by Sapper
“So you know something about Maier,” remarked Drummond quietly.
“Quite a lot. To begin with – though this is hardly relevant to the present matter – his villa was one of the centres of espionage during the war. As you can imagine all this shore of the lake was a happy hunting-ground for spies, who could enter the country from Germany, and find France just across the water. And though we could never prove it and, in fact, could do nothing even if we did prove it, Maier’s villa was one of their principal rendezvous.”
“What sort of a man is he?” asked Drummond.
“He is a German Swiss, born not far from Basle. His age is about sixty. By profession he is a clockmaker, though he has long given up actual work. He is, however, extremely clever with his fingers, at any form of mechanical contrivance. It is his hobby – messing about with springs and cogged wheels. So much for one aspect of the man.”
The consul paused as if to weigh his words, and the others did not interrupt him.
“Now for another and possibly more important one,” continued Monsieur Lénod. “In his early days he was a red hot revolutionary – practically an anarchist. I gather that he has mellowed somewhat with advancing years, but up till long after the war he was a fanatical extremist. Incidentally, Captain Drummond, the actual chair in which you are sitting is the one in which Lenin sat – night after night – before he went to Russia, and I have often seen Maier in here talking to him.”
“How very interesting,” said Drummond.
“But once again hardly relevant,” said the consul with a smile. “However, I really don’t know that I can tell you any more about him. I must say I would be interested to know how he can possibly be mixed up in that Hyde Park affair.”
“So would we, M’sieur Lénod,” remarked Drummond dryly. “By the way, is he married?”
“He was, but his wife died some years ago.”
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes. Though sometimes a married daughter comes to stay with him, I believe.”
“Has he any servants?”
The consul put down his glass.
“Captain Drummond,” he said quietly, “may I ask the purport of your last few questions?”
Drummond’s eyes twinkled.
“Officially or unofficially, M’sieur Lénod?”
“Well – I’m not in my office.”
“A very good answer,” laughed Drummond. “But even a better one is what the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina.”
He beckoned to the barman.
“M’sieur Lénod,” he said quietly, “we are infinitely obliged to you for what you have told us. But I think in view of your position here it would be better if we now discussed the prospects of winter sport.”
The consul gave a little chuckle.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured. “Er – with reference to your last question – one old woman and she’s deaf.”
“Our friend the consul was very helpful,” remarked Drummond ten minutes later, as they watched the tall figure passing through the swing doors. “Only one old woman, my boy, and she’s deaf.”
Cranmer looked a bit uneasy.
“You know, it’s all right for you,” he said. “You’re a blinking civilian. Don’t forget I’m a H’army H’orficer. Do you really intend to break in?”
Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
“I take your meaning, Cranmer,” he answered. “And I can assure you, my dear fellow, that civilian or no civilian, I don’t intend to spend the next few months sampling Swiss prison diet. But there can be no drawing back now. The whole matter has gone far beyond us and our little affairs. And if there’s the slightest chance of our finding even the smallest ray of light in that villa it’s our obvious duty to go there.”
“And you think there is a chance?”
“Most certainly. Once again, you see, we come up against a man of pronounced red tendencies.”
“Don’t forget that I’m still very much in the dark,” said Cranmer.
“I’ll put you wise over dinner,” remarked Drummond glancing at his watch. “And then we’ll have to put through time till about midnight. It won’t be safe to leave before.”
“Won’t it look rather peculiar – our sneaking out of here in rubber shoes?”
“We’ll have to chance that, unless…”
He turned to the barman.
“Is there any haunt of vice in this delightful town?” he asked. “A night club, or something really dashing like that?”
“There’s the Kursaal, sir. They have classical concerts there.”
Drummond’s face paled.
“No, no. Nothing quite so immoral as that. I mean some place where my friend and I could go in safety after dinner tonight.”
“There’s the Perroquet, sir. They dance there.”
“That sounds more our form, Cranmer. The Perroquet. Delightful. We will repair to this sink of iniquity and have a look at the pretties. And with us,” he continued in a lower voice, “we will take my rucksac mit rubber shoes complete, into which we will change just before reaching the villa. It is goot – yes?”
Cranmer grinned.
“You seem in devilish high spirits,” he said. “You’re used to little escapades of this sort: I’m not. And by the time it comes to midnight they won’t need any castanets in the Perroquet band: I’ll lend ’em my knees.”
Drummond roared with laughter.
“Let’s go and have some food,” he cried. “You’ll take to it like a duck does to water. And fortunately for us there’s no moon.”
CHAPTER 7
Death at the Villa
It was just after midnight when they once again approached the villa Bon Ciel. During their walk from the Perroquet they had hardly met a soul; Montreux is not a late town. One or two belated cars had passed them, and once, in the distance, under the light of a lamp they had seen the stocky form of a policeman.
