The Case of the Abominable Snowman

by Nicholas Blake

  A few minutes later he was in a public call-box. Having dialled a number, he stared out absently into the street, thinking how little the war had changed London – yet.

  ‘Hallo. I want to speak to Inspector Blount … Yes, the Restorick case. This is Mr Strangeways … Oh, hallo, Blount. Strangeways here. I’ve just been lunching with Dr Bogan. He says he did not commit murder … Yes, you’ve heard that one before, and no doubt you’ll hear it again. Look, I’ve got an idea …’

  Involuntarily, Nigel lowered his voice. When he had finished, protesting squeaks came from the other end.

  ‘No, no,’ said Blount. ‘No, no, no. I couldn’t possibly do that. It’s asking for trouble. They’d take the hide off me.’

  ‘It’s the only way I can see. You’ve got to force his hand, however it is. Nothing else –’

  ‘No,’ Blount reiterated. ‘It’s too irregular. Nothing doing.’

  ‘Well, d’you mind if I work it myself?’

  ‘You’ll have to take full responsibility. I know nothing about it, you understand?’

  ‘O.K. I’ll report developments, if any. You’ve got tabs on all the parties involved? … Right. Take them off where he lives. I’ll be responsible for him.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Blount replied grimly. ‘So long.’

  Nigel hurried home to make plans and do some more telephoning.

  Events were to tread fast upon the heels of his action: his plan produced only too quickly results which he had hardly expected and could not control. The next morning Andrew Restorick, arriving at the Strangeways’ flat in answer to an urgent summons, found Nigel and Georgia in a state of utter consternation.

  ‘Blount’s arrested Will Dykes,’ said Nigel flatly.

  Andrew’s face went still. ‘Dykes? But that’s – what on earth was he playing at here the other night, then? I assumed Dykes must be out of suspicion.’

  ‘I don’t know. Blount’s infernally cagey. You never know what’s going on in his head.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think –’

  ‘I can’t believe Dykes is the murderer. I simply can’t. But the police never arrest till they’re sure of their ground Blount must have got hold of some evidence we don’t know about.’

  Andrew fingered uncertainly a book lying on the table beside him.

  ‘Look here. He’s not well off. I’d like to pay any expenses – solicitors, you know. Shall I get mine to visit him and –?’

  ‘He’s called in his own already, to prepare his defence. But I’m sure he’d be grateful for your financial help. I’ll let him know.’

  Nigel had at all costs to prevent Andrew from attempting to visit Will Dykes, for the novelist, so far from languishing in jail, was at this moment scribbling happily away at his new novel in another room of the Strangeways’ flat.

  ‘Well, if there’s anything else I can do,’ said Andrew. ‘Are you prepared to take up the case on Dykes’ behalf?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Andrew pondered for a moment. ‘I’ve an idea. If you could come down to Easterham this week-end, I’ll get Charlotte to invite Eunice and Dr Bogan. I’m certain there must be some vital clue the police have missed. If we could all get together, I’ve a notion – only of course Dykes won’t be there. Still –’

  He petered out rather indefinitely – a contrast with his usual decisive manner, but Nigel took up the suggestion at once. It would be satisfactory to have them all away from London, where there would be no danger of their discovering the truth about Will Dykes. Moreover, he had been convinced for some time that Andrew knew more about the case than he cared to admit, and his project of gathering the suspects at the Manor looked as if he intended an êclaircissement.

  The same evening, Andrew rang him up to say that the party was arranged. Nigel himself would be staying at the Manor this time, too. Georgia excused herself on the grounds of business: actually, she had to stay behind to look after Will Dykes. Blount also intended that he should be well looked after: plain-clothes men were detailed to watch the flat. Blount, in addition, had notified Superintendent Phillips of the house-party at Easterham, so that arrangements could be made by the local police to keep it under observation. It was all he could do till the C.I.D.’s own investigations had got to the bottom of Bogan’s activities, and till further evidence about the murder came to light.

