Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  As he reached the front of Fern Lodge, he found Elsie bringing Mrs. Thornaby’s car up to the front door, where some of the party were already waiting.

  “Hurry up, uncle,” his niece advised him. “I’ll take the ones who are here, and you can pick up the rest.”

  Sir Clinton brought out his own car before the first party had time to embark, and the two motors set off in company. On the road to Raynham Parva they overtook the Fern Lodge maids walking towards the village; and Sir Clinton felt a certain relief at finding that his sister had acted on his suggestion about letting the girls take the afternoon off.

  When they reached their destination, they found that Estelle had come down to the gate to welcome them. She exchanged a glance of intelligence with Sir Clinton as he drew up his car, and a suppressed smile hinted that she regarded the success of her manœuvres as amusing.

  “What’s all this I hear?” she demanded, with a very fair imitation of annoyance. “Elsie says you’ve faked up some engagement or other to get off spending the afternoon here. It’s a sample of police manners, I suppose?”

  “Something of the sort,” Sir Clinton agreed. “Nuisance, isn’t it? The loss is yours, which makes me sorrier still, of course.”

  “Well . . .”

  She pretended to be breathless at this suggestion. Sir Clinton gave her no time to complete her phrase.

  “You’ll have quite enough of me before long,” he said consolingly. “I’m thinking of changing my mind and taking the trip to South America with you.”

  He shot a glance at Francia as he spoke; but the Argentiner’s control over his features seemed perfect, for he betrayed nothing to show that this decision put him out in any way.

  “You will? Really?” Estelle exclaimed in obvious delight. “Hear that, Elsie? Your esteemed and doddering uncle means to inflict his company on us. He’ll sit about the decks with some more of the prehistorics and comment angrily on the manners of the new generation, and enjoy himself simply no end. We must arrange to shock him, or he won’t enjoy himself a scrap.”

  She turned back to Sir Clinton.

  “Well, I’ll book you for the first dance we have on board, Uncle Clinton,” she announced, in a tone which showed her real pleasure at learning that he was coming with them.

  Sir Clinton did not wait for any further discussion. With a warning gesture, he re-started his engine, turned his car, and drove off towards the main street of the village, leaving Elsie and Estelle exchanging congratulations on his change of plans.

  Once out of sight, he slowed down the car and moved along the street till he came to the ironmonger’s shop, where he stopped and got out.

  “I’ve lost one of my keys,” he explained to the shopkeeper. “Most annoying, since I want to get the thing open, and it’s locked, I find. I suppose you could let me have something that would do—a bunch of assorted keys, or a pick-lock or two, if you happen to have them. It’s most important that I should get the thing open at once.”

  The ironmonger had recognised him, apparently. Sir Clinton’s arrival had furnished a certain amount of gossip in the village which did not often find a well-known man among its visitors.

  “I’ll send a man up to fix it for you as soon as I can, Sir Clinton.”

  “Oh, don’t bother about that. I think I’m in good enough practice to manage the thing myself.”

  His smile convinced the shopman that the picking of locks was part of the normal work of a Chief Constable.

  “I’m sure you are, sir,” he agreed, with a knowing look, as he bustled about to procure what Sir Clinton wanted. “Here’s some keys for you to look over and see the size you want. I’ll get you some false keys in a moment, too.”

  On his return, he found his customer looking dubiously at the assortment on the counter.

  “A bit stupid of me,” Sir Clinton confessed. “I forgot to measure the size of the keyhole; and I can’t be quite sure of the kind of key I need. Do you mind if I take the lot? I’ll let you have them back in an hour or so.”

  The ironmonger readily agreed; and Sir Clinton set off for Fern Lodge again, armed with a very fair selection of keys. He let himself in with his latch-key and went up to his own room, where he extracted from a suitcase a pair of rubber gloves. Putting these on, and taking the keys, he made his way to the room which Elsie and Francia shared.

