Death on the Highway

by Death on the Highway (retail) (epub)

  “Come in, Mr. Harrison,” she said, gravely.

  “You remember me?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Harrison,” answered Lucy, showing them into the hall. “I let you in when you came to lunch. Warner’s have just rung up to say that you were coming.”

  “Thank you, Miss—”

  “Lucy, sir,” was the reply. “I think it must be years since I was known by any other name.”

  “Well, then, Lucy, you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “I shall be only too pleased to tell you anything I know,” said Lucy. “I have arranged for some tea to be brought you as soon as it is ready.”

  Harrison smiled at Henry, and his looks conveyed that here was a jewel among domestic servants, while Henry, for his part, was more sceptical and wondered if the tea would be satisfactory.

  “First of all,” said Harrison, “how many of you are there?”

  “Four, sir,” was the answer. “Cook, myself and two other.”

  “All women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Local?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were mainly in charge?”

  “Somehow I always seem to be expected to take responsibility,” replied Lucy, solemnly.

  “But I saw a man when I came here before?”

  “Oh, Jules—he’s gone with them.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “I think so, sir. He was certainly a foreigner. He didn’t speak much English.”

  “What kind of a man was he?” asked Harrison.

  “A very quiet sort of a man, really, sir. Not a bit interfering. Not what you would expect from a foreigner. Had hardly a word to say to you. And I had always been told that men like him were particularly interfering with women.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Odd jobs, sir. Nothing special. He looked after Mr. Crewe’s clothes and he did a lot in the garden. He seemed to love the flowers. I was quite surprised. I didn’t know foreigners liked flowers—not in that way, sir, you know.”

  “I assume he came with the family?”

  “I suppose so, sir,” replied Lucy. “He was here when we came, at any rate.”

  “When did you come, then?”

  “As far as I know, sir, the family arrived at night and next morning they went all round the district looking for help. I don’t go out regularly now, but the offer was so tempting and money not being too plentiful at present I thought I couldn’t miss it. They paid in advance, too, every week and punctually.”

  “Somewhat unusual,” commented Harrison.

  “Maybe, sir,” Lucy said, unperturbed, “but very pleasant.”

  “And you were surprised to hear they had gone for good?”

  “Very, sir,” was the reply. “If it hadn’t been Warner’s I don’t think I should have believed it. But you can trust Warner’s.”

  “Didn’t you suspect anything when they went up to town yesterday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But they must have taken all their trunks and things?” pressed Harrison.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, they hadn’t much in that way. They didn’t bring much to start with. They said they were going to London and they might be away a day or two. I really didn’t notice much how much they took. I was surprised when I looked round this morning, after Warner’s telephoned, and found that they had taken everything.”

  “And Jules went with them?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lucy, “to look after Mr. Crewe, I suppose.”

  “You didn’t notice anything unusual while they were here?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think I did. They expected us to work hard, and one of them always had an eye on us. There was always somebody in the house, all the time and, wherever you were, you could not be certain when they would pop out.”

  “Were they kind to you?”

  “Oh yes, sir. Miss Netta, in particular. The old lady was all right but she had her moods.”

  “A habit of old ladies, Lucy,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, sir, but she was cruel with it, too.”

  “Cruel?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I think you can call it that. I will tell you what I mean, sir, although, of course, it amounts to nothing really. You know the top floor, sir. It’s never used. A lot of dirty attics and no one goes up there. I was cleaning upstairs and I thought I had just better go up to that floor and see if everything was all right—”

  “When was this?” asked Harrison.

  “Soon after they came here,” answered Lucy. “When I got up there I was surprised to find Mrs. Crewe standing in the passage. She asked me what I was doing up there. I said I was just tidying around. Then she glared at me. Very unpleasant it was, sir. She asked me if I usually disobeyed orders, and then I remembered she did say when I came that there was no need to do anything at all on the top floor. But I thought I was being helpful. Still people see things in a different way, and I was afraid she was thinking that I was doing a bit of shirking. So I said I was sorry. I meant it, Mr. Harrison, and she had no cause to twist my arm as she did.”

