The Polo Ground Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “You accompanied Mrs. Armadale to the polo ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was very upset, I suppose?”

  “Less than I’d expected, but Angela’s tempered steel. She wasn’t in love with her husband, but she was horror-struck at his violent end.”

  “I hear that she’d got rather too fond of Mr. Houseley of late,” suggested Vereker.

  “Ah, well, perhaps it wasn’t all her fault. I don’t know much about their private affairs and don’t like to talk about them. Sutton, I feel sure, wasn’t quite playing the game. I like Angela, and I’m probably biased in her favour. If people marry they ought to try and do the right thing by one another. It may be difficult, but it’s seldom impossible. I’m a bit dogmatic on the subject, but a man who mixes his drinks is generally a nasty kind of drunkard and people should cut him.”

  “They say that Sutton Armadale was paying too much attention to Miss Cazas,” said Vereker blandly.

  “I know all about that. I’m very much in love with Edmée, and the way he hung on to her skirts rather annoyed me. He did his best to dazzle her with his money, but Edmée told me she didn’t care two straws for him. She was leading him on to give him a salutary lesson for Angela’s sake.”

  “She’s a very charming woman, I’m told,” said Vereker sympathetically. “I hope your feelings are returned.”

  The words produced the effect which Vereker had intended.

  “You’ve not seen her?” asked Degerdon, with surprise.

  “No. You must introduce me.”

  “Certainly. I’m sure you’ll like her. She’s not like other women; there’s something different about her,” said Degerdon, with growing enthusiasm. “At times she’s so sophisticated and at others so charmingly childlike. And she’s so deuced clever. She can dance and sing and play exquisitely. I haven’t got her photograph on me or I’d let you see it. She’s as beautiful as she’s accomplished.”

  “I hope your money troubles won’t make any difference to your relations,” remarked Vereker pointedly.

  “Good heavens, you don’t think for a moment she’s one of the mercenary sort, do you?” asked Degerdon.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” replied Vereker diplomatically, “but money makes the mare go, you know. Lack of it often means such a wearisome postponement. Love’s generally impatient.”

  “Oh, Edmée and I are not a bit impatient. She’s worth waiting for. We’re not engaged yet, but I’m certain my being broke won’t affect us in the slightest.”

  For some minutes the two men walked in silence. Vereker was lost in his own thoughts. His conversation with Degerdon had revealed to him an unsuspected ingenuousness in the man. He was doubtless very much in love with Edmée Cazas and had declared it with the courage and enthusiasm of youth. Vereker was all the more surprised because Degerdon’s face did not altogether suggest such boyish candour. Lavater’s conclusions on the science of physiognomy might not be infallible, but the face was unquestionably a basic index to character. With his habitual scepticism he decided not to accept Degerdon’s simplicity as wholly sincere, and broke the silence with the remark:

  “I’ve left my confounded cigarettes in my other pocket.”

  “Have one of these,” immediately suggested Degerdon, producing a gold cigarette-case and pressing it open. “They’re Bogdanov’s Russians. ‘Hell-for-leather’ was the first to introduce them to me. I like them so much that I always smoke them now.”

  Vereker picked out a cigarette with almost exaggerated clumsiness, and during the process had sufficient time to read an inscription incised across the inner leaf of the case. —“To Ralph with love from Edmée.” To him that sentence was a profound revelation.

  “You like a country life, I suppose?” he asked, as if to change the tenor of his own thoughts.

  “Not altogether. I’m too busy in town to be entirely a countryman. I try to make a judicious mixture of life.”

  “Do you ride to hounds?”

  “Rather. Under ‘Fruity’s’ guidance I’ve become awfully keen.”

  “What staggers me,” said Vereker, “is the cheerfulness with which you all get up early in the country. As an experiment, I dragged myself out at sunrise this morning to paint in Wild Duck Wood. I thought I’d be absolutely alone, but I hadn’t settled down to work ten minutes before I heard some one making his way through the covert.”

  “Men on the estate are usually about at dawn,” said Degerdon casually.