  On the Friday night they were all assembled at the Manor. Andrew had gone down the day before. Dr Bogan, who had been detained in town, arrived late, after dinner. The general drowsiness of the party precluded any discussion of the case that night. If Andrew intended to spring a mine, he would have to wait till the next morning.

  And, next morning, the mine was duly sprung – its explosion far more devastating than Nigel had expected. He was awoken by a knocking at the door, which competed – not altogether successfully – with the atrocious hammering in his own head. It was the father and mother of all headaches.

  ‘Come in,’ he said painfully.

  It was the maid bringing his tea. He looked at his watch, whose hands and numerals seemed to be floating all over the watch face. Nine o’clock, he pinned them down to, after laborious concentration. Well, it was the Restoricks’ custom to let their guests sleep late. But not, surely, to give them stiff doses of sleeping-draught. Sleeping-draught! The idea penetrated his fuddled senses. He leapt out of bed – a sudden movement that nearly tore off the top of his head. The maid had drawn back the curtains. He noticed vaguely, as he dressed, that there had been a fresh fall of snow during the night.

  The faces he met at the breakfast table looked as blurred as his own. But two of them were missing.

  ‘Where’s Andrew? And Dr Bogan?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re not down yet,’ replied Charlotte, passing her hand over her forehead.

  ‘Have we all got headaches?’ asked Nigel sharply.

  Hereward, Charlotte, and Eunice Ainsley nodded.

  ‘Must have had something that disagreed with us. Dinner. Better talk to the cook, my dear.’

  ‘But Bogan didn’t have dinner here. Restorick, you’ve got your pass-key? I think we’d better just go and –’

  ‘Oh, God! Not again. Not again, please,’ Mrs Restorick was on her feet, swaying at the end of the table. Her voice sounded far away and childish.

  ‘Now, now, my dear,’ said Hereward. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about. Take it easy. Two people late for breakfast, why –’

  ‘Betty was late for breakfast that morning,’ Charlotte’s eyes followed them out of the room. She did not seem to notice Eunice Ainsley, who was ineffectually stroking her hands and murmuring reassurance.

  Upstairs, looking over Hereward’s shoulder, Nigel saw that Bogan’s bedroom was quite empty. It was not merely that Bogan wasn’t there: even his clothes, his belongings, his suitcase seemed to have disappeared. A clean sweep.

  ‘I suppose this is the right room.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ replied Hereward irritably. ‘I simply can’t understand –’

  ‘Let’s try Andrew’s,’ said Nigel, setting his teeth. Better know the worst. He had failed hideously, unforgivably. Hereward inserted his key in the next door. Andrew’s room was not empty: clothes, books, shoes, bedding were all over the place. Everything, as far as one could tell, was still there. Everything except Andrew himself. Ridiculously, Hereward began to peer under the bed, in the wardrobe; he even lifted a pillow off the floor, as though Andrew’s body might be concealed beneath it.

  ‘No. It’s no good. They’re gone,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Nonsense. It’s – it’s downright absurd. We – you must be dreaming.’

  ‘I wish I was.’

  They searched the bathrooms, the lavatories, every room in the house. But Bogan and Andrew – that strange pair of duellists – were utterly vanished.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.’

  BURNS

  THE SHOCK OF the discovery cleared Nigel’s brain li
ke magic. His head still ached, but the other effects of the sleeping-draught had gone like mist blown off a mountainside. It was not time yet, though, to consider this new development in the light of what had already happened at the Manor. He must act. And the first thing to do was to find out why Robins, the local constable, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the house, had given no alarm.

  It did not take long. Nigel rang up Superintendent Phillips and told him what had occurred. Phillips assured him that Robins should have been on duty at the Manor last night. He would get in touch with Blount immediately, and then drive over to Easterham. Nigel next sent for the butler, who informed him that Robins had been entertained in the servants’ hall on the previous evening. When they all went to bed, the butler had left him there, understanding that he would be staying downstairs all night, with an occasional turn round the garden, till the superintendent sent him a relief the next morning.

