Reeves did not forget his evening appointment with Elsie Harford: he considered that she had earned the undoubted pleasure of passing on information to the C.I.D., and he thanked her with due gratitude for the assistance she had undoubtedly given him.
Meantime his researches and their results had been put before the Yard authorities, with whom Macdonald had been in communication. The latter had urged the need for prompt furtherance of investigations at “Alvarley,” and a search warrant was issued. Inspector Jenkins and Reeves were empowered to search on the strength of Mr. Wilson’s identification of Basil Mallowood’s photograph as the man known by sight as Mr. Brownleigh.
“Alvarley” was a detached house, standing in its own garden and well screened from its neighbours. Having informed the local police of their purpose, Reeves and Jenkins walked unobtrusively to the back of the house, where Reeves had previously done some reconnoitring on his own. Alvarley was a modern house, and a well-built one. Its steel framed windows and up-to-date locks offered no promise of easy entry on the ground floor, but Reeves had spotted an open window on the first floor which he thought he could negotiate with some help from Jenkins. Reeves would himself have made a very skilful burglar, for he could climb like a monkey and insinuate his long thin powerful arms round improbable looking angles and into unpromising looking spaces. Inspector Jenkins, having stood like a rock while Reeves took a spring from his colleague’s powerful shoulders, watched the agile younger man achieve a precarious looking hand-hold on a narrow ledge and haul himself up “like a performing monkey,” spread-eagled in front of a bathroom window whose upper ventilator was open. Reeves got one of his long arms through the ventilator and reached downwards towards the window catch, while Jenkins stood below, prepared to field him if he slipped. Reeves did not slip. His stockinged feet managed to grip the absurdly narrow ledge while he reached like a professional contortionist through the ventilator, a long slender pair of pliers in his hand, and the window was unfastened in a surprisingly short space of time. Reeves slipped through into the bathroom, grinned down at Jenkins saying “All correct. See you later,” and vanished inside. A few minutes later he reappeared at the open back door, and Jenkins slipped inside and the door was closed behind them.
“Nice house, all very up to date and stylish,” murmured Reeves. “That’s a classy bathroom and no mistake. Wouldn’t mind a bath in it myself. You take the ground floor and I’ll take upstairs.”
Reeves did a rapid tour of the first floor, appreciating the admirable lay-out of the architect-built house, for he was a domestic soul at heart. Servants’ quarters complete with bathroom and service stairs were arranged over the kitchens. These were furnished, but apparently unused. A big bedroom, decorated in pale grey with petunia coloured curtains, bedspread and cushions, faced south. It had a marvellous built-in dressing-table in an alcove, with long triple-winged mirror, crystal and chromium fittings winking in the sunlight which shone in when Reeves drew back the taffeta curtains. “My eye! Some beauty parlour!” said the detective to himself, as he crossed the heavy pile carpet of silver grey to investigate the dressing-room and the bathroom connecting with the chief bedroom. With rubber gloves on his hands, Reeves opened the fine Compactum wardrobe in the dressing-room, and saw “Mr. Brownleigh’s” suits and shirts, collars and shoes, ties and handkerchiefs, all arranged in the neatest possible way in that admirable piece of furniture. Reeves took out a measuring tape and busied himself with the garments and shoes. Later, he produced insufflator and powder, camera and flashlight outfit, and busied himself with recording fingerprints. Jenkins was similarly occupied downstairs, and the two experts worked for hours without exchanging comments.
When Reeves was through with his part of the job, he went downstairs and found Jenkins carefully rearranging the contents of a writing bureau. The older man chuckled as he saw Reeves.
“Everything very nice and orderly. Silver and that at the bank. Old letters destroyed. Minimum of papers – lease, insurance policy, and sundry tenant’s agreements. Plenty of receipts – but nothing personal. A very careful business-like tenant.”
Reeves nodded. ” Hardly to be hoped for he’d have written letters for them to be left about. However, I’ve got a nice selection of prints – not all the lady’s, by a long chalk.”
