by John Creasey
‘You put it back in there,’ Roger assured him.
‘I thought I did,’ said Chatsworth. He took every paper from the wallet, unfolding some to see whether the map had slipped in between the folds. As he searched the tension grew greater, and before he finished Mark said sharply: ‘Can it have been stolen?’
No one answered until Chatsworth finished the search, put the empty wallet down by the little pile of papers, and said very slowly: ‘It’s not here.’
‘Then it has been stolen,’ Mark said softly.
‘But who took it?’ asked Roger, very slowly. ‘Sloan, you’ve watched the house all night, haven’t you? No one’s been here?’
‘I’ve seen no one,’ said Sloan after a pause. ‘Except—’
‘It can’t have been anyone in the house!’ said Mark.
The tension reached its peak: each man looked at the next, uncertain and anxious. Chatsworth began to go through his other pockets but found no map, and when he had finished he looked keenly at the fresh-faced, ingenuous-looking Sloan, and said with deceptive softness: ‘Didn’t you make an exception, Sloan?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the sergeant stiffly and formally. He did not look towards Mark, while in Roger’s mind a question was already forming, one which worried him the more because he could see no reasonable explanation of it.
‘For whom?’
‘Miss Marion Byrne called a little before seven o’clock,’ answered Sloan in the same level voice. ‘She told me that she had left her handbag here last night and was a little worried because it had most of her money in it, as well as some personal papers.’
Mark stared at the man without speaking.
‘Did she find it?’ Chatsworth demanded.
‘She said so, sir. She went round to the rear of the house and when she came back she said she had found it in the loggia. She said she remembered leaving it somewhere in the garden, that was why she was so worried. I’m telling you what she said as nearly as I can, sir.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Where’s the window of my room, West?’
‘Immediately above the loggia,’ Roger answered.
A brief inspection of the back of the cottage showed that it would be easy for anyone to climb to the roof of the loggia and step into the little spare bedroom. Moreover there was a small chair, over which Chatsworth had hung his coat, within easy reach of the window.
Chatsworth watched the inspection without speaking, and if he noticed that Mark looked very pale, said nothing. But when they had finished, and the obvious possibilities were faced, Chatsworth spoke very softly: ‘In future, West, I’ll leave this kind of business to you. If any man in the Force had been so damned careless I would have stopped his promotion for three years. But here—’
‘I might have put it under my pillow, but nothing more than that,’ said Roger shortly. ‘Of course, we’re taking too much for granted about Miss Byrne. Someone else might have got to your window, slipping through without being noticed. Only two men were watching, and the night was quite dark once the moon went down. All the same we’d better go to the Manor.’ He avoided Mark’s eyes.
‘Take Sloan with you,’ directed Chatsworth.
Mark made no effort to follow them, but sat back in his chair as they left the room.
The warmth of the morning was already enough to make them perspire, and they went quickly. Roger was thinking of the coincidence of Marion’s first appearance on the scene when he turned into the drive of the Manor. There he stopped, for cycling along the road from the village was the local policeman. The man was in uniform, red-faced, perspiring freely. He drew up with them and said breathlessly: ‘You – you’re Inspector West, sir, aren’t you? From Scotland Yard?’
‘That’s right,’ said Roger. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir,’ said the constable. ‘Mr Byrne just telephoned me. He—he said something about murder, sir.’
‘Whose murder?’ snapped Roger, his heart missing a beat.
‘I—I don’t rightly know, sir. I’m just going to make my inquiries now, before I telephone to Dorchester.’
‘Let’s get on,’ said Roger sharply.
The constable pushed his bicycle, the others strode by his side. Roger had a vision of Marion Byrne as the victim of the murder, although he tried to push it aside. Once they rounded a bend in the drive they saw signs of activity, including three or four people standing near the porch of the big Georgian House and others by one of the windows. Roger did not see Marion, but recognised Colonel Byrne, her uncle. Byrne was a tall, thin, sallow man, a martinet and a stickler for convention.
Before anyone spoke Roger saw a heap on the ground; the heap took shape, and as he drew nearer he saw that what at first looked like a heap of old clothes was in fact the body of a man; at a distance of fifty yards he recognised Crummy Parker.
Roger West Returns to Town
There was no doubt that Parker was dead, or that he had been murdered. The side of his head was battered in, and while Roger admitted the bare possibility that it was the result of a fall from the window above, his opinion was that the wounds had been caused by a weapon – the universal blunt instrument. He told Sloan to try to find Marion, and suggested to the Hinton Magna constable that the quicker he telephoned his headquarters the better; and he asked whether a doctor had been summoned.
In a thin, reedy voice, Colonel Byrne said that he had taken all the usual measures, and demanded by what authority Inspector West had to make inquiries without first consulting the county police.
‘Common sense,’ said Roger shortly. Then he realised that he was being too abrupt. ‘Actually, sir, this man is wanted by us in London.’
‘Then perhaps you can be good enough to tell me what he is doing here?’ Byrne said tartly.
