The Empty House

by Michael Gilbert

  There was a very faint smell in the barn. It had not been there before. Was it blood or sweat? Or was it fear?

  Sergeant Rix was in the barn. He greeted Peter as an old friend. “Funny how things always seem to start moving when you turn up,” he said genially. And to the Inspector, “I found these bits of rope in the hay. The cut ends look quite new. And this.”

  It was a rolled-up ball of handkerchief.

  “Could be blood on it.”

  The Inspector produced a cellophane bag and said, “Pop it in here, Sergeant.”

  They might have been two boys clearing up after a picnic.

  “I imagine this was the place you had your little talk, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “Dr. Bishwas sat up there. On the edge of that sort of manger thing. I was down here.”

  “Would you have been sitting down, too?”

  “Most of the time I stood up. Part of the time I sat on that bale of hay. Is it important?”

  “I was wondering whether anyone standing outside – at the back of the barn, say – could hear what you were saying.”

  “I imagine they could hear every word.”

  “You said something about a car stopping.”

  “Yes. I heard a car check at the end of the lane. It didn’t actually stop.”

  “When would that have been?”

  “About a quarter of an hour after we’d started talking. Maybe a bit more.”

  The Inspector was examining the inside of the barn with impersonal curiosity. Maybe he was seeing it as a photograph illustrating the book of the crime? To Peter it was a place of horror. A place where a little creature had been roped to the hayrack, gagged with his own handkerchief, and tortured to death. When would that fatuous Inspector and that oafish Sergeant stop pottering around, peering into things which no longer mattered? Come to that, why couldn’t he just say, “To hell with you” and walk out?

  He could hear a car coming up the track. The Sergeant looked out, and said, “It’s the Army, sir.” They went outside, the Inspector closing the door carefully behind them, as if to prevent the escape of any clues which he might have overlooked.

  The new arrival was a light utility car with Army markings. The man who got out, though not dressed in uniform, had the look of a soldier. He had a round, weather-beaten face, protuberant eyes, and a gray waterfall of a moustache.

  He said, “I’m Bob Hay. You must be Peter Manciple.” He shot out a brown hand and Peter found himself shaking it. “If you’ve finished with Mr. Manciple, Inspector, I’d like a word with him.”

  “That’s all right, Colonel. I think he’s told us all he can. For the time being, that is.”

  “Jump in,” said the Colonel. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” During the drive he said nothing. Peter studied his face, but it said nothing, either. It was the sort of face a young soldier started to cultivate at Sandhurst, adding a line here and a fold there as rank and experience increased, until at the end it was as perfect a piece of protective covering as the bronze masks behind which warriors of old had hidden their thoughts and fears.

  As they were getting out, the Colonel said, “There seem to be a lot of people about. Is there anywhere we could have a little pow-wow?”

  “The best place would be my bedroom.”

  When they got there, the Colonel annexed the only chair and Peter sat on the end of the bed. The Colonel said, “There’s no need to go over everything you told Inspector Home. I’ve read your statement. It seems quite straightforward. But there’s one thing that puzzles me. That rendezvous you fixed with Dr. Bishwas. You drove straight there, I suppose? The opposition seemed to pick it up damned quick. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, by any chance?”

  “I told Dave Brewer I was going out. I didn’t say where.”

  “No one else? No one at all?”

  “No. But I did leave a messsage.”

  “Oh. Who for?”

  “For no one in particular. I thought the whole thing might be some sort of trap so I wrote a note explaining where I was going and who I was going to meet, and left it propped up on that mantelpiece.”

  The Colonel got up, examined the mantelpiece, and then walked across to the window. He said, “Never seen a room quite so easy to burgle. Asking for trouble. Do you realise the outhouse roof runs up to within two foot of your windowsill?”