  “At first I thought it was Collyer,” continued Vereker, “or, as you’ve suggested, one of the workers on the estate, but he was a well-dressed young fellow about your own height and build. The set of head and shoulders very much resembled your own.”

  “What was he wearing?” asked Degerdon. “Perhaps I can place him for you.”

  For a second Vereker hesitated. In a flash he saw or thought he saw the purport of the question. At the back of his mind he had stored away an evidentiary note concerning a brown Norfolk jacket and cap for future reference. He did not wish that note’s potential usefulness nullified through any tactical error on his part.

  “A blue flannel blazer and grey flannel trousers,” he replied.

  “It might be anyone,” said Degerdon. “Ralli usually wears grey flannels for knocking about in, but I’ve never seen him sporting a blue blazer.”

  “It wasn’t Ralli,” remarked Vereker. “I met him in the wood a few minutes later. In any case, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Talking about early rising,” continued Degerdon easily, “cub-hunting commences next month, and that means showing a leg before the lark or, in any case, before I usually feel inclined to. This morning, I simply couldn’t get up. ‘Fruity’ stayed with us overnight, and we sat up chin-wagging till all hours. I was waked at eight, but it was ten before I fell out of bed.”

  “Have you ever met this fellow, Raymond Braby?” asked Vereker, turning the conversation.

  “Frequently. I never want to meet a more charming man.”

  “The investors in his companies wouldn’t hold that view,” remarked Vereker caustically.

  “Doubtless, but in the struggle for money a man has a peculiar knack of shutting his eyes to the troubles of those outside his personal circle. He’ll send a cheque to help sufferers from an earthquake in Italy or a famine in India, but if Cyrus T. Bodkin beggars thousands of his fellows in America over an oil swindle, I’ve never heard of anyone in this country crying his eyes out about it. In business the man who loses his cash gets about as much sympathy as a man who loses a bet. Braby’ll be sorry for me because he knows me, but he won’t shed tears over Mary Smith of Golders Green who is stranger to him and is wondering whether it’s going to be the cemetery or the workhouse.”

  “The world’s a bit too big and the human heart a bit too small,” remarked Vereker thoughtfully. “Was Braby a man who might try to get his own back through an agent?”

  “I don’t think so. But there are others in the money scrum who might want to kick his shins. Then there’s the lunatic who does delightfully unexpected things— Mary Smith’s brother for choice,” said Degerdon bitterly.

  “Ah, yes,” said Vereker, with an ironic smile, “but we’ve got a happy retreat for such people as Mary Smith’s brother at Broadmoor, if by any chance they escape the gallows. Our ethics are a bit tricky, and all we can hope is that Progress is not, as Baudelaire put it, an invention of the Belgians!”

  At the “Silver Pear Tree” the two men parted, and Degerdon continued his way along the Nuthill road. On entering the inn Vereker retired to his room and jotted down, as was his custom, all the particulars of his day’s work on the case. On going once more over the ground and reconstructing his conversation with Ralph Degerdon, he was assailed by a peculiar sense of uneasiness. That uneasiness arose from his inability to draw satisfactory inferences from two of the most significant portions of that conversation. When Degerdon had remarked that he had heard Sutton moving about in his room during the
early hours of Thursday morning, Vereker had seized upon the weakness of the statement like a hawk flashing on its prey. Seeing that Fanshaugh’s and Winter’s rooms separated his from Sutton’s, how had Degerdon come to the conclusion that it was Sutton he had heard? His reply had been a frank avowal that he had formed his judgment in the light of subsequent events and not at the moment. If true, the explanation was simple; but, if concocted extemporarily, it showed an amazing readiness of mind. Again, when Vereker had probed him discreetly about the presence of a youth resembling him in Wild Duck Wood that morning, he had promptly asked, “What was he wearing?” Was it again the simple directness of innocence or the perspicacity of a man wide awake to the value of the information that the answer might supply? Vereker, suddenly alive to possibilities, had lied. It was necessary to allay suspicion in order to assure the possible reappearance of that Norfolk jacket and cap. Lastly, there was Degerdon’s almost supererogatory information that he had not risen till ten. Vereker was acutely aware of the psychological significance of unnecessary statement given with an air of conversational diffuseness. It was a common resort of the liar or deceiver. Degerdon was indirectly stating that he was in bed at the hour when Vereker was hinting that he was in Wild Duck Wood. This indirectness, too, to hide the fact that he was conscious of being suspected. The exasperating factor in this instance was that the statement was artless enough to be true. If the statement were untrue, Degerdon had momentarily forgotten that its falseness might easily be detected by a tactful questioning of Captain Fanshaugh. The oversight seemed too glaring to be associated with the preparedness of a resourceful man. And at that moment Vereker exclaimed:

  “Algernon, you’re a clumsy fool! There’s a possibility, a decided possibility—”

  But his soliloquy was cut short by a loud knock on his door and the entrance of Inspector Heather.

  “Well, Heather, found the Colt automatic pistol?” asked Vereker when the officer had taken a seat.

  “Not a trace, but I haven’t given up hope, Mr. Vereker. I’ve some good news. On having another good look at that suit of clothes which Burton found, Goss noticed a cleaners’ mark which he had skipped on the first kit inspection. Poor old Goss! We call him ‘Speedy’ at the Yard. He lived up to his name on this occasion, but I’ve a notion God helped him. Tracking down the shop where a suit has been cleaned and by whom it was left for that purpose is about as dull and long a job as it is important. Sometimes it is as hopeless as trying to find out where a box of matches was bought. ‘Speedy’ put his fist on the right egg almost before he was sure what we wanted him to do. He explained his good luck by ascribing it to a species of inspiration which he persists in calling a ‘hinkling.’ However, we’ve got the name of the gent who left that suit to be cleaned. It’s Raoul Vernet. He was at an address in Woburn Square a fortnight ago, but has since vanished. I dare say he’s back on the Continent now, and probably with Mrs. Armadale’s necklace in his pocket.”

  “So you’ve added a third suspect to your dessert of Portwine and Peach,” remarked Vereker.

  “I’m beginning to think that the murder of Mr. Armadale has nothing to do with the burglary,” said the inspector thoughtfully.

  “Unless the bold seaman, Portwine, has got in touch with a gang of Continental crooks,” suggested Vereker.

  “There is that possibility. We shall begin to get a better view of things once we’ve tracked down these two mysterious people—or rather three, if we count Mr. Gastinne Renette.”

  “One more point, Heather, before I forget it. When you next see Mrs. Armadale’s maid, will you find out from her whether her mistress had occasion to wear a fur coat, probably sable, on Wednesday night or more likely very early on Thursday morning? She will doubtless remember having put the coat away.”

  “She tidied a fur coat away all right,” replied the inspector. “In the course of my chat with the little minx, I found out that Mrs. Armadale had slipped on her old sable coat over her bathing costume when going to and returning from the swimming-pool.”

  “H’m!” muttered Vereker reflectively. “I’ve taken a sudden objection to the number of sable coats in England during a period of financial depression. Every clue in this case seems about as tenuous as gossamer.”

  “Never mind, Mr. Vereker, get your fingers and toes into it and hang on,” encouraged the inspector, and with a broad smile added, “I shouldn’t worry much about facts. Double up on the psychology stunt. It’s so juicy!”

  “That’s just where you rule-of-thumb men in the C.I.D. fall short, Heather,” chaffed Vereker. “You’re all right with the Bill Sykes type of criminal. You’ll catch him once in a while if he makes a bloomer at his job. But, now that man has practically conquered the world and even sport begins to be tame, the field of crime lies open to daring and original spirits. Your misfortune is that they’ve got brains and mean to use them. It’s about time I read that Daily Express cutting to you again.”