Jenkins nodded. “Yes. I’ve got some useful specimens in that line. Anything else?”
“Clothes and shoes. His. Measurements right. Tailor’s name inside. Ought to be O.K.”
It was after they had left the hoes, having removed all traces of their visit, and were on the return journey to London, that Reeves bought an early edition of the Evening Standard when his car was held up in a traffic block.
“Gosh – see that!” he exclaimed to Jenkins. ” Stop press news.”
The big Inspector read the brief paragraph as Reeves negotiated the car through the complexities of the traffic at Swiss Cottage.
“Reuter reports the death in Tunis of Mr. Paul Mallowood, eldest brother of the late Basil Mallowood. Paul Mallowood was found stabbed in a low quarter of the town known to be dangerous to foreigners.”
“Taking it all round, I’m not surprised,” said Jenkins. “I hope they’re careful with their identifications over there. Reckon this’ll mean a plane-trip for somebody.”
“What do you bet he won’t be identifiable by the time somebody gets there?” asked Reeves, but Jenkins only replied:
“The chief’ll be keener than ever to find Martin Mallowood after this. He’s the missing link. Richard’s here in England, and his sister, too.”
“If I were Richard, I shouldn’t be all that keen on staying put,” said Reeves. “Things don’t look too healthy for members of his family just now.”
CHAPTER TEN
ON the evening of the day following Macdonald’s first visit to Wulfstane Manor, Richard Mallowood strode into the hall from the drive and paused by the wide open front door. The sun had just set, and mist was settling in white swathes over the grass, waist high, the fantastic wraiths ghost-like in the still air. The rose of sunset was fading from the sky; the west now faintly saffron with a white pinprick of evening star just strengthening against the fading daylight. Inside the house the panelled hall was sombre and shadowy, its colours merged into the grey tones of twilight.
With an exclamation of impatience, almost exasperation, Richard put down the electric switches at the entrance and slammed the great oaken doors to and bolted them in place. Then he went to the fireplace, kicked the smouldering logs together and seized the bellows to blow them into a blaze. The evening air was chilly and he felt it in his very bones after years spent under tropical suns. The well-dried logs soon flared up above the dull red heap of ashes on the worn hearthstone, and Richard crouched close to the comfortable heat, lighting a cigarette and warming his chilled hands. A sound above caught his attention as he called out:
“That you, Ronnie?”
“Yes. I’m here. That fire looks good.”
She came downstairs and stood beside the open hearth, and Richard offered her a cigarette, and as he lighted it for her he said:
“Well – how much longer are we going to carry on in this crazy fashion, Ronnie?”
“If you feel like that, there’s no reason for you to stay here,” she replied calmly. “Owing to circumstances over which you had no control, to use the good old cliché, your stay here has been unnaturally prolonged. Very tiresome for you – but there’s no need for you to strain your altruism by staying any longer.”
“Don’t be an ass,” he replied, equally calmly. “I’ve no intention of leaving you alone in this demented house. Look at it, Ronnie! I’m not exigent about the niceties of life, for I’ve lived under some damned primitive conditions on occasion, but I’ve never seen a presumably civilised house in such a hell of a mess as this one is achieving. Admittedly domesticity isn’t in your line. Well, for God’s sake get some domestics to run the place, or else shut it up and go away. If you’d even have Higgins an
d his wife to live in for a while you wouldn’t be so badly off. What’s bitten you, Ronnie?”
“Nothing. I’m doing exactly what I’ve always done and intend to continue to do, live in my own house without interference, Richard. There’s no need for you to stay. I quite realise how uncomfortable you are.” Her deep voice had its habitual tone of light mockery, and Richard gave an exclamation of impatience.
“Do, for God’s sake, talk sense,” he retorted. “How can I go away and leave you alone in this blasted barracks? It’s insane! The village people think you’re mad – and I’m mad. You’re just asking for trouble. How many doors are there on the ground floor of this house – and how many of them are locked now?”