  “I suppose someone could have got in,” agreed Peter. “But even if they did, they didn’t read the letter.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it was still unopened when I got back.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because,” said Peter, “I used my eyes.” He was beginning to find the Colonel’s Orderly Room manner irritating. “It was still sealed. I saw it. As a matter of fact, I believe I’ve still got it somewhere.” He opened his briefcase and found the letter. He also saw, reproaching him, his unfinished and undispatched report to Arthur Troyte.

  The Colonel took the envelope, handling it gently. He said, “You should have used your fingers, Mr. Maniciple, not your eyes. This letter has certainly been read. It’s a very old trick. You can do it with a wire. In India, servants who were interested in your correspondence often used a thin sliver of bamboo. Push it in here, at the top. See the hole? Wind the letter round the bamboo, and pull it out of the hole. It goes back the same way, in reverse. If you run your fingers over the envelope – feel it – you can always tell if it’s been tampered with.”

  Peter thought about this, and then said, “I wonder if you’d mind being a bit more explicit, about things in general. If I’m involved in something, surely I’ve the right to know what it is.”

  The Colonel sat for quite some time, smoothing his hand down over his splendid moustache. Then he said, “Intelligent chap like you, I should have thought you’d have guessed by now.”

  “A bit here and a bit there. For instance, I’m pretty certain that Professor Petros is a fraud.”

  “Oh, what makes you think that? You’re not an archaeologist yourself, by any chance?”

  “No. But I’ve got friends who are.”

  He told him about this. When he had finished, he had the impression that the Colonel was looking at him with a little more respect. He said, “You’re right and wrong. Petros is an archaeologist. Not a very well-known one, but genuine enough for the purpose of the man who hired him.”

  “A man who calls himself Stephen?”

  “Good,” said the Colonel, as though he was examining an O.C.T.U. candidate. “I give you good marks for that. Spotted Stephen, did you? A very dangerous character. A high-class professional. We know a good deal about Mr. Stephen.”

  “I thought his English sounded a bit stilted. What nationality is he?”

  “No nationality. A citizen of the world. His father was a French Jordanian. His mother came from South America. He’s married to a Lebanese-Arab girl. And probably to half a dozen other girls in different parts of the globe. He was educated at the American University in Beirut. And very well educated, too. A charming man. He’d quote Thucydides while chopping your fingers off one by one.”

  “If he’s a thug, why don’t you pull him in? Him and his fellow thugs? And deport the Professor?”

  “Lots of reasons. First, because we’ve nothing specific to charge them with. Second, because if you start deporting professors, you get half the parlour pinks in the country round your neck. And third, because the situation was nicely balanced, very nicely balanced.”

  “But why should anyone be watching Dr. Wolfe?”

  “Because,” said the Colonel, “he’d shot his mouth off in that unfortunate article he wrote. You heard about that?”

  “I heard about it. And I thought that anyone in their senses would have realised that it was a joke.”

  “Nobody would think it a joke if there was even an outside possibility of having their water supply biologically attacked. A big country like Canada or Russia – it’d be unpleasant but
not fatal. A small country with a limited water supply like Israel, it’d be a very different thing. They could be wiped out. No – they had to watch him. And we had to watch them. One party made a move, the other party would make a move. Like a game of chess. And then—are you a chess player, Mr. Manciple?”

  ”Yes.”

  “I had a feeling you might be. I know very little about it, myself. My children tried to teach me once, but they soon gave it up. However, I remember one move. I forget what the technical term is, but it’s when the king changes places with one of the rooks.”

  “It’s called castling. You’re only allowed to do it once, because it changes the whole pattern.”

  “Right,” said the Colonel. “And that’s exactly what happened when the guard Lewis got knocked down by some hit-and-run hog and killed.”

  “It was an accident, then?”

  “No reason to think otherwise. But it certainly pressed the button. Dr. Wolfe took fright. His car went over the cliff at Rackthorn Point. When I saw that happen, I knew the watching period was over. What I didn’t anticipate—” the Colonel directed a bilious look at Peter—”was the arrival on the board of a new piece. A remarkable piece who seemed able to move in any direction he chose.”