  Normally, nothing would have persuaded Sir Clinton to break the ordinary rules of hospitality and to pry into other guests’ affairs; but this was no ordinary occasion, and too much was at stake to allow him to respect conventions. His niece’s life might be in the balance, and he had no intention of abstaining from the task before him merely because it involved breaking some of the unwritten rules of society. Things had got to such a pitch that he intended to learn, by hook or crook, all that could be discovered about Francia’s affairs.

  He set about the business methodically, knowing that he would have the house to himself for some hours to come; but his work proved very much simpler than he had anticipated. None of the drawers or cupboards in the bedroom was locked; and it was obvious that he was hardly likely to find anything important in the open.

  A large attaché-case attracted his attention; and, on trying its catch, he found it locked. Two or three of the ironmonger’s keys failed to open it; but in a very short time Sir Clinton found one which fitted, and the case clicked open. Placing it on the floor near the window, Sir Clinton bent over it and memorised the appearance of the top layer of papers which was exposed; and when he felt quite certain that he could replace them in exactly the original arrangement, he began carefully to remove them and distribute them on the carpet in a definite order which would make repacking simple. He removed paper after paper without reading them and then, as he lifted those in the last layer, he came across what he had expected to find: an automatic pistol. Along with it, on the bottom of the attaché-case, lay a small bottle with a druggist’s label.

  Sir Clinton picked up the bottle, examined the label, and placed the bottle aside. The druggist had not misled him; for this phial in Francia’s case contained the same preparation of ipecacuanha as had been supplied to himself when he asked for a repeat order. Evidently his surmise as to the origin of Elsie’s sick turn had been accurate. That was so much cleared up, at any rate.

  He turned next to the automatic pistol. The smooth surface of the weapon was of the kind which takes fingerprints sharply, and Sir Clinton congratulated himself on the fact that he was wearing rubber gloves. They were a relic of his police career; and they had certainly come in handy on this occasion.

  He gingerly loosed the catch of the magazine, slipped out the container from the butt of the pistol, and counted the cartridges. There were two short of a full load.

  “One in the barrel now, I suppose,” Sir Clinton reflected.

  He slid back the jacket of the pistol far enough to let him look into the breech, and, on turning the weapon towards the window, he caught a glimpse of the brass of the cartridge-case.

  “So he must have fired one shot, evidently,” Sir Clinton noted.

  He lifted the pistol to his nostrils and sniffed at the muzzle. A faint, but unmistakable odour of pistol-fumes was easily recognisable. Sir Clinton’s face showed more than a trace of contempt.

  “Hadn’t even the thoroughness to clean his pistol after firing,” he reflected acidly. “A man might at least have the thought to keep his tools in good condition. The acid will eat into his rifling, apart altogether from the value of the reek of the powder as a clue. I seem to have over-estimated the fellow.”

  He replaced the pistol along with the bottle in the attaché-case, and then began a methodical study of the papers which he had laid out upon the floor. As he finished each one, he replaced it in its proper position in the case. Some of the documents he glanced over without much apparent interest; but as he read on his countenance darkened. Finally he reached the sheet of paper which had lain on the top of the pile—an unfinished letter which Francia had a
pparently slipped into the attaché-case, meaning to complete it at some convenient time. It was in Spanish; but Sir Clinton’s knowledge of the language was sufficient to allow him to translate it roughly as follows:

  “DEAR MENDOZA,—Fifi la Commande reports that the Martigue has quarrelled with her and stopped negotiations; so our commissionnaire is still one short in his consignment. He writes himself to say he is in touch with another Franchucha who might do. One hopes so. He will advise you direct.

  “The remount trade is very bad at present. I have, however, secured four green articles of 21, 22, 23, and 25 kilos., which I am bringing out with me by the S.S. Malta on her next voyage. You can meet the Mihanovich and look them over before they go up country. Well worth your trouble, I assure you—something quite uncommon, and picked up marvellously cheap. The cedullas will be all right, so there will be no chance of trouble this time with the Vigilantes. Tell La Gallina to be ready for them.

