by Sapper
“And so, on your theory,” said Hugh, “we are going to be the last bunch of pussy cats for the monkey. Supposing we refuse to play?”
“Nothing would please him more,” laughed Matthews. “Though we have the easiest method of spotting the tree, there are others. A thing like that is not going to deter le Bossu. And if we refuse to play we leave him a free hand. Besides, our friend is quite a good enough judge of human nature to know that you are not going to let me down. I’ve got to play, any way.”
“My dear fellow,” cried Hugh horrified, “I was only jesting. Why, great Scott! this is where the fun begins. We’ll dot him one all right.”
“The only point,” said Freckles doubtfully, “is this. Now that we know Picot is le Bossu, oughtn’t we to say something to the police?”
“The old, old difficulty,” answered Matthews. “The difficulty which confronts us at every stage in our career. I speak as a policeman myself. We know – or we think we know: but can we prove? And at this stage of the proceedings we lay ourselves open to very grave censure for not having spoken sooner. Catch him in the act, and it becomes a very different matter. We have a definite result to show: a tangible asset. Besides” – his voice sank a little, and the dreamy look I had seen before came on his face – “he’s my meat.”
“Your meat he shall remain, old lad,” laughed Hugh. “We’ll just come along and help in the mincing.”
And at that moment Pat Verney screamed. She was staring at the window, and as I swung round I had a momentary glimpse of Jean Picot’s face pressed against the pane. His features were distorted with rage: his eyes were fixed on Victor Matthews. For a second I saw it, and then it seemed to me that the crack of a revolver and the sound of breaking glass were simultaneous with the lights going out. A bullet went past my head with a wicked ping, and a further crash of glass showed that no one was hit.
“Le Bossu,” shouted Matthews. “After him.”
“Who put out the light?” came Hugh’s quiet voice.
“I did,” cried Matthews. “I’m by the switch now. Somebody stay with Miss Verney: come on the rest.”
“No earthly use,” said Hugh. “The night is too dark. But I wish the damned fellow wouldn’t break my glass. I think he was having a pot at you, Matthews.”
“I’m quite certain of it,” he answered.
“Good God! The door is opening,” yelled Freckles.
And even as he spoke, there came a half-strangled shout which turned into a hideous gurgling noise. It ceased as abruptly as it had begun, and then the door shut again.
“Lights,” said Hugh curtly. “And, Peter, keep your gun handy.”
But the light revealed nothing except an almost incredible sight. Victor Matthews, with his hand to his throat, and his eyes staring, was half crouching, half lying against the wall. His lips were moving, but only inarticulate sounds came from them. And on his face was a look of utter terror. Hugh sprang to the door and flung it open. The hall, which was dimly lighted, was empty, but the front door was open. And after a time he came back into the room.
“Our old pal le Bossu going all out,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Undoubtedly a gentleman of nerve.”
“Two hands – got me – by throat,” gasped Matthews, and still the terror remained on his face. He was peering fearfully round the room, as if he expected le Bossu to materialise once more, and every now and then a long shuddering sigh shook him.
“Spot of whisky?” said Hugh. “By Gad! that’s calm, you know,” he went on as he crossed to the sideboard. “First of all he has a pot shot at you: and then he comes into the bally house, and says ‘How d’you do?’”
“Do you require anything, sir?” Denny had quietly materialised. “I thought I heard a shot.”
“Just go and say ‘shoo’ at the front door, my trusty fellah,” said Hugh. “But mind you don’t get strangled or anything. If you think it is likely, call me.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I lock up after that?”
“Yes – lock up. But say ‘shoo’ two or three times, as if you meant it. And then bring some more glasses. And beer. You know,” he continued as Denny left the room, “this bally fellow is growing on me. Peter – for sheer nerve he’s got old Carl Peterson beat to a frazzle.”
“At any rate,” I said, “it has definitely settled one thing. Picot is le Bossu.”
“That is so,” he agreed. “And it seems to me that the thing to do now is to lay out our plan of campaign, provided, that is to say, Matthews is feeling fit enough.”
“I’m all right now, thanks,” said Matthews. “The thing was so completely unexpected that it shook me for a moment.”
“I’ll bet it did,” said Hugh. “Deuced nasty business having a bird like that keeping his hand in on you. Did you say ‘shoo,’ Denny?”
“Three times, sir,” answered the butler, putting down the beer. “Only a cat responded to the threat.”
“Good,” said Hugh. “We may not cut much ice with old Picot, but with cats we’re perfect devils. Now the next move, Denny, is with Mrs Denny. Ask her to go and ferret round in Mrs Drummond’s gear and get the necessary wherewithal for Miss Verney for tonight. Miss Verney will sleep in the green room. Now, what about you, Matthews? I think you’d better stay as well. You can sleep in my dressing-room – afraid it is the only one left. And you can sleep soundly, because the only way into it is through my wife’s and my room. So that if old Picot returns we can give him a thick ear between us.”
“Thank you, Captain Drummond,” said Matthews. “I’ll accept your offer with pleasure.”
