly that Barbara was momentarily puzzled. Mrs. Greer’s present collected attitude was a little difficult to reconcile with her former panic-stricken terror. She might have followed that train of thought for some time had not something of more vital interest claimed her attention.
Inspector Keating would have been amused had he observed her heightened interest when Larry Wade gave evidence.
Once, as the elegant Larry turned to survey the court, she found herself looking into a politely bored face, and she experienced a queer thrill. He was good looking. And not much more than a boy. And yet Keating insisted that he was perhaps the most notorious “gang boss” in the country. Her estimation of the Inspector’s judgment sank considerably, and she betrayed scant interest in his evidence when he gave it. It was not until the Coroner’s jury arrived at their decision of “Willful murder by a person, or persons, unknown,” that something very remarkable occurred to her. Superintendent Kaye had not been called, and yet Keating had said distinctly that it was his superior who had found the body. Thinking back she recalled that Keating had deposed to the finding of the body on behalf of Kaye, and that the Coroner had made a curt and angry comment on the Superintendent’s absence. She had noticed, too, that Keating had written something on a slip of paper and passed it to the Coroner, after which the subject had been dropped.
For once Barbara was shaken from her self-possession. Her little world seemed to be crumbling around her. Everywhere was mystery—the mysterious comings and goings of people like Larry Wade and Superintendent Kaye. People who surrounded themselves either accidentally or deliberately with an atmosphere of mystery. She pondered that deeply as she left the court room.
At least she had seen Larry Wade. That was something. It remained to be seen if she would ever meet the remarkable Kaye. She had a curious feeling that she would see him, which. gave her considerable food for thought.
And had she sought Keating she would have seen Kaye then, and immediately classed him as anything but a member of the Central Branch. She had, in fact, seen a short portly little man listening to the proceedings, and had casually labeled him as the ideal butler of the celebrated “Jeeves” type.
Standing in the Coroner’s room the two inseparables discussed the case and exchanged notes. Keating retailed Barbara’s slightly disconnected narrative to his superior in as far as it dealt with relevant information.
“The car—Mrs. Greer’s behavior—and other things,” he said, smoking morosely. “I guess we can find out all we want in Ian’s house, Kaye. I’d like to know what he was doing that night. A tea shop owner and a tobacconist in Coulsdon confirmed his alibi, but I don’t know—Ian’s a slippy customer.”
Kaye smiled thoughtfully. “All the same, I think you’ll find Ian’s alibi is cast iron. It’s the Poacher we want—and by God I think we’ve got him.”
“Did you mean what you said when you left me the other day?” Keating asked.
“About the Poacher’s identity? Yes, I meant it, but until I can get into that house and prove what at present is only a theory, I prefer to keep the discovery to myself.”
“Selfish hound,” said Keating politely. “I hope the theory comes unstuck.”
Kaye smiled queerly. “Everything centers in that house. Sooner or later things are going to be interesting. The Poacher is here in Reigate for one reason only—to watch Ian, and unless I’m very much mistaken, Larry won’t be far off.”
Keating nodded and suddenly received his weekly idea. He expounded it. Kaye listened for some time and then smiled broadly.
“Do I look like a butler?” he asked good-humoredly.
“Fits you like a glove,” said Keating unkindly. “Think it over. I’m going to have a word with friend Larry before he slides out. So long. Next time I see you you’ll be on my left hand side saying ‘asparagus, sir?’”
He neatly avoided a friendly dig in the ribs and departed.
Out in the sunlight he encountered Barbara, and stopped beside her car, unconscious of the slightly humorous regard of Larry Wade who lounged indolently in the entrance hall.
“Well there wasn’t much question of N.A. or S., was there?” he asked naively and perceiving that he had, as he intended, mystified her, proceeded to explain.
“N.A.S. and M. represent the four causes of death. Natural, Accidental, Suicide and Murder. You’d hardly call a death that blew half a man’s face off natural, and the fact that he was wounded three times rules out an accident. Similarly, if he had wanted to commit suicide he’d have blown his brains out, not blown his face off. Besides, the shots were fired point blank, and he’d find it a pretty difficult job to look down the barrel of a gun and fire it. Therefore M——and a capital one, like the charge.”
Barbara shuddered.
“Rather gruesome, isn’t it?” she asked, and he saw the shadows in her eyes and made a clumsy effort to dissipate them.
“Well, was Rudolph in the flesh as interesting as his photograph?”
“He’s rather nice,” she answered mechanically, “and at the moment is watching you.”
Keating wheeled swiftly to find Larry studiously studying the floor of the entrance hall.
“That boy can get away with a lot of things,” he grunted, “but not everything. Going?”
She nodded, and he removed his hat as her car slid forward. He stood watching it vanish with a rather wistful expression. He looked a little less wistful as he turned and encountered the disarming—but rather amused smile of Larry Wade.
He strode across the road.
“You got out of that damn well,” he observed coolly.
Larry raised his eyebrows.
“You’ll never get far Keating,” he drawled, “if you persist in trying to persuade yourself that what you’d like to happen really did happen. If you could prove I killed poor old Clem I reckon you’d be grateful to me for giving you a chance to shop me.”
It was to a certain extent true. Keating acknowledged the hit with a grunt.
“If ever I give you the chance of getting me, Keating,” Larry continued, “I shall deserve what I get.”
He stiffened suddenly and Keating discovered that Ian was standing a few feet from them apparently waiting for them to allow him to pass.
Keating looked from one to the other regretfully.
“Two of the biggest crooks in Christendom, and I can’t pull either of you,” he lamented.
“Well, Larry,” murmured Ian, “how’s the egg business?”
Keating faile
d to appreciate the cryptic allusion to poaching, but Larry saw it.
“Still trying to throw that dumb stuff?” he asked politely. “Mud slinging at long range is your long suit, Ian. It’s the fellows who do your work, like Clem—who get what’s coming to you.”
“Brotherly love, when not affected, is always affecting,” Ian retorted.
“So was your testimony at the court,” sneered Keating, and stood aside.
As Ian passed, Larry murmured softly, “If you’ve got anything you value particularly, watch it, Ian, watch it.”
There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words which Ian noted with grim amusement.
“As a matter of course, now that you’re in the neighborhood,” he retorted, and walked away.
“If you’re going to the station, Larry,” said Keating, watching Ian’s retreating figure, “I’ll come with you, and if you’re not going to the station I’ll come with you just the same.”
Larry grinned and felt for his cigarette case. As he opened it something white fluttered to the ground and he stooped like a flash to retrieve it, but Keating was quicker.
He rose holding the small strip of blue paper in his hand with the feeling that he had at last come to grips with something tangible. Something in Larry’s eyes told him that the slip of paper was one of the three that the Colonel has distributed to his brothers, and held a clue to the whereabouts of the d’Essinger emeralds. His thoughts obviously communicated themselves to Larry, for the other made an attempt to control himself.
Ruin was staring him in the face, but he held out his hand coolly enough, and assumed a detachment that he was far from feeling.
“Mine, I think?” he said.
Keating looked down at the paper again and smiled. That was the finish. Larry read his companion’s thoughts like a book, and what he read did not please him.
“One of the Colonel’s little slips,” said Keating softly. “By God, I’ve got you, Larry,” and before the other could make a move a handcuff closed over his wrist, and Keating began to intone a formal charge with the greatest of satisfaction.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Keating and his captive maintained an unbroken silence on their way to the station, and few people suspected from their bearing that the two men who walked so closely to one another did so because their wrists were handcuffed together.
