by Derek Smith
He asked without preamble:
"May I speak to you?"
She said doubtfully: "It's very late."
"Please."
His need was almost physical.
She smiled quickly. "Very well." She glanced round her room. "We'd better not stay here. Let's go down to the library."
They descended the stairs in silence.
In the book-lined room, she turned to face him. "What do you want to say?"
There was no impatience in her voice, only an instinctive sympathy.
"Sit down, Audrey." Lawrence balled one fist and smacked it reflectively into the palm of his other hand. He seemed uncertain how to begin.
He said:
"Roger died. He was murdered—and I think I know who killed him."
The girl said nothing, but her eyes grew wider.
Lawrence murmured softly:
"I'm confused, and I need your help. I don't know if what I'm doing is right… Old Simon is dead, too. I've no idea how he was murdered."
He was threatened with incoherence. Then he went on clearly:
"Audrey, I can drop the case now, with a fairly clear conscience… But if I go on, I go through to the end."
Her eyes were dark.
She whispered:
"What are you hinting?"
Lawrence sounded tired.
"Only that the truth might hurt you. That it might be better to continue believing that your fiancé died because he challenged the powers of another world."
There was a tiny silence.
Then Audrey spoke: distinctly, and with finality.
"I want you to find the truth."
Lawrence smiled at her. His face was once more lazy, placid, and carelessly good humoured.
"Right." He pulled out his silver case and offered it to her. “Cigarette?"
"No, thanks."
Algy nodded pleasantly. "You don't mind if I smoke myself?"
"No, of course not."
The young man lit up. The girl regarded him curiously.
Lawrence inhaled deeply, then took the cigarette away from his lips.
He said:
"There's one small matter. You might be able to help me." He asked suddenly:
"Did Roger make a will?"
She seemed surprised. "Surely—his solicitors—."
Lawrence interposed quietly:
"We contacted them this evening. They say that Querrin intended to make a will, but they've drafted no document. As far as they know, he died intestate. Which means, of course, the property goes to his brother."
Audrey nodded slowly.
She murmured uncertainly:
"Roger told me—that when we married—he intended to leave most of his money to me. I had the idea—." Her voice caught. "I suspected he meant to give me the will on our wedding day." She was warm with affection. "That would have been the kind of gesture he loved."
Lawrence glanced at her sleepily. The dead man, for all his shrewd business dealings, had had a streak of the school-boy in his make-up. He might have by-passed his solicitors completely.
"Mmmm." He mused pensively.
Audrey said:
"Now it's my turn to ask a question. Algy, why did you ask me to look after Peter this afternoon?"
Lawrence started. "Eh? Oh, sorry, Audrey. I was day dreaming… Why? Well, frankly, I wanted Peter kept out of mischief. He believed Turner had something to do with Roger's death, you see. I didn't want him creating a scene while I interviewed old Simon in his cell."
He rubbed his cheek.
"Young Querrin is so nervy, you never know what he might do."
Audrey gave a tiny gasp.
"You don't mean—.
She stopped.
Lawrence eyed her curiously.
"Go on."
She said, with an effort:
"Turner was murdered. Did he die because Peter wanted his brother's death revenged?"
Lawrence smiled. "That's a query you can answer best yourself."
"I?"
"Yes. Where was Peter between the hours of four and six?"
The light died from the girl's eyes. She laughed ruefully.
"He was with me."
"Exactly. You're his alibi," Lawrence shook his head. "No, Audrey. Peter didn't kill old Simon."
She moved closer, and laid her hand on his sleeve. The touch was an unspoken question.
Lawrence replied:
"I don't know, Audrey. I can't explain the mystery."
Her voice was soft. "You'll find the answer."
"Perhaps. I'll try."
"Try now."
She went out. Lawrence stared after her with an odd smile on his lips.
The cigarette had smouldered down to his fingers. He threw it away, then took another from his case and tapped it absently on the silver.
He sighed. "Ah, well."
He settled himself in a comfortable chair, with a cushion behind his head and his feet on a padded stool.
His eyes closed.
There was silence in the room.
Susan York tapped on the door, then pushed it open. She gazed round the library with frank curiosity.
The only light came from a small reading lamp, obscured now by a blue-grey haze of smoke.
Algy Lawrence stirred himself as the girl entered, and eased his cramped legs to the floor. He blinked at the housemaid sleepily.
Susan excused herself demurely. "It's very late, sir. I looked in to see if you required anything more."
Lawrence croaked, then cleared his throat. He was feeling very tired.
Susan said:
"My, sir. Look at all those cigarettes. You have been indulging."
"Tobacco helps me to think." Lawrence squeezed the skin stretched over the bridge of his nose. He stood up. "It's all right, Susan. I'm going up to bed."
He said obscurely:
"I've finished."
Susan York was an intelligent girl, and she knew why Lawrence had come to Querrin House.
She asked timidly:
"Are you still working on the case, sir?"
"Mmmm? Why, yes, I am. Is anything bothering you?"