The night was dark and overcast. Not a star was showing, and there was a damp, raw feeling in the air. But the conditions, though unpleasant, were perfect for their purpose, and Drummond whistled cheerfully under his breath as they left the main road and started to climb.
Two hundred yards from the villa they changed their shoes, and hid the rucksack under a bush. Then they stole forward towards a shaft of light which lay across the road, and which proved that someone was still up in Monsieur Maier’s household. From far away came the ceaseless murmur of a mountain stream; otherwise the night was silent.
At length they reached the line of light, and paused under cover of some shrubs to reconnoitre. It came from the room in which they had seen the man that afternoon – a bright bar of yellow shining out underneath the blind which had not been quite pulled down.
The window was open, and the blind was moving gently in the faint night breeze. But from where they were standing it was impossible to see right into the room. They were too low down, and Drummond was just on the point of hoisting Cranmer upon his shoulders when a shadow appeared on the blind. It was that of a man standing with his hands in his pockets close to the window; they could actually see a strip of his legs through the chink.
They crouched down waiting and after a few seconds the shadow moved across the window and vanished.
“Our friend is evidently awake,” whispered Drummond. “I fear, old boy, our vigil may be a long one.”
“What do you propose to do?” muttered Cranmer. “Wait till he goes to bed, and then sample one of the downstair windows.”
Slowly, interminably the time passed, but there was no sign of the light being put out. Nor was there any further reappearance of the shadow. And at length Drummond stooped down.
“Get your knees on my shoulders,” he whispered, “and hold on to my han
ds. And for the love of Mike don’t fall off in the bushes, or we’re stung.”
He straightened up, and a moment later heard Cranmer’s whispered – “All right.”
“What did you see?” he muttered as he put him down.
“He’s sprawling over the table asleep,” said Cranmer.
“Hell!” answered Drummond. “That’s a nuisance. We’ll have to chance it – that’s all.”
And even as he spoke came the sound of the front door opening, and footsteps on the gravel.
“Still as death,” he breathed in Cranmer’s ear. “If he comes this way I’ll deal with him.”
The gate opened, and a man came out on to the road not three yards from where they were standing. He paused to shut the gate quietly: then he strode off away from them in the direction of Montreux.
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Drummond. “It would have complicated things if I’d had to dot him one. Get up on my shoulders again and see if that other bloke is still asleep.”
“Yes.”
From above his head came Cranmer’s monosyllable.
“Good. Then we’ll chance it now, before the other bird has time to return. Let’s try the front door.”
Cautiously Drummond pushed open the gate, and, followed by Cranmer crept towards the house. From above them came the tapping of the blind against the window sill as it oscillated to and fro. And once their shadows, distorted eerily, were flung on the bushes from the headlights of a car on the main road below.
They reached the door and Drummond flashed his torch on it.
“In luck,” he whispered. “Not a Yale.”
He turned the handle, and a moment later they were both standing in the hall. The house was absolutely silent: even the sound of the stream had ceased. But to Cranmer it seemed as if the beating of his heart must be audible in Montreux. His hands were shaking: his mouth felt curiously dry. And he started like a frightened colt as Drummond laid a hand on his arm.
“Steady, old boy,” muttered Drummond with a little chuckle. “Just follow me, and don’t make a noise.”
Once again the beam of the torch explored the darkness: in front of them were the stairs. And almost before Cranmer had moved he heard an impatient whisper from the landing above, though of Drummond’s movement there had been no sound.
“Come on, Cranmer: there’s no time to lose.”
The stairs bent round at right angles, and as he joined his leader they could both see the light shining under the door of the occupied room.
Step by step they mounted till they reached the top. And there Drummond bent down and peered through the keyhole.
“I don’t like it, Cranmer,” he said quietly as he straightened up. “I can’t quite see, but no man has ever slept in that position. Be prepared for something.”
He turned the handle, and gently pushed open the door. And Cranmer, standing behind him, heard his breath come in a sharp hiss, and saw his body stiffen. Then he peered over his shoulder, and felt violently sick.
Seated at the desk, which was more like a working bench, was a man whose head had literally been battered in. His injuries could only have been caused by an attack of well-nigh inconceivable ferocity. The blood which had formed a great pool on the table had welled over and was dripping sluggishly on to the wooden floor. One hand hung limply down: the other, still clutching a small hammer, was on the bench. And in the dead man’s eyes there seemed to linger an expression of mortal terror.
“For God’s sake – let’s go,” said a voice and Cranmer realised it was his own.
Once more he felt that firm, reassuring pressure on his arms: once again he heard that quiet voice.
“Steady, old boy. The poor devil’s not a pretty sight, but we’ve got to go through with it. Stand here by the door, and don’t under any circumstances let your shadow fall on the blind.”
