These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I think I was depending upon your convictions of self-preservation,” said Vernon. “If I were killed to-night, in this place where you and your friends foregather, the chances of your getting away with it would be very slim. It’d be a bit too apropos altogether. Anyway, I’m not worrying,” he went on cheerfully. “You’re leaping ahead much too fast. I didn’t suggest that you killed Gardien or Elliott either.”

  “I see. In fact, you’d be the world’s most surprised journalist if I told you that I did?” snapped Vale, and the tone of his voice made Vernon jump. He had not imagined that Vale’s mild, humorous voice could utter a tone so trenchant.

  “You’d be about the last person to admit it if you had,” said Vernon, and Vale snapped back:

  “You’re one of those ingenious fellows who can only see one line of thought at a time. You had the great idea of following Strafford to see where the trail led. You got chucked into a barn full of hay for your pains—very suitable, assuming hay to be your natural diet, with an occasional thistle for encouragement. When you saw me with my car conveniently ditched, you thought, ‘Cheer-ho! Here’s more evidence to be collected!’ You gave me a lift, and came to the very spot where it was most convenient for me to have you, and you crown the great work of intelligence by a reconstruction of recent events, complete with motives.” Vale fairly snorted. “I only marvel you’ve survived as long as you have to air your optimism on serious-minded people.”

  Just as Vale concluded his sentence the dining-room door opened, and Strafford appeared. Vale jumped to his feet. “Hallo, Thomas Traherne! I fancy you’ve seen this chap before. He’s an ingenious-minded fellow, full of bright ideas. Perhaps you’d like a word with him.”

  Before Strafford could reply, Vale had slipped out of the door behind him. Vernon, completely taken aback, stared up at the frowning face of Denzil Strafford, and the latter said:

  “Time we had a word or two. I’m tired of the sight of your silly face. What the hell and hades d’you think you’re up to, trailing round after me like a pickpocket?”

  “What I’m up to is my affair, Mr. Simon Grand,” said Vernon coolly. “If you’re interested to know, I reckon I’ve got my money’s worth—more than I expected when I paid for a first-class ticket.”

  Strafford came and sat down at the table.

  “Found out how I killed Gardien?” he inquired. “Or would you like a demonstration? Why don’t you stay at home, muttonhead? You’re out of your depth in all this. Moreover, you’re a blinking nuisance.”

  Vernon got to his feet. There was something very unpacific about Strafford’s attitude as he stood scowling across the table.

  “Want some news for your paper, owl face?” asked the latter truculently, and then the door opened again and Valerie Woodstock appeared.

  “Denzil, Mr. Vale wants to talk to you—at once, please,” she said, her calm, decided voice as cool as though she were asking for a taxi to be called, “and I want to talk to Mr. Vernon.”

  With a tilt of her chin she indicated the door to Strafford, and with a rueful grin he obeyed her gesture.

  “As you will, partner, but he’s asked for a sock on the jaw, and by gad, he’s going to get it some time.”

  With a nod to Vernon which promised a lot, Strafford walked out and the girl advanced to the table where Vernon was standing, completely nonplussed.

  “Shall we sit down and talk like reasonable beings?” she said, pulling out the chair which Vale had recently occupied. “I was very rude to you just now, Mr. Vernon. I apologise.”

  Vernon met her eyes and felt his face grow hot.

  “Pas de quoi,” he murmured. “I expect I asked for it. All’s fair in love and war, likewise in crime and copy-hunting.”

  “That I’ll not dispute,” she said. “I know you’re a journalist. I know you’ve got to be pretty snappy to get news, and that you can’t afford to be too nice over it; but look at the matter from my point of view. I’m not feeling humorous or amused, although I admit there’s something ludicrous about the present situation. Quite frankly, I feel desperate. Murders may be bread and butter to journalists, and playing at detectives may be great fun when you regard the people concerned as pawns or robots. When you realise that they’re human beings—and you care about them—it all looks different.”

  Vernon felt abashed and uncomfortable, and his answer was made with patent sincerity.

