CHAPTER X
A MURDER
Constable Wiseman lived in the bosom of his admiring family in a smallcottage on the Bexhill Road. That "my father was a policeman" was theproud boast of two small boys, a boast which entitled them to no smallamount of respect, because P. C. Wiseman was not only honored in his owncircle but throughout the village in which he dwelt.
He was, in the first place, a town policeman, as distinct from a countypoliceman, though he wore the badge and uniform of the Sussexconstabulary. It was felt that a town policeman had more in common withcrime, had a vaster experience, and was in consequence a more helpfuladviser than a man whose duties began and ended in the patrolling ofcountry lanes and law-abiding villages where nothing more exciting thanan occasional dog fight or a charge of poaching served to fill thehiatus of constabulary life.
Constable Wiseman was looked upon as a shrewd fellow, a man to whommight be brought the delicate problems which occasionally perplexed andconfused the bucolic mind. He had settled the vexed question as towhether a policeman could or could not enter a house where a man wasbeating his wife, and had decided that such a trespass could only becommitted if the lady involved should utter piercing cries of "Murder!"
He added significantly that the constable who was called upon must bethe constable on duty, and not an ornament of the force who by accidentwas a resident in their midst.
The problem of the straying chicken and the egg that is laid on alienproperty, the point of law involved in the question as to when a servantshould give notice and the date from which her notice should count--allthese matters came within Constable Wiseman's purview, and were solvedto the satisfaction of all who brought their little obscurities forsolution.
But it was in his own domestic circle that ConstableWiseman--appropriately named, as all agreed--shone with an effulgencethat was almost dazzling, and was a source of irritation to the malerelatives on his wife's side, one of whom had unfortunately come withinthe grasp of the law over a matter of a snared rabbit and was inconsequence predisposed to anarchy in so far as the abolition of law andorder affected the police force.
Constable Wiseman sat at tea one summer evening, and about the spotlesswhite cloth which covered the table was grouped all that ConstableWiseman might legally call his. Tea was a function, and to the youngermembers of the family meant just tea and bread and butter. To ConstableWiseman it meant luxuries of a varied and costly nature. His tasteranged from rump steak to Yarmouth bloaters, and once he had introduceda foreign delicacy--foreign to the village, which had never knownbefore the reason for their existence--sweetbreads.
The conversation, which was well sustained by Mr. Wiseman, was usuallyof himself, his wife being content to punctuate his autobiography withsuch encouraging phrases as, "Dear, dear!" "Well, whatever next!" thechildren doing no more than ask in a whisper for more food. This theydid at regular and frequent intervals, but because of their whispersthey were supposed to be unheard.
Constable Wiseman spoke about himself because he knew of nothing moreinteresting to talk about. His evening conversation usually took theform of a very full resume of his previous day's experience. He left theimpression upon his wife--and glad enough she was to have such animpression--that Eastbourne was a well-conducted town mainly as a resultof P. C. Wiseman's ceaseless and tireless efforts.
"I never had a clew yet that I never follered to the bitter end," saidthe preening constable.
"You remember when Raggett's orchard was robbed--who found thethieves?"
"You did, of course; I'm sure you did," said Mrs. Wiseman, jigging heryoungest on her knee, the youngest not having arrived at the age wherehe recognized the necessity for expressing his desires in whispers.
"Who caught them three-card-trick men after the Lewes races last year?"went on Constable Wiseman passionately. "Who has had more summonses forsmoking chimneys than any other man in the force? Some people," headded, as he rose heavily and took down his tunic, which hung on thewall--"some people would ask for promotion; but I'm perfectly satisfied.I'm not one of those ambitious sort. Why, I wouldn't know at all what todo with myself if they made me a sergeant."
"You deserve it, anyway," said Mrs. Wiseman.
"I don't deserve anything I don't want," said Mr. Wiseman loftily. "I'velearned a few things, too, but I've never made use of what's come to meofficially to get me pushed along. You'll hear something in a day ortwo," he said mysteriously, "and in high life, too, in a manner ofspeaking--that is, if you can call old Minute high life, which I verymuch doubt."
