by Molly Thynne
He handed a box of cigarettes to Fayre, who thanked him and took one.
“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable,” went on the doctor. “But I’ve got a pack of people waiting in the surgery and I sha’n’t get rid of them for another hour, at least.”
Fayre reached for a spill from a vase on the mantelpiece. As he did so his eye lighted on the photograph.
“That’s an interesting head,” he remarked.
“He was an interesting chap. He’d have gone a long way if he’d been allowed. One of the best fellows I ever knew.”
“He looks it,” said Fayre quietly, but with such obvious sincerity that Gregg was moved to enlarge on the subject.
“Got into the hands of a woman and she killed him as surely as if she’d murdered him. He died of alcoholic poisoning, the worst case I’ve ever seen. Trying to forget, he called it.”
Gregg’s voice was rough with emotion and, for the first time, Fayre felt really drawn towards him.
“What happened to the woman?” he asked carelessly.
Gregg turned away to light his cigarette. Fayre, watching him closely, noticed that his hand was steady as a rock, but his voice was not quite so certain as he answered.
“I lost sight of her,” he said; “but, judging from the pace she was going, she’s probably got her deserts by now.”
He accompanied his guest to the door and stood chatting with him for a moment. He had regained his usual bluff manner; but Fayre, for all his quiet cordiality, was sick at heart. For the photograph was that of Baxter, and Gregg had once more flatly denied all knowledge of the identity of Mrs. Draycott.
CHAPTER XII
Fayre did not turn back to Staveley when he left Gregg’s house, but rode straight on to Whitbury and lunched at the hotel there.
For one thing he did not feel equal just at that moment to facing any of the members of the Staveley party and, for another, the heading on the bill in Gregg’s garage had been that of the Station Garage at Whitbury and he had a weakness for tackling nasty jobs at once and getting them over as quickly as possible. He did not conceal from himself that he dreaded the result of this next step.
He did not linger over his solitary meal, and by two o’clock he had already broached the subject of the car to the owner of the garage, a good-natured, chatty little man who seemed anxious to give him any information within his power. He adopted much the same story that he had used at Carlisle, only that, in this case, taking into account the manner in which news flies in a small town, he did not rely on the carter, but explained that he was acting for a friend in London whose motorcycle had been run down by a car on the night of the twenty-third, and who had narrowly escaped serious injury. The manager led him into the hutch that served him for an office and produced a ledger.
“A big, closed car, make unknown,” he muttered. “London number with a seven in it.”
He ran his finger down the page.
“Nothing of the sort in that night. It was the day of the murder, wasn’t it? Blowing big guns and bitterly cold and there weren’t many people out. We had nothing in at all, from lunch-time onwards, and I’m not surprised.”
“You didn’t let out any car answering to that description?”
“It’s not much of description, if you’ll excuse me!” said the man with a friendly grin. “You can’t say you’ve given us much to go by! I’ve only two cars for hire and naturally neither of them has got a London number. One’s too small for you and the other’s well known round here.”
He referred to his book again.
“Dr. Gregg had it that night. His own car was laid up. He took it out about five-thirty.”
“Is it in now?” asked Fayre. “I know the doctor and I certainly don’t suspect him of careless driving, but I promised my friend I’d have a thorough look round.”
“Righto, I’ll show it to you. If it was anybody but the doctor I might suspect a faked number. It’s been done often enough. Except for the number, the car answers to your description, such as it is. So do half the other cars in this county, for the matter of that.”
He was closing the book when his eye fell on another entry and he gave a sudden exclamation.
“Wait a minute! There was a car went out on the evening of the twenty-third, at about six o’clock. I’ve a kind of feeling it was a London car, too. Owner’s name, Page. The number ought to have been entered, but my wife evidently forgot to do it. She’s usually in charge of the desk here, and you know what women are!”
“Then six o’clock was the last you saw of it?”
“Yes. It didn’t come back.”
He was looking through the back pages of the book.
“Here it is. It came in on March 14th, and was fetched out on March 23rd. It’s a pity we haven’t got the number. I’ll see if my wife remembers anything about it and I can show you the other car on the way.”
He led the way to a somewhat weather-beaten, but still presentable, Daimler and Fayre gave the mudguards a keen, but hasty, scrutiny.
