Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  Holt flung himself sideways into a ditch as a spatter of shots rang out, smashing into the Mustang’s lamps with a hideous noise of splintering glass and metal. As he lay breathlessly on the damp ground he attempted to place the voice. He had heard it before, though it was definitely not Vance Scranton’s.

  ‘Come out here where I can see you, you dirty blackmailer!’ the voice yelled hysterically, rising in pitch.

  Holt recognised it now. It was Ashley Milton. Cupping his hands and still lying prone he shouted, ‘Milton, will you put that damn fire-iron away! This is Philip Holt! Do you understand? I’m alone – Scranton isn’t here!’

  There was a curious whimpering sound, followed by an uneven crunch of footsteps on the road. ‘Who?’ It was more an escape of breath than a word. ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Philip Holt.’ He got to his feet and switched on his torch. It played like the beam from a cinema projector on the screen of yellow fog. ‘For God’s sake put that gun away – you’ve smashed up my car in a fine old way.’

  ‘Oh, my God … I didn’t mean … Oh, heavens, what a mess!’

  The tall form of Ashley Milton appeared out of the mist. He was wearing a dark overcoat with velvet lapels and an incongruous bowler hat. Holt shone his torch in the man’s face. All trace of his habitual elegance and condescending manner were gone. He looked old and haggard and shaken to the core.

  ‘I thought you were Vance Scranton,’ he muttered, waving the gun uselessly as though it were an empty can of beer. ‘I’ve never used one of these things before … I … I …’

  ‘Did you intend to kill him?’

  ‘No … God, no!… I don’t know what I intended, I’m nearly out of my mind … He rang me this evening in London – told me he wanted some more money. He insisted I came down to the coast immediately. I didn’t know what to do. Then I thought of trying to frighten him with a gun, make him abandon his incessant demands. I thought I might even force him to hand me back those hateful letters. I must have been completely crazy – you can’t scare people like him so easily …’ He took out a white silk handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he asked dully, ‘How did you find me here? I suppose you had me followed?’

  ‘I wasn’t following you, Milton. I had a date with Vance too.’

  ‘Say that again – you were going to meet him here?’

  ‘Yes. Arranging for you to be here at the same time, and then failing to turn up himself would appear to be a typical example of his sadistic mind.’

  ‘The twisted little bastard!’ Milton spat out with venom. ‘Why did he want to meet you?’

  ‘I was supposed to hand over his signet ring.’

  ‘His signet ring?’

  ‘Yes. The one I seem to have dropped under the table in your restaurant yesterday.’

  Milton shook his head in a bewildered fashion. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear fellow. Did you drop a ring at The Golden Peacock?’

  Holt stared at him, watching his breath coming in short bursts and vaporising in the cold, damp air.

  ‘You returned it yourself, to Inspector Hyde. Or at least, you gave it to Jimmy Wade and asked him to hand it over.’

  Milton’s eyebrows were arched in something like their customary mockery. ‘Really? It sounds most intriguing. When is all this supposed to have happened?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘But I went up to Town very early this morning.’

  ‘Yes, and Wade tells us he was at The Golden Peacock pretty early too.’

  ‘Come to think of it, I dare say he was.’ Milton looked down his nose. ‘The mother of one of my waiters has just died. Wade probably wanted the funeral business.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘What did you have to go up to London for?’ Holt asked pointedly.

  ‘H’m?… Why did I go to Town? Oh, just business, tedious business. But do go on, Mr Holt, this is fascinating. What is supposed to have happened next? Wade’s a ducky little liar isn’t he? Just tells as much of the truth as investigation will bear, and then slips in a thumping great lie.’

  Holt was sincerely puzzled. ‘You say you didn’t give him the ring, then?’

  ‘How on earth could I have done so? I’ve never seen the wretched thing!’ Milton looked down at the Mustang’s headlights. ‘Well, you won’t get very far on a night like this without any headlights. You’d better travel back in my old jalopy. I’m awfully sorry about bashing up your gorgeous limousine, Mr Holt. Of course I’ll pay for the damage.’

