Case for Three Detectives

by Bruce, Leo

  “I dare say not. But who said anything about climbing the rope?” asked Lord Simon.

  “Well, if he dropped down it,” I went on decisively, “he must have had an accomplice in the room above to haul it up after him. And even then I doubt if the two ropes together would have been long enough. Besides, what about foot-prints? There was a flower-bed under that window. Are you going to tell me he stopped to rub out his footprints in the soil? And if this was how it was done, who could it have been? Stall, Fellowes, Noiris and Strickland all got to the door of the room too quickly to have come in by the front door. It only leaves the Vicar—or conceivably Miles, if his alibi was not as good as it sounded. And then he would have to have had an accomplice hi the apple-room.”

  Lord Simon smiled. “You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the rope,” he said.

  CHAPTER 21

  HE drove violently fast, of course. It was not to be supposed of him that in speed, of all things, he should show an uncharacteristic moderation. So I leaned back in the seat of the Rolls, and comforted myself with the somewhat selfish reflection that most other cars were, smaller, lighter, and more easily crumpled than this one.

  “Strange name for a village—Sidney Sewell,” I observed.

  “Not really,” replied Lord Simon; “it only seems so because when you first heard it you assumed that it was the name of a man. Almost any place with a double name would seem like that. Horton Kirby, for instance, or Dunton Green. Chalfont St. Giles might easily have been the villain of a Victorian novel, and I see no reason why Compton Abdale (a village in Gloucestershire) should be thought to be the name of a place more than Compton Mackenzie. It just depends on how you hear of them first.”

  “But what made you think of Sidney Sewell as a village?”

  “I didn’t. I just tried it in all the reference books I could lay hands on. There chanced to be an out-of-date telephone directory which I got from the post office, and a Times Atlas which I found at the hotel.”

  We purred quietly over a narrow bridge at fifty miles an hour, and ten minutes later I was relieved to catch a glimpse as we shot by, of the name Sidney Sewell on a signpost. It was something to have got as near as that without actual disaster.

  The village itself was a pleasant and rather dignified one. The central street was divided from the houses on each side of it by wide grass strips, which gave the whole place an air of spaciousness. We were travelling through it at a still fairly considerable speed when Lord Simon applied his brakes with skilled force, and brought us to a standstill.

  “Good Lord—look at that!” he said.

  Now all I could see was the quiet village street before us, with very little traffic and scarcely a human being in sight. There was a butcher’s shop over to our right, from the door of which the proprietor was watching us rather indifferently. On our left was an inn called the ‘Black Falcon’, and a blue saloon motor-car stood outside. Next to the inn, and nearer to us, was a garage. But nowhere in the placid and normal scene could I see anything which might have caused Lord Simon’s exclamation. Unwilling, however, to admit that I was less perceptive than he was, I waited for him to reveal more.

  “That car,” he said at last. “Surely you know it? Thurston’s.”

  I looked again at the blue saloon. It was a standard model of Austin make. I did not see how I could be expected to recognize it, and said so.

  Lord Simon sounded quite irritable. “Have you ever heard of index numbers?” he asked. “That’s Thurston’s all right.”

  I realized what I was expected to say in order to restore Lord Simon’s good humour, and the tone in which I should say it. “Then what on earth is it doing here?” I asked.

  “Fairly obvious, don’t you feel?” said Lord Simon, smiling amiably again.

  It was, of course, far from obvious to me, but it was pleasant to have our respective roles happily restored, and I nodded.

  Lord Simon, with a bold sweep of his large car, drove straight into the garage, and told a mechanic there that he wished to leave it under cover for half an hour or so. He saw that it was place in the far recesses of the corrugated iron building, out of sight of the road, and we walked out of the place.

  He led the way, however, not past the windows of the inn, but into the yard at the back, and went up to a small back door. He knocked rather gently, and presently an untidy woman opened it.

  “Yes?” she said unencouragingly.

  “Oh, would you mind tellin’ us where the gentlemen from that car may be? I mean the car standing in front of your house.”

  The woman eyed him curiously. “What business would it be of yours?”

  “Nothing really. Just my silly curiosity,” smiled Lord Simon, and handed her a ten-shilling note.

  “They’re in the private bar,” she replied sulkily.

  “How many of them?”

  “Three.”

  “Three? That’s odd. Is there another bar?”

  “There’s the public.”

  “Can it be seen from theirs?”

  “No. It can’t. There’s glass partitions round the counter, to prevent prying and spying.”

  “But the same bar serves them both?”

  “Yes. Anything else you want to know? Haven’t you got nothing better to do than ask questions?”

  “Yes. Something far better. We’ll have a drink. And we’ll have it in the public bar. And we won’t talk there, if you don’t mind. And you won’t mention that we’re here. That’s for two whiskies. My friend likes whisky—drinks it with lobster. Keep the change. Now which is the way?”

  Through an untidy kitchen in which washing was hung to dry the woman led us to a door, and left us alone with a large cat. We sat down in silence and waited.