“You haven’t had this repaired at all lately, I suppose?” he asked. “My friend’s pretty certain that he injured the paint on the mud-guard.”
“Haven’t had this touched for over a year. Besides, it was all right when the doctor brought it back. I always look over them pretty carefully, even when it’s a customer I know who’s had them out. You never know what damage you’ll find. No, I’ll vouch for it that car hasn’t been messed up in any way since I’ve had it.”
He went off to find his wife, leaving Fayre battling with mingled feelings of relief and disappointment. Search as he might, he could find no trace of red paint on any of the mud-guards and they were quite intact. He seemed to have run into a blind alley, after all, unless the doctor were even cleverer than he had supposed. It was still within the bounds of possibility that he had changed cars again after leaving the garage in the hireling. If so, where? Fayre made up his mind to find that second car, if there was one, even if he had to search every garage in the county.
His thoughts were broken into by the arrival of the manager and his wife.
“It’s no good, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The wife, here, says she can’t recall the number, even if she ever noted it, which is doubtful, seeing that she forgot to put it down. She says she does remember the owner, though, if that’s any use to you.”
Fayre started.
“You remember the man who brought it in? That’s capital!”
She shook her head.
“Not the man who brought it in,” she said. “That’s too long ago, but I do remember the man who took it out that night. You see, what with it being the night of the murder and such awful weather, added to the fact that my sister and her husband came over from Carlisle for the night, that evening seems to stand out more clearly than most. Then, there were very few people in and out that day, so that one noticed a stranger. Not that I really saw him, though, if you understand me.”
Fayre didn’t, but he showed exemplary patience and left her to tell her story in her own way.
“I can remember it as if it was yesterday,” she went on. “My sister was sitting at the desk with me, just chatting, and we watched him come in. As I say, he was the only one we’d had that afternoon and we were naturally interested and passed one or two remarks about him. He spoke about the car and then came over to the desk to pay his bill. What struck me was that he never took off his goggles. You know the way most people push them up on their foreheads, even if they don’t take them off, but he didn’t even take the trouble to do that. They were those big ones with the leather nose-flap and they pretty well covered his whole face. That’s why I said I’d never seen him, really. My sister joked about it afterwards.”
“What sort of man was he?” asked Fayre. “Well-to-do, I should say. Tall and thin, and he had a big motoring coat and a cap with a peak. I remember that, because it and the goggles hid nearly the whole of his face.”
“You didn’t notice his voice, I suppose?”
“No. I don’t think he spoke except just to ask for the bill. He may not have done that. A lot of people just stand and wait till I give it to them. He must have given his name when he brought the car in because it’s down in the book there. Page, wasn’t it?” Her husband nodded.
“Was there nothing else you noticed about him? I’m in luck’s way to have hit off such an observant person as yourself,” said Fayre with a smile.
“I was always one to take an interest in things and, what with so many coming in and out here, you find yourself wondering about them. I do remember one thing, now you mention it: his hands. He took off his gloves to pay the bill, and I noticed how thin they were and yet how strong-looking. I was in the manicure before I married and I suppose that’s why I’m such a one to notice hands. My husband’s always laughing at me about it. I said something about it at supper that night and I remember them all laughing.”
“Quite true,” put in her husband. “I remember it now. It’s always been a joke of ours, but we chaffed her a lot that night about one thing and another and that was one of them. There was another joke Lotty had that night, too, about a bottle. Do you remember?”
“Rather! That was that particular man, too. When he turned away from the desk his coat swung against the corner and something heavy came an awful thump up against the wood. Lotty said: ‘Well, he’s got his little drop of comfort with him, anyway,’ meaning it sounded like a bottle. That was what she was laughing over at supper. She was always one for a joke and she’ll make one over anything.”
“Well, thanks to you, I’ve got some idea what the chap was like and he may be the one my friend’s after. Page by name, tall and thin, with a bottle in his pocket! And if my friend can find him he may get the money for his broken lamp out of him! It doesn’t sound a hopeful prospect, does it! I’m deeply grateful to you, all the same. I wish everybody had a memory like yours!”
“I’m sorry about that number,” she said regretfully. “It isn’t often I forget, but I must have been taken up with my sister.”