  “Twist your arm?” said Harrison, sympathetically.

  “That’s what she did, sir,” was the reply. “And cruelly, too. It hurt me for days. You can just see the marks even now.”

  The woman pulled up her sleeve and showed two faint marks, exactly similar to those he had seen on Netta Crewe’s arm. Mrs. Crewe leaves her trade mark about, he thought. A queer habit and a queer mentality to indulge in it.

  “I think I had better look at the top floor straight away,” said Harrison.

  Lucy’s eyes brightened. “You think there’s something funny up there, sir?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that, Lucy,” answered Harrison, watching her closely. “Why do you ask?”

  “I hadn’t really connected things up, sir, but you know how people gossip and there’s been talk about a ghost lately.”

  “Good,” said Harrison. “At one of the attic windows?”

  “That’s right, sir,” said Lucy. “Where did you hear it?”

  “I haven’t,” answered Harrison. “But that’s what I expected. Tell me about it.”

  “Somebody going home one night saw a light at one of those windows; a dim, flickering light, they said it was, and a ghostly face looked out. Then someone else thought they saw a face in the daytime. You know how these things grow, sir. Some of the folk said they were quite scared. They did say they had heard tell of a ghost at Overstead House in their fathers’ day. I didn’t think much about it myself, sir. I know people will say anything for a good story and I’m afraid some of them are like that.”

  “Did you mention it to Mrs. Crewe or any of the others?”

  “I should think not, sir,” answered Lucy, solemnly. “I wouldn’t do, if you see what I mean. But is there really anything in it, sir?”

  “I should say not, Lucy,” said Harrison, “from the ghost point of view. But I am very interested in the attics. Do you mind if I go up now?”

  “Not at all, sir,” was the reply. “It will be pretty dusty.”

  “I don’t mind that,” said Harrison. “Come along, Henry. And you, Lucy, might keep an eye on the front door while we’re up there.”

  Lucy looked disappointed at the suggestion that she was not to go up with them, but her training asserted itself in implicit obedience.

  As they went up the stairs leading to the top floor, Harrison found that Lucy’s prophecy of dust was not being realised. The place had evidently been kept tolerably swept and clean. Mrs. Crewe may not have liked her servants to waste their time on the top floor, but she obviously objected to its neglect. Either she or Netta must have put in some quiet work in that direction.

  There were three doors in the attic landing, all with strong outside bolts. These bolts were all pressed home but there was a great difference between the state of the bolt on the middle door and those on the doors on either side. Whereas the latter bolts seemed somewhat
rusted and had hardly been pulled back for some considerable time, the middle one was clean and showed traces of having been recently oiled.

  “This is the door we want, Henry,” said Harrison, going towards it.

  He pulled the bolt and turned the handle. Both operations were extraordinarily easy and the door itself moved open softly and swiftly. The hinges, too, had received their share of oil. Opposite the doorway was a small window which let a good deal of light into the room. This was certainly the window which Harrison had noticed on his first visit for it was tolerably clean. In a corner away from the window was a heap of old sacking. There was nothing else to be seen except a piece of string running along the floor to a small object fixed on the side of the window frame. Above this object was pinned a sheet of paper.

  Harrison went across carefully to the small object and whistled as he saw that it was a pistol, carefully nailed into the woodwork and pointing towards the door.

  “They expected me, Henry,” he said grimly.

  “The string is tied to the trigger, sir,” said Henry.

  “And it runs through staples along the floor,” said Harrison, “with just about enough to tie it on to the handle. Keep out of the line, Henry, I want to see if it is all set. You never know, it might go off.”

  Henry moved gingerly across the room while Harrison carefully examined the weapon. There was no doubt that a pull on the string would have made it fire.

  “A nice little trap, Henry,” said Harrison, grimly. “You open the door and the string and pistol do the rest.”

