There's Trouble Brewing

  He looked at his watch; 9.10 p.m. The question was, would the murderer put in another of his appearances tonight? The inspector was seeing to the brewery end of it all right; police would be watching from concealment every entrance; the murderer would be allowed to enter, but he would find it less easy to leave. If indeed, he wanted to enter; perhaps he was even now planning to strike somewhere else; perhaps his last visit to the brewery had only been a feint to conceal the direction of his next blow. Nigel stirred uneasily. It was an unpleasing thought that the next blow might be aimed at himself; the criminal was without mercy and had been a damned sight too efficient so far; maybe Nigel would be safest in the brewery tonight, with plenty of policemen on the spot. Oh, well, one could only die once. On with the dance.

  Nigel went down to the hall telephone. There were two points still to be verified. He searched in the directory and dialled a number. Herbert Cammison, sitting in his study, heard him say—‘Hallo. Is that Mr Tripp? Oh, it’s you speaking. This is Nigel Strangeways speaking from Dr Cammison’s. I’m helping the police in the Bunnett affair … Yes … Just one small point. That set of teeth you’ve been reconstructing … Oh, you’ve finished … yes, it must have been a very delicate job … Eustace Bunnett’s, without any question? … Yes, I thought so. How did you identify them? … Of course, the plaster cast of the jaws: lucky you kept it … Joe’s and Mrs Bunnett’s, too? Mm. You must have quite a nice little chamber of family horrors. No further identification necessary? … Quite so. Thanks very much Good-night.’

  A faint look of perplexity appeared on Herbert Cammison’s saturnine features. It deepened as he heard through the slightly open door another number being dialled and Nigel’s voice saying, ‘Is Mrs Bunnett in? … Thank you … Mr Strangeways speaking. Just a moment. Are you the——? … Oh, yes, Mrs Bunnett’s cook. Well, if you could just answer one or two questions, it would save troubling your mistress … Yes, I am connected with the police. The night of the burglary, you remember; Saturday. Mrs Bunnett said something about some food having disappeared … Yes, of course, quite ridiculous. Some loaves and a seed-cake, wasn’t it? … Yes, I expect the burglar took them, too. Hope he left you your Sunday joint … He did. Oh well, it might have been worse, mightn’t it? Thank you. Goodnight.’

  As Nigel hung up the receiver, Dr Cammison gently closed the door of his study. He stood quite still in the middle of the room, frowning a little. He was still standing there a minute later when the front-door bell rang. He went to the door. Gabriel Sorn was standing outside. ‘Could I see Strangeways for a minute,’ he said.

  XIV

  July 20, 9.20–11.20 p.m.

  Thy chase had a beast in view.

  DRYDEN

  WITH GABRIEL SORN’S arrival at the Cammisons’, one may say that the last chapter of the Bunnett affair opened—the last chapter, for the murderer’s confession can only be considered as an epilogue. This last chapter was a worthy climax to the events which had preceded, events so macabre, abominable and bewildering in themselves that one might well have supposed their conclusion could not fail to be anticlimax. This Monday night was distinguished for more than the catching of a cold-blooded and monstrously ingenious murderer. It was perhaps the first occasion on which a stolid policeman has nearly fainted, from something else than loss of blood; it was probably the first—and quite possibly the last—occasion on which Gabriel Sorn was to perform an act of indisputably the highest physical courage; and incidentally it came near to seeing the total destruction of Bunnett’s brewery and of several estimable inhabitants of Maiden Astbury—not to mention Nigel himself.

  At nine-twenty Gabriel Sorn, who had told Cammison that he wished to speak privately with Nigel, was shown by him into the bedroom. The young man, Nigel observed, was labouring under some strongly suppressed emotion: his left eyelid fluttered spasmodically with a nervous tic; the alternating prickliness and effusiveness of his manner were more strongly marked than before. He sat down in the basket-chair, clasping his hands so that the knuckles stood out white—as though nerving himself for a dentist’s drill. Nigel, who at times could be as inhuman as Sophie had accused him of being, was far too interested in analysing Sorn’s manner to feel pity or disgust for the rather lamentable figure he presented.

