They rushed in and met Hambledon staggering out considerably war-worn, with a bullet through the top of his shoulder and the beginnings of a wonderful black eye.
“Good evening,” he said. “What, another corpse in here? What an evening. There’s a dead German in the bedroom too. Where’s Bagshott?”
Bagshott came to the door and stood there, holding onto the doorpost. “Thought I heard shooting,” he said unsteadily. “Anyone hurt? Who shot the lady, did you?”
“Not unless it was a ricochet,” said Tommy, and sat down heavily. “What is all that noise outside?”
The old colonel came to the door and said, “Excuse me, but the other guests are a little agitated; could you give me a message for them?”
“Tell the manager,” began Egan, but the colonel shook his head.
“He’s no good,” he said. “The poor chap’s fainted. These civilians, you know. No nerve.”
“Tell the guests,” said Hambledon, pushing a handkerchief over his shoulder under his coat, “that Mrs. Ferne and her visitor were shooting the cats and accidentally shot each other.
“Certainly, sir,” said the colonel. “Did they mistake you for one of the cats?”
Hambledon stared for a moment and then grinned. “Possibly. No, tell them it was a suicide pact. Tell them this second fellow—the dead one in the bedroom—was jealous of Mrs. Ferne and her earlier visitor, so he shot her first and then himself.”
“Taking eight shots to do it,” commented the colonel. “Persevering sort of chap. All right, I’ll tell them the police are investigating the matter and will issue a statement later, shall I? Right.” He turned to go.
“I am really very much obliged to you,” said Hambledon. “When the manager revives I should like to see him.”
“I’ll tell him,” said the colonel, and went out, shutting the door behind him.
When the police doctor, who had been attending to Bagshott, had strapped up Hambledon’s shoulder—it was a trivial flesh wound—Tommy and Bagshott interviewed the manager in his office. He apologized for his pitiable weakness in fainting. He had never, he said, had very strong nerves, and if the gentlemen could have heard the guests——! Then there were the police breaking down the door, and that dreadful outburst of firing; he really began to wonder if it were the I.R.A. and whether the next thing wouldn’t be bombs exploding here and there on his premises.
“You have had a trying evening,” said Hambledon sympathetically. “I prescribe a mild restorative——”
The manager sprang to his feet and rang the bell, apologizing again for his lack of manners. “My wits must be woolgathering. What will you have, gentlemen? Whisky, or——”
“Thank you.”
“Bring the Haig,” said the manager when a waiter appeared. “Now, gentlemen, anything I can tell you——”
There was, in point of fact, very little the manager could say that Hambledon did not know already about that evening, and he turned his enquiries to the past. This Mrs. Ferne, now . . .
Mrs. Ferne had been a resident in the hotel for a number of years, longer than the manager himself, and he had been there nearly seven years. She was a very nice lady and never gave any trouble, though other guests sometimes objected to the cats. But they were very well-behaved cats. . . . Yes, she was a lady who had a good many friends, men and women, yes, but mainly men, though the gentlemen would understand there was never the faintest breath of—oh, quite so. Sixty at least, if not more. He had occasionally put up one of her friends for the night, but usually they just called, or stayed for a meal like the gentleman tonight. Well, not noticeably foreign, though he had thought that some of them were not English.
As this didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere interesting, Hambledon switched over to Blackbeard. The gentleman who visited her tonight—did the manager know anything about him?
“Richards,” said the manager. “Mr. Richards.” He said it in a tone of heavy irony, and Hambledon lifted his eyebrows. Mr. Richards apparently was the one dubiously coloured splash on an otherwise unblemished career. “She thought I did not recognize him, gentlemen, but she was wrong. She told me the first time he came, with his beard, ‘A Mr. Richards will be lunching with me today,’ she said. ‘A very dear friend. His mother was at school with me. Show him up to my room when he comes, and send up your best dry sherry. He does not like cocktails.’ So I said, ‘Yes, madam,’ naturally, and when he arrived I looked at him. She thinks I do not know him again because he wears a beard and calls himself Richards. Am I a child? Two—three years ago he was a young man with a small moustache in the Tank Corps, and his name then was Rawson.”