  “All right,” said Peter. “Analogy understood. I hope I haven’t done any irreparable harm to your private game.”

  “Harm?” said the Colonel with a snort. “You damned nearly upset the board. When I heard that Petros had invited you up to the dig, I hoped he might be going to cut your throat and bury you in one of his trenches.”

  Peter looked at the Colonel. He seemed perfectly serious.

  “I can tell you why he didn’t,” Peter said. “He had other plans for me. He tied a string to my tail. That way I could do his work for him. If I happened to find Dr. Wolfe, then he found both of us.”

  He explained about the device on his car.

  “A bleeper,” said the Colonel. “Sound move, that. Ten marks for the Professor this time. Where did you go after you left the dig?”

  “Into Exeter. To have a word with Dr. Wolfe’s solicitor, Roland Highsmith.”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel. “That explains a lot. A cautious man, Mr. Highsmith. The moment you left he gave his staff a fortnight’s holiday, shut up the office, and took his family touring. Without leaving any forwarding address. Could be in England, more likely on the Continent by now.”

  Peter stared at him. The Colonel continued placidly, as though he had said nothing unusual.

  “The opposition must have assumed he knew something and had passed it on to you. They couldn’t get hold of him, so they followed you to Riverton, with the idea of extracting it from you. Only you changed your mind at the last moment and spent the night at your old school. That’s why poor old Birnie got duffed up instead of you.” The idea seemed to amuse the Colonel, but only for a moment. He said, “After that you disconnected the bleeper, I suppose, and they lost track of you.”

  Peter realised that the moment of decision had been reached. Either he took the Colonel entirely into his confidence – Cryde Bay, the Chine, old Mr. Garland, the lot – or he didn’t.

  It was a close thing. If the Colonel himself had been a little more forthcoming, Peter might have done it. As it was, he seemed to have been offered a neat way out of his difficulties. He said, with hardly a pause for thought, “That’s right, I’ve been cruising around for the last few days trying to forget all about it.”

  “I don’t expect you’ll be wanted for the inquest on Dr. Bishwas. I can probably fix the Coroner. Accidental death. Walking on the moor. Fell into the flooded river. If there’s any trouble, we can get an adjournment for further inquiries.”

  Wrap up little Dr. Bishwas in a neat package and forget about him. Peter felt his dislike for the Colonel growing.

  “And that being so, Mr. Manciple, I’ve one last piece of advice for you. Follow the excellent example set by Mr. Highsmith. Get into your car, making sure that no other illicit attachments have been made to it, and drive off into the blue. Keep on the move for a week. By that time we should have cleared up the mess.”

  “That sounds like very good advice,” said Peter. And when the Colonel had stumped out and Peter had closed the door behind him, he added, “But it doesn’t mean that I’m going to take it.”

  Instead, he sat down on the end of his bed and devoted himself to thought.

  In the course of his business, at the conclusion of any important interview – and he was under no illusions as to the importance of the one which had just concluded – he had found it a rewarding exercise to go over what had been said and attempt to analyse the motives of the speaker.

  It was clear that the Colonel had either told him too much or too little.

  He had spoken quite freely about the Professor and his camp followers; but only after discovering that Peter suspected them already. He had spoken in ambiguous terms about Dr. Wolfe. “His car went over the cliff.” Did he know that Wolfe was still alive, or didn’t he? More curious still, he had not asked Peter what, if anything, Roland Highsmith had told him. The solicitor’s action in running away made it clear that he knew something. The fact that the attack had promptly been switched to Peter made it equally clear that the opposition must have suspected this. What precise part had Roland Highsmith been playing, before he removed himself so hastily from the board?

  No immediate answer presenting itself, Peter moved on to the next item on the agenda: his own course of action. He was as adept in examining his own motives as those of other people, and he now subjected them to critical analysis.

