Queen thought quickly.
‘I’ll run over and see him myself if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Rather confidential. And could you forget it yourself?’
‘Surely,’ said Mr. Petch.
They walked down through the outer office.
On a table by the door Queen saw a pair of pigskin gloves. They were old-fashioned but good. It occurred to him that he had seen them before.
‘Aren’t those young Mr. Artside’s?’ he said.
‘Nothing escapes our police,’ said Mr. Petch with a chuckle. ‘They are. He was in here this morning making some inquiries.’ When Queen looked at him he added blandly, ‘They were confidential, too, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s inconceivable,’ said Tom Pearce.
Luck thought that it was the first time that he had ever seen his Chief Constable shaken.
‘I’ve got his record here,’ said Luck. Pearce looked angrily at the card, but hardly seemed to see it.
‘Regular soldier,’ said Luck. ‘Then in the Palestine Gendarmerie. Then he came to us under the Special Recruitment Scheme, with his rank of sergeant. Joined us down here in 1947.’
‘Which was when this crop of burglaries began.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Have you checked—’
‘I haven’t had time to do it carefully, sir,’ said Luck. ‘But I don’t think he’s got a shadow of an alibi for any of the other jobs. You remember that one we got tipped-off about and put out a dragnet, but missed him by inches. I’ve checked the duty sheets. Gattie was on leave. And another thing. One of his particular jobs was siting those checkposts.’
‘Yes,’ said Pearce. Like all policemen, the thought of treachery in his own force left him cold and furious.
‘Have you ever had any reason to suspect him before?’ he said. ‘Not this, of course. But anything. Slackness, inattention to duty, petty dishonesty.’
Luck could read his superior’s mind like a book. But he was unable to offer him even this salve to his feelings. ‘I always found him excellent,’ he said. ‘A first class man, able and willing and cheerful. Exceptionally courageous, and strong as a horse.
You remember that job he did over at Ascot when the Glasshouse boys tried to throw their weight about—’
‘He got a citation for that, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Blast,’ said Pearce. ‘Blast and curse him. Curse everybody. Curse everything. What the hell are we going to do?’
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t want advice. He wanted a miracle. He wanted the thing never to have happened. Another thought struck him.
‘How old is Gattie?’
Luck looked at the card and said, ‘Born 1920.’
‘Well that disposes of one idea,’ said Pearce. ‘He couldn’t have had any hand in the previous series – unless he was organising them at the age of ten.’
‘Even that won’t do,’ said Luck. ‘He’s shown here as born Trinidad. I believe his father was a sugar foreman. He didn’t come to this country until 1934.’
Pearce said, ‘If the team idea is right, Gattie must have joined up with his predecessor somewhere about 1947. In other words, as soon as he was posted here. If he was in the regular Army – say he joined in 1938 – then the war came pretty quickly after that – then he was in Palestine. You see what I mean? He’d have been kept too busy to organise anything like this. I think he, personally, must have started from scratch in 1947. He was the hands. The other person, who had the experience and the contacts and the know-how, was the brains.’
‘It could have been someone he met in the Army,’ suggested Luck.
The two men looked at each other thoughtfully.
The telephone rang and Pearce hooked off the receiver.
‘It’s for you,’ he said.
‘Me, sir. Queen,’ said the voice at the other end.
Luck listened, and at the end said, ‘Well, that’s that. It’s nice to know. I’d like you to come back to the station and stand by. We look as if we may be having a busy day.’
He rang off.
‘That was Queen, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s been making some inquiries for me. Gattie’s over at May Heath on an all day job. We could take him off it. I thought on the whole we’d let it run and talk to him when he gets back in the evening. Incidentally he’s carrying a knife. I noticed the retaining loops in that pannier affair – about eight inches long. A commando type, probably. There was one other thing’—he spoke with studied moderation—’Queen’s been looking into the question of ownership of the land where we found the motor-cycle. It’s absolutely possible that Gattie was using the barn without the owner knowing anything about it, but I thought it might have given us some sort of line, you see.’
