Mr. Zero

by Patricia Wentworth

  “This one isn’t, sir, because the door doesn’t fit. There’s a radiator quite near, and the wood’s shrunk, so it won’t stay shut, not all the way down. And Ellen says she heard Mr. Sturrock say, ‘Is that you?’ and she says she heard him name a name.”

  “What name?”

  “And she heard him say, ‘I’ve got to see you,’ and then something about some letters and it’s being worth his while.

  She says she didn’t pay any particular attention because of watching her opportunity to slip out, but she does remember Mr. Sturrock saying, ‘It’ll have to be in the house. I won’t come out to meet you, and you know why. You bring the money, and I’ll have the letters ready for you.’ And then she got her chance because he turned clean away from her, and she ran for it.”

  “You said she heard a name.”

  William lost some of his ruddy colour.

  “Mr. Sturrock was shot, sir. I’d like to be sure about Ellen not coming to any harm.”

  “She can have police protection. She’ll have to speak-she’ll have to say what she knows. Come on, man, give me the name!”

  William gulped.

  “Ellen she heard Mr. Sturrock say, ‘Is that you?’ and she heard him name a name, and she says it was Rooster.”

  Algy sat quite stiff for about a minute. Then he said, “What?” very softly, and William said,

  “Rooster, sir.”

  There was another silence. Then Algy got up. His mind felt stiff and his tongue felt stiff, but he managed to say,

  “Thank you very much, William.”

  He went out of the room and downstairs to the study, where he rang up Railing Place and asked if he could speak to Mr. Montagu Lushington. He thought it would add an ironic touch to the situation if Brewster were presently to enquire whether he could take a message. Instead, Monty’s voice, rather stiff and chilly:

  “What is it?”

  “Algy Somers speaking, sir. I want to come over and see you-at once, if I may.”

  “I hardly think that would be advisable.” The voice had lost its last vestige of human warmth.

  Very difficult to persist, but Algy persisted.

  “Look here, sir, I’ve just heard something which I think is tremendously important. I think you ought to know what it is before I give it to the police. I can’t tell you about it on the telephone. May I come over? It’s-it’s really important.”

  “I think it is inadvisable,” said Montagu Lushington. After a moment’s pause he added, “I think you might find it difficult to get here.” The line went dead.

  Algy hung up at his end, and thought, “That means I’m to be arrested… Monty wants to keep out of the mess… I don’t blame him… It mightn’t mean anything more than my not being allowed to leave Cole Lester…”

  He looked at his watch. Twenty-three minutes to four. It would take him the best part of an hour to reach Railing Place. But something had been said about a short cut. He couldn’t remember who had said it, but something had been said.

  He sought out William, and decided that the short cut ought to be quite easy to follow. Of course, if he dared take his car-but he didn’t dare. They might let him go out on foot, but he felt tolerably certain that any attempt to take the Bentley would land him out of the frying-pan and into the fire.

  He strolled down the drive and into the lane. A very young policeman looked at him uncertainly and let him pass.

  Algy continued to stroll until he was out of sight, when he began to walk as fast as he could. William had given him two short cuts, and the first one took off no more than a quarter of a mile away, for which he felt duly grateful. He climbed a stile, cut across a couple of fields, and got back to the road again by way of a little wood. At about ten minutes past four he was approaching the second short cut, which led past a disused quarry and a number of fields to Railing Place.

  XXXVII

  Mr. Brewster had arrived at this point a few minutes before. He was not nearly so fast a walker as Algy Somers and he had not hurried himself. His thoughts were pleasant and he savoured them with enjoyment. He looked idly at the quarry as he skirted it. It was deep, and must have been long in disuse, for there were saplings growing here and there in the clefts, and a great tangle of blackberry bushes sprawled, climbed, and clung about its sides.

  He went forward with the track and came out upon the road. There was a car coming from the direction of Railing. Dr. Hammond, at the wheel, saw a man emerge from the old cart track and, recognizing Mr. Brewster, trod hard on his brakes and came sliding up beside him. Mr. Brewster turned, and the car stopped.

