by Derek Smith
"It could still have been opened." Hazlitt went on hurriedly: "You could have reached the prisoner—."
Lawrence held up his hand.
"I dispute that, Inspector."
He stood up.
"I think," he said placidly, "we'll stage a reconstruction."
He led the way through the corridor and into the Charge Room. "Sergeant, would you please replace my gun in your quarters?"
Hardinge took the automatic from his superior's hand and went through the communicating door. He returned to find Lawrence sitting on the desk top.
The young man murmured:
"Let's say we've just re-entered the station. That's your cue, Sergeant."
Hardinge repeated mechanically:
"I left it in my quarters. I'll get it for you."
As soon as the Sergeant disappeared through the door, Lawrence straightened up and darted towards the entrance to the passage. He moved silently but with amazing swiftness.
Hazlitt followed him, holding open the door at the rear.
Hardinge came back with the pistol in his hands.
The Inspector called out: "Right, Mr. Lawrence. Stay where you are, please."
He turned back to Hardinge.
"Your timing was accurate?"
"Yes, sir. If anything, my movements were slower than formerly."
They went into the corridor. Lawrence stood just inside the cell. He grinned.
"Well, Inspector?"
Hazlitt shrugged his shoulders. "You win. You barely reached the cell before the Sergeant returned. Certainly you had no time to force an entrance, strangle Turner, and get back to the Charge Room… Your alibi stands up."
"Thank you." The amusement had gone from Lawrence's face. He murmured:
"Three from three leaves—what, Inspector?"
Hazlitt was too weary for anger.
He muttered:
"This crime is as crazy as the first."
Hardinge held up the gun in mute inquiry. The Inspector jerked his head impatiently. "You can give it back."
Lawrence took his pistol and stroked the butt gently.
Hazlitt smacked his hand, suddenly, against the wall.
"God damn it! How was Turner killed?"
Lawrence said honestly:
"I've no idea."
He stared down at his feet.
There was a silence, then he murmured:
"It's strange. You remember what Peter told us? Old Simon threatened his brother with the vengeance of a ghost." He looked up, and stared at the Inspector. "You talk about evidence and proof. We've proved these murders couldn't possibly have been committed. So what remains? Did Roger,"—he paused uneasily—"whistle up a devil? Or did Turner send him the shade of old Tom Querrin?"
There was no humour in his laugh. "But if Simon called up another spirit, to blast out locks and set him free—." He stopped, then mumbled: "This time, he lost control."
He finished slowly:
"This demon wrung his neck."
8
"Lawrence !"
Algy came to a sudden halt as he reached the gates of Querrin House.
A figure loomed out of the darkness and repeated his name anxiously.
Lawrence relaxed. "Hallo, Peter. I didn't recognize you."
Querrin seized his arm. He cried, without preamble:
"What's been happening at the station?"
The strain showed clearly on his face. He seemed almost haggard.
Lawrence gazed at him curiously. He had wondered how Peter would react to the news.
He said simply:
"Turner has been murdered."
Querrin's fingers slid away from the other man's sleeve.
He whispered:
"Old Simon—dead? But why… And how?"
The moonlight cast fitful shadows across his face.
Lawrence said gently:
"Let's go in."
They walked along the drive. Words began to spill worriedly from Peter's trembling mouth.
"The police came—from the village—to interview Russell Craig. We heard rumours, wild stories… I didn't know what to believe. Craig was no help. He keeps talking about invisible men, and goblins, and—and heavens knows what."
It looked as if Uncle Russ had been revelling in the dual roles of mystery man and key witness. Lawrence resolved to have a word with the old rogue. Meanwhile, he was more interested in the young man at his side.
Clearly, but with economy, he sketched out the main features of the puzzle of Turner's death.
Querrin listened with attention. Oddly enough, Algy's frank statement of the complexities of the case seemed to bring Peter a measure of relief.
Lawrence sensed the change, and Querrin tried to explain.
He said, remembering the shock the news had given him:
"When we heard—there had been another death— another murder which couldn't have been committed—."
Lawrence sighed. Peter hurried on jerkily:
"I was scared, horribly. It—it made the nightmare worse, somehow. There didn't seem to be any reason in the world, any sanity. Now I have the facts, and though you tell me that there's no conceivable explanation, yet I still feel easier in my mind. There's a solution somewhere, and I'm sure you'll find it."
Lawrence grimaced into the darkness.
Peter went on:
"I've never been able to put away the fear that my brother died because he tampered with the—with the supernatural… And I've always believed, as you know, that old Simon had something to do with his murder."
"You're wrong there," said his companion mildly. "Turner could not have harmed your brother."
Peter's speech, like his reasoning, became muddled.
"But we know, at least, that old Simon died at the hands of a man. Not a ghost."
Despite his own talk of demons, Lawrence was ready to agree. Yet he queried:
"What makes you say that?"
He was curious to hear Peter's comments.
Querrin replied:
"The cell door was forced open."
"The lock was picked, yes. Well? Oh, I see. You mean that was a man's trick, not a goblin's."