  Vereker’s hand went in search of his pocket-book, but before he could extract it Heather had risen and with a cheery good night had vanished.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day being Sunday, Vereker rose rather later than usual, and pondered over his programme for the day as he sat in his dressing-gown leisurely smoking after breakfast. The morning was brilliantly fine, and he had a resurgence of that spirit to paint which even in the midst of his most exciting preoccupations with criminal investigation would occasionally exercise a Circean enchantment over him. He had hardly dressed, however, when a servant from Vesey Manor brought him a note from Basil Ralli asking him to come up at once if possible. Mrs. Armadale and Mr. Houseley had arrived very early by car, and the former had expressed a wish to see him before they left at noon. It was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed, and at once Vereker dismissed all thoughts of painting from his mind and set out for the manor with a growing sense of excitement. On his arrival he was shown up to the solarium, where he found Ralli, Mrs. Armadale, and Houseley sitting at ease and chatting with undisguised cheerfulness. Mrs. Armadale was, as he had expected, typically English. Tall, beautifully proportioned, with fair hair almost bleached by exposure to sun and wind and contrasting with her tanned complexion, she proved that the feminine product of our country life could vie in beauty with the womanhood of any race on earth. Her wide-set, bluish-grey eyes met Vereker’s with a frankness and composure that were completely disarming. The whole face seemed alight with a new-born zest in life which lent it a girlishness that belied even her thirty years. Vereker at once noticed that she had assumed no trace of mourning in her dress as a sop to public opinion, and even in these reasonable days it seemed to reveal a dash of courageous individuality. Stanley Houseley, on the other hand, was not what anyone would at first glance call a handsome man. The face was prognathous, and a large brown moustache seemed too obtrusive an adornment in its broad expanse. His eyes were shrewd and observant, but with a cold and somewhat aloof glance. In stature he was tall, and his broad shoulders were set in a curious stiffness of carriage which lent him an air of stateliness which bordered on pompousness.

  No sooner had Vereker seated himself after the preliminaries of introduction than Ralli rose, as if by prearrangement, and said:

  “Come along, Houseley, I know you’re simply dying to look round the stables.”

  “Ah, yes, that would be rather jolly,” replied Houseley mechanically, and rose.

  When the two men had left the solarium, Mrs. Armadale drew her chair closer to Vereker’s and at once broached the subject that was uppermost in her mind.

  “Basil was telling me this morning at breakfast that you’re an old friend of his and were helping in an unofficial way to solve the mystery of my husband’s death.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Armadale, I’m down here as a representative of the Daily Report,” corrected Vereker. “This again isn’t strictly true, because I don’t represent them in any capacity. The editor’s a very old friend of mine and, knowing I’m intensely int
erested in the investigation of crime, especially murder, he kindly despatches me as a sort of reporter ‘without portfolio’ to carry out my own plans. It’s very useful in a way, because the Press is allowed privileges that would be denied a purely private individual.”

  “But Basil says you’re quite famous as an amateur detective,” interrupted Mrs. Armadale.

  “It’s very good of him to boost me so strenuously. I’ve had some experience in the business, but I’m an artist by profession and not at all famous in either line.”

  “You’re very modest about yourself, and it makes me feel we shall be good friends. But to come to the point. My husband’s death has put me in a very terrible position, and I naturally want the dreadful mystery surrounding it cleared up as quickly as possible. Basil told me he trusted you implicitly and took the responsibility of letting you know all the family secrets. I was frightfully annoyed at first, but I see now that it was absolutely essential if you were to have a free hand. Naturally, I don’t want the whole wretched business broadcasted, and in this, perhaps, you can help me. If there’s anything you want to know, you must ask me frankly. I will be perfectly candid even if it’s painful— which it’s sure to be.”

  “I’m afraid I shan’t spare you, Mrs. Armadale,” said Vereker firmly. “It’s rather embarrassing to be taken so readily into confidence, but whatever happens I can’t allow myself to be influenced by graciousness. It wouldn’t do in this job. This may seem infernally rude, but I haven’t sought this interview. Now you know my attitude, the remedy is in your own hands. Do you wish it to continue?”

  For a moment a bright flush suffused Mrs. Armadale’s cheek and a pugnacious light flamed in her eyes. Then, as if shaking herself free of some unpleasant mental encumbrance, she turned quickly to Vereker.

  “I hope you’re not prejudiced against me,” she said.

  “Certainly not. An open mind is frequently as distasteful to anyone suffering from a sense of injustice. I simply want you to understand my point of view.”