  Dr. Hammond opened the door, leaned out of it, and said,

  “Hullo! Your name’s Brewster, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Brewster in his primmest manner admitted it.

  Dr. Hammond leaned a little farther out, his prematurely grey hair sticking up in tufts, his eyes more than ever like those of a terrier-a terrier who sees a rat. The bright spark in them alarmed Mr. Brewster. This man was the police surgeon. He slid a nervous hand into his pocket.

  Dr. Hammond said in his sharp, barking voice,

  “Met you at Cole Lester yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “I believe so-if you can call it meeting.”

  “You came in, and I went out. That’s how it was, wasn’t it? But I never forget a face.”

  “A very useful faculty,” said Mr. Brewster with his hand in his pocket.

  “Sometimes.” Jim Hammond grinned. “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Brewster?”

  “No thanks, I have come out for some exercise.”

  “Glutton for exercise, aren’t you? Do you often take it at three in the morning?”

  “I really don’t-” Mr. Brewster’s hand was coming out of his pocket.

  “I saw you getting over the gate at Hangman’s Corner last night. My headlights picked you up. I think the pond up there is about due for a clean out. Hangman’s Pond they call it. Nasty name. Nasty insanitary pond. I’m going to recommend its being cleaned out, Mr. Brewster-”

  The name broke off a little short, because Mr. Brewster’s hand had come up level with Dr. Hammond’s eyes and it held a small automatic pistol.

  “Put your hands up and keep them up!” said Mr. Brewster sharply. “Sit right back-I’m going to shut the door!” He did so, opened the rear door with his left hand, and got in.

  Dr. Hammond felt the muzzle of the pistol cold against the back of his neck and cursed aloud.

  “Be quiet!” said Mr. Brewster. “You can put your hands down now. I want you to start the car and drive down that field track-the one I came out of just now. You’ll have to reverse.”

  With his hands on the wheel and the engine purring, Dr. Hammond said in a tone of concentrated fury,

  “What damn fool game is this?”

  “Drive along that track!” commanded Mr. Brewster.

  Dr. Hammond gritted his teeth and did as he was told. What a fool he had been. The fellow meant to kill him. A double murderer already, he couldn’t afford to let him go. Play for time-that was the only thing. Stave it off and watch of the odd, improbable chance. He thought about Judith his wife and his heart was full of bitter rage.

  “Stop here!” said Mr. Brewster in that new sharp voice.

  They were round a bend and out of sight of the road. The car stopped, and in a flash the pistol which had been pressed against the back of Dr. Hammond’s neck was levelled at his temple. It was still in Mr. Brewster’s hand, but Mr. Brewster was now standing outside the car looking in upon the driver’s seat. Jim Hammond’s moment had come and gone. He ought to have ducked and jumped for it the moment the pistol moved, but the whole thing had been so unbelievably quick. He had had his chance and lost it.

  “Hands up!” said Brewster. “And get out!” He opened the door and stood back enough to be out of reach. “I’m a dead shot, Hammond, so no tricks. I’d rather shoot you than not, because it would be safer for me, but I’ll give you a chance if you do what you’re told. Walk along the track i
n front of me and don’t let your hands down!”

  Jim Hammond thought, “He can’t let me go. Why doesn’t he shoot and get it over?” And the answer, “He’ll drop me at the edge of the quarry-save him the trouble of dragging me there. No, not me, the body-Jim Hammond’s body.”

  The cart track ran within twenty yards of the quarry’s edge. When they reached this point Mr. Brewster gave another order.

  “Turn right! Leave the track and go towards the quarry!”

  It was rough, broken ground. Dr. Hammond had many thoughts. None of them promised very much. He thought of a sudden dodging swerve and a quick tackle. But he had to turn-he had to turn-and the pistol was no more than a yard away. The quarry’s edge was no more than a yard away.

  XXXVIII

  Algy turned off the road into the field track. This looked as if it was the right place, but he would soon know because of the quarry. William had made rather a point of the quarry, but you couldn’t see it from the road. The track was muddy, and a car had been over it recently. How any springs could be expected to stand up to these ruts was beyond him.

