“Had he a violent temper?” asked Vereker.
“People who knew him in the city said he seldom lost his temper, but when he did his face was one of the ugliest things imaginable—something you’d see in a cold pork nightmare. Of course a man at business is not the same man at home. I knew nothing about that side of his life. With me he was always very jolly. I’ve known him turn nappy, and the only way to treat him then was the way you’d treat a nappy horse.”
“He was a good pistol shot, I believe,” suggested Vereker.
“First rate, but target shooting’s a rotten criterion in any case.”
“You’ve seen him practise?”
“Times out of number.”
“I believe he always shot with a Colt automatic of .45 calibre. Had he two of these pistols?”
“He never carried more than one,” said Fanshaugh.
Vereker seemed to think there was a note of evasion in the reply. “As an enthusiast he’d be likely to have more than one.”
“That’s quite probable.”
“Was he on good terms with Mr. Stanley Houseley?” asked Vereker, changing the subject.
“Now you’re asking a difficult question, Vereker,” said Fanshaugh. “It’s generally known that Sutton and Angela were an ill-matched pair, so I’m not giving away any secrets. How long they were going to stick together was an open question. They lived as man and wife only for appearances’ sake. ‘Hell-for-leather’ was a very old lover of Angela’s. She had turned him down for Sutton, and from all one hears she seems to have come to the conclusion that Houseley ought to have been her man.”
“What sort of fellow is he?”
“One of God’s own. The words ‘pukka sahib’ may be a joke with your loose-gutted, sloppy-principled up-to-dates, whose very dancing suggests an Oriental bagnio, but they still mean ‘pukka sahib’ to me. ‘Hell-for-leather’ is one in every sense. Sutton always treated him in a very friendly way, but Houseley on his part was politeness with a hoar-frost on it. It’s not human nature to love the man whose wife you love.”
“Sutton Armadale wasn’t jealous of him?”
“God knows. It was a Frenchman who said that jealousy was always born with love but didn’t always die with it. In love and war they can still teach the world.”
“But wasn’t Armadale growing very fond of Miss Cazas?” asked Vereker.
“Ah, yes, I know he was. To put it delicately, there are women whom you can love passionately but with whom you’d hate to live. To simple folk loving and living with are synonymous; they make happy-for-ever-after couples. But when intellect begins to feel its strength in our difficult social life an oscillation is set up. Your reason tells you Lily, but your instinct cries for Rose, which, by the way, sounds like a music-hall song. All this intellect’s damned disturbing and ought to be suppressed.”
“What do you think of Miss Cazas?”
“She’s a little devil; amusing, sprightly, game, but not my type. She lacks quality and has too small a girth to be a good stayer. I wouldn’t marry her for worlds, and anyone who does will have to ride her with a gag snaffle. Still, she mesmerizes the youngsters. Both Degerdon and Winter are under her little finger.”
“Who’s she in love with?”
“With Edmée Cazas chiefly. She appeared to be passionately in love with Sutton, she professes to be genuinely fond of Ralph Degerdon, and she treats poor Winter as a Chinese Empress would a eunuch.”
“Is there any truth that Sutton was the indirect cause of the Degerdon’s failure?”
“There’s no doubt about it. You can’t blame Sutton. He might have bolstered up the Braby Group for a time, but he had a most sensitive nose. He smelt a stench from that quarter long ago and, when he found out that it came from a rotten swindle, he did the right thing; he left them to it. Young Ralph bore him no ill will on that account. He’s not vindictive, and I for one am sorry for him. He’s only a cub and, if I’m not mistaken, he has the makings of a man in him. Perhaps this crash is the best thing that can have happened to him. Some roughing it abroad will take the looseness out of him or break him up altogether. It’s not a bad alternative in this world.”
