by Heron Carvic
“Certainly, Superintendent. And see if you can’t persuade her to stop here. She’s talking about going back to her cottage this afternoon. Apropos, Nigel, if she does insist on going back—and always presuming that my car has been returned by then—will it be all right for me to use it? Or had you any further manœuvres in mind?”
“It’s all right, m’dear. The boy can drive. Decided it’s time he had a car of his own.”
“What a good idea, George. I suggest an armoured car—or a tank.” Her exit was spoilt by her bumping into the sergeant as he entered with the coffee-tray. “Oh, good,” she remarked, seeing the automatic pistol lying on a clean handkerchief beside a plate of biscuits. “You’ve found Miss Seeton’s gun all right. Thank goodness for that. I suppose,” she added wistfully, “it would be against the regulations for you to slip me a copy of your notes later on. It appears to be my only chance of ever finding out what everybody got up to last night.”
The door closed. The sergeant put his burden on the table, picked up the handkerchief and took the pistol to his superior.
“I’ve put the safety on, sir. There won’t be any fingerprints of course, or if there are they’ll be everybody else’s but.”
Sir George sat up. “Safety-catch?”
The cups of coffee Nigel was bringing them wobbled in their saucers. “Do you mean they’ve been running round with that thing and chucking it about cocked?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Colveden, but as fortunately nothing’s happened, it might be better not to mention it. No point in spreading unnecessary alarm and despondency. Now, Sir George. Where were you exactly when the shooting started?”
“Down by the canal.”
“With a gun?”
“Rabbitin’.”
“Ah yes, that would be just beyond Miss Seeton’s boundary. Do you get many rabbits down there, sir?” Sir George reddened. Delphick smiled. “Would I be right in assuming that you have been patrolling—I beg your pardon—rabbiting just these last nights since Miss Seeton’s arrival?”
Nigel leaned forward. “Good Lord, Father, why didn’t you tell me? We could have shared watches.”
Sir George avoided his son’s eye. “Thought you had other things to do.” Nigel subsided.
The superintendent watched them with interest. How alike they were in some ways. But if they must form themselves into a kind of private Home Guard, why not have a discussion and plan their campaign together? Sir George evidently knew what his son had been doing; whatever that might be. No, wait. Did he know? Perhaps suspected was a better word. Nothing had been said openly. Yes. That must be the clue. Nothing said. But why? Major-General Sir George Colveden, Bart, K.C.B., D.S.O., J.P. Yes, J.P., that could be it. Sir George was a local magistrate. In which case, though he might be able to ignore suspicion, he could not overlook actual knowledge. Which meant . . . All that rigmarole of Miss Seeton’s about the club. Yes, Nigel was probably her informant. And all that idiotic covering up must mean that some friend of his was involved and his father mustn’t know. How complicated. Also stupid and tiresome. But it did shed an obscure light on certain aspects and meant, if he was to get anything out of the boy, he’d have to question him on his own. He repressed a sigh. Well, back to his muttons. He addressed Sir George.
“We had, of course, asked the local police to keep an eye open.”
“ ’Course. Good lad, Potter. But only one of him. Can’t be everywhere.”
“Precisely. Which is why I should like to express my most sincere thanks for your sudden interest in rabbits. You said you were down by the canal.”
“Four cars came over the bridge. Went up the lane. Last one stopped. Dam’ chickens started quacking. Moved in closer. Heard a pistol-shot. ’Fore I could get there, chap fell over the wall. Began to run, had a limp.”
“A limp? H’m, he could have twisted his ankle jumping down. Can you describe him?”
“Never saw him. Back view, overcoat and hat. Let him have both barrels. Peppered his bottom—tell from the way he jumped. Youngish from his movements. Reached the car and was off before I could reload. Chased up the lane after him. People comin’ out everywhere, they’d see to Miss Seeton. Thought it important to catch the car, shoot its tyres off. Found my son there: entrained and got crackin’ after ’em.”
