“Then you don’t think he did it,” said Miss Rich. “That’s good enough for me.”
“But who could have done it?”
At that moment a maidservant appeared in the room, ejaculated “Sergeant Griskin” and seemed unable to proceed. Henry suppressed a laugh with the greatest difficulty while the maid eventually recovered her nerves and announced that the sergeant was on the telephone and wished to speak to Mr. Harrison.
When the maid, followed by Harrison, had departed, Miss Docket gave Henry a look and they both laughed heartily, while Miss Rich, obviously feeling that it would not detract from her dignity, joined in with the utmost discretion.
“Poor Griskin,” said Miss Docket, wiping her eyes.
“In the old days, it might have been taken as a voice from heaven,” said Henry.
“I felt myself that the curtain ought to have come down then,” said Miss Docket. “It was just like the end of the act in a melodrama. And a good one, too. Not a single member of the audience would have thought of Griskin, and you can imagine the buzz of talk between the acts. It ought to be the end of the first act of Mr. Harrison’s melodrama here.”
“Unfortunately, Julia, there is no drop curtain here,” commented Miss Rich. “Griskin’s the last person one can suspect—”
“Of course he is,” answered Miss Docket. “That’s what always happens on the stage.”
“This isn’t the stage, Julia,” said Miss Rich, “however hard you try to imagine it is. What does Mr. Harrison think?” She turned to Henry as she asked the question.
“He thinks it’s worth his while to investigate,” answered Henry. “And if he thinks that, he’s usually got some theory at the back of his mind.”
“And what is it?” asked Miss Docket.
“At the back of his mind, Miss Docket,” said Henry, impressively. “And I’m afraid he’ll keep it there until he thinks he’s right. He always says ‘never jump at conclusions’.”
“And very wise, too,” said Miss Docket; “I wish I were like him.”
“And what do you think yourself?” asked Miss Rich, turning her warmest glance on Henry.
“Well,” answered Henry, doubtfully, wishing to say as little as possible and at the same time create the most favourable impression. There was no need, however, for him to pursue his efforts, for Harrison very conveniently returned.
“Dare I ask if there is any news?” said Miss Docket.
“Sergeant Griskin was asking for news himself from me,” answered Harrison. “He was quite disappointed when I told him that all I could say was that I didn’t think the Jogger had done it, but that I hadn’t found out anything more. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he believed me.”
“And have you found out anything more, Mr. Harrison?” asked Miss Docket.
“Of course he has, Julia,” said Miss Rich, quickly. “Don’t be so foolish. If he won’t tell Griskin, he certainly isn’t going to tell us.”
Henry looked admiringly at her while Harrison continued. “All the sergeant could tell me was that the Jogger would be charged at Millhead this morning. He had hoped I could save him from that, but I said things weren’t as simple as all that. You can’t solve a complicated crime without spending time unravelling the complications.”
Miss Docket was about to comment when a look from Miss Rich seemed to make her think better of it.
“After all, it’s only formal,” said Harrison. “He will be remanded before he realises he is being charged. Griskin says the papers are full of it and reporters are springing upon him from every corner. In fact, he’s not in the best of tempers, and when I asked if he wanted me over at Millhead this morning he hinted that he would be far too busy to attend to me.”
“Did he, indeed?” bristled Henry.
“But he relented, Henry,” said Harrison, “and said I could go over to Millhead this afternoon and have a word with the Jogger. I could also see the—” Harrison paused and looked at Miss Docket—“strange tramp.”
“But you can’t spend the day here, sir?” said Henry, in an agonised voice.
“Why not?” asked Harrison.
“There’s too much to do at the chambers, sir,” was the reply.
“I can’t cut my luncheon appointment, Henry,” said Harrison.
“Luncheon appointment?” echoed Henry.
“I promised to lunch with Mrs. Crewe,” said Harrison.
“But you can’t, sir,” said Henry, in despair.
“But I must, Henry,” said Harrison.
