Except For One Thing

by John Russell Fearn

  “I — I was directed to come to you when I entered the building. I’m Timothy Potter, of Twickenham. I’ve come about Valerie Hadfield, the actress who has disappeared…”

  Garth smiled. “Actually this business is being handled by Divisional Inspector Whiteside of the Kensington District…However, what news have you got?”

  “I know for a fact that Miss Hadfield eloped last night from Twickenham with a man called Rixton Williams, a Lancashire man who has bought a house next door but one to me.”

  The sergeant made a movement. “That part about Rixton Williams is correct, sir,” he put in. “You’ll see from the Divisional Inspector’s report here” — he nodded to the papers on the desk — “that Miss Hadfield’s maid has stated that her mistress had some sort of connection with a Rixton Williams.”

  “So the affairs of Miss Hadfield are coming to roost here, after all, eh?” Garth murmured, picking the report up and studying it pensively. When he had finished reading it all the easy cordiality had left his face. It was hard and keen, definitely interested. He looked back at the tubby Timothy Potter as he sat bouncing a bowler hat on his knees. “They eloped, Mr. Potter? How do you know that?”

  “He told me they were going to — Mr. Williams did, I mean — when he was carrying the girl out.”

  “Carrying her out?” Garth settled back in his chair in readiness for a long session. “Do you mind explaining?”

  “She was blind drunk! Williams had to haul her down the front pathway, his arm round her waist. I helped put her in the back of Williams’ car.”

  “You are sure of the woman’s identity, Mr Potter?” Garth asked pensively.

  “Definitely! You see, I went into the house, at Williams’ request, and had champagne with them. I gathered it was a sort of celebration drink — ”

  “Was she intoxicated then?”

  “No. Stone cold sober.” Potter reflected over this and then went on. “I recognised her from photographs I’d seen, and when I said she looked like Valerie Hadfield she confirmed the fact. Then I left, but I went back later with a bottle of port to add my share of a celebration drink. It was then that I saw Williams helping the girl down the front path.”

  “And what happened next?” Garth questioned.

  “Williams drove away down the road and that’s the last I saw of either of them…”

  Silence. Garth sat thinking. Sergeant Whittaker straightened up from taking shorthand notes at his table in the corner. Richard looked at Timothy Potter across the desk. Timothy Potter looked back at him, a faint trace of puzzlement coming into his wide blue eyes.

  “You say this Mr. Williams is a Lancashire man?” Garth asked. “The cultured or uncultured variety?”

  “Oh, just ordinary. Never seemed to take his cap off. I can’t understand a woman of Miss Hadfield’s obvious style eloping with him. It seemed to me — well, unnatural.”

  “I think,” Garth said slowly, “you had better give me full details of everything you know about Mr. Williams — where you met him, how he behaved, what he did — everything. Sergeant, take it down.”

  “Yes, sir.” Whittaker turned the leaf of his notebook and waited.

  “Carry on, Mr. Potter,” Garth invited.

  Richard listened also to that chirpy, eager voice. The fat little know-all was obviously determined to tell everything, was clearly proud of his offerings to the gods of Scotland Yard. Richard had foreseen all this — that Potter would be almost bound to speak. The only thing he had not foreseen was that chance would put him in the office to hear it all and watch Garth’s reactions.

  At last the story was told. Garth looked at Potter keenly.

  “So Williams is about five feet nine, broad shouldered, and powerfully built, and has a limp of the left foot, eh? Well, thanks very much, Mr. Potter. You’ve been very helpful, and if we need you again we’ll get in touch.”

  Potter rose and moved towards the door. Garth got up too and accompanied him.

  “Oh, my manners!” Garth sighed, catching sight of Richard. “I’m so sorry, Dick…Mr. Potter, meet Mr. Harvey, research chemist, friend of Scotland Yard and the brains behind some of our analyses.”

  Richard smiled and rose, shook the chubby hand. Timothy Potter stood looking at him.

  “Y’know, Mr. Harvey,” he said slowly, “that chap Williams would be just about your build…And similar features, too.”

  “So?” Garth looked at Richard and grinned. “You’ll do as a stand-in then, eh, Dick?”