“If you want to know, there are twenty-eight doors altogether, counting the kitchen doors and the french windows. As to how many of them are locked, I can’t quite tell you. Why? Are you nervous of burglars? How odd!”
Richard threw his cigarette end into the fire and got up.
“Well, I’m going the rounds now to see that they’re locked,” he said. “There are still enough valuables in this house to attract a tramp or a casual thief.”
“There always have been, but the casual thief has never arrived,” she replied. “Before all this crazy business about Basil happened, there were in the house two maids, both arrant cowards who locked themselves into their room every night, a more or less imbecile boy – and Martin. Was I so much safer for their presence? Was the house safer? I fail to see it.”
“Of course you were safer. The mere fact that the house is known to have several people in it is a safeguard,” he retorted, as he strode off into the drawing-room and began to fasten the windows.
Veronica stood still by the fire, listening. She heard Richard’s impatient progress from room to room, heard him knock against the furniture and swear, heard him slam doors and bang windows down, clang shutters into place, and finally heard his steps recede into the distance on the stone flags of the kitchen quarters, but she still stood there, looking down at the glowing logs. When he came back, she looked at him with the same quizzical amusement.
“All bolted and barred to your satisfaction? How nice! You needn’t have bothered, you know. I always leave a door or two open for Martin. He may come back any time.”
Richard gave a sigh, and ran a hand over his thick dark hair.
“Look here, Ronnie. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: if you know where Martin is, the best thing you can do is to persuade him to come back. The very fact of his fading away as he did added a hundred per cent to the police conviction that there’s something more to be explained than has been explained. It’s probably due to Martin’s absence that the Chief Inspector was sent down here. It looks as though Martin did a bolt, and they want to know why.”
Veronica frowned, but she remained stubbornly silent, and Richard went on:
“Look facts in the face, Ronnie. You’ve got plenty of wits, so try to think out how the thing would look to you if you were in the position of a detective. Take these three points: when you ran upstairs that morning you battered on the playroom door calling Martin’s name, as though you had reason to know he was inside – yet only a short while later you told Inspector Long that you had seen Martin climbing Wendle Beacon, at such a time as made it almost impossible for him to have been back in this house at half-past twelve. In addition to that, Martin disappears.” He studied her brooding face and then went on, kindly enough: “Think it out objectively, Ronnie. I know you’re certain that Martin had nothing to do with Basil’s death, but the facts I’ve stated would make any one, detective or not, believe that you knew there was something to be concealed about Martin.”
“They can believe what they choose,” she retorted, “and so can you.”
“Very well. The consequence is that you have a Scotland Yard man haunting the place, intent on running Martin to earth,” went on Richard. “If you think Martin can be concealed indefinitely you’re making a very big mistake”
“What do you mean?” she demanded brusquely. “By saying Martin is ‘concealed’ are you implying that I’m hiding him?”
Richard heard the rising anger in her voice, but he went on:
“I’m pretty certain that you know where he is, Ronnie, for the simple reason that Martin hasn’t the wits to evade the whole police force of the county without assistance from somebody. Of course, I admit that there’s a possibility, so far as the actual time-table is concerned, that he reached Southampton or some other port, before the hue and cry was started, and got clear out of the country.”
“And why should he have done that?” inquired Veronica. Her voice was ominously quiet now.
Richard sighed. “It’s really unnecessary for me to expound,” he said. “You can see all the possible implications without my underlining them. If a man does a bolt, he’s generally activated by one of two motives. Plain running away from danger, or a desire to safeguard his loot. I’ve no doubt you’ve studied the press reports on Basil’s – démarche. The probability agreed on is that he had a large sum in his possession – which has just disappeared. Of course, he may have burnt his bonds – to parody the usual phrase – in that fire he lighted upstairs: or he may not.”
Veronica stood very still, lounging against the stone pillars which supported the vast arch over the hearth.
“If it’s to be assumed so easily that Martin is a thief, why not yourself?” she asked fiercely.
