Death on the Highway

by Death on the Highway (retail) (epub)

  The patient Yvette Mallison now suggested that a certain amount of consideration might be paid to the food she had provided, and a move was made towards the dining-room. Garfitt’s inexhaustible references to his news-editor and his mystification by a mythical cable containing just the figures “one twenty-four” kept the minds of the company well away from the serious events of the day. Soon after the meal Harrison recommended an early night for them all; he himself was infernally tired after his journey and he knew Henry must be also; so, at all events, they two would retire.

  Henry realised that this was a hint to himself, and that the notebook and pencil were likely soon to be under requisition.

  “I trust you do not object to smoking in the bedroom, Mrs. Mallison?” asked Harrison.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a look of perturbation on Bob Mallison’s face, but without any hesitation came the answer, “Of course not, Mr. Harrison, it drives away the mosquitoes.”

  In the bedroom, Harrison immediately started closing the windows. “I hate to do it,” he said, “but we need perfect calm. I don’t want to hear any conversation from down below if some of them take it into their heads to stay and gossip on the ‘market-place.’ Equally I’m not particularly keen on being overheard while I am talking things out. For that’s what we’ve got to do, Henry. We’ve moved a long way today and we’ve got to get straight with the information we’ve collected.”

  “I’m ready, sir,” answered Henry.

  Harrison settled himself comfortably in an armchair, after having first garbed himself in his villainous Norfolk jacket which age and neglect had made equal to the garments affected by the “Jogger” and his friends. He then lit a cigar and said, “But, before we start, there’s something I want to say to you, Henry. Two points, as a matter of fact. Grumbles, if you like.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First of all, you don’t seem to be paying your usual attention to things,” said Harrison. “I can’t help feeling you are not keeping your eyes open as you used to. Now I need all the help you can give me, Henry.”

  “Of course sir,” answered Henry. “You are thinking of something special, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Henry,” was the reply; “I must confess I was surprised when you made no comment on Mrs. Crewe’s chauffeur.”

  “The one we saw in Toulon, sir?”

  “The one we saw twice in Toulon, Henry,” said Harrison. “I took for granted that you would spot him as the same man who tried to whisk us away in the taxi-cab.”

  Henry looked crestfallen.

  “And that brings me to my other point, Henry,” continued Harrison. “You are letting personal feelings spoil your work and it’s got to stop. Now don’t look at me so reproachfully. You don’t disguise your feelings over our journalist friend. I know you think he’s rude to me—”

  “He certainly is,” said Henry.

  “But you’re a bit jealous of him, too, Henry,” said Harrison. “And there’s the further complication of Miss Rich. I admit she’s quite attractive, but I noticed that you seemed to be much more interested in her looks than in her story downstairs. I’m very sorry, Henry, but you mustn’t have these human feelings when we’re on a job together. The job’s the only thing that counts.”

  “Of course it is, sir,” said Henry, with a smile; “I deserve it all, sir. You said yourself, sir, that I was susceptible.”

  “Good for you, Henry,” answered Harrison, with a smile. “Now we can get on with the job.”

  Henry sat patiently with his notebook and pencil while Harrison puffed at his cigar.

  “Now we came out here, Henry, because a certain tramp had been murdered at Great Crockham,” said Harrison. “Because we had reason to think that, in some way or other, a family named Crewe was connected with this particular murder, and because we received an envelope with no enclosure from a place called La Plage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let us take the envelope first of all. The spelling—”

  “E-n-g-e-l-a-n-d for ‘England,’ sir.”

  “That’s right, Henry,” said Harrison; “and we agreed that it might be the work of a foreigner. What kind of foreigner, Henry?”

  “Any kind, sir.”

  “That’s not good enough, Henry. The spelling suggests a particular kind. What do you say to Scandinavian?”

  Henry looked puzzled.

  “Now, then, Henry, rack your brains. They seem a bit rusty to me. What does Scandinavian suggest to you?”

