‘And so far as you know, nobody called to see your master this evening?’
‘No, nobody called in the ordinary way.’
Farringdon looked at the man sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked.
‘Well, nobody came by the front door,’ said the butler. ‘If I did hear the sound of voices and there was anybody with him, they must have got in some other way.’
‘Is there any other way?’
‘Yes, there’s a way out through the kitchen. There’s another way out along the yew-walk which Mr. Feldon used to use himself.’
‘Show me,’ said the reporter briefly.
But the doors leading to both these exits were bolted and barred and could not have been closed from the outside.
Farringdon returned to the room of death. ‘Was the window open or closed?’ he inquired.
‘Closed,’ said the butler. ‘I never touched anything.’
Farringdon went over to it. It was closed but it was not fastened, and could have easily been shut from the outside after the murderer had made his escape.
‘You’d better send somebody for the doctor and the police,’ he said, coming back to the middle of the room.
The butler went away and Farringdon returned to the window. Very carefully, so as not to obliterate any possible finger marks, he tried the sash. It moved easily and noiselessly, and he was pretty certain that this was the way the killer of Feldon had both come and gone.
He found further confirmation of this theory when he examined the settee which was in the window recess. It was covered in some dark material, and distinctly visible were three dusty footprints. They were big and broad, two lefts and a right. Obviously the settee had been used as a stepping-place from the sill.
There was a stationery rack on the desk, and taking several sheets of the paper it contained, Farringdon carefully covered the prints until such time as the police should make tracings and have the whole surface photographed. Having done this, he began to conduct an examination of the death chamber. Working from the window towards the door, he looked for traces on the thick carpet, but without result. And then he turned his attention to the desk.
He was engaged in looking through the last drawer when there came steps up the passage. The newcomer was the local inspector, a phlegmatic, important man who appeared rather to resent the presence of a newspaper reporter in the zone of his activities. He remarked that it was a very bad business, and Farringdon thought how strange it was that everybody always made that remark on these occasions.
‘You haven’t disturbed anything, I suppose?’ he remarked, when he had taken a brief look at the body.
Farringdon shook his head. ‘No, everything is exactly as I found it,’ he said. The inspector pursed his thick lips and scratched the back of his neck.
‘Seems a pretty mysterious business,’ he said, frowning. ‘The second murder we’ve had in these parts.’
‘So I understand,’ said Farringdon.
The doctor arrived at that moment, and his examination was brief. ‘Quite dead,’ he reported. ‘The bullet has passed clean through his brain. You ought to find it somewhere in the room. No, he couldn’t possibly have done it himself,’ — this in answer to the inspector. ‘The bullet is in practically a straight line from the centre of his forehead to the back of his head. It would be next to impossible to hold a pistol oneself like that; it would contort the wrist and elbow too much. You try it. Besides, look at his face. He saw death coming on him and it wasn’t pleasant.’
The doctor did not stay long, and soon after he had gone the inspector had the body removed and taken upstairs to the dead man’s bedroom.
It was Farringdon who found the bullet in the wall just over the mantelpiece, and he brought the twisted piece of metal to the inspector. The official looked at it. ‘Fired from an ordinary revolver,’ he commented. ‘That accounts for the fact that we didn’t find a shell. Over the mantelpiece, eh? Must have been fired from the front of the desk.’ He slipped the little blob of lead into his pocket and hastily examined the desk. ‘There’s nothing of any help here,’ he announced after a pause, ‘but there may be footprints outside the window.’ He turned to the butler, who was watching interestedly from the open doorway. ‘See that nobody goes near. I want to have a look out there as soon as it is light.’
He went out into the hall and found several people clustered at the foot of the stairs, bombarding the footman with questions. ‘What are these people doing here?’ he asked sharply.
‘They live near, sir,’ answered the worried butler, coming to his side. ‘They heard the scream and came to see what the matter was. I was just telling Captain Drake —’
‘Is this true — that Feldon’s been shot?’ A tall, white-haired man with close-cropped hair and a fierce military moustache came forward and addressed the inspector.
