Death on the Highway

by Death on the Highway (retail) (epub)

  “Feel worse, sir?” asked Henry, wonderingly.

  “Yes, Henry,” was the answer. “At the moment I’m feeling terribly humble.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” said Henry.

  “Nor did I, Henry,” said Harrison. “But I thought I did, that’s what makes it worse. I had to stay up all night to think things out.”

  Henry looked anxiously at Harrison. “You’re not in love, sir, or anything like that?” he asked.

  “Good heavens, no,” answered Harrison, with a smile. “But I’ve had a terrific shock, Henry. A shock to my pride, if you like. I’ve only myself to blame but it isn’t pleasant all the same. It takes some getting over.”

  “About what happened last night?”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t as bad as that, sir,” said Henry, forgetting all his Puritan criticisms in his sympathy for his master.

  “I’m going to explain everything to you, Henry,” said Harrison, heavily, “and you will be able to judge for yourself.”

  Henry now began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. He had intended to demand an explanation with the most righteous of feelings, possibly giving his master a delicate hint that he should be less impetuous in future. In fact, he had roughly rehearsed this part of the conversation and was fairly satisfied with it. He had not, however, expected Harrison to be so contrite, and any addition he made to the burden of remorse his master was already bearing should be extenuation rather than censure.

  The tea produced, Harrison seemed slightly happier. He turned to Henry with an affectionate smile and said, “Really, Henry, I cannot imagine what I should do without you. I’ve said it before, I know, and it seems to me I shall often have to say it again. You keep on getting me out of the most awkward situations.”

  “That’s my job, sir,” answered Henry, and then the feeling that he really must reproduce part of the scene he had imagined was too strong for him. “But, sir—” he started, solemnly.

  “Go on, Henry,” said Harrison, “say what you like.”

  “You’ll forgive my saying so, sir,” said Henry, “but you did rather ask for it. I don’t think I’ve ever known you less cautious. It’s not like you to fall for a pretty face in that way.”

  “Quite right, Henry, I deserve it all,” answered Harrison. “Go on.”

  Invited to continue in this strain by a repentant man Henry found it somewhat difficult, and he looked sheepishly at his master.

  “At any rate, Henry,” continued Harrison, as if unmindful of Henry’s hesitation, “I’m glad you were so quick at understanding the real meaning of my message.”

  “I’d been worrying about you, sir, ever since you went out,” explained Henry.

  “I can quite believe it, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Now, before I make my full and authentic confession, you tell me just what happened to you.”

  “Well, sir,” said Henry, “directly I got your message I thought there must be something wrong so I took a taxi to the hotel. The porter did not seem best pleased to see me, and certainly did not want me to go upstairs. I told him that, to save trouble, I had brought the package instead of sending it—”

  “Good.”

  “And he wanted to see it. I couldn’t have that, so I started talking to him rather severely, and then he looked resigned and said he washed his hands of the whole business. I didn’t like that much. Then he grumpily told me where to find No. 17 and left me to get on with it. I marched upstairs and knocked quietly on the door and got no answer. I thought I must have made a mistake and was wondering what on earth to do. I felt rather foolish, sir, standing there in a half-lit hotel corridor and tapping on a door. It might have been a bathroom, sir, for all I knew.”

  “So it might, Henry,” said Harrison, “but the porter wasn’t clever enough for that.”

  “Then I heard the woman squeaking,” continued Henry, “and there seemed to be a man’s voice as well, so I knocked again and then again and tried the handle. I really felt most uncomfortable, sir; I could not be certain I was right but luckily I was.”

  “And what do you make of it all, Henry?”

  “Quite frankly, sir, I should say that the girl was trying to put you in an awkward position, and that you walked into it head first.”

  “True enough, Henry,” said Harrison. “And now I don’t want to keep you waiting too long but there’s one thing you must do first. Ring up the Luxor Hotel. Don’t say who you are. Just a friend, that will be enough. Ask for Mrs. Crewe. Ten to one she won’t be there.”

