by Sapper
“I don’t exactly see that, old boy.”
“Don’t be dense, Peter. That’s Coldspur’s cipher: by no hook or crook can you make Kessingland out of it. There ain’t such a horse. Therefore all the talk about her code with Harold was a lie. Now she thinks that she’s got the genuine message that they’ve been hunting for, and so the one urgent thing for them to do was to get shot of me. Mark her guile. She believes that I think she’s got a message from Harold. So she looks up a town with eleven letters in it, and if I hadn’t suggested going there you can bet your bottom dollar she’d have made the suggestion for me. She took care, you see – in the most natural way, I admit – not to let me see the wire. Otherwise I might have wondered why Z and A both stood for S. But as it is she thinks I’m taped for Kessingland, and God forbid she should think otherwise!”
“How are you going to work it?” demanded Darrell.
“After we’ve had lunch, Peter, we are going to Kessingland. There, with our well-known charm, we will get hold of someone of comparative intelligence to whom we will give stamped telegrams – three or four should be enough. We will concoct them later. The first, which can be sent to the lady this evening, will merely announce my arrival. Tomorrow, in the morning, a hint that I am on the track of foreigners; in the evening, still on the track. The next day, that the trail has died, but still trying, etc., and so forth. I might even go so far as to write a letter to be posted late tomorrow evening, which should convince her that little Willie is still safely buried in that delectable spot. Then, Peter, having done this, we shall return here.”
“And what then?”
“A closer inspection of Hartley Court by night seems to me to be indicated.”
Drummond beckoned a waiter and ordered two Martinis.
“I can’t help feeling, Peter,” he continued, “that there are things afoot here which are bigger than ordinary common or garden crime.”
“Do you mean political?”
“That’s the notion. I’m inclined to believe that there’s something in that Key Club business.”
“Mightn’t be a bad idea to rope in Ronald Standish,” said Darrell thoughtfully.
“Not at all bad,” agreed Drummond. “He’d know, if anybody did. Go and ring him up, Peter. Tell him that aught is amiss here in the children’s kindergarten, and will he kindly report his vile dog’s body as soon as possible.”
Darrell crossed to the telephone box and Drummond lit a cigarette. Definitely a good idea: if his surmise was right, if by a strange freak of fate he had blundered into deep waters, there was no one who would pull his weight better than Ronald Standish. He knew all the hush-hush men intimately, and what was more, they trusted him implicitly. For the more Drummond thought things over, the more did he feel convinced that this was going to prove a hush-hush job.
“He’ll be down in time for dinner this evening,” said Darrell, rejoining him.
“Splendid,” cried Drummond. “Let’s go and have a spot of food, Peter, and then push off. The sooner we lay the Kessingland trail the better.”
And at that delectable East Coast watering-place luck proved to be right in. One of the first people they saw was a man they both knew, who was staying there for a few days, and who readily agreed to send the wires for them.
“For Heaven’s sake, get ’em in the right order, old boy,” said Drummond, “and don’t send ’em all off at once or we are undone. And now, Peter – to horse. I propose to go back via Nannie’s cottage to warn in the dear old thing that I shan’t be back for a few days. It’s very little out of our way, and she’ll worry herself sick if I don’t turn up.
“Still there, you see, Peter,” he cried as they approached the cottage some half-hour later. “There’s the trampled-down bit of verge; there’s the pool of oil. It’s dusty now, but you can see the outline clear enough.”
“The poor devil must have bled some,” said Darrell.
“You’re right,” remarked Drummond gravely. “Gad! Peter, I wish I could get to the bottom of this show.”
He drew up outside the cottage.
“Shan’t be a moment,” he cried. “The old darling will probably want us to stop to tea, but I’ll tell her we can’t. Nannie,” he shouted, opening the gate, “where are you?”
There was no answer, and he walked up the path. His terrier and spaniel came bounding to meet him, and he stopped to pat them.
“Where,” he demanded, “is that lazy devil Jerry?”
And then, on the threshold of the door, he paused, and stood very still.
“Peter,” he called softly, “come here.”
Darrell joined him: the reason for Jerry’s laziness was clear. For the bulldog was lying motionless on the carpet, and it was obvious at a glance that he had been shot through the head.
“By God! old Jerry,” muttered Drummond in a voice that shook a little, “somebody is going to pay to the uttermost farthing for this. How did it happen, boy; how did it happen?”
His eyes were roving round the room, and suddenly he gave an exclamation and stepped to the table. Then he bent down and picked up a pair of leather gloves which were lying near.
“Look at these, Peter,” he cried. “See that brown and white stitching effect? Can’t mistake it. These are the gloves Doris Venables was wearing this morning when I motored her to Cambridge.”
“Are you sure, Hugh?”
“Of course I’m sure. Or they’re an identical pair, and that is too amazing a coincidence to swallow. What the devil has happened?”
“She must have been back here.”
“But why, Peter? What did she want to come back for?”
“Perhaps to make certain the wire was genuine,” suggested Darrell.
“But why shoot Jerry?” cried Drummond. “Why, in the name of all that is miraculous, shoot the old chap? He made great friends with her this morning.”