As Captain Fanshaugh finished speaking, the two men came to a halt in front of the “Silver Pear Tree.” Here, after renewing his invitation to Vereker to drop in at his bungalow, Jodhpur, whenever he felt inclined, Fanshaugh took a short-cut across the fields to Nuthill. Vereker entered the inn and, having deposited his gear in his room, descended to the coffee-room and ordered tea. At this moment he heard Inspector Heather’s voice booming outside the inn, and going to the entrance found him standing talking on the gravel pull-up with Sergeant Lawrence Goss. On seeing Vereker, the inspector took leave of his subordinate and sauntered towards the door.
“Just the man I want to see!” exclaimed Vereker.
“That’s nice of you, Mr. Vereker. I’m as thirsty as a camel. We’ve had a big and disappointing day’s work. I hope you’ve fared better.”
“Had a most entertaining time, Heather. But come in and let’s compare our spoils. I hope you’re not in a hurry.”
“I’m putting up here for a week or so,” replied the inspector. “It’s nice and handy, and the beer in Nuthill’s not nearly so good. I like it better out of the barrel, if it’s nicely nursed.”
“Nothing could be more convenient, Heather. Although we work on different lines, our combined intellects ought to be invincible. What do you say?”
“The partnership ought to improve you out of all knowledge,” replied the inspector dryly.
“Sit down and have some tea. No sugar, if I remember. It’s a sure indication that your guest’s a crank, a slimmer, or just a robust consumer of what is called ‘malt liquors.’ You’re not a crank or a slimmer. But before getting to business, let’s agree to put all our cards on the table. Our methods ought to be complementary.”
“That’s it, Mr. Vereker. United we stand, divided you fall. I’m quite agreeable to team work.”
“Then I’ll begin. I got an itch for painting this morning.”
“Nothing to do with the bedding here, I hope,” remarked the inspector, sitting up sharply.
“No, you’ll find the place eminently clean and comfortable; but let me get on. I made my way into Wild Duck Wood at dawn and started work. I soon found that I wasn’t alone in the wood. I heard some one on the prowl. I thought it might be Collyer. It wasn’t. I spotted a stranger in a brown Harris Norfolk jacket and cap as he hurried through the tangle. I went to the spot where I had viewed him and found the bracken and undergrowth trampled in circles as if he had been searching for something. It wasn’t one of your men, was it?”
“No, we didn’t start as early as that. I know the exact spot you mean; we came across it later. By the way, do you smoke Fribourg and Treyer’s cigarettes?”
“I had some on me this morning, but when I run out of them I usually take to something pernicious in the way of gaspers. You found one of my butts?”
“Yes.”
“I found one of a different breed. It was one of Bogdanov’s Russians. I thought I’d got a clue to the prowler because they’re not commonly smoked in these parts. It didn’t prove as good as I expected. A few minutes later I met Mr. Ralli in the wood, and he offered me a case full of them. He wasn’t the man in the Norfolk jacket; he was wearing grey flannels. He doesn’t smoke before breakfast; therefore we can safely assume that the fag end I picked up wasn’t his.”
“There’s a box of those Russian cigarettes in nearly every room in Vesey Manor,” commented the inspector. “It looks as if the stranger had access to them. Either he’s one of the staff of servants or has been a recent guest.”
“A guest, inspector, who doesn’t hesitate to fill his case from his host’s abundance.”
“How do you make that out?”
“From the cut of his clothes. Savile Row it was or I’m a bad judge. There’s sometimes a big difference between habit and customs—West End clothes with E
ast End manners.”
“Steady, Mr. Vereker,” cautioned the inspector as he pulled forth his pipe. “You’re a bit impetuous. Servants usually get hold of their master’s cast-off clothes, and I knew one valet who, when his boss was away, used to meet his girl in his boss’s latest togs. The guv’nor returned unexpectedly on one occasion and met his valet in the street. ‘God damn, it’s you, Francis,’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought it was my wraith. What the hell’s the meaning of this?’ ‘I was going to see my best girl, sir,’ was all Francis could say. ‘Well,’ cautioned his boss, ‘if you don’t get her into trouble or marry her, I’ll stop the price of that suit out of your wages. Get out of my sight till to-morrow morning.’ But forrard with the business, Mr. Vereker.”