  “Won’t be there, sir?”

  “Yes, Henry,” answered Harrison; “I have an idea that the Crewes left for the Continent this morning.”

  “Good heavens, sir,” exclaimed Henry, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  The telephoning was soon complete and Henry put down the instrument.

  “Quite right, sir,” said Henry. “The porter was quite affable. Been tipped well, I suppose. He said all three had left to catch the ten o’clock boat train at Victoria. That was what usually happened with Mrs. Crewe. She made up her mind suddenly to leave and off she went at once.”

  “That sounds, at any rate, as if the porter wasn’t in it, Henry,” said Harrison, solemnly, “but evidently he is not too particular at what goes on in his hotel. He did not seem a bit surprised when he was asked to invite me to go back to the lady’s room. Psychology again, Henry; they even chose a suitable hotel.”

  “They, sir?” asked Henry. “You mean the others were in it, too?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Henry,” answered Harrison. “That’s why I said I feel humble.”

  “A curious kind of plot, sir?”

  “Not really, Henry,” said Harrison, “when you realise why they did it!”

  Henry looked excitedly at Harrison. “You’ve got an idea, sir,” he said.

  “Quite a number of them, Henry,” was the reply. “And I’m ashamed I haven’t had them before. For example, I’ve already been on the telephone to Sergeant Griskin.”

  “About them, sir?”

  “In a way, Henry,” said Harrison; “but particularly about the boots.”

  “I don’t see what they have to do with it, sir,” said Henry.

  “I didn’t either,” answered Harrison, “but I think I do a bit more now. We have to look at things from a fresh point of view, and you’d better take a few notes. But, Henry, I may have smoked pretty hard in the night, still I must have a cigar.”

  Henry did not even look reproachful. He produced his notebook and pencil and watched his master smile with satisfaction as he pulled contentedly at the cigar he had lit. Henry could feel that there was great news coming and that any number of extra cigars would be justified.

  “Henry,” said Harrison, impressively, “the Crewe family know something about the murdered tramp. They may not all know the same amount. The old lady may not know as much as her son, Archie, and her daughter may not know as much as the old lady. Still they all know something.”

  “That’s the fresh point of view, is it, sir?”

  “It is, Henry, and it’s going to lead us into some queer paths before we have finished.”

  “When did you discover it, sir?”

  “While I sat thinking, Henry, after I got home,” answered Harrison. “I kept on thinking about last night’s episode and I couldn’t understand it. Then I started trying to remember everything that had happened and I began to be suspicious. As soon as you get suspicious, Henry, you remember a little more. Then you start getting angry and you remember a little more still. That was what happened to me. Then I began to put two and two together and I started getting results. First of all, the Crewe family seemed extraordinarily interested in the case. That might not be unusual but they seemed to me to be more than ordinarily curious.”

  “They wanted to find out how much you knew, sir,” said Henry.

  “It looks like it, Henry,” answered Harrison; “or certainly what I thought. In their own particular way they wer
e pumping me. Doing it delicately and in the most perfect taste—still they were pumping me. When I did give them a theory, and I thought I was being highly amusing, the atmosphere grew terribly strained. I thought my poor sense of humour was the cause but it was something more than that.”

  “They were so anxious to know, sir?” asked Henry.

  “Not only that, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I believe I stumbled on something near the right theory as well. The atmosphere was more than tense, there was a feeling of positive alarm about. If I had not been so innocently upset about spoiling the evening I should have noticed it still more.”

  “Lucky you didn’t, sir,” queried Henry.

  “Why?”

  “Because they might think you were making a lucky shot, too.”

  “I’m afraid they weren’t taken in, Henry,” answered Harrison. “But I was so amazingly bewitched that I didn’t realise it. Mrs. Crewe told me I was an exceedingly clever man. She didn’t think it was an accident. In fact, she must have thought I was carrying out a perfect bluff. But she warned me, Henry, that making up stories was a dangerous habit.”

