On arriving at the “Silver Pear Tree,” he found that Inspector Heather had left an hour previously, and it was uncertain when he would return. This was disappointing, because Vereker was eager to see the inspector and give him a full account of the result of his further work on the case. Surrendering philosophically to the inevitable, he ordered his dinner, ate it listlessly, and retired to his room to wash and change. He would call at Fanshaugh’s bungalow at about nine. Even if the Fanshaughs dined as late as eight this would allow a reasonable interval after the meal. Having about half an hour on hand and being in an unsettled state of mind, Vereker thought he would pass the time in reading. Casting about for a book, he suddenly remembered the two small volumes which he had found in a drawer of Sutton Armadale’s writing-table. They were Walter Winans’s The Modern Pistol and How to Shoot It, and the same author’s Automatic Pistol Shooting. He picked up the former of these and settled down in a chair. As he glanced through the volume, his eye suddenly caught the words, “‘Don Juan,’ Canto 4, Stanza 41,” and at once all his faculties became alert. The words occurred in the author’s chapter on the subject of duelling, and in a flash their whole significance became clear to him. Could it be possible that Sutton Armadale had met his death in a duel? The question was unavoidable, and as he swiftly reviewed all the curious incidents that had come to his knowledge in his painstaking inquiry the idea of a duel fitted into the fabric like the keystone to an arch. He had remarked to Ricardo that the spirit of Byronism had died in Russia years ago, but did it not survive in an emasculated form even in these less romantic days? As for duelling in England, he remembered that a British Code of Duelling had been published during the Duke of Wellington’s time, and had been approved by the Duke and others; that among English army officers this method of settling private differences had been favoured and resorted to until fairly recent times, and was mentioned in an Army Act of 1879. Glancing at the author’s text, he found complete instructions for the carrying out of a duel, even to the distance apart at which the contestants must stand. That distance was twenty-six yards, one foot, two inches—the very distance between the two small holes he had examined on the polo ground. The points at which the combatants had stood facing one another, pistol butts touching their thighs and waiting for the critical “Attention! Feu! Un, deux, trois!” must have been marked by the first things to hand, namely, the two shooting-sticks which he had subsequently found in the gun-room. At once his mind reverted to the round leather surveyor’s tape-measure lying on Sutton’s writing-table, and its presence there, which at the moment had appeared singular, now became clear. Once more he referred to Mr. Winans’s text, and as he read with strained absorption he came upon the words, “M. Gastinne Renette of Paris generally supplies the pistols, but in an out-of-the-way place where you do not know the gunmaker and do not trust your opponent or his seconds, it is advisable to instruct your seconds to be very careful what gunmaker is chosen, and if they are the least bit dubious to insist on M. Gastinne Renette being telegraphed to, asking him to send a representative with pistols.”
“Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Vereker. “So M. Gastinne Renette’s connection, or rather want of it, with this affair is explained at last!”
Reading the paragraph again, he was assailed by the curiously dispassionate style of the author; its cold practicality savoured almost of the technical calm of an instructor telling a pupil where to buy a lawn-tennis racquet. It was a vivid disclosure of the author’s settled conviction as to the moral rectitude of such an arbitrament.
