“I think so. You would have had to be quite a good diver for one thing; the chain was neatly and strongly hooked on to the willow roots several feet below the surface. Also, when I was in the river, the stream was very strong and it was difficult to get out and scramble up the bank without being washed downstream. I think swimming must be considered a necessary part of the murderer’s equipment.”
“Reuben Gold can’t swim, and both he and his wife are afraid of water – Mrs. Gold has almost a phobia about it,” said George, getting to his feet. “Well, Giles, I must be off. Good night, Chief Inspector. I shall hope to see you again some time – unprofessionally.”
“Good night, doctor – and thanks very much,” replied Macdonald.
“I’ll see you up the brow, George,” said Giles Hoggett.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MACDONALD sat over the fire and pondered. He had been very much interested in Giles Hoggett’s imaginary narrative. Admittedly it was not detection, but various points were suggestive to Macdonald’s mind, and indicated different lines of research to be followed. He sat in the silent cottage, meditating that it was probable that Gordon Ginner had sat just where he was sitting now, listening, perhaps, for the footsteps of an unexpected visitor. Even as he pondered over this, Macdonald also was aware of footsteps outside: two men were approaching the cottage. One was Hoggett, the second a shorter man who took more footsteps to cover the same ground. Macdonald sat and waited until Hoggett opened the door.
“There’s a visitor for you,” he announced. “Kate sent him along and I met him just as I left George.”
“Reeves!” exclaimed Macdonald. “It’s good to see you. Have you brought me some news?”
“That’s it, Chief. The A.C. sent me along with his compliments, hoping I’d be useful.”
“Good for him,” said Macdonald. “First I’ll introduce you to my friend Mr. Giles Hoggett, who is our host here. Hoggett this is Detective-Inspector Peter Reeves, a hundred per cent Londoner, and one of the best arguments in favor of London ever produced there.”
“Good evening, Mr. Reeves. I’m very glad to see you here, and I’m much impressed by the chief inspector’s testimonial. Have you just come from London?”
“Yes, sir. I reached Lancaster at nine o’clock and got a a lift from a farmer named Troutbeck. There are some goodhearted folk hereabouts. I expected to have to foot it.”
“You must be hungry,” said Giles Hoggett promptly. “I’m afraid we’ve eaten all the trout, but I’ve got a lot of eggs if they’ll help.”
“Eggs – in the plural? Glory! I haven’t met eggs in the plural for years. Doesn’t sound real these days.”
Reeves stood by the fire, a trim well-balanced figure, alyways on his toes; he was six inches shorter than Hoggett, and looked like a schoolboy with his neat dark head, slim figure, and cheerful grin.
“Do you like your eggs boiled, fried, or scrambled?” inquired Mr. Hoggett. “There are plenty of tomatoes and some soup.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Reeves. “If you’ll trust me with the frying pan I shall enjoy doing the cooking.”
“Right. I’ll get the eggs and tomatoes and leave you to it, while I see about some coffee.”
Once again Macdonald thought how adaptable Mr. Hoggett was. Reeves was a Cockney; his quick speech and mobile face made him as unlike Hoggett as a monkey is unlike a mastiff; but the two men cooked over the same fire in perfect amity, not getting in each other’s way, and obviously enjoying one another’s odd ways and speech.
When Reeves sat back with a cup of coffee, after putting away his own notion of scrambled eggs plus tomatoes and fried onions, Macdonald said:
“What’s the news from the Metropolis, Reeves?”
“I’ve got a line on Ginner, Chief. I’ve been running round in circles after him, like a kitten chasing its own tail. I knew he hadn’t been called up for the Forces – groggy heart or something – but I reckoned he’d have had to do Civil Defense of some kind. He was in Pimlico the first year of the war, and when the first bombs came down he beat it to the Midlands. I got that from the Civil Defense bloke who organized the street Ginner lived in. I followed up on information received and traced him to Warwick. He was in the Fire Service there for a while and later got transferred to Midchester. I got chatting with some of his mates there. It’s a safe bet that if a chap ever talks at all, he’ll talk while fire-watching. Lord, the stories I’ve heard from the dumbest blokes God ever made while we were on that job. You’ve got to talk. You can’t help it.”
