The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  “Pass that,” Sir Clinton agreed.

  “Well, on the face of it, Callis is the man with the strongest motive amongst the lot, if he knew that his wife was philandering with Barratt.”

  “I don’t think he knew that,” said Sir Clinton, promptly, rather to Wendover’s surprise. “But go on; don’t let’s get led up side trails for the present, Squire. What else have you to say about him?”

  “He didn’t get on with Barratt, that’s plain. There was that organist’s story about their squabbling.”

  “But Callis made that up, as the organist told me. And Callis went round that night to see Barratt, according to Mrs. Barratt’s evidence. I’d rule that disagreement out as a murder-motive, Squire, or else I shall have to go armed every time you and I don’t see eye to eye. I often see a nasty look on your face when I happen to disagree with you. Anything further about Callis?”

  “Well, he has an alibi. He was at Barratt’s house when the murder was done.”

  “That’s Mrs. Barratt’s evidence. So she gives him an alibi and he gives her one. In fact, it’s just the case of Messrs. E. and A. Alvington over again, so far as that goes. Except, as you pointed out, that in the Alvington case it’s all in the family. That leaves you with Maud Endell. What about hers?”

  “She had access to the pistol,” said Wendover. “And you haven’t proved an alibi for her yet.”

  “Ah! No alibi, therefore guilty, eh? There are about forty-five million people in this country. How many of them could prove an alibi for that particular stretch of time? Could you establish one for yourself, Squire? Really, you must be growing desperate. Anything else against her? Remember,” he added, impishly, “she’s a pretty girl. Rufford mentioned that to me, and Rufford’s quite a good judge of beauty, I’m told.”

  “If you’re suggesting that she and Callis were having an intrigue and that it furnishes a motive . . .” began Wendover, indignantly.

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. I don’t know. But I dare say we can find out,” said the Chief Constable in an ominous tone. “But you’ve still got one name on your list, haven’t you?”

  “Kerrison?” said Wendover. “Oh, I’ve nothing much to say about him. He’s got a slate off, from all I can see; and he’s apt to get into a passion over any sweethearting he comes across, to judge by the evidence.”

  “And he’s got no alibi,” Sir Clinton reminded him.

  “You’ve just been poking fun at the lack of an alibi,” said Wendover tartly. “You can’t expect to have it both ways, Clinton. But seriously, Kerrison’s of no importance, really.”

  “Think so?” Sir Clinton retorted, lazily. “Have it your own way. Personally, I attach a good deal of importance to Kerrison. It’s not often that one meets a man who’ll own up to a mistake without being pressed to do it. And besides, look at his researches on the Great Pyramid and the Lost Tribes and the Inch. Say what you like, he’s got more originality than all the rest of them put together.”

  “Lunacy and originality aren’t quite the same thing,” commented Wendover, in a testy tone.

  “Oh, it’s too late to start arguing about philology at this time of night,” protested Sir Clinton. “Let’s go back two squares. ‘Who did it?’ You’ve dragged a lot of red herrings across the trail, Squire, but what I want is the fox’s brush and mask as a guarantee of good faith. Have you the foggiest notion who did it?”

  “Have you?” retorted Wendover, restively.

  “A glimmering, perhaps.”

  “Moonshine, probably,” said Wendover scornfully. “That’s why you’re so pleased with Kerrison, I suppose. They call lunatics Minions of the Moon, don’t they?”

  “Then I shall pay a special visit to one of the moon’s minions to-morrow, Squire. I won’t tease you any more, honour bright. But just look at three of our exhibits.”

  He went across to his desk, extracted from a drawer the large folder containing the evidence in the Barratt case, and returned to his chair with three sheets of paper.

  “Here’s number one,” he said, handing a sheet to Wendover. “It’s an anonymous letter which Callis gave Rufford. The usual kind of thing: ‘Watch your wife and you’ll see what other people have seen long ago. A preacher ought to set a better example. There’s a plain hint for you. . . .’ and so on.”