• • •
After them. Which way now? Maidstone road through Brettenden, or the Ashford by Ham Street. Hoped the boy knew. Apparently did. Without hesitating, Nigel took the right-hand fork for Ashford. Sir George narrowed his eyes to slits against the rush of air. Wished he’d got goggles. Huh? Oh, good boy. He took the pair of dark glasses Nigel handed to him and put them on. No use sitting down, if they got a view he’d never have time to scramble up again. Silly little car this of Meg’s; stand up or lie down, no proper sitting. He braced himself against the back of the seat and hoped they’d hit no bumps.
This couldn’t go on. Have to put a stop to it. So far as Nigel was concerned anyway. All very well for Meg to say not to interfere, let the boy try his own methods and as it was her car he was using she ought to have most say. He smiled briefly, remembering his wife’s logic. But it wouldn’t do—too serious. Let Angie go to hell her own way. That had been her car, the first of those four tonight. Knew the sound of it. Admit it hadn’t stopped, but she’d been there all right, he’d bet on that. Silly little chit, needed discipline. Why the devil didn’t Sonia . . . ? Something very wrong there, nice woman once. Angie, too, nice little girl. But lately . . . These youngsters, doing everything for kicks. But caring not a damn about the people they kicked.
“Car ahead,” shouted Nigel.
Sir George peered forward. Yes, headlights. Travelling fast. He bent down. “Know the number?” he yelled.
“No. I think I’d know the car.”
Think. Not good enough. Silly ass. Couldn’t go shooting up cars on spec.
“Try to overtake. Get level. Force ’em into the side and stop ’em. Can’t keep apologisin’ for shootin’ up wrong cars.”
He straightened. Light coming from the side at the crossroads ahead. Damn these hedges. Growing brighter. Instinctively his son eased his foot.
“Keep goin’,” howled Sir George. “Ours major road; they’ve got halt sign, have to stop. Keep goin’. You”—he bawled into the night—“you, you goddamned . . .” A car shot from the side road, turning on two wheels into the straight in front of them. “Halt. Halt, you fools. Our road, Major roa—”
His voice was drowned by the wail of a siren and the skidding scream of the M.G.’s tyres as Nigel, between braking down and changing down, fought for control. Sir George dropped his gun which exploded forlornly into the hedge, and clung to seat and windscreen as with a twanging crunch they slithered inexorably into the illuminated sign at the back of the other car. There was a tinkle of glass and POLICE vanished as the light went out. There was a reek of petrol.
Both drivers sprang into the road. Recriminations were stayed by the sound of an engine. A lonely figure on a Velocette puttered into view. Waved on by the police driver, P.C. Potter, the only mobile pursuer left, helmet straight and wireless antenna riding high, passed with a salute and phut-phutted on his way.
“A first-class man, Potter,” commented the superintendent. “He was taking particulars of an accident about a mile from the village, on what I believe is the Brettenden road, when he heard distant shots. Having been warned to expect trouble he radioed a report, alerting patrol cars north and south of Plummergen. On the outskirts of the village he was told that two cars had been seen streaking north. As they hadn’t passed him, it had to be the Ashford road, so he followed up as best he could.”
“No luck?” asked Sir George.
“I’m afraid not. The car you hit sent messages and road blocks were tried, but there was never much hope. There were too many possible routes and too little description available. Incidentally, Sir George, the driver of the car you unfortunately immobilised admits that he was late in sounding his siren, for
getting that the hedgerow would have hidden the flashing of his roof-light. He gives your son full marks for avoiding a serious accident.”
“Generous,” said Sir George.
Delphick smiled. “Give credit where it’s due. The car wasn’t too badly damaged, I take it?”
“No,” agreed Nigel. “It looked a bit sorry for itself. I’m afraid the police car came off worst with a bashed petrol tank. We told them everything we could and then they radioed for a tow for us, because a wing was binding and one headlight was a goner. We dropped the car off outside Crabbe’s garage in the village and the tow brought us on home before going back for the police car.”