  Henry’s face showed terrific mental strain and then suddenly it lit up. “I know, sir,” he said; “what’s the woman’s name? Drina Esberg.”

  “Right, Henry,” answered Harrison, “so the singer is mixed up in it, too.”

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

  “We’re going to do a lot of jumping tonight, Henry,” said Harrison. “Still, when you take her connection with the Crewes into account, it’s not so difficult. Now, why did she write that envelope? I believe I said I thought it was a cry for help.”

  “You did, sir.”

  “Now fit that in with what we have already found out here,” said Harrison. “This Drina Esberg is being closely watched by the Crewes. In fact, she is practically their prisoner. Therefore it might have been a cry for help. Drina Esberg’s in a mess, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the mess had something to do with the murder.”

  “Good, sir.”

  “Now, we have been able to get a certain amount of information about the Crewes. Madame says they are crooks. She even says they rob and kill. Kill, Henry. They make people disappear. It seems to be a little habit of theirs. They are powerful crooks. So they cannot be working alone. They have a lot of influence in La Plage. They can quickly bring ruffians from Toulon. The have a flat in Cannes. They must have an organisation behind them for all that, Henry.”

  “So you were right, sir,” said Henry, excitedly, “when you made up your story about the tramp being murdered by a gang of international criminals?”

  “There can be no other explanation, Henry,” returned Harrison. “They made him disappear, in Madame’s beautiful phrase. Now Madame also told me that Toulon Harbour is the crooks’ burying ground. Why did they go to the trouble of committing such an elaborate murder in England? It needed a lot of careful thought and planning. Suppose the tramp had been dropped in Toulon Harbour? A very simple proceeding and they had acquired the technique. Why couldn’t they have done it that way?”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because, Henry, they thought he might be identified,” said Harrison. “He was too well known locally.”

  “Yes sir,” said Henry. “That may sound all right to you, but I find it difficult to connect a murder in England with events happening in the South of France. It seems such a long way away.”

  “All the more likely that the victim would not be identified,” said Harrison, “if circumstances fitted. Suppose either the man was conveniently to hand in England or arrangements for his disposal could be conveniently made in England, the further away the more satisfactory it would be. And don’t forget, Henry, these are crooks who don’t know what the word frontier means. They’re used to calling every country their own. The world, or at any rate, Europe, is their hunting ground. Mere distance wouldn’t worry them.”

  “That sounds all right,” said Henry.

  “Now there’s another thing to think about, Henry,” said Harrison. “It looks as if La Plage cannot altogether be accepted as their base.”

  “I don’t see why, sir,” commented Henry; “they mainly seem to be here.”

  “As people who live in the suburbs of London are mainly there,” answered Harrison, drily. “But the husband goes to work each day. They’re living out in the suburbs, Henry; they may sometimes do important work at home—”

  “Toulon, you mean, sir?”

  “Precisely, Henry; I have an idea that their real head-quarters is in Toulon. It�
�s very easy to get there by motor-car, and nobody expects to see them about the hotel all day. An excellent arrangement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, Henry, instead of going to bed, I propose to spend the night in Toulon,” said Harrison.

  “Right, sir.”

  “Alone, I am afraid, Henry,” said Harrison, with an affectionate glance. “I’d much rather have you with me but it isn’t practical, as far as I can see. If the place is being watched, it will be much more easy for one than two to slip out and to wander about Toulon, too. Besides, you will have your job to do in the morning. Directly you’ve had breakfast, I want you to organise a game of tennis. It will do Miss Rich good and I expect Garfitt will join in—and it will look well from the road. Don’t you think yourself that the sight of people playing tennis makes everything seem astonishingly normal?”

  “Maybe, sir,” answered Henry, sadly. “But I don’t like you going alone. I’d like to be there if anything was likely to happen to you.”

