by Sapper
“So the next day she really got down to it with him. And this time, apparently, he proved a bit more amenable, and she did get something out of him. It appeared that, without intending to, he had got mixed up in some secret society, and they were compelling him to do something he didn’t want to do. That he hadn’t known when he joined them what they really were, and that now it was too late to draw back. But what the something was he wouldn’t tell her.”
Alice Blackton lit another cigarette.
“Now that was last Friday week – five days before I met Mrs Cartwright. And it struck me, of course, that it was vital to let Captain Drummond know at once. I’d had a line from him, saying where I could get hold of him – Mr Hudson, c/o GPO, Petworth – and I was just wondering whether to write him before going to the Golden Boot, when the door opened and in walked Sam himself. He’d come to fetch his wife, and I took stock of him.
“Algy, if ever a man was frightened unto death, he was that man. He must have lost stones in weight, if his clothes were any criterion; they hung on him like sacks. His hands were shaking, and he reeked of whisky. So, after a moment or two, I got up and left, and that was that up till last Wednesday night.”
“You got it all through to Hugh?” asked Algy.
“Next day.”
“And has anything else happened?”
“One thing. On Friday – that’s the day before yesterday – Mrs Turnbull came into my sitting-room about lunch time.
“‘You remember Mrs Cartwright, miss,’ she said.
“‘Of course,’ I cried. ‘What about her?’
“‘Samuel’s going down to the country again tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And Amelia is fair worried to death.’ ”
“Tomorrow,” remarked Algy thoughtfully. “That is – yesterday. And last night a man was killed. Things become clearer, my dear.”
“Can it be him, Algy?” she cried.
“Anything can be anything with this crowd,” he answered. “But it’s now obvious why Hugh wanted you. You’re the only player on our side who can identify the poor devil.”
He rose and strolled over to the window.
“Thank the Lord, it isn’t raining,” he said. “The stars are out, and with luck it will keep fine. Hullo! what do you want?”
A young farm-hand was standing by the door, fingering his cap.
“Mr Longworth?” he said.
Algy nodded.
“Bloke called ’Udson told me to give you this. Said as ’ow you’d give me ’alf-a-dollar if I did.”
Algy held out his hand for the note, with the coin in view.
“Here you are, my lad,” he said. “Thank you. And shut the door when you go out.”
He came back to the fire, slitting open the envelope.
“Orders, my dear – at last.”
He grinned faintly as he looked at them.
“Got a warm coat, my love? You’ll need one.”
“What does he say?”
“Be at the cross-roads quarter of a mile north of main entrance to Birchington Towers by eleven p.m. Remain in car, which hide in entrance to quarry. No lights. If nothing happened by three, return London. HUD.
“There you are, my dear. Terse and to the point. And it looks like four hours of fun and laughter for the chaps.”
“You know where it is?” she asked.
“I know the quarry,” said Algy, once again crossing over to the window. “It’s not going to be too bad; you can do a bit of shut-eye under the rug.”
And as it turned out the night proved almost muggy. Punctually at eleven Algy backed the car into the narrow track that led to the sand quarry, taking it far enough in not to be visible in the lights of any passing car. Away to the right, on the high ground, lay Birchington Towers, almost invisible in the trees. Only a faint general light gave its position, and after a time that was extinguished.
Occasionally a car roared past on the main road homeward bound, but they grew fewer and fewer, and when midnight chimed out across the low ground from a neighbouring church, the whole countryside seemed asleep.
Interminably the time dragged by. Alice Blackton, tucked up in the back of the car, was dozing, but Algy, afraid of doing likewise, kept on sentry go between the car and the road. And he was just wondering if he dared risk a cigarette under cover of some bushes, when he heard, in the distance, the sound of a car coming from the direction of the Downs. It came nearer: then abruptly the engine stopped.
He waited: peering along the road. Once he thought he heard footsteps, but it might have been imagination. And it came as a shock, when, from close beside him, he suddenly heard a low voice.
“That you, Algy?”
It was Hugh Drummond: small wonder he’d heard no sound.
“Here I am,” he answered.
“Got the girl?”
“She’s in the back of the car. I’ll wake her.”
But she was already with them, and Drummond shook hands.
“Good for you, Alice,” he said. “Leave your car here, and we’ll get into Peter’s, which is down the road.”
“What’s happened, Hugh?” asked Algy.
“As I thought, they moved the body tonight. I had Peter and Toby watching one drive, and Ted the other. They brought him out in a large car, and they’ve dumped him in some wooded ground on top of Bury Hill. Then the car went on towards London. Peter knows the exact spot where they left the road. And that is our destination now. Sorry I’ve got to ask you to do it, Alice, but you’re the only one of us who can. Ahoy, Peter…”
A car, standing in the road, loomed out of the darkness.
“You don’t know Miss Blackton, do you… Mr Darrell… Let’s get to it…”
“Where’s Toby?” asked Algy.
“On guard by the wood,” said Drummond.