He had quite recovered, and the colour had come back to his face. He now appeared almost amused at the whole thing: Hugh’s very matter-of-fact conversation seemed to have pulled him together.
“Splendid. Very well then, Denny – that’s all settled. Lock up everywhere, and then you can turn in. Now,” he went on, as Denny left the room, “tomorrow, at crack of dawn, somewhere round about ten o’clock, Miss Verney, accompanied by Scott, will repair to Temple Tower. Having arrived there, while Miss Verney gets her kit, Scott will wander round the grounds, get the tower and the eastern turret in line and then mark the tree so that we shall know it again. That clear?”
“Absolutely,” said Freckles.
“Right. Then I suggest, Miss Verney, that you should push off to bed. You must be completely exhausted. And don’t feel alarmed: you’re quite safe.”
“I’m not a bit frightened,” she answered. “And I think I will go: last night was not a particularly restful one.”
“I’m for the shore, too,” said John. “Any chance of that bally fellow coming back?”
“Always a chance,” said Hugh. “But we’ll shutter all the ground floor, and unless he’s a cat burglar as well as a strangler, he won’t get in. Off you push: there will be mighty little sleep for anyone tomorrow night. How’s the neck, Matthews?” he went on, when the other three had gone.
“Quite recovered. But when next I meet Picot…” He paused expressively. “And that will not be till tomorrow night. Our friend, I am open to a small bet, will not be much in evidence by day.”
“No,” agreed Hugh. “Probably not. Well, would you like me to show you your room?”
He led the way upstairs, and I mixed myself another drink. Used as I was to Hugh’s methods and moods, there was something about him tonight that I couldn’t quite understand. His complete calmness and nonchalance under the most unusual circumstances I was accustomed to, and his manner, since the attack on Matthews, had been just what I should have expected. But there was an underlying something that beat me. No one else would have noticed it, but then no one else in the room knew him as I did. And when he came down the stairs again I tackled him.
He gave a lazy grin.
“It’s his gall, old Peter, his gall, that tickles me to death. P
lastering notices on my trees, and then doing target practice amongst the crockery. Damn the fellow, it might be his house. And then to come in and give poor old Matthews the once over.”
“But why the devil didn’t you go after him?” I cried.
“Nerve shaken, old boy,” he said earnestly. “I assure you I was all of a tremble.”
“Confound you, Hugh,” I laughed, “don’t talk such appalling tripe to me. There’s something at the back of your ugly face.”
“A desire for beer, Peter. More beer. Much more beer.”
He lit a cigarette, and, with his eyes half closed, he lay back in his chair blowing smoke rings. And now I knew I was right: it was the attitude he invariably adopted when he was thinking. Absolutely motionless, save for the movement of his arm as he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, he sat there staring at the ceiling. Then, quite suddenly, he began to laugh gently to himself.
“That’s it, Peter. Gall to the nth degree.
But, by Gad! old boy, a dangerous man to play games with – damned dangerous. I wouldn’t miss tomorrow night for a thousand pounds. As Matthews says – it all fits in. As far as I can see, there isn’t a flaw up to date but what is he going to do when he finds us sitting over the entrance to the passage? It won’t be too easy for the bird.”
“My own impression is that he will do nothing,” I said, “for the simple reason that there will be nothing to do.”
“Think so?” he laughed. “Well, well – we shall see. Another pint, old boy, and then what about a little shut-eye?”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.
“This and that, Peter,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, I think I shall take it easy. Do accounts, or something of that sort.”
“Do accounts?” I gasped. “If you weren’t so damned large, Hugh Drummond, I should welt you good and hearty.”
I stood up: I was beginning to feel infernally sleepy. But when I reached the top of the stairs Hugh was still in the same attitude, with a fresh cigarette between his fingers. And from what I knew of him it was more than likely that he would remain there for hours. Something was worrying him, though for the life of me I couldn’t see what. The one big problem – the identity of le Bossu – was solved. And the only thing that I couldn’t see – as I said to Hugh – was what le Bossu could hope to do against five of us the following night.
I slept like a log, despite the stiffness of my neck, and arrived down to breakfast before anyone except Victor Matthews.
“Le Bossu’s neck treatment seems to be conducive to early rising,” I said.
“Yes,” he laughed. “And somebody else was up pretty early, or stayed up mighty late. Your reporter friend has spread himself.”
He passed over a copy of the Folkestone Courier, and I glanced at it. Undoubtedly Matthews was right: Ferret-face had wallowed in it.
AMAZING CRIME ON ROMNEY MARSH.
Incredible Triple Murder and Suicide
Mystery of the Walled House
The headlines shrieked at one, and I ran my eye down the page. It contained nothing that we did not know already, but one point became increasingly clear, as I read on. Before many hours were out, there would be hordes of people on the spot, armies of reporters. The account in the London papers was brief – just a summary of what had happened. But with the Folkestone Courier giving tongue as it had, the other papers would be sure to follow suit.
