“And why didn’t you raise the point before, sir?”
“And be laughed out of court by my colleagues here? After all, who’s to know that my nephew didn’t make this up? Not deliberately, of course, but in taking it down wrongly, or something. At the time Chalmers and the others were testifying on behalf of Braun, I didn’t see much point in butting-in. But now, there’s a war going on. And we’re fighting for our lives against these damned Herrenvolk of Braun’s. The iron’s hot, I think. It’s up to you to strike, Inspector.”
Scrope’s face suddenly assumed a puzzled look.
“But here I am talking all this and I don’t even know if you’re after Braun for anything.…”
“You needn’t worry, sir. We’re after him all right. Your evidence just about crowns the job. I can’t tell you more just now, but I’m eternally grateful to you, sir, for a very timely bit of help. I promise you when the birds are in the net, you shall know everything. Then you’ll see what a large slice of the jigsaw you’ve provided.”
“Good. Good. Another glass of sherry, Inspector. Here’s good luck to you. And to hell with the Herrenvolk!”
That night the detectives met again at tea. Cromwell had been round the village gathering routine confirmation of Roger Harwood’s story from several hitherto antagonistic natives, who thawed on being told that the family had nothing to do with the tragic part of recent happenings. Some seemed so relieved that they wasted a lot of Cromwell’s time in irrelevant reminiscences about the escapades of Roger’s childhood. Another personage who was pleased with developments was P.C. Bowells, the village constable, who hitherto had been torn between duty and local popularity. After dark, he went to the Harwood Arms on pretended official business, and there, under the influence of the restored spirit of good will about the place, was induced to participate in a game of darts, the results of which made history and brought the light-hearted Bowells as near as dammit to intoxication on the beer that was bought for him.
“German spies?” Cromwell was saying to Littlejohn.
“Looks like something of the sort. I began to smell a rat when the ghost story collapsed. Someone wanted this place kept very select. So much so, that they hired a room under a faked name to keep out intruders, tried to scare off others by poppycock about haunting, even put up a phony poltergeist. Braun’s probably a Nazi agent. He got out of Germany with cash in bearer bonds to finance his activities. Funny they let him out with so much if he was a genuine refugee.
“Carberry-Peacocke’s son’s a fascist and they’re mad because he’s interned. C.-P. used to be an expert on wireless-receiving stations. Miss Pott the younger’s said to be having an affair with Williatt, who’s away in London, though under the eye of our chaps there. How are they all connected?”
“Search me, chief.”
“.… And the Hartwrights are just bags of mystery. Nothing for and nothing against them.”
“Maybe they’re spies, too.”
“We’ve plenty to do to-morrow, Cromwell. We’ve to see the Misses Pott. We must find out what Braun and his disciples are really at. And whilst the Professor’s out, we’d better search his flat. We’ve lain low long enough. We’ve got to make a bold move. And lastly, we’d better advise Special Branch that we think we’ve struck a nest of spies. We’ll not do much talking over the ’phone. Just ring the Sussex Police and ask for Heathcote to come down here with an assistant first thing in the morning. Every one of the parties in this outfit must be watched in future.”
Cromwell took up the ’phone and did as he was ordered. From Heathcote came an enthusiastic promise to cooperate and be on the spot as desired.
“Before we retire, we’d better tell the local constable to be here early, too. Maybe he knows where Braun’s supposed to be digging—or whatever he does with that convoy of his—and can keep an eye on him and his pupils for us.”
Cromwell dialled the police-station, Harwood, and was very huskily assured that the constable would report for orders at eight the following morning. The conversation ended in a very loud hiccup from the other end, but Cromwell could not tell exactly whether or not it was a defect in the instrument, a pistol shot, or a rude noise made with the tongue and lips to signify disrespectful dismissal and called after a summer fruit.
DISASTER AT DEVIL’S DYKE
IT was late at night when the detectives finished comparing notes. The whole place was quiet. It was like the calm before the storm, for neither of the two men knew where the information they had gathered was going to lead them, or when the whole case was going to burst open with startling results.