Roger eyed Marion’s uncle with distaste: at close quarters Byrne’s face looked raddled, his eyes were bloodshot, and the hue of his bony nose suggested that he was a heavy drinker. But there was no hint of anxiety or concern in the man’s manner, and Roger prevented himself from drawing Byrne into the orbit of his suspicions. He remained sceptical of Marion Byrne’s part in the affair, too. It was carrying coincidence too far to believe that he and the others had come to recuperate on the very doorstep of intrigue.
Byrne strode off, declaring that he would talk to the Chief Constable, while Roger inquired how the tramp had been found and whether anyone had any idea how long he had been dead. He knew that it had been a comparatively short time, and was not surprised when an old man, wrinkled of face and quavery of speech, came forward and admitted: ‘I saw un an hour since, sir.’
‘Was he just here?’ asked Roger.
‘Wouldn’t like to say so,’ said the old man slowly. ‘Round an’ about, mebbe. Walking. I shouted at un to go away, an’ off he went like a dog with his tail ‘tween his legs, sir. I come round this way again, and there he was lying, stiff as they make ‘em. ‘Tis all I can tell ‘ee, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roger. ‘It’s a great help.’
He had further assistance from others of the staff at the Manor, who were eager to talk and did not appear to share the Colonel’s prejudice against his prompt inquiries. A maid who had come from the village, being a day worker only, had imagined that she had seen Parker at a window, climbing in or out, she would not be sure which. A maid in the house had heard a thump, three quarters of an hour earlier, and going out immediately, had seen Parker in a huddled heap on the ground. Except to turn him over to try to find whether there was any spark of life the man had not been touched. There were bruises on his legs, Roger saw, consistent with a fall from the window, but his opinion was that Parker had been struck over the head, made to release his grip on the window, fallen, and died almost as soon as he had struck the ground.
Deliberately he avoided mentioning Marion
Byrne, although he half-expected to hear her name mentioned when he asked which room the tramp had fallen from: he was disappointed in one way and relieved in another. The window from which the man had fallen was from a landing: there was no evidence to say whom Parker had been trying to see.
‘But he was almost certainly attacked while inside the house,’ mused Roger.
Sloan was a long time putting in an appearance, and before he returned from his inquiries, which Roger knew would be made with the utmost deliberation, a doctor arrived from Hinton Parva, the neighbouring village. The doctor was a Scotsman, short, crisp of hair, and sharp of speech. He looked tired and harassed, Roger thought, and in the course of the next half-hour discovered that the medico had been out three times during the night.
No one seemed to be able to get enough sleep, Roger reflected, and was duly sympathetic.
Dr Hamilton would not commit himself, but voiced the same opinion: Parker had been struck over the head when at the window, had lost his hold, fallen and bruised himself, and died without recovering consciousness; death had probably come very quickly after he had been struck. Roger had no quarrel with that report, and began to speculate upon Byrne’s reaction when he knew that the house would have to be searched for a weapon and that there was at least a reasonable excuse for suspecting one or other of the occupants.
Marion’s continued absence puzzled Roger, but he deliberately evaded mentioning her.
A dapper Inspector from Dorchester arrived within an hour of being telephoned, and any fear that Roger had of having trouble with the County CID quickly faded. Inspector Cartwright declared himself delighted that Inspector West was so fortuitously near, and asked for guidance. In a very short time Cartwright had seen Byrne, politely but effectively silenced his protests, and arranged for a complete search of the house. Convinced that the local investigations were in good hands, Roger waited only to tell Cartwright that there was reason to believe that the case was an offshoot of one even more serious, and then went in search of Sloan. After ten minutes he discovered the sergeant drinking tea in the large, gloomy kitchen of the Manor. Sloan was laughing and talking with the cook, but detached himself from her soon after Roger put his head round the door. They met outside the domestic entrance to the house.
‘Well?’ asked Roger shortly.
‘Miss Byrne hasn’t been seen this morning, sir,’ said Sloan.
‘Not at all?’
‘I don’t think I’ve missed anyone,’ said Sloan. ‘She’s very popular with all the staff, and there is a spot of bother going on at the moment. Apparently the Colonel told Miss Byrne that she was spending too much time at the cottage, and there was a difference of opinion.’ He went on slowly: ‘The general impression is that she left here deliberately, and the staff seem to think that she will move to the cottage.’
‘I don’t like it, Bill,’ Roger said slowly.
‘Nor will Mr Lessing, sir.’
‘No. Have you had the slightest reason for thinking that Miss Byrne might be involved in any way – apart from the scare I raised because she was near Mr Lessing and me on Monday?’
‘None at all, sir.’ Sloan brushed his crisp, fair hair back from his forehead, and regarded Roger with a puzzled frown. ‘It’s got me beat.’
‘We needn’t be formal, Sir Guy isn’t round the corner.’
Roger saw the appreciative smile in Sloan’s eyes, and remembered Chatsworth’s question about the sergeant: Sloan was almost certainly earmarked for promotion, and would soon rank as Detective Inspector. Roger was glad, for he had worked with Sloan for years and knew that the man was sound, sometimes brilliant, and always painstaking.
‘You can’t always be sure where he’ll be next,’ Sloan said.
