The Dusky Hour

by E. R. Punshon

  He was still grumbling as he drove away, and Bobby and Norris went on up the drive to the house again.

  “The old man don’t like it, not half he don’t,” Norris confided to Bobby as they walked along, “him and Mr. Moffatt being friendly like. That’s why he’s shoved it on to us, him knowing well enough about the pistol; everyone does. Why, I’ve seen the young gentleman myself using it to pot at rats and vermin and such-like.”

  “Have you, though?” Bobby asked. “You mean Mr. Moffatt’s son? Oliver, didn’t they call him?”

  “That’s right. And well the colonel knows it. That’s why he’s gone off; didn’t like the job. Don’t know that I blame him, either,” added Norris generously. “Duty’s duty, and same must be done, but I take it hard myself when I’m playing darts with a man one day and have to run him in the next.”

  “It’s a thing we all have to face,” Bobby said absently, his mind busy with the coincidence of the pistol and the missing young man. “Only thing is to remember it’s not us, but the law.”

  “Ah,” said Norris, musing upon this. Presently he added: “You can’t be tactful like, asking to look at a pistol when a bloke’s just been done in with one round the corner, so to say.”

  “Ah,” said Bobby in his turn.

  They went on to the house, and not all the tact Bobby could muster sufficed to dispel, or even much to alleviate, the evident uneasiness with which his request was greeted – or the still greater uneasiness when the pistol could nowhere be found.

  Mr. Moffatt, who had made no effort to deny possession of such a weapon, believed it had been in a drawer in the library but he was not sure. After the burglar scare died down, he never thought of it again. A packet of ammunition was discovered, unopened. But that was all, though Mr. Moffatt agreed at once that his son sometimes used the pistol, sometimes merely for target practice, sometimes, as Norris had said, on rats and other vermin.

  “Most likely Noll will know where it is,” Mr. Moffatt said. “I’ll ask him as soon as he comes in.” And the scowl he gave the clock as he glanced at it suggested that the whereabouts of the missing automatic would not be the only subject discussed when the young man did make his appearance.

  It was growing late now, so, leaving Norris to await the return of Noll Moffatt, and the possible production of the missing weapon, Bobby started off on the constable’s cycle. He knew, from his careful reading of the map, that he had to go straight on, avoiding all turnings, till he came to Battling Copse, whose dark and heavy shadows it would be impossible to miss. A little further on he would come to the Towers Poultry Farm – “Teas” as well – and then, leaving that on the left, to where the road forked by a small pond. Keeping to the right, and taking the first turning on the right again, he would reach the entrance of the lane that led to Way Side. Half an hour’s brisk cycling in the clear moonlight, or perhaps a little more, sufficed to cover the whole distance, and then, as he drew near the copse, he became aware that not only the moonlight shining through the close-growing branches upon the dense and heavy undergrowth accounted for the light that seemed to lie in a pool at the foot of the trees. He slowed down. There came clearly to his ear a trampling of feet, a sound of blows, and for a moment he remembered the tale of how here victorious Briton and stubborn Roman fought out once again each year their ancient conflict.

  The moment passed. He jumped down and leaned the cycle against the nearest tree. He heard a voice say loudly:

  “Like to chuck me into the chalk-pit too, wouldn’t you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  FISTICUFFS

  Bobby ran forward quickly. In a kind of bay or inlet of open sward, surrounded on three sides by the dense growth of tree and bush that was Battling Copse, the clear moonshine, reinforced by the beam from the headlamp of a motor-cycle, showed two young men standing facing each other.

  One, his back to Bobby, was tall, heavy, somewhat clumsily built; the other was of a smaller, more slender build, and, as he soon showed, very quick and active in his movements.

  For, as Bobby came in sight of them, the taller of the two flung out at his opponent a heavy, somewhat ponderous right-hand punch. But the other adroitly side-stepped, and then retaliated with a quick left and right that brought from the onlooking Bobby a spontaneous and appreciative:

  “Oh, pretty, very pretty.”