  The voices which came through from the other bar were not loud, and the words they spoke were indistinguishable. But the speakers coud be identified. Fellowes—I distinctly heard him say, “Cheerio, sir!”—Strickland, who called for “Three more!” in his rather thick, deep voice, and, to my surprise, Alec Norris, whose shrill laugh would have been recognizable anywhere.

  The atmosphere was musty, the advertisements on the wall out of date and dismal, and the words of those in the other bar inaudible. I was beginning to get thoroughly impatient, when I heard some movement, and Strickland’s voice raised.

  “Wait here, then, Fellowes,” he said, and his voice came from this side of the room. “We shan’t be more than a quarter of an hour.”

  There was a slight tinkle in the shutting of the door, indicating that it was glass, as ours was, then a ring of feet on an iron mat at the door. Looking out of the window of our bar we could see Strickland and Norris setting off together along the road by which we had entered the village.

  Lord Simon did not hesitate. He walked straight through into the private bar and confronted Fellowes. But the chauffeur, beyond putting down his drink and facing us, remained undisturbed.

  “Interestin’ meetin’,” began Lord Simon, “I wonder what you’d happen to be doin’ here?”

  “Obeying orders,” Fellowes returned.

  “Indeed? Whose orders?”

  “Dr. Thurston’s. He told me to take these two gentlemen wherever they wished to go.”

  “Did you ask him, then?”

  “Yes. Of course I did. When they said they wanted a run in the car somewhere, it wasn’t for me to take them without permission. So I asked Dr. Thurston.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He told me not to bother him. Take them anywhere.”

  “So you decided to come to Sidney Seweil.”

  Fellowes was silent for a moment, then said, “No. I didn’t choose it. They said where they wanted to go.”

  “Mm. So you’ve no idea why this place was chosen?”

  “No.”

  “You had no object in coming here yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Rather good at monosyllables, aren’t you, Fellowes?’

  “Don’t know what you
mean.”

  We returned to the public bar. Lord Simon seemed rather quiet, even perplexed at that moment. But very shortly we saw Strickland and Norris returning. Fellowes must have told them at once of our presence, for Strickland burst into the room, and Norris followed him.

  “What the devil do you mean by trailing us about like this?” Strickland asked furiously.

  “Cool down, my lad,” drawled Lord Simon. “Can’t a fellow have a run in a car without all this excitement?”

  “Don’t talk rot, Plimsoll,” shouted Strickland. “You followed us here! You must have. As for you, Townsend, sneaking round with these dam’ detectives—I’m disgusted. Are you trying to prove that I did this murder?”

  There was a high-pitched question from behind him. “Perhaps you suspect me?” asked Alec Norris.

  Lord Simon smiled to them with aloof boredom. “My dear old boys, don’t work yourselves up. You’ll know soon enough whom I suspect. Nice place, Sidney Sewell. Ever been here before, Strickland?”

  “Oh, I’m sick of answering your silly questions, Plimsoll. Come on, Fellowes, we’ll get home.”

  And the three of them marched out. From the window we watched Fellowes get into the driving-seat, and Strickland and Norris sit behind.

  “Well, well, well,” said Lord Simon.

  The interview had made me uncomfortable. If Strickland turned out not to be the murderer it would be awkward when we met again, for I certainly seemed guilty of spying. Detection was, after all, Plimsoll’s job, but for me, it would seem, there could be little excuse.

  “And now” said Lord Simon, as we walked out into the pale autumn sunset, “I have one more call to make. I wonder where we are likely to find the post office?”

  I proved myself helpful by stopping a passer-by and enquiring. It was a hundred yards down the street I was told, and we set out briskly together.

  “I wonder whether you’d mind awfully just waitin’ outside for me a moment?” asked Lord Simon, when we had reached the little general store which combined its business with that of the G.P.O. “Sorry to be ill-mannered and all that, don’t you know.”

  “Oh, not a bit,” I said, presuming that he wished to make a private telephone call.

  But it was not long before he returned, smiling broadly. I began to think that all this investigation was giving me detective habits, for I had already deduced that he must have been on the ‘phone to the Thurstons’, since he had not had time for a long-distance call, when he said suddenly:

  “Well, that settles that.”

  “What?” I asked obligingly.

  “The identity of the stepson.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “Yes. I know who it is.”

  “Then your case is complete?”

  “Remarkably complete.”

  “And you’re not going to teil me?”

  “Terribly sorry, old boy. Against all professional etiquette. You shall hear this evening, I promise you. Interestin’ case, though. Very interestin’ case.” And he continued to smile contentedly as he drove us back at a slightly less breakneck speed.

  CHAPTER 22

  AFTER lunch I met M. Picon in the garden of the Thurstons’ house. He was stooping to pull a weed from an almost flawless border. Knowing that one of the investigators had solved the whole problem, I felt that I could afford to speak to him quite light-heartedly, and did so.

  “Well, Monsieur Picon, have you completed your theory?”

  He looked up at me and said, “Ah, mon ami, it is you. No doubt you know everything, is it not?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I admitted.

  “Nor, to speak the truth, do I. Last night we exhausted the enquiries here. Now we must look somewhere else.”

  I was amused, thinking to myself that after all Lord Simon had beaten him to the solution. But I only said, “Where will you look now?”