  “I know you would, Henry, but really there’s no risk in this at all.” Then he added solemnly, “That will come later. I know I like taking risks. Many people have criticised me for it. But that’s my little habit and, at very critical moments, I like to work single-handed. But, you will admit, Henry, usually with you in the background. Still, at present, I’m not giving way to my overpowering pride in my own capacity. I’m just going off to Toulon because it seems the most satisfactory plan.”

  “Very well, sir,” replied Henry, “I take it that you must go tonight?”

  “Of course, Henry; things are moving too quickly to delay a moment. Indeed, I’m very worried. And it’s about a person I only heard about today.”

  “The singing girl?”

  “No, Henry, a gentleman named Hooker.”

  “Oh yes, sir, you said his life was in danger, I remember now.”

  “That’s another complication, isn’t it,” said Harrison. “But I believe he is part of the whole business, and while I’m clearing up the murder of the tramp, I shall be doing my best for Mr. Hooker at the same time. But I mustn’t waste time. So now, Henry, you can settle down to bed, and when I find the coast is clear I shall slip out of the house.”

  “May I ask one question, sir?”

  “Well, Henry, what is it?”

  “The other important thing Miss Rich did today,” said Henry; “the figures one twenty-four.”

  “I thought you might have guessed that, Henry,” answered Harrison. “They may solve the identity of Mrs. Crewe.”

  Henry looked surprised but said nothing, and went towards the door. He was turning the handle when Harrison said negligently, “Oh, Henry, you might like to know the identity of the murdered tramp.”

  Henry’s yes grew even wider with astonishment. “I certainly should,” he replied.

  “The name of the murdered tramp, Henry,” said Harrison, quietly, “was Wallace Sinclair.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Harrison Plans A Campaign

  In glorious sunshine, Henry, Miss Rich, Garfitt and Mrs. Mallison played tennis next morning to the edification of a tramp-looking person who was wandering up and down the lane outside.

  “I trust he has learned something from watching my service,” commented Garfitt, after having described the said service as “patient and ingenious if not astonishingly accurate.” Miss Rich played a very capable and dashing game, while Mrs. Mallison was a player of parts. Henry was solid without any lightning whatever, while Garfitt was mainly unsound but, at moments, and, curiously enough, at the right moments, pulled off shots of surpassing brilliance.

  So engrossed were they upon their game, while Mallison himself was busy in some unfathomable way with a collection of chickens not far from the court, that it was practically lunch time before they realised that Harrison had not yet returned.

  “If that detective master of yours has given us the slip, Henry,” said Garfitt, “I shall treat you as most of the early Romans treated their hostages.”

  “Hush yo’ mauf,” said Mallison, but it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking to Garfitt or one of the chickens, or was merely quoting a music-hall saying to himself.

  “No need,” said Henry, cheerfully, for he had realised the force of Harrison’s remarks overnight and the morning had brought a much more reasonable attitude of mind towards the journalist. “That news-editor will wire you that your salary has been doubled when he gets the story Mr. Harrison is going to tell you.”

  “You and your old Daily Flight,” said May Rich, turning on Garfitt. “I’m much more worried as to whether Mr. Harrison’s safe. I can tell you I for one shall be jolly pleased to see him back here again, story or no story.”

  “We journalists will always be martyrs,” exclaimed Garfitt. “The public demands news. What would it do if it could not get it? And yet it attacks us for doing our job.”

  “But why must you be so callous about it?” persisted Miss Rich.

  “Your doctor is callous, fair lady,” answered Garfitt. “Your dentist is callous, even your solicitor is callous—but it is very probable they are all good husbands.”

  Miss Rich laughed. “Forgive me, Mr. Garfitt,” she said, “I deserved to be rebuked. But, really, you don’t know how worried I am about Mr. Harrison.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be all right,” said Henry, confidently. “He’s not likely to be caught napping.”

  The announcement of lunch by Marie to Yvette Mallison, as if it were a diplomatic secret of international importance, coincided with the arrival of a motor-car at the gate of the villa. From it stepped Harrison to the no small surprise of the watcher in the lane.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Clay Harrison,” said Garfitt. “And where did you sleep last night?”