  “But what was the story, sir?” asked Henry, patiently.

  “Sorry, Henry,” answered Harrison. “They asked me what I really thought, and I said that the unknown tramp was a victim of an international gang of crooks who had murdered him with devilish ingenuity.”

  “That’s rather thick, sir, isn’t it?”

  “It staggered them, Henry.”

  “I’m not surprised, sir.”

  “But they were, Henry; it was nearer the truth than they thought I could be. In fact, too near the truth to be pleasant.”

  “I can believe it, sir.”

  “It took me a long time, Henry,” admitted Harrison. “But the curious part about the whole business is that each time I thought I was putting my foot into it I was really giving them the shock of their lives. When I mentioned La Plage—”

  “The place on the envelope, sir?” asked Henry, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “That’s it, Henry,” was the reply. “Quite innocently, I can assure you. They started talking about the Mediterranean and naturally, as the name of La Plage interested me, I asked them about it. Again I had the same effect. Everything seemed to get strained—”

  “You felt you had dropped another brick, sir?”

  “Exactly, Henry; I began to feel that everything I said was going to be unfortunate. But they cross-questioned me about it. They knew La Plage. Indeed, I feel pretty certain they are on their way to that delightful little spot now. And they’re up to something there, too.”

  “Something connected with the murdered tramp, sir?”

  “Steady, Henry, steady,” said Harrison. “All we know is that they were pretty nervy when La Plage was mentioned. I gave them no hint why I knew the name of the place—”

  “That’s lucky, sir.”

  “But they must think I’m a super-detective, Henry, and that’s all to the good. I swear I was as innocent as a babe, no subconscious or intuitions or anything like that. I really enjoyed my evening, Henry, and it was they who put the pieces together for me.”

  “And the envelope is all part of the business, sir?”

  “It must be, Henry, if La Plage is,” answered Harrison. “I have no idea yet what it means but I think we can decide that the case is going to be a complicated one and that we have made a little progress in helping the Jogger.”

  “It is not my place, sir,” said Henry, with a twinkle, “but when I think it over, it strikes me that I ought to say ‘steady’ to you.”

  “And why?” asked Harrison, with a chuckle.

  “Just because people who live in the district are more than surprised that you talk about an international plot and mention a little place in the South of France, you say you are helping the Jogger.”

  “But, Henry,” said Harrison, reproachfully, “you haven’t asked me about the boots.”

  “Oh no, sir,” answered Henry, “I hadn’t thought any more about them. Where do they come in?”

  “When I’d indulged in my bout of self-examination over the events of last night, Henry, I thought I’d better go back a bit further and cast a critical eye over everything that had happened to me in connection with the family of Crewe. I tried to recall the details of everything that was said at Overstead House. Then I remembered the boots. And, Henry, quite honestly, I could have kicked myself for not having seen the connection before. It was so obvious.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry, patiently.

  “They asked me whether I had noticed anything on my way to the house,” said Harrison, “and I told them I was surprised that their gardener was doing his work in his best boots. Heavy, clumsy looking things they were, but obviously new. That surprised them a bit, I could see. Miss Netta Crewe wrinkled up her forehead with that interesting frown which shows she is concentrating pretty hard. You’ve noticed it, I suppose, Henry?”

  “I haven’t had much opportunity,” answered Henry, crushingly.

  “That’s true,” said Harrison, laughing. “Well, you can take it from me, Henry, that this particular frown is one of her special features—rather attractive, too. But, of course, I could have no idea how surprised they really were. The super-detective again, Henry. They must have felt certain that I knew the murdered tramp was wearing the gardener’s old pair of boots.”

  “Good heavens,” cried Henry.

  “But I only thought of that this morning, Henry,” said Harrison, apologetically. “So I rang up Griskin and asked him about them. You remember they couldn’t be found when I went to look at the body. They can’t be found still, Henry, they’ve disappeared.”

  “That’s a pity, sir.”