“Now for the Misses Pott,” said Littlejohn to Cromwell. “It’s high time we had it out with that strange pair.”
Cromwell looked bothered.
“It’s going to be a tough nut to crack, sir. Miss Agnes is as deaf as a post and can’t lip-read. She’s completely under the domination of her sister and I wouldn’t be surprised if Edith hadn’t kept her deaf to further her own ends. I mean, most deaf folk can get relief in one way or another. Lip-reading or the hundred and one appliances you see advertised. The poor old girl must be almost a half-wit. Doesn’t seem able to do a thing for herself. And if we’re going to conduct a confidential interview by bawling it from the housetops or writing questions and answers, we’re going to have a picnic.”
“That’s up to you, Cromwell. I’m tackling the younger one first thing in the morning. She usually goes down before her sister to get out the car. On my way in, I disconnected a part of the ignition, which will take long enough to find to allow me to get there and have a few quiet words with her before Agnes joins her. That will be your cue, too, Cromwell.”
Cromwell groaned and then his face lightened.
“I think I can manage it,” he said, and picking up the telephone he began a long conversation with someone at Scotland Yard.
“Yes …” he ended up, “make a neat parcel of it and hand it to the guard of the 7.4 out from Victoria. I’ll pick it up at Meadford station.”
“Ingenious!” chuckled Littlejohn.
The Inspector was fast asleep long before Cromwell had finished his solemn ritual of deep breathing, teeth-cleaning, gargling and joint-flexing. In the dark the ambitious detective-sergeant held converse with his subconscious. “Every day and in every way I get better and better,” until his monotonous chant changed to regular snores.
After breakfast the detectives began their vigil, waiting for a move from the flat next door. First, Dr. Braun and his assistants stumped-off on their digging expedition. These were left to P.C. Bowells, who had already received his instructions. Finally, there was the sound of a nearby door opening and closing. Edith Pott’s brogues could be heard, their decisive tread barely muffled by the carpet.
Littlejohn turned-out and casually followed her to the garage. Cromwell was next and knocked on the door of the adjacent quarters, where he waited politely until he suddenly realised that the occupant couldn’t hear. He then slowly opened the door, inches at a time, the only way he could think of warning the elder Miss Pott that he was there.
Agnes Pott was putting on a freakish hat before a wall mirror in the dining-room. She hadn’t heard Cromwell coming and almost jumped out of her skin when she saw him.
“Oh …” she squeaked.
Cromwell made overtures of appeasement in pantomime, like a castaway approaching a native on an uncharted island. Spotting a pad on the table, he made haste to write a message, behaving rather like a dog humbling himself before one of his kind of whose reactions he is uncertain.
He wrote:
“May I have a few words with you about Mr. Burt?” She scribbled an answer in spiky writing:
“I don’t know anything. I cannot hear what goes on. My sister is waiting for me with the car and I have not much time.” The pencil changed hands again.
“My colleague is interviewing your sister. I’d greatly value your help, too.” Another change of the pad.
“I am deaf. What use am I?”
&
nbsp; Cromwell pointed to the small parcel he was carrying. It was a gesture like that of a smiling conjuror pulling rabbits out of a hat.
He undid the string and sorted out the contents.
A small microphone, a battery, some wire and a neat appliance for fitting in the ear of the deaf.
Miss Pott’s eyes opened wide. Like two small saucers. She groped for the scribbling-block.
Cromwell was first with the pencil.
“An aid to hearing for the deaf. Try it please.” The reply came with speed:
“They are useless for my complaint. My sister has tried them on me. NO USE.” Cromwell insisted:
“Try this.”
Reluctantly and with a show of fussy resignation, Agnes Pott slipped the earpiece in its place. Cromwell inserted the battery and pressed a small switch.
“Can you hear me?” he said in a normally pitched tone.
The change in Miss Pott was pathetic. At first, Cromwell thought she was going to fall unconscious. Then, her eyes grew bright with wonder. The lines of strain seemed to melt from her face, which glowed with a sort of exultation.