  Indeed, had those punches had a little more weight behind them they might have brought the fight to an immediate end. Both got well home, but the big man merely grunted, shook himself rather with the air of a duck shaking off raindrops, and then rushed forward. At once they were hard at it, for the smaller man stood his ground. Blow after blow the bigger of the two sent crashing in, and all of them his antagonist either took on the retreat with diminishing force or else avoided altogether. Once or twice indeed, as Bobby noticed with enthusiasm, he succeeded in avoiding devastating punches by simply moving his head an inch or two to one side, so that the other’s ponderous fist missed by inches only, but missed all the same. Almost as clever was the speed with which he flung back in answer his own quick blows that only needed just a little more weight behind to make them as quickly effective.

  He seemed to realise this, however, and that at close quarters he was no match for his antagonist. He began to give ground, making the big man use his energy in pursuit and taking advantage of his own greater agility to leap in with swift flashing hits that in the end must tell and then back again before the other could retaliate with effect.

  A very evenly matched couple, Bobby thought; skill and speed against strength and weight; and then he reminded himself dolefully that a breach of the peace was being committed and that he was an officer of police.

  “Just my luck,” he thought sadly, and nearly cheered aloud as the big man made one of his bull rushes that would probably have been more effective in the ring, with ropes against which an opponent could be pinned. Had anything of the sort been possible in this open glade, or had the big man succeeded, or the other consented, in continuing in-fighting, the battle would probably not have lasted long. At close quarters greater height and weight have their full effect. But this time, when the big man made his charge, the other dodged with an astonishing speed and the agility of a tennis champion on the central court at Wimbledon. Then, as his opponent lumbered by, he hit him two or three times with a magnificence of speed and accuracy that not only fully justified Bobby’s instinct to cheer, but sent the big man crashing to the ground.

  He fell heavily enough, but almost instantly was on his feet again, showing a nimbleness his previous somewhat heavy movements had hardly promised. He turned, and was about to rush again at his antagonist, who had stood back to allow him to recover his feet, when Bobby resolutely roused himself from the trance of admiration and delight in which he had been lost. Paying to stern duty the tribute of a sigh, he stepped forward from the shadows in which hitherto he had been standing.

  “Now then,” he said sternly, “what’s all this about?”

  Startled, they both turned and stared at him.

  “Go to hell,” said the first man.

  “Get to blazes and quick about it,” advised the second.

  “Two minds with but a single thought,” observed Bobby. “No, no,” he added, getting between them as they were about to start again after their brief replies to him. “Apologies and all that, you know, but there it is. Got to stop, I’m afraid. Awful shame, of course.”

  “Who in thunder do you think you are?” demanded the smaller man.

  “Mind your own business if you don’t want your head knocked off,” said his erstwhile enemy.

  Side by side, sudden allies, they stood and glared at him. Bobby beamed on them with all the friendliness he felt. This seemed to annoy them both still more.

  “Chuck him in the chalk-pit,” suggested the bigger and more truculent of the two, “and then I can get on with that hiding I’m going to give you.”

  “Take a better man than you,” retorted the other, and instant
ly, forgetting their momentary alliance, forgetting, too, all about Bobby, they were at it again as fiercely as before.

  But now Bobby took a hand – or, more accurately, a foot – by dexterously and unexpectedly tripping up the big man as he was making one of his bull rushes, and then the other as he dodged away, so that the two astonished combatants found themselves unexpectedly supine, gazing with some bewilderment at the calm moon above.

  “Sorry,” said Bobby contritely. “Awfully sorry. Let me answer your questions. As to who I think I am, I have reason to believe I’m a policeman. And I don’t want my head knocked off, and you mustn’t try, because you simply can’t imagine the fuss there is if you hit a policeman. We might all be made of glass and liable to break. So it’s not done. Never. Unconstitutional. Oh, and I am minding my business, because it is my business to see the King’s peace is not broken, as seemed to be happening just now – very prettily, of course, but that doesn’t count. The law cares nothing for art.”