‘Has it?’ said Pearce.
‘I hope not,’ said Luck soberly. ‘The land all belongs to the Clamboys estate. It was bought about twenty years ago. Most of it’s let to farmers, but that piece with the barn and the lane and the spinney lies between two farms, and doesn’t actually go with either of them.’
The two men looked at each other with a wild surmise.
‘Mr. Cleeve,’ said Inspector Luck.
‘Bob Cleeve,’ said the Chief Constable.
III
‘Bob,’ said Liz. ‘I want a word with you. It’s all right, Rupert, I promise we won’t miss the bus. You can come back on my carrier and we’ll be in plenty of time.’ She looked at the large gunmetal watch that hung from a safety pin on the front of her tweed coat. ‘It hasn’t even left Barnboro’ yet, so relax. Go and find your sandwiches or your catapult or whatever you’re going to shoot your lunch with. That’s right.’ She added, as the door closed, ‘It’s no real business of mine, but that boy’s not right.’
‘Not right? You mean he’s ill?’
‘I don’t think he’s doctor-ill,’ said Liz. ‘But he’s got something on his mind.’
‘He hasn’t been happy lately,’ said Cleeve. He looked rather desperately round the big, rich, empty room. ‘I thought it might be just general unhappiness, and that we’d cure it when he went to school. The good ones are all terribly full, but I’ve pulled some strings, and got him put down for St. Oswald’s. Ought to be all right. Most of the royal family went there.’
‘I think it’s something more,’ said Liz. ‘It seemed to me to start a week or so ago, and it’s been getting worse. And he’s a very reserved child. That’s what makes it so dangerous.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Cleeve. ‘It’s like a time-bomb. You can hear him ticking. The only question is when he’s going to go off.’
‘But Bob,’ said Liz, ‘if you think that, why not do something about it?’
‘Tried a laxative,’ said Cleeve. ‘Worked too well. Had to give it up. Then tried cold baths. No good, either. What’s next? Take him to a psychiatrist?’
‘Nonsense,’ said Liz. ‘Psychiatrists are for old women. The only thing you’ve got to do is find out what’s on his mind and take it off. You’re the only person he’ll talk to. If he won’t tell you, he certainly won’t tell me. But you’ve got to get down to it. It’s important.’
She paused and both of them were silent for a space. Liz seemed to be calculating very carefully what she was going to say.
‘All this trouble we’ve been having in the last few weeks, we don’t want to let it upset our sense of values. We’re most of us well on in life. I’m not being morbid, but does it really matter what happens to any of us? Any good we’re going to do, we’ve done. A year or two more or less, it’s just a matter of statistics, now—’
‘My dear Liz—’ said Bob.
‘I’m absolutely serious,’ said Liz. ‘Do you know, it’s Bill’s birthday. If he’d lived he’d have been sixty-four today. I was lying in bed this morning, more than half asleep, and I suddenly thought, supposing some God stepped out of the Machine and offered me a choice. Bill back, in exchange for someone with all his life in front of him – I think Ruper
t was in my mind—’
‘What an awful—’
‘It’s all right,’ said Liz. ‘I went to sleep again. When I woke up I’d forgotten all about it. It came back to me when I was talking to you. By the way, Hubert’s coming over to-night. Tim and Sue are on this Belmouth jaunt with me, and they’re all stopping for dinner. Would you like to make a fifth?’
Bob pulled out a fat engagement diary and looked at it.
‘I’d love to’ he said, ‘but I daren’t promise it. We’ve got a council of meeting this afternoon. It won’t stop before six, and an Education Committee of which I’m supposed to be Chairman immediately afterwards. I’ll drop in on you for coffee and pick up Rupert. Can you feed him?’
‘If he eats as much as he did on the last choir outing,’ said Liz, ‘he won’t need any supper. Quite the reverse, as the Channel passenger said to the steward. Here he is at last. Got everything?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs. Artside,’ said Rupert politely.
