by Sapper
“A good youngster,” he said. “Very good.”
And then he grew thoughtful again, studying the paper he held in his hand. The words were printed in block capitals, so there was no handwriting clue to be obtained. The message was in pencil, evidently done on the spot, as the paper had been roughly torn out of a notebook.
“Can you remember, Peter,” he said at length, “whether we mentioned the fact that we were coming to Spragge’s Farm tonight when we were in the Dolphin? I know we talked about it at dinner, and at my house, but on neither of those two occasions could we have been overheard.”
I cast my mind back.
“I think we did,” I answered. “I think it was mentioned when we were in that small room looking at that old map. But there were only the three of us there at the time.”
“We might have been overheard from the hall,” he remarked.
“As far as I remember only the parson and those two elderly women were in the hall. Anyway what is the great idea?”
“Nothing much,” he admitted. “But what I was wondering was whether it was a pure fluke that this car was found here by whoever wrote that message? Or did the other side know we were coming?”
I saw his point, but I could no more supply the answer than he could. As far as we knew we had not been overheard, but only as far as we knew.
“It’s becoming increasingly obvious,” he went on, “that a considerable number of people are involved in this. That man we saw silhouetted in the light was neither Vandali nor the chauffeur. Of that fact I’m perfectly certain. He was too tall for the first, and too slight for the second. Further, I don’t think that it can have been he who wrote this note, unless by some extraordinary chance he was actually lying up in these sandhills when we arrived. Even then it takes time to remove six sparking plugs, and write a note. Yet he was at Spragge’s Farm before us.”
“Incidentally, how did he know your name?” I said.
“That’s easy,” he remarked. “It’s written on a plate on the instrument board, even if he didn’t know it before. But if my suspicions are right he did know it before, just as he knew our plans before. The key to this mystery, Peter, or at any rate one of them, lies in the Dolphin Inn. The little episode of the chimney-pot is all part and parcel of it.”
“But look here,” I objected, “if that’s the case: if they knew we were coming here why did that car go along the other road? Of course, it’s possible that it wasn’t their car at all, but some other people who had taken the wrong road.”
“And another thing is possible too,” he said quietly. “That it was their car, and when they drew blank on the main road they knew we must have come along this one.”
“But that disposes of your own theory that they knew our plans,” I cried.
“Does it?” he said. “I don’t agree. They knew part of our plan, but not all of it. They knew we were coming to Spragge’s Farm, but they did not know we were coming by the sea route.”
“I don’t see,” I began densely.
“Lord! man, it’s plain,” he cried. “If, that is to say, my supposition is correct, and the finding of the car was not a fluke. Where did we discuss approaching the Farm from the sea? In the dining-room, where we know we were not overheard. Where did we discuss the main idea of going to the Farm? In the little room.”
“Where,” I interrupted, “we know with even greater certainty that we were not overheard. Confound it all, old boy, we three were alone in the room. The only people within range were the padre and those two old trouts knitting. You surely don’t suspect one of them?”
“Every man who wears a dog collar isn’t of necessity a parson,” he said obstinately.
“Well, anyway,” I remarked, “it can’t have been the cleric who bunged the chimney at your head, because he was in the hall the whole time.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Peter,” he said, but it was quite obvious he didn’t think so. However, he said no more, and after a while, I began to doze in the sand. I calculated that it would be daylight before Freckles could possibly be back, and sleep seemed better than an insoluble argument. In fact, the only thing that mattered as far as I was concerned was that, fluke or no fluke, the darned blighter had successfully kept me out of my bed.
It was the sun’s rays shining direct on my face that woke me. Hugh was still sitting beside me, and as I stirred he looked round.
“I hope to heaven nothing has happened to that youngster,” he said in a worried voice.
I was wide awake in an instant: that possibility hadn’t dawned on me up till then.
“I ought to have gone myself,” he went on. “He’s but a baby. I’ll never forgive myself if he’s come to grief.”
He rose and stared down the road, and I joined him. Visibility was poor, as the ground mist had not yet lifted, and after a while he began to fidget uneasily.
“I’ve got a good mind to go and look for him,” he said. “It’s three hours now since he started.”
“But surely,” I said, “they wouldn’t be such fools as to lay him out. They don’t want to attract attention to themselves.”
“I don’t think they are going to kill him and leave him in a ditch,” he grunted. “But we’re up against an absolutely unscrupulous bunch, Peter. And whoever removed our plugs must have known one of us would go for more. What easier than to lie up – then dot that boy one as he passed? Just to make him talk when he came to. He’s loyal all right – but don’t forget his girl is there. And that would tend to spoil his nerve.”
“Look here, Hugh,” I said seriously, “we’ll have to hand this thing over to the police. All joking apart, it’s got a bit beyond our form. As you say yourself, that girl is inside Granger’s house.”