  Milton led the way to his car and Holt shone his torch over it at close quarters. It was a Saab, not unlike a Volkswagen in contour; its colour, on inspection, proved to be a blue much darker than the choice of Jimmy Wade.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to drive?’ Milton suggested. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m still feeling a trifle shaky.’ He indicated the gun which he was now forcing into his overcoat pocket. ‘I’d no idea these things made such a rumpus.’

  ‘The first time you’ve used one, eh?’ Holt said, settling behind the wheel and acquainting himself with the Saab’s dashboard. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘M’m?… What did you say?’

  ‘I asked you where you got that gun from. They don’t hand them out free with packets of Corn Flakes, you know.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean … Well – as you correctly surmise – I’m afraid I don’t have a licence.’ He laughed feebly. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure that the owner has one either. I pinched it from a rather scruffy member of my crew. You remember, I own a boat out at Newhaven. She’s really rather smart – you must come aboard some time.’

  ‘I should enjoy that,’ Holt said stonily, switching on the ignition.

  The thoughts in his brain were whirling like leaves in an autumn storm, but he recalled Hyde’s words: ‘Lull him into a feeling of security. Let him think we’re not interested in him.’ So, poker-faced, and muttering only an occasional comment about the swirling fog, he concentrated on the return drive to Eastbourne.

  They had been cruising slowly along for four or five minutes when Milton suddenly bounced forward from his reclining position and let out a cry. ‘What in God’s name is that!’

  To their left a ball of orange flame had ballooned into the night, and a violent explosion followed. The Saab seemed to shiver like a frightened horse.

  Holt swung off the road and braked sharply. ‘Looks like a boat on fire,’ he said breathlessly, struggling to focus through the shifting pattern of fog.

  ‘That’s not out at sea!’ Milton said emphatically. ‘You can see the silhouette of a Martello Tower behind the flames. That fire’s on land!’

  A moment later Holt was forced to agree with him. In the garish light of the leaping flames he caught a fragmentary impression of the solid outline of a tower, a relic of the days when the South Coast had prepared itself against Napoleon’s threat of invasion. Milton had already scrambled out of the Saab and Holt followed. A second later the blood froze in his veins as a hideous scream of agony rent the air.

  ‘Come on!’ Milton shouted, producing his torch. ‘Mind your footing, it’s marsh ground round here.’

  Holt switched on his own torch and followed Milton over the uneven marshy terrain. The distance to the conflagration was greater than Holt had realised, and the going was slow. Both he and Milton stumbled several times. As they struggled on across the marsh they became aware of the distant howl of a police siren and the clanging of a fire-engine’s bell.

  Milton slipped, and grabbed at a rotting fence-post to stop himself from falling. He was panting for breath and had lost his bowler. Gesticulating towards the leaping flames he shouted, ‘Do you know what that is, burning out there, Holt? Look, man, you can see the outline clearly!’

  Holt came level with him and through a gap in the fog caught a glimpse of the tell-tale silhouette of a Volkswagen, though its colour was not apparent. On a sudden shift in the br
eeze came the sickening smell of burning flesh.

  Along the track which the Volkswagen had obviously taken, the headlamps of a police car stabbed the night at a reckless speed. The fire-engines followed closely. Black, golden-helmeted figures moved grotesquely in the light of the flames, moving swiftly in disciplined action as commands were shouted, and a moment later great gouts of white foam burst with blistering force on to the nearly gutted frame of the car. The air was acrid with an appalling stench of smoke, chemicals, burning metal, and charred flesh.

  Eventually the flames sputtered and sank, and with police floodlamps bathing the scene in chrome-yellow light two men in silver asbestos suiting advanced on the remains of the wreckage.

  ‘They’re mad to try it,’ Milton declared in anguish. ‘If there was anyone in that holocaust …’

  Holt felt his sleeve being tugged. A fat man with a press camera appeared out of the fog.

  ‘Any comment, Mr Holt?’ the newspaper reporter demanded brightly.

  With a stab of fury Holt recognised Abe Jenkins. ‘Yes! How the devil did you happen to be on the spot so quickly?’

