Bert lay back in bed, feeling very shaky again. The events of last night kept passing, like a stage army, before his inward eye. Had they left any clues behind? After the shot had been fired and the horrible man had crumpled at their feet, Bert and Foxy froze for minutes, expecting the unseen murderer to enter the house. That was the worst part of all, because, once he found them there, he’d be bound to shoot them—he just could not afford to have two eyewitnesses of the crime left alive. But minutes, that seemed hours, passed, and no fatal footsteps did they hear—only snatches of gusty rain against the half-open shutters, the house corruptly muttering to itself, wind moaning like minature air-raid sirens through keyholes and under doors. Presently the pair had plucked up courage, and crept out of the room, Foxy bearing the storm lantern, into the kitchen. Without a word to each other, they repacked the haversack, picked up the blankets, and left the house by the way they had entered.
But now Bert was remembering the crumbs they must have left on the floor, the empty Coca-Cola bottles they had certainly forgotten to remove; and the fingerprints. On their way back, Foxy had sworn him to silence. Foxy would write an anonymous letter to the police, telling them where to look for the body, but beyond that he was not sticking his neck out.
Mrs. Hale came in. Her son looked feverish, sort of haunted. She hoped he had not caught a chill from getting so wet last night; the thermometer only showed a slight rise of temperature, however. The best thing would be to pack him off to her sister in Essex for the week end, to get some country air and farm produce. For once, Bert showed considerable enthusiasm at the project. Mrs. Hale, after absently smoothing his hair, went off to telephone; she was a worried woman: it did a landlady no good, having the police in and out; and last night—what with the tramp breaking in and Bert giving her such a fright—had upset her terribly. Well, Bert was like his poor dad: secretive, never told you anything till his lordship thought fit—no use nagging at him. She never knew half what went on in that funny head of his. But he was straight—she’d take her oath on that, against all the coppers in London.
When Foxy turned up, early that afternoon, he was told that Mrs. Hale had taken Bert to a relation in the country, and would not be home again herself till suppertime. He considerably startled the daily by saying to her, “Don’t you tell no one where he’s gone, see? It’s important. Specially no smoothies that come to the door.”
“We had a cop here this morning,” she informed him. “Ever so nosy. And a burglar last night.”
“Coo, aren’t you seeing life, Madeleine! Now remember what I told you. Not a word to anyone about Bert, or I won’t answer for the consequences. Be seeing you.”
The daily gaped after him, dim-witted, but seriously impressed….
Clare Massinger was not to get any work done this afternoon. First there had been the doctor, who did not seem at all happy about Nigel; it might be only severe concussion, but there might be a lesion of the brain. Then the ambulance came, and Nigel was borne off to hospital, still unconscious. A policeman was taking down, in a notebook and slow motion, her account of the affray. Neighbors, conspicuously absent while it was in progress, now swarmed around them, excitedly questioning one another, theorizing, or gaping at Clare. The policeman, requesting the chief witnesses to stay put in Clare’s studio, got to work on the telephone. Alec Gray fidgeted about picking up Clare’s little clay horses and putting them down, till she could have screamed at him. He had behaved pretty well, she had to admit; but she could think only of Nigel, the damp-cold feel of his face as he had lain there in the sunny little courtyard, among the bay trees in their green tubs.
A hatchet-faced man, neatly dressed, his features drawn with fatigue but his eyes sharp as augers, now came in with the policeman, and introduced himself as Detective-Inspector Wright.
“Miss Massinger? I’m very sorry to hear about this. Don’t worry too much. He’s a hardheaded chap, Mr. Strangeways.”
Clare smiled at him gratefully.
“And you are Mr. Alec Gray?”
“Right first time.”
“Lucky you were on the spot, sir. You must have moved fast.”
“I do, when I have to.” Gray’s public-school drawl was very pronounced.
“You were in your flat, I take it, when you heard this lady call out for help?”
“You take it correctly.”
“Your flat is on the top floor?”