‘Quite true,’ said that individual. ‘It’s a dreadful business.’
‘Dreadful indeed,’ muttered the other, and Farringdon saw that his face was ghastly.
‘Good God, how many more?’ A fat, greasy-looking man uttered the remark, and the reporter heard another, who looked like a retired banker, mutter:
‘Something was bound to happen, Sopley, though I’m surprised it was Feldon.’
‘What do you mean, Earnshaw?’ asked the man addressed as Sopley.
Earnshaw looked confused. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said evasively. ‘Only, I’ve felt as though there was something in the air lately.’
Farringdon Street’s eyes narrowed. He had not been supposed to overhear that muttered conversation, but he had and it made him think. So other people had felt that oppressive atmosphere that seemed to be part and parcel of the Deneswood Estate.
‘Ask these gentlemen to wait in the drawing room.’ The inspector’s voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘Since they are here I should like to ask them one or two questions.’
This didn’t appear to meet with wholehearted approval. He noticed several uneasy glances, and was rather surprised.
Mr. Earnshaw put his doubts into words. ‘Is that necessary. Inspector?’ he asked. ‘I mean — we none of us know anything about this affair except that we heard the scream, and it’s not a pleasant business to be mixed up with.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but whether it’s pleasant or otherwise, I shall have to ask you all to remain,’ replied the inspector shortly. He was looking a little harassed.
‘Wouldn’t the morning do —’ began Mr. Sopley nervously. He broke off as a step sounded on the gravel without and the large form of Mr. Blessington came into the light. He had evidently dressed hurriedly, for he wore a coat over his pyjama jacket.
‘What is this I hear?’ he asked. ‘What is this about poor Feldon? What has happened?’
‘A murder has happened, sir,’ said the inspector grimly. ‘How did you hear of it?’
‘My butler woke me and said something serious had occurred,’ replied Mr. Blessington. ‘Good gracious! How terrible!’ His big face was white and his eyes stared in horror. ‘Is it Feldon who has been killed?’
The inspector nodded.
‘There seems to be nothing but trouble here!’ exclaimed Mr. Blessington. ‘The death of that unfortunate tramp was bad enough, but now — it’s really horrible — horrible!’
‘It’s worse for Feldon!’ snapped Sopley, and Farringdon grinned to himself, for he rather disliked Mr. Blessington, whose worries were chiefly concerned with the bad publicity that would attach to his beloved property.
‘Shut that door!’ ordered the inspector. ‘We shall have the whole population here if you don’t.’ He had addressed the butler, and as the man moved forward to obey the order the little group shuffled towards the staircase. The front door was closed, and when this was done the local inspector looked round the group. His eyes came to rest on Farringdon, and he came over to the reporter’s side.
‘I’d like to have a word with you first,’ he said, and he led the way into the study. ‘Go and see
that none of those people leave.’ He jerked his head towards the door, and the constable whom he had brought with him and who had been left in the death room went out into the hall. ‘Now, I’d like your name and anything you can tell me about this business,’ said the inspector briskly.
Farringdon gave his name and the police official’s sandy eyebrows rose.
‘I’ve heard of you, Mr. Street,’ he said, and his tone was a little more genial. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve read quite a lot of your stuff. This is in your line, isn’t it?’
‘Very much so,’ answered the reporter. ‘In fact I think I have information regarding this crime that will be of definite value.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that —’ began the inspector, and he stopped as there came a dull thudding at the front door. It was the sound of someone beating with an open hand on the woodwork. The inspector pulled open the study door and stepped out into the hall. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded.
‘It’s somebody at the door, sir,’ said the constable.
‘See who it is,’ ordered his superior, and the man went across and pulled back the catch.
A figure staggered across the threshold: the figure of a tall, emaciated man, whose clothes were in rags. His face was thick with white dust, and his hair unkempt and wild. From one wrist dangled a broken handcuff. He stood blinking in the light, his mouth moving as though he was trying to speak, and Farringdon got the greatest shock of his life as he recognised him.
