‘It’s a changing world,’ Mitchell pointed out, ‘and mass production of criminals has got to be met by mass production of police from ’Varsities. As for brains, well, I’m not saying I’ve noticed Owen has any more than the usual ration, and it’s just as well. Too many brains is a fatal thing for any man in any line of life, though, the Lord be praised, few suffer from it. But Owen has got a kind of natural-born knack of being on the spot when he’s wanted, and a detective on the spot is worth two–’
He paused, for they could both hear a car approaching at what was evidently a very high rate of speed. A moment later it rocketed round the bend in the roadway they themselves had just passed. It must have been going sixty or seventy miles an hour. Had Constable Jacks not adopted his precaution of backing their car a yard or two off the roadway up this carriage drive, a collision could hardly have been averted. For an instant as it flew by it showed clear in the strong light of their headlamps. They had a momentary vision of a woman at the steering-wheel, her face half hidden by one of the flat, fashionable hats of the day, worn tilted so much to one side that to the uninstructed male eye it seemed such hats could only stick on by the aid of a miracle – or of glue – and by the high fox-fur collar of her coat.
It was the merest glimpse they had as the car shot by and Jacks stopped his work to stand up and shake a disapproving head at it.
‘Asking for trouble,’ he said, ‘going round a corner like that at such a speed – want talking to.’
‘Girl driving,’ remarked Ferris, rather as if that explained all.
‘Hope her life’s insured,’ commented Jacks. ‘She was doing all of sixty m.p.h. – those little Bayard Sevens can travel all right.’
‘Alone, wasn’t she?’ asked Mitchell. ‘If she breaks her neck, as she probably will, she’ll break it alone, that’s one thing. I’m glad I wasn’t in that car though – what’s that?’
They had all heard the same sound, dull, strange, and ominous, distinct in the evening quiet, where the echo of the roaring progress of the little Bayard Seven seemed still to be hanging in the air, and to it they all gave instinctively the same interpretation. Then, as they looked, they saw a sudden crimson glow develop, shining red through the trees that lined the road, and across the hedges of the fields. None of them said a word. Jacks left his tools lying there, scattered by the roadside, and leaped into the driver’s seat. Mitchell, quick enough at need, was already in his place, already had in his hands the chemical fire extinguisher. Ferris, a trifle less quick and active, tumbled after him. Jacks shot the car into the road, sent it flying along to where the crimson glow shone before them.
They came thundering at speed to where the road crossed by a bridge, a deep railway cutting. Their headlights showed them, half-way across, the railing that ran along the side of the bridge smashed clean away. Someone at a distance was running and shouting. Jacks brought the car to a standstill with a fierce grinding of tyres and brakes. Mitchell leaped out and was through the broken railing in a flash and down the steep side of the cutting to where across the rails a shapeless heap of wreckage smoked and burned. Somehow he arrived on his feet, still carrying the chemical extinguisher unharmed in his hands. Ferris, less fortunate, arrived on his back, head foremost. Jacks came last, more cautiously. He had taken time to bring the car close to the gap in the railing so that the light from its headlamps might illumine the scene. The fire was blazing furiously, but it had not yet obtained complete control, for all this had happened in two or three minutes and the chemical extinguisher was efficient. The flames spluttered, died down, smouldered a little. Presently, remained only a few tiny tongues of fire the three men beat out without difficulty. The car, or rather what was left of it, was lying on its side. Within, they could see a dark, motionless, huddled form that told them tragedy was there.
‘Lend a hand here,’ Mitchell grunted to the others, and added, for the wrecked car was lying right across the lines, ‘Hope a train doesn’t come along.’
The door of the car had jammed, but they managed to force it open. With some difficulty, and at the cost of a badly bruised hand for Ferris, they were able to disentangle a body from the wreckage. They laid the broken form on the grass at the foot of the steep embankment.
‘Past help,’ Ferris said, ‘must have been killed on the spot.’
Mitchell had taken an electric torch from his pocket. With it in his hand he knelt down by the body.
‘A woman,’ he said. ‘Young, too, poor thing.’ And then the next moment: ‘Good God,’ he said below his breath. ‘Ferris, Ferris.’
Ferris turned abruptly, startled.
‘Sir!’ he said.