  “I am holding back this letter till the next mail in case Henri sends word about the three Polaks he was negotiating for. If he gets them, they are to go via Danzig as usual. One of them is an underweight.”

  Sir Clinton had sufficient knowledge of criminal argot to make most of this cryptic epistle clear to him. The first paragraph apparently dealt with an unsuccessful attempt by a commissionnaire to secure a Marseillaise girl, and his later operations to obtain a second Frenchwoman as a substitute.

  The second paragraph of the letter meant more to Sir Clinton. The “four green articles of 21, 22, 23, and 25 kilos.” he easily translated as “four decent girls of the ages 21, 22, 23, and 25.” Cedullas, he knew, was the technical name for cards of entry into the Argentine, which would save any trouble with the police. La Gallina was obviously the nickname for one of the harpies of the Centre, into whose charge the girls would be given when they arrived in South America. Sir Clinton grimly reflected that Elsie was 22 and Estelle 23. The Anstruther girls would be about 21 and 25, as near as he could judge. There was not much doubt now in his mind as to what Francia was. The reference to the Polak girls in the last paragraph clinched the matter; for Sir Clinton knew something about the way in which the traders of the Centre took advantage of the peculiarities of the Danzig corridor to further their ends.

  He re-locked Francia’s attaché-case and replaced it carefully in its original position, dropping the key which fitted it into his waistcoat pocket. Then, stripping off his rubber gloves, he collected the remainder of the keys and left the room. The whole affair had occupied him less than an hour; and it had given him material for an immense amount of hard thinking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE GOVERNMENT MISSION

  Inspection of his wrist-watch showed Sir Clinton that he had still plenty of time in hand before it would be necessary to go back to Estelle’s and pick up her visitors. He went downstairs, hesitated for a moment in the hall, and then entered the smoke-room, which had become his favourite lounging-place at Fern Lodge. The most comfortable chair stood between the fireplace and the window overlooking the verandah; but the sun was shining brilliantly upon this very spot, so Sir Clinton stepped across the room to draw the curtains and shield the place from the direct rays. When he reached the window, he paused for a moment, gazing out over the still surface of the little lake; then his eyes fell on the shelf which formed the sill of the window, and mechanically he began to straighten out the books which stood upon it. Books were among his weaknesses, and he hated to see them untidy.

  When he had reduced the confusion to some semblance of order, he drew the curtains sufficiently to protect the chair from the sun; then, taking a cigarette from his case, he sat down to review the whole series of events which had led him up to his present position. Although some pieces were still lacking from the puzzle, all the facts in his possession fitted neatly together if certain assumptions were allowed.

  Roca, by some means or other, had tracked to Raynham Parva two of the people concerned in the fate of Marcelle Barrère; and he had succeeded in squaring his account with one of them—Quevedo. That seemed plain sailing, except for the fact that Roca must have had reliable information about Quevedo’s movements on the night of the killing, although he himself had not appeared in the village until after the murder had been committed. That implied a confederate who played the spy on the commissionnaire and passed on to the doctor the information which he needed. The identity of this confederate Sir Clinton put aside for the present, since he had no data from which to draw an inference.

  The fact that Roca had been able to produce an alibi for the night in question did not trouble Sir Clinton much. Ledbury had been satisfied with the evidence of the people at the inn at Micheldean Abbas, who had testified that Roca had been in bed at the time of the murder. That simply meant that he had gone to his room and locked the door. But a door is not the only means of exit from most rooms; there is generally at least one window also: and the fact that his room was upstairs was not likely to prove much hindrance to a man like the doctor, if he wished to leave the house unobserved. The sergeant had made a slip when he accepted that alibi as conclusive.