“But—” started Henry.
“I’m sure Mrs. Crewe will excuse you if you must get back to town,” said Miss Docket.
“Mrs. Crewe is too interesting for that,” answered Harrison. “I want to lunch with her. Then I shall go on to Millhead and go back to town from there.”
“And the chambers, sir?” asked Henry.
‘‘I must leave those to you, Henry,” replied Harrison. “You will catch a train back as soon as you can. I expect I shall be back myself before dinner.”
“Very well, sir,” answered Henry.
“I’ll drive you down to the station when you’re ready,” said Miss Rich.
Henry smiled his thanks, and seemed somewhat more reconciled to the arrangement.
“And what are you going to do until lunch time. Mr. Harrison?” asked Miss Docket.
“I hope you won’t think it ungallant of me,” was the reply, “but I propose to go wandering in the lanes of my beloved Surrey and then meeting you at Mrs. Crewe’s. By the way, where is Mrs. Crewe’s?”
“She’s at Overstead House,” said Miss Docket. “She’s only rented it, of course. A great rambling place; I can’t imagine anyone living there. It isn’t a very long way from here, but it’s no use me giving you any directions. To start with, I always take the car, even if it’s only across the road. What’s the good of having one, if you don’t? And then, my sense of direction is so appalling, you’d never find your way.”
“Overstead House,” repeated Harrison, writing the name down; “I’ll find it.”
During the last remark the maidservant had reappeared in the room and was standing, undecidedly, waiting for some notice to be taken of her.
“Well, Mary, what is it?” asked Miss Docket sharply.
“Mr. Harrison left this by the telephone, mum,” said the maid, holding out an envelope, “I was afraid he might have forgotten it.”
“I am very grateful,” said Harrison, taking the envelope, and the maid again went out of the room.
“But I didn’t leave anything by the telephone,” said Harrison, looking at the envelope on which was printed in large letters “Clay Harrison.”
“How very curious,” said Miss Docket. “How could it have got there?”
“That’s simple enough,” said Harrison. “There was an open casement window by the table where the telephone stood. Anybody leaning through from the garden could have put it there.”
“An unusual way of delivering a letter,” commented Miss Rich.
Harrison opened the envelope while the others watched him eagerly. It contained a single sheet of notepaper on which were printed in similar large letters to those on the envelope, the words “Don’t meddle.”
“Very rude,” said Miss Docket.
“Maybe,” answered Harrison. “And maybe it is intended as a serious warning. I think, Miss Docket, I was right when I spoke of a complicated crime.”
Chapter V
Lunch With Mrs. Crewe
Harrison found that Overstead House was one of those large, heavy-looking houses—an estate agent would have called it a mansion—which was built when domestic service was the most moderate item in a family budget. Its proper upkeep would depend on the drudgery of a disproportionately large number of servants, an unlikely combination. There was little doubt, however, that the house was not completely occupied, and the windows in the topmost story were, even from a fair distance, noticeably covered with grime.
He passed a
gardener who was on his knees absorbed in attending to some trees in a rose garden which seemed to be the best-kept part of the grounds. Indeed, the rest appeared rather neglected, and the same thought came to Harrison regarding the grounds as had struck him over the house, that labour had to be exceedingly cheap, plentiful, and energetic for a person possessing anything below the largest of incomes to inhabit such a spot satisfactorily.
The phrase “this desirable residence” repeated itself in his mind as he walked to the front door and wondered whether the Crewe family were the victims of the estate agent’s guile.
“If I thought of turning criminal on a profitable scale,” he mused, “I think I should set up as an estate agent. There must be great opportunities for the man who is permitted by society to call anything he likes a desirable residence.”
A maidservant, whose voice showed that she was a local product, opened the door, and asked him to wait in the hall while she told Mrs. Crewe. She moved towards a doorway through which the sound of voices could be distinctly heard.