  “I’m sorry that you’re distressed over it, Miss Woodstock. I do realise that it’s a rotten situation for you if you’re concerned with the human element in the situation. For me, it’s simply a puzzle.”

  “The cross-word mind again?” she put in, and Vernon nodded.

  “Yes, that and the instinct for news. Forgive me if I sound callous, but when people commit murders, or concern themselves with the concealment of murder or murderers, they automatically become news.”

  “And you assume that I am here on account of Mr. Gardien’s murder?”

  Vernon looked her squarely in the face.

  “I don’t assume anything about you, Miss Woodstock. I didn’t follow you here, I didn’t expect to find you here, and—if you’ll pardon straight speaking—I haven’t gone out of my way to speak to you, or to inflict myself on you in any way.” Suddenly he grinned, his thin boyish face widening into amusement. “You used the word ‘ludicrous’ just now. Doesn’t it just about hit the mark? Why should Graham Coombe’s party reassemble like this at The White Dog? If you were in my place, wouldn’t you be racking your brains to find an answer to that question? I’ve launched my ingenious reconstructions on Mr. Vale to try to test his reactions. He hinted darkly that I had better look out for myself—ergo, he was the guilty party. Strafford asked bang out, ‘Do you want to know how I killed Gardien?’ You rebuke me for my callousness…”

  “… And ask in my turn, ‘Have you guessed how I killed Gardien?’” Valerie Woodstock interrupted suddenly: “Have you included that in your reconstruction?”

  “Is that the great idea?” asked Vernon coolly. “Are you one and all going to say, ‘I killed Gardien and Elliott,’ and reduce the whole proceedings to a farce? Is Mrs. Etherton going to join in the general confession, plus Miss Coombe and Miss Delareign? It’s a beautiful idea, of course,” he ended thoughtfully.

  With elbows on the table and chin in her hand, Valerie Woodstock looked at him fixedly.

  “Talking of testing reactions, what would be yours in this case?” she asked. “If I told you here and now that I killed Andrew Gardien, and gave you chapter and verse for how I did it, would you go to the nearest police station and give information to that effect? Would you treasure the recollection of handing over a fellow-human being to the hangman?”

  Vernon jumped. Her voice had an intensity and depth of feeling which startled him, and he stared back at her, uncomfortably aware of the challenging power in her wide eyes.

  “Answer me that!” she insisted. “It’s not your job to hound down a man to the gallows—nor a woman, either. Think again before it’s too late. What are you trying to do, and are you proud of doing it?”

  She got up suddenly and pushed her hair back from her face with a restless gesture. “Why not go home and forget all this? It’s more difficult to be charitable than it is to be clever, Mr. Vernon.”

  The door opened, and the large figure of Charles Belton stood in the doorway.

  “If you’ve finished in here—?” he began, and Valerie Woodstock turned away.

  “Good-night,” was all that she said as she walked out of the room.

  Charles Belton raised his shaggy eyebrows and looked quizzically at Vernon.

  “Conference finished? What’s it all about?” he inquired, in his deep rumbling bass, and Vernon held out his hands, palms upwards.

  “Search me!” he replied. “If you ask me, they’re a bit batty, the whole boiling of them. D’you want a front page—leaded type—exclusive last-minute write-up for this pub of yours?”

  “I’m damned if I do,”
growled Charles.

  “Sorry about that, because it looks as though you were going to get it,” replied Vernon. “May I monopolise your telephone for a bit?”

  “Hey, what’s that? If you think you’re going to spread yourself over my pub…”

  “You’ll bust the blooming line first?” put in Vernon. “I’m not going to mention your pub. I’m going to put in an overdue account of a London inquest—two London inquests, in fact—to my newspaper. You may listen to me while I do it and enjoy my narrative style. Likewise, if your guests would find it enjoyable, they may listen in to some delectable and edifying essay in the art of condensation, précis and verbal economy. At the first mention of you or your pub, you may dash the telephone from my perfidious hand, crying, ‘Exinanite! Exinanite! to those privileged to attend.’”

