The Polo Ground Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Come along,” replied Ralli, with sympathetic enthusiasm. “I’ll show you round the whole place.”

  After examining the dining, drawing, and other rooms on the ground floor, they entered a small room which Sutton Armadale had always called the gun-room. Here in a case against the wall were several shot-guns of twelve, sixteen, and twenty bores; polo sticks stood in odd corners or hung in a rack; a bookcase with none but books on sport lined one of the sides of the room, and near the window was a desk of very beautiful wood, its top thrown open and the desk littered with papers and copies of the Field, Sketch, and Punch. In an angle formed by this piece of furniture stood two shooting-sticks, and on a small table close by was a tray with a decanter of whisky, soda, glasses, a box of cigars, and two silver boxes of cigarettes. It was a thoroughly comfortable, untidy, man’s room. Crossing to the small table, Vereker opened the silver cigarette boxes. One contained Virginian and the other Bogdanov’s Russian cigarettes.

  “Your uncle was fond of Russian cigarettes,” he remarked to Ralli, who was watching his movements with concentrated interest.

  “Well, I can’t say he was. He rarely smoked, and then only a cigar, usually after a meal. He always kept a stock of these Russian cigarettes, chiefly, I think, because they’re expensive and uncommon. He felt that they lent him a sort of individuality. It was a curious little weakness which in the matter of cigarettes he borrowed from ‘Hell-for-leather’ Houseley. He was always stealing other people’s idiosyncrasies and caricaturing them to fit his own flamboyant personality.”

  “I know the type,” smiled Vereker. “There are people who are unconsciously individual and those who are consciously so. Your uncle was doubtless one of the latter, but was either too lazy or too afraid to choose his own pigments.”

  With these words he crossed over to the roll-top desk, picked up one of the shooting-sticks, and examined its steel extremity.

  “That was another fad of my uncle’s,” remarked Ralli. “He carried a shooting-stick on every possible occasion, and once absent-mindedly took one to morning service at the village church. To him shooting-sticks stood as the insignia of the Order of Antiquated English Gentlemen!”

  “I’ve often thought of trying one as a sketching- stool,” remarked Vereker casually.

  “Then take one by all means and see how it works,” replied Ralli.

  Vereker tucked the stick under his arm, and from the gun-room Ralli led the way up to the second floor. Here were the billiard-room, music-room, library, Angela Armadale’s suite of rooms, and guest-rooms. From the billiard-room a door led on to the solarium or sun terrace running the whole width of the southern face of the house; through the library another door opened on to a balcony on the northern face. This balcony overlooked the extensive and beautifully-laid-out rock garden with its swimming-pool and pavilion, and from it an extensive view of the Surrey Hills could be obtained.

  On entering the library, Vereker at once cast a searching glance round the shelves and asked:

  “Where’s the safe, Ralli?”

  Crossing over to a bookcase by the fireplace, Ralli pressed a hidden button and a section of the bookcase swung slowly out on hinges, revealing a safe with double doors let into the masonry of the wall.

  “Shall I open it, Vereker?” he asked. “I’ve my uncle’s bunch of keys in my pocket.”

  “No, thanks, not at present,” replied Vereker. “I don’t think it would tell me anything new,” and stepping over to the door opening on to the balcony he carefully examined its lock, bolts, and catch.

  “Who sees to the locking of the doors and fastening of windows at night?” he asked.

  “Old Dunkerley usually. Dunkerley’s what a medical man loves to call ‘podagrous.’ His affliction is due to his trustworthiness and an intimate knowledge of the best port. When he is particularly podagrous, he deputes Frederick, the first footman, or even George, the second, to see to the locking up. On the night of my uncle’s murder this door was found open. Frederick says he locked and bolted it before going to bed.”

