by Miles Burton
The Assistant Commissioner was a wise man, who knew exactly the capabilities of his subordinates, and never interfered with their methods except under pressure of the most urgent necessity. He had the greatest confidence in Young, and felt sure that he would not have acted as he had done unless he had considered it advisable. Something might come of it yet; he knew from experience that clues had a habit of appearing from the most unexpected places.
“It’s a most extraordinary story, Young,” he said, after a pause. “But, as you realise yourself, it’s of more interest to anthropologists than to the police. More than one Act of Parliament prescribes heavy penalties for witchcraft, and I don’t suppose that they’ve ever been repealed. They’re probably still on the statue book, but you’d cause a bit of a sensation these days if you instituted a prosecution for witchcraft. But that’s not the point at the moment. We’re concerned with the murder of this man Whitehead. You’re absolutely free to do as you like. If you think it advisable, go back to High Eldersham and round up the village, by all means. Have a cigarette?”
He handed Young his case, and lighted a cigarette himself. “There’s just this about it,” he continued reflectively. “You know as well as I do that, when a crime has been committed, it sometimes pays to induce a sense of security in the criminal. Many crimes have been brought home to their perpetrators long after the police have appeared to have forgotten all about them. In this case, in my own opinion, nothing will be lost and something may possibly be gained by waiting for a few days. Mind, I don’t want to influence you in any way. You’ve been on the spot, and you know more about it than I do. But, if you agree, I’ll find you another job which will keep your mind off this business for a few days, but will leave you free to meet your friend, Merrion, on the thirtieth.”
Young agreed, readily enough, and after some further conversation he left the Assistant Commissioner’s room. But it was not long before he was summoned there again, to find his chief frowning over a message he had just received.
“Hallo, Young,” he said, as the Inspector entered. “I’ve found the very job to keep you busy for a few days. Did you ever hear of Vincent Faxfleet, a young fellow who writes books and things? There’s a play of his on at the Escorial now.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Young promptly. “I’ve read one of his books. Morbid sort of stuff, I thought, with about as much indecency thrown in as he thought the censor would pass.”
“I didn’t know you were a literary critic. We’ll have to put you on to the job of looking out for immoral literature. However, that can wait for the moment. Vincent Faxfleet was found dead this morning in his flat in Chelsea. You’ll observe that everybody suffering from the artistic temperament flocks to Chelsea. Cause of death, an over-injection of heroin. Syringe found by his bedside, and with it a representative assortment of drugs of all kinds. May have committed suicide, or may have given himself an overdose by mistake. I don’t know which, and I don’t much care. But what I do want to know is where those drugs came from. There seems to be no question of his having had a doctor’s prescription.
“Now, this drug business is always cropping up, and we shall never be able to stamp it out entirely. If people mean to get drugs, they’ll get them, by hook or by crook. Personally, so long as it is confined to a few individuals, here and there, I don’t see that it matters much. The best thing to do with a confirmed drug addict is to let him or her have enough of the stuff to finish them off. What we want to stop is the opportunity for fresh people acquiring the craving. They will only do so when drugs cannot be acquired more or less easily. The possession of this assortment of drugs by young Faxfleet proves that they can be so acquired. You see what I’m getting at, Young?”
“I do, sir,” replied Young. “You want me to find out how Faxfleet got hold of the stuff?”
“Exactly. It won’t be easy. These things are handed along from one person to another, and there’s every possibility of missing a link in the chain somewhere. If you’re not absolutely up-to-date, I recommend you to study the records for a bit. You’ll find there pretty well all we know of the existing methods of distribution. Don’t rely on that too much, for as fast as we find out one dodge, another is substituted for it. There are brains behind this business, as there should be behind any other. You might let me know from time to time how you get on.”
Before the Inspector started on this new investigation, he followed his chief’s advice, and consulted the records. Here he found detailed accounts of what had already been discovered of the means of distributing dangerous drugs. Armed with this information, he proceeded to Faxfleet’s flat in Chelsea, where the sergeant in charge put him in possession of the details.
“We’ve been over the place pretty thoroughly, sir, and this is what we’ve found,” said the sergeant proudly, pointing to a row of half a dozen glass stoppered bottles. “We found those in one of the drawers in the bedroom, tucked away behind a lot of socks and things. They’re most of them more than half full, sir.”
Young strolled over to the bottles and examined them carefully. Each bore a label in a neat handwriting, with the name of the drug upon it; Cocaine, Morphine Hydrochloride, Heroin, and so forth. Some contained minute tablets, others a white crystalline powder. It was, as the Assistant Commissioner had said, a representative assortment.
One thing was immediately clear to the Inspector. No man, however addicted to drugs he might be, could possibly require so many varieties for his own consumption. It was more than probable that Faxfleet had been a link in the chain of distribution, as well as a drug-taker himself. If the source from which he had obtained the contents of these bottles could be ascertained the chain would be traced back one link further towards its origin.