‘Good God! It’s Felix Dexon!’ he exclaimed, and the words had barely left his lips when the lights went out.
‘Who put that light out?’ cried the inspector, and Farringdon heard a low ‘plop’, a thin moan of sound from the darkness, and a fall.
The lights went on again as suddenly as they had gone out, and the reporter saw the butler was standing by the switch.
‘Somebody put the switch up,’ he said tremulously, and ended with a gasp as he caught sight of the huddled figure lying on the floor. ‘Look!’ He pointed at a dark stream that was oozing over the polished parquet.
‘Blood!’ breathed Farringdon, and striding across stooped over the motionless form. One look he gave at the staring eyes, and then he turned the ragged man gently on his side.
‘He’s dead,’ he said gravely, and they saw where the blood had come from — a small wound over the heart.
Chapter Eight – At the Quarry
‘Let all these people into the drawing room,’ said the inspector to the white-faced butler. ‘Nobody is to leave the house on any pretext whatever. Search them all for firearms, you understand?’
The constable, to whom the latter part of his speech had been addressed, nodded, and a few seconds later the hall was cleared. Only Farringdon remained, and the inspector came over to him as he still bent over the body.
‘There’s not the slightest doubt that this is Felix Dexon,’ muttered the reporter. ‘Here, on the side of his neck, is the birthmark that was described in the papers.’
The inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that the American gentleman who disappeared?’ he asked interestedly.
‘Yes,’ said Farringdon curtly. ‘It was concerning him that I was here. See this broken handcuff, Inspector? It was attached to a staple somewhere and has been dragged out.’ He looked at the thin form. ‘Whoever has been keeping him prisoner has treated him shamefully.’ He pointed to the scars on the skinny arms. ‘Look here, and here. They’ve almost starved him, too.’ He examined the feet of the dead man and then he rose. ‘He was killed when those lights went out,’ he said, biting his lips. ‘He couldn’t have been shot from outside. He was killed in the hall.’
The inspector’s face expressed his surprise. ‘What — while we were all here?’ he asked incredulously. ‘It’s impossible!’
‘It can’t be, because it happened,’ answered Farringdon wearily. ‘Somebody switched off the lights while our attention was fixed on Dexon and then shot him with a silenced gun. I heard the plop it made.’
‘But it’s impossible,’ declared the inspector again. ‘There was only Mr. Sopley, Mr. Earnshaw, Mr. Jones-Perry and Captain Drake here, and it couldn’t have been any of those gentlemen.’
‘Why not?’ said Farringdon.
‘Well —’ began the inspector.
‘There was also yourself, myself, the butler, the constable and Mr. Blessington,’ Farringdon broke in. ‘That’s eight, and one of those eight was the murderer. I know it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you. That leaves six. Now, who out of those six killed Felix Dexon?’
‘There’s another alternative,’ said the inspector, ‘and that is that the man who killed Feldon never left the house at all.’
‘Yes, that’s a possibility,’ admitted Farringdon, nodding.
‘He may have been hiding somewhere,’ the inspector went on, ‘and switched out the light so as he could escape by the front door, shooting this fellow because he got in his way.’
‘I don’t see why he should go to all that trouble when there are several perfectly good windows he could have gone through if he’d wanted to,’ objected the reporter. ‘I think the idea’s a bit far-fetched. The person who killed Dexon killed him because he was afraid of what he might say — the same reason he shot Feldon.’
The inspector remained silent. He was a little annoyed at having his theory exploded in this way, particularly as he considered it was much more far-fetched to suspect any of the extremely respectable residents of Deneswood Valley.
‘Is there any limestone round about here?’ asked Farringdon, suddenly breaking the silence.
‘Limestone?’ The inspector scratched his ear. ‘There’s the old quarry farther down the valley. They used to get limestone from there. It’s shut up now — has been for years.’