  After a brief survey of the balcony outside with its stone balustrade and a glance at the supporting pillars springing from the veranda below, Vereker asked to be shown the bedrooms. A few yards down the corridor from the library, Ralli flung open a door leading into Mrs. Armadale’s suite. Vereker entered with a strange sense of suppressed excitement, which he would have found difficult to explain. In spite of his general practicality a thread of philosophical mysticism ran through the texture of his mind. He could never dismiss from any general speculation the profound riddle of human personality. Here was ostensibly an expression of Angela Armadale’s predilections, an unwitting revelation of the myriad diverse desires, convictions, caprices, which formulated her taste, liberated by the magic touch of great wealth. The scheme of decoration was in coral and green, and through an open door he caught a glimpse of a coral and green bathroom. There was something cold and virginal in the atmosphere, a suggestion of an intellectual rather than a physical pleasure in existence. He glanced at the bed with its exquisite spread of Chinese embroidery, and thought that even its voluptuous comfort must have been disturbed of late by the fretful tossing of an uneasy human spirit. And that uneasiness must have been due to her unhappy marital relations with Sutton Armadale, to an error in her vital adjustment with the profound emotion of love. As Vereker stood lost in reverie, a smile crossed his face, for he had suddenly remembered some words of Bertrand Russell’s which ran, “Speaking broadly, the actions of all living things are such as tend to biological survival,” and he muttered to himself, “beds and biological survival.”

  “You’re admiring my aunt’s wonderful taste?” suddenly asked Ralli.

  “I’m very much impressed by it,” replied Vereker thoughtfully.

  “Then I’m sorry to disillusion you,” continued Ralli, with a note of mischievous satisfaction; “it’s entirely the work of Sam Ramsbottom, the architect, and his assistants.”

  The remark brought Vereker to earth, and his attention was at once arrested by the folding glass doors opening on to the balcony. They were almost exactly similar to those of the library farther eastward along the corridor. Noticing another door in the bedroom, he asked:

  “I suppose that leads into your uncle’s room?”

  “He hadn’t slept in that room for the last eighteen months. I needn’t explain why. He had moved into a room exactly above the library and on the next floor, but ‘not a step nearer heaven,’ as Angela spitefully remarked.”

  “And Miss Cazas, where did she sleep?” asked Vereker.

  “In the next suite on this corridor. It was practically always reserved for her, and you can understand the influence she exercised over my uncle when I tell you that it was furnished and decorated throughout according to her specific instructions,” replied Ralli, as he led Vereker to the rooms in question.

  The colour scheme chosen by Miss Cazas was pale bluish-grey and silver, and every touch in the room revealed a nervous sensitiveness to beauty of line. Here and there an ardent spot or splash of flame in cushion or coverlet suggested the coquettish disclosure of a passion curbed by the delicacy of a refined taste. Vereker was surprised. He had looked for some evidence of natural vulgarity, of a riotous and clamorous personality. No trace of such met his appraising eye. But as he stood surveying the room he was struck by the prevalence of a delightful but very insistent perfume. He knew that scent, warm, languorous, and insinuating. It was not now generally used, but its name for the moment escaped him. He was racking his memory in an effort to recall it when he noticed a book lying on a small table by the high Italian bed. He picked it up and glanced at its title. It was Sherard Vines’s Movements in Modern English Poetry and Prose.

  “Miss Cazas seems to have a more literary turn of mind than I was crediting her with,” he remarked to Ralli, as he indicated the volume.

  “Good Lord above! What tempted her to take that book from the library? It was one of my contributions. Edmée
would take as much interest in it as she would in The Voyage of the Beagle. When she asked me to recommend her something to read the other day, I said I didn’t know her taste, but that one of the most amusing books we had was Dekker’s The Honest Whore. She promptly went off to search for it.”

  “By the way, Ralli, how did she take the tragedy of your uncle’s death? I suppose it meant a lot to her.”

  “She was a bit hysterical at first, but soon regained her composure. She returned to town about three o’clock. She ate a fat lunch and excused her shameless hunger by remarking that she’d only had a cup of tea and some lipstick for breakfast. She’s what a kindly reviewer of fiction would call an unsympathetic character. But let’s get out of this. I can’t stand her scent.”

  “I’ve been trying to remember that particular scent ever since I entered the room,” remarked Vereker.

  “Can’t say what it is,” replied Ralli, as he turned towards the door, “but it reminds me of a civet cat. Matter of association, I suppose.”

  On entering the corridor once more, Ralli turned to the right where a staircase led to the floor above.

  “You’d better have a look at my uncle’s room, Vereker. There, your hawk’s eye may be able to pick up some scrap of information that may be useful.”