“My flat is on the top floor. And I’d like to return to it, with your permission.”
“By all means, sir. If you’d find it convenient, I’ll come and have a word with you in half an hour.”
Alec Gray flipped his hand at Clare, and departed.
“A very self-possessed young man,” commented the Inspector.
“That’s one word for it. But, you know, he did save Nigel’s life. Those men were out to kill. They’d have hit him again—” Clare broke off, shuddering.
“If you hadn’t fought them off for a bit.” The Inspector smiled attractively. “Oh yes, Constable Smithers here has told me your account of the affair. Quite a dust-up, it must have been. We’re grateful to you. We think quite a lot of Mr. Strangeways.”
“I’d no idea he’d anything to do with police work—not till Rudolf Durbar came out with it at lunch.
“Sir Rudolf? You were lunching there just now? Both of you?”
“Yes. And it was the first time I heard about this boy Nigel is looking for. I seem to be catching up on my general knowledge today.”
The Inspector was frowning. “You mean, he talked about it at lunch? Who else was there?”
“Just the Durbars and ourselves. Why?”
Inspector Wright got up, absently removed the cloth from the portrait head of Nigel, stared at it, frowning still, as if awaiting some explanation from the clay lips, then sat down again.
“Have you a good memory, Miss Massinger?” he asked, with a sudden incisiveness that momentarily disconcerted her.
“A good—? Well, fair to middling.”
“Will you try to tell me what everyone said at this lunch party?”
“Everything everyone said?” she asked, in dismay.
“Don’t get anxious. It’s not so difficult. You’re a sculptor. Start with their faces, then. Shut your eyes, concentrate on their faces. Mouths opening and shutting, expressions, words coming out. Right? Off we go, then,” said the remarkable man. And, to her amazement, haltingly at first, but soon with increasing fluency, Clare found herself repeating the talk at the lunch party. Inspector Wright helped her out with questions, from time to time. She did not understand the point of them all, particularly when he pressed her closely about the end of their visit.
“So Lady Durbar didn’t accompany you when you went to look at the pictures? How long were you in the gallery?”
“Oh, about twenty minutes. A bit less, perhaps.”
“But she saw you off?”
“Yes.”
“Any change in her demeanor then?”
“I don’t quite—”
“Was she distraight? Politely eager to get rid of you? Unusually talkative? Anything like that?”
“No. I didn’t notice any change in her.”
“It was definitely Sir Rudolf who invited you to look at the pictures? After he’d returned from telephoning?”
“Yes. Yes, but Hesione did say something to him—I didn’t hear what—when he came back into the room. She might have been suggesting he should tour us round the pictures, I suppose.”
“Now let me see if I’ve got these movements quite straight. After lunch Mr. Strangeways talks about the boy he’s looking for. Sir Rudolf is called out to the telephone. Returns. Invites you to look at pictures. Spends some twenty minutes with you—he was with you all that time?”
“Yes. No. He nipped out for a couple of minutes to fetch a Van Dyck from some other room.”
“And then you went back to the drawing room, where Lady Durbar was still sitting, and said good-by?”
?
??Yes.”
“Well, it’s time for me to say good-by too. I’m most grateful to you, Miss Massinger.” He held her hand for a moment, adding, “Don’t worry. He’s having the best attention. I’ll see you get the report from the hospital, as soon as they’ve finished their examination.”
An hour later, Wright was in conference with Superintendent Blount at Headquarters.
“So there you have it, sir,” Wright was saying. “There’s more coincidence knocking about the world than people give credit for, but I can’t swallow this as a coincidence—Strangeways getting bashed on the head half an hour after he’s announced that he’s the only person who can identify the boy we’re looking for.”
“Just so. But you’re not suggesting that Sir Rudolf Durbar organized it, are you?” Blount gave a wry grin. “You’re going to run into a packet of trouble, if that’s the way your mind is moving. You’d be safer accusing the Governor of the Bank of England—”
“No. It’s his wife, Lady Hesione. She had the knowledge, the opportunity, and a motive.”