“My luck’s gone with it,” said a man’s voice, which seemed to be raised rather angrily. Harrison thought that this might be the voice of Mrs. Crewe’s son, Archie, whose name had already been mentioned.
Harrison then heard a gentle voice, which seemed to belong to Mrs. Crewe, speaking soothingly. He could not hear the whole sentence, but he could just hear the words “get another easily.”
The male voice was not to be appeased, however, for it answered sharply, “Of course I can easily get another. But it isn’t the same. I tell you my luck’s gone.”
By this time the maid had gone into the room and the talk finished abruptly.
Harrison was speedily ushered in, and found Mrs. Crewe looking more of a charming old lady than ever, if that were possible, sitting in a chintz-covered armchair, performing one of those marvels of wool and needles peculiar to charming old ladies. The daughter whom Harrison had heard called Netta was sitting on a chesterfield of generous proportions with an illustrated magazine on her lap. Standing by an open French window was a tall, slim, soldierly-looking man of thirty years or a little less. Clean-shaven, with a powerful jaw and eyes rather closely set together, he struck Harrison as fitting into the class of energetic idler. If his had been the raised voice which Harrison had heard, his mastery of mood was strong enough for him to turn an unruffled face to the visitor.
“It is kind of you to come, Mr. Harrison,” chirped Mrs. Crewe.
“I promised,” said Harrison.
“That might have been good manners,” said the old lady.
“And I wanted to come,” said Harrison.
“Better manners still,” commented Mrs. Crewe. “You met Netta last night, Mr. Harrison.” The young woman gave him her most charming smile. “This is my son, Archie; I’ve told him all about you and he’s been longing to meet you.”
The manner in which formal greetings were exchanged did not impress Harrison with the “longing” of which Mrs. Crewe spoke, and the look on her son’s face seemed to suggest kindly contempt.
“I have wanted to meet you, Mr. Harrison,” said Archie Crewe. “You will not think me rude if I am frank, I am sure. But I have never met an amateur in your line before. I know one or two Scotland Yard men and I have met a number of French detectives, but they have all been, so to speak, professionals. Do you really think you can compete with their highly-specialised equipment and training?”
“I don’t compete,” answered Harrison.
“Possibly I used the wrong word,” said Crewe. “I’m sorry. It’s rather difficult to express. What I really mean, although I hardly like to say it, and I am certain you will forgive me for doing so, I wonder if you are really helpful to the authorities or whether they are too polite to tell you to keep out of the way and not spoil things by untrained interference.”
“I say, Archie,” exclaimed Netta Crewe, “that’s a bit strong. Mr. Harrison’s our guest.”
“I quite understand,” answered Harrison. “I think the question is very much to the point. l should be foolish to suggest that the official organisation was not efficient and that it did not do extraordinarily fine work. But it is definitely an official organisation, and the amateur can occasionally be very helpful, especially when studying the very strange motives and complications of a murder. An amateur, with an open mind, may give just that extra link of reasoning which helps Scotland Yard to complete a chain of detection. Obviously, I’m all for the helpful amateur.”
“Obviously,” said Crewe, a shade of sarcasm in his voice. “But I should have thought that, even granting your high estimate of the amateur’s value, he is likely to be most effective if he works anonymously. Even the most ordinary person can recognise the official detective occasionally, and that may be a drawback, while the helpful amateur may glean something here and there because nobody knows him. And yet, Mr. Harrison, your name is better known, I should say, than most of the detectives at Scotland Yard. Surely when you appear, your quarry goes to earth, frightened by your reputation.”
“I appreciate your high opinion, Mr. Crewe,” said Harrison, quietly. “But although there must be something in what you say, I can’t imagine any person being quite as frightened of me as you suggest.”
“Nor can I,” answered Archie Crewe. “I was only working out an argument. Of course the amateur is sometimes lucky—”
“In what way?” asked Harrison.
“Well,” answered the other, “he stumbles on a clue which leads to a solution.”
“You can’t expect more of him than that,” said Harrison, with a laugh.