  They were both on their feet again by now and were both gazing at Bobby in complete bewilderment as he delivered this long speech, which was, of course, intended to puzzle them and give them something else to think about than their apparent desire to annihilate each other.

  “I don’t see –” began one of them hesitatingly.

  “I don’t see either,” agreed Bobby, “but there you are. Why not a gym, six-ounce gloves each, and an invite for me to look on? What about it?”

  They both made sulky noises. Apparently the suggested delay did not appeal to them.

  “It’s all rot,” said the bigger man. “Come on,” he invited his opponent.

  “You mustn’t,” said Bobby earnestly. “Really. Or I shall have to arrest you both. I should hate to do that.” He was one and they were two, and, as they had shown, both sufficiently vigorous and able-bodied. But he spoke with all the weight of authority, with all the majesty of the law, behind him. They were evidently impressed. The smaller of the two said:

  “How do we know you are a policeman?”

  Bobby produced his warrant card.

  “Detective-Sergeant. Criminal Investigation Department. Scotland Yard,” he recited. “At present detailed for duty with the county police.”

  They looked at each other. The police are always the police, but, all the same, the village constable is one thing and an emissary from Scotland Yard another. They began to put on their coats, though reluctantly and still looking sideways at each other.

  “Sorry to be a spoil-sport,” said Bobby, still apologetic. “Think over that gym idea – jolly good, if you ask me, though I shall call it a dirty trick if you don’t let me know the date. By the way, I’ve been sent down over that affair that happened near here – dead man found at the bottom of the chalk-pit. Know anything about it? I heard something about chucking someone down the chalk-pit too.” He put a slight emphasis on the last word, and the smaller of the two men started and turned a little away, so that his profile showed clearly, caught in the beam from the motor-cycle headlamp. It reminded Bobby of another he had seen that evening, and he remembered also that Oliver Moffatt had not been found at his home.

  “Are you Mr. Oliver Moffatt?” he asked.

  “How do you know?” the young man exclaimed, surprised.

  “Oh, police, C.I.D., and all that,” Bobby explained airily. “Hullo, where’s your pal?” he added.

  For the big man had seized the opportunity to disappear, wheeling the motor-cycle before him, and now they heard its engine starting on the path that ran by one end of the copse.

  “I’m going too,” said Oliver Moffatt, and began to walk away.

  “Half a minute,” Bobby protested. “There are just one or two questions I want to ask. Your friend’s name, please, for one thing.”

  “Ask him,” snapped Oliver.

  “You don’t wish to give it?” Bobby inquired.

  Oliver only glared.

  “Oh, well,” said Bobby, producing his inevitable notebook. “Objection duly noted. Any objection to telling me what the row was about?”

  “Yes. Every possible objection.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Wonder away.”

  “Bad mistake, if I may say so,” remarked Bobby, “to set the police wondering. Never know where their wonders may not end. That affair in the chalk-pit here – you knew that was murder?”

  “Murder?” repeated Oliver. “Murder?” he said again.

  Bobby waited, hoping for further comment. The young man was clearly troubled, but he said nothing for a time. Then he asked:

  “How do you know? Are you sure?”

  “Our information,” Bobby said slowly, “is that the dead man had been shot. The pistol used was probably a Colt automatic, .32. We also have information that you are, or have been recently, in possession of a pistol of that make and calibre.”

  “Good Lord!” gasped Oliver. “You don’t mean you think I did the chap in, do you?”

  He was plainly startled and alarmed, even more so than seemed quite natural in one conscious of complete innocence. Bobby waited again, hoping more might be said. But after a moment or two of troubled silence all that came from the young man was an angry exclamation:

  “You’ve no right to say things like that!”

  “All I’ve said,” Bobby pointed out, “is that you are reported to have had in your possession a pistol similar to that with which it is believed a man was shot close to this spot yesterday afternoon. Do you care to say if that is correct?”

  “Dad has a Colt automatic,” Noll admitted. “I haven’t seen it for months.”

  “You have often used it?”

  “I did a bit of potting at rats and so on at one time.”

  “Not lately?”