  “Some dirty dog at work,” commented Wendover with a grimace of disgust. “I see you’ve been trying to develop finger-prints on it.”

  “You needn’t trouble about them; they’re nothing but blurs,” Sir Clinton explained. “We couldn’t find a clear impression amongst the lot. What I want you to look at is the watermark on the paper.”

  “Picture of some bird,” Wendover reported, after holding the sheet up to the light for examination. “And the lettering is AVIAN WOVE, manufactured by A. Vian & Co., Liverpool.”

  “Compare this one,” directed Sir Clinton, handing over a similar sheet.

  “Same watermark,” Wendover reported, after examining the two sheets side by side. “What’s this second sheet?”

  “It’s one I got from Kerrison on the excuse of making him write down a list of the people who were present at a hypnotic display that Barratt gave. Now here’s a third specimen. It’s an official form of application for a fire-arms certificate, and I asked Kerrison specially to fill in his name and address in block letters, because I wanted to compare his capital lettering with the block letters in this anonymous ‘Watch your wife . . .’ production. Have a look at the two of them, side by side, Squire.”

  Wendover made the comparison with some care.

  “He’s given himself away completely,” he declared in a tone of satisfaction. “A schoolboy could spot that these were both written by the same man.”

  “Pretty obvious,” agreed Sir Clinton. “Of course he was hardly likely to remember about the capital letters in the anonymous letter when he was filling in an innocent-looking official form where it’s usual to insist on block lettering for the name and address.”

  “So Kerrison wrote that anonymous letter, evidently?”

  “No doubt about it. After that, Squire, don’t you think he’s worth a call? I certainly do. And while I’m at his house, I think we’ll try to unearth something further.”

  “What?” asked Wendover, eagerly.

  “Two dead cats,” returned Sir Clinton with an unconcealed grin.

  “What on earth do you want to dig up dead cats for?” demanded Wendover in amazement. “A filthy job; and I don’t see what it can lead to.”

  “Neither do I,” admitted the Chief Constable, with disarming frankness. “But Rufford prides himself on his expertise in the matter of bullets, so it will please him to have another specimen or two to play with. And by that time, he and a constable will have got into nice practice for digging, so I’ll find them another job in the same line, I think. If one goes on digging long enough, one’s almost sure to discover something interesting. Australia, perhaps.”

  “You seem to be planning a busy morning,” said Wendover sardonically. “Sure you haven’t forgotten anything?”

  “I have,” said Sir Clinton. “I ought to have mentioned that I’m going to have a look at the stationers’ shops in town. I’m running a bit short of note-paper. You must have been writing a lot of letters while you’ve been here, Squire. . . . Hello! There’s the phone!”

  He went over to the instrument, picked up the receiver, listened almost without comment to the message. Then putting down the instrument, he turned to Wendover.

  “I’ll have to change and go out, Squire. No. It’s no use your coming; and you needn’t sit up. I’ve no notion when I can get back. And if I don’t see you at breakfast, I’ll tell you all about it after dinner to-morrow.”

  “What’s happened?” demanded Wendover, noticing the intentness of the Chief Constable’s expression.

  “Kerrison’s been killed—a motor accident. I was a fool not to have tackled him before this, but it’s no use crying over spilt milk now. S
ee you at dinner to-morrow, if not before.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Juggernaut

  THROUGH all the next day, Wendover had to bridle his curiosity as best he could. Sir Clinton, he learned, had returned early in the morning, had taken a hasty breakfast before his guest was afoot, and had gone out again at once. And in the evening he appeared only in time to dress for dinner. During that meal, Wendover did not venture to draw his host, knowing that he would say nothing of importance before the waiting servants. It was only after he and the Chief Constable had settled down in the smoking-room that he ventured to put the questions which were burning his tongue.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What’s happened to Kerrison?”

  “Kerrison? I really don’t know,” said Sir Clinton callously. “It depends on what view one takes of our postmortem condition. Perhaps he’s joined the choir of the immortal dead and is busy telling them all about the Great Pyramid. Or he may be giving Charon a tip or two about the Inch while they paddle on the Styx and Acheron. Don’t ask me. He’s dead, and I told you that last night, Squire.”