  In a minute or two he came in sight of the car. The track swung to the right about a thicket of holly, yew, and leafless oak, and there, nicely tucked away, was the car, a V.8 Ford, and beyond it the quarry. He walked on, and a sound came to him, the sound of Brewster’s voice, and yet not Brewster’s. He heard the voice before he heard any words, and before he saw either of the two men upon the quarry’s edge. The car hid them. As he came on, the sound became words, the most unbelievable words.

  “I’m going to shoot you. Take your hands down and I shoot at once. Keep them up and you have another minute or two to live. You despise me, don’t you? You thought I should cringe and ask you to hold your tongue. You made a great mistake. You made the same mistake that Francis Colesborough made. He thought he could use me, threaten me. Well, he had to pay for that. Sturrock paid the same price. He actually thought he could blackmail me, poor fool. Was that your game too, Dr. Hammond?”

  Algy had reached the car. He heard Dr. Hammond snap out, “No, it wasn’t!” and he heard Brewster laugh, which was a surprising thing in itself because he had never heard Brewster laugh before. The sound was a strange and horrifying portent.

  He looked cautiously round the car and saw Dr. Hammond a yard from the quarry’s lip, facing him with his hands above his head, and close to him Brewster with a pistol in his hand. They were about twenty yards away. If he were to shout, to run, what would happen? He thought that pistol would go off, and he thought Dr. Hammond would be a dead man. Suppose he sounded the horn. Would it make Brewster turn his head for just the fraction of a second which would give the Doctor his chance? He thought the pistol would still go off and put an end to Jim Hammond’s chances once and for all. The man who had shot Sturrock in his own pantry and got away with it must have a quite unshakable nerve.

  As he thought these things, he was moving towards the quarry. That was the only real chance there was-to get nearer, to get near enough to startle the murderer out of his aim by rushing him. Even if he was heard, that might help. Brewster would be disturbed. He wouldn’t know what the sound was-whether he had really heard it. He would be tempted to look round and have to fight his own fear of being taken from behind.

  The rough tussocky grass deadened the sound of his feet. He had got to within half a dozen yards, when Mr. Brewster’s voice changed. He said, “I’m tired of you. Out you go!” and fired.

  Algy’s shout and the shot rang out almost together. Dr. Hammond pitched forward into the quarry, and Mr. Brewster whisked round with the pistol in his hand. Algy ran in, swerved, ducked, and got him round the knees. A shot went wide. They came down together.

  Algy had the surprise of his life. Falling on Cyril Brewster was like falling on an eel-an eel that writhed, contorted itself, twisted, and was out of his grasp. As he rose on his knees, he saw that Brewster was up already, and that the muzzle of the pistol was only a yard away.

  “If you move you’re dead. Hands up!”

  “I’m dead anyhow,” said Algy. He put up his hands. Cyril Brewster nodded.

  “Quite right. But just a word first. I’ve disliked a great many people in my life, but I’ve hated you. Now I’m going to pay off my score.”

  “But, good heavens, why? I mean, why should you hate me? I’ve never-”

  “Haven’t you?” said Mr. Brewster. “Think again! My people had to skimp and save to give me a good education. I took scholarships or they couldn’t have done it. You were probably never more than half way up your form. You didn’t have to work. You had time for games-I hadn’t. And so you despise me.”

  “Brewster, you’re mad.”

  “I assure you that I am not. I am your superior in every possible way, but you despise me because-you have money, and I haven’t-you are an athlete, and I’m not-you have been to a famous school, and I haven’t. Well, now I’ve got you on your knees to me.”

  At this point Algy got to his feet. He was certainly for it. He preferred to be shot standing up.

  Mr. Brewster did not shoot yet. He said sharply,

  “Keep your hands up! I want to tell you what has happened and what is going to happen. You have just shot Dr. Hammond because he had discovered that you were Mr. Zero. You are about to commit suicide. You will be found with the pistol in your hand.”

  “And a full confession in my left boot?” said Algy pleasantly.

  Something was happening. He was facing the quarry and Mr. Brewster had his back to it. Behind that back something was happening. A hand had come over the lip of the quarry, a very scratched, dirty hand. It felt for a hold and found it. The other hand appeared. Dr. Hammond’s head appeared.

