The Crimson Rambler

by John Russell Fearn

  Sheila relaxed and gave a little sigh.

  “Well, there it is, I suppose. Nothing more I can do about it.”

  “When would you wish to go to London, Mrs. Darnworth?” Gossage asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I think, mother, that you’re jumping to conclusions pretty freely regarding Gregory and me,” Elaine said. “I don’t believe in quick marriages—and if it comes to that I’m by no means sure that I’ll marry at all.”

  “But—” Gregory Bride opened his mouth, gasped, then swallowed hard. “But it’s all arranged!” he protested.

  “From your point of view, maybe—but we are only engaged, Greg. You know the type of woman I am. I like my dogs, the open air, my horses. I might consider finally that marriage isn’t worth haying as far as I’m concerned. In any event I expect to remain at the manor for some time yet because I like it, and no sense of misguided duty towards Sheila is going to turn me out of it! You can’t offer me a place anything like so beautiful, can you. Greg?”

  “Well no—not yet,” he admitted despondently. “But I shall in time, as my royalties grow bigger.”

  “Then while you build up I’ll remain here,” Elaine said. “I’m sure dear, generous Sheila won’t raise any objections?”

  “That sort of decision is just typical of your rotten selfishness, Elly!” Sheila declared. “You’re not doing it because you don’t want to marry Greg, or because you like horses and dogs: you’re doing it because I happen to have inherited the manor and want to live here with Barry as my husband. You’re out to upset it! How well I know you!”

  “That’s right, I am.” Elaine agreed calmly.

  “When I become Sheila’s husband I may have something to say about staying here,” Crespin said grimly, hard lights on his eyes. “There are ways of getting rid of people you don’t want, you know.”

  “As dad found out,” Elaine commented.

  “It seems to me that most of you are developing your plans very thoroughly without regard to one thing—the reason for me being here,” Gossage said. “I can’t allow you to leave just yet, Mrs. Darnworth, nor can I permit any of you others to make any variation in your present activities. After tomorrow, though, I’m hoping you will be pretty free to do as you wish.”

  “So you actually have hopes of bringing the case to an end?” Elaine asked cynically. “Well, it’s about time! And I suppose it is one of us in the house?”

  Gossage looked round on the faces. He saw tenseness in every one of them—even in the face of Andrews as he hovered in attendance.

  “Yes,” he acknowledged. “And I’m going to give that person a chance to come into the open. I don’t say it will mean any less severe sentence, but the law does incline favourably toward a complete confession of guilt. If that person does want to confess I’m willing to listen in private.”

  He paused for a moment and then went on deliberately:

  “After dinner I am driving to the Yard. I expect to be back here again some time before midnight when I shall go straight up to my room. I invite the killer to come to my room at midnight and confess. As for the rest of you, I rely on your decency not to watch my room. If the offer is not accepted, I shall bring every agency of the law to bear with all the evidence I have collected. Believe me, all of you, there is no longer any room for doubt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE KILLER

  Gossage left the house at a quarter to nine and Blair, to escape questions from the others in the house, went up to his room—and fell asleep. It was 12:10 when he woke, and filled with a sense of profound shame he hurried to Gossage’s bedroom and knocked lightly on the door.

  There was no responding voice or sign of movement. Blair frowned worriedly to himself and turned the door handle, peered into the dark beyond.

  “You there, sir?” he asked softly, feeling for the light switch—but to his surprise it had no effect when he pressed it down.

  Then Gossage’s voice reached him.

  “Come in, Harry. I’m in the chair near the bed. You needn’t try to turn on the light; I’ve taken the bulbs out. Close the door but don’t lock it.”

  Puzzled, Blair obeyed the order and groped his way across the room until he could see a dim outline where Gossage was seated.

  “What’s the idea of sitting here in the dark, sir?”

  “I’m waiting for the killer to pay me a visit.”

  “Pay you a visit? Why should he?”

  “Because it’s inevitable,” Gossage answered. “At dinner I made it perfectly clear that I know the killer’s identity. I gave a chance of confession at midnight—which chance I was more or less sure would never be taken. If you knew yourself to be a murderer and were going to be arrested, would you hesitate at destroying the person who could expose you? Would you let that person sleep comfortably all night and then calmly wait to be arrested next day? With one murder done, why not another? Incidentally, I had Louise here at midnight—not, to confess but to tell me the name of the murderer. She knew she could get me alone at midnight, and apparently she’s been trying to for long enough.”

  “So Louise knows, does she,” Blair murmured. “Y’know, I rather thought you were taking a lot for granted at dinner when you made that offer.”

  “A certain person,” Gossage said, “is going to try very hard to get rid of me before morning—probably in the small hours. That’s why I’m seated here waiting. I don’t intend to be nabbed. I was going to tackle it on my own account but I’m glad to have your help.”

  ‘I’m afraid I fell asleep,” Blair muttered. “How did you get on at the Yard?”

  “Excellently. Not only did I get what I wanted from the forensic department but I also got the report I’d been waiting for from the A.C. I got back here about 11:30 and shortly after the manager of the Excel Gramophone Co. rang me up from his home with the information I wanted about that catalogue number.”

