The Polo Ground Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

“I understand, Miss Cazas. You’re in love with some one?”

  “Yes, and why not?”

  “Is the gentleman’s name M. Raoul Vernet?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not. He’s an old friend and a countryman of mine. But who told you about Raoul?”

  “Mr. Ricardo happened to mention his name when we were talking about you. I think Mr. Ricardo’s a bit jealous.”

  “Ah, no, Ricky is not jealous. Once upon a time, perhaps, but not now. He doesn’t love me any longer.”

  “Is M. Vernet in London at present?”

  “No, he has returned to the Continent. I think he has gone back to his home in Louvain.”

  “To return to Mr. Armadale, after going to bed you did not see him again alive?”

  “No,” said Miss Cazas, wiping away tears which at once rose to her eyes.

  “Mrs. Armadale told me she heard him in your room about three o’clock. She says he was talking loudly to you as if he were very angry.”

  “Angela must have been dreaming—nightmare, I think you call it. After going to my room I never saw Sutton again,” replied Miss Cazas emphatically.

  “Did you see any of the other guests?” asked Vereker pointedly.

  “But, Mr. Vereker, how could I? I don’t permit gentlemen to come to my room, as you suggest.”

  “I’m sorry if my suggestion implied anything improper, Miss Cazas. As there was a burglary in the house and a certain amount of commotion, I thought you might have got up to see what was the matter.”

  “No; I sleep very soundly and heard nothing till Aubrey hammered on my door on Thursday morning. Then I heard of the shooting of Sutton, and afterwards it was discovered there had also been a burglary and Angela’s pearls had been stolen.”

  “M. Raoul Vernet is an expert on pearls, isn’t he?” asked Vereker, and glanced shrewdly at Miss Cazas to see the effect of his question.

  “He ought to know something about pearls because it is in his line of business,” she replied, looking Vereker boldly in the eyes and smiling confidently. “But what prompted your question?”

  “To be frank about the whole matter, Miss Cazas, the police in charge of the inquiry into Mr. Armadale’s murder are pretty certain that M. Raoul Vernet was indirectly connected with the theft of Mrs. Armadale’s pearls.”

  At this information, Miss Cazas threw back her head and gave vent to a really hearty outburst of laughter, on the subsidence of which she exclaimed:

  “But that is an excellent joke! Your English police are so stupid; they ought not to be entrusted with criminal investigation. Their duties lie in the direction of traffic and the safeguarding of the morals of cooks!”

  Miss Cazas’ gay abandonment surprised Vereker considerably. He was at a loss to know whether it was genuine or a remarkably clever simulation. He decided to play a trump card.

  “I don’t think the police suspect M. Vernet without reason, Miss Cazas,” he continued amiably. “The morning of the burglary a parcel containing a suit of clothes was found hidden under some shrubs in the rock garden at Vesey Manor. On that suit of clothes was a cleaners’ mark, which gave them a clue to work on. They traced the establishment at which the clothes had been left, and they discovered that the man to whom they belonged was a M. Raoul Vernet, who, at the time of the cleaning operation, was living at an address in Woburn Square. Perhaps M. Vernet will be able to explain everything satisfactorily, when asked how his suit of clothes managed to get to the grounds of Vesey Manor on the morning of the burglary and murder. To me it presents rather a fascinating problem.”

  “But I can solve the puzzle for you, Mr. Vereker,” said Miss Cazas enthusiastically. “That suit of clothes was stolen from a car in which Raoul was travelling two months ago. It was tied up in a brown paper parcel, and when the car pulled up at an inn on the Eastbourne road the parcel vanished from the back seat where Raoul had left it. But I cannot explain how it got to the rock garden at Vesey Manor.”

  “Was it M. Vernet’s car?” asked Vereker.

  “Oh, no, the car belonged to a friend. Raoul told me all about it. He was very hard up at the time, and I lent him some money to buy another suit of clothes.”

  “Was his friend’s name Hippolyte Ferray, and did he drive a Trojan car?” asked Vereker quickly, and for the first time in their conversation he noticed a look of swift dismay on Miss Cazas’ singularly fascinating face.

  “I think that was the gentleman’s name, but I’m not sure. I don’t know myself,” she replied, with complete composure.

  “M. Hippolyte Ferray was driving a stolen car, I should imagine,” suggested Vereker simply. “I hear there was some trouble about it subsequently.”