  “No. It got a bit damaged; a spanner or something fell on it in the garage; dented the barrel and knocked the foresight crooked. You could fire it all right, but not much good for taking aim. It’ll be in the house somewhere.”

  “It’s been looked for but can’t be found,” Bobby said. “Any objection to my making sure you haven’t it on you?”

  Without waiting for any such objection to be made, he ran his hand lightly over the other’s clothing, making sure Noll had on his person nothing large, hard, and heavy, like an automatic, and at the same time keeping a wary eye open for any sudden punch that might come his way, for he had acquired a considerable respect for the young man’s gift for rapid hitting. However, nothing happened. Noll, taken entirely by surprise, submitted meekly, and Bobby stepped back, out of fistic range.

  “That’s all right,” he said, and added warmly: “Thanks so much for letting me make sure.”

  “I didn’t,” snapped Noll with some truth. “And look here, I’ve had enough of this. I’m not going to answer any more of your damn’ questions.”

  He turned his back and marched resolutely away. Bobby made no attempt to follow. He felt it would be useless to ask any more questions just then, and he had at any rate assured himself that Noll was not carrying the missing automatic on his person. Besides, a few hours’ reflection often made people much more willing to talk than they had seemed at first. Opening his notebook, Bobby jotted down the number of the motor-cycle he had been careful to memorise.

  “Won’t be difficult to trace that young man,” he told himself, and then went back to where he had left his cycle and rode on towards Way Side.

  In spite of the delay, it still wanted a few minutes to ten when he reached his destination, and, as there was no sign of any car standing in front of the house, he concluded the chief constable had not yet arrived. He hesitated for a moment and then went round to find the back entrance. He had an idea that a little information about Mr. Hayes, who had made his money in America, and for directions to reach whose house the dead man had inquired, might be of interest, and might be gleaned better than by direct questioning through a little quiet gossip with the domestic staff.

  CHAPTER 7

  WAY SIDE GOSSIP


  Way Side was a comparatively small, modern house. The servants’ entrance was at the side, opposite a small detached building Bobby guessed was the garage. Here, leaning against the wall, was a motor-cycle, and Bobby, turning the lamp of his own cycle upon it, saw at once that the registration number was that of the machine on which the big and truculent young man of Battling Copse had ridden away.

  Bobby stood for a moment or two wondering what that could mean. It could hardly have been Mr. Hayes himself, he supposed. But Mr. Hayes might have a son, perhaps, or it might be merely a visitor. He would have to try to find out.

  He knocked at the back door. An elderly woman appeared; and Bobby explained that he was a sergeant of police, and asked if he could wait there for the arrival of Colonel Warden, the chief constable, who was on his way to call on Mr. Hayes. Bobby did not mention Scotland Yard. He felt that if he could be accepted as a member of the local force his visit would cause less excitement, and the Way Side staff be less impressed and perhaps more willing to gossip.

  He was at once invited in and hospitably conducted to a small sitting-room he gathered was that set aside for the use of the servants. He was also offered a glass of sherry, but this, with many thanks, he begged to be allowed to decline, on the ostensible grounds that he was on duty, discipline was strict, and the chief constable ferocious in enforcing it. He regretted his devotion to discipline the less as a whisper he overheard made him darkly suspect that it was the cooking sherry he was to have been offered, since all other wine, apparently, was in the cellar and “master took care to put the keys in his pocket, the old screw, when he cleared her out.”

  Bobby guessed that the “her” referred to Mrs. O’Brien, the former housekeeper, of whose quarrel with Mr. Hayes, and subsequent dismissal, Ena Moffatt had spoken. A judicious inquiry or two confirmed this, and confirmed, too, the tale Ena had told. Evidently there had been a first-class row between Mr. Hayes and Mrs. O’Brien, ending in a slap across the face for him and a not unnatural dismissal on the spot for her. All this had happened the day before, between tea and dinner, and Mrs. O’Brien had departed accordingly in a whirl of tears and indignation, breathing, too, many dark threats of vengeance.