  Then there was the question of the car which undoubtedly Roca had used when he put an end to Quevedo. Roca professedly had no motor—certainly he had brought none to the inn at Micheldean Abbas or to the Black Bull. But, if he had a confederate, the problem of the car had its obvious solution. The doctor’s accomplice could have brought the car into Micheldean Abbas by appointment, handing it over to Roca, and receiving it back again after the killing of Quevedo. Or he might even have been present at the murder itself.

  After the death of Quevedo, the doctor had evidently turned to the second task which he had set himself; and the two telephone messages which he had sent to Fern Lodge were sufficient to indicate clearly enough the identity of his second quarry: Francia. Roca had evidently intended to utilise the inn at Micheldean Abbas once more to provide him with an alibi; and he had left Raynham Parva on the afternoon before the night of his own death in order to avoid any suspicion falling upon him owing to his presence on the actual spot. He had, in all probability, rung up from some country call-office; and he had expected in this way to leave no trace of his communication with his victim. A letter would have been dangerous, since it might have been preserved, and eventually might have fallen into the hands of the police.

  What bait Roca had offered to attract Francia to the Bale Stones was an immaterial matter now. The activities of agent 7-DH might easily have suggested something which would serve the purpose. Probably the doctor, posing as one of the Centre agents, had proposed to supply Francia with an “article” or a tender “beefsteak” at a remunerative rate. But the matter was of no importance, since clearly enough Francia had not been deceived. Quevedo’s death had put him on the alert. He had suspected something in it beyond the ostensible motor accident; and he had been on his guard when he went to the stone circle.

  The next point to be fitted in was Francia’s visit to the druggist. There seemed to be very little difficulty in accounting for that. Roca had made his appointment in the small hours of the morning—probably alleging some quite reasonable excuse for such an unheard-of time. Francia, having his own suspicions, would find that the hour suited the course of action he had planned, and would agree to it readily. Then he would be faced with the obvious fact that he shared a room with Elsie. If he got up in the middle of the night and left the house, she might awake and miss him—and the whole affair would come out. But if Elsie turned ill, what could be more natural than that Francia should spend the night in the dressing-room and so be free from her observation? She herself would probably suggest the arrangement, if she felt sick. Sir Clinton was not an expert in pharmacology, but he knew that ipecacuanha is comparatively slow in its action. Francia had forced a card by his offer to make a tamarind cocktail—with no tamarinds—which he alone could concoct. He had dropped some of his drug into Elsie’s glass, knowing that it would not act for half an hour or so—long enough to
conceal the direct connection between the cocktail and her sickness. In a new kind of drink, she would be prepared for an unfamiliar taste, and hence the tang of the ipecacuanha would not attract her attention.

  As to what happened in the night, Sir Clinton could do no more than sketch out an imaginary course of events. Francia had waited till the household was asleep. Then he had come downstairs, secured the garage key from the drawer in the hall where it was left at night, let himself out of the house, and taken Sir Clinton’s car from the garage. He had chosen it instead of Mrs. Thornaby’s saloon because a touring car would be less likely to be remembered by anyone who happened to notice it on the roads at that time of night. He had overlooked the danger of the trip-dial of the speedometer, and had simply driven straight to the Bale Stones.

  Apparently he reached the stone circle ahead of Roca, left his car round the turn of the road, and went up to the prehistoric temple, where they had arranged to meet. He must have been suspicious. A man of that sort would be suspicious of everyone; and Quevedo’s death had given him reason enough, if he guessed what lay behind it. He would be ready to seize any chance that was offered.

  Roca arrived in due course; and it seemed safest to assume that he had left his confederate behind him. Francia’s suspicions would have been aroused instanter if two men had appeared. The doctor had taken his precautions, obviously. The false number plates proved clearly enough that he was bent on hiding the identity of his car in view of the coming tragedy. He also arrived before his time; for clearly enough he did not expect to find Francia on the spot when he himself reached the stone circle. Had he thought that likely, he would have had his automatic pistol ready for instant action instead of leaving it with the safety-catch up and no cartridge in the breech.