  ‘I followed you out of your hotel. You can’t shake me off as easily as that, you know. I lost your trail in the fog, but then I heard fire-engines and I made for the fire. Who’s in that Volkswagen?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Then how about making a guess?’

  ‘No comment – sorry!’ said Holt curtly.

  ‘Come off it! Surely the famous amateur sleuth, Philip Holt—’

  Milton grabbed Jenkins roughly by the elbow. ‘I’ll risk a guess, my man. Come with me …’

  Half-pulled, half-stumbling, Jenkins followed at Milton’s heels to the edge of the semi-circle of police officers and firemen round the smoking wreck. The two men in asbestos suits were staggering clear with the remains of what had once been a human being. Milton forced his way through a gap in the group and knelt at the side of the body as it was laid on a tarpaulin.

  After a moment Milton looked up and searched amongst the onlookers for Holt. ‘You never knew him, did you?’

  There was a pause, then Holt said, ‘You’re sure – quite sure – that it’s Vance?’

  ‘There’s little doubt, I think,’ Milton answered.

  A familiar voice coming from the front of the semi-circle made Holt jump. ‘No, there’s no doubt at all!’ the voice proclaimed. ‘Poor devil,’ it added quietly, to no one in particular.

  The voice belonged to Jimmy Wade, and Holt, subduing his surprise at encountering the undertaker, hastened to his side.

  ‘And I thought Julie was using my car …’ the little man was muttering to himself.

  ‘You lent Miss Benson your Volkswagen?’ Holt enquired. ‘And you’re sure that’s your car that’s been burnt?’

  Wade stared at Holt and nodded sadly. ‘Yes, those are my number-plates – or what’s left of them.’

  Whilst Abe Jenkins blundered around taking flash pictures of the carnage Wade continued to gaze with dismay at the smouldering heap. Holt was about to ask Wade where Julie was when Inspector Hyde appeared and hurried to join them.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, Inspector. But for Pete’s sake make sure there was no one else in that car!’

  ‘There was no one else,’ Hyde said. ‘We’ve checked thoroughly.’ He turned to Wade. ‘Would you mind telling me what brought you to this area tonight, Mr Wade?’

  Wade managed a quick smile. ‘Yes, we – er – just bumped into all the commotion and … well, we were curious to see what it was all about.’

  ‘We?’ Holt rapped at him. ‘You have someone with you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. A lady. Miss Sheen.’

  For a split second the Inspector betrayed his astonishment. Then he said with restraint, ‘You were with Miss Sheen?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Wade stared through the smoke and fog and the confusing mêlée of firemen and police. ‘Where on earth has she got to? She was here a moment ago.’

  Quietly Hyde answered him. ‘She’s over by the hedge there, being sick. The sight of that charred body was too much for her. But you haven’t answered my question, Mr Wade. How did you happen to be in this area?’

  ‘We were driving back from the theatre in Bexhill, in Miss Sheen’s car.’

  Holt intervened. ‘I thought Henri Legere was taking her to the theatre?’

  ‘Yes, he was. That is to say, he intended to.’ Wade beamed automatically at the two men. ‘Unfortunately he had to cry off, for some reason or other, and I happened to be with Miss Sheen at the time that he telephoned her, so I … took the liberty of offering my humble services for the evening.’

  ‘So you just happened to be with Miss Sheen at the time, did you, Mr Wade,’ remarked Holt dryly.

  ‘Yes, I did!’ retorted the small man, with an unexpected flash of defiance.

  ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other.’

  ‘There seems to be quite a lot of things you don’t know, Mr Holt,’ said Wade, drawing back his shoulders and thrusting out his chin. ‘Otherwise you’d have solved this dreadful case by now.’

  Inspector Hyde made a wry face which bordered on the verge of a smile, but Holt refused to catch his eye.

  The Inspector addressed Wade. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to come down to the station and make a statement about all this extra knowledge that you’re hinting at, Mr Wade.’

  ‘Come down to the station? You mean – now?’

  ‘Yes – now.’

  Wade shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well, Inspector, if you think it’s absolutely necessary.’