“But … but all the others were so useless,” she muttered.
Probably suited your sister to miss fixing them properly, thought Cromwell, but he didn’t express his feelings.
“First, let me hear the birds … let me hear the birds. It’s more than twenty years since I heard the birds.”
The poor woman rushed to the window, flung the casement wide and surrendered herself to listening to the only bird song available at the time, the twitter of house sparrows and the chatter of alarmed blackbirds, with a background of cackling from Mrs. Stone’s hens and the gobbling of some turkeys being fattened for Christmas by the Harwood Pig and Poultry Club.
Cromwell’s customary sanguine nature rose in momentary rage. He could willingly have strangled the sister who had for so long and so wilfully deprived this woman of all the joys of pleasant sounds. Even the rattle of Mrs. Stone’s pig-swill buckets and the hideous squealing of the occupants of the sties were music to Miss Agnes Pott.
“I must tell Edith at once. May I buy this from you?”
“We’ll talk about that later, Miss Pott. But I just want a word or two with you before you go.”
“Hurry then, Mr.… Mr.…”
“Cromwell, madam. Sergeant Cromwell.”
“The police?”
“Yes.”
“What use am I to you, sergeant? But don’t think I’m ungrateful. I’m delighted and very much beholden to you … for introducing this instrument to me, I mean.”
“Well, a few routine questions then, that’s all. Perhaps you’ll find them a bit unpleasant.…”
“I’ll do my best to answer them, though.”
“Are you blood-sister to Miss Edith?”
“No. In fact, we’re not kin at all, except by adoption. My father married twice. Edith was a small child when she and her mother came to live with us. She took our name.”
“I see. Now please don’t think me inquisitive. Necessary duty, you know. Do you mind telling me how you manage to afford a flat like this?”
“We have private means which Edith makes up by journalism.”
“What kind of writing?”
“I don’t know. My deafness is such a handicap. I can’t even hear when she’s typing. I go to bed early and she does it after I’ve gone. She seems to work better alone. But I’ll be able to help her more now, won’t I?”
I wonder, thought Cromwell.
“How did you find this flat, Miss?”
“A friend of Edith’s told her about it. The rent was far too high for us, but she had a windfall. Regular work on a ladies’ paper—at home, too. So she said we could manage. Edith was a bit tired of our old place at St. John’s Wood.”
“You know Mr. Williatt opposite?”
“Oh, yes. He’s away in London for a few days, isn’t he?”
“Known him long?”
“Only since I came here. Edith knew him in London before, though. She met him through her literary work.”
“Are they in love?”
Miss Pott gave Cromwell a funny look.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I’ve heard they are.”
Miss Pott grew grave and quiet.
“Now, I have.… But no! It’s impossible.…”
She brushed the matter aside.
Cromwell thought it best to change the subject for the time being. No use antagonising the woman.
“What do you and your sister do with your time, Miss Pott? During the day, I mean.”
“Edith’s fond of motoring. I love the country and scenery. It’s seeing that I depend on for my happiness. Now, I’ll be able to hear as well.”
“Where do you go in the car?”
“We often take the road to Brighton and turn off at Devil’s Dyke. Or, we may go to Steyning and Wiston and climb to Chanctonbury Ring, although that’s a hard pull. We’ve been to Redhill Common, too. And when we get there, we picnic for the whole day and rest. Edith takes her field-glasses and gets views from Devil’s Dyke and Chanctonbury. The wide sweep of Downs, you know, with villages dotted about and the skies full of heavenly clouds. She takes notes on it all. She’s writing a book, you see.”
“Ever seen her notes?”
“Why, no. What a strange question, sergeant. She always locks them in her desk. Now, we’ll be able to talk them over together. Thank you again, Mr. Cromwell.”
Cromwell almost blushed at his own duplicity. But in his mind’s eye he saw the south country from the tops of the Downs. A network of roads, strategic roads, with troops moving along them. West to East. To the channel ports and camps dotted along the valleys. Troop dispositions! Field-glasses on hill-tops! Notes!