"You don't say so!" said Mrs. Wiseman, appropriately amazed.
Her husband nodded his head.
"There's trouble up there," he said. "From certain information I'vereceived, there has been a big row between young Mr. Merrill and the oldman, and the C. I. D. people have been down about it. What's more," hesaid, "I could tell a thing or two. I've seen that boy look at the oldman as though he'd like to kill him. You wouldn't believe it, would you,but I know, and it didn't happen so long ago either. He was alwayssnubbing him when young Merrill was down here acting as his secretary,and as good as called him a fool in front of my face when I served himwith that summons for having his lights up. You'll hear something oneof these days."
Constable Wiseman was an excellent prophet, vague as his prophecy was.
He went out of the cottage to his duty in a complacent frame of mind,which was not unusual, for Constable Wiseman was nothing if notsatisfied with his fate. His complacency continued until a little afterseven o'clock that evening.
It so happened that Constable Wiseman, no less than every other memberof the force on duty that night, had much to think about, much that wasat once exciting and absorbing. It had been whispered before the eveningparade that Sergeant Smith was to leave the force. There was some talkof his being dismissed, but it was clear that he had been given theopportunity of resigning, for he was still doing duty, which would nothave been the case had he been forcibly removed.
Sergeant Smith's mien and attitude had confirmed the rumor. Nobody wassurprised, since this dour officer had been in trouble before. Twicehad he been before the deputy chief constable for neglect of, and beingdrunk while on, duty. On the earlier occasions he had had remarkableescapes. Some people talked of influence, but it is more likely that theman's record had helped him, for he was a first-class policeman with anose for crime, absolutely fearless, and had, moreover, assisted in thecapture of one or two very desperate criminals who had made their way tothe south-coast town.
His last offense, however, was too grave to overlook. His inspector,going the rounds, had missed him, and after a search he was discoveredoutside a public house. It is no great crime to be found outside apublic house, particularly when an officer has a fairly extensive areato cover, and in this respect he was well within the limits of thatarea. But it must be explained that the reason the sergeant was outsidethe public house was because he had challenged a fellow carouser tofight, and at the moment he was discovered he was stripped to the waistand setting about his task with rare workmanlike skill.
He was also drunk.
To have retained his services thereafter would have been little lessthan a crying scandal. There is no doubt, however, that Sergeant Smithhad made a desperate attempt to use the influence behind him, and use itto its fullest extent.
He had had one stormy interview with John Minute, and had plannedanother. Constable Wiseman, patrolling the London Road, his mind filledwith the great news, was suddenly confronted with the object of histhoughts. The sergeant rode up to where the constable was standing in aprofessional attitude at the corner of two roads, and jumped off withthe manner of a man who has an object in view.
"Wiseman," he said--and his voice was such as to suggest that he hadbeen drinking again--"where will you be at ten o'clock to-night?"
Constable Wiseman raised his eyes in thought.
"At ten o'clock, Sergeant, I shall be opposite the gates of thecemetery."
The sergeant looked r
ound left and right.
"I am going to see Mr. Minute on a matter of business," he said, "andyou needn't mention the fact."
"I keep myself to myself," began Constable Wiseman. "What I see with oneeye goes out of the other, in the manner of speaking--"
The sergeant nodded, stepped on to his bicycle again, turned it about,and went at full speed down the gentle incline toward Weald Lodge. Hemade no secret of his visit, but rode through the wide gates up thegravel drive to the front of the house, rang the bell, and to theservant who answered demanded peremptorily to see Mr. Minute.
John Minute received him in the library, where the previous interviewshad taken place. Minute waited until the servant had gone and the doorwas closed, and then he said:
"Now, Crawley, there's no sense in coming to me; I can do nothing foryou."
The sergeant put his helmet on the table, walked to a sideboard where atray and decanter stood, and poured himself out a stiff dose of whiskywithout invitation. John Minute watched him without any greatresentment. This was not civilized Eastbourne they were in. They wereback in the old free-and-easy days of Gwelo, where men did not expectinvitations to drink.