  First, he hadn’t liked the Colonel’s manner. But this was a minor matter. Secondly, there was simple professional pride in completing a job which had been entrusted to him. There was no dodging the fact that if he brought it to a successful conclusion it would be a very large feather in his cap. Thirdly, and most important of all, he was the only person, apart from the vanished Mr.

  Highsmith, who knew where Dr. Wolfe was.

  This produced a difficult conflict of interests. He had a duty to save his firm the payment of a six-figure claim based on fraud. At the same time, he had no desire to hand over Dr. Wolfe to the attentions of the sort of people who had tortured Dr. Bishwas.

  It seemed to Peter that if he played his cards properly he might be able to pull off a sensational double. He would have to strike a bargain. If Dr. Wolfe would give him a written quittance for the insurance money, Peter would take no further step in exposing him. He would leave him free to continue such plans as he had made for evading his enemies. He felt sure that these plans existed. The house in the Chine was only a staging post. Dr. Wolfe had had years to prepare his careful exit. There must be a permanent hiding place, organised on those long motor trips which he had taken; trips which had started in France, but might have finished anywhere in Europe or Asia.

  It was a logical plan, and not, surely, unduly dangerous. Cryde Bay was a safe house. Owing to the lucky chance of Peter’s car breaking down and the obduracy of a garage mechanic he had got there untraced. Stop a minute and think. Had he taken any step, while he was there, which could lead to him? He had made one telephone call, to his mother’s house in London. Even if – and Peter could not help smiling at the thought that he was not taking her fantasies seriously – even if by any chance her telephone had been tapped, his call had been made by direct dialling and not through the exchange, and would not, therefore, have been traceable.

  All he had to do was to make quite certain that he was not followed on his way back to Cryde Bay. Then make his way, unobtrusively, after dark, to the house in the Chine. He could be back in London on the following day with a clear conscience and a job well done – surely there was no danger?

  The knock on his door which added a full stop to the sentence was soft but insistent.

  There were policemen downstairs, the inn was under the protection of Colonel Hay and his soldiers. It was broad daylight. All the same, it was with a
n effort that Peter got himself off the bed, stalked across to the door, and opened it. Anna was standing in the passage. She said, “Can I come in, please?”

  “Of course,” said Peter.

  “And do you mind locking the door?”

  She sat down on the bed, and when he had locked the door Peter went over and sat beside her. He could feel that she was shaking. It seemed a natural thing to put an arm around her.

  He said, “What’s wrong, Anna, what is it?”

  She said, “This horrible place.”

  “You heard about Dr. Bishwas?”

  “I saw him.” Her body was shaken with a fresh convulsion. “When they brought him in. And then they took Kevin.”

  “Took him? Who took him?”

  “The police. For questioning.”

  “Why on earth—?”

  “Because they found out. He was out that night. With the car. When he told them what he’d been doing, they didn’t believe him.” She managed a smile. “It was so silly that they ought to have known it was true. It was the first fine night we’d had for a week, and he wanted to see if he could find his way by the stars. He had a star chart showing all the constellations. You know what a Boy Scout he is. He was going to drive straight out onto the moor and see if he could plot his way back by the stars. It was what they used to do in the desert, in the war, he says.”

  “The police have got no imagination,” said Peter. He still had his arm around her. His personal analyst told him that this was a case of the male exhibiting dominance because the female he wanted was frightened and temporarily defenceless. He ordered his personal analyst to pipe down, and said, “What would you like to do?”

  “What I want to do is get away somewhere. Anywhere, as long as it’s away from here. But I don’t want to ditch Kevin.”

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Let me think for a moment. Have you paid your bill?”

  “We pay each week in advance.”

  “Good. Then pack whatever you’re going to need for the next few days into one suitcase and bring it in here. Then go for a walk. I’ll pick you up in that lane behind the church in half an hour’s time.”