The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Without waiting for more, Markfield strode off to his car and soon Dr. Ringwood saw the red star, his only point of contact with the real world, slip away from him and vanish in the fog. When it had gone, he let his clutch in and began to grope his way laboriously along the pavement-edge and into Lauderdale Avenue.

  The fog was as thick as ever, and he had some difficulty in detecting even the breaks at the edge of the pavement which indicated the positions of house-gates. The walls of the gardens were concealed behind the climbing curtain of vapour. He counted seven entrances and was well on the way to the next when suddenly the roar of a horn made him lift his eyes to the spaces ahead; two golden discs shone almost upon him and only a wild wrench at the wheel saved him from a collision as the strange car swept past on the wrong side.

  “Damn their eyes!” he grumbled to himself. “People like that should be hanged. No one has a right to go barging along at twenty miles an hour on a night like this, hustling everyone out of their way. And on the wrong side of the road, too.”

  In his swerve he had lost touch with the pavement and he now crept back to the left, steering in gently for fear of rubbing his tyres on the kerb. Then he began counting the gates once more.

  “Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve. It’s the next one.”

  He passed the next gate and drew up just beyond it. Then reflecting that it was hardly safe to leave a car on the street in a night like this, he got down from his seat and went across the pavement to open the gate of the short drive leading up to the house. The entrance was clear, however, and he was about to return to his car when a thought struck him and he lit a match to examine the pillar of the gate.

  “No number, of course!” he commented in annoyance. “Ivy Lodge. This must be the place, anyhow.”

  Returning to his car, he backed it past the gate and then drove in and up the carriage-way. Just in time, as he came near the front door, the lights of a standing car warned him and he pulled up short to avoid a collision. Shutting off his engine, he got out and approached the house, passing a lighted window as he did so. The standing car was empty, and he climbed the steps to the front door, from which a light was shining. After some searching he discovered the press-button and rang the bell. The fog seemed thicker than ever; and as he stood on the steps and gazed out into it, he could see no lights except those of the empty motor and his own headlamps. The house seemed completely isolated from the world.

  Growing impatient, as no one came to open the door, he rang again; and then, after a shorter interval, he held his finger down on the button until it seemed impossible that anyone in the house could fail to hear the sound of the bell. But still no one appeared. The lighted rooms and the waiting car convinced him that there must be someone on the premises; and once more he set the bell in action.

  As its notes died away again, he bent towards the door and strained his ears to catch any sound of movement within the building. At first he heard nothing; but all at once something attracted his attention: a noise like a muffled cough. Dr. Ringwood hesitated for only a moment or two.

  “Something damned queer about this house, it seems to me,” he commented inwardly. “Technically it’s burglary, I suppose; but if the door’s unlocked, I think I’d better go in and look round.”

  The door opened as he turned the handle, and he stepped softly into the hall. Everything seemed normal in the house. He could hear the ticking of a grandfather’s clock further back on the stairs; but the noise which had first attracted his attention was not repeated. Gently closing the door to shut out the fog, he stood for a moment listening intently.

  “Anybody here?” he demanded in a carrying voice.

  There was no answer; but after a short time he heard again the sound which had puzzled him, evidently coming from the lighted room on the ground floor. Half a dozen swift steps took him to the door which he flung open.

  “Good God! What’s wrong with you?” he ejaculated, as his glance caught the only occupant of the smoke-room into which he had come.

  On a chesterfield, a fair-haired young man was lying helpless. From the red stain on the lips, Dr. Ringwood guessed at a hæmorrhage of the lungs; and the quantity of blood on the boy’s shirt-front and the dark pool on the carpet pointed to the severity of the attack. The youth’s eyes caught the newcomer, and he beckoned feebly to the doctor. Ringwood crossed to the chesterfield and bent down. It hardly needed an expert to see that assistance had come too late. The sufferer made an effort, and the doctor stooped to catch the words.

  “. . . Caught me . . . pistol . . . shot . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . .”

  Dr. Ringwood bent closer.

  “Who was it?” he demanded.

  But that broken and gasped-out message had been the victim’s last effort. With the final word, a cough shook him; blood poured from his mouth; and he fell back among the cushions in the terminal convulsion.

  Dr. Ringwood saw the jaw drop and realised that he could be of no further service. Suddenly his weariness, accentuated by the strain of the drive through the fog, descended upon him once more. He straightened himself with something of an effort and gazed down at the body, feeling himself curiously detached from this suddenly-emergent mystery, as though it were no direct concern of his. Then, in his own despite, his cool medical brain began to work as though by some volition independent of his own. He drew out his notebook and jotted down the few disjointed words which he had caught, lest he should forget them later on.

  Still held by the rigour of his training, he stooped once more and made a close examination of the body, discovering in the course of it two tiny tears in the dress shirt which evidently marked the entries of the bullets which had pierced the lungs. Then, his inspection completed, he left the body undisturbed, noted the time on his wrist-watch, and made a further jotting in his pocket-book.

  As he did so, a fresh idea crossed his mind. Had there been more murders? What about the maids in the house? The one who had rung him up must have been somewhere on the premises, dead or alive. Possibly the murderer himself was still lurking in the villa.