  “M. Ferray was only a casual acquaintance of Raoul’s,” said Miss Cazas, with a suspicion of tartness. “If there was trouble about his car subsequently, you can hardly blame Raoul for that.”

  “No, of course not,” replied Vereker. “Casual acquaintances are very misleading at times. I once remember meeting a very charming man in the train when travelling from Manchester to London. We lunched together, and the journey passed very pleasantly. He was arrested on his arrival at Euston.”

  “What had he done?” asked Miss Cazas, as if relieved by this digression.

  “Cut his wife’s throat a few days previously,” replied Vereker.

  “Ah, how terrible!” exclaimed Miss Cazas, with a dramatic shudder.

  Vereker had been lost in admiration at the deft way in which his thrusts had been parried, but he was not yet going to admit defeat at the hands of this astute and pretty little Belgian. He promptly altered his tactics, and asked in his pleasantest manner:

  “But why doesn’t your friend, M. Vernet, register, Miss Cazas? So far he hasn’t done so, and you know the police are rather hot on such remissness on the part of foreigners resident in this country.”

  “Raoul is the most forgetful man I’ve ever met. It must have completely escaped his memory. I will remind him on a future occasion.”

  “He must be terribly careless, Miss Cazas. Two months ago he was travelling in M. Ferray’s car, and his parcel containing a suit of clothes was stolen. Only three weeks ago he left that suit to be cleaned at a valet service depot, and a fortnight ago it was sent to his address in Woburn Square. Is he careless about his dates?”

  “Most careless, Mr. Vereker,” smiled Miss Cazas, with complete nonchalance. “It is probably only a fortnight ago or less, as you’ve been good enough to point out.”

  “His forgetfulness’ll get him into serious trouble one of these days, Miss Cazas. But, with regard to the theft of Mrs. Armadale’s pearls, the police have bit by bit built up an extraordinary theory. Of course it’s purely theory, but it’s most interesting.”

  “If you’re not in a hurry to get away, Mr. Vereker,” said Miss Cazas, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, “I should be so glad to hear it—that is, if you’re at liberty to tell me.”

  “I’m not in any hurry, Miss Cazas,” said Vereker, with the determination that if this was a tactful hint to depart, it was going to be sternly ignored. “I don’t quite know whether I’m at liberty to divulge the theory, but as you’re eager to help me to safeguard the interests of the guests I’m sure I can safely take you into my confidence. You may even be grateful to me for taking the risk. On the morning of the burglary, as I’ve already told you, the police found a parcel of M. Vernet’s clothes in the rock garden of Vesey Manor. They promptly took the trouble to inquire who M. Vernet was, and found that he was an unregistered alien. The Sûreté in Paris say he’s a Belgian from Louvain, a jeweller’s assistant, whose attitude to other people’s property is not very orthodox. Mind you, this is the police story, and they’re possibly mistaken, seeing that M. Vernet is a great friend of yours. Still, I give it you for what it’s worth. I saw M. Vernet’s clothes, and from their general appearance I should say they’d fit you. He must be an undersized man and elegantly slim. Strangely enough, to me the clothes smelt very strongly of stephanotis,
especially the waistcoat. Naturally the police jumped to the conclusion that these garments must have some connection with the very charming occupant of the suite next to Mrs. Armadale’s on the first floor. Those were your rooms, Miss Cazas, and I think it very rash of the police to formulate any theory on such a slight basis of scents. The obvious inference to draw was that stephanotis is a scent which many people like, and that there was no connection whatever. Then they found your handkerchief in the rock garden very close to the spot where the clothes were hidden, and foolishly deduced that you had placed the parcel under those shrubs. Why, I cannot say, but put a detective on a theory and he’ll ride it to the devil. Having started, they meant to go on at all costs. It’s quite an interesting study in speculation from their point of view. Of course the entry into the library would be made from outside, because your door opened on to the same balcony as the library door, and such a method of entry would lessen the chances of your meeting any of the servants or other guests in the corridor or being heard by them. To do this the library door would have to be unfastened beforehand. Just before going to bed you went into the library for a book.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Cazas, “I always read before going to sleep.”

  “You can remember the book you borrowed?”

  “Yes, it was André Maurois’ The Silence of Colonel Bramble. I finished it.”