“This is very interesting indeed,” said Hambledon truthfully. “Rawson, eh? In the Tank Corps.”
“Yes, sir. He came here twice, possibly three times, in uniform. Mrs. Ferne said then that he was her nephew, her only sister’s son.”
“We ought not to speak ill of the dead,” said Bagshott, “but either Mrs. Ferne had a very bad memory indeed, or she was a liar.”
“Yes, sir. As for the bad memory, she thought I had one. She was wrong.”
“Evidently,” said Hambledon. “What happened then? Did he leave off coming here for a time?”
“Yes, sir. There was a scandal in the Tank Corps at about that time, something about some missing plans. We were all interested—the hotel staff, I mean, and some of the guests too—on account of knowing this Captain Rawson in the Tank Corps. It wasn’t Captain Rawson who did it, though; it was another young officer. I can’t remember his name. There was a trial—a—what do they call it——?”
“A court-martial?”
“That’s it, sir. Captain Rawson gave evidence.”
“In the prisoner’s favour?”
“No, sir. Against him.”
“Oh. What had Mrs. Ferne got to say about all this?”
“Much the same as everyone else was saying: wasn’t it dreadful to think a British officer could sell his country’s secrets for money, but perhaps the poor boy had got into financial difficulties and was tempted. So horrid for her nephew Victor to be mixed up with that sort of thing and have to give evidence against a brother officer. It upset him very much, she said.”
“Shows a nice feeling, doesn’t it?” said Hambledon. “Don’t you agree, Bagshott? Well, well. Thank you very much for all you have told me. It’s been most helpful; it has really. I think I’ll push off now; shoulder aches a bit, you know. I expect Chief Inspector Bagshott has a few more questions to ask you. He’s got to catch the blighter, you know. Good night, and thank you very much indeed. I’ll be seeing you in the morning, Bagshott, I expect.”
* * *
As soon as he arrived at the office next morning Hambledon sent for files of the papers of about two or three years earlier giving any account of a court-martial in the Tank Corps. When they came he read them through carefully and gave a summary of the case to Denton when he came in.
“It may be all right,” said Hambledon. “Of course I wasn’t there, and evidence sounds more convincing when you hear it in court instead of reading extracts from it in the paper. Also, I don’t know anything about courts-martial. All I can say is that it doesn’t particularly impress me.”
“I think you’re missing the point,” said Denton. “This chap what’s-his-name—Warnford—was court-martialled because confidential documents in his charge had disappeared, and they had. He wasn’t charged with selling them to the agents of a foreign power. Though our dear Victor did his best to suggest he had, nobody seems to have taken any notice of the suggestion. He wouldn’t have got off with merely being dismissed from the service if they’d believed that.”
“I expect you’re right. Our other friend sticks to the name of Victor, doesn’t he, whether he’s being Richards, Rawson, or Richten at the moment. Perhaps he does it for luck.”
“I hope it defeats him,” said Denton callously.
“It will if I can manage it. By the way, I had a telephone call from our
anonymous friend this morning, telling me all about what happened last night. I heard him out and then said I thought it was an excellent account and that the description of him interested me very much. Of course he’d left out that bit. He asked how I knew, and I said I also was among those present. He said, ‘Good lord, where?’ I said, ‘In the wardrobe,’ and he said, ‘Gosh,’ in one of those awed tones you read about in books. I said I was glad to hear he had avoided being bumped off, and he said so was he. He is sending to me by post all the papers he picked up in the room. He went out of the window and down a drainpipe. Stout fellow.”
“Did you tell him you saw him?”
“No. The one I saw was evidently Marden, got up in spectacles and a false moustache. I’m sure it’s false; it’s the wrong colour. I shall find both these men one of these days. I wonder, Charles, I wonder——”
“What?”