Smith--or Crawley, to give him his real name--tossed down half a tumblerof neat whisky and turned, wiping his heavy mustache with the back ofhis hand.
"So you can't do anything, can't you?" he mimicked. "Well, I'm going toshow you that you can, and that you will!"
He put up his hand to check the words on John Minute's lips.
"There's no sense in your putting that rough stuff over me about yourbeing able to send me to jail, because you wouldn't do it. It doesn'tsuit your book, John Minute, to go into the court and testify againstme. Too many things would come out in the witness box, and you well knowit--besides, Rhodesia is a long way off!"
"I know a place which isn't so far distant," said the other, looking upfrom his chair--"a place called Felixstowe, for example. There's anotherplace called Cromer. I've been in consultation with a gentleman you mayhave heard of, a Mr. Saul Arthur Mann."
"Saul Arthur Mann," repeated the other slowly. "I've never heard ofhim."
"You would not, but he has heard of you," said John Minute calmly. "Thefact is, Crawley, there's a big bad record against you, between yourserious crimes in Rhodesia and your blackmail of to-day. I've a fewfacts about you which will interest you. I know the date you came tothis country, which I didn't know before, and I know how you earned yourliving until you found me. I know of some shares in a non-existentRhodesian mine which you sold to a feeble-minded gentleman at Cromer,and to a lady, equally feeble-minded, at Felixstowe. I've not only gotthe shares you sold, with your signature as a director, but I haveletters and receipts signed by you. It has cost me a lot of money to getthem, but it was well worth it."
Crawley's face was livid. He took a step toward the other, but recoiled,for at the first hint of danger John Minute had pulled the revolver heinvariably carried.
"Keep just where you are, Crawley!" he said. "You are close enough nowto be unpleasant."
"So you've got my record, have you?" said the other, with an oath."Tucked away with your marriage lines, I'll bet, and the certificate ofbirth of the kids you left to starve with their mother."
"Get out of here!" said Minute, with dangerous quiet. "Get away whileyou're safe!"
There was something in his eye which cowed the half-drunken man who,turning with a laugh, picked up his helmet and walked from the room.
The hour was seven-thirty-five by Constable Wiseman's watch; for, slowlypatrolling back, he saw the sergeant come flying out of the gateway onhis bicycle and turn down toward the town. Constable Wisemansubsequently explained that he looked at his watch because he had aregular point at which he should meet Sergeant Smith at seven-forty-fiveand he was wondering whether his superior would return.
The chronology of the next three hours has been so often given invarious accounts of the events which marked that evening that I may beexcused if I give them in detail.
A car, white with dust, turned into the stable yard of the Star Hotel,Maidstone. The driver, in a dust coat and a chauffeur's cap, descendedand handed over the car to a garage keeper with instructions to clean itup and have it filled ready for him the following morning. He gaveexplicit instructions as to the number of tins of petrol he required tocarry always and tipped the garage keeper handsomely in advance.
He was described as a young man with a slight black mustache, and he waswearing his motor goggles when he went into the office of the hotel andordered a bed and a sitting room. Therefore his face was not seen. Whenhis dinner was served, it was remarked by the waiter that his goggleswere still on his face. He gave instructions that the whole of thedinner was to be served at once and put upon the sideboard, and that hedid not wish to be disturbed until he rang the bell.
When the bell rang the waiter came to find the room empty. But from theadjoining room he received orders to have breakfast by seven o'clock thefollowing morning.
At seven o'clock the driver of the car paid his bill, his big motorgoggles still upon his face, again tipped the garage keeper handsomely,and drove his car from the yard. He turned to the right and appeared tobe taking the London Road, but later in the day, as has beenestablished, the car was seen on its way to Paddock Wood, and was laterobserved at Tonbridge. The driver pulled up at a little tea house half amile from the town, ordered sandwiches and tea, which were brought tohim, and which he consumed in the car.