Macdonald chuckled. “I know. Very sound, Reeves.”
“Applied psychology,” murmured Mr. Hoggett.
“Fruits of bitter experience, sir,” replied Reeves with his quick grin. “Ginner was an alias, Chief. I reckoned it would be. It’s funny to think the chap got himself bumped off here, all in the midst of peace, perfect peace. He’d taken such a lot of trouble to arrange bolt-holes. He was Gordon Ginner in London and Midchester. He was Thomas Harcourt Baring in Liverpool – he’s got a room there, and an identity card, too. His real name was George Garstang. I got that from a bookie in Midchester who knew Ginner and managed to make him tight one night. Ginner must have been pretty well sozzled, because he got to the weepy and confidential stage. Ginner – I’ll go on calling him that to save confusion – was born in Preston, in 1900 – I’ve looked up the records in Somerset House. His father was a commercial traveler who died in 1902. His mother once lived in Southport but had had a married sister in Chapleton-Lonsdale. The Preston people found that out for us. Ginner’s mother came to London when her hushand died. In 1910 a Mrs. George Garstang died in Battersea. She’d worked as a barmaid. I reckon that’s Ginner’s mother, because I’ve checked the records in Somerset House. Jenkins spent all yesterday trying to find someone who remembered Mrs. Garstang and found a woman in the Balham High Road who’d known her. This old girl – name of Peabody – remembers the boy as a precocious young varmint, but she says he used to go and stay with an aunt in the holidays somewhere up in the north. That’d be the Chapelton-Lonsdale aunt. His father had no sisters. Somerset House again. Marvellous what you can find out there once you’ve got a real name to start on.”
“There you are, Hoggett. That’s what real detection is, plowing through old death, birth and marriage certificates at Somerset House,” said Macdonald.
“Plus applied psychology or the fruits of bitter experience, whichever you prefer to call it,” replied Hoggett. “The story’s come full circle again – with Chapelton-Lonsdale as the center.”
“That’s near here, isn’t it?” asked Reeves. “I thought it would be. There’s always nearly some sense in real life stories. If there weren’t we’d all go bats in our department. If a chap like Ginner with a Cockney accent like mine and lodgings in Pimlico gets his ticket in a place like this, miles from anywhere, it’s not just chance. There’s always a connection somewhere.”
Reeves looked around the ancient room in which they sat. “Old, isn’t it?” he asked meditatively. “Centuries old. I bet this room’s seen some doings. . . Funny to think of. There’s a place called Garstang not so far away, isn’t there? I suppose Ginner’s people came from Garstang originally, it’s a rum name. His ancestors might have lived in a cottage just like this one. He’d got rooms in Pimlico. . . nasty rooms. Flash. All cheap tawdry muck. Like Ginner. He came back here and got his ticket. . . as though this place was ashamed of him. Didn’t like him. Wouldn’t have him. Chucked him in the river and got rid of him. What was it you said, sir? Full circle. . . that’s about it. It’s often like that. Sorry, I’m talking too much. It’s this place. It’s. . . got a feel to it.”
“Aye,” said Hoggett’s deep voice. “It’s got a feel to it. I never imagined a London detective would say so, though.”
Reeves glanced at Macdonald, a swift glance, to find out if his superior officer did think he’d been talking too much. Reeves was as sensitive to atmosphere as a cat to the presence of a mouse. Macdonald was
staring tranquilly into the fire, and Reeves went on talking to Mr. Hoggett.
“A London detective,” he echoed, in his clipped speech which sounded so thin after Mr. Hoggett’s murmuring bass. “You don’t think much of Londoners up here, do you? You flunk of movies and jazz bands, fried fish and chips and chromium plating, when you say London. Crowded, isn’t it? Stinks, too, foggy and dirty, with lots of swindlers, con-men and smash and grabbers. All that. Well, I’m a Cockney, born and bred. Proud of it, too. But I can tell this place has got a feel to it. What was the matter with Ginner was that he made no place his own. Just swindled his way from one place to another and cleared out when the balloon went up. Nasty customer, was Ginner – but his folks came from around here once. You get good ‘uns and bad ‘uns everywhere, not only in London.”