‘Sandwiches, mackintosh, gun, dagger, knuckledusters? All right. Off we go.’
IV
Lovers of Belmouth assert that the early autumn is its best season. It is by no means empty. At Belmouth, as the advertisements tell you, you can enjoy yourself all the year round. But the crowds which throng its beaches, hotels and pleasances from June to September have thinned out. The hotel staffs find time to draw breath and attend to the wants of those discerning people who take their holidays out of season.
The dunes, which are the particular glory of Belmouth, put on their autumn heather mixture as the little bathing chalets are shut up one by one. From time to time, now, inhabitants can be seen looking forth and taking the air; like elderly tortoises, peering out from the fastness of their shells to find if summer is really gone for good.
On to this peaceful scene descended two busloads of the combined choirs.
‘Now remember,’ said Liz to her little contingent. ‘You two tinies are to go with Miss Mallory. She’s kindly promised to look after you.’ The two youngest Hedges children looked rebelliously at Lucy. She didn’t quite measure up to their idea of an ideal companion for a day at the seaside. ‘You others’—she looked at the three elder Hedges and Rupert—’can go where you like provided you’re back for tea at the Pavilion at four. We’re having sausages, and I’ve particularly asked for them to be served first, so if you’re as much as a minute late you probably won’t get any. Subject to that you’re free to do what you like, provided you don’t break the law or get dirty or drown yourselves.’
‘We’ve arranged to take our boys to a concert of music this afternoon,’ said Mrs. Um.
‘I’ve no doubt they’ll be the better for it,’ said Liz blandly.
She herself intended to have lunch and spend the afternoon with an old friend, the widow of General Dakers, who had come to Belmouth to die seventeen years before and had easily outlived the fondest expectations of her family and her insurance company.
‘Well, that’s everybody except us,’ said Liz. ‘I’m sorry Sergeant Gattie couldn’t come. Annoying they should have found him a last-minute job today. What are you two planning to do?’
‘First,’ said Tim, ‘we’re going to the fun fair. I haven’t been in a real dodgem for years. I may even throw for a coconut. After that all is in the lap of the Gods.’
The day started well. The silliest things were fun to do with Sue there gravely assisting. They had several hectic bouts in the dodgems, being crashed into from behind by Rupert and Maurice. The boys were both scarlet in the face, and seemed to have shaken off the two younger Hedges.
They ate lunch economically in the saloon bar of a small public house at the end of the front where Tim played Shove Ha’penny with an ancient lobster fisherman and lost three light ales in succession.
After lunch they strolled off the extreme end of the front and on to the dunes.
The sun looked genially down. A small but persistent wind blew in from the sea.
‘What would be nice,’ said Tim sleepily, ‘would be to find a place in the sand which gets all the sun, but none of the wind, and lie down in it until it’s time to go and eat sausages in the Pavilion.’
‘Suits me,’ said Sue calmly.
They walked out on to the dunes. The task they had set themselves seemed childishly easy, but, as all who have tried it will know, proved curiously difficult.
Some of the sand hollows were deep enough to be out of the wind, but into these the sun hardly penetrated. Others were full of sun, but full of wind also. When they finally thought they had found a suitable one they looked up and saw that they had come directly within view of one of the few chalets which was still occupied. Two elderly ladies were sitting in it, dressed in beach outfits, and playing a two handed game of cards. They suspended operations to stare at Tim and Sue. Tim and Sue moved on.
By now they had reached the western and most deserted tract where the cliff steepened and the dunes turned into cattle pasture.
‘Let’s try this one,’ said Tim hopefully. ‘It’s got lots of sun and the wind’s dropping anyway.’
‘Looks all right,’ said Sue. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone in that monstrosity.’
She pointed to a little box of pink wooden planks. It was the last and most secluded of all the chalets and a board nailed crookedly, across an upright, announced that it was called ‘The Retreat’.