  ‘Found your murderer yet?’ said Sorn.

  ‘The police, I understand, are confident of a speedy arrest,’ Nigel replied glibly.

  ‘You “understand”? That sounds as though you hadn’t much confidence in them.”

  This remark was as good as a question; but Nigel made no answer. The best way to rattle anyone, he knew very well, was to remain silent, and compel the other chap to make the running. He stared noncommittally down his nose. After ten seconds Sorn blurted out:

  ‘But what about you? Haven’t you any theory who the murderer is?’

  ‘I have no theory,’ Nigel replied softly: then, suddenly raising his pale blue eyes and staring fixedly at Sorn, he added.

  ‘You see, I know who the murderer is.’

  Sorn’s hands moved convulsively, a movement that he turned into a futile sort of gesture.

  ‘You——? Oh, well. That’s that, then, I suppose.’

  Nigel resumed his formidable silence.

  ‘Well, damn it,’ jerked out Sorn after a little of this, ‘why haven’t you arrested him?’

  ‘I might not have enough evidence to convince the police. Or again, I might not know exactly where he is.’

  Gabriel Sorn digested this. Then, visibly screwing himself up to make the effort, he said—feigned negligence and real anxiety as it were cancelling each other out in his voice and rendering it quite toneless—

  ‘May I ask, am I the murderer?’

  ‘You should know best, Mr Sorn, you should know best.’

  Gabriel gave a funny little laugh, a laugh of almost genuine amusement.

  ‘Because, if I am, and if—as you more or less imply—you haven’t yet passed on your knowledge to the police, then it would be to my advantage to plant a knife in your manly bosom as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you say so?’

  ‘Scarcely. After all, Cammison knows you’re in my room—and so presumably does the maid. No, I should call it a decidedly imprudent move on your part.’

  ‘Cammison. Yes.’ Sorn lay back a little in his chair. ‘I’ve been thinking about my mother. She’s proud, you know. Proud and poor. The blood of earls, so I’ve been credibly informed, runs in the Sorn veins—pretty diluted, of course, I’m wondering will she be too proud to take Eustace’s money.’

  ‘Tough on you, if she refuses it.’

  ‘Yes. You see, it would enable me to give up the brewery and devote myself to writing. No doubt you think that would be a major calamity,’ he added defensively.

  ‘Oh, no. Not a bit. I’d say you could write good poetry. You’ve had the right stimuli. “We learn in suffering”, and all that.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ snapped Sorn ungraciously. ‘I didn’t come here for emotional reassurance.’

  ‘Just what did you come here for? A small point, perhaps, but one worth making. Apart from planting a knife in my manly bosom, I mean.’

  Gabriel Sorn was silent for some time. Then, without looking up, he said:

  ‘I came to tell you a story. But I don’t know that you’ll believe it.’

  ‘You can but try.’

  ‘I suppose this facetious manner is part of your stock-in-trade. Oh, well, I will try then. It’s quite a short story. Half an hour ago I was rung up by a certain person who asked me to be waiting with my car at midnight in that lane that leads through Honeycombe Wood into the London Road.’

  Nigel slapped his knee excitedly. ‘The devil you were!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here, let’s get this straight. What you mean is that the murderer asked you to help him make a getaway?’

  ‘You’ve said it.’

  ‘And why should he appeal to you particularly? I mean, you’re putting yourself in rather an awkward position by this statement. It sounds a
s if you had been his accomplice all along.’

  ‘Do you really think I’d be giving myself and him away like this, if I was his accomplice?’ Sorn asked wearily.

  ‘Well, why are you giving him away? Have you developed a sudden passion for bourgeois morality, fiat Justitia, and all that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter much what we call it, does it? I suppose it’s just that I don’t fancy the idea of my father’s murderer getting off scot-free.’

  ‘Very filial of you, to be sure.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut up this schoolmaster’s sarcasm!’ Sorn burst out. ‘Even bastards have feelings.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but it really is rather a tall story.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I believe you,’ Nigel said unexpectedly, ‘but I doubt if Tyler will. Can’t you supply any—er—additional confirmation? The name of the person who rang you up, for instance?’