  “No need to be so unfeeling about it,” Wendover commented in a tone of disapproval.

  “I don’t pretend to like white slavers, blackmailers, murderers, or the writers of anonymous letters,” retorted Sir Clinton cheerfully. “And, as you saw last night, Kerrison sent off at least one anonymous letter with the plain object of stirring up trouble. I shan’t bother my florist over his funeral. Now if you care to ask me how he came by his end, that’s another matter, and I’ll tell you with pleasure. It’s quite simple, so I’ll make a plain tale of it.”

  He took a cigarette and lighted it before continuing.

  “Last night, after dinner, the late Kerrison had some business which took him into town. His house, you may remember, stands just above that bracken-patch we’ve heard so much about lately; but there’s no road down from it on that side, so he doesn’t use the lane to the Half-Way House when he wants to take a bus. Instead, he has to go by the road on the other side of his house, which takes him to the bus-route in seven minutes, as he explained to me once. I’ve been along that road in daylight. It’s lonely, no houses about, no foot-path; and steep turf banks topped by hedges cut it off from the fields on either side. It lands you out at a bus-stop further away from town than the one at the Half-Way house. We’ve got hold of various bus-drivers and conductors on that route, and two of them remember seeing a dark-blue car standing at the kerb, just short of the bus-stop, with its headlights on. As there’s a ten-minutes service on that route, you’ll perceive immediately that this car must have been waiting for at least ten minutes, since two buses came up while it was there. Kerrison got off the second bus. The conductor recognised him, as Kerrison travels fairly regularly by that line. That was about 10.30 p.m. or a shade later. The driver of the next bus didn’t see any blue car waiting there.”

  “Did Kerrison get into the blue car?” interjected Wendover.

  Sir Clinton shook his head.

  “No, the bus conductor noticed that he didn’t. He turned out of the main road into the side one just as the bus started. He was the only passenger to get off the bus at that stop.”

  “Well, go on,” said Wendover.

  “The next witnesses are a young fellow and his fiancée. They’re quite respectable people, Curious, in this case, Squire, how often we seem to find the actors running in couples. These two had been for a walk along this side-road—it goes a good way past Kerrison’s house—and had sat down by the road-side for a few minutes before going back to the bus route. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow, etc’ as Juliet said. They heard someone coming along the road from the bus route. It was pretty gloomy by that time; but this passer-by had the courtesy to stop and call out to them: ‘Haven’t you anything better to do at this time of night than to sit there? Get away home with you!’ Which I recognise at once, Squire, as the true Kerrison touch. They ignored him, which was the best thing to do; and he lumbered off, muttering to himself.

  “Just at that moment, they heard a car start up and, after turning into the by-road, accelerate like fury. You know some cars can get up to fifty in a few seconds from a standing start. This was one of them. It came flying along the road, headlights on, and passed them like a flash. It had no tail-light burning, so they couldn’t have seen its number even if they’d wanted to. They heard a yell of dismay, then a thud, and the car went tearing on without so much as slowing down.”

  “Did they see the driver at all?” queried Wendover.

  “No, not enough even to say whether it was a man or a woman at the wheel. Young Loraine—that’s the man’s name—realised that there had been a bad smash, and very wisely he told his fiancée to stay where she was, while he went to investigate. He found Kerrison dead in a pool of blood. Or rather, he found a stranger, since he didn’t know Kerrison. One look by the light of a match was about all that young Loraine wanted; but he was lucky enough to spot a side-lamp which had evidently been wrenched off in the collision. Then he bolted back to his fiancée and the two of them legged it for the bus route where there’s a public telephone kiosk not far down the road. Young Loraine phoned up the police. Then he put his girl aboard the next town-going bus and waited at the kiosk until one of our squads arrived in a car. They took over.”