They settled into the car, and Peter drove off. It was just a quarter to one and they did not meet a soul in the four-mile run; the only sound they heard was a dog barking furiously in a farm they passed. And at the top of Bury Hill they stopped.
To their right stretched the open Downs, and it was from here that after a moment or two Toby Sinclair materialised.
“OK, Toby?” cried Drummond.
“OK. Shall I lead the way?”
He plunged into the trees, and Drummond took Alice Blackton by the arm.
“Careful, my dear,” he said. “We don’t want you spraining your ankle.”
It was not far to go: the body had been dumped about thirty yards from the road, in an open grass clearing. Actually it was hidden from the road itself, though anyone going a few feet into the trees would see it.
“Clever,” said Drummond quietly. “They don’t mind it being found: that’s why they haven’t concealed it. He died naturally just like Jimmy Latimer, and a man who dies naturally don’t hide himself… He was hiking… You see his boots are dirty, and his clothes sodden with rain – though there hasn’t been any since this morning… Probably put the poor devil in a bath before they started… Well, Alice?”
He switched his torch on the dead man’s face, and the girl shuddered.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s Samuel Cartwright, all right…”
“I’d have betted on it,” remarked Drummond. “Well, there’s no more to be done here, so we may as well go home.”
“But aren’t you going to do anything about it?” she cried.
“What can we do, my dear?” said Drummond. “Nothing can bring him back to life. And the instant the matter is mentioned to the police, we’ve got to come into it. Which is the thing of all others I want to avoid.”
“Have you been through his pockets, Hugh?” asked Algy.
“With a vacuum cleaner. And found nothing. Come on, chaps. You can drop me, Peter, at the quarry…”
> “And what are we to do tomorrow?” asked Darrell. “Play a round in the morning, and come up to London in the afternoon. There’s nothing more to be done down here.”
“What are you going to do yourself?”
“Go up tonight with Algy… Hell!” he muttered. “To think that poor blighter knew what I’d give my eyes to know…”
He relapsed into silence till the car drew up at the entrance to the quarry.
“Night-night, boys,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”
He watched Darrell’s tail lamp disappear: then he walked towards Algy’s car.
“Hullo!” he cried. “What’s this bus? Good for you,” he continued, after Algy’s explanation. “We’ll go to Heppel Street and our Mrs Penny for what’s left of the night.”
And they were running into London before he spoke again.
“Do you know Mrs Cartwright’s address, Alice?”
“No. But I can easily get it from Mrs Turnbull.”
“I’m thinking of that shed,” said Drummond. “That shed in the backyard. I’d like to see inside that shed very much.”
“Well, as I say, I can get the address quite easily.”
“I wish you would. But you mustn’t say that Cartwright’s dead. That’s a thing you know nothing about. It’s our best chance, Algy,” he continued thoughtfully. “That poor devil knew enough for them to kill him. Has he left any record behind?”
“The only way to find out is to go see,” said Algy.
“Exactly. But how to do it is the point. Once Mrs Cartwright realises her husband is dead she’s going up in steam. In addition the police will be buzzing round like a swarm of bees. Burglary, old boy, is the only hope. I’ll think it over and let you know later. But the first and main thing is the address.”
And that, as Alice had prophesied, presented no difficulty. It transpired next day over the telephone to Mrs Turnbull, that Mrs Cartwright lived in a street off the Albert Bridge Road, and, moreover, that she would be at home that night. Further, that she was worried to death over Sam’s continued absence.
“It’s going to be a little awkward for Burton,” said Algy, “if she goes to the police. She’ll tell ’em he was going to Birchington Towers, and, when his body is ultimately discovered on Bury Hill, what does Charles say?”
“That he never arrived,” answered Drummond promptly. “That he knows nothing about the man at all. That from enquiries he has made a man with some fancied grievance asked for an interview last week, but was turned away, and on identification of the body by one of his servants it transpires that it is the same individual. No, Algy – they won’t catch Charles that way. You see there will be no trace of murder on Samuel… And if the widow mentions his nervous state, the answer is that obviously it was some strange case of hallucination. What could Charles Burton have to do with a clockmaker in the Albert Bridge Road?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Algy. “So what do we do about it?”
“Will you still help us, Alice?” asked Drummond.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Your job this evening is to keep Mrs Cartwright occupied whilst I explore that shed. If necessary take that female of yours – Mrs Turnbull – with you; in fact it will seem more natural if you do. Algy will come with me, and will be on hand in case you should want him.”
“What time shall I go there?”
“I suggest nine o’clock. And keep the lady occupied for an hour.”
“That won’t be difficult,” said the girl.
“Your excuse for going, naturally, is her husband. You can invent some stuff about Burton to keep her interested, but don’t, under any circumstances, let her come into the shed…”
“Right,” she nodded. “I’ll do just what you say.”
“Grand girl! Jane!” he shouted, and Mrs Penny waddled in. “I’ll want some lunch today, my pet,” he announced. “And Mr Longworth and I will be sleeping here tonight.”