  “Can’t say I like the idea,” Richard laughed.

  Potter did not laugh. There was a blank look in his eyes as he went out, fumbling his bowler hat on to his head.

  “Apparently,” Garth said, “we’re booked on this case, Dick…Care to see it through, or maybe you’re too busy?”

  “But you don’t want me hanging around, surely?”

  “Don’t I though! I want you if only to drive some reason into your damned obstinate head! I haven’t forgotten how you disparaged the Yard in the club the other day. You said that all the great murders had been solved by coincidence or else the conscience of the killers…”

  “Why should this murder be any different?”

  “Has anyone said it is murder?” Garth asked.

  “Not as far as I know,” Richard answered easily. “Only with you mentioning murders I sort of assumed — ”

  “And naturally,” Garth said, grinning. “But I’m not sure! The whole damned thing may be a publicity stunt for all we know. Stage artistes live and die by publicity, remember. Anyway, I have a desire to make you eat your words in regard to Scotland Yard, Dick, so if you’d like to tag along, merely observing and not interfering, you’re welcome…At least I’m going to look into it. Whiteside has plenty on his plate sorting out the problem of the dead chauffeur. Who knows? This may even turn out to be that perfect crime which you insist can occur.”

  “Well, I’ll tag along until I get bored,” Richard agreed, smiling. “After being cooped up in the laboratory for weeks on end the exercise will do me good. What are you going to do first?”

  “Nothing very exciting. Simply study this report.”

  Garth seated himself at the desk again and Richard took the seat opposite him. For several minutes Garth brooded.

  “Whiteside has been thorough,” he admitted at length, “but he seems to be getting out of his depth. He’s questioned Valerie Hadfield’s maid and it seems that she — Valerie Hadfield — has had three letters from this mysterious Mr. Williams, and one message on a card in a bouquet of roses. None of the letters was dated but marked “Saturday”, “Tuesday” and “Wednesday” respectively. No address given, though the maid did see one of the envelopes when she herself got it before her mistress arrived in the morning at the theatre. She noted it was postmarked “Twickenham”. The doorman at the theatre has described a man tallying with the description of Williams given us by Potter…”

  Garth wrinkled his forehead. “Mmm…don’t seem to have been any other men in Valerie Hadfield’s life, and she gave no hint that she intended to depart so abruptly. Her chauffeur was found dead early this morning by his mother — apparently an accident, though Whiteside hasn’t completed his inquiry yet. Anyway, chauffeur died from either a head injury or carbon monoxide poisoning. Doctor’s report isn’t complete yet. Be an inquest later, of course. At the moment Whiteside is trying to trace the girl and her northern-accented lover. Certainly they haven’t been seen at Gretna — or anywhere else for that matter. Nor has the car they went in.”

  “Sort of into thin air, eh?” Richard asked casually.

  “People and cars don’t go into thin air, Dick. I think we might…Excuse me.” Garth turned as the telephone rang. Sergeant Whittaker picked it up.

  “Yes? Chief Inspector Garth’s office…” He listened, then handed it to Garth. “For you, sir. Inspector Whiteside.”

  “Hello, Whiteside? Eh…? Yes, of course we’ll help. Yes, I judged you wanted us to by sending your report on he
re. Eh…?”

  Garth sat clenching the instrument and Richard saw the gaunt face slowly become taut. Garth ceased commenting as the Divisional Inspector talked; but at last he said:

  “All right, get off right away. We’ll join you at Twickenham Green.”

  Twickenham Green? Richard sat waiting.

  “Perhaps,” Garth said, hanging up, “you weren’t far wrong when you said “murder”, Dick. The Yard’s in on this now; Whiteside has asked for it. It’s no ordinary disappearing act, apparently. Realising the significance of the Twickenham postmark Whiteside has had the Twickenham police investigating. It seems that Williams and his old saloon car are both familiar to the local inhabitants near where Williams lived. Anyway, P.C. Hanthorne has found the missing car and Whiteside has just received the news. Fortunately we are saved the trouble of sending out a description of Valerie Hadfield and Williams. Whiteside has done it already. The police in all parts of the country are on the watch.”