“Aye. You’re quite right,” said Mr. Hoggett, and Macdonald seemed to wake up.
“We’ve quite a variety of jobs to do tomorrow, Reeves. I want to interview a gentleman named Gold myself: he’s an itinerant hawker. What we call tinkers in the south; they call them potters up here. I suggest that you go to Chapleton-Lonsdale and see what you can learn there. I wonder if Mr. Hoggett would like to drive you there?”
“Aye,” said Mr. Hoggett with alacrity. “I’ll do that with pleasure. Is there any ban on my making a few discreet inquiries from people I know on the subject of a lady who had a married sister named Garstang?”
“None whatever,” rejoined Macdonald. “I only make one stipulation. If you go with Reeves, you must undertake to do what he tells you – or not to do what he bans. He has got to control the expedition – but you’ll find him a very reasonable skipper.”
“That’ll be all right. I won’t cause him a moment’s anxiety,” rejoined Mr. Hoggett, “and I shall enjoy enlarging my knowledge of him.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very kindly put,” said Reeves. “I reckon we ought to make a good team. You know the people: I know the ropes. You can talk to the tradesmen and I’ll do the pubs. Chatty places, pubs. We’ll work out a scheme so that we don’t cramp one another’s style. We don’t both want to try the same people. If you tackle the parson about your old aunt’s housemaid, I’ll see the schoolmaster about my mother’s cousin’s wife – and I’ll do the parish registers. I’m very hot on searching registers.”
Macdonald chuckled. “This is in the nature of a sporting event,” he said. “While I consider that Hoggett has the initial advantage, because he knows the country, I’m willing to bet that Reeves will bring back at least as much information.”
***
Reeves spent the night in the cottage. He woke up first the next morning and Macdonald heard him whistling in the kitchen while the fire crackled cheerfully up the chimney. Reeves came upstairs grinning all over his face.
“Shaving water, sir. Breakfast in half an hour. I like this outfit. Champion, as they say up here. It’s very well organized, too. Everything to hand, nice and tidy and easy to find. That Mr. Hoggett must be a very useful husband.”
“The fact is that he’s got a very useful wife,” said Macdonald. “It’s Mrs. Hoggett who’s the tidy one. You must meet her, Reeves. She’s an intellectual who uses her intelligence in country life.”
“Brains of the outfit?” asked Reeves. “I shouldn’t say her husband’s any sort of fool though. Not half wily in his own way. Reckon I’d better leave the kitchen nice and tidy. I’m all for making a good impression. My kids wouldn’t half like a holiday here next summer.” He chuckled, as cheerful as a schoolboy. “Better keep it under our lids, sir, or half the Yard’ll be rolling up here as a change from Brighton. There’s some real butter in that larder. You know – yellow and creamy. Straight from the cow.”
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” said Macdonald.
Shortly after nine o’clock Mr. Hoggett and Reeves set off on bicycles. This was Mr. Hoggett’s suggestion, so that Macdonald could have the use of the car. Reeves had Mrs. Hoggett’s bicycle, and he assured her that he was quite to be trusted with the ancient vehicle. Macdonald knew that Reeves was almost up to the standard of a circus trick-rider on a cycle, and he had no doubt that Mr. Hoggett would have an interesting ride.
Macdonald first made contact with Inspector Bord at Carnton, and gave him a resumé of “information received.” Bord reported in his turn that Anthony Vintner had only left his house to walk to the pub and had not had any visitors; that Mr. Willoughby (whose waders had been stolen from the fishing hut) had rung up and made an appointment to see Bord that evening; that Mr. Shand had made a statement to the superintendent protesting against Mr. Hoggett’s belief that the potters were responsible for the thefts in the valley; and finally, that Reuben Gold had set out in his cart along the Carnton-Ingleton road, and that Macdonald would probably overtake him if he drove in that direction.
It was on a straight, bleak stretch of road that Macdonald eventually overtook the potter’s cart. He drove past it, ran his car on to the rough moorland grass and alighted, standing well in the middle of the road with his hand raised as a signal to the potter to step. The driver pulled up and sat regarding Macdonald with a stare which showed no sign of fear. He was a heavily built fellow with a bearded face, an old cap pulled down low over his eyes. They were light colored eyes, calculating and hard, very far from amiable.