“A motive?”
“Her liaison with this fellow Gray. Why, unless she’s under his thumb, does she refuse to admit that he knew the combination of her safe? She’s protecting him.”
“Even after he’s stolen her jewels?”
“She can only suspect him of that, sir, at the worst. And you know the way a woman—an infatuated woman—will shut her eyes to a reality that’s staring her in the face, and pretend it’s not there.”
“Uh-huh. Well?”
“As soon as Sir Rudolf takes his guests off to see the pictures, Lady Durbar rings Gray. We’re finding out if she did put through any calls. He’s asked her to keep him posted about Strangeways. Or maybe she just gossips. Anyway, he knows now that Strangeways is a danger to him, and he has plenty of time to lay on his countermeasures.”
“And then ruin them by charging to the rescue before his thugs have finished Strangeways off?”
“That was just a blind,” said Wright, rather nettled, “and not a very clever one. He’s a powerfully built fellow, an ex-Commando, yet he let them both get away from him. And it was all too pat, the way he turned up. About ten seconds after she first screamed for help, Miss Massinger reckons; and she’d not have been able to hold off two men much longer than that. Ten seconds to get down three flights of stairs and along the passage. I don’t believe it. I reckon he was waiting about, much nearer.” Superintendent Blount scratched his chin, sighing heavily. “It’s all very well, Wright. But there are too many unknowns in the equation. We’ve no proof that Gray is the man Dai Williams was after; no proof that he’s behind these robberies; nothing to link him with the men who tried to get hold of that boy’s boat, or criminally with Sam Borch.”
“I know that, sir,” Wright broke in impatiently. “But you can’t get away from this attack on Strangeways. Why did it happen when it did? Because of what he deliberately let out at the Durbars’—there’s no other reasonable explanation. And you can’t tell me that Lady Durbar—or Sir Rudolf, for that matter—has a gang of cosh boys on tap, just waiting for a telephone call. We’ve been through their friends, during the investigation over the burglary, and the only one we’ve a shadow of a reason to suspect is Gray.”
“But there’s no proof, either, that Gray has criminal associates.”
“We’ve got to find proof,” said Wright keenly.
They discussed the steps which had already been taken in this direction, but admittedly led nowhere. Gray’s dossier was not, so far, very revealing: a good public school, war service, both parents killed in a motor accident some years ago, a legacy from an uncle, the flat in London, and a cottage on a Hampshire estuary, where he sailed. He appeared to be a rich playboy, without a profession, whom everybody in a certain social milieu knew, but no one—except the women he had lived with, and possibly lived on—knew well. Strained as their resources were at present, the C.I.D. had not yet been able to check Gray’s career at every point, or examine it deeply. His standard of living seemed to be higher than the income from his legacy would permit; but he might be living on capital as well as on women.
It was out of the question to apply yet for a search warrant. Gray would be kept under surveillance, as far as this was possible. Wright would interview Lady Durbar again, in an attempt to turn Gray’s flank from that direction.
“And,” he said, “I think we must take the risk now, sir, and issue a public appeal for the boy to come forward. Now Strangeways is out of action—”
“Which shows how far they’re prepared to go, to prevent us getting hold of Dai Williams’ message.”
“I know, sir. That’s just the point. We only held back from making a public appeal because we did not wish to emphasize the value we set on the message. That reason’s gone, now we know the importance the other side—whoever they are—attaches to it.”
“Very well. I agree.”
“I was hoping I’d got onto it this morning,” said Wright. He told Blount about the affair at Mrs. Hale’s house, and his Sergeant’s visit. “But it turned out a dead end. We’ve got a photograph of this Bert Hale, just in case. But why should he have denied all knowledge of the affair, if he was the right boy?”
The two set to work, drafting appeals for press and radio. The telephone rang.
“It’s for you, Wright. From Division.”