  “He’ll be found all right, then,” Richard said.

  “Mebbe. Anyway, I’m going to join Whiteside at Twickenham Green and we’ll look the car over. Hanthorne says the car is empty and standing at the edge of a ditch bordering on an uncultivated field. He makes some vague reference to bloodstains that will want checking on. Sergeant, contact the fingerprint boys at Ipswich and the photographers at Weston. Tell them to get to Twickenham Green as soon as they can and they’ll be directed from there. And the pathology department had better send a man down to look at these bloodstains.”

  “Right, sir.” Whittaker picked up the telephone.

  Bloodstains? Richard sat thinking. Yet another of those things he had not reckoned with. There had been no blood about Valerie; he had made sure of that. The only explanation was that the blood had come from his own cut on the wrist when he had jumped from the car after starting it off on its final journey. Gently he drew his cuff down lower over the injured forearm, then he turned as he realised Garth had got into his hat and overcoat and Sergeant Whittaker had finished giving instructions over the telephone.

  “Feel like imbibing the air of Twickenham, Dick?” Garth asked.

  Richard nodded and rose from his chair. A few minutes later they were in an official car, Whittaker taking the wheel and Garth and Richard seated next to each other in the back.

  “Why,” Richard asked presently, “do you think it’s murder, Garth? Just because of a few bloodstains?”

  “No; because, for one thing, the girl’s chauffeur has died. I’m sure the two things are definitely connected. And I’ll lay evens that an experienced chauffeur wouldn’t let himself get mixed up with carbon monoxide fumes. There’s another thing, too. According to Potter a bottle — one bottle — of champagne was split between Valerie Hadfield, Williams, and Potter. I cannot conceive of a girl becoming incapably drunk on that amount, particularly as there is mentioned in the maid’s statement that her mistress was — or is, if still alive — a hard drinker. Unless there was a drug in her drink, of course. More I think of it the more I incline to the possibility of murder.”

  “Possible,” Richard admitted, thinking. “On the other hand,” Garth proceeded, “Valerie and Williams haven’t been seen since, so what did happen? In lonely country, as it is around Twickenham, murder suggests itself — or else kidnapping. Purely a theory, Dick…” Garth thumped on his chest. “Blast my indigestion!” he added irritably. “Come on, Whitty, get a move on, can’t you? We want the best of the light for this job.”

  “Yes, sir,” Whittaker said, and increased the speed to the limit of safety. In forty-five minutes flat they had reached Twickenham Green where a constable, police sergeant, and local superintendent were standing beside a car, waiting.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Superintendent Chalfont of the Twickenham police saluted sharply. “I’m Superintendent Chalfont. If you will follow my car — ”

  “Does the sergeant there know where the spot is, too?” Garth questioned.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve all seen it, for that matter — ”

  “Have the sergeant wait here to direct Divisional Inspector Whiteside when he comes along; and you, Constable, will direct the fingerprint men and photographers, and a man from pathology. You’d better get another constable to help you. They’ll be coming separately, I expect.”

  The constable nodded, saluted, then hurried back across the road to the police station. Garth sat back and Whittaker began to follow the car ahead. Richard gazed about him in fascinated interest. It was exciting to travel in a police car over the very route he had covered so many times in the battered old saloon. He was filled with a deep curiosity, too, wondering where the old wreck had finally finished its bumpy course after he had set it off. Been a clever move, that. It would have Valerie’s fingerprints on it and show she had been in it. Much cleverer than ditching it in the bottom of a river or setting fire to it…

  Presently the leading car turned off down the fatal land and went on towards the small wood at the bottom. Here it stopped and Whittaker, too, applied the brakes. Garth alighted stiffly and jerked his legs up and down, sniffing the dank, countrified air. Richard came climbing out beside him, then Whittaker.

  Superintendent Chalfont came back towards them.

  “You notice the tyre tracks going down this lane, sir?” he asked, pointing. “They go right back to the main road.”

  “Uh-huh,” Garth agreed, looking.

  “I’m having the licence-holder traced. Soon hear about that.”