  Nigel at once instituted a search of the outbuildings and servants’ quarters. He and Hereward soon ran the missing constable to earth. They found him tucked away out of sight in the boiler-room. He was gagged, and efficiently tied up with a length of what looked like the same cord as had been used to hang Elizabeth Restorick. He was also, to all appearances, dead. But, when they touched his face to remove the gag, it felt warm and breathing. Constable Robins was fast asleep. The fumes of the coke had kept him quiet all night, so that he had not stirred and betrayed his presence even when the odd-job man had come in to replenish the boilers earlier that morning.

  Nigel shook the man hard. He came awake, yawned, looked comically incredulous as he began to take in his surroundings, then winced at the pain of his wrists and ankles from which the bonds had just been removed. Hereward hurried out to fetch some coffee. Nigel told Robins what had happened. The constable was still very dazed, and his hand went out tenderly to the side of his head.

  ‘Knocked me out,’ he said stupidly. ‘I’ll get into trouble for this.’

  ‘Take it easy a minute. Not your fault,’ said Nigel, examining the bruise on the man’s head. No bones broken. He had been black-jacked with the same neat efficiency as he had been tied up and disposed of. His assailant, indeed, seemed to have shown a certain solicitude in putting him in the boiler-room, where he would not suffer from the effects of the bitter night. For Robins made it clear, when the coffee restored him to full consciousness, that it was not here he had been attacked.

  At five minutes past one he had come indoors from a brief tour of the house. He was sitting down by the fire in the servants’ hall, when a noise excited his attention. It seemed to come from the direction of the main hall, and he went to investigate. He had taken off his helmet. It was as he passed through the swing door from the kitchen passage into the main hall that it happened. Someone must have been hiding behind this door – someone, Nigel fancied, who had deliberately made the noise to lure the constable into a vulnerable position. At any rate, just as Robins was pressing the button of his electric torch, a movement beside and a little behind him made him throw up an arm in self-defence. It was too late. He was struck down, and could remember nothing more till he had woken up in the boiler-room with Nigel and Hereward bending over him.

  ‘You didn’t catch sight of the chap at all, then?’

  ‘No, sir. Wait a minute, though. That Dr Bogan’s made off, you say? It was him must have hit me, sir. I remember now. When I put out my arm to defend myself, my hand brushed against his beard. Ar, that’s right. Funny the way you forget things.’

  Leaving the constable in Hereward’s care, Nigel ran out of doors. As he had expected, the recent heavy fall of snow had made the recognition of footprints impossible, but it had not quite obliterated the track of a car curving away down the drive. Hurrying round to the back of the house, he found Hereward’s chauffeur. Together, they entered the garage. Andrew Restorick’s car was missing.

  ‘I can’t think – didn’t you hear it go out last night?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m sleeping in the house just now, while the master’s having the rooms above the garage done up.’

  ‘What’s the registration number of the car?’

  The chauffeur gave him its number and description, which Nigel telephoned through to Phillips’ station-sergeant. The superintendent himself was already on his way to Easterham. Nigel then returned to the garage. He wished to satisfy himself on one point. It was Bogan who had attacked the constable. Bogan and Andrew had disappeared. Either they had run away together then, or Bogan had killed Andrew and dumped his body somewhere. If the latter was true, why hadn’t Bogan gone off in his own car? Looking at its petrol gauge now, Nigel saw that there were only a couple of gallons left in the tank.

  Robins’ relief had not arrived. Nigel suggested he should go off again on his bike to try and follow up the tracks of Restorick’s car. If Bogan had killed Andrew and taken the body off in the car, he might well have dumped it not very far away. But the man preferred to wait for orders from Superintendent Phillips.

  A quarter of an hour later, the superintendent himself turned up. Neither the intense cold nor the disappearance of two suspects seemed to affect his geniality. Blowing out a frosty breath and beaming at Nigel, he said:

  ‘Here we are again, sir. Funny business this, isn’t it? Inspector Blount sounded a bit old-fashioned when I rang him up.’

  ‘I’m quite sure he did.’

  ‘He’s on his way down here. Now, sir, if you’ll tell me just what’s happened, we’ll see what we can do. You don’t look quite up to the mark yourself, sir.’