  “Evidently a young man with his head well screwed on,” commended Wendover. “And what happened after that?”

  “A routine all-stations call warning everyone to look out for a car minus a side-lamp, obviously,” said Sir Clinton. “Unfortunately, it didn’t reach all our patrols until a little time had elapsed, or we’d have caught the driver en route. Still, we can’t complain of our luck. One constable spotted a car driving with headlights on but no second side-light. He couldn’t stop it; but its tail-lamp was lit up and he got the number; and as soon as he got the all-stations’ message he guessed that this was probably the car we wanted. So he got on to us at once from the nearest phone-box and gave us the number he’d noted. It was the number of Arthur Alvington’s car, as we found on looking it up.”

  “Ah!” said Wendover, with satisfaction. “That looks like business.”

  “It depends on what you call business,” retorted the Chief Constable. “We wasted no time, anyhow. I descended on Arthur Alvington instanter, and found him at home along with his brother. I asked to see his car, a request which seemed to take him by surprise. However, there was nothing for it; and he took us round to his garage in the garden. The door was locked, as I was careful to ascertain by trying it before he could put a paw on it. He produced his key, opened the door, switched on the lights—and there was a dark-blue car with one of the side-lamps torn away. Friend Alvington gave an excellent display of amazement. He seemed quite taken aback by this state of affairs. The car had been all right when he put it into the garage on coming home. He couldn’t understand it, and so on and so forth. Very natural behaviour, in the circumstances, one imagines.”

  “Very natural,” echoed Wendover, sceptically. “And what next?”

  “We got down to dots,” continued Sir Clinton. “I need hardly say that he denied having had the car out. He knew nothing about the affair at all, nothing whatever. His maid had gone out after dinner. About 8 p.m. Callis rang up on business. But friend Arthur had an alibi. His dear brother and he had spent the evening in the same room. They’d not heard anything amiss. Each of them was prepared to swear hard that the other hadn’t been out of his sight for five minutes since dinner-time.”

  “Did you detain them?” demanded Wendover.

  “What could I detain them for?” asked the Chief Constable. “We’ve had one car-snatching episode in this case already and that’s enough to make one think a bit before one acts.”

  “But in the Alvington case the car was in a locked garage,” objected Wendover. “That’s entirely different from a car lifted from the roadside, the way young Oley did.”

  “Have it your own way, Squire,” said Sir Clinton acidly. �
��No doubt you’d have lodged the two brothers Alvington under lock and key and landed yourself in for an action for wrongful arrest, if things went askew.”

  “But you’ve left them in a position to make a get-away,” protested Wendover. “They could get off in that car, once your back was turned.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sir Clinton said, soothingly. “Not after I’d taken out the distributor arm. And I left a man on duty to watch the car—and the brothers, if they happened to be seized with wanderlust. They’re quite safe.”

  “H’m!” said Wendover doubtfully. “I suppose you know best, but . . .”

  “We needn’t argue the point,” said the Chief Constable. “They’re still on hand to-day. We’ve kept an eye on them.”

  “Oh, well,” said Wendover, finding the ground cut from under his feet, “what happened after that?”

  “We paid a visit to the Hermitage. One of our men had broken the news to the old lady, and she’d retired to her room, overcome with sorrow. I didn’t bother her at the moment. The maid gave me all I wanted. I’ll put it concisely. About six o’clock, there was a ring at the phone. She answered it, and Callis gave his name and asked to speak to Kerrison. Kerrison answered the phone and she didn’t hear his side of the conversation. But at the dinner-table, she heard him tell his mother that he would have to go out that night to see Callis. She’s a doting mother, and she made him promise that he wouldn’t be out late. He said he’d be back shortly after ten. And about a quarter-past eight the maid heard him leaving the house.”

  “Did he seem perturbed at dinner-time? I suppose you asked about that.”

  “I did. The maid said he was quite as usual. No doubt he was full of the latest gossip about the Great Pyramid and the Lost Ten Tribes.”

  “So I suppose you went off to see Callis?” asked Wendover.