Crouching down, Drummond moved over to the body, while Cranmer, still feeling faint and sick, watched him, fascinated. Watched him as he went swiftly through the dead man’s pockets: watched him glancing through the letters he found. Saw him open drawer after drawer of a cupboard that stood against the wall, and rummage through their contents: saw him pause and stand motionless as he stared at the last one.
For a moment what was in it conveyed nothing to Drummond: then, like a blinding flash there came back to his memory those last cryptic words of Jimmy Latimer to Madame Pélain as the train steamed out of Cannes Station. “Sealed fruit tins.”
And there in the drawer were two fruit tins. True, they were not sealed: they had been opened, and their contents had been removed. In fact they were just two empty tins, and only by the pictures of fruit on the paper wrapper that was pasted round each of them was it possible to know what their contents had been.
Thoughtfully Drummond picked one up and examined it. It stood about four inches high; the diameter was approximately the same. The label proclaimed that it had contained Fancy Quality Fruit Salad, prepared by a firm called Petworth, who had packed it in their own orchard factory in Gloucestershire.
He looked inside: nothing. And then a peculiar point struck him. Under ordinary circumstances when a top is removed with a tin-opener, the resulting cut has ragged edges. But in the tin which he held in his hand the top edge was perfectly smooth. And when he looked at it more closely he could plainly see in places the marks of a file. Why had the owner of the tin taken the trouble to do such a thing?
He put it back and picked up the other one. And at once things became more interesting. To outward appearances the two tins were identical, but the interior revealed a striking difference. Soldered into the side, about an inch below the top, were three tiny metal cubes, each the size of a small die. Their positions formed the corners of an equilateral triangle.
For a long while he stared at them trying to think what possible object they could fulfil. In view of the fact that the dead man’s hobby had been playing about with springs and things, he might have assumed that the tin was the outer case for some patent model he was inventing. But Jimmy’s remark could not be ignored, so that that simple solution would not hold water.
He looked at the outside more carefully: no sign of the soldering appeared there. And a moment’s reflection told him that even if any mark had shown on the metal, the paper wrapper would have concealed it.
He glanced up: Cranmer was standing beside him looking curiously at the tin.
“I told you about Jimmy’s remark,” said Drummond. “What’s your reaction to this? You see the edge has been carefully filed down where the opener has been used.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Cranmer, “you don’t use an ordinary opener with this brand. I happen to know, because I had to open one the other night. They have a key with a slot at the end into which you put a tongue of the metal fastening. Then you roll the key round and round…”
“I know,” interrupted Drummond. “Still that doesn’t explain those studs.”
“It does not,” agreed Cranmer. “My God! what’s that?”
Both men stood rigid: the gate had shut and steps could be heard on the gravel. Worse still – voices.
“Quick,” snapped Drummond. “Out on the landing and into some other room.”
Like a flash they were through the door, closing it after them. And as they were on the landing, the newcomers entered the hall below.
“I tell you it’s all right,” came a guttural voice with a pronounced accent. “The woman is stone deaf. Almost as deaf” – he laughed harshly – “as he is.”
Like shadows Drummond and Cranmer faded into a bedroom opposite as the footsteps came up the stairs.
“It is absurd,” said another voice, “returning here at all. You have all that matters. Mother of Mercy!” The voice rose to a scream.
Cautiously Drummond opened the door a little and pe
ered out. Two men were standing in the room they had just left. One was a big fellow; the other was short and rather fat. And it was he who was covering his face with his hands, as if to shut out the dreadful thing at the desk.
“Squeamish,” sneered the big man. “When a man gets hit with a coal hammer he doesn’t generally look as if he’d died of old age. Now then…”
The words died away, and Drummond saw him take a spring forward. And then there came from the room a flood of the most fearful blasphemy.
“It’s gone, I tell you,” cried the big man when he could again speak coherently. “It’s gone.”
“It can’t have gone,” said his companion in a trembling voice. “You must have made a mistake.”
“I tell you, it’s gone,” snarled the other. “Here is the one without the studs, but the other is gone. Moreover” – into his voice there crept a note of fear – “this drawer was shut. He shut it himself.”
“Well, assuredly, he could not have opened it again. Let us go. For God’s sake, let us go. You have all that really matters in your pocket.”
“How did that drawer come open?”
The big man came into sight again and stood staring at his trembling companion.
“I know it was shut,” he went on. “When he became foolish he got up and he shut it. I can see him doing it now. He crossed and he shut it: then he returned to the chair and laughed at me.”
“It is a little thing anyway whether it was open or shut. Let us go.”
“But it is not a little thing that the tin has gone, you fool. Tins do not walk on their own. He could not have touched it. So who has?”
“Who, indeed?” whispered Drummond, and Cranmer could feel his grin of pure joy. “Put the tin on the bed, old boy: we’ll each want both our hands shortly. I’ll take the big ’un.”
Again he peered out: the fat man was speaking in a quavering voice.
“What does it matter? If we are found here all is lost. It means prison.”