“Reuben Gold? I am a police officer and I want a word with you. You can see my warrant. You had better tie your horse up to that thorn tree.”
Reuben Gold sat still, holding his reins.
“I’m well enough here. Police ha’nowt against me.”
“That’s as may be. You can get down and speak civilly, or you can drive on and refuse to speak at all. In which case you will be taken in charge and the contents of your cart examined.”
“For why?”
“Because of certain thefts which I am looking into. You’d better get down, Gold. If you’ve done naught against the law you’ve still got the same duty as every other man – to assist the police when you’re called on to do so.”
The potter stared back, inscrutable and unafraid: at last he jumped down from the cart and led his horse on to the verge, still holding the reins. Standing thus he waited for Macdonald to speak.
“I am a police officer from London,” said Macdonald. “I have come to this district to find a man who has been concerned in thefts in the Midlands. There have been some unlawful doings in this valley, and I want all the information I can get. First of all, what took you down to the dales just lately, Gold?”
“Nowt. I havena’ been in the dales these past two years.”
“You’ll have to repeat that on oath later, so better think again. I’ve no doubt you know all about laying a trail, and following one. I know how to follow one, too. Where did you get that bit of orange-colored rag in your pocket?”
Gold stared hard at his interlocutor, but his face did not change.
“How should I know? I buy rags and such like bits and sell ‘em to ‘owd gaffer in Carnton. Mebbe the missis picked owd rag oot and stuffed in ma pocket.”
“Maybe she did – and dropped some other bits along the trail. If it’s poaching trout you were after, better say so. That’s a small charge compared to the one I’m working on. What about the painter at Thorpe Intak?”
“Yon’s a gey gert fool, that’s all I do know about him.”
Standing on the fringes of this dour fell country, Macdonald was aware of two arguments playing tug-of-war in his mind. The first told him that his evidence for connecting Reuben Gold with the crime in the river valley was so slight that any counsel would have laughed it out of court. The second, based on his own reactions to the tough fellow in front of him, was that Gold did know something, and that he had acquiesced in the order to get down out of hid cart because he judged it as well to learn what lay behind that order.
Macdonald tried another tack:
“Where is your wife, Gold?”
“What’s that to you?”
“I
want to see her. She hasn’t been seen on the road with you these two weeks. Not since you were in the dales that night. She’s got to be found. If you’ve no other answer to give to my questions, the whole police force will be looking for your wife before the day’s out, aye, and questioning everyone of your fellows, following up every deal you’ve worked, every journey you’ve taken. You know what I’m after, Gold.”
The big fellow came at him so suddenly that if Macdonald had not been tensed for the attack he would have gone down on the rocky ground – and stayed there. Macdonald had chosen his own field of action. There was no witness to this encounter on a lonely road. Macdonald side-stepped as Gold came at him and then hit out before the other had recovered his balance after missing his blow. Gold went down from the blow which had a trained boxer’s power behind the punch, but he was too tough to be outed by one blow; he was up again in a second, crouching to spring for a wrestler’s hold. Macdonald sprang back – he had no intention of playing that game; he knew well enough the other could likely break his neck once he got a hold. It took two more punches to knock the stuffing out of the potter, but then he lay stunned on the grass long enough for Macdonald to get a pair of handcuffs on him and a handkerchief knotted round his ankles. All the time the old pony had stood quite still, indifferent to the performances of human kind.
Macdonald left Gold where he lay in the rough grass – grunting painfully as he recovered from a blow which would have laid most men out for hours – and the C.I.D. man, looking ruefully at his own split knuckles, went to investigate Gold’s cart.
It was a quarter of an hour later that Inspector Bord arrived – the follow-up having been duly arranged by himself and Macdonald. Both of them, to quote the latter, were too canny to leave much to chance. Bord found the potter’s pony grazing quietly on the poor grass at the road-side. Gold was sitting up, green-faced and grim, handcuffs on his wrists, an adequate handkerchief still professionally tied round his ankles. He was quite silent. Macdonald was sitting by the roadside, too, his knuckles plastered now. Beside him was a pair of waders and a bundle of rags, including some of Mrs. Hoggett’s old orange curtains.
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 12