"Yes." Peter mused thoughtfully. "Why didn't Turner cry out when he heard someone tampering with the door?"
"Why should he? He thought somebody was helping him to escape." Lawrence shivered. He had a swift disturbing picture: of old Simon, eagerly and unsuspectingly awaiting the entry in his cell of a faceless man who wanted his life.
He murmured:
"A man who burst and vanished like a soap bubble."
"What?" Querrin was startled.
"Sorry, Peter. I was thinking out loud."
He asked:
"By the way, who told you the news?"
Querrin blinked. "One of the housemaids. Miss Craig and I went out for a walk—."
Lawrence remembered he had asked Audrey to keep an eye on Peter that afternoon, in case he should think of wandering near the station.
"—we've been together for most of the afternoon and evening, as it happens. Anyway, this girl Susan—."
"Susan York?"
"Yes, that's her name. She told us the police were here, interviewing Audrey's uncle, and gave us a garbled version of the affair. Whether she'd picked it up from one of the constables or by eavesdropping, I don't know—."
"It doesn't matter."
They walked on in silence, and reached the entrance to the house.
Lawrence made some excuses and strolled away, leaving Querrin on the steps.
He felt he had spent enough time wandering with Peter in the grounds. He wanted to think.
He sauntered along the flagged path round the building, and gazed thoughtfully at the room in which a man had died. Then he shrugged and retraced his steps.
He was not long alone.
A cigar glowed redly in the shadows, and a benign voice hailed him smoothly.
"Lawrence, my boy."
Algy groaned.
"It
's Uncle Russ," he told himself gloomily. He was in no mood for any more of the old rogue's theories.
"My dear fellow," said Craig. "I'm glad I found you. I've had," he continued impressively, "another idea. What was that, my boy? Did you speak?"
"No."
"Another idea, as I say, about Roger's death."
Lawrence muttered something. He asked:
"Did you speak to Peter about offering a reward?"
"Er, yes." The old rogue seemed a trifle put out. "I did. I regret to say this, but Peter was rather offensive. He actually implied"—Russell Craig spoke more in sorrow than anger—"that my interest in the matter was completely mercenary. I disdained argument, of course."
"Of course. Well, what's your latest theory?"
"Hardly a theory. Merely a suggestion."
Craig removed the cigar from his mouth and gestured with the stub. "That is the outside wall of the passage between the hall and the room where Roger died."
"Uh huh."
"You observe the solitary window. Possibly the guilty man, after securing the door—."
Lawrence opened his mouth, but Uncle Russ gave him no opportunity to raise an objection. He hurried on:
"—made his escape from the house through that window."
Lawrence sighed. "It was locked."
"Never mind that," said Craig grandly. "To my mind, the only objection to my latest hypothesis is the absence of footprints on the flower beds."
"Well?"
"That can be explained." Craig pointed again. "You observe an upturned box beneath the window?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't its presence there strike you as rather odd?"
"No."
"No?"
"No." Lawrence explained briefly. "Querrin helped me test the window yesterday afternoon. He used the box as a step."
"Oh." Uncle Russ was disappointed. Then he rallied. "Even though its presence was fortuitous, the killer may still have used it to advantage."
"How?"
"He procured a plank—."
"A—what?"
"A plank, resting one end on the box, and the other on the path. Thus," finished Craig with pride, "he was able to cross over the soil without leaving a mark."
Lawrence stared. Then he roared with laughter.
"I'm sorry, sir. But, believe me, no one could leave that way. Those beds are much too wide. And the plank would dip in the middle under a person's weight. And the board itself would be too unwieldy to shift afterwards. And anyway, there was no such article in the grounds. And—."
"Never mind," interrupted Craig. "I withdraw the suggestion."
The young man choked back another chuckle. "If that's all, sir, I'll go in."
They went up to the side door, which Craig had left open. Inside the hall,
Lawrence said pointedly:
"I'm going up to my room."
Uncle Russ didn't take the hint. "Lead on, my boy."
Algy repressed his irritation. They climbed the stairs together.
In the young man's room, Craig settled himself comfortably in a chair. Lawrence eyed him with increasing impatience.
He said:
"If you'll pardon me, sir, I intend to spend the rest of the evening reviewing the evidence."
He decided with dismay that his speech was rather pompous.
Uncle Russ said cheerfully:
"By all means. I'll help you."
He began to lecture. He showed such a detailed knowledge of Turner's killing that Lawrence asked curiously:
"When the police came this evening, were they questioning you, or were you examining them?"
Craig looked amused. "The honours were approximately even." He drew heavily on his cigar, then stubbed it out. "I should be grateful, my boy, if you would apprise me of the latest developments."
Rather regretfully, Lawrence found himself once more discussing the mystery.
Craig listened attentively. He said:
"I have a shilling shocker mind. Are you sure that the inner and outer walls of the station are all they seem to be?"
"Yes. There's no chance of trickery of that sort. The building is everything it seems to be, no more and no less."
"The chimneys?"
"Impassable."