  ‘Nor would you, if you’d had an outsize dose of sleeping-draught.’

  ‘T’ch, t’ch!’ clucked the superintendent sympathetically.

  Nigel informed him of the most recent developments, whereupon Phillips gave some orders to the men he had brought with him and applied himself for a little to the telephone. He then came into the writing-room, where Nigel was trying to assemble his ideas, rubbed his hands before the fire, and remarked cosily:

  ‘Well now, Mr Strangeways, time for a nice little chat. Suppose you tell me all about it. Maybe we can work it out between us and give the inspector a surprise when he comes.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a hell of a nice surprise, or he’ll cart me for six. You see, this bright idea of getting the suspects together again was mine. I thought, by giving it out that Mr Dykes had been arrested for the murder, we’d force Andrew Restorick’s hand. I was convinced all along that for some reason of his own he’s been keeping things back. Well, damn it, I didn’t expect they’d stage a vanishing trick the very first night –’

  ‘“They”? You think they were in it together, sir?’

  ‘No. I was speaking loosely. I can’t somehow see – anyway, this is what happened. Andrew turned up the day before yesterday, Miss Ainsley and myself yesterday afternoon, Dr Bogan after dinner. Dinner was at 7–30. If the sleeping-draught had been given us then, we’d have felt sleepy much sooner than we did – granted the big dose that must have been used. When Bogan turned up, Mrs Restorick offered him a hot drink. We all decided to have one – Ovaltine. Now, while the stuff was being made, we were a bit dispersed. Hereward took Bogan up to his room, Andrew went out to put Bogan’s car into the garage, Mrs Restorick was in the kitchen – she made the Ovaltine herself, Miss Ainsley and I stayed in the drawing-room. In a couple of minutes Hereward returned to the drawing-room, and Andrew shortly after him; then Bogan; then Mrs Restorick and the butler with the tray.’

  ‘You mean, anyone could have doped the stuff?’

  ‘No. That’s the trouble. Mrs Restorick swears that there was no one but herself and the butler in the kitchen – the maids had all gone to bed – and that she had the stuff under her eye all the time. Now, if she doped it herself, that’s the last thing she’d say, you’d think. If she didn’t, it must have been done after the tray was brought into the drawing-room. But it was all ready made in the cups and – Christmas! what a fool I am – I’d forgotten the sugar. Soft
sugar. You could sprinkle sleeping-powders over it thick. But we were all moving about and talking, and I’ve no idea who had a chance to do it.’

  ‘Did they all take sugar in their drink?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anyone refuse it. Andrew was handing it round.’

  ‘So that looks like a dead end, unless we get some more evidence.’

  ‘I don’t think we will. After Andrew’s glass of milk, if anyone saw a lady or gentleman shovelling white powders into our sugar, he’d have piped up at once. But the point is this – it could hardly have been done on the spur of the moment. Whoever wanted to ensure that none of us would wake up last night wouldn’t just carry sleeping-powders about in the hope that a suitable opportunity would arise for administering them, would he?’

  ‘Not unless he was m.d.,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘Which disposes of the possibility that Bogan did it. On the other hand, it was Bogan who conked Constable Robins, and Bogan has indubitably disappeared. So what? So we look for an accomplice for Bogan – someone who was already in the house and had had plenty of time for making preparations to put us to sleep.’

  ‘Andrew Restorick, then, obviously, since he’s done a bunk too.’

  ‘It looks like it. That would explain why he and Bogan have been at such pains all along to give the impression that they were deadly enemies. Andrew rather overdid it, as a matter of fact. But they certainly contrived to prevent anyone suspecting for a moment that they might be accomplices.’

  Superintendent Phillips scratched his head. ‘Yes, sir. Maybe. But what were they accomplices in? Murdering Miss Restorick? Why should they do that?’

  ‘Blount has discovered that Bogan was probably running a cocaine-racket under cover. But we don’t yet know where he got his supplies from or who was his distributor. Suppose Andrew was in it too? And Elizabeth found this out? Andrew spent a good deal of his time abroad, which may be significant.’