  ‘You say you know who the murderer is. Why should I tell you what you know already? I don’t mind telling you, though, where he rang up from: the AA box at the crossroads at the top of Honeycombe Hill. He’s been hiding in the woods since last night.’

  ‘He told you all this? Trusting sort of fellow, isn’t he?’

  Sorn stared at the carpet. ‘You needn’t pile it on. I know I’m behaving like Judas. He’s—he was a friend of mine, you see, and he trusts me. But he shouldn’t have killed my father,’ he added in odd, childish, obstinate tones. He twisted his fingers together. ‘God! I hope I am doing right to tell you this. Is it right of me, or just contemptible?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I’m an amateur detective, not a judge.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sorn, trying to recover himself, ‘what is the amateur detective going to do about it?’

  ‘I’ll convince Tyler somehow. We’ll throw a cordon round the wood; you will keep the rendezvous in your car, and we’ll have a bobby or two hidden in the back of it. That suit you?’

  Sorn’s face flushed; his voice rose up and broke into a falsetto. ‘No I’ll not—damn it, you can’t expect me to be there when he’s caught. That’s asking a bit too much. You can borrow my car, if you like, but count me out of it.’

  ‘Very well, then. I’ll go along and tell Tyler at once. He’ll need to get all the men he can spare round the wood. Here’s a map. Just show me the exact place where you’re supposed to be meeting our friend … Right, and where do you keep your car? Tollworthy will probably be coming along for it.’

  ‘It’s standing outside my digs.’

  Gabriel Sorn was dismissed. In five minutes’ time Nigel was talking to Tyler in the police station. The inspector was, contrary to Nigel’s prediction, keenly excited by Sorn’s story.

  ‘By Jove! sir, so that’s where Joe Bunnett’s been hiding all today. Well, we’d have found him tomorrow. I was going to have every inch of that wood searched. Sensible of him to try and clear out. We’ll get him now, though.’

  ‘Just a minute. I had to pretend to Sorn that I was convinced by his tale, after registering a reasonable amount of suspicion at the beginning. But don’t tell me you’re taken in by it too.’

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘Taken in? Are you suggesting——?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. It’s an attempt, and not a very bright one, to draw our attention away from the real scene of action.’

  ‘I don’t see that, sir.’

  ‘Look here, if the murderer was really hiding in Honeycombe Wood, he’d never be such a fool as to tell Sorn about it. Far too dangerous. He couldn’t be certain that Sorn wouldn’t split. Let us suppose, as Sorn’s story implies, that the murderer has an AA key. The obvious thing would have been for him to ring up a garage—giving a false name, of course, ask for a car to meet him at such and such a place, conk the driver over the head, and make off in the car. He’d never trust himself to a chap who is obviously a suspect for the murder himself and therefore has every incentive to get the real murderer caught.’

  ‘But supposing Sorn was Joe’s accomplice——’

  ‘If Sorn was an accomplice the last thing he’d want is for the murderer to be caught. Accomplices are apt to get hung. No. Either Sorn really believes that the murderer is in Honeycombe Wood or else he’s helping him to escape for an altruistic motive. Whichever way it is, whether Sorn’s an unconscious tool or a temporary ally of the murderer, the getaway is going to be in another direction. The idea behind all this is to distract our attention from the brewery.’

  ‘The brewery? But why should Bunnett want——?’

  ‘Well, it’s your own theory that he needs that passport of his. He would know, after his attempt last night, that the brewery would be more carefully watched. Therefore, he’d have to distract your attention from it.’

  ‘You may be right, sir. But I’m going to have Sorn’s car waiting in Honeycombe Wood at midnight, for all that.’

  ‘Have a fleet of cars waiting if you like. Only don’t relax your watch on Bunnett’s.’

  ‘I’ll put Tollworthy on to the car job. Then I’ll be getting along to the brewery; it’s dark enough now.’