“I suppose you’re right, Peter,” he said regretfully. “But it does seem cruel hard, doesn’t it? The point about the whole thing though, is this. What are we going to say to the blighters? After all, as far as I can see, the only actual offence that has been committed as yet, is the removal of our plugs. And we don’t know who did it. Making a rope ladder is a perfectly legitimate occupation: flashing red and blue lights is not a criminal offence. The person to go to the police, if anyone, is Granger himself. And he won’t. It’s not all as easy as it looks, you know.”
I was silent: what he said was undoubtedly true. Even if we showed them the note written by the unknown, our case was decidedly thin. More than likely they would regard it as a stupid practical joke, and in addition to that, view us with considerable suspicion for our share in the night’s activities. At the same time one could not get away from the feeling of responsibility with regard to the girl, and I could see that Hugh was not too happy in his mind about it either.
“It is this way as I see it, Peter,” he went on after a while. “And honestly it is not because I want to keep this bit of fun and laughter to ourselves that I say it. If we tell the police what little we know about this show up to date our connection with it automatically stops. We pass out of the picture. Now the police are trammelled by all sorts of rules and regulations: in other words they are not free agents. They have to obtain warrants and things of that kind before they can move a step. Would it not therefore be better to keep matters in our own hands at any rate until we know a bit more? Then if we think it necessary, or if there seems to be the slightest danger threatening that girl we’ll tell them all we know.”
“You darned old hypocrite,” I laughed. “Have it your own way.”
And once again we fell silent, staring down the road. The mist was lifting gradually, though it was still impossible to see any distance.
Out to sea was a tramp homeward bound, and the occasional wail of a siren showed that the fog was not confined to the land.
And suddenly Hugh heaved a sigh of relief; a figure trudging wearily along had come in sight. It was Freckles with the parcel of plugs clutched
in his hand.
“Hell take it,” he said as he came up. “I’ve had the most frightful time. An old woman in a nightcap bunged a bucket of water over me in one garage: thought I was tight or mad. No one could understand why I wanted six of the damned things. I’ve walked about eighteen miles.”
“Did you see anyone on the way, young fellow?” asked Hugh.
“Not a soul,” grunted Freckles. “Except a tramp asleep in a ditch. Lucky devil – I very nearly joined him.”
He got into the car, and lay back wearily.
“Home, John, home. I’m just about done in.”
“Right ho! my son,” said Hugh. “You shall be between the sheets very soon now.”
He tightened up the last plug, and closed the bonnet.
“Hop in, Peter,” he cried “Taking everything into consid-eration I’d sooner get past the coastguard station before they are all awake. What the dickens is that?”
We had gone over a bump in the road, and an extraordinary metallic clang had come from behind the car. He got out, and I followed him. And when we got to the back of the car, for a moment or two neither of us spoke. There are times when the power of speech fails one.
Hanging on to the luggage grid, attached by a short piece of string, were our six original sparking plugs. And in the middle of them was another small note.
“‘Your plugs, I believe,’” read Hugh, and just then Freckles’ face appeared over the hood.
“What did you say?” he spluttered.
“Keep calm,” said Hugh weakly. “Remember your aged mother.”
“You mean to tell me,” remarked Freckles, in a choking voice, “that those plugs were there all the time?” He swallowed once or twice, and over the next minute I will draw a decent veil. Even Hugh listened in admiration to the flood of rhetoric that poured forth, and he is no mean artist in that line himself.
“Laddie,” he said gravely, when Freckles paused for breath, “I had no idea that such language was known to anyone under forty.”
“I would put him,” said Freckles broodingly, as the car drew up at the house, “on a hard concrete surface. And then I would cover him all over with sparking plugs. And then having pegged him down I would take a roller of medium weight, and passage it backwards and forwards over his vile body, pausing occasionally to jump on his stomach with hobnailed boots. Yea – thus and more would I do to that offspring of Beelzebub. And if any sparking plugs were over I would ram them down his mouth with a sledgehammer.”
“Run away to bed,” laughed Hugh and Freckles departed muttering horribly. And not until his door had closed did Hugh grow serious again. He wanted less sleep than any man I’ve ever known, and my immediate need of it had been met by the two hours I had had in the sand dunes. And now as we stood by the dining-room window staring over the Marsh I could see his brain was busy once more.
“What was the idea, Peter, of that little jest?’’ he said at length. He was holding the note in his hand as he spoke. “Was it in reality what he says here – a small warning and punishment?”
“Why should you think otherwise?” I asked.
“This morning,” he said, in an unusually quiet and serious tone of voice for him, “I had a very queer sensation. I got it first of all when you were asleep. I suddenly became convinced that there was someone else there. I saw no one: I heard no sound. Nevertheless the feeling was strong on me that we were not alone: that somebody else was watching us. In those sand dunes, of course, you could hide a battalion of infantry. Footmarks disappear as soon as they are made. It was hopeless to try and explore, but for all that I believe there was someone there.”
“And if there was,” I said, “what do you deduce from it?”
“That the object of the plug episode was a little deeper than appears on the surface: that there was more in it than to make us temporarily annoyed and inconvenienced. Mark you – I don’t know. It is all surmise on my part, and surmise moreover based on what may be a false start. There may have been no one there at all. But if there was then I think that the main object of the thing was to enable the watcher to take stock of us considerably more closely than any of the opposing side have been able to up to date.”