‘That’s where he came from,’ said the reporter with conviction. ‘That’s where he’s been kept concealed. His clothes and boots are saturated with limestone dust.’ He was speaking almost to himself, as though he were verbally tabulating his thoughts. ‘They kept him somewhere in the quarry, and tonight he escaped. Now, why did he come here? This would have been the last place he’d have come to if he’d known that Feldon had been connected with his abduction. That’s it! He didn’t know! He couldn’t have known. Whatever Feldon had to do with it, Dexon didn’t know, and therefore, when he got free the first place he made for was his friend’s house.’
The inspector gaped at him, but before he could say anything the drawing room door opened and the constable appeared. ‘I’ve finished the search, sir,’ he reported, ‘and there’s not a weapon on any of them.’
The inspector gave Farringdon a triumphant look. ‘I didn’t expect there would be,’ he grunted. ‘No. I’m pretty sure I was right. The murderer was hiding in the house and shot this fellow as he was escaping. All the same,’ he added, ‘we’ll go and have a look at that quarry as soon as it is light.’
‘I’d like to come with you,’ said Farringdon, and the inspector offered no objection.
The local man went into the drawing room and Farringdon followed him. The occupants were grouped silently together, a white-faced and scared quintet, and for nearly an hour the inspector questioned and cross-questioned them, but he received only evasive answers. They were frightened, not because of the crime which had been committed in their midst, but of something else. Try as he would, the reporter couldn’t imagine what it was. Of one thing, however, he was certain — each man there, with the possible exception of Mr. Blessington, who kept muttering that the estate was ruined, was concealing something; was afraid of saying too much.
Dawn was breaking when the inspector let them go back to their respective houses and went round to look for traces outside the study window. There were plenty of impressions of the broad-toed shoes both coming and going, but they had all led to the gravel path round the lawn, and here it was impossible to follow them. But they afforded ample proof of the way the killer of Feldon had come and gone.
‘You see, he did make u
se of the window after all,’ said Farringdon, and the inspector grunted. ‘He may have come back to the house after by the front door — as I firmly believe he did, but after killing Feldon he made his escape by the window.’
An examination of the telephone in the hall showed that the instrument was still out of order. They found nothing the matter with the line until they reached the place where it passed outside the house and here, a few feet away from the front door, they discovered that it had been neatly cut. The inspector had sent for the doctor again, and by the time they had finished their examination he had arrived.
It was getting quite light now, and as soon as the police surgeon had made his report concerning Felix Dexon, Farringdon suggested that they should go to the quarry. The inspector agreed, and before leaving gave his final instructions.
‘Nobody is to be admitted,’ he said to the constable in charge, ‘and no information is to be given to anybody beyond the bare fact that Mr. Feldon was murdered sometime between eleven and midnight last night.’
He joined Farringdon at the head of the drive and they walked towards the gate. ‘The quickest way is across the green and over the golf course,’ said the inspector, as they came out onto the gravelled road. ‘I wonder if we shall find anything there?’
‘I’m hoping we shall find the place where Felix Dexon was kept a prisoner for nearly two years,’ replied Farringdon, ‘and I’m also hoping that there’ll be some clue to the people who put him there.’
The sun had not yet succeeded in clearing away the morning mist, and the valley lay bathed in hazy blue vapour, so visibility was difficult. The inspector seemed to know his way, however, for he kept straight on, walking along the fairway of the golf course. They had gone about a mile when he branched off to the right and began picking his way among straggling clumps of gorse. The ground became uneven and lumpy, and then Farringdon got his first view of the quarry. It was carved out of the hillside, a gigantic spoon-like scoop, and the trees had grown thickly round the lip.
‘Be careful,’ warned the inspector. ‘It dips down this side as well. You’ll be on the edge in a minute. It’s hidden at present by that bank of gorse.’ He went forward more slowly and then stopped and beckoned to the reporter. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Unless you know the place pretty well it’s dangerous.’
The Hand of Fear Page 5