“Quite so,” replied Richard imperturbably. “If I’d done a bolt, that is exactly what might have been assumed. The fact that I preferred to stay here may be counted in my favour. When a man has nothing to conceal he doesn’t bother to make himself scarce. No need to get in a bate about it, Ronnie. You might just as well admit the logic of what I say. Martin’s absence looks damned fishy – and if you know where he is, tell him so.”
“Thanks for your kind advice,” retorted Veronica. “If you have said all you’ve got to say, I might suggest that there is nothing to detain you here any longer. The village inn will offer you greater comfort than can this house.”
Richard chuckled. “I wonder what the Chief Inspector would say if I joined him there at dinner,” he replied. “He’s an interesting fellow – I shouldn’t object to his company by a long chalk – but there’s this to it. I’m not prepared to leave you by yourself in the ancestral mansion, Ronnie. It’s a bit too steep to think of you sleeping alone here.”
“Oh, you sicken me,” she cried. “What does it matter to you if I choose to be here by myself? What does it matter to you if I blow my own brains out”
“It’d matter one hell of a lot,” he retorted. “One inquest at a time is enough for the family credit for the moment. Believe me, I’ve no desire to answer questions concerning you as I’ve had to answer them about Basil. I’m not trying the sentimental stop, but I wish to the deuce you’d listen to reason, and leave off trying to do the high-falutin’ stuff. You won’t do yourself – or Martin – any good by flaring out at me. I’m prepared to regard your interests and Martin’s as identical, and you’re in a fair-sized mess, both of you. You can’t rid yourself of a police inquiry by riding a high horse.”
There was a moment’s dead silence, and then Veronica said:
“If you’d say exactly what you mean, we might come to some sort of understanding before you go. At present I can’t make any sense of what you say, except that you’re trying the old brotherly tactics of dictating to me – and in that, you’re wasting your time.”
“My dear Ronnie, haven’t I put it plainly enough? I’m out to help you as far as I reasonably can, and if you’d only trust me, I might be able to steer a way through the jam. So far as I can see, there’s no reasonable doubt that Basil shot himself – and that before he shot himself he either burnt or disposed of his valuable papers. That was a plain straightforward issue. It’s complicated by quite other factors – your behaviour and Martin’s. Yours, because you lost your head and went out of your way
to fabricate evidence; Martin’s, because he lost his head and his nerve simultaneously, and did a bolt. God knows why. I don’t.”
“How dare you say I fabricated evidence?”
“I know you did,” he replied calmly. “I know that you didn’t see Martin cross Wendle Down. That’s all. Don’t interrupt. Now to get on to the business of this second police investigation. They’re out after two distinct points. One is: did Basil shoot himself? two is: has any one made off with his missing papers? The answer to the first is so plain that I don’t think it’s seriously questioned. Even if Martin had wanted to shoot him – which I very much doubt – there’s no conceivable way he could have – achieved the effect”
“And if I had wanted to shoot him?” enquired Veronica’s deep voice, and Richard was startled into a jump.
“Well, I think you’re capable of a good deal,” he replied coolly, “but subtlety isn’t your forte, Ronnie. Besides, damn it all, the thing’s a stark staring impossibility. But theft – that’s a different story. If Basil did leave a wallet full of securities in his room, there was a chance that somebody made off with them, and that, my dear Ronnie, is where Martin’s behaviour comes into question.”
“Why not yours – and mine?” she asked.
“Obviously, we’re both suspect,” he retorted impatiently. “That’s why it behoves us to behave like reasonable beings – but I’d put the probabilities like this. None of us knew that Basil was going to shoot himself in the playroom. None of us knew that a warrant was out for his arrest. None of us – neither you, nor Martin, nor Paul, nor myself, would have gone to his bedroom and pinched his valuables if we’d thought that Basil was going to discover the theft ten minutes later and proceed to investigate it, but if he left papers worth a fortune in his bedroom (which sounds pretty improbable to me) the time for stealing them was after he was dead. At least, that seems common sense to me.”
Rope's End, Rogue's End Page 14