“Get off as soon as you can, Miss Verney,” said Hugh after breakfast. “It strikes me that this road is shortly going to look like Egham on Gold Cup day.”
She started off with Freckles five minutes later, and he turned to Matthews.
“What’s your programme?” he asked.
“Jean Picot,” answered Matthews tersely. “There is no other problem. And though I don’t think there is the smallest chance of my seeing him today, there is no harm in trying. There is nothing to do until tonight, and so I shall go into Rye and nose around.”
“Good,” said Hugh. “As you say, it can do no harm.”
And when John decided that he would go back to Laidley Towers, the same arrangement as the previous day was fixed up. He would drop Matthews in Rye, and pick him up again on his return in the evening.
“That leaves only the old firm, Peter,” said Hugh, as John’s car disappeared through the gates. “And what does the old firm do?”
“Accounts,” I grinned.
He was staring thoughtfully over the sun-baked marsh.
“Quite right,” he said, “accounts. To settle accounts is always an excellent thing to do. But in view of the fact that you bore the burden and heat of the day yesterday, I would like you to take a rest today. I want you to stay here. You can knit yourself some underclothes, or indulge in any other form of dissipation you like. But stay here and keep your eyes skinned.”
“What are you going to do yourself?” I demanded.
“Settle accounts,” he repeated. “Or, at any rate, do the preliminary bookwork. And if you’ve got no other way to occupy yourself, ponder on one thing. If you saw that plan sticking out from under the bed, why was le Bossu suddenly stricken with blindness?”
So that was what had been worrying him the night before. If his words had any significance at all, he was implying that le Bossu had dropped the plan on purpose: that it was no accident and he had intended me to pick it up. And the notion was so completely novel that I must have stood for quite five minutes after the roar of the Bentley had died away, staring down the drive.
All of us, and most certainly I personally, had assumed that the dropping of the plan had been a slip. We had based our plan of action on that theory: we had, in military parlance, appreciated the situation from that point of view. And here was Drummond quietly suggesting to me that the whole of our foundation was faulty.
I sat down and began to weigh up the points for and against. And the more I thought of it, the more likely did it seem that he was right. Le Bossu had been in no hurry: he had quietly and systematically packed, taking about half an hour over it, and had then left. Was it likely that he would have dropped such a valuable asset as the plan, or, having dropped it in a distinctly conspicuous place, that he would not have seen it? Against that, why in the name of fortune should he have done it at all?
Matthews’ theory that he would still carry on was based on the idea that, though he had lost the plan, he would turn his loss to good account, by letting us find the entrance for him. But it put a very different complexion on matters if he had arranged for us to have it. To make the best of a bad job was comprehensible: deliberately to make the job bad was not. And it was absurd to say that only by using Miss Verney could the location of the entrance be found. There must be other ways, even though she afforded the simplest.
The devil of it all lay in the fact that this new idea complicated things so much. While it had been left as an accident – as a slip on le Bossu’s part – everything had seemed plain sailing. Now that we knew who he was, it had only seemed to be a question of waiting until he walked into our hands, either in the grounds of Temple Tower, or somewhere outside. But this notion of Drummond’s, if it was correct, altered the whole situation. What was at the back of le Bossu’s mind, that had caused him to do it? He must know that we would take advantage of the verse and would find the entrance. Then why had he done it? And the more I thought of it, the more utterly incomprehensible did it seem.
Unless – I sat up suddenly – unless the whole thing was a trap. Step by step I traced it from the hypothesis. Le Bossu wished to get rid of us, as he had got rid of the other four who stood in his way. He wanted to murder us, as he had murdered them. But with us he was confronted with a difficulty: he couldn’t get us individually as he had got them. We were always together. So he decided to try and do us in collectively. He presents us with a definite spot to gather together at, and prepa
res that spot beforehand, with some infernal machine like a bomb.
I checked there: how could he find the place? He might have got into the grounds after he had left us the preceding night – waited for the first faint streaks of dawn – and found it then. But in that case why didn’t he beat it while the going was good, and go straight on into the house? So that wouldn’t do.
And then in a flash it came to me. The spot was not prepared, but le Bossu was. Once when we were bunched together there, he would steal as near as he could in the darkness, and throw a bomb amongst us, either killing or wounding the lot. Then he would go calmly along the secret passage, probably murder Granger, take the jewels and clear out. If alarm was caused by the explosion of the bomb, he would trust to luck to escape in the confusion.
Once again the incredible audacity of the man staggered me. That I had hit the only possible solution, once granted Hugh’s theory was right, seemed to me obvious. There could be no other reason which would have caused him to give us a piece of information, which above all others it would seem he would have kept to himself. And the objection which might be advanced – namely, that without the plan we should not have found the spot – was easily met. True, we might not have found the exact spot, but we should have been wandering round in the locality. We had already interrupted him once, when he was killing the wretched Gaspard, and he was not going to run the risk a second time. And as the full realisation of the man’s cold-blooded ferocity sank into my mind, I was inclined to agree with Hugh that compared to him, Carl Peterson had been a turtledove.