“Whether Marden’s partner might possibly be the innocent victim of that court-martial stunt. It’s a long shot, but it would explain a lot of things if it were right. It would account for his chasing Rawson—Richards—Richten. It would account for his unusual bashfulness. There’s a photo of him in these papers which is very like the descriptions we’ve had of him.”
“What was the name again?” asked Denton.
“Warnford,” said Hambledon. “I wish you’d go and look up the Tank Corps and see if you can find out where he lives now and anything useful about him.”
Denton went, and had an interview with the man who had been Warnford’s major. He said that he always thought there was more in the case than met the eye, and as for the putrid suggestion that the boy had sold the stuff to the Germans or the wops, that was all my eye and nobody believed it. “The man who made the suggestion,” said the major, “subsequently resigned his commission. Fellow named Rawson. Curious chap. Not popular.”
“Indeed,” said Denton. “Where is he now, do you know?”
The major said coldly that he had no idea at all. As regards Warnford, the court-martial judged on the evidence; they had no alternative. No, he didn’t know what had become of Warnford either; none of their lot had seen or heard from him. Probably gone abroad; fellows generally did in cases like that. Nice fellow. Everyone would be delighted if he could be cleared and reinstated, particularly one young fellow, man named Kendal. “Always a great friend of Warnford’s; in fact, we used to think at one time that they were going to be related. His sister, Miss Kendal, don’t you know. Charming girl. I’d take you to see Kendal, only he’s not here now. He might know a bit more about Warnford than I do, though he doesn’t know where he is now. I asked him myself recently, as it happens, and he said he had no idea.”
“Is Captain Kendal away on leave?”
“Yes. Long leave. Indefinite leave. He’s an expert on armour-piercing projectiles and he’s experimenting on some new idea he’s got. The pundits thought it good enough to give him indefinite leave to work it out. I disapprove, myself. I don’t think it’s a good thing to allow young officers to get out of touch with their regiment. Suppose we all did that, what? Impossible situation.”
“Oh, quite. I quite agree,” said Denton, who had been on leave from his own regiment ever since 1916. “Where does he live?”
“Got a place in Hampshire. Marybourne House, Marybourne. Lives there with his sister. Why?”
“I suppose there’d be no objection to my going down there to see him?”
The major hesitated for the first time. “Go and see him, eh? Well, I really don’t know. He can’t tell you any more than I’ve told you already.”
“He might remember a few details, sir, such as would only be known to an intimate friend of Warnford’s. As you rightly guessed, sir, there is more in this than meets the eye, and we know a bit more about things than was known at the court-martial.”
“I see. Yes. But it’s a frightfully sore point with him. Personal friend and all that, you know. Hates talking about it.”
“Naturally. But if it’s a chance of clearing Warnford——”
“I’m afraid that’s not very likely after all this lapse of time, is it? Why, it must be nearly three years ago. No, I shouldn’t worry Kendal about it if I were you. Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll write and ask him to write out a full and complete account of the affair with every detail he can remember, what? More satisfactory, having it in writing. I’ll send it on to you.”
“But there are some questions,” began Denton.
“Tell me what they are and I’ll ask him. I shouldn’t advise you to go down there. Hell of a journey, all on branch lines, and getting the train stopped for you at Marybourne Halt. Besides, he’s a frightfully busy man; if you went down there he might be away or anything.”
“It does sound rather a wild-goose chase,” said Denton, yielding gracefully.
“Exactly, exactly. I knew you would see that. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Just one thing, if I might trouble you. Have you got a photograph of Rawson?”
“Of Rawson, eh? Oho, is it like that?”
“You understand, of course, sir, that all this is not only confidential; it’s very secret.”
“Of course, of course. My dear fellow, I’ve been keeping official secrets for years, and damned tosh most of ’em were. Photograph. Just a moment.” The major took down an album of regimental photographs and turned the pages over. “Some groups here, dating from that time. Here’s one. Rawson is in the second row there, but he seems to have moved. Here’s another. Some silly ass has got in front of him; the photographer ought to have seen that. Here’s another, but the fellow’s looking down. That’s Warnford at the end there, poor chap. No, we don’t seem to have a good one of Rawson; I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Denton significantly. “You haven’t, have you?”