Thrusting the book into his pocket, Vereker began to probe the less evident contingencies to which his discovery had given rise. The first point was the question of duelling pistols. If a duel had taken place, the weapons used had been Colt automatics of .45 calibre, fully loaded with magazines of seven cartridges. This was altogether contrary to any code of duelling, but suggested a combat à outrance arranged on the spur of the moment and carried out with the only weapons to hand. But one startlingly significant fact combated this supposition of a hastily arranged fight. Why had Sutton Armadale scrawled the name of a famous Parisian gunmaker, renowned for duelling pistols, on his writing-pad? The intention of seeking this method of composing difficulties must have been in his mind long before Wednesday night or Thursday morning. The whole matter had evidently been pondered on carefully. He had even taken the precaution to make himself a deadly marksman with a pistol, and skill with this fire-arm is not acquired in a few days. Premeditation on Sutton’s part was clearly apparent. Then the question of time fitted in admirably with the supposition of a duel, for these contests were nearly always held at dawn, and Sutton Armadale had met his death about that hour. Having reviewed these facts rapidly, Vereker came to the vital question of Sutton Armadale’s opponent. Fanshaugh, being a soldier, would be the likeliest man to accept a challenge to duel, but Fanshaugh, as far as Vereker knew, had no quarrel with Sutton sufficiently bitter to warrant the matter being put to such a deadly settlement. Degerdon’s differences with the financier were of the sort to invite such combat, and the fact that in a pistol duel years would be no disadvantage to the older antagonist might have been a deciding factor in the choice of this method of wiping out scores. Aubrey Winter, Vereker dismissed as an unlikely man, with the reservation that he might not be an impossible man. Sutton might have taunted him into an anger violent enough to rouse even his sluggish temperament. Ralli, in spite of his amiability, had that subtlety of mind and disposition which forbade the drawing of conclusions about him. These were the four men resident in the house on that fateful morning, and the clue of the side door near the gun-room pointed clearly in their direction. Whichever of them had gone out with Armadale to the polo ground had, after the combat, returned by that door and used Sutton’s key for the purpose of letting himself in. The fact that the key had been detached from Sutton’s bunch, its subsequent discovery in Fanshaugh’s room, and his cunning method of causing it to vanish once more clearly indicated Fanshaugh. Lastly, there was Stanley Houseley. Nearly every factor in the case declared him to be the most likely man of all to settle a quarrel with Sutton by duelling. He was in love with Sutton’s wife; he had been discovered by Sutton kissing Angela on Wednesday afternoon; he was a good pistol shot; his return to the neighbourhood of Vesey Manor at two o’clock in the morning, and the fact that he had not reached his own home again till eight were weighty evidence. His mentality lent colour to the view that he would consider a duel an honourable and gentlemanly way of settling a difference, especially where a woman was the cause of the dispute. His very nickname, “Hell-for-leather,” hinted at an impetuosity and violence of temperament favourable to such a conclusion. Against this supposition stood the clue of the side door near the gun-room. There was no evidence to suggest that Houseley had re-entered the manor after his departure on Wednesday evening. For some minutes Vereker wrestled with this refractory point, and then with a violent start jumped from his chair.
“Eureka!” he exclaimed, for he had suddenly remembered that in a duel there must be seconds. Seconds in this instance had probably been dispensed with, but in that case some sort of director would be essential, and who could have been a more suitable claimant for such a post than Captain Rickaby Fanshaugh? He was a soldier; he was probably acquainted with the etiquette of duelling; he was a staunch friend of both men and a man of disinterested and scrupulously honourable nature. Seizing hat and stick, Vereker hurriedly left the “Silver Pear Tree” and was soon well on his way to Captain Fanshaugh’s bungalow.
Fanshaugh was delighted to see him, and when Vereker remembered the incident of the key he wondered how much of the cordiality was forced. Miss Fanshaugh had retired for the night, partly owing to a headache and partly to an extraordinary persuasion that hours which suited larks also suited human beings. This was opportune from Vereker’s point of view. His interview with “Fruity” was going to be of a direct and confidential nature. Seated in the Fanshaughs’ drawing-room, the wall decoration
of which declared a passion for photographic groups of polo teams and of the officers of his own regiment at different times, Vereker came straight to the point.
“I’ve dropped in, Fanshaugh, to ask you a few questions about this Armadale business. I think you can help me considerably.”
“Only too pleased, Vereker. I don’t think I can be of much use to you, but here I am at your service. Walk march!”
“You know I’ve been making a private investigation of the case?”
“I guessed something of the sort, but I thought it was almost a semi-official one. You’ve compared notes with the C.I.D. johnny, haven’t you?”
“Only up to a certain point. Our methods have led us along widely divergent lines.”
“You’ll let him know your results, I suppose?”
“I shall use my discretion on that point. I’m not the least bit interested in the punitive results to any individual concerned in the crime. Immediately a problem’s solution is clear to me, I’m done with it as a rule.”
“Stout fellow! I’m with you there. But tell me, what is it you’re not clear about?”
“After a devil of a lot of thinking, I’ve come to the conclusion that Sutton Armadale may not have been murdered at all.”