  “In the heart, my friend. When the brains show no more one must look in the heart, and there, voila! the truth.”

  “I should not have suspected you of such sentimentality,” I said.

  “That is not sentiment—it is logic. The heart may guide as truly as the head. And now, would you like a little promenade?”

  “Is it far?”

  “A few miles. Not too far.”

  “Where on earth are you going to?” I asked.

  “To the village of Morton Scone.”

  I laughed outright “Look here, Monsieur Picon,” I said, “1 don’t know what you want to go there for, nor what your theory is, but I can tell you this much. You don’t need to bother. I’ve been with Lord Simon this morning, and he’s found out about Sidney Sewell. It isn’t a person, as we all thought, but a place. In fact I went there with him this morning. And while we got there Fellowes and Strickland and Nôrris had arrived. So Lord Simon knows everything now.”

  “Your reasoning, mon ami, is a little confused. What information did Lord Simon glean from the arrival of this so indicative trio and the village of Sidney Sewell?”

  “I don’t know that, of course. But he told me he knew the murderer.”

  “And do you think that I, Amer Picon, do not know also the murderer? And what is that, to know the murderer?”

  “I thought that is what we were all trying to do,” I returned innocently.

  “Then you are mistaken. What we have to do is not to know ourselves, but to prove to others. If we cannot, what have we accomplished? The good Bœuf would arrest his man, and the murderer would go free.”

  “But surely Lord Simon must realize that. After all, he’s had nearly as much experience as you have.”

  “Maybe. But everyone his method of proof. And a part of mine is a promenade to Morton Scone. Do you accompany me?”

  “I shall be delighted. Only if after this Monsignor Smith wants me to go with him to Jericho, I shan’t be surprised.”

  “You might do worse,” said M. Picon seriously. “He would know much of the ancient city. But come along. We have not too much time.”

  I was surprised at the brisk pace that he set. His legs were short, but his remarkable agility made it hard for me to keep up with him. However, I had set myself to see as much of the methods of all three of these great men as I could, and was willing enough to make the effort. Now that they were nearing the end of the chase, every move they made should be interesting.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to help you much, Monsieur Picon,” I said after a long silence.

  “Au contraire, my friend, your evidence has been of the greatest service to me. You remembered something of the utmost importance, which you might well have forgotten.”

  “What was that?”

  “You do not know? But naturally, your own part in this affair.”

  “My part?” I almost shouted.

  “But yes. You, too, had a hand in it. Oh, but quite unconscious, I assure you. Still, a part.”

  “Good Lord. What on earth was that?”

  “Did you not rise and open the door?”

  “Which door? When?”

  “But naturally. The door of the lounge. Just before the screams were heard.”

  “Well, yes. I did. But I fail to see what that could have to do with it. Unless …” A new and horrible idea flashed into my brain. “Unless there was some devilish mechanism in that room which I set in motion.”

  “Fortunately,” said M. Picon, “the machine is not yet invented which will cut a lady’s throat while she lies waiting for it, and throw the knife from the window, then disappear from the face of the earth.”

  “I suppose not,” I admitted.

  We marched on in the sunlight, which had begun to pale a little. I was glad of the fresh air and exercise, and glad, too, of some activity which filled in the afternoon, for my impatience to know the murderer’s identity would otherwise have become feverish. To think that at last, after all this guesswork, I was to know the truth. I resolved to think no more about the murder, for otherwise I should start once again to suspec
t each in turn of the people at the Thurstons’.

  We must have been within half a mile of Morton Scone when M. Picon suddenly took my arm, and said, “Vite! This way!”

  I was so much taken by surprise that for a moment I hesitated. He pulled me quite fiercely, however, to the side of the road, and almost bundled me through a hole in the hedge. He had scarcely time to follow, when a car approached. I had been aware of it a moment before, when it had been in the distance and beyond a dip which had taken it out of sight, but I had paid no attention to it. The little detective, however, seemed to be in a state of tremendous excitement.

  “Observe!” he snapped, as he stared at the roadway we had left.

  It was once again Dr. Thurston’s dark-blue car, and since it was not travelling fast I had ample time to recognize its occupants. Fellowes was driving, and beside him sat the girl Enid, while in the rear seat, smoking a cigar, was Miles.

  “You see?” said M. Picon, as soon as the car had gone past. “What I have said! Look in the heart, my friend. When the mind no longer tells tales, look in the heart!”

  “But Monsieur Picon,” I exclaimed, “this is too much! This morning I went to Sidney Sewel and saw Fellowes with two of the suspects; this afternoon I come to Morton Scone, and here he is with another two!”

  M. Picon laughed. “And perhaps, when you go to Jericho with the excellent Monsignor Smith you will find him there with some more!”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked.

  “Patience, my friend.”

  “But how did you know, while it was still a long way off, that that was the Thurstons’ car?”

  “I did not. But I thought it might be. I was expecting it.”

  “You were? What made you expect it?”

  “Oh, but you must understand I was not expecting it with any great confidence. But I knew it had gone this way, and I thought that possibly, possibly, mind you, it would return.”