  “Good lord, sir,” said Henry. “It’s lucky for us the string fell off.”

  “It wasn’t luck, Henry,” said Harrison, “it was never tied to the handle of the door. This is only a warning—and a very ugly one, too—just to let me know for certain what kind of people I had to deal with. They weren’t going to risk shooting any stray person who might come up here, but they wanted to show me—me personally, Henry—how easily they could have disposed of me, if they chose. Look at the message they left.”

  Henry went up to the paper pinned above the pistol and saw written thereon the words “Don’t meddle.”

  “The same handwriting as before, Henry, I should say,” commented Harrison.

  “That’s true, sir,” said Henry. “But how are you so certain that, even with that message, they meant the pistol for you personally?”

  “Don’t you see, Henry,” answered Harrison, “this is the answer to your question as to why Netta Crewe wanted to measure in height after lunch. They wanted to do things properly. The pistol seems to be arranged exactly at the right height.”

  “That means, sir,” said Henry, “that we’re up against the genuine article.”

  “Exactly,” replied Harrison.

  Chapter XI

  Garfitt Ambles In

  Using the greatest care, Harrison detached the string from the pistol and then, with the aid of a penknife produced by Henry, worked the pistol itself gently away from its fastenings to the window frame.

  “Better not leave them about,” said Harrison, putting both pistol and string into his pocket.

  “And the next move, sir?” asked Henry.

  “Miss Rich, obviously, Henry,” was the reply.

  Henry did not see the obviousness, but he realised that Harrison’s brain was moving fast, and that the lines of some scheme were being evolved. They went downstairs and found Lucy rather flustered near the front door.

  Harrison thanked her for her help and inquired what was troubling her.

  “Journalists, sir,” said Lucy, indignantly.

  “Wanting Mr. Harrison?” asked Henry, with equal indignation.

  “That’s right,” answered Lucy.

  “How many of them?” asked Harrison.

  “Only one, sir,” said Lucy. “But he was as bad as twenty of them.”

  “Lucky I left you at the door, then, Lucy?” said Harrison.

  “I didn’t know how to get rid of him, sir,” was the answer. “He talked twenty to the dozen and wouldn’t take ‘no.’ He said it wasn’t in the dictionary he used.”

  “Did he?”

  “And he said he was a friend of yours, sir?”

  “What was his name?”

  “He wouldn’t give it, sir. He said you’d know his face. It wasn’t his fortune or he’d never have any money at all. That was what he said, sir. I told him he couldn’t talk me into anything. And then he smiled and gave me a silly look and said I could talk him into anything, at any rate. That made me angry, sir, and I told him to get off the doorstep.”

  “Quite right, too,” said Henry.

  “But he wouldn’t go, sir,” continued Lucy. “He said he’d taken a fancy to me and he knew I’d like him better when I got to know him. I might even learn to call him Basil later on. That was enough for me, sir, I shut the door on him.”

  “But how did you know he was a journalist, Lucy?” asked Harrison.

  “He started off by calling himself the Daily Flight, sir,” answered the woman.

  Harrison looked serious. The Daily Flight had a large circulation and a voracious appetite for sensational news. No reporter connected with that journal would have admitted defeat as easily as Lucy had described. He thanked Lucy again and he and Henry wandered down the drive.

  “Well, Henry, we have to thank the unknown reporter for one thing,” said Harrison, “Lucy was so full of her encounter that she didn’t ask us any difficult questions about the attic.”

  “That’s true, sir,” answered Henry; “but I like his cheek going on in that way. Saying he was a friend of yours, too. I’m glad she sent him away with a flea in his ear.”

  “Do you think that’s the last we shall see of him?” asked Harrison.

  “Well, sir,” Henry began and then stopped, for ambling towards them as they reached the gate was a thick-set, short young man, in nondescript clothes. He was smoking a pipe and carrying a decayed mackintosh.