“You’re backing the suicide theory?” asked Fanshaugh.
“No,” replied Vereker, and added in an even voice, “I’ve discovered that Armadale was killed in a duel.”
“That’s damn smart of you, Vereker,” said the soldier, without a trace of surprise. “I hope you don’t think I fought him.”
“No. I think I know the man all right, but I’m convinced you took some part in that duel—say, as a director.”
“You’re wrong, Vereker. I can emphatically deny that allegation, and I’m not a liar—if I can help it.”
The words were spoken with such quiet sincerity that for some moments Vereker was badly shaken. Could his cherished theory, so carefully worked out, be only a fantastic dream? The thought was humiliating.
“You’ll admit that a duel was fought?” he asked bluntly.
“But you say you’ve discovered that!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, with a hearty guffaw. “The truth is, you’re only working on suspicion and trying to bluff me. Am I right?”
“I’m convinced that a duel was fought,” retaliated Vereker firmly, “and, if you’d care to hear how I came to such a conclusion, I’ll be pleased to tell you.”
“Fire away, old chap, it’ll be devilish interesting,” said Fanshaugh, settling himself pleasantly in his chair and lighting a Trichinopoly.
Detail by detail, Vereker narrated how he had built up his theory, and while he talked, Fanshaugh’s face, which had at first worn an expression of superior reserve, thawed into the warmth of whole-hearted admiration.
“Ripping, Vereker, ripping! As ‘Fuzzy’ Waterton used to say, ‘you got the pig out of that jheel’ very cleverly. I’ll now frankly admit there was a duel!”
“I’m rather disappointed you had nothing to do with the directorship of that duel, Fanshaugh,” continued Vereker calmly. “It’s the only way I can explain your little bit of legerdemain with the key of the door near the gun-room.”
Captain Fanshaugh was obliged to laugh heartily at Vereker’s thrust.
‘I was appointed director, but I never officiated, Vereker. Before I go into that story, however, may I ask you the name of Sutton’s opponent?”
“I’ve hesitated all along between two men, Degerdon and Houseley, but I’m inclined to think it was your friend ‘Hell-for-leather.’”
“It would be deuced interesting to know how you tumbled to that,” remarked Fanshaugh.
Vereker, thereupon, gave him a pithy account of how he had arrived at his conclusion.
“The factor that makes me give preference to Houseley,” he said, “is that he’s the only man among my suspects who can claim to be a good shot with a pistol. Otherwise I couldn’t explain to myself why Sutton, who was a first-class marksman with a pistol, hadn’t bagged his man.”
“Luck enters into everything to some degree,” remarked Fanshaugh critically. “Sutton was a deadly shot with an automatic at a target. Targets, on the other hand, don’t shoot back, and it takes the hell of a good man to look into another man’s pistol and keep his own from wobbling. But I’m going to disappoint you, Vereker, by telling you that your guess is wide of the mark. The man who fought Sutton Armadale was not Stanley Houseley but young Ralph Degerdon.”
“Well, I’m hanged!” exclaimed Vereker. “I fancied that horse at first, but, as often happens, backed the other!”