“Assuming for the moment that you are right,” I said, “have you any theory as to who the watcher was?”
He shook his head.
“None at all. I’ve got no theories on the thing at all. But one thing I do know, though you will probably call me every kind of an ass for saying so. I feel it instinctively. There is someone in this show who is infinitely more dangerous than that specimen making the rope ladder, or than the Vandalis. I sense his influence behind them. Whether he is the leader or not, or whether he is quite separate I can’t tell you – but he’s there. Further, I believe that it was he who first of all tried to out me with the chimney-pot, and having failed there decided on other measures and lay up this morning to study us.”
“The man we saw at Spragge’s Farm,” I suggested.
“Possibly: possibly not. Time will show. But the solution lies at present in the Dolphin, and when you turn in I’m going to see what there is to be seen there. Probably nothing, but there’s no harm in having a try.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said, but he refused to allow me to.
“I can do without sleep,” he remarked, “and you can’t. Go and turn in, old boy, and I’ll have a bit of shut-eye this afternoon.”
I went up to my room and slowly undressed. In front of me lay the Marsh, bathed in the early morning sunshine. The mist had quite gone: only a haze over the sea still remained. For a while I stood by the open window staring at Spragge’s Farm, but there was no sign of life. Then with a feeling that the whole thing was an unreal dream I got into bed. And the next thing I knew was the sound of Hugh’s voice.
“Wake up, Peter. It is half-past twelve. Time for a spot of lunch.”
“Did you find out anything?” I said as I scrambled out of bed.
“Not very much,” he answered. “I went over the list of visitors, but got no farther. There is, however, one thing I noticed that gives one to think a little. The Vandalis’ room is Number 18. Now Number 18 is on the first floor. It stands at the corner of the passage, and is directly above the little room leading off the hall. Do you see the significance?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “We weren’t talking loud enough to be overheard through the ceiling. Besides Vandali was in the room.”
“But the lady was not,” he retorted. “Think again, Peter. Number 18 undoubtedly possesses a fireplace, though I haven’t been into it to see. The flue of that fireplace must lead into the main one which communicates with the huge chimney in the room below – a chimney which would act as a glorified megaphone. It is a point anyway to bear in mind.”
He left me to finish dressing, and ponder over this fresh development. It undoubtedly was a point to bear in mind, and if he was correct it accounted for a great deal. More than likely words spoken in the little room below, even in a low tone, would be heard perfectly distinctly by anyone listening-in just above the chimney.
“John is coming to lunch,” he said as I joined him below. “Moreover, he is bringing the plan of Temple Tower. And that is another point, Peter, which is going to have a bearing on the situation. The possession of that plan is a very big asset in our favour. For without it, as far as I can see, no one is going to get inside the house. Our friend of the Marshes may get inside the grounds, but there he will stick.”
He swung round as a car pulled up at the door. “Here he is. Morning, John. Got the necessary?’’
“I have not,” said the other coming into the hall. “Look here, Hugh, you didn’t play a damn fool practical joke on me last night, did you?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he answered. “Why?”
“You remember that plan I was te
lling you about – the one of Temple Tower?”
“I do,” said Hugh, sitting up suddenly. “You were going to bring it over this morning.”
“I know I was. And I haven’t, for a very good reason. Someone broke into Laidley Towers last night, and stole it.”
CHAPTER 5
In which we come to the wood at Temple Tower
For a while we stared at him in silence, and at that moment Freckles came down and joined us.
“You’re certain, John,” said Hugh at length, “that it isn’t hidden away in a drawer somewhere?”
“Of course I’m certain, old man,” answered the other. “The darned thing was framed, and it used to hang in a corner of the hall. When I went to get it this morning it wasn’t there. I sent for the butler, and he swore on his Bible oath that it was there yesterday. Besides, there is more to it than that. It appeared that when we were at dinner last night, a man called to see me. One of the footmen answered the door, and told him that I had a party. The man looked all right apparently, and when he said that he would wait and that I was not to be disturbed on any account, the footman showed him into a room off the hall. Then the darned fool forgot all about him for some time. As soon as he remembered he went back to the room, and found that the bird had gone. He made a hurried survey, and when, as far as he could see, nothing was missing, he decided that his best policy was to say nothing about it. Of course when I found out what had happened, I gave him hell. He was very contrite about it: assured me again and again that the man had looked like a gentleman: that he had driven up in a car and all that. But when it came to describing him to me it was hopeless. He gave a description that would fit a hundred people. And all he could really say was that he would know him again if he saw him.”
“It just bears out what we were saying, Peter,” said Hugh thoughtfully. “Where were we discussing the plan? Why, in the little room again. And we were overheard there. It stands to reason. An old plan of Temple Tower is of no earthly value to anybody, unless they are connected with this business. A pony to a tanner it is the woman. By the way, John, I suppose it wasn’t our bearded friend who visited you?”