Wright took up the receiver. “What’s that?” he exclaimed in a moment. “Just hold on.” He took out paper and pencil. “All right. Repeat it.”
When he had taken down the message, given some instructions, and rung off, he handed the paper to Blount. “Just come in by the last post. Anonymous.”
The message ran:
Body of Bloke alias the Kwack to be found at 6 Belvedere Street, W. 8. He was murdered last night. Go to it, chummies.
Part
Two
9
Wanted–A Boy
THE POLICE SURGEON had made his preliminary report. The body had been photographed, searched, and removed. Fingerprint men were still at work. The D.D.I. leaned against a wall of the derelict kitchen, watching Detective Sergeant Allen carefully scoop some crumbs from the floor into an envelope.
“You know what I was talking about to Superintendent Blount just now, when you rang me up at H.Q.?”
“No, sir.”
“Coincidences.”
“Yes, sir?” the Sergeant replied, politely but abstractedly, as he scribbled on the envelope.
“Now we’ve got another.” Wright jerked his head in the direction of the adjoining room. “Yesterday morning we ask Sam Borch if he knows anything about the Quack. Last night, the Quack is murdered.”
“Fishy, sir.”
“No doubt we’ll find Borch has a lovely alibi for last night.”
“Put him and his alibi through the mangle.”
“Mind you, the Quack’s description was in all the papers by then. Somebody was afraid he’d be found, and squeal. That somebody doesn’t have to be Borch.”
“You think he’d been hiding here some time, sir?”
“Use your loaf, Allen. Nothing in his pocket, but a razor. No blankets. No overcoat. No money.”
“There are these traces of food, sir. And the empty Coca-Cola bottles.”
“We’ll come to them in a minute. But I lay you a month’s pay it’s not his dabs we’ll find on those bottles. Nah, it won’t do! Who’d pick on a broken-down dump like this to hide up in? It’s an eligible residence for one kind of tenant only. A dead man. How d’you reconstruct it, Allen?” Wright was popular with his men—the ambitious ones, anyway—because he encouraged them to think for themselves, to learn.
“From the blood on the floor, he was shot in that room next door, not brought here dead. Position of body, plus recent footmarks on the earth outside, suggest he was shot by someone firing through the window. Well now, sir—”
“The open shutters?” Wright prompted.
“He’d not open up to anyone he wa
sn’t sure of. Therefore he must have been expecting a confederate.”
“What for, Allen, what for?”
“Well, sir, not to bring him supplies—not if you’re right that he didn’t intend to stay long. I’d say he was expecting someone who’d get him away from here—out of the country, perhaps. And this bloke double-crossed him.”
“Good enough, Allen.”
The Sergeant, gratified, began to embroider the theme.
“The Quack thought it was a transit camp, but it turned out a terminus.”
“Cut the literary trimmings, Allen. Or have you started writing your memoirs already?”
The Sergeant looked sheepish.
“These other traces of occupation,” continued Wright. “The small footmarks upstairs, etc. What do they suggest to you?”
“Kids breaking in, sir.”
“About the murder, I mean.”
Allen thought for a few moments. “He’s not a local man, or he’d know there was a danger of kids finding the body. Or else, he didn’t much care whether it was found or not. Just picked this spot in a hurry, as isolated—fairly safe for his purpose.”
“Safe, M’m. Maybe he was unlucky, though. Another of these coincidences. Or was it?”
“Sir?”
Wright’s keen face had the alertness of a terrier at a rat hole. “I’m interested in three things. The bolt of the side door, which has been oiled but not drawn back; that rim on the floor, where someone has recently put down some sort of paraffin lamp; and these traces of food. Try your teeth on them, Sergeant.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem likely the Quack would have brought a storm lantern with him, as he didn’t bring anything else,” said Allen slowly. “I’ve got it! A confederate of his broke in—the night before; oiled the bolt, so that the Quack could make a quick getaway if necessary; left some food and a lantern for him.”