Young left the bedroom and passed into a large room which Faxfleet had evidently used as a study. It was still in the state of disorder in which he had left it; the large table under the window was covered with sheets of paper and odds and ends of correspondence. Young looked over these rapidly, but nothing of any particular interest caught his eye. He then turned his attention to the waste-paper basket. This was filled to over-flowing with opened envelopes, fragments of manuscript in the same handwriting as the labels on the bottles, and similar rubbish. Young turned the whole lot out upon the floor. At the bottom of the basket were at least a dozen empty match-boxes, of a brand specially prepared for smokers.
The Inspector desisted from his task and looked round the room. The original grate in the fireplace had been removed, and an electric heater stood in its place. The room was electrically lighted. There were no signs of pipes, cigarettes, ash-trays, or any of the paraphernalia of the smoker. What in the world did Faxfleet want with all those match-boxes, and where were their contents? There was not so much as a match stand to be seen anywhere.
A puzzled frown crossed the Inspector’s face as he started to walk round the room, examining every object he came to. On a bookcase against one wall was a Japanese bowl, and in this he found what he was seeking. It contained a quantity of matches, which he recognised as being of the same brand as the empty match-boxes. He emptied the bowl on to a sheet of paper. There were only sufficient matches to fill three or four of the boxes, at the most.
Once more he turned his attention to the waste-paper basket, looking this time at the dates of the postmarks on the envelopes which it contained. None of them were more than two days old, and it was therefore a fair assumption that the basket had not been emptied since that time. If the empty match-boxes had been placed in it as recently as that, how had Faxfleet disposed of the remainder of the matches?
A sudden inspiration struck Young. He picked up one of the empty boxes, and examined it closely through a magnifying glass. As he did so, an exclamation of satisfaction escaped him. Adhering to the bottom of the box, and in the joints of the box itself, were a few grams of white powder. The whole thing was now clear to him. The boxes had undoubtedly served as receptacles
for the drugs. The matches had been taken out of them and replaced by drugs, probably made up into packets like a chemist’s powder. Then a layer of matches had been placed on the top. To any casual observer, the box would look as innocent as before. And one could hand a box of matches to any one without attracting the slightest attention, in the street or elsewhere. This no doubt was how Faxfleet had acquired the drugs.
The Inspector returned hot-foot to Scotland Yard, where his suspicions were confirmed. Upon analysis, the white powder in the bottom of the boxes proved to consist of particles of drugs of various kinds. The next step must be to trace, if possible, the source of the match-boxes.
It was obviously useless to base the investigation upon the match-boxes themselves. They were of a brand that is to be found in every place where matches are sold throughout the whole country. But there was another way of approaching the matter. Faxfleet had been a man with a rapidly-growing reputation and, since he made a good deal of money, had a wide circle of friends. Young, by diligent inquiry, discovered those with whom most of his time had been spent recently, and sought them out, male and female.
In the process of interviewing them he learnt many things about the dead man’s habits. He learnt, for instance, that it was an open secret that he resorted to drugs when in search of inspiration. He learnt the details of a particularly sordid little episode, in a fit of remorse for which Faxfleet might well have decided to take his own life. He deduced sufficient from his various conversations to make it fairly certain that Faxfleet had supplied drugs to many of those to which he spoke. But this was following the chain in the wrong direction. He could glean no information whatever as to the next link towards the origin.
Nobody had ever known the dead man to carry a box of matches, much less to buy one. He did not smoke, he did not carry cigarettes about with him to offer to his friends. Those who were sufficiently familiar with his flat knew of the matches kept in the Japanese bowl, to which they were in the habit of helping themselves. So far as they knew, these were the only matches in the whole flat.
Young pointed out that if Faxfleet’s visitors used the matches from the bowl, it must occasionally require replenishing. Surely he must have bought matches for that purpose? But his informants stuck to their previous statements. They supposed that his house-keeper looked after that sort of thing. Not one of them could remember a single instance of Faxfleet having bought a box of matches. It seemed pretty clear that the match-boxes were not passed openly, at any rate.
Then how were they acquired? Faxfleet seemed latterly to have had a distaste for being alone, and Young had no difficulty in tracing his movements over a considerable period. He could account for almost every hour of his time, except a period of about six hours on the day before his death. He had left his flat at half-past nine in the morning, telling his housekeeper that he had business with a theatrical manager. He had walked into his club at half-past three that afternoon. But no theatrical manager that Young could unearth had set eyes upon Faxfleet during that period.
In all probability these six hours had been employed by Faxfleet in procuring the drugs. Of course, he might have transacted other business as well, but, if that had been the case, Young felt that he would certainly have come across some acquaintance of the dead man who would have had knowledge of his actions. But, if the procuring of the drugs alone had taken six hours, it seemed to follow that they were not obtainable close at hand, that a journey of some kind had had to be undertaken. Faxfleet had possessed no car of his own. Young therefore set inquiries on foot among taxi-drivers and others who might have seen him.