“True,” said Crewe. “But sometimes I can’t help feeling that the Yard would have found the clue, traced the criminal, and done exactly the same in its unromantic official way. Whereas when the amateur does anything there’s a huge flourish of trumpets.”
“Don’t look so serious, Mr. Harrison,” said Netta Crewe, pointing to a place beside her on the chesterfield. “Come and sit by me and have a cocktail. Brother Archie is only trying to pull your leg, and I believe he is almost succeeding.”
Harrison sat down in the suggested spot, with the thought that brother Archie’s sense of humour was distinctly heavy even if one accepted his sister’s charitable explanation of an aggressively sneering tone.
“Archie talks the most awful nonsense,” said Mrs. Crewe. “As a matter of fact, he is the first to complain that professionalism is ruining sport. He stands up for the amateur all the time, really. And what is crime more than a form of sport?”
“You won’t expect me to agree with that, will you, Mrs. Crewe?” said Harrison.
“And why not, pray?” asked the old lady, fixing her bright little eyes on Harrison.
“Sport has rules, for one thing,” replied Harrison.
“Good for you,” said Mrs. Crewe. “But I sometimes wonder whether you detectives don’t play a kind of game with the criminals you are after, along certain regular lines.”
“You can’t trust them,” said Harrison.
“What a low opinion you have of them,” said Netta.
“Only a fool can have any other,” replied Harrison.
“Come come, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe. “You’re being rather moral, aren’t you? Surely you agree there is a higher type of criminal, the aristocrat of crime, so to speak, who gives his word and keeps it and all that sort of thing. Has some code of honour of his own, you know what I mean.”
“I personally wouldn’t trust him,” answered Harrison.
“What a terribly hard man you are,” said Netta, knitting her brows slightly and giving him an almost affectionate look.
“Young, Netta, not hard,” said Mrs. Crewe. “When you’re as old as I am, Mr. Harrison, you’ll make a lot more allowances.”
“Of course the amateur keeps his eyes open all the time?” queried Archie.
“Oh, stop trying to be humorous, Archie,” said Netta.
“Don’t be silly, Netta,” answered Crewe.
“Mr. Harrison knows what I mean.”
“Now, now, children,” said Mrs. Crewe, reprovingly.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Crewe,” said Harrison, and he had a queer feeling that all three of them were listening to him very intently, “but I really have no idea what you mean.”
Crewe paused for a moment and looked intently at Harrison. Obviously he seemed satisfied with his scrutiny, for he continued in much less aggressive tones, “You know, Mr. Harrison, the sort of thing one always reads about, noticing odd things on the way up to this house for example.”
“I must confess I didn’t notice very much,” said Harrison. “I saw what anybody else would see. The top story is empty and has been empty for a considerable time. The windows are dirt-encrusted. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe. “I am certain you saw something more than that.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Harrison. “I noticed that one of the windows, curiously enough, was quite clean. The only one, too. It seemed to stand out like an aristocrat in the middle of a crowd of his democratic and less washed fellows.”
“And what do you make of that?” asked Netta, coming closer to Harrison. “Surely you must have some perfectly marvellous deduction, Mr. Harrison?”
“I am afraid I can’t live up to the flattery,” was the answer. “I am sorry to say I never thought about it. But, if you must have a solution,” here the girl drew nearer still, “I suppose one of the rooms is being used for storing things, and naturally the window was washed for a bit more light.”
“Perfectly true, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Crewe. “That attic is being used for storage. We put things in it that we didn’t want downstairs.”
“That’s true,” commented Netta, with a smile; “I’d never thought of that.”
“But you are not living up to your reputation, Mr. Harrison,” said Crewe. “You must admit that anybody coming along the drive would have seen that.”
“I do, Mr. Crewe,” answered Harrison. “I was only mentioning something which could be noticed in a perfectly innocent sort of house.”
“Quite,” was Crewe’s comment. “But surely there was something else.”
Death on the Highway Page 6