  Too tired to think of risk, Dr. Ringwood set himself to explore the house; but to his amazement he discovered that it was empty. Nowhere did he see the slightest sign of anything which suggested a divergence from normal routine. The cloak-room showed that two men lived on the premises, since he noted hats of two different sizes on the pegs; and there appeared to be three bedrooms in use, apart from the servants’ rooms on the upper floor.

  The next step was obviously to ring up the police, he reflected. The sooner this affair was off his shoulders, the better. But at this point there flashed across his mind the picture of a methodical and possibly slow detective who might even be suspicious of Ringwood himself and wish to detain him till the whole affair was cleared up. That would be a nuisance. Then a way out of the difficulty opened up before him. He remembered paying a visit on the previous night to a butler down with ’flu. When he had seen the patient, the man’s master had come and made inquiries about the case; and Ringwood had been able to reassure him as to the man’s condition.

  “What was that chap’s name?” Ringwood questioned his memory. “Sir Clinton Something-or-other. He’s Chief Constable or some such big bug. When in doubt, go to headquarters. He’ll remember me, I expect; he didn’t look as if much slipped past him. And that’ll save me from a lot of bother at the hands of underlings. What the devil was his name? Sir Clinton . . . Driffield, that’s it. I’ll ring him up.”

  He glanced round the hall in which he was standing but saw no telephone.

  “It’s probably in the smoke-room where the body is,” he suggested to himself.

  But though he searched all the likely places in the house he was unable to find any instrument.

  “They haven’t a ’phone, evidently,” he was driven to admit. “But in that case, I can’t be in Silverdale’s house at all. This must be the wrong shop.”

  Then he rem
embered the moment when the other car had swept down upon him out of the fog.

  “That probably explains it,” he said aloud. “When I had to swerve out of his way, I must have missed one of the entrance gates before I got back in touch with the pavement again. If that’s so, then obviously I’m in the wrong house. But whose house is it?”

  He re-entered the smoke-room and looked round in search of some clue. A writing-desk stood over against one of the walls, and he crossed to it and took up a sheet of paper from a note-paper case. The heading was what he wanted: “Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue, Westerhaven.”

  “That’s what happened,” he reflected, with a faint satisfaction at having cleared the point up so simply. “I’m next door to Silverdale’s place, evidently, I can ’phone from there.”

  It occurred to him that he had better be on the safe side and make sure of his information by adding the name of the householder when he rang up the Chief Constable. A fresh search among the pigeon-holes of the desk produced a letter in its original envelope addressed to “Edward Hassendean, Esq.” Dr. Ringwood put it down again and racked his memory for an association with the name. He had paid only the most perfunctory attention to Markfield’s talk, earlier in the evening, and it was some seconds before his mind could track down the elusive data.

  “Hassendean! That was the name of the cub who was hanging round the skirts of Silverdale’s wife, I believe.”

  He glanced at the body on the chesterfield.

  “It might be that youngster. The police will soon find out from the contents of his pockets, I expect. Besides, the rest of the family will be home soon. They must be out for the evening, and the maids too. That accounts for the house being empty.”

  He pulled out his pocket-book and scanned the note he had made of the boy’s disjointed utterance.

  “Caught me . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . .”

  A flash of illumination seemed to pass across Dr. Ringwood’s mind as he re-read the words. In it he saw a frivolous wife, a dissolute boy, and a husband exasperated by the sudden discovery of an intrigue; a sordid little tragedy of three characters. That seemed to be a plain enough explanation of the miserable affair. Markfield’s suspicions had clearly been fairly near the truth; if anything, they had fallen short of the real state of affairs. Something had precipitated the explosion; and Dr. Ringwood idly speculated for a moment or two upon what could have led to the husband’s enlightenment.

  Then he awoke to a fresh aspect of the affair. The Hassendean family would be coming home again shortly, or else the maids would put in an appearance. The sooner the police were on the premises, the better. In the meanwhile, it seemed advisable to prevent any disturbance of things, if possible.

  Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room, locked the door after him, and removed the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Then, making sure that the front door could be opened from the outside when he returned, he went down the steps and out into the fog once more.

  Chapter Two

  THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

  The box edging of the drive gave Dr. Ringwood sufficient guidance through the darkness down to the gate; and by following the garden wall thereafter, he had little difficulty in making his way to the entrance of No. 26. By the light of a match he read the name Heatherfield on the gate-pillar, but here also there was no distinguishing number. This time, however, there could be no mistake and he groped his way cautiously up the drive until the light over the front door shone faintly through the fog.

  As he went, a fresh complication in the situation presented itself to his mind. What would be the effect if he blurted out the news of the tragedy at Ivy Lodge? If the maid at Silverdale’s happened to be of a nervous type, she might take fright when she heard of the murder and might refuse to be left alone in the house with only a sick companion. That would be very awkward. Dr. Ringwood decided that his best course would be to say nothing about the affair next door, and merely make some simple excuse for going to the telephone. If he could shut himself up while he telephoned, she would learn nothing; if not, then he would need to invent some pretext for getting her out of the way while he communicated with the police.