Darrell made no answer: he was standing by the door listening intently.
“There’s someone asleep upstairs, Hugh. I can hear breathing.”
Drummond joined him at the door; there was no doubt about it. Somebody was almost snoring in the room above, and they were up the stairs in a flash. And there an even more amazing spectacle met their eyes.
Lying on the bed fully dressed and completely unconscious was the ample form of Mrs Eskdale. Her face was flushed, and every now and then a strangled snort convulsed her.
“If I didn’t know her better, Peter,” said Drummond after a while, “I’d say she was blind drunk. But the old dear never touches a drop of anything except an occasional glass of some hell brew of her own. Elderberry wine, or something.”
“She’s either drunk or drugged, Hugh,” said Darrell decidedly. “There’s not the smallest doubt of that.”
They bent over her, but there was no suspicion of alcohol about her breath.
“That settles it, Peter,” said Drummond. “She’s been doped.”
He shook her gently by the shoulder, and then not so gently, but it produced no result.
“It may be hours before she awakes,” he continued with a frown. “This is the devil and all, Peter; I don’t like to leave the old lady.”
“It’s not that that is worrying me so much,” said Darrell. “I’m trying to reconstruct the crime as they say. How did she get here? No girl could possibly have carried or dragged an unconscious woman of her weight up those steep stairs.”
“Therefore,” remarked Drummond, “if the girl was alone Mrs Eskdale must have been up here when she was given the dope. No; hold hard a minute. Let’s suppose she was giving the girl a cup of tea, and that little Doris pulled the same stuff on her as she tried to do on me this morning. Then the old dear began to feel queer, but still managed to get up here under her own steam. How’s that?”
Darrell nodded.
“It fits. But what about Jerry? If all that happened was that Mrs Eskdale came upstairs more or less normally, why should he get excited? And surely no one would shoot a dog just for the f
un of the thing.”
“You think the girl was not alone.”
“I don’t know what to think, Hugh; the whole thing is baffling. But the only solution that seems to fit Jerry having been killed and Mrs Eskdale being up here is that some sort of a rough house took place below. What it was about the Lord only knows.”
“She’s loyal to the core, is that old dear. It’s just possible they wanted to see the message itself, and she wouldn’t show it to them. And it would have been a bit difficult seeing that she hadn’t got one to show.”
He broke off abruptly, staring out of the window with narrowed eyes.
“Do you see that clump of bushes, Peter, one finger left of that stunted alder?” he said softly. “There’s something just moved in them.”
Darrell picked up the target a hundred and fifty yards away on the other side of the road.
“I’ll take your word for it, old boy,” he answered. “Your sight is so damned uncanny… No, by Jove! you’re right. I saw it myself.”
“It’s a man; I can see his face, just to the right of the middle.”
Drummond rubbed his hands gently together.
“Stay here, Peter; I’m going to stalk that gentleman. And in this flat country it’ll mean a big detour starting from the back of the cottage. But if I can manage to get under cover of that hedge running by the alder, I’m home. Show yourself every now and then at the window.”
And then followed for Peter Darrell an interval of pure joy. An ardent stalker himself, it was an education to watch Drummond at work. Conditions naturally were different, but the principles were the same, and as an object lesson in how to make cover where none existed it could not have been beaten. He had forgotten Mrs Eskdale, who still snored placidly on her bed; his whole attention was riveted on a blurred white face peering out of the undergrowth, and the slinking figure away to the right.
At last Drummond reached the hedge which was his first objective and scrambled through it. Then out of sight of his quarry he straightened up and started to run. Nearer and nearer he got, and now he was moving cautiously. Ten yards; five yards, and then in a flash it was over. Came a sudden spring; a shrill squeal of fear and the next moment Drummond emerged into the open field with his prisoner. And his prisoner’s gun.
Darrell met them at the gate, and studied the captive with interest. And somewhat to his surprise he saw that he was of a very different type to what he had anticipated. The man was well dressed, and on the surface at any rate appeared to be a gentleman. He was dark and clean shaven, and his nationality was not obvious. But his English when he spoke was perfect.
“May I ask,” he remarked icily, “the reason for this incredible outrage?”
“Get inside,” said Drummond curtly. “A pretty weapon this, Peter; compressed air. And you will kindly remember, my friend, that any attempt on your part to escape would cause it to be used on your right knee. And that’s a painful wound.”
“I shall have the law on you for this,” said the man in a voice that shook with rage.
“By all means,” cried Drummond affably. “But just at the moment my friend and I are the law.”
The man went slowly up the path, and as he came to the door he paused for a second. The sound of Mrs Eskdale’s snores still came rhythmically from above, and Darrell watching his face saw a faint look of relief flash for a moment across it. Then it became as mask-like as ever.
“Now, sir,” he remarked, “once more I insist on an explanation.”
“Are you the man who did that?” said Drummond quietly, pointing to the dead bulldog.
“I am not,” answered the man. “This is the first time I have been in this cottage.”
And Jock, his teeth bared, snarled in a corner.
“You lie,” said Drummond softly. “You lie, damn you, and there’s the proof.” He pointed to the terrier. “However for the moment we will leave that. Why were you lying up in those bushes watching this house?”