“What? What? You don’t mean to say—— Well, Gobbless my soul,” said the major. “Crafty devil!”
Denton reported to Hambledon, adding, “I noticed the photographer’s name and address and the date; the photograph of Warnford is quite good.”
“We will get a copy,” said Tommy Hambledon. “It might help. Rawson would, of course, keep out of the limelight.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “You know, whenever it appears to me that there is any particular place where somebody doesn’t want me to go, I can never rest until I’ve been there. I think we’ll go to Marybourne, wherever it is, if only to find out why the major didn’t want us to. Something funny about all this. Not tomorrow. I’ve got that French fellow coming to tell me his troubles. The day after, Tuesday, will do. We’ll drive down in your car and you can do the driving; my shoulder still wants resting. How far is it, seventy-five miles? Good. We’ll start at eleven, lunch at the local, have a look round, and return in time for dinner. ‘A little fun just now and then is relished by the wisest men.’ That’s why I like it. Good night, Denton. See you on Tuesday.”
16. Disappearance of an Experimenter
Warnford’s life being what it was, his doorbell only rang for tradespeople, postmen, and persons who read meters. He therefore took no notice when it rang on Monday morning, the day after Denton’s visit to the Tank Corps Depot. Ashling passed the sitting room door to answer the bell; Warnford heard without interest his footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the door being opened. The next moment it shut again, and there were voices on the stairs. Warnford threw down his paper and sat up. Ashling’s voice, pleased and excited, saying, “Yes, miss,” and “No, miss,” and “This way, miss, please,” and another voice so quiet as to be almost inaudible except as a gentle murmur. Warnford rose slowly to his feet as Ashling opened the door and announced, “Miss Kendal to see you, sir.”
She came in shyly, as one not certain of a welcome, a tall fair girl with grey eyes and a sensitive mouth. “Jim. I hope you will forgive me for coming——”
“If only you knew,” said Warnford, stammering a little, “how much I have wanted to see you——”
“I would have c
ome long ago,” she said, giving him her hand, “but you wouldn’t answer my letters and I didn’t like to hunt you down.”
“I know. It’s all my fault. I couldn’t bear to see anybody at first, and later on I was ashamed to write. Jenny, can you understand, d’you think? I’m so glad you’ve come at last.”
“I wish I’d come before, then. Roger wanted to hear from you too, you know, but he didn’t know where you were. He thought you’d gone abroad.”
“How did you find me, then?”
“Oh,” she said, looking rather confused, “it’s quite simple—I’m not going to tell you; it’s my secret.”
“Oh, all right. So long as you’ve come I don’t care if you employed black magic. Sit down, won’t you?” he said, awakening to the fact that he was still holding her hand. “Sit here; this is the nicest chair, I think. What’s all the news; tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“The news,” she said, and her eyes darkened with anxiety. “I’m in great trouble, Jim. Roger is missing.”
“Missing! What d’you mean?”
“Just that. He was working in that outside laboratory of his in the gardens—you remember that silly sort of pavilion place beyond the tennis courts? He had it altered and adapted for a sort of workshop when he started all these experiments. He was working there late on Thursday night. He often worked late; there was nothing in that. Only in the morning he wasn’t there, and nobody’s seen him since.”
“That was Friday morning.”
“Yes. The lights were all on, and things left standing about—you know, all his jars and things; I don’t know anything about his work. But he wasn’t there.”
“You wouldn’t know if there was anything missing?” said Warnford thoughtfully.
“No, I couldn’t tell you. Well, I waited all day Friday; I thought perhaps he’d suddenly wanted something and dashed off to get it, only I didn’t see how, as the car hadn’t gone. But there might have been some explanation of that. I didn’t want to get into a flap and make a fuss when he might have come back or rung me up at any moment. Nothing happened. I don’t think I slept at all on Friday night. I kept on thinking I heard the telephone and dashing out of my room, but it was just imagination. On Saturday I couldn’t stand it any longer and went to the police about it.”
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