“That’ll be all right, Mr Hugh… And the young lady?”
“I think you’d better lunch here too, Alice, and not go back to your rooms till later.”
“Just as you like,” she said. “I could do with some more sleep.”
“Algy, you take the car to St James’s Square – and then come back here. We’ve got to alter your appearance before tonight.”
“What are you going to do, old boy?” asked Algy.
“A little spot of exploration,” said Drummond with a grin. “My knowledge of the Albert Bridge Road is not all it might be. But I shan’t go till after lunch.”
It was six o’clock when he returned in excellent spirits.
“Luck is in,” he announced. “I do not think our burglarious adventure is going to be very difficult.”
At seven o’clock Alice Blackton left; at eight, two typical dockyard natives slouched out of Number 10, Heppel Street, and were soon lost in the busy traffic of Tottenham Court Road.
“There is a pub of reasonable excellence, Algy,” said the larger of the two, “not far from our destination, where we might while away a few fleeting seconds. And then – what luck? I wonder…”
It was just after nine that they swung out of the saloon bar and slouched along the street towards the Cartwrights’ house. A few scattered groups were congregated under the lamp posts, but the night was raw and most of the inhabitants were indoors. The houses were small, but the street was in no sense a slum. Shops alternated with private dwellings, and suddenly Algy saw on the other side of the road the notice – “S CARTWRIGHT, WORKING CLOCKMAKER.”
Drummond led him on about fifty yards; then he abruptly crossed over, and retraced his footsteps slowly. A wireless was blaring forth from an open window as they passed, but no pedestrians seemed near at hand. And with a quick movement Drummond turned into a narrow path along a fence that terminated in a wooden door.
“The back entrance,” he whispered.
Cautiously he pushed the door open and in a second they were both through with it closed behind them.
“The yard,” he muttered. “And there’s the shed in front of us.”
From above their heads light was filtering out from a curtained window, and they could hear the sound of women’s voices. Evidently Alice and Mrs Turnbull had arrived and were holding the fort.
Like a shadow Drummond moved over to the shed, and for the fraction of a second a pin-point of light shone on the lock. Then it was extinguished, and he jumbled in his pocket. Came one short sharp crack, which sounded like a pistol shot to Algy, and the door flew open.
They paused motionless; had it been heard? But no sign came from the neighbouring houses, and the faint drone of voices from Mrs Cartwright’s room was still audible. From his pocket Drummond took two pieces of felt and pinned them over the cobwebby windows. Then he closed the door and made Algy stand with his back against the crack.
“We must chance the rest,” he said, switching on his torch, and letting the beam play around.
It was a small shed, not much larger than a bathing-hut. The whole of one side was occupied by a bench, on which was fitted the ordinary implements of the owner’s trade. A large open box containing drills and other tools stood in one corner, and two upturned packing-cases apparently constituted the seating accommodation. Of papers there was no sign.
The walls were bare of shelves or cupboards; there was no drawer in the bench. And with a muttered curse Drummond was on the point of giving it up, when he gave a sudden exclamation. A board under his foot had moved. He turned his torch on to it; it was loose. And even as he did so there came the sound of a door closing gently, somewhere close by…
He switched off his torch and straightened up. He could hear Algy’s breathing; otherwise everything was silent. And suddenly it struck him that the voices from the house had ce
ased.
He moved over to Algy, and pulled him back against the bench.
“Did you hear that?” he breathed.
“Yes,” came the answer. “Back door, I think.”
“Take the torch. Switch on if I tell you.”
They waited tensely; outside a twig snapped. And then came the sound of fingers fumbling at the door, followed by a stifled exclamation of surprise. The newcomer had evidently discovered the broken lock.
For a moment or two he hesitated; then very cautiously the door was pushed open inch by inch, and framed in the faint light they could see the outline of a crouching man. At length he was in, with the door closed behind him.
As it happened he missed them both as he moved forward. Then he knelt down and they could hear him fumbling on the floor. He was breathing heavily, and muttering imprecations to himself. And at last he struck a match.
His back was towards them, and beyond him they could see a dark cavity in the floor. The board Drummond had trodden on had been removed, and from the hole underneath the man was pulling out some documents. He did not trouble to examine them, but just laid them beside the opening. Then, having satisfied himself that he had the lot, he replaced the board and stood up.
Which so far as he was concerned constituted the end of a perfect day. He felt two vice-like hands grip his neck; was aware dimly through the roaring in his ears that a torch was flashing on his face – and then blackness. And he was quite unconscious when he was deposited in a corner.
“Saves bother,” said Drummond, cramming the papers in his pocket. “He won’t come to for half an hour.”
He was crossing the yard as he spoke and suddenly he paused.
“They’ve stopped talking, Algy,” he whispered, “which is unlike women. We’d better go and see.”
The back door was open, and they crept into the passage. In front of them light was shining out from a half-shut door, and they stopped outside it; stopped to see reflected in a mirror a woman sitting in a chair, whose terrified eyes met theirs from above the gag in her mouth.