  “A charming book by a perfect artist. As it happens, Miss Cazas, you took a book by Mr. Sherard Vines, next on the shelf to that of M. Maurois. Possibly in your haste you made a mistake, but it’s quite irrelevant. The police didn’t pay much heed to the actual book you borrowed, but they thought you made the visit to the library a pretext for opening the library door. Foolish of them, wasn’t it? The next difficulty was how to get the key of the safe. This proved quite simple in theory, because Mr. Winter had told you that Mrs. Armadale was going to elope about two o’clock in the morning. To enter her room and get the safe key from her jewel-case would therefore present no difficulty. After the key had been taken, the electric light in Mrs. Armadale’s bedroom was accidentally left on. Now a professional burglar always carries a small hand-torch and never, if he can help it, switches on a light in an occupied house. As you’re not a professional burglar, they thought it must have been you who had forgotten to switch off that light. They also thought it was quite possible that you didn’t trouble to enter the library from the balcony, seeing that Mrs. Armadale was out of her room, but this is perhaps an unnecessary piece of embroidery. Now, however, comes the wildest flight of detective fancy imaginable. Having deduced that you, Miss Cazas, had burgled Mrs. Armadale’s pearls, they were obliged to connect you somehow with the suit of clothes belonging to M. Vernet. But no obstacle could now impede their headlong rush. On the discovery of the burglary next morning it would be a very suspicious affair if by any chance it came to light that the missing pearls were in the possession of one of the guests. Ergo, you had to get rid of them at the earliest opportunity. A phone call to your accomplice, M. Vernet—they had already promoted him to this rank—to send down a car with some trusted person to take delivery of the pearls had already been previously arranged. M. Vernet knows a discreet fellow, Hippolyte Ferray, another unregistered alien, who commands the use of a stolen Trojan car, and he appears on the Nuthill road at the appointed hour. A youth was seen by young Burton, the gardener’s son, at the lodge, actually to meet this car at about the right time, and, having delivered his package, to make his way back to the manor via the polo ground. Of course the difficulty of explaining away the presence of a youth in the scheme of things was overcome à premier coup. You were the youth, and you had dressed in M. Vernet’s clothes to play the part. Ludicrous flight of fancy, I should say, but the police always like to make facts fit a preconceived theory. They agreed that there must have been some reason for the masquerade, and they accounted for it rather tortuously to my mind. They surmised you’d find it easier to negotiate balcony pillars in trousers. Flimsy skirts hanging about the ankles don’t lend themselves to climbing. Then you might not wish to make yourself known to this casual acquaintance of M. Vernet’s, this M. Ferray, who was probably a member of a gang and likely to add blackmail to his other accomplishments. Again, if you’d been surprised in the library, you could have dashed back to your own room via the balcony. The entrance to the library being some distance from the safe would have helped you in your neat escape, because a pursuer would promptly imagine the burglar had descended from the balcony to the ground by one of the pillars. He would certainly not look for a young man in a charming lady’s bedroom two doors off without reflection, and reflection takes valuable time. Taking every circumstance into consideration, the disguise might have proved of vital importance if you’d been seen escaping and had avoided capture. It was a weapon in your armoury against detection. As I’ve mentioned, the police love to fit facts to a theory, and when they heard that you had hurt your knees in the swimming-pool they were discourteous enough to suggest that you had simply grazed them when climbing the stone pillar of the balcony. They even went the length of saying that a button, which eventually became detached from your shoe, had possibly been loosened in the same act. Personally, I’m very sceptical about neatly constructed theories; life rarely bears them out, and I wanted to know why on earth you’d taken the trouble to get rid of M. Vernet’s clothes. But it seems that Mr. Degerdon admitted having seen a man leave the house and disappear into the rock garden at the time of the burglary. You were not certain, or perhaps you were, that he might be able to describe the clothes to the police, and, had there been a search at the manor for a weapon soon after Mr. Armadale’s murder, that suit of clothes would have been discovered among your belongings. Don’t you think that a strange story, Miss Cazas?”

  “It’s simply marvellous, Mr. Vereker,” came the reply, with a sigh such as a child utters after listening to an absorbing tale, “but, of course, it’s sheer fudge from beginning to end. Why didn’t they go further and construct a theory which would make me out a murderer as well as a thief?”

  “Perhaps they were exhausted by their first effort, or possibly they wanted to keep the two crimes strictly apart. Their ways are always a bit inscrutable. They’ve got another charming theory on the murder, purely hypothetical stuff, but I really haven’t got the time to tell you about it just now. But before leaving I should like to give you a little friendly advice, Miss Cazas.”