  It was a little short of ten o’clock when Nigel and the inspector passed through the main entrance of the brewery. A plainclothes man started up out of the shadows and saluted. A whispered conversation was carried on. Then they walked softly through the yard to the side entrance; that too was unobtrusively guarded. If anyone entered the brewery, he was not to be challenged; nor was he to be allowed to get out again. The great brick wall soared up into the darkness above them, the smell of malt and hops was sour upon the night air. They entered the building. Tyler clicked on his electric torch, and made the round of his defences. A man in the clerk’s office; the night-watchman, who was to make his tour of inspection at the usual times, but closely followed by a detective-constable; a fourth man in Eustace Bunnett’s room, and another at the bottom of the staircase down which the murderer had fled the night before.

  Nigel and Inspector Tyler finally settled down to wait in Joe Bunnett’s room. So far the murderer had never moved till after midnight. They had nearly two hours’ wait before them. Nigel enlivened the time by outlining his own theory of the crimes in a whisper to Tyler. The inspector was impressed but far from convinced.

  ‘The proof of the pudding, sir——’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We shall know one way or another before the night’s out.’

  ‘One way or another,’ thought Nigel. ‘Yes, no doubt. But it won’t be much satisfaction to us if we have to hold a post-mortem on this case in the next world. He’s entirely ruthless, probably quite insane by now. I wonder had Joe a revolver. All those passages and staircases—endless opportunities for ambush, and what a good target we should make. Let’s hope he shoots at the uniform first. I must really get Georgia to buy me a nice bullet-proof waistcoat—provided, of course, that I don’t get a lead lining in the course of tonight’s little spree. I should have tumbled to it before. Eliminate the impossible, and what you have left is——After all, there was no one else who possessd the same qualification as ——. Why am I getting so worked up? Even if he does not turn up tonight, we can easily get proof tomorrow. Spades will be trumps and win us the rubber. I’d like to know what he’s been doing all today. Must have been in the brewery. Quaint, the police searching the brewery this morning and him here all the time. This morning. It seems ages ago. Boom—boom—boom—boom: boom—boom—boom—boom: boom—boom—boom—boom: quarter to twelve. God! Who the devil’s that moving about? Oh, Lock, of course; he’s in the middle of his rounds now. Our friend won’t move till he’s finished.’

  Nigel automatically looked at his watch. He stiffened and looked at it again. It said quarter to eleven. It was hardly possible to believe that they’d not yet been in the brewery for the space of an hour. But—well, then, what was that noise he had heard? Who was moving about? The night-watchman should not yet have begun his round: the policemen had strict orders not to move fro
m their posts—if they heard one blast of the whistle, the men inside the brewery were to run towards the sound; the watchers outside were not to move from their posts unless they heard three blasts.

  So whose were the footsteps that Nigel could hear mounting the stairs and already moving along the passage towards their room? He clutched Tyler’s arm, and croaked in a voice that he could not prevent from sounding a bit blood-curdled:

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Ah. That’ll be him, I expect,’ replied Tyler stodgily. ‘You leave this to me, sir.’

  Nigel was quite content to do so.

  Hands feeling along the wall, rustling against the door, feeling circumspectly for the lock. Hands, Nigel could not help reminding himself, that had already killed two people, perhaps three. A key turned gently in the lock. Yes, this is all as we arranged. We locked ourselves in here on purpose. We knew he had a key and would be expecting to find the door locked, but——

  The door opened, inch by inch. It was too dark to see, but you could feel it opening. A gentle click. The beam of a torch sprang out, focused upon the centre of the floor. Instantaneously, as though it had been a challenge, Tyler put on his torch. For a second the two beams crossed, like swords: then Tyler’s stabbed upwards to the face of the intruder.

  The face of Gabriel Sorn!

  ‘What the devil——!’ exclaimed Tyler.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ cried Sorn.

  Nigel said urgently: ‘The key. Where did you get the key?’

  But already Sorn, with a little sound like the whimper of a dreaming dog, had flung his torch full at the inspector and bolted out of the room.

  Roaring out an oath—he had been struck hard on the cheek-bone—Tyler rushed after him. Then he stopped and blew one blast on his whistle, remembering that the passage and the stairs were blocked.