Late in the afternoon the car was seen at Uckfield, and the theorygenerally held was that the driver was killing time. At the waysidecottage at which he stopped for tea--it was one of those little placesthat invite cyclists by an ill-printed board to tarry a while andrefresh themselves--he had some conversation with the tenant of thecottage, a widow. She seems to have been the usual loquacious, friendlysoul who tells one without reserve her business, her troubles, and afair sprinkling of the news of the day in the shortest possible time.
"I haven't seen a paper," said Rex Holland politely. "It is a verycurious thing that I never thought about newspapers."
"I can get you one," said the woman eagerly. "You ought to read aboutthat case."
"The dead chauffeur?" asked Rex Holland interestedly, for that had beenthe item of general news which was foremost in the woman's conversation.
"Yes, sir; he was murdered in Ashdown Forest. Many's the time I'vedriven over there."
"How do you know it was a murder?"
She knew for many reasons. Her brother-in-law was gamekeeper to LordFerring, and a colleague of his had been the man who had discovered thebody, and it had appeared, as the good lady explained, that this samechauffeur was a man for whom the police had been searching in connectionwith a bank robbery about which much had appeared in the newspapers ofthe day previous.
"How very interesting!" said Mr. Holland, and took the paper from herhand.
He read the description line by line. He learned that the police were inpossession of important clews, and that they were on the track of theman who had been seen in the company of the chauffeur. Moreover, said amost indiscreet newspaper writer, the police had a photograph showingthe chauffeur standing by the side of his car, and reproductions of thisphotograph, showing the type of machine, were being circulated.
"How very interesting!" said Mr. Rex Holland again, being perfectlycontent in his mind, for his search of the body had revealed copies ofthis identical picture, and the car in which he was seated was not thecar which had been photographed. From this point, a mile and a halfbeyond Uckfield, all trace of the car and its occupant was lost.
The writer has been very careful to note the exact times and to confirmthose about which there was any doubt. At nine-twenty on the night whenConstable Wiseman had patrolled the road before Weald Lodge and had seenSergeant Smith flying down the road on his bicycle, and on the night ofthat day when Mr. Rex Holland had been seen at Uckfield, there arrivedby the London train, which is due at Eastbourne at nine-twenty, FrankMerrill. The trai
n, as a matter of fact, was three minutes late, andFrank, who had been in the latter part of the train, was one of the lastof the passengers to arrive at the barrier.
When he reached the barrier, he discovered that he had no railwayticket, a very ordinary and vexatious experience which travelers beforenow have endured. He searched in every pocket, including the pocket ofthe light ulster he wore, but without success. He was vexed, but helaughed because he had a strong sense of humor.
"I could pay for my ticket," he smiled, "but I be hanged if I will!Inspector, you search that overcoat."
The amused inspector complied while Frank again went through all hispockets. At his request he accompanied the inspector to the latter'soffice, and there deposited on the table the contents of his pockets,his money, letters, and pocketbook.
"You're used to searching people," he said. "See if you can find it.I'll swear I've got it about me somewhere."
The obliging inspector felt, probed, but without success, till suddenly,with a roar of laughter, Frank cried:
"What a stupid ass I am! I've got it in my hat!"
He took off his hat, and there in the lining was a first-class ticketfrom London to Eastbourne.
It is necessary to lay particular stress upon this incident, which hadan important bearing upon subsequent events. He called a taxicab, droveto Weald Lodge, and dismissed the driver in the road. He arrived atWeald Lodge, by the testimony of the driver and by that of ConstableWiseman, whom the car had passed, at about nine-forty.
Mr. John Minute at this time was alone; his suspicious nature would notallow the presence of servants in the house during the interview whichhe was to have with his nephew. He regarded servants as spies andeavesdroppers, and perhaps there was an excuse for his uncharitableview.
At nine-fifty, ten minutes after Frank had entered the gates of WealdLodge, a car with gleaming headlights came quickly from the oppositedirection and pulled up outside the gates. P. C. Wiseman, who at thismoment was less than fifty yards from the gate, saw a man descend andpass quickly into the grounds of the house.