  “It is, Henry,” answered Harrison. “And yet, in a way, it isn’t. The police said they were a thick pair, we know that. We might never have been able to have identified them with the gardener.”

  “Especially after you had given the hint, sir.”

  “Exactly, Henry,” said Harrison. “But my hint did something else. I feel certain it made someone steal the tramp’s boots. From the time the doctor examined the body to the time I appeared, only one other person came to look at it, Sergeant Griskin swears to that. And, Henry, can you guess who it was?”

  “Better for you to tell me, sir,” answered Henry, solemnly.

  “Mr. Archie Crewe, Henry.”

  “That’s good, sir,” said Henry, delightedly. “Now you have something to go on. And you mean to say he deliberately stole them?”

  “That’s all I can think,” said Harrison. “While the famous height-measuring act was going on, he slipped away and called at the police station at Millhead. He was obviously taking no chances. My remarks about boots must have been a fearful shock to him, although I will say he gave no sign of it. He explained to the police that he had seen some strange men on the road near Overstead House recently and he might be able to identify the tramp as one of them. Of course, the police were delighted at any help, and left him to it. Griskin says he cannot swear that Crewe was left alone at any time, but I feel sure he was. He must have hidden the boots somehow under his coat.”

  “A pretty tall order, sir?”

  “Yes, Henry, but the man must have been desperate. After what I had said, the whole game would have been up if I had seen the boots. He was full of regrets, but he was afraid he had never seen the man before and off he went. Of course, there was nothing suspicious about that. A perfectly natural and proper thing to do.”

  “It’s as if you are going to have your work cut out with Mr. Archie Crewe, sir; he seems a remarkably cool customer.”

  “Of course, Henry,” said Harrison, “when I mentioned making progress a little while ago, I didn‘t mean to suggest that we had got any distance regarding a solution. We’re beginning to realise a bit what we are up against. The most likely idea we can hold at the moment is that the gardener knew something about the unknown tramp, possibly hit him over the head,
and that the Crewe family are shielding him.”

  “Going to a lot of trouble about it, sir,” said Henry.

  “That’s the problem, Henry,” answered Harrison. “They seem to me to be going to too much trouble.”

  “They certainly do, sir,” said Henry, emphatically.

  “Henry, you’ve something on your mind,” commented Harrison. “Out with it.”

  “Did this Mr. Crewe stay with you the whole evening, sir?”

  “No, I didn’t see much of him at the opera.”

  “Then that’s the man who called on me.”

  “Called on you, Henry?”

  “I suppose it was about half-past nine, sir,” answered Henry. “I was sitting here all quiet-like, reading Martin Chuzzlewit as a matter of fact, sir. Dickens takes you out of yourself, I find, sir. Well, there was a knock on the door and a youngish gentleman in evening dress asks for you. From what you have said I should say it was the very man. I told him you weren’t in, rather finally too, sir; he didn’t seem likely to be nearly as amusing as Mr. Pecksniff and I wanted to get back to him. But he gave me a lovely smile. I might have been his lady love, sir. And he said I’d do as well.”

  “And you scented business, Henry?”

  “Well, I’d hate to turn any away, sir.”

  “Quite right.”

  “So I let him in and he starts to talk,” said Henry, “and talk he did, sir. He was a great friend of yours and he really had been pining to meet me. That was unusual, sir, because most of your great friends, if I may say so, can’t help meeting me.”

  “That’s true, Henry.”

  “Then he starts to ask me questions,” said Henry. “I really was very patient with him, sir, but he never seemed to come to business. I sometimes answered ‘yes’ and sometimes ‘no’ and sometimes said nothing at all, but just thought of Mr. Pecksniff.”

  “What kind of questions were they?”

  “Oh, sir, what you were like. How you did your work. What you were doing at present. Whether you told me when you found anything out. Most impudent, I thought. When I told him you didn’t he got quite indignant and said that was a nice way to treat an intelligent man like me.”