  “Good morning, everybody,” said Harrison. “As a matter of fact, Garfitt, I didn’t. I was far too busy getting a complete story for the Daily Flight.”

  The others laughed, and Garfitt looked a little uncomfortable.

  “I can see the night’s rest has done you good, Miss Rich,” said Harrison. “Enjoyed the tennis?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said the girl. “But I’m very relieved to see you back here safe and sound.”

  “But why the royal progress?” asked Garfitt.

  “I did what I wanted to do at Toulon,” answered Harrison, “and I certainly don’t mind Mrs. Crewe knowing that I am back again. It would have been much more embarrassing for her to have known that I had gone there. Besides, remembering the gallant charge in the lane last night, I thought it might be safer to drive right up to the door.”

  “And what was it you wanted to do at Toulon, Mr. Harrison?” asked Garfitt.

  “Really, Mr. Ronald Garfitt, you are exceedingly inquisitive,” answered Harrison, with a look at Henry, but the latter had learned his lesson. The Garfitt method might offend his ideas of propriety but his master had approved of them, so now he smiled innocently.

  “But it hardly matters,” Harrison continued, “because we are now so near the climax that I may as well tell you as much as I know because you will all then know where you stand when I need your help.”

  Garfitt looked seraphically happy and the others were all attention for Harrison’s explanation.

  “I might add, Mr. Ronald Garfitt,” said Harrison, solemnly, “that I don’t even mind you continuing the character of cross-examiner which you find so attractive. A few questions may help to clear my mind. But we may as well finish lunch and then we can be at our ease in the drawing-room.”

  The meal was soon over, following this hint. Yvette Mallison very thoughtfully arranged for a cup of tea and Harrison lit a cigar.

  “It seems a shame to waste this glorious sunshine by sitting cooped up in here,” said Harrison. “But when people like the Crewes deliberately settle down to spoil the sunshine for the rest of the world we have to make one or two sacrifices. When this job is over, Henry and I are going to make the most of it.”

  “And how soon
will that be?” asked Garfitt.

  “A few days at most,” answered Harrison. “First of all, I assume that Henry has told you the name of the man who was found murdered at Great Crockham?”

  “Good lord, no,” said Garfitt. “You’ve found that out already?”

  “Henry is the soul of discretion,” said Harrison. “What was that name again, Henry?”

  Henry looked in his notebook and read out, “Wallace Sinclair.”

  Both the Mallisons looked at each other with surprise, while Garfitt and May Rich looked blankly at Harrison.

  “Madame told me, in a roundabout way, last night,” said Harrison. “I have been trying to connect the Crewes with a man with beautiful hands. A musician’s hands, I think we said, Henry. A man also with soft and feminine feet and one who took great care of his personal appearance—”

  “Wallace Sinclair certainly did that,” said Yvette Mallison.

  “Also a man whom the Crewes would not want to dispose of in this district because he might be too easily recognised and awkward questions might be asked. By the way, Mallison, do you think he was known in Paris?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Mallison. “He was getting a name as a pianist.”

  “A pianist?” asked Miss Rich, in surprise.

  “Yes,” answered Harrison. “The dead man I saw had to be something like that.”

  Miss Rich wrinkled her brow in bewilderment.

  “I know, Miss Rich,” said Harrison, “they don’t seem to fit in with the hands you saw in Miss Docket’s kitchen. This is another matter altogether and doesn’t concern us at present. Mr. Wallace Sinclair played the accompaniments of Miss Drina Esberg when she sang at the Casino here.”

  “That’s right,” said Mallison.

  “They were friendly with the Crewes so there you have one link,” said Harrison. “This year Drina Esberg appears without Mr. Sinclair, her accompaniments being played by Mr. Archie Crewe. Now we come to a rather curious habit of the Crewe family. Again Madame helps us. They make people disappear. A charming expression for which we in England have the coarser word of murder.”