  Sutton Armadale’s room was one of almost monastic simplicity. There was little in it that was suggestive of comfort. Vereker had looked for Sardanapalian luxury; he found by contrast the asceticism of an Antisthenes. He wondered whether this had been part of his pose or a true expression of his inner self. A set of “Quorn Hunt” aquatints by Henry Aiken were an illuminating disclosure of his pitiably obsequious worship of a cult.

  A writing-table stood by the window, and beside it a plain chest of drawers in light oak. On the table was a telephone standard, a telephone directory, a blotting- pad, a stationery box, a desk fountain-pen, and a surveyor’s round leather measuring-tape. Two doors facing one another led into a dressing-room and a bathroom respectively. Vereker walked over to the writing-table and surveyed the various articles on it critically. He picked up the measuring-tape, looked carefully at it, and replaced it slowly on the table. His face had suddenly grown thoughtful. Then he casually put his hand on the handle of the right-hand top drawer and pulled the drawer open. It contained an empty cardboard box such as is supplied with a Colt automatic pistol when bought, two cleaning rods, two cleaning brushes, and two boxes of .45 calibre pistol cartridges. Picking up the boxes of cartridges and almost oblivious of Ralli, who now stood beside him, he examined them. One was still intact, and from the other fourteen cartridges had been taken. Returning the cartridges to the drawer, he took out the cardboard box and turned it over casually as he inspected it. All at once something arrested his eye. Two words were scribbled hurriedly in pencil on the bottom of the box. They were written in an execrably bad hand, but after some trouble Vereker deciphered them as “Gastinne Renette.” Turning to Ralli, he asked:

  “Is that your uncle’s handwriting?”

  “Yes, that’s his fist. What are the words?”

  “Gastinne Renette—obviously French or Belgian.”

  “They’re Greek to me,” commented Ralli, “but they sound like a name.”

  “I think you’re right. I wonder who he is. Can you remember if your uncle possessed two .45 automatic pistols, Ralli?”

  “I didn’t know he possessed even one. I’ve heard ‘Fruity’ Fanshaugh say my uncle was a rattling good shot with a pistol, though he always added that he handled a shot-gun as if it was a fly-swatter and made a day’s shooting as nerve-racking as trench warfare when the enemy was strafeing. His record was two beaters a season.”

  “Strange that he should have two cleaning rods and two brushes for one pistol,” remarked Vereker, and returning the cardboard box to the drawer closed it.

  Then he carefully examined the blotting-pad. The paper was immaculate except for a few ink impressions on the centre and a sentence written in pencil on the corner. The sentence written in pencil read, “It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. D.J. C4. S.41.”, and the ink impression, when reversed in a mirror, showed where an envelope had been blotted. The address ran, “Mr. J. Portwine, Learoyd Street, W. Hartlepool.” Taking a note of these, Vereker remarked:

  “They may possibly fit into a scheme of things. Won’t do to leave a stone unturned. We needn’t trouble your solicitors for Portwine’s address in any case, Ralli. I suppose you know what these drawers contain?”

  “Indeed I don’t. Haven’t had time to go through them yet, but I believe they contain all my uncle’s private papers. If you’d like to go through them with me, I shall be glad.”

  “When will it be convenient? It’ll possibly take us some time.”

  “I’m ready now. We might be able to run through them before lunch. What do you think?”

  To this proposal Vereker at once agreed, and Ralli, producing a bunch of keys, unlocked all the drawers on both sides of the writing-table. For two hours both men worked busily together, carefully scanning the contents of neatly tied and methodically arranged bundles of correspondence. On completion of the task, Vereker was constrained to admit that they had apparently drawn blank. Besides these letters and copies of letters, the drawers contained nothing but two small volumes by the late Walter Winans. They were The Modern Pistol and How to Shoot It and Automatic Pistol Shooting.

  “I’d like to run through these two books when I find time. May I take them with me, Ralli?”

  “By all means. I’m sorry you’ve dug out nothing worth having.”

  “On the contrary, I think I’ve made one or two rather startling discoveries. I’m just beginning to get thoroughly excited.”

  “Good Lord, I’m glad to hear it! You look about as excited as an Egyptian statue. You didn’t shout the good news to me.”