  Milton was at their side. ‘Inspector, I should like to make a statement too, if I may?’

  ‘I was going to invite you, sir,’ said Hyde quietly. ‘Shall we go?’

  Dawn was breaking by the time Inspector Hyde decided to call a temporary halt to the interrogations. The three suspects who had undergone his exhaustive questioning were allowed to return to their homes on the strict understanding that they did not leave the district.

  Holt said wearily, ‘Aren’t you taking rather a big risk with regard to Milton?’ He stared at his own sleepless, unshaven face in the grimy window before opening it to let some much needed fresh air into the room.

  ‘Why Milton more than Wade or Miss Sheen?’ Hyde asked.

  ‘Because he strikes me as being much the most potentially dangerous of the bunch.’

  ‘I dare say. But they were all suspiciously near the scene of the fire within a few minutes of its having happened. All deny having had anything to do with the murder, and for the time being we’ve no evidence to prove the contrary. It would be very illuminating to know if Vance really did ring Milton and arrange to meet him here. But, whatever the truth is, we can’t accuse Milton of having blown up Vance in that Volkswagen – he was sitting next to you in the Saab when it happened.’

  Holt shook his head like a swimmer coming out of the water. ‘Milton has a finger in the pie somewhere, I feel it in my bones!’

  ‘Unfortunately, intuitive feelings aren’t sufficient grounds for an arrest.’ The Inspector sighed. ‘Short of a charge of murder – which I’m not yet prepared to make – the law demands that I set him free. But, as I promised you last night, I shall have him very carefully watched.’

  ‘Wade and the girlfriend too?’ Holt asked, adding caustically, ‘“That sophisticated painter-woman”, as Wade once called her!’

  Hyde nodded. ‘They are an odd pair, aren’t they? I don’t much care for his explanation of their friendship, true or otherwise.’

  ‘You mean that story that they’ve been seeing one another in an attempt to solve the Scranton mystery by themselves?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t want a lot of amateurs meddling in this affair!’

  Holt cleared his throat and grinned.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call you an amateur, Holt,’ the Inspector laughed, catching the implication. ‘No, we’re very glad indeed of your help
on this case. But people like Wade and Miss Sheen are a different matter. It could be dangerous, for one thing – these crooks aren’t using the kid glove technique.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Holt reasonably, ‘they might just come up with some startling information. But what beats me is why Wade should suddenly take it upon himself to turn detective.’

  ‘He said it was driving him mad, watching Julie become a nervous wreck on account of Vance’s disappearance. That’s why he decided to start his own investigation, he says. I don’t think there’s much doubt that the man is in love with her. He more or less admitted it.’

  ‘So he’s in love with his sister-in-law … I doubt whether she cares two hoots for him. But it still seems amazing that a meek little chap like Wade should suddenly become so enterprising. And equally odd that he should choose an exotic woman like Antoinette for a partner.’

  ‘M’m …’ Hyde mused. ‘You never can tell … Perhaps it’s the other way round; it may be her idea. She could be the instigator of the scheme, and Wade just following doggedly in her footsteps.’

  ‘That sounds more like it!’

  ‘Either way, I don’t care for it. But their story does stick together, after a fashion. They did go to the theatre at Bexhill and they were on the perfectly normal route home. The only weak point in the story is the time lapse between the end of the play and their appearance after midnight at the fire. Even allowing for their stopping for a drink on the way – and I shall check on that this morning, of course – they should have passed through Eastbourne earlier than they did.’

  Holt raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. ‘Wait a moment! Supposing the whole thing is a blind, a smoke-screen to divert our attention from his true activities? Acccording to Milton, Wade must be the pickpocket who stole the ring at The Golden Peacock. Milton flatly denies having given it to Wade to pass on to you.’

  ‘One of them is a point-blank liar!’

  ‘Yes, but which one? And did you notice Wade’s reaction when he saw his own car burning?’

  Hyde frowned and thrust out his lower lip, trying to recollect the scene. ‘He looked pretty dismayed, so far as I remember – but that’s only natural.’