“Now the cat’s properly out the bag, Vereker, you may as well have the whole yarn. I’ve warned Degerdon that he must look out for trouble, and he’s quite prepared. In the first place, the casus belli was Miss Edmée Cazas. Degerdon and she were a bit too intimate for Sutton’s liking. The fact of the matter is, they’re very much in love with one another. Sutton, you must understand, was absolutely infatuated with the woman and terribly jealous if any other man paid her attentions. To be fair, he had good reason, because Edmée played him up rather shabbily. She used Sutton as a sort of human Aladdin’s Lamp. She rubbed him the right way, and the genie with the cash-box appeared. I think Sutton must at last have twigged that Edmée was in love with Degerdon. In any case, he took every opportunity of quietly insulting the lad, and the latter only stood it so long for the woman’s sake. Things, however, fairly came to a head on Wednesday night. Over some trifle that occurred in the bathing pavilion Sutton was damned rude to Degerdon, and soon there was a regular scrap, in which all three participated. Vesey Manor was like an ice-house for the remainder of the evening. Early on Thursday morning, about three o’clock, to be precise, Degerdon went down to Edmée’s room. He said he couldn’t sleep, and as he heard her moving about he went down to have things properly out with her. He loved the girl, and he was determined to have a straight deal. He had begun to suspect from the row earlier in the evening that Edmée’s relations with Sutton weren’t quite as innocent as she would have liked people to believe, and he had decided to have a clear statement of the situation. While they were politely discussing their troubles, who should walk into the room but Sutton. He had somehow heard their voices and promptly gone down to inquire into the nature of the palaver. Jealous as he was of Degerdon, he put the very worst construction on his presence in Edmée’s room at that otherwise unromantic hour. Degerdon put the whole matter very clearly and succinctly to him, but he refused to accept such an innocent explanation. He told Degerdon that he must leave first thing in the morning and never cross the threshold of Vesey Manor again, adding the words, ‘You can do what you like elsewhere, but you’re not going to turn my house into a lupanar.’ Degerdon replied that if it wasn’t for his age, he’d give him the biggest thrashing he ever had in his life for daring to suggest that his presence in Edmée’s room had been prompted by anything dishonourable. This was evidently what Sutton wanted, and from his previous baiting of Degerdon it looks as if he had carefully worked up to it. He reminded Degerdon that a gentleman, if he were not an utter coward, could, if he felt insulted, demand satisfaction by challenging to a duel. Degerdon, furious at the implication of cowardice in addition to the previous insult, immediately challenged him. Sutton accepted the challenge, chose automatic pistols, and said he would gladly meet him on the polo ground at dawn, when he hoped to let a little clean daylight, if not decency, into him.”
“Is Degerdon a good shot?” asked Vereker.
“He had never used an automatic in his life, and though he’d had a little practice with a service revolver during the latter part of the war he was certain he had never hit a man except with the butt of it. To resume, after the challenge and its acceptance the two men came up and asked me to act as a kind of director. When I heard that they intended to duel without seconds and to use automatics, I said it couldn’t be done; it wasn’t the thing at all. But they insisted, and I asked if I might have a referee’s whistle to blow h
alf-time. I thought a little cheerful banter might pour oil on troubled waters. At this they both got rather wrathy, and Degerdon asked me to cut out the low comedian stuff and either take on the job or leave it. Naturally, I couldn’t officiate at a duel with automatics; I’d just as soon referee a boxing match where biting and kicking were considered stylish, so I gave them both a bit of my mind. Just to encourage them, I also told them that in English law the man who kills another in a duel is counted a murderer, but that if they’d wait and arrange things like gentlemen with seconds and duelling pistols, I’d only be too glad to be present. It was no use. Neither would listen to reason, and each went to his room. At half-past four they set out for the polo ground. I tried to dissuade them once more, but in vain. They went, and after a while I dressed as hurriedly as I could and followed. I was too late. As I was going through the stableyard a shot rang out, and when I reached the polo ground, I saw Sutton had bit the dust and Degerdon had completely vanished. Without worrying about him, I rushed up to Sutton. He had been pinked in the abdomen, and it had made a beastly mess of him. He had thrust the middle finger of his right hand into the hole to try and staunch the blood that was gushing out. I could see from the look of things that he was in extremis and suffering annihilating agony. The pain must have been terrible, for though Sutton was as full of pluck as you could make ’em, he began to scream like a badly wounded hare. As I had picked up the automatic which he had dropped on being shot, he caught hold of my legs and begged and prayed me to put him out of his misery. I had once seen a favourite horse of mine in pain; he’d been frightfully injured by a spear when we were out pig-sticking, and there was nothing for it but to destroy the dear old chap. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the best way to destroy an injured horse. You rest the muzzle of your revolver above his eye and shoot for the base of the opposite ear. I’m a duffer at human anatomy, but I thought something like it would be the best plan with my old friend Sutton. His screaming was a bit unnerving, but I screwed up my courage, and kneeling down fired at him from about two feet distance. At the moment I didn’t consider consequences; I’m a man who acts first and thinks about things afterwards.”
The Polo Ground Mystery Page 21