Delphick got up. “Well, thank you, Sir George. I think that’s all quite clear and I needn’t keep you any longer. We only need Mr. Colveden’s statement, then that’s all till we can get in touch with Miss Seeton. Just one thing,” he added as Sir George opened the door, “grateful as we are for your help, I’m bound in duty to remind you that the licence for your shotgun is for sporting purposes and not, in this country, for big game however pepperworthy. Whatever one’s personal opinion on the types we are hunting, the law insists they are treated as being on the police reserve and not as vermin.” He grinned. “However, I feel there is little likelihood of a complaint being lodged in this case.”
Sir George gave a short bark of laughter and left the room.
The superintendent did not return to his chair. He moved to the window and stayed there for a time admiring the garden.
Beautifully planned and, considering the difficulties these days, amazingly well kept. Whoever had planted the trees bordering that long vista must have done so with loving care and forethought. Brown, copper, scarlet oak, the crimson and purple of maples, dark gold and primrose yellow hazing to the blues of cedar and eucalyptus, interspersed with every shade of green. And below, the present owners had extended and sharpened this massed colouring in the flower-beds, shrubs and borders that framed the sweep of lawn.
Bob Ranger watched him warily. Not a good sign with The Oracle, this long pause.
Delphick swung back to the room. “Now, Mr. Colveden,”—yes, he was right, the sergeant concluded, he knew that tone; the storm signals were out—“your name I know, your address is here, your occupation is what?”
Nigel stared. “Occupation?” This curt tone was a surprise after the superintendent’s urbane and friendly manner of a few moments ago. “Occupation?” he repeated, “I’m still training.”
“For what?”
“Agriculture. I go back in a fortnight. Father’s done wonders with putting the farm on its feet, but it doesn’t make money and it could be made to. Pay its way properly, I mean. And that’s what I intend to do.”
“Hard work.”
“So’s anything else, but this happens to be work I like.”
“You’re the only child then?”
“No, I have an older sister. She’s married and lives in London.”
“During this training period then you’re not at home a great deal. Is that right?”
“Not this last year, no. Only for holidays.”
“Your arrival on the scene last night was timely.”
“I—I suppose it was.”
“It was. Why?”
“Why? I was on my way home.”
“From where?”
“Brettenden.”
“Where in Brettenden?”
“I’d been out.”
“Obviously. Where?”
“At a place outside Les Marys.”
“Its name?”
“Does that matter?” Nigel was becoming resentful under the terse questioning.
“If it didn’t I shouldn’t ask. You were I should imagine in a club called The Singing Swan.”
“I wasn’t in it.”
“Don’t let’s indulge in sophistry,” rapped Delphick. “Where exactly where you?”
“Under some bushes behind the car park.”
“Alone?”
“Of course I was alone. What do you suppose?”
“I suppose nothing, Mr. Colveden. I’m trying to get facts. You were alone under some bushes behind a car park. Why? Or is it part of your agricultural training?”
“I was trying to keep a watch, if you must know.”
“On whom?”
“I don’t know all their names,” he snapped in exasperation. “They’re a group that use the club a lot. One of them’s called Art and another Micky or Nicky, I’m not sure which. And one of the girls’s called Sue.”
“Allow me to help you.” Delphick went to the table where his sergeant was sitting and picked up a piece of paper. “Susan Frith, Diana Dean, Arthur Grant, Michael Hughes, Percy Davis, James Trugg, John Hart. Were they all there?”
Nigel gaped. “If those are their names, yes. They all came out together.”
“Anybody else?”
“No,” he answered quickly, thinking of Angela—then: “that is, yes, there were two other fellows whom I didn’t know. They were talking to them, but they weren’t with them. I mean they had a car of their own. I got the idea they didn’t belong down here.”
“What gave you this idea?”