‘We’ll take a chance now,’ said Roger. He proffered cigarettes and added as Sloan struck a match: ‘Have you anything up your sleeve about Miss Byrne?’
‘No,’ said Sloan. ‘I’ve tried assuming that she is mixed up in it somewhere, but I always come to the same dead-end. If she were just a friend of the family it would be different, although even then we’d have to stretch a point. But she’s at the Manor every year, and I can’t make myself believe that you just chanced upon a place where Riordon has an agent. I’ve inquired about when she first arranged to come here this week, too. The servants knew about it last Monday, so presumably the Colonel and his wife knew earlier than that.’
‘Good,’ said Roger briskly. ‘We count her out, then, except that she might have been approached by one of Riordon’s people, and persuaded to help them. We mustn’t rule out that possibility, even though it’s hardly probable. Next?’
Sloan shrugged. ‘I’d be inclined to say that Parker stole the map, passed it over to a confederate, and then tried to get into the house. That could have been on an ordinary burglary, of course, but—’
Roger shook his head.
‘I think it’s doubtful, too,’ admitted Sloan. ‘Well, then, how’s this? Parker stole the map, and delivered it to someone in the house. The rendezvous was the landing window. Parker handed the map over, and was killed to prevent him from talking.’
‘Better,’ conceded Roger, ‘but I can see the improbabilities. I can’t imagine anyone who has any right to be in the Manor making an appointment to see Parker at a first floor window, especially in daylight and at an hour when many of the servants would be about. It’s more likely that Parker was admitted by one of the doors, or else entered through a ground floor window and then realised that he had to get away in a hurry. Before he managed it he was assaulted. It’s easy to imagine him reaching the window in something of a panic. Riordon can create a panic in a brave man, you know.’
Sloan said sharply: ‘Riordon himself?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Roger. ‘But it might have been anyone who could have done Parker some harm. Parker saw that the stairs were barred by Riordon or whoever it was, and came to the window. He wouldn’t climb out face first, very few people climb out of a window that way: he would climb out backwards. While swaying on the window sill he could do nothing to save himself from being hit.’ Roger paused, tapped the ash from his cigarette, and went on: ‘Well, how does it sound?’
‘Very reasonable,’ admitted Sloan. ‘But we’re up against the old problem, aren’t we? Who hit him? Had whoever hit him any right to be there? If so we strike that coincidence again, and I can’t say I’m keen on it.’
‘I don’t necessarily grant you that there is one. If it were Riordon himself he wouldn’t have hesitated to break into any house where he wanted to get.’
‘But why here?’ demanded Sloan.
Roger was quiet for a moment.
There was no one in sight, although the sound of men moving about the other side of the house was intermittent, and twice cars came along the drive. A clock in the house chimed the half-hour. A wasp honed about Sloan’s head, and the sergeant brushed at it two or three times.
‘Riordon almost certainly discovered that we were here,’ Roger said slowly. ‘Even if he didn’t follow me he could have followed Lessing – or even Sir Guy. Let’s assume that it was Lessing. He would learn quickly about Marion Byrne, probably from Parker, who I think worked with him. That’s by no means certain yet.’
‘Supposing Riordon did know about Miss Byrne?’ Sloan was puzzled.
Roger threw a half-finished cigarette away, grinding it into the earth, and said sharply: ‘You aren’t at your best, Bill, are you? Riordon’s always specialised in victimising pretty women, presumably when they have been in a position to help him, directly or otherwise. Lessing and Marion have been seen about so much together that most people would judge that they’d been smitten. Marion could be in a position to give information through Lessing.’
Sloan drew in a deep breath. ‘Of course! I hope Lessing doesn’t think of that too soon.’
‘So do
I,’ said Roger fervently. ‘So do I.’ But he did not think that it would take Mark long to reach the same conclusion, and he was in a gloomy mood as he left the Manor, a little after eleven o’clock. He was quite sure that he could safely leave the investigation at the house in the hands of Cartwright, although two Yard men, then on duty near the cottage, would be at hand to assist the Dorchester police. He had learned that neither Byrne nor his wife were surprised to find that Marion had gone, and he judged that Mrs Byrne was worried in a fluttering, half-hearted way; she was but a vague background to her husband. He disliked the Colonel, but could not bring himself to believe that he was in any way implicated: the simpler and more straightforward explanation seemed more likely.
After lunch and an interview with Chatsworth, he decided that Riordon or an accomplice had been to Hinton Magna, made contact with Parker, heard about Marion, and visited her in the early hours. After that Marion had left the Manor and gone to the cottage, but whether to take the map could not be unanswered.
‘Riordon could have frightened her into doing that,’ said Roger quietly.
Chatsworth said: ‘The less we credit Riordon with, the better we’ll fight him, West.’
‘If we underestimate him, we’ll be in trouble,’ Roger countered. He paused, and when Chatsworth did not retort, went on: ‘What attitude would you like me to adopt with Lessing, sir?’
‘Please yourself,’ said Chatsworth shortly. ‘He’s no fool, and he knows enough now to make it useless to try to hoodwink him.’