  “Yes, Henry,” said Harrison, “I’m afraid this must be the Daily Flight.”

  The figure came up to them and gave them an enchanting smile. “Mr. Clay Harrison, I presume,” said the stranger.

  “I am Mr. Harrison,” was the reply.

  “I am the Daily Flight,” said the stranger, “name of Garfitt. Ronald Garfitt.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Garfitt,” answered Harrison.

  “More than pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison,” said Garfitt. “And Henry, too. What luck to meet Henry as well. I’ve heard so much about Henry and I have always wanted to meet him so much.”

  Henry looked embarrassed and smiled feebly back.

  “A very nice day for a country ramble, Harrison,” continued Garfitt. “May I join you? I love the country. My news-editor said, considering Mr. Clay Harrison’s spending the day at Great Crockham, if you must have a day in the country, you’d better spend it with him.”

  “Very thoughtful,” said Harrison. “And how did he know so much about me?”

  “A detective ought to know,” answered Garfitt.

  “My opinion, Mr. Garfitt,” said Harrison, “is that you are particularly interested in the murder of a certain strange tramp. That you came down here to make inquiries. That you heard I was in the district at the time. And that you arranged with someone here, for a consideration, to let you know directly I reappeared in Great Crockham.”

  “Marvellous, Mr. Harrison,” answered Garfitt. “And you see what it is, I must take back a story of some kind.”

  “Surely you can do that without Mr. Harrison’s help,” said Henry, with strongly emphasised sarcasm.

  “That’s what everybody says about us poor reporters,” answered Garfitt, with a terrific sigh. “They all think we make up everything. Very unjust, I call it, but one grows used to injustice. Some people even say the Daily Flight means the daily flight from the truth. Apart from the meaning of truth and Pilate’s shocking retreat from an answer, reporters have to look for the facts. That’s all, just facts.
And, besides, the news-editor is a very suspicious man.” He lowered his voice. “Never in all my life have I met a man who distrusted his fellows more. Why, would you believe it, I might walk into the office with the most marvellous story, dictated word for word by you, Mr. Harrison, and that man might immediately ring you up and ask you if it was true. That shows the depths a man like that will go to.”

  “But surely, Mr. Garfitt,” said Harrison, “you cannot expect me to worry about your treatment by your news-editor?”

  “Have you no human sympathy, Mr. Harrison?” came the dramatic return.

  “None,” answered Harrison.

  “I thought as much,” said Garfitt.

  Harrison laughed. “Now, Mr. Garfitt,” he said, “out with it. Be honest with me and I’ll give you a story.”

  “Corn in Egypt,” cried Garfitt. “Clay Harrison, the journalist’s friend. Well, the truth is, Mr. Harrison, little birds have whispered all sorts of entertaining things in my retentive ears. First of all, the Jogger didn’t murder the man. I can almost prove it. Secondly, you have an idea that there’s much more in it than meets the eye. Thirdly, it maybe something to do with the family who have just left Overstead House.”

  “That’s rather a jump, Mr. Garfitt,” commented Harrison.

  “And fourthly, greatest surprise of all, I know something of Mr. Flick’s habits and the little bit of evidence he handed over to you, sir. The foreign money or whatever it was. Even my little Griskin doesn’t know that.”

  “You seem to have found out quite a deal, Mr. Garfitt,” said Harrison.

  “Sam and Flick are my best friends,” answered Garfitt. “Birds of a feather, I suppose, rogues and vagabonds. If I may say so, without vanity, they could keep nothing from me.”

  “I can believe that,” said Harrison.

  “Too kind of you to say so, I’m sure,” answered Garfitt. “Griskin isn’t so keen. Doesn’t appreciate my flippancy, I suppose. Still, he’s not above a little hospitality in a friendly inn. Oh yes, Mr. Harrison, they’re nice people around here. I’d forgotten Miss Docket. She’s another of my friends. Very jolly to gossip to, you know.”