  “Well, I’ve met a few crazy customers since I acquired licensed premises,” growled the big man, “but this evening’s party beats the band. Batty? I’ll believe you.”

  “Meaning me?” inquired Vernon.

  “Definitely,” rumbled Charles.

  XV

  Macdonald, once he had got an idea into his head, was quick to act upon it for the purpose of putting it to the proof—or disproof.

  Telephone communication with the police authorities in the neighbourhood of Market and Bishop’s Wraden assured him a lodging at whatever belated hour he put in an appearance. Murmuring, “His rebus adducti” (which remnant of De Bello Gallico, Book I., returned to a mind at present concerned with scholastic reflections), Macdonald busied himself on the outline of a report which he showed to Jenkins before he left Scotland Yard. The chief inspector’s abilities in the line of “précis condensation and verbal economy” far outdid Peter Vernon’s when Macdonald wished to present a report in “tabloid form,” and Jenkins scratched his head over the terse phrases which were offered for his consideration.

  “Well, you’ve got a theory which accounts for Elliott’s death and Gardien’s, complete with names of principals,” said Jenkins; “but proof’s a long way from theory. If you showed this to the old man in its present form he’d tell you not to propound nebulous theories in advance of information. The Elliott explanation’s reasonable enough. The idea cropped up in my own head, I admit, but it seemed a bit silly.”

  “It seemed silly because Gardien was dead, too,” reflected Macdonald. “If Gardien had lived, the evidence in Elliott’s rooms would have forced us to look for a motive, and I reckon the evidence we found in Gardien’s rooms would have gone a good way to hanging him.”

  “Circumstances alter cases,” murmured Jenkins. “I can see the Elliott argument all right. The Gardien business is much trickier, though. Not solid at all. You can urge the locality motive in more directions than one, and the blackmail motive all round. From the point of view of deduction pure and simple, I favour the Strafford-Woodstock combination. The idea of keeping you busy chatting in the little library was good team work.”

  “Well, Strafford’s returned to his native heath with Peter Vernon on his trail, apparently,” said Macdonald, “so it’s probable that I shall find them both in the vicinity of the Wradens. I only hope that Vernon hasn’t made an ass of himself. He’s a shrewd fellow and he’s been useful to us on more occasions than one, but he goes hot-headed at things sometimes, like a bull in a china shop. I’m off to the hub of activities, Jenkins. I’ve got to try out my hunch as fast as I can. If it’s a washout you’ll hear from me early to-morrow.”

  “And if it’s the truth you’ve guessed?…”

  Jenkins tapped the report in his hand and Macdonald frowned a little.

  “It’s the ‘if’ that’s got to be faced by every individual who takes the law into their own hands,” he replied.

  Macdonald, driving in his car, did not reach the village of Market Wraden until midnight. He was met at the market cross by a constable, detailed for that duty, and directed to a house just off the main road, where a room had been reserved for him.

  “Mrs. Bardon’s, that is, sir,” said the constable. “She’s a relation of the superintendent’s. You’ll find he’s there waiting for you.”

  Macdonald was admitted to the small house by a big man whose burly figure seemed to fill the little passageway.

  “Glad to see you, Chief Inspector. I’ve often heard of you and reckon your visit’s a bit of luck for me,” said the superintendent cheerfully. “Come along in. There’s a good fire in here.”

  Macdonald, tired and cold, was glad to see the cheerful fire in the tiny warm room. “It’s good of you to have kept out of your bed waiting up for me,” he said to the other. “I might have waited until to-morrow morning before I came down, but I thought it’d save time if I did the journey to-night and got going first thing in the morning. Since you are here, d’you feel good for a talk?”

  “I do indeed,” replied the other heartily. “My bed can wait. We don’t often have big guns in these quiet parts.”

  “For which you should be devoutly thankful,” said Macdonald. “I often think I’d like a job in a remote rural area, with nothing more enlivening than a spot of poaching to worry over. I’ll give you a bare outline of my present case.”