  “As a huntsman would say, I’m not a ‘babbler.’ I never speak when I’m not sure of the scent.”

  Glancing at his watch, Ralli now proposed that they should adjourn for lunch. Before descending to the dining-room, however, Vereker insisted on looking into the bedrooms that Ralph Degerdon, Aubrey Winter, and Captain Fanshaugh had slept in on Wednesday night. Of these apartments he made a very careful survey, noting their order in the corridor and their disposition in relation to Sutton Armadale’s rooms, to the staircase, and to the rooms below. He also examined every object that might still bear some trace left by the last occupant. During this search, Ralli watched him with quiet but unflagging interest, alert to notice what those inquisitive and observant eyes might seize on with suddenly awakened curiosity.

  “You say that Aubrey Winter’s very much in love with Miss Cazas?” asked Vereker, looking through the room which Winter had occupied.

  “He’s in love with her all right, but Aubrey’s attitude to Edmée always reminds me of the attachment of an affectionate poodle to its mistress. He’s a quiet, matter-of-fact youth without any fire. Slow but sure combustion!”

  “Would he be capable of jealousy?”

  “Not of violent jealousy, in my opinion.”

  “He was quite friendly with your uncle?”

  “A great admirer of him. The ability to make money always struck Aubrey as something supernatural. You can’t blame him; everybody thinks so more or less.”

  “Did he know that your uncle was infatuated with Miss Cazas?”

  “He had some sort of inkling, I suppose, and I dare say he questioned Edmée about it. But you know the subtlety of a woman of her type. She’d mesmerize poor Aubrey into the belief that her relations with my uncle were as innocent as a child’s. If he doubted her, she’d at once assume an outraged air and threaten instant dismissal from favour. Aubrey would promptly crawl and promise never to be a bad boy again. She’d then give him a peck of a kiss as a sort of figurative hanky with which to blow his nose and wipe away his tears.”

  “Poor Winter, I’m sorry for him. I’ve been through that hoop. Improbe amor, quid non mortalia pectora cogis!”
said Vereker.

  *“After that mouthful—lunch!” exclaimed Ralli, and led the way downstairs.

  Chapter Eight

  After lunch, Ralli suggested a siesta on the veranda under the balcony on the north side of the house. There, Vereker turned the conversation on the happenings of the eve and morning of the murder.

  “Can you remember, Ralli, at what time Dunkerley woke you and broke the news on Thursday morning?” he asked.

  “It was dawn when I heard the two shots fired, that’s roughly five o’clock, summer time. Then I fell asleep and was roused by Dunkerley shaking me like a terrier shaking a rat. The sun had just risen, so that it must have been about six. The old boy was in such a state that he had some trouble in blurting out, ‘Wake up, sir, your uncle has been murdered!’ I was half asleep, and I took his words as ‘your uncle’s being murdered.’ In my dazed state I thought it was some one playing a brutal sort of practical joke. The shock I got wasn’t conducive to my bothering about the time. I simply leaped into my dressing-gown and rushed downstairs to break the terrible news to Angela.”

  “That reminds me, you forgot to show me your own room, Ralli,” interrupted Vereker.

  “Damn it all, so I did! It’s next to my uncle’s, the farthest bedroom along that corridor from the staircase. Have a look round any time you like.”

  “I’m not suspecting you at present,” smiled Vereker amiably.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” replied Ralli, glancing up with a quick, nervous lift of his eyes. “You needn’t, anyhow. But reckoning that it took Collyer about three-quarters of an hour after he heard the shots to make his way to Hanging Covert and thence to the polo ground and another quarter to reach the house—which is cutting it a shade fine—it would be as near six o’clock as damn it—perhaps a little more.”

  “Was your aunt asleep when you entered her room?”

  “Sound as a drum. I didn’t know how to break the news to her. But Angela guessed at once by my face that something was seriously wrong. When I told her, I thought she’d faint. She didn’t. She pulled herself together, jumped out of bed, and straightway began to dress. I rushed upstairs and burst into Fanshaugh’s room. To my surprise he was half dressed, and promptly asked, ‘What’s all the bother? I was just getting up to see.’ I told him, and then roused Winter and Degerdon.”