‘She was alive,’ Mitchell half whispered, moved beyond his wont. ‘I’ll swear she was... just for a moment.... I saw her look at me... as if she wanted... something she wanted to say... then she was gone.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ Ferris asked, more than a little incredulously. ‘After a fall like that... it must have killed her on the spot... going over that embankment at sixty miles an hour... and if it didn’t, then the fire would have, for it was all round her.’
‘I saw her look at me,’ Mitchell repeated, his voice not quite steady now, for though his profession had habituated him to scenes of terror and of grief, yet something in that momentary dying look had touched him to the quick, had seemed to convey to him some message he was but half conscious of. ‘Young, too,’ he said again.
‘What I can’t make out,’ observed Jacks, ‘is how it happened – a perfectly good straight road, night quite clear, no sign of any obstruction anywhere. Of course the steering might have gone wrong.’
‘Bear looking into,’ agreed Mitchell.
A voice from above asked what had happened, and then a man came scrambling down the steep embankment side. Mitchell became the brisk executive. The newcomer described himself as the landlord of a small public house, the George and Dragon, on the road just the other side of the bridge. His establishment did not boast a phone, but there was a call box close by. Mitchell sent Jacks to report to headquarters, to ask for more help, to summon the nearest doctor, to warn the railway people that the line was blocked, for the debris of the car, and part of the railing from the bridge it had carried down with it, lay right across the line. The landlord of the George and Dragon, who gave his name as Ashton, was set to work, too, while Mitchell and Ferris made as careful an examination as was possible of the half-burnt wreckage. But it was Ashton who called their attention to the smashed fragments of a bottle in what once had been the dicky of the car.
‘Whisky, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘There’s been whisky there all right – what about that?’
‘Bear looking into,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘whisky explains a lot, and maybe it explains this, too – and maybe it don’t.’
‘There’s the poor creature’s hat,’ Ferris remarked, pointing to it, where it lay, oddly uninjured, flaunting as it were its gay and fashionable self against the background of dark tragedy.
Somehow or another it had rolled to one side and had escaped both the fire and the effects of the fall.
They found a handbag, too. It was badly burned, but within were two different sets of visiting cards, comparatively slightly damaged. One set bore the name of Mrs John Pentland Curtis and an address in Chelsea, the other was inscribed, ‘Miss Jo Frankland’, with the same address, and at the bottom the legend, Daily Announcer.
‘One of the Announcer staff perhaps,’ Mitchell commented. ‘Looks as if Curtis were her married name and Jo Frankland her own name she used in journalism still. Curtis – John Pentland Curtis,’ he repeated thoughtfully, ‘seem to know the name somehow.’
‘Amateur middle heavyweight champion two years ago,’ said Ferris, who was something of a boxer himself. ‘Beat Porter of the City force in the final, fined five pounds last year for being drunk and assaulting one of our men, but apologized handsome after, and gave another tenner to our man, so he didn’t do so bad, and another tenner to the Orphanage.’<
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‘Wonder if it’s the same man,’ mused Mitchell.
They examined again the side of the embankment where the car had somersaulted down the steep incline, tearing earth and bushes with it, and they examined also the surface of the road. But the weather had been dry, the road surface was newly laid and in good condition; they found nothing to help them. Apparently the car had shot right across, across the pathway, through the railing, down the side of the cutting, and what had caused such a mishap on a perfectly good straight stretch of road there seemed nothing to show.
By now help was beginning to arrive. A breakdown gang had appeared to clear the line under the superintendence of Ferris. Photographers and other experts were on the scene. Mitchell was kept busy directing the operations, but when a local doctor came at last – there had been difficulty in finding one – he left his other activities to take the newcomer aside for a moment and whisper earnestly in his ear.
That the unfortunate victim of the accident was past all human aid was plain enough. Nevertheless the doctor carried out a very careful examination, and when he finished and came back to Mitchell there was a look of strange horror in his eyes.
‘There are injuries enough from the fall to cause death,’ he said; ‘the spine is badly injured for one thing. There’s the fire as well, the lower limbs are terribly burnt.’
‘The actual cause of death,’ Mitchell asked, ‘can you say that?’
‘There is a bullet wound in the body,’ the doctor answered. ‘She had been shot before the accident happened.’
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 1933 E.R. Punshon
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1933 by Ernest Benn
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 910570 31 9
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
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