Susan hesitated. She smoothed her hands over her shapely hips, then blurted out:
"It's about Mr. Craig. I didn't want to tell the police about—." She managed a creditable blush. "About that little affair between us. But they dragged it out of me, sir. And Mr. Craig is a very kind old gentleman, though a little impulsive. I shouldn't like to think of him getting into trouble, sir."
Lawrence concealed a twinkle. He said gravely:
"Don't worry, Susan. I'll see the police don't bother him unduly."
"Oh, thank you, sir." Susan fluttered her lashes. Her wide brown eyes were ingenuous. "You have such influence. And Mr. Craig would be so grateful. And I—I'd be grateful, too."
She stepped up to him quickly.
She whispered:
"I can be very grateful."
Lawrence blinked.
He said:
"Susan, you're a very attractive girl."
Her reply was a pleasant one. Her lips came up to his. The gentle pressure lightened, and went away.
She scurried away with a fleeting laugh.
Lawrence gazed after her with surprise. Then he grinned faintly and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
He murmured:
"That old rogue Craig! I wonder if he—."
He shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned out the light and closed the door behind him softly.
The humour had vanished from his face before he climbed the stairs. He felt physically exhausted.
For he knew, at last, the answer to every question.
The traps were sprung, and the ghosts were laid. The illusions were explained….
He smacked his fist against the balustrade.
This was the time he hated. He was now the hangman's ally.
He felt sick. A decision had to be made….
His mind rebelled.
&nb
sp; He cried aloud:
"But not to-night!"
Then, ashamed, he went into his room. He undressed quickly and slipped between the sheets.
It wasn't any use. Sleep wouldn't come to him.
He sat up and clicked on the bedside light.
He lay back against the pillows. He needed something to ease the tumult in his brain. A book, perhaps. His old remedy.
He leaned out and dragged the zippered bag towards him. He never travelled without a selection from his library.
He thumbed over the much used volumes, then a smile of pure pleasure nickered across his lazy mouth.
He leaned back with a tattered, paper-backed novel in his hands. He studied the Savile Lumley illustration in red and blue on the cover, then flipped open the slim book.
It was a much-prized survival from his boyhood: The Schoolboy 'Tec, by Charles Hamilton.
For an hour and a half, he found his release in the adventures of Len Lex and Peter Porringe, of the Oakshott Fifth….
He closed the book with a sigh. He felt relaxed and happy.
For a while at least he had escaped from the grim problems he had still to face.
He turned back to the cover. The Schoolboys' Own Library, No. 353. Dated 3.11.38.
November, 1938. The smile faded from Lawrence's He had been a boy, then. Crime puzzles had been a game to him: comfortable affairs, between the covers of a book.
Even at that time, he had been gifted with a flair for analysis. He could solve any problem. It had all been fun.
But this time it wasn't amusing.
Now that the game was approaching its last and most deadly stage, it wasn't fun at all.
9
The tinny voice was urgent.
"You can't do it, Algy. It's too crazy for words."
Lawrence gripped hard on the receiver.
He said wearily:
"It's the only way. Haven't I convinced you?"
Steve Castle's pleasant baritone was distorted. It rang through the 'phone's diaphragm with the ugly force of fear.
"You've convinced me you've solved the mystery. You haven't convinced me this is the way to prove your theories."
Lawrence slumped against the wall of the booth.
He argued stubbornly:
"There's no evidence you can produce in court."
"That's our worry." Lawrence could hear his friend's heavy breathing. "Make your report to the Chief Constable. He'll know what to do."
"Colonel Johnson? That's an idea." Algy drew in his breath. "I'm practically on his doorstep."
"Aren't you in Bristley then?"
"Eh? Oh. No, I couldn't risk calling you from the village."
"You can't risk anything else, either. This crazy plan— it's dangerous."
"It needn't be." Lawrence was patient. "I've worked it out in detail. But I need co-operation."
"You won't get it." The Chief Inspector sounded positive. "Anyway, the Yard has no authority—we haven't been called in yet." He growled. "This isn't like you, Algy. Are you trying to earn yourself a medal?"
Lawrence said coldly:
"I don't want to be a hero. As for the credit, the local police are welcome to it. I've said that all along. Hardinge—.''
"Never mind, never mind." Castle was gruffly apologetic. "You aren't a publicity hound, I know that… But why, why—."
Lawrence felt anger stir inside him. The placidity had vanished from his face.
He said:
"You know how Querrin was murdered. Aren't you angry, too?"
There was a pause.
Then the Inspector replied:
"Yes, burn it. I am. Roger was my friend."
The answer was in itself permission.
Lawrence sighed.
He said dully:
"All right, then. I'll speak to the Chief Constable."
He had won his point, yet he didn't seem happy.
Castle returned:
"Yes." He hesitated. "You can tell him—your plan has my approval."
"Thanks, Steve. Good-bye."
"Good-bye. And, Algy—."
"Yes?"
"Good luck."
Colonel Johnson's normally ruddy face was pale.
He said:
"It's incredible!"
Lawrence returned quietly:
"It's the truth."