“I accompanied Mr. Ralli to the manor and breakfasted with him.”
“What was he doing out so early?” asked the inspector.
“He’d been for a morning walk with Miss Collyer. He made no secret of the fact that he’s engaged to her.”
“That’s news to me, though I’d found out that he was rather gone on her.”
“I suppose you thought he was merely taking his fun where he found it.”
“At first, yes. Then I found out something on the strict q.t. that’s vastly more important. As you’re covered by the strict q.t. I may as well tell you she’s his cousin by blood.”
“Great Scott, Heather, you’re astonishing! How did you unearth that?”
“I’ve been making inquiries round about, and wanting to know the history of young Frank Peach, who was Armadale’s under keeper until quite recently, I called at the Peachs’ cottage. Peach is away for a day or two, under our watchful eye, needless to say, but I found his mother willing to talk. She’s a fine, upstanding, handsome woman. She seemed a bit scared of me at first, but I made myself very friendly. She was in Armadale’s service as a cook before she was married.”
“Ha, then you know every inch of the country, so to speak, Heather.”
“I’m not boasting when I say I have a way with cooks,” said Heather, giving his moustaches an attention which evidently sprang from associated memories. “Anyway, I got on the right side of her. She found out that I was a bachelor and told me she was a widow, and one thing led to another. I probed her about her son’s affairs and, having learned that he was another of Miss Collyer’s suitors, I finally wheedled the information out of her that the late Mrs. Collyer was not Miss Collyer’s mother. Mrs. Peach’s sister, who was lady’s-maid to the late Mrs. Armadale, was Miss Trixie’s mother. So you see that Frank Peach and the girl are blood cousins.”
“Tremendous, Heather! Did you find out anything about Peach himself?”
“Quite a lot. One thing’s significant: he had a furious row with Armadale a few days before the murder and he was on the scene of the murder a few minutes after Collyer found Armadale dying. Armadale never liked the lad, and after giving him the sack wouldn’t give him a reference unless he promised to emigrate. Whether Armadale’s action had anything to do with the secret of Miss Trixie’s parenthood I can’t say. Possibly young Frank knew too much. Anyway, when Armadale refused that reference there was a shindy. Armadale had to ring for his servants, and Peach was forcibly chucked out of the house. His last words were a threat to do Armadale in. I’m dead nuts on Peach as my likely man.”
“It looks plain sailing from your side of the game, Heather,” said Vereker. “I suppose you’ll search their cottage for the weapon?”
“I have an idea that young Frank knows where that pistol is, and I’m just waiting for him. We’ve got word that the cartridge case you picked up on the polo ground was certainly not fired from the automatic found in Armadale’s hand.”
“Good! That’s something definite to work on. In my tour of the manor this morning, Ralli showed me into his uncle’s bedroom. In a drawer of his writing- table there’s the usual stout cardboard box which goes with an automatic when you buy one. There were two cleaning rods and brushes in the box. I have strong suspicion that Armadale had two automatics in his possession.”
“Were there two boxes?”
“No.”
“He might have got rid of the first pistol when he bought the second, but it’s a good point. Still I don’t see at present how it connects up with Frank Peach or a burglar.”
“I don’t think it ever will. My suspicion that we must look for the murderer in the house grows stronger and stronger. By the way, on the back of that Colt automatic box there are scribbled two words. They are ‘Gastinne Renette.’ That sounds to me like a French or Belgian name, and I can’t help in the first flush connecting it with Miss Cazas. You don’t know of anyone called Gastinne Renette?”