  “I always like friendly advice, Mr. Vereker. I know I shall do right by completely disregarding it.”

  “The occasion may prove an exception. You’re thinking of returning to Belgium?”

  “That was my intention. In fact, my things are being packed for the journey.”

  “Then hasten your departure. It may save you a lot of pain and annoyance.”

  “Are they going to arrest me, Mr. Vereker?” asked Miss Cazas, with the first real show of fear in her remarkable eyes.

  “No, I don’t think they’ve got as far as that, because the story I’ve told you is my own fabrication, and I haven’t breathed a word of it to a soul up to the present.”

  “Suppose for a moment it was true, what is your reason for sparing me, Mr. Vereker?”

  “For one reason, I always admire a clever and daring, if foolish, woman; but the real reason—well, I can’t disclose it at the moment. Perhaps at some future date—”

  “How generous of you, Mr. Vereker, but I’m not in the least bit alarmed! I shall tell my maid as soon as you’ve gone to unpack my things. I’m dining out with a friend to-night, and as I take hours to dress, I must commence at once.”

  Miss Cazas extended her hand to Vereker.

  “You can take it from me that it’s not the hand of a thief,” she said, with a ravishing smile.

  “I accept your word, Miss Cazas,” replied Vereker, taking the proffered hand and bowing courteously, “but—but—No, I won’t be so ungallant as to finish the sentence. Good evening!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  On lea
ving Francis Street, Vereker telephoned to Ricardo.

  “I’m not returning to Fenton Street to-night, Ricky. I’ve further business down at Vesey Manor.”

  “How did you get on with Edmée?” asked Ricardo. “Did she liquefy under your scorching interrogation?”

  “Ricky, she beat me to a frazzle! I drove her step by step into a corner and was about to give her the coup de grâce when in a flash my rapier was out of my hand, and I was disarmed and helpless!”

  “Of course she resorted to tears. Edmée is the most accomplished weeper I know, and her eyes after the warm shower are like dew-wet violets instead of the usual poached eggs,” commented Ricardo.

  “No, I must give my adversary her due. I was confident, but she was assurance incarnate. I thought I was invincible when I was just a child in her hands. She defeated me without any appeal to tears. Cold, sure, deadly mentality—a fine example of ‘l’audace et toujours l’audace!’”

  “Possibly she started with an unfair advantage,” remarked Ricardo consolingly.

  “No, I won’t crab her victory. To use a military metaphor, she brought up reserves that I hadn’t suspected. She never even employed them directly. I at once detected the threat and beat a strategic retreat to avoid an absolutely crushing defeat. A born artist, she refrained from pressing her advantage, and thereby saved a needless and distressing carnage on both sides. We saluted each other gracefully and parted.”

  “Is there anything more I can do to help?” asked Ricardo, with something that sounded to Vereker like sardonic laughter.

  “No, not at present. Send in your account when convenient.”

  “I won’t charge for my services on this occasion, Algernon. It would be like a doctor sending in a bill for a bungled operation on your wife—if you had one. I’m still at your service. So-long!”

  On leaving the telephone box, Vereker made his way down to Charing Cross Station, and caught a train for Nuthill. As he sat in the corner of his carriage there was a look of quiet determination in his eyes and a wry smile on his lips. His interview with Miss Cazas had not yielded the results he had expected, and with swift intuition he had guessed the reason why. His mood was combative, and he had decided to give battle on the other issue of murder in another quarter at the first opportunity. He would return to the “Silver Pear Tree,” discuss the situation with Inspector Heather, and then drop in at Jodhpur to see Captain Rickaby Fanshaugh. On his way to Charing Cross Station, he had called at a bookshop in St. Martin’s Lane and bought a copy of Byron’s poetical works. As the train drew out of the station, he turned to Canto 4, Stanza 41, of “Don Juan” and read it. The stanza was merely a typical Byronic soliloquy in the poet’s description of the melodramatic meeting between Don Juan and Haidee’s father, Lambro, when the latter drew his pistol and was about to stop “this Canto and Don Juan’s breath.” It seemed to have little connection with the murder of Sutton Armadale, except that it touched on the subject of pistol shooting and was perhaps an index to the character of the financier’s literary taste. After some consideration, Vereker came to the conclusion that the words written by Sutton Armadale on his blotting-pad had probably been scribbled there for some purpose completely irrelevant to the issue of the murder. Closing the book, he thrust it into his pocket and gave the matter no further thought.