“Only that one of them spoke in a terrible sort of Cockney version of American. Also I think something was said about their car—that it would be heading back in the right direction—which gave me the impression they came from a distance.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really, no. The moon wasn’t all that bright and I didn’t notice. One of the girls was wearing a dress, but otherwise they all looked much the same. Tight trousers, loose jackets and mops of hair.”
“Were either of the two you didn’t know wearing a hat and overcoat?”
“No . . . Oh, wait, one of them, I think, was carrying a coat.”
“Did you hear much of what was said?”
“Yes, they were quite near me, I could hear all right. There was some talk about Miss Seeton. It sounded as if they’d been reading about it in the papers and the Cockney American said he’d like to meet a heroine. But the one called Art said they couldn’t, it was too late. So in the end they decided to drive round the other side of the marsh and come back up the lane past Miss Seeton’s cottage. Oh, yes, that’s when somebody said that they’d be on their right road.”
“Who said that?”
Nigel frowned as if trying to remember. This needed care. “I don’t know. That is I’m not sure. One of the girls, I think.”
“What happened then?”
“They drove off.”
“All four cars?”
“Yes . . . no,” he floundered, then recovered, “three cars. The Brettenden lot have only got two cars. The other fellows had a car over near the entrance. I didn’t see it clearly. It was a dark saloon, that’s all I know.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Colveden, not all you know,” said Delphick enigmatically. “Aware, then, that these slightly—irresponsible shall we say?—friends of yours,” he glanced at the list of names he was still holding . . .
“They’re not friends of mine,” retorted Nigel.
“. . . these slightly irresponsible acquaintances were converging on the cottage of an elderly woman living alone, it didn’t occur to you to give her a friendly warning; nor, even more to the point, get in touch with the police. You just,” he dropped the list back on the table, “went home.”
“No . . .” Nigel began to protest.
Delphick over-rode him. “No. You took time off, on the way home, to play dangerous road games with these acquaintances of yours and put one of their cars in a ditch.”
For a moment, Nigel was too startled to speak. How could he know about that? How could he have found it out so quickly anyway? He thought back over what had been said. There was nothing . . . one minute—an accident on the Brettenden Road with Potter taking particulars. That must be it. They’d guessed it was his car. But they couldn’t know for certain. “You couldn’t possibly prove that,” he stated.
“All right, then,” Nigel answered savagely, “I did ditch them. I only wish I’d been able to ditch the other car as well. And it’s not a game, as you seem to think. They tried to put me off the road, but they didn’t expect me to be ready for them. I’ve watched them do it to other people before.”
“I see. So you not only lie about under hedges listening to other people’s conversations, you watch them too—you follow them about.”
He didn’t think he liked this, decided Bob Ranger. Not a bit. What was The Oracle getting at? After all, this youngster had tried. Done pretty well, too, he would have thought. They were always asking the public to have a go. Well, he’d had one. And look where it was getting him. The Oracle was forgetting that the boy was only a boy. Reaching back to that callow horizon of eighteen from the staid maturity of twenty-eight, Bob readily admitted that if he’d copped The Oracle in this mood at that age, he’d have rolled himself up in the carpet by now and had himself carried away.
“Perhaps you’d like to explain why you’ve been watching and following these people.”
It was pathetic, Nigel thought, that he’d actually wanted to meet these Scotland Yard detectives. Wanted to see them. Wanted to talk to them. Wanted to ask their help. Wanted . . . With regard to this particular specimen at all events, he must have been out of his miniature mind. He’d even been eager to give them information. After a session with this type, he wouldn’t give them the time of day.
“Well, Mr. Colveden?”
Why had he been following them? No harm in telling them that, he supposed. “Because they’re—well, I can’t prove it, therefore it’s not a fact, so I don’t see how it can help you. But I know—sorry, wrong again, it’s just another of my ideas—that they’ve started raiding people’s houses. Stealing.”
“Sarcasm and rudeness aren’t exactly helpful.”
“I quite agree,” retorted Nigel, “but I don’t see why it should be one-way traffic.”