“Damn it, but the name seems familiar!” exclaimed the inspector, and for some moments was silent in the task of ransacking his really marvellous memory. Then he said, “No, it won’t come back. Perhaps it was in connection with some French case we dealt with at the Yard some years ago. Anyhow, I’ll have it run to earth if possible. The Surety in Paris may be able to help us. If Mr. Gastinne Renette has figured in any police business, it won’t be very difficult to learn his history and perhaps to track him down.”
“Besides the cardboard box I’ve mentioned there were two fifty boxes of .45 ammunition. One of these was intact; from the other, fourteen cartridges had been taken. I then ran quickly through all Armadale’s correspondence, but struck nothing that tickled my fancy. You may have better luck when you cover the same ground, which I suppose you will.”
“It may be unnecessary. I can almost rely on you now, Mr. Vereker,” smiled Heather.
“Now I’ve got a poser for you, inspector. On Mr. Armadale’s writing-pad, the following words were scribbled in pencil, ‘It has a strange quick jar upon the ear.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes, a lot. It’s a description of what you get at boxing when you stop a right swing. But, to be serious, it sounds like a line of poetry.”
“It’s certainly metrical, and I’ve read it before. Where, I don’t know. It won’t be very difficult to place, but I doubt whether it has anything to do with our business. Here, however, is something which may be relevant. On the middle of the pad is the impression in reverse of an address. It’s in Armadale’s writing, and is obviously the result of blotting an envelope on the pad. It runs, ‘Mr. J. Portwine, Learoyd St., W. Hartlepool.’”
“Good business, good business, Mr. Vereker. We want that address. Dunkerley, the butler, told me that a seafaring gent called Portwine turned up at the manor about a month ago to see Mr. Armadale. He put up at this inn for a few days, and was drunk most of the time, according to Mrs. Heaver, the landlady. He was a pretty rough handful, and Dunkerley says he could curse in every known language, including Chaldean. He drank port, too, and it’s nasty stuff to get tight on.”
“Literally drinking himself to death,” commented Vereker quietly.
“I might have said that myself later on in the evening,” laughed the inspector. “About this seafaring gent, who’s probably only Lisbon wine after all, I’ve found out something that’s important. He hitched up with Trixie’s mother a year after Trixie’s birth. Now, it’s rather unlikely that before her marriage his wife owned up to an illegitimate child. Yet on the other hand she may. He might be one of those sailors who don’t care. But suppose she didn’t and he found it out afterwards. Put a bloodthirsty bos’n in such a position. He’d start sharpening his cutlass on the doorstep right away.”
“That’s certainly a promising line, Heather. What are you going to do about it?”
“We’re on his tracks already, and when we lay hands on Mr. Portwine we’ll decant him.”
“Do you connect him in any way with the burglary?”
“Naturally. He probably got the geography of Vesey Manor from his wife, who knows every inch of it. As the first Mrs. Armadale’s maid you can bet your shirt-studs she knew all about the safe in the library. From all accounts, the late Mrs. Armadale was an easygoing sort who t
rusted her servants implicitly, and it’s more than likely that her maid frequently locked up her jewels for her at night.”
“Rather risky, I should say, but the carelessness of women with their valuables is notorious. Every week you hear of one leaving a king’s ransom in a taxi-cab.”
“There’s one little item still that I can’t make head or tail of,” remarked the inspector after a pause. “It’s the suit of clothes Burton, the gardener, discovered in the laurels near the bathing pavilion. It may have no connection with our case, and yet something tells me it’s part and parcel of it—no pun intended.”
“Have you found out the tailor who made or sold it?” asked Vereker.
“Not yet. That’s going to be difficult. It’s a ready-made suit of a shoddy that’s turned out by the mills at Batley in Yorkshire by the mile. By a process of trial and error we may find out the tailor in London who sold it. Then that tailor won’t know the name of the customer who bought it unless it was sent on to his address.”
“It was cleaned lately, but I believe that Sergeant Goss said there were no cleaners’ marks.”
“Not a trace. It seems a rather hopeless line at present, but I can’t neglect it.”
The Polo Ground Mystery Page 12