“But we must be off. I must show Edith my apparatus if you’ll lend it to me. Or, perhaps she won’t like it.…”
Agnes seemed bewildered by puzzling thoughts and torn between joy and sorrow.
“I must tell her when we’re on the way.… Break it gently.”
Whereat she offered Cromwell her hand and ushered him out.
Littlejohn had apparently finished with Miss Edith. Her car seemed put to rights, too, for the shiny bull-nose emerged and drew up at the front door. The two sisters were soon on their way.
Cromwell told Littlejohn what had transpired.
“Good Lord!” said the Inspector. “Don’t you see, man, if Agnes tackles Edith and starts quizzing her, there’ll be trouble. Especially if she discloses that you’ve questioned her and she’s spilled the beans about the watching from high spots on the hills. They may bolt and we may never see them again, or have the devil’s own job catching them, if they’re up to anything fishy.…”
“I’m sure Agnes is quite straight and above board, chief. Edith might be up to something and using Agnes as a stalking-horse. The old dear’s a model of respectability and a sort of walking testimonial for her associates, I think. A good mask for a clandestine affair with Williatt, or even worse, a bit of spying for the enemy. Did you get much out of Edith?”
“No. But we’ll leave that for the moment. You’d better be off after them and don’t let ’em out of your sight. That is, if you can pick them up after all the time we’ve wasted talking about them. They’ve gone to Devil’s Dyke again.”
“What can we do, though? There aren’t any cars available here, are there?”
“No. Better borrow the landlord’s motor-bike from the Harwood Arms.”
“Motor-bike? But I’m not dressed for that … no cap or anything. Can’t we scrounge a car from somewhere?”
“There’s no car available for miles, I tell you. You can drive a bike, can’t you? Now get along with you.”
Cromwell made off with a good grace and whilst he pursued his quarry in his bowler hat, Littlejohn searched Edith Pott’s desk for notes of her “novel.”
The little Morris hummed its way merrily along the Brighton road. Both occupants were silent,
as was their custom. No use trying to hold a conversation with a deaf woman above the noise of an engine travelling at fifty miles an hour.
The elder of the two had not yet disclosed the new contraption that she had come-by. It hung on her breast beneath her tweed motoring coat. She seemed deep in anxious thought and was turning-over in her mind some of the implications arising from her talk with the police officer.
Cowfold, Henfield, Muddleswood.
The car stoutly breasted the rise of the South Downs.
Poynings, Fulking.
The great mass of Devil’s Dyke lay ahead of them. The topmost point was not accessible to cars and it was their custom to leave the Morris parked at the nearest available spot and complete the way on foot.
At the steepest point of the gradient Miss Agnes fitted and snapped-on her new apparatus.
“Edith,” she said suddenly. “What exactly are we going to Devil’s Dyke for?”
Seeing her sister turn in astonishment, she pointed to the small receiver of the instrument. Edith’s mouth opened. Her interest was suddenly divided between driving and this startling revelation.
“Where did you get that thing?”
“Why have you always told me these appliances were no good? Have you been purposely deceiving me, Edith? … For you own ends. Have you deliberately planned to keep me deaf? For what reason? …”
Agnes was so unused to beginning a conversation that the full content of her present thoughts seemed to gush out in a string of dangerous questions.
“… What have I done to you, Edith, to deserve this?”
The car swerved dangerously. Edith Pott’s face turned brick-red.
“Don’t talk like a fool, Agnes,” was all she could think of by way of an answer.
The elder woman’s microphone was not up to selecting this from the tumult of the engine and the rush of the air and transmitting it correctly.
“The detective who came to see me just before we left, said he’d heard there was something between you and Mr. Williatt, too. Isn’t Mr. Williatt married, Edith? Now that I can hear, I shall be in the dark no longer and I insist that you tell me everything and assure me that nothing is wrong.…”
Calamity at Harwood Page 11