The man lit a cigarette.
“I’ll buy it,” he remarked with a yawn.
“I wonder,” said Drummond pleasantly, “if you have ever read a book called ‘Stalky and Co.’?”
The man stared at him in blank surprise.
“I ask for this reason,” continued Drummond. “In that immortal classic there is a story which tells of the way Stalky and two low companions of his dealt with a pair of bullies at their school. And it is most efficacious.”
Once again the man yawned.
“I suppose your remarks have some point,” he said languidly. “But if so I fear it has eluded me.”
“Then I will endeavour to make it plainer,” said Drummond. “They dealt with these bullies in their own coin. They bullied them even worse than the bullies had done to their victims. And the result was an unqualified success.”
His eyes were boring into the man opposite.
“Am I getting clearer?” he continued. “At the present moment my friend and I represent Stalky and Co.; you represent the bullies. People who shoot my dogs, and drug harmless old ladies may be justly regarded as bullies. And since you’ve taken the gloves off I propose to do the same. Ah! would you, you swine.”
His arm shot out as the man’s hand came out of his pocket, and a knife clattered on to the floor.
“Peter, get me that rubber strap out of the car, and the rope.”
“What are you going to do?” muttered the man, writhing helplessly in Drummond’s grip.
“You will see in due course,” said Drummond. “It is not a treatment I would recommend for the sick and ailing, but that doesn’t apply to strong and hearty men like you who lie about on wet grass and go big game shooting. Who knows – you might even beat the record.”
“The record,” stammered the man. “What record?”
“Twenty minutes,” explained Drummond, “is the longest time known up to date that the patient undergoing this treatment has lasted without praying for death. Got ’em, Peter? Good. Here’s a good stout chair; let’s lash him to that.”
The man let out a wild shout, and began to struggle desperately, but in the hands of two past masters of the art of rough housing he was like a child. In half a minute he was trussed up like a fowl, and two scientifically arranged handkerchiefs almost prevented his breathing.
“Now,” said Drummond, balancing a piece of rubber belting about eighteen inches long in his hand, “before we begin I wish everything to be quite clear. What my friend and I are doing now is quite illegal. But as I told you before for the time being we have taken the law into our own hands. How long we continue to keep it there depends entirely on you. When you have had enough, and decide to tell us exactly what happened this afternoon in this room, just nod your head.”
The man’s eyes, sullen and vindictive, were fixed on Drummond, who had raised the strap shoulder high.
“The essence of this means of persuasion,” explained Drummond, “is not to hit too hard, and at the same time to leave no part of the area selected untouched. In your case I propose to take the right leg from the knee up. So, and so, and so.”
Steadily, almost gently the belting rose and fell travelling from the knee up to the thigh and then back again.
“It’s been used in the third degree frequently,” went on Drummond conversationally. “Also in other cases where confession is good for the soul. The only time I have actually seen it employed myself was in Australia in a mining camp. One of the miners had committed the unforgivable sin of stealing another miner’s gold. And he’d hidden it. So in order to find out where, they tried this method. It succeeded, and then there was no reason to delay shooting him any longer.”
The sweat was beginning to pour down the man’s face.
“It’s generally about the tenth journey,” continued Drummond, “that you think your leg is going to burst. About the fifteenth you wish it would, and near the twentieth you’re sure it has. We’ve just got to six now, so there’s still plenty of time to go. And I should like confirmation of
those figures.”
But the man had had enough; his head was nodding furiously. And at a sign from Drummond, Darrell removed the handkerchiefs.
“So you have decided to speak,” said Drummond. “Good. But let me warn you of one thing. If I detect you in a lie I’ll continue this treatment up to thirty.”
“What is it you want to know?” said the man sullenly.
“What took place here this afternoon. Why has Miss Venables been here? Who drugged Mrs Eskdale? Who shot my bulldog?”
“I can’t answer the first one, and that’s straight. A girl was here, and her name may have been Venables, but why she was here I don’t know. Two of us got orders…”
“Who from?” snapped Drummond.
The man hesitated, and Drummond half raised the strap.
“Look here, if I tell you all I know will you promise to let me go?”
“I won’t promise, but I will give it my favourable consideration,” said Drummond. “I should hate to see more of you than I need. Now, who gave you your orders?”
“I don’t know his name; none of us do,” said the man. “I’ve never even seen him.”
“How do you get your orders?”
“Either by telephone, or in a typewritten letter. This time it was by telephone.”
“Go on,” said Drummond curtly. “What were your orders?”
“To go to a certain hotel near Cambridge and await further instructions.”
“What happened then?”
“We were joined by a man I’d never seen before, and we got into his car and came here. The girl’s car was standing outside the door, and the man led the way into this room, where she was talking to the old woman upstairs. She turned as white as a sheet when she saw him, and clung to the other woman who tried to protect her. It was then the bulldog turned nasty and the man shot him with that rifle. The girl tried to run away, but the man caught her by the gate and brought her back. Then while we held her he gave her an injection with a hypodermic syringe in her arm. And the old woman, too. In a few seconds they were both unconscious, and we carried one to the car and the other upstairs.”