  He climbed the steps and pressed the bell-button. This time he was not kept waiting, for almost immediately the door opened and a middle-aged woman, apparently a cook, peered nervously out at his figure framed in the fog. Seeing a stranger before her, she kept the door almost closed.

  “Is that Dr. Ringwood?” she asked.

  Then, as he nodded assent, she broke into a torrent of tremulous explanation:

  “I thought you were never coming, doctor. It’s such a responsibility being left with Ina upstairs ill and no one else in the house. First of all, she was headachy; then she was sick; and her skin’s hot and she looks all flushed. I think she’s real ill, doctor.”

  “We’ll see about it,” Dr. Ringwood assured her. “But first of all, I have to ring up about another patient. You’ve a ’phone, of course? It won’t take me a minute; and it’s important.”

  The maid seemed put out that he did not go straight to his patient; but she led the way to the cloakroom where the telephone was fixed. Dr. Ringwood paused before going to the instrument. He bethought himself of a pretext to get this nervous creature out of earshot.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “I may need some boiling water—a small jug of it. Can you go and put on a kettle now, so that it’ll be ready if I want it?”

  The maid went off towards the kitchen, whereupon he closed the door behind him and rang up. To his relief, Sir Clinton Driffield was at home; and in less than a couple of minutes Dr. Ringwood was able to tell his story.

  “This is Dr. Ringwood speaking, Sir Clinton. You may remember me; I’m attending your butler.”

  “Nothing wrong in the case, I hope?” the Chief Constable demanded.

  “No, it’s not that. I was called here—Heatherfield, 26 Lauderdale Avenue, this evening. I’m Dr. Carew’s locum and a stranger in Westerhaven; and in this fog I went to the wrong house—the one next door to here: Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue. Mr. Hassendean’s house. The place was lit up and a car was at the door; but I got no answer when I rang the bell. Something roused my suspicions and I went inside. The house was empty: no maids or anyone on the premises. In a smoke-room on the ground floor I found a youngster of about twenty-two or so, dying. He’d been shot twice in the lung and he died on my hands almost as I went in.”

  He paused; but as Sir Clinton made no comment, Dr. Ringwood continued:

  “The house hadn’t a telephone. I came in here, after locking the smoke-room door. I’ve a patient to see in this house. How long will it take your people to get to Ivy Lodge and take charge?”

  “I’ll be over myself in twenty minutes,” Sir Clinton replied. “Probably the local police will be there about the same time. I’ll ring them up now.”

  “Very well. I’ll see to my patient here; and then I’ll go back to Ivy Lodge to wait for you. Someone ought to be on the premises in case the maids or the family come home again.”

  “Right. I’ll be with you shortly. Good-bye.”

  Dr. Ringwood, glancing at his watch, saw that it was twenty minutes past ten.

  “They ought to be here about a quarter to eleven, if they can find their way in that fog,” he reflected.

  Leaving the cloakroom, he made his way to the nearest sitting-room and rang the bell for the maid.

  “The water will be boiling in a minute or two, doctor,” she announced, coming from the back premises. “Will you need it before you go up to see Ina, or shall I bring it up to you?”

  “I may not need it at all. Show me the way, please.”

  She led him up to the patient’s room and waited while he made his examination.

  “What is it, doctor?” she demanded when he came out again.

  “She’s got scarlatina, I’m afraid. Rather a bad attack. She ought to be taken to hospital now, but on a night like this I doubt if the hospital v
an could get here easily. Have you had scarlet yourself, by any chance?”

  “Yes, doctor. I had it when I was a child.”

  Dr. Ringwood nodded, as though contented by the information.

  “Then you don’t run much risk of taking it from her. That simplifies things. I’d rather not shift her to-night, just in case the van lost its way. But if you can look after her for a few hours, it will be all right.”

  The maid did not seem altogether overjoyed at this suggestion. Dr. Ringwood sought for some way out of the difficulty.

  “There’s nobody at home to-night, is there?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Silverdale hasn’t been home since lunch-time, and Mrs. Silverdale went out immediately after dinner.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Not till late, sir, I expect. Young Mr. Hassendean came to dinner, and they went off in his car. I expect they’ve gone to the Alhambra to dance, sir.”

  Dr. Ringwood repressed his involuntary movement at the name Hassendean.

  “When in doubt, play the medicine-man card,” he concluded swiftly in his mind, without betraying anything outwardly. It seemed possible that he might get some evidence out of the maid before she became confused by any police visit. He assumed an air of doubt as he turned again to the woman.

  “Did Mrs. Silverdale come much in contact with the housemaid during the day?”

  “No, sir. Hardly at all.”

  “H’m! When did Mrs. Silverdale have dinner?”

  “At half-past seven, sir.”

  “Was this Mr. Hassendean here long before dinner?”

  “No, sir. He came in a few minutes before the half-hour.”

  “Where were they before dinner?”

  “In the drawing-room, sir.”

  “The maid had been in that room during the day, I suppose?”

  “Only just doing some dusting, sir. She had been complaining of a sore throat and being out of sorts, and she didn’t do anything she could avoid bothering with.”

  Dr. Ringwood shook his head as though he were not very easy in his mind.