  “Then who is the killer—?”

  “Hush!” Gossage cautioned. “You hear something?”

  After a moment or two the sergeant did—so slight that had he not been keyed to notice it, it would have escaped attention. It was the sound of feet moving gently in the corridor outside. After a while they stopped and there was a long pause.

  Then very slowly the bedroom door began to open. It was only by the very faint creak it gave at the hinges that the fact was noticeable at all.

  It was when there was the slight sound of the door closing that Gossage spoke sharply.

  “Don’t move from where you are. I have you covered.”

  Blair waited wonderingly. As far as he knew the chief was not carrying a gun.

  “I know just why you’ve come here,” Gossage proceeded, “and it isn’t to confess. It may be with the idea of strangling me or knifing me. I wondered what you would do—whether you would enter by the window or the door. Then it occurred to me you would probably try the easiest way first. That’s why I left the door unlocked for you—though maybe you knew about that from Preston’s activities a few nights ago. I never lock a door: I trust people—up to a point.”

  In the darkness of the room, now his eyes were getting used to it, Blair could see a dim outline against the door—but that was all.

  “I suppose,” the visitor said, “I’ve only myself to thank for you being in readiness for me. I should have known.”

  “You should have,” Gossage agreed, “but like many killers you did your best to overreach yourself.”

  Blair identified the speaker by the voice, but he still couldn’t see how….

  Suddenly the visitor turned on a flashlight and the beam was blinding for a moment. Blair covered his eyes and Gossage looked away momentarily.

  “I don’t see any gun,” the voice behind the brilliance said. “What sort of a trick are you trying to pull, inspector?”

  “I didn’t say I had a gun. I said I had you covered—and I have—”

  Gossage’s right arm, which had been dangling over the arm o
f the easy chair, whirled up suddenly and what seemed to be a glittering bar sailed through the air. It smashed the torch out of the visitor’s hand and dashed the room in darkness again.

  “My walking stick,” the chief inspector explained. “Let me tell you why there are no lights on in here. I wanted you to come in unsuspecting. I’ll have Blair put them on again in a moment—”

  “Lucky for you Blair’s here,” the visitor snapped. “Otherwise I’d have only had you to deal with…. I’m not idiot enough to take on both of you—not with only a knife, anyway.”

  There was a click like the blade of a knife shutting.

  “You don’t think,” the voice asked, “that I’d be idiot enough to admit anything, do you?”

  “No—and I don’t think you’re an idiot, either. In fact, you are very clever. I know everything you did, and how you did it.”

  Blair got up silently and went over to the small bedside table where he began to feel round for the bulbs. But silent though he was, the visitor evidently heard the movements and knew that attention was relaxed. He shifted suddenly in the dark, there was the sound of the door opening quickly—then he had fled.

  “Quick!” Gossage yelled, and dived across the room.

  Blair blundered after him, just in time to see the inspector in the glow at the end of the corridor, chasing a figure toward the staircase. Gossage dived from the top step on the back of his quarry. They both went rolling down the stairs to the bottom, dimly visible in the yellow light, which glowed over the front door.

  At a sound Blair glanced behind him. A door had opened and Sheila was on view in the light streaming from her bedroom—her hair flowing and a robe drawn about her. Blair dashed down the stairs and with his strength added to Gossage’s the struggle in the hall was brought to a swift end.

  Panting, swearing under his breath, his hair disheveled, Barry Crespin scrambled to his feet.

  Blair held Crespin while Gossage switched on all the lights. He glanced back to the staircase to see Sheila, Elaine, and Mrs. Darnworth, while behind them loomed the startled Gregory Bride, arid farther back still like a ghost Louise. Evidently the noise had aroused each one of them.

  Crespin was taken into the lounge and almost flung into an armchair.

  “Do I have to sit here and be stared at?” he demanded, flashing a glance at the others as they came in silently.

  “If you are having publicity now you’ve only yourself to thank,” Gossage told him. “If you had had the sense to come to my room at midnight and tell the truth I could have spared you all this.”

  “What does all this mean, inspector?” Sheila asked, obviously utterly bewildered. “You can’t mean that—that Barry—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sheila,” Gossage said. “Facts speak for themselves…. Barry Crespin,” he went on, turning back to him, “I arrest you for the murder of Warner Darnworth….” And he added the usual note of warning.

  “You arrest me!” Crespin gave a sour smile and tossed the hair back from his face. “You haven’t an atom of proof that would ever hold in a court of law.”

  Blair began writing steadily in his notebook and Crespin took stock of the fact. He set his mouth harshly.

  “I’m not saying anything,” he decided flatly.

  Gossage nodded. “All right. Sergeant, go with Mr. Crespin to his room and see that he packs his things. We are returning to London immediately.’

  “Yes, sir.”

  The moment they had gone, Gossage found himself surrounded by the other members of the party.

  “What are the facts, inspector?” Sheila demanded helplessly. “I can’t believe that Barry would do such a thing.”

  “If I were not sure of my ground, Miss Sheila, I would not have charged him with the murder,” Gossage answered briefly.

  “No surprise to me,” Elaine commented. “I didn’t know it was he, mind you, until dinner tonight, when he said there were more ways of getting rid of people—or something like that.”