"Then," said Uncle Russ. "I can see only one possible solution."
Lawrence blinked. "Again?"
He went over to the dressing-table, and pulled out the gun from his pocket.
Craig said, to the young man's unresponsive back:
"Obviously Turner died the way Sergeant Hardinge described."
Algy stared into the mirror.
"That's impossible. Shaw was watching the window."
Uncle Russ smiled blandly.
"The constable was lying. He murdered old Simon himself."
"What?"
Lawrence swung round. The gun in his hand pointed like an accusing finger at the old rogue's head.
Craig shied away from the muzzle.
"My boy. Could you, er, direct that thing somewhere else?"
Algy grinned. "Sorry." He dropped the pistol in a drawer, which he locked.
He tapped the key on his thumb nail reflectively.
He said firmly:
"You'll have to be more discreet. You can't keep making these wild accusations. Really you can't. You'll be accusing the Chief Constable next."
"Was he," inquired Craig, "anywhere about?"
"Oh, dear." Stronger language deserted him.
Uncle Russ pressed home his case.
"You will have to admit, my dear fellow, that the hypothesis of Shaw's complicity is the only one that explains the facts as we know them."
"Oh no, it isn't," smiled Algy. "Maybe you and I were accomplices. Then you could have nipped into the cells while I kept up a one-sided conversation for the Sergeant's benefit."
Craig looked surprised. "But, my boy, we know that isn't true."
"We do," returned Lawrence. "But do the police?"
When Uncle Russ had gone, Lawrence settled down to work.
His methods were unique. First of all, he kicked off his shoes and stretched himself lazily on the bed. Then he clasped his hands behind his head, pressing them into the pillow, and closed his eyes.
He seemed to have gone to sleep.
Entirely lost to his surroundings, the young man was reviewing the case on a mental screen.
Roger Querrin had died in a locked and guarded room. Lawrence knew now, with a bitter and angry feeling of disgust, how Peter's brother had been murdered. And he knew who had killed him….
That wasn't the problem. Another man was dead. Another victim he might have saved.
Nausea gripped him. Was this the final crime, or was there to be more violence?
He shook away sick thoughts of failure. His thinking had to be clear….
How had Turner died? Like Roger?
No.
This room wasn't sealed, Lawrence told himself. It was merely inaccessible.
And this problem was worse than the first.
The crimes must have been linked. Could he believe the person who murdered Querrin had also killed old Simon?
Yes, surely.
And yet—.
Lawrence groaned impatiently.
The evidence was clear. He had to believe Miss Watson's story, and the constable's: they couldn't be lying, any more than he.
He grinned ruefully. His own testimony was the stumbling block….
The medical evidence? No, that couldn't possibly have been faked. Turner had died between twenty past four and a quarter past five. At a time when no man could have reached him.
Steady! There's trickery somewhere. There has to be.
Lawrence released his hands, then folded them over his chest.
He thought:
Hardinge's theory. Surely that can't be the truth. No, of course it wasn't. Shaw proved that.
Oh, hell!
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the ceiling.
The cell
door. The lock and the handle had been wiped clean of fingerprints, both sides. What did that mean, if anything? Naturally, a person forcing the door wouldn't want to leave his prints… What about those scratches, anyway? Surely—.
Damnation! Lawrence pressed his fingers against his aching head.
Craig's wild ideas seemed to have driven away his powers of concentrated thought. He was glad now that he'd sent the old rogue away with something to worry about.
Lawrence sat up suddenly, and glared without vision through the window. Wipe away all preconceived ideas. Let X be the murderer.
Wait a minute!
The door to the cells had been under his own continuous guard during the vital times except for one brief period: while Hardinge and he stood on the porch outside.
Suppose X had slipped into the passage then?
He shook his head. Nobody had gone past them into the station. Unless—.
He caught his breath.
Suppose somebody had got into the Charge Room while they were questioning old Simon in his cell; suppose that somebody had hidden in the Sergeant's living quarters till they had gone out to the porch; suppose X then hurried into the passage behind—.
For a fleeting moment, Lawrence tasted triumph. And then he remembered.
Miss Watson.
No one could possibly have entered the station without her knowledge. And her evidence was clear.
Nobody had approached the entrance.
Lawrence himself had gone in just after four.
Russell Craig had arrived at a quarter to five, and had left at five past.
Lawrence had left just after a quarter to six; and at that time, Turner had been dead for—at least—half an hour.
Hardinge had hurried out to call Lawrence back at five to six, then they had both re-entered the station.
Shaw had arrived at six o'clock; then Doctor Tyssen, and Inspector Hazlitt, with his men.
These were the only people to pass into or out of the building—and nobody had the smallest opportunity to commit the crime.
Oh Lord, breathed Algy. It was almost a prayer.
He shaded his eyes, then squeezed his hands over closed lids. His head was splitting.
He decided, very suddenly, he wanted a talk with Audrey Craig.
She wasn't in bed.
He tapped on the wooden panels, and she came to the door with surprise on her lovely face.
"Algy!"