Things had reached this stage by the morning of the thirtieth. Young, who had become deeply interested in his new quest, was tempted to break the promise he had made to Merrion. But he reflected that the reports of his assistants could not possibly be complete for another couple of days. Not without some inward reluctance he took an afternoon train to Gippingford. He dined there and, after dinner, hired a car to drive him out to the Rose and Crown, where he arrived shortly after ten o’clock, having been delayed on the road by fog in the valleys.
From what he could see of the village, High Eldersham wore an air of the most profound repose.
Chapter XXV
After Merrion had left the yacht at eleven o’clock on the morning of the thirtieth, bound in the dinghy for Vane Sand, Newport, left to his own devices, set to work to scrub out the forecastle. He tackled the job thoroughly, whistling to himself as he worked. He was thoroughly enjoying the cruise and, knowing his master as he did, looked forward to some interesting development in the near future.
From time to time he put his head up through the hatch and looked around him appraisingly. The mist was certainly growing thicker, developing into a genuine fog, in fact. Already the shore had faded from sight, and out to sea it looked thicker still. Newport wondered how this would affect his master’s plans. He would find it difficult to row back either to the yacht or to the lagoon. But he had a compass with him, and he could always make for the shore and then follow it in whatever direction he desired. Newport satisfied himself that he need not be anxious about Mr. Merrion.
The day wore on without anything happening to disturb Newport’s serenity. He heard in the distance the roar of Mavis’s speed-boat, and imagined that the fog a few miles away must be less dense than where the yacht was anchored. Indeed, during the afternoon it became perceptibly thinner, and Newport regretted that he had orders to stay where he was till sunset. It would have been an admirable opportunity for regaining the lagoon.
The lift in the fog proved to be only temporary, and about five o’clock it came down thicker than ever. Newport had given up expecting his master to return to the yacht. If he had meant to return direct from Vane Sand, he would have been back long before this. He had undoubtedly rowed into the entrance of the river, not caring to run the chance of missing the yacht in the fog. There was nothing for it but to take Alisette round there to meet him as soon as possible after sunset.
Sunset came, and with it very little clearing of the atmosphere. It was not until eight o’clock that the moon pierced the mist sufficiently for Newport to judge it safe to weigh anchor. Had Alisette been his own, he would have started before this, and trusted to his sailor’s instinct to enable him to nose his way somehow into the entrance of the river. But in the absence of her owner, he did not care to take the responsibility, not knowing what plans might be jeopardised if he happened to run the yacht ashore.
He edged warily down the coast, with a sounding line in his hand and the engine running dead slow. He was gazing intently ahead, trying to locate the entrance, when he saw a dark blur upon the water on his port bow. After a little, he made it out to be a boat. He could not see the movement of the oars, and imagined that it contained some fisherman, intent upon his lines.
It was not until he came abreast of it that he saw that it was empty.
“Well, that’s a rum go!” exclaimed Newport softly, as he put up his helm and steered for the boat. “She can’t be anchored out here in the open, surely? Best go and have a look and see what’s up.”
As he approached the boat he saw that she was drifting with the tide, which was now ebbing fast, and that her oars and rowlocks were neatly stowed. He stopped his engine and dropped slowly down to the boat, stretching out and grasping her painter as he did so. “Somebody’s dinghy, by the look of it,” he muttered, as he put the yacht on her course again. “Must have drifted away from somewhere up the river, I suppose. Nobody has fallen overboard from her, that’s certain. The oars wouldn’t be stowed like that if they had. Better take her in with me. Somebody will be looking for her in the morning, sure enough.”
After some little searching, he found the entrance, and brought the yacht to her usual anchorage in the lagoon. Here the mist had almost cleared away, and the moon illuminated the shore clearly. Newport looked round but could see no signs of Merrion or of the yacht’s d
inghy. It was curious, for if Merrion were about he must have heard the sound of the yacht’s engine and the splash of her anchor, which would carry a long way in the still night. The only conjecture that Newport could make was that he had got tired of waiting and gone up the river by himself.
But, reason with himself as he would, Newport could not rid himself of an uncomfortable feeling. The events of the previous evening had left their impression upon his superstitious nature, in spite of his efforts to banish them from his mind. There was something uncanny about this river and the people who lived by it. The very shadows on shore looked mysterious and menacing in the silence of the night, under the cold moon. What if the queer influences which he felt about him had laid hands on Mr. Merrion in the fog?
The unshakable conviction that something was not right fixed itself in his mind. It was now getting on for eleven o’clock, and he could not face the prospect of remaining idly on the yacht when his presence might be badly needed. He fidgeted impatiently, his ears strained for some sound that would indicate the return of his master.
The minutes passed, and the silence grew more intense, more threatening. The thought that he might be badly needed preyed upon his mind until it forced itself upon him as a certainty. Badly needed. Yes, but where? Would it be worth while to follow his master’s tracks, and so endeavour to discover something of his whereabouts?
At last, more from the sheer impossibility of sitting still than because he hoped to do any good, he turned abruptly to the dinghy he had picked up, sprang into it, and cast off the painter. By the time he reached Vane Sand the tide would be low enough for him to land on it. And Vane Sand had been Mr. Merrion’s objective.