‘Looks as if it’s been empty for some time,’ agreed Tim. ‘Lonely spot. We can both sit on my raincoat if I spread it out – what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sue. ‘I think it’s all these horrible things that have been happening. Imagination, I dare say.’
‘Never mind imagination,’ said Tim. ‘What did you think you saw?’
‘It was just as you were saying how empty that place looked. I saw a face at the window.’
‘Hmp,’ said Tim. ‘It doesn’t seem possible. There’s six inches of sand across the back door, and half the windows are broken. I don’t think anyone can be living in it. Might be trespassers. Don’t see why they should peep at us. I’ll go and turn them out.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sue, hastily.
They climbed up and walked across to the hut. The boundaries of the garden had disappeared into the drifting sand which lay deep over everything. Sue pointed. Two fresh sets of tracks led up to a side door. There they got a bit mixed, as if the two owners had stood about. But there were no tracks coming away.
A thick, hot, silence lay over everything. Tim tapped on the door with his fingertips. The silence remained unbroken. He tapped a little harder. Under his pressure the door swung open.
Tim peered inside. It was a small and dust-choked lobby, with two more doors leading off it, both shut. The silence was absolute, more absolute than natural. It was the silence of held breath.
Something caught Tim’s eye. He bent his head to look. Then he said to Sue, and for the first time his voice sounded serious, That door wasn’t just forced. Someone’s picked the lock, I guess. And pretty neatly, too. I really think you’d better—’
He gestured with his arm.
‘Certainly not,’ said Sue in an indignant whisper. ‘If there’s any shooting I want you right in front of me.’
‘As you like,’ said Tim. He moved up to the left hand door, opened it with a quick kick, and jumped in.
The room was empty. There was a little cheap beach-hut furniture; the most solid piece was a cupboard, the doors of which hung open. Tim went down on one knee and looked at the lock. ‘Picked this one too,’ he said. ‘All skill, no force. Quite an operator.’
‘The other room,’ said Sue urgently.
Tim heard it too. He crossed the intervening space at a lumbering trot, kicked open the second door, and went through.
The noise they had heard was someone trying to open a window which had long been unopened.
‘Good God,’ said Tim.
‘Rupert,’ said Sue. ‘Maurice. What on earth are you up
to?’
Two very white faces stared up at them.
Rupert recovered first.
‘We were exploring,’ he said.
‘All right,’ said Tim. ‘You were exploring. But explain just how you opened the front door – and the cupboard. You didn’t do that with a bent pin.’
‘I—’ said Rupert.
‘He—’ said Maurice.
Any further explanations were cut short by the falling out from under Rupert’s coat of a curious-looking instrument.
Tim picked it up.
It was about ten inches long, of bright steel. One end was formed into a sort of double handle, one fixed and one moveable. The other end was formed like a sort of flat key with two wards, rotating on a screwed thread. The wards moved independently, as the handles were turned.
‘I see,’ said Tim. As he did, with horrible clarity. ‘Where did you pick this up?’
Rupert’s mouth was a thin line.
‘Rupert,’ said Sue. ‘It was you, then – you opened the poor-box – you did it when you went out of the room during practice—’
Rupert said nothing. He did not even bother to turn his head. Maurice started to snivel.
‘And he shared it with you,’ said Sue, turning on him fiercely. ‘That’s how you got the note. Isn’t it?’
Maurice was made of softer material than Rupert.
‘I never took it,’ he said. ‘Rupert took it.’
‘Shut up,’ said Rupert.
‘Go on,’ said Tim. ‘Let’s hear the truth.’
‘He took it,’ said Maurice. ‘We went splits. He said it would be all right, see. I never touched the box. He opened it with that thing of his.’
‘Where did you get that pick-lock?’ said Tim.
‘He got it—’ said Maurice. ‘He found—’ He got no further. Rupert was at his throat. They went down in a cloud of dust with Tim on top of them.
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