At nine-fifty-two or nine-fifty-three the constable, walking slowlytoward the house, came abreast of the wall, and, looking up, saw a lightflash for a moment in one of the upper windows. He had hardly seen thiswhen he heard two shots fired in rapid succession, and a cry.
Only for a moment did P. C. Wiseman hesitate. He jumped the low wall,pushed through the shrubs, and made for the side of the house fromwhence a flood of light fell from the open French windows of thelibrary. He blundered into the room a pace or two, and then stopped, forthe sight was one which might well arrest even as unimaginative a man asa county constable.
John Minute lay on the floor on his back, and it did not need a doctorto tell that he was dead. By his side, and almost within reach of hishand, was a revolver of a very heavy army pattern. Mechanically theconstable picked up the revolver and turned his stern face to the otheroccupant of the room.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he found his breath to say.
Frank Merrill had been leaning over his uncle as the constable entered,but now stood erect, pale, but perfectly self-possessed.
"I heard the shot and I came in," he said.
"Stay where you are," said the constable, and, stepping quickly out onto the lawn, he blew his whistle long and shrilly, then returned to theroom.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he repeated.
"It is a very bad business," said the other in a low voice.
"Is this revolver yours?"
Frank shook his head.
"I've never seen it before," he said with emphasis.
The constable thought as quickly as it was humanly possible for him tothink. He had no doubt in his mind that this unhappy youth had fired theshots which had ended the life of the man on the floor.
"Stay here," he said again, and again went out to blow his whistle. Hewalked this time on the lawn by the side of the drive toward the road.He had not taken half a dozen steps when he saw a dark figure of a mancreeping stealthily along before him in the shade of the shrubs. In asecond the constable was on him, had grasped him and swung him round,flashing his lantern into his prisoner's face. Instantly he released hishold.
"I beg your pardon, Sergeant," he stammered.
"What's the matter?" scowled the other. "What's wrong with you,Constable?"
Sergeant Smith's face was drawn and haggard. The policeman looked at himwith open-mouthed astonishment.
"I didn't know it was you," he said.
"What's wrong?" asked the other again, and his voice was cracked andunnatural.
"There's been a murder--old Minute--shot!"
Sergeant Smith staggered back a pace.
"Good God!" he said. "Minute murdered? Then he did it! The young devildid it!"
"Come and have a look," invited Wiseman, recovering his balance. "I'vegot his nephew."
"No, no! I don't want to see John Minute dead! You go back. I'll bringanother constable and a doctor."
He stumbled blindly along the drive into the road, and Constable Wisemanwent back to the house. Frank was where he had left him, save that hehad seated himself and was gazing steadfastly upon the dead man. Helooked up as the policeman entered.
"What have you done?" he asked.
"The sergeant's gone for a doctor and another constable," said Wisemangravely.
"I'm afraid they will be too late," said Frank. "He is--What's that?"
There was a distant hammering and a faint voice calling for help.
"What's that?" whispered Frank again.
The constable strode through the open doorway to the foot of the stairsand listened. The sound came from the upper story. He ran upstairs,mounting two at a time, and presently located the noise. It came from anend room, and somebody was hammering on the panels. The door was locked,but the key had been left in the lock, and this Constable Wisemanturned, flooding the dark interior with light.
"Come out!" he said, and Jasper Cole staggered out, dazed and shaking.
"Somebody hit me on the head with a sandbag," he said thickly. "I heardthe shot. What has happened?"
"Mr. Minute has been killed," said the policeman.
"Killed!" He fell back against the wall, his face working. "Killed!" herepeated. "Not killed!"
The constable nodded. He had found the electric switch and thepassageway was illuminated.
Presently the young man mastered his emotion.
"Where is he?" he asked, and Wiseman led the way downstairs.
Jasper Cole walked into the room without a glance at Frank and bent overthe dead man. For a long time he looked at him earnestly, then he turnedto Frank.
"You did this!" he said. "I heard your voice and the shots! I heard youthreaten him!"
Frank said nothing. He merely stared at the other, and in his eyes was alook of infinite scorn.