  There was blood running down over his forehead. His hair stood bolt upright. He showed all his teeth in a vicious grin.

  Algy said, “I still don’t see why you hate me so much, you know. You’ve simply imagined all that about my despising you. Good lord, man, one doesn’t go about despising people!”

  Dr. Hammond got a knee over the edge, flung himself forward, and plucked Mr. Brewster’s ankles from under him. A bullet went singing past Algy’s cheek as he ran in. There were two of them now to grapple with that twisting eel, and the two of them had their work cut out.

  “The pistol, man-get the pistol!” snapped Jim Hammond, who had been kicked in the face.

  Algy got a whirling arm and a wrenching wrist. The pistol went off again. Cyril Brewster’s teeth met in his thumb and with another twist he was free.

  The police car came round the corner, bumping over the ruts and bumping off them across the rough ground between the track and the quarry. Inspector Boyce jumped out. Police Constable Collins and the tall young man who had looked doubtfully at Algy in the lane jumped out. They saw three men all running in a very surprising order, because Mr. Brewster, the Home Secretary’s secretary, had the lead. He also had a pistol in his hand. Mr. Somers, whom they had come to arrest, was running him close, and hard upon his heels Dr. Hammond, collarless and dishevelled, with a hand to his jaw.

  Mr. Brewster gained a little and, coming round the turn, looked across a quarter circle and saw the second car, the Inspector, and the two policemen. They saw him look down at the pistol in his hand, and they saw him turn and aim at Algy Somers. They heard the crack of the shot.

  Perhaps Mr. Brewster had been boasting when he claimed to be a dead shot, perhaps his wrenched wrist betrayed him. He missed handsomely and, with Algy closing in, turned the pistol on himself and did not miss. From the lip of the quarry he stepped back and went crashing down to the rock and the brambles below.

  XXXIX

  If I hadn’t the jaw-bone of an ox, he’d have broken it,” said Dr. Hammond wrathfully. “Boyce, you’re blithering. Mr. Somers hasn’t murdered anybody. He’s just escaped being murdered by the skin of his teeth, and so have I. Your Mr. Zero, the man who murdered Sir Francis Colesborough and Sturrock and did his damnedest to shoot Mr. Somers and myself,
is at the bottom of the quarry, and you’d better send your men down to make sure he’s dead. I’d send two of them if I were you, because if he isn’t dead he’ll be about as safe as a wounded tiger. I’m not going down and that I tell you flat. They can bring him up here to me. I’ve had some and I’m not going down again.” He clutched rather suddenly at Algy and lowered himself on to the grass.

  “You’re not hurt, sir?” Boyce’s tone was full of concern.

  “Shook up,” said Dr. Hammond rather faintly. He shut his eyes and leaned forward with his head on his knees.

  “Perhaps you’ll tell us what’s been happening, Mr. Somers,” said the Inspector. “We went after you to Cole Lester, and when we found you weren’t there, well, it was natural for us to draw certain conclusions.”

  “I suppose it was,” said Algy. “But I was only walking over to Railing Place. I wanted to see Mr. Lushington.”

  “That’s what William told us. We had just got to the turn where the track comes in, when we heard the shooting and got a move on. Lucky we arrived when we did.”

  “Yes. He knew the game was up as soon as he saw you. As long as it was only the Doctor and me, he’d have gone on fighting. He meant it to look as if I’d shot Dr. Hammond and then committed suicide.”

  Jim Hammond lifted his head for a moment and nodded.

  “He’d got it all planned,” he said. “I’m going to have a lump on my jaw like a turkey’s egg.”

  “Will you tell us what happened, Mr. Somers?” said the Inspector.

  Algy was tying a handkerchief round his thumb.

  “William told me about the short cuts. He told me something else too. His girl heard Sturrock ring Brewster up on Sunday afternoon-she’s the housemaid at the Hand and Flower. That is what I was going to see Mr. Lushington about. I thought he ought to know before anyone else did.”

  “I don’t know that you were right about that, sir.”

  Algy lifted a hand and let it fall again.