  They pulled up two chairs to the fireplace, and lighted their pipes, and Macdonald began:

  “Graham Coombe, the publisher, gave a party to ten people; here’s a list of their names. During the evening Andrew Gardien, a well-known writer, was killed by a neatly-worked electrocution outfit. Any of the guests could have arranged the mechanics of the scheme, but only certain of them could have cleared away the apparatus. The names of the possibles are underlined. The others had no opportunity of doing the clearing up because they were never out of sight of their fellow-guests. Do any of the names convey anything to you?”

  Superintendent Bardon studied the sheet of paper which Macdonald held out, puffing away at a gurgling pipe the while.

  “Mr. Denzil Strafford is pretty well known about here,” he said. “His uncle lives at Wraden Abbey. Mr. Ashton Vale, I’ve heard a lot about. He was born in Langbourne and brought up there, though it’s some years since his father died and the house was sold. He’s not been back hereabouts for a long time—not to my knowledge, that is—until this evening.”

  “He’s down here, is he?” inquired Macdonald. “Just a minute before we get on to that, though. Do you know anything about any of the other people?”

  “I’ve seen their names on books and in the newspapers,” said Bardon; “but they’re none of them local people. I don’t know anything about them.”

  “Good. That’s point one. Next, you got our inquiry about Mavory, the chap who escaped your warrant?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought you a photograph of him. We never got his fingerprints. It was before my time. They were slow in getting the business sorted out, and Mavory had disappeared before they thought of looking for him. This photograph was taken from a group—the only one we could get of him. He belonged to a sort of literary club.”

  Macdonald took the photograph held out to him and studied it thoughtfully.

  “Yes. I think it’s the same chap all right,” he said. “He had established himself in London as a literary agent—Mardon-Elliott. He was found shot through the head, having died about the same time as Gardien. I hope the group from which this photograph was taken still exists. It may be illuminating. Having got that point settled, I want to hear about Mr. Vale’s visit to these parts.”

  “Ah! It’s quite a story,” said the superintendent, suddenly beaming over his broad face. “Accounts a bit for me being so happy to keep out of my bed, perhaps, until I’d seen you. That list of names you showed me was very illuminating—to use your word—very descriptive word, too. Our constables have had quite an interesting evening of it. P.C. Robins was patrolling the Wraden-Topham road when he heard a noise of sorts along a little by-road which is only used by farm carts as a rule. Robins was on his bike. As he turned into the byway he heard a car start up in front of him and thought i
t a bit funny. He kept his eyes open as he went, and found there’d been some queer doings at Fox’s barn—doors off the hinges for no reason at all. No sign of accident otherwise. Robins thought it a bit odd, but put things to rights and rode on. About a couple of miles away, this time on the Waynton-Topham road, he saw a car which had been standing in the road move off as he sighted it. A few minutes later he found another car, capsized in the ditch and deserted. That car was Mr. Ashton Vale’s. Investigation during the course of the evening brought in the news that Mr. Ashton Vale was putting up at The White Dog, a very classy inn kept by a gentleman named Belton. This inn is in the parish of Market Wraden. Mr. Vale arrived at The White Dog in a car which belongs to a young gentleman named Gleeson (car and owner very well known hereabouts). It was driven by a gentleman named Vernon, who’s also staying at The White Dog. Vernon arrived there looking as though he’d been pulled through a hedge—or a barn-door—backwards. Robins inquired if there were any other visitors staying at the inn (he knows the barman there). Here’s the visitors’ list: Mr. Vale, Mr. Vernon, Mr. Strafford, Miss Woodstock, Mrs. Etherton. Illuminating, eh?”

  “Very,” said Macdonald. “It throws light on the fact that people with first-class minds can be remarkably stupid when they get agitated. I believe that the intention inspiring several members of that party is to avoid giving information to my department, and their anxiety makes them behave as pointers to the facts they’re endeavouring to conceal. How long have you been in this place, superintendent?”

  “Six years come midsummer. I was up Swindon way before that.”

  “Six years—that ought to be long enough for you to be able to tell me what I want to know. Do you remember any one of the name of Seer living in this district?”