  “Barry seemed such a decent chap, too,” Bride commented, looking almost foolishly astonished.

  Andrews and Preston, hastily dressed, came into the room. The butler looked about him.

  “Begging your pardon, but I heard sounds—”

  “Preston,” Gossage interrupted, “you might get my car out of the garage. I shall be leaving for London immediately.”

  Preston nodded and went across the hall. Gossage turned to the group.

  “I am not allowed to divulge any facts,” he said. “I would like to, if only to have you realize, Miss Sheila, that you have been wasting your charm and talents on a man of Crespin’s calibre. When you attend the court proceedings everything will become clear to you.”

  He glanced towards the staircase. Crespin, in hat and overcoat and carrying a travelling case, was coming down. Over one shoulder was his golf bag.

  “I shall not need that as an exhibit,” Gossage told him, looking at it.

  Crespin looked at the group in the lounge doorway.

  “Looks as if the party’s over,” he said, shrugging. “Sorry, Sheila—but anyway you’ll get on better without that father of yours always pestering you. All right, inspector, I’m ready.” He added, and moved towards the front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE KILLER’S PLAN

  Despite a sleepless night, Sergeant Blair was at the office in Whitehall early the following morning. He wanted to know the facts, not only out of sheer curiosity, but to check for himself how far wrong—or right—he was. To his irritation Gossage had not yet arrived, so he busied himself in setting out the various notes in the form of a dossier, and generally acting—as he always did when in the office—as the chief inspector’s secretary.

  At ten o’clock Gossage presented himself—red-faced, genial, and looking supremely satisfied.

  “’Morning, Harry,” he greeted. “Still decent weather. I’m planning a lot of work in the garden this weekend of I can get the time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blair couldn’t keep things bottled up any longer. “But about Crespin!”

  “Crespin?” Gossage settled in the swivel chair before his desk. “Well, what about him? He’s formally charged, locked up, and we have an inquest to attend later this morning. What more do you want?”

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, an explanation. I’m afraid I don’t know how you arrived at some of your conclusions.”

  Gossage chuckled good-naturedly and brought out his pipe. “Well. I have a few minutes to spare, so perhaps I can set your mind at rest. Take a seat. It makes it easier that Crespin decided to confess. Much of his statement bears out my own conclusions. But this statement gives me proof. I take it that you have the idea of the triangle clear in your mind, Harry?”

  “Well, sort of. I can see that since we found evidence of rope around the chimney—but not on the side facing the drive—it meant that a rope had been put round the chimney breast, doubled so that it would be easily withdrawn afterward. It was then taken over a point of the gutter over Crespin’s window, and moved along the gutter until it was over the boxroom window. That rope movement abrased the paint from the gutter—the base of the triangle. I can also see that that abrasion could not have been made by rope alone without it having a weight on it, So, somebody got from Crespin’s room—Crespin himself I suppose—to the boxroom by swinging on the rope, after the fashion of the weight on a pendulum. When the murder had been committed the murderer swung back to the starting point and withdrew the rope.”

  “Dead right,” Gossage approved. “But why the doubts in your mind about Crespin, Harry? The fact that the rope ended at Crespin’s window, third from the left, was surely sufficient clue that Crespin was our man? It was to me—though I had begun to suspect him before that.”

  “I suspected it might be Crespin, sir,” Blair answered, “but I couldn’t reconcile it with him being asleep. I preferred to consider Elaine, who says she is a gymnast—not Crespin, who has no such qualification whatever.” />
  “He has a better one,” the chief inspector said.

  “Better! I—I don’t understand….”

  “He told me—and I told you, when we were entering the study after I had rescued you from Bride’s four-dimensional theories, that when war broke out he left Switzerland where he had been mountaineering. To a man who can mountaineer in Switzerland the job of swinging from one window to another would be child’s play.”

  Blair sighed and looked annoyed. “I had completely forgotten that, sir. What, then, were his movements?”

  “I’ll tell you how I worked them out, and you can take it for granted that they’re right because Crespin has verified them in his statement. He went out before that retirement to his bedroom. Before he went out he took from Sheila’s bedroom that coil of wire. Her door was not locked, a fact of which he had made himself certain through often being in the house.

  “He fastened one end of the wire to his bedroom window and tossed the drum into the drive; he also fastened a piece of string to haul up the drum upon his return. Then he fixed the wire in the way we already know, obviously eradicating his prints in the mud. When he came into the house from his ‘stroll’ he had also been up on the roof and thrown round the chimney breast a long, strong tow rope from his car, the ends of which were dangling over his bedroom window. Naturally he climbed one of the gutter pipes, once again a trifle to a man used to mountain climbing. Clear so far?”

  “Not entirely. How did he climb the pipe without leaving a mark?”

  “He used crude goloshes made out of inner tubes of tires, which gave him a firm grip and left no tread print behind. When he had finished his roof activities he put the ‘goloshes’ in his pocket, entered the house, drew up the wire drum by the string he had already fastened to it, and there he was. Before going up to his bedroom to do this he had told Andrews he was going for a snooze and left his instructions for 7:30.”