The two men were sitting in the Chief Constable's study. The Colonel's hand opened, then closed again wearily.
He muttered:
"I believe you." He spread his fingers on the desk top. "What do you want me to do?"
Lawrence leaned forward.
He said gravely:
"I want you to co-operate—."
The Colonel barked:
"I won't authorize any such crazy scheme!"
"Suit yourself." Lawrence rubbed his cheek. "But the inquest is fixed for this afternoon. And your police won't show to advantage."
The Chief Constable reddened. He snapped:
"If you're looking for cheap notoriety—."
It was the young man's turn to interrupt.
He said, coldly:
"I don't hang murderers to flatter my ego. Whatever a killer's done, it makes me sick to trap him… I don't want to sound pompous, damn it, but I think I serve the cause of justice. And I believe, with all my heart, that the person who killed Roger Querrin deserves to be sent to trial."
Colonel Johnson gazed at him keenly.
Then he apologized. "I don't doubt your integrity. But this plan of yours—to force a confession—it might so easily go wrong."
"It won't. I promise you."
The Colonel hunched one shoulder. "My job is to guard the public, not to get men killed."
"It's a citizen's duty to help the police."
The Colonel clenched his fist.
"But the idea's so wild, so preposterous! How can I give it official approval?"
Lawrence said, dryly:
"Policemen aren't always so scrupulous. It's a shabby trick when a plain clothes man tempts somebody to serve him a drink after hours, or writes a letter asking for dirty postcards… This is a murder case, sir."
The Colonel inclined his head.
Still staring downwards, he said quietly:
"Very well, Mr. Lawrence. I agree."
He looked up sharply.
"You're certain," he asked, "absolutely certain that the killer is—?"
"Yes," said Algy Lawrence.
John Hardinge was startled.
Lawrence leaned towards him across the desk, his speech spilling urgently.
"Things are moving, Sergeant. To-day might see the finish." He relaxed, and grinned lazily. "I kept my promise. When you arrest—a certain person, you'll have the cuffs on a dangerous killer."
"But what—and who—."
"I haven't time to explain." Lawrence took his hands off the desk. "I've by-passed the Chief Constable, even. He puts his trust in Hazlitt… Stay by the 'phone, Sergeant. But when I call you, go out to Querrin House as fast as you can."
Hardinge jerked assent. His blue eyes glittered with suppressed emotion.
Lawrence smiled. He said sleepily:
"This could mean promotion."
He went out.
Lawrence went up the steps with dragging feet. He thought wretchedly :
"I don't want to go on. Yet I must."
He pushed open the door, and went into the hall.
The blood pounded in his throat.
This was the time….
His mind sketched the shape—of a hangman's rope.
He shivered. The house was quiet. It seemed to be waiting…
He walked past the entrance to the passage.
The curtains shrouding the double doors stirred suddenly, and a man stepped out from the corridor.
He said:
"My dear chap. I've been expecting you."
Lawrence turned his head. Fatigue, born of too little sleep and too much mental stress, dulled his eyes and slurred his tongue
.
Yet a queer elation, sprung from a challenge and its acceptance, forced its way into his reply.
He said quietly:
"Come up to my room."
So many people were waiting.
While two men talked, there were others who stayed by their telephones.
In his room at the Yard, Stephen Castle worked steadily, but his mind was not completely occupied with the task in hand. His gaze strayed often to the black receiver on the desk before him.
His mind echoed:
"Good luck, Algy."
Colonel Johnson paced up and down his study floor. His ruddy face was anxious.
He exploded suddenly:
"These damned civilians!"
Then he smiled ruefully.
He told himself:
At least, young Lawrence is trying to save my face.
His eyes went back to the telephone.
Sergeant Hardinge fingered the twisted cord.
He thought:
One tug, and this instrument is out of commission. I'm tempted to do it, and save myself the tension. I could go out to the House at once—.
He laughed at himself. Keep calm.
Your thoughts are queer when you're puzzled. Lawrence will explain when he wants to. He's paid you a compliment….
He stayed in the station, waiting for his summons.
There were others: Hazlitt, and his men.
And a girl hugged cover in her bedroom, attentive for the alarm.
The minutes crawled by. Time seemed to be losing its meaning.
The duel was on.
Time passed….
Algy Lawrence reeled backwards. The blood showed, red and angry, across his forehead. He crashed blindly over a chair, fell to the floor, and lay still.
Peter Querrin came out of his room and paused uncertainly in the passage. He stood listening. The sudden noise had jarred his nerves.
He heard a faint groan.
He mumbled foolishly:
"What—who—.?"
He went up to the door of Lawrence's bedroom and pushed it fully open. He stared in shocked surprise.
"Good Lord!"
He stumbled across the threshold, then half fell, half knelt beside the young man sprawled on the carpet.
"Lawrence!"
Peter gazed wildly round. The room was empty.
Lying on the floor, as if dropped from a hasty hand, was a stick with blood on its ferrule.
Querrin slipped his hand under Lawrence's collar and gently lifted the young man's head. Algy's eyelids stirred. He groaned again.