  “Good,” Garth acknowledged. “Now where’s the car?”

  “This way, sir.” Chalfont nodded to the field on the right. “We can’t get a car along it — not all the way. Better walk.” He led the party across the field for about half a mile, all of them plunging in soft earth and following the car’s distinct tracks. Presently they went through a smashed area of hawthorn hedge, along the contiguous field for perhaps another half-mile; then the old car loomed upon them, tilted on its side but not completely overturned, its offside wheels embedded in a ditch and its bodywork supported by the strong hedge branches.

  Beside it were two constables who came to attention as the party approached.

  “Just as Hanthorne found it,” Chalfont said, and motioned to the constable in question who promptly saluted. “When we got the call to investigate the neighbourhood I sent my men off on a search. Hanthorne found this in the course of his travels.”

  “No footprints?” Garth questioned.

  “No, sir. Not a trace. A bit odd that. I came to look for myself and make sure. It doesn’t matter how many we make. As you see there’s nothing but the tyre tracks. Hanthorne and I both walked in them at first to avoid disturbing the ground.”

  “No footprints,” Garth repeated pensively. “Hmmm…this gets interesting. Now, let’s see…”

  He prowled forward, surveying the car from every angle without actually touching it.

  “The inside hasn’t been examined yet,” Chalfont said, presently. “Have to be fingerprinted first, of course.”

  “They’re on their way, and the photographers,” Garth told him; then he disappeared round the back of the car, made his way through the gap in the hedge and then stared at the door nearest the driving seat.

  “There are the bloodstains, sir.” The Superintendent pointed to three brownish red spots on the pale blue of the car’s worn cellulose. “Hanthorne thought at first they might be rust marks, but I’m pretty sure they’re blood, and not very old either.”

  Richard looked on with interest at the three nearly insignificant spots he had left behind. He could see now how he had done it — snatched his wrist across the rough metalwork inside the lowered window. Nearly insignificant, yes — but there just the same. He began to wonder if it would not have been better to have sunk the car in the river after all…Useless now.

  Garth glanced at Chalfont. “Any ideas, Super?”

  “Well, apparently the car was sent off on its own from the land and after a brief career finished here. That
’s more or less proved by the absence of footprints. Nobody was in the car. It was just ditched, like this. The lowered window suggests that somebody stood on the running board, probably held on to the steering wheel for a while, and then jumped clear on to the grass bordering the field. Not much impression of footprints on the running board, you notice. It’s that infernally dirty there hardly could be.”

  Garth looked at the running board, then surveyed the landscape.

  “Yes, I think your hypothesis is right,” he admitted. “So, whither went Valerie Hadfield and Rixton Williams? And to which of them — if either — do these bloodstains belong?”

  He turned aside and then glanced up as a tall figure with a lesser figure beside it came into view in the neighbouring field.

  “Divisional Inspector Whiteside and Sergeant Clair,” Garth murmured, and nodded genially as the lanky, fox-faced Divisional Inspector for Kensington came up.

  “Afternoon, Inspector,” he greeted Garth, and nodded to the others. “The car, eh? Tell us anything?”

  “Only that it is ditched and that the birds have flown,” Garth sighed. “We’re waiting for the fingerprint boys and photographers. Can’t do much until then. How about you? How are things regarding that chauffeur?”

  “More I see of the business, sir, the more I suspect murder,” Whiteside answered, pulling out a notebook and studying it for a moment. “The odd thing to me is that Cranston, the chauffeur, had covered the car’s bonnet with a rug, presumably for the night, and yet he must have done it while the engine was running otherwise he’d never have been poisoned by fumes. It seems queer to me…Why leave your engine running on a slow tick — we checked on that by filling the tank and starting the engine up to see what speed it was going at — and then cover the bonnet? It’s sort of cart before the horse. Then again, there is some doubt in Dr. Lewis’s mind about the wound the chauffeur sustained. He thinks it’s broader than it should be if Cranston hit his head on the edge of the sand bucket. And why, in a garage so neat you could eat off it, did Cranston have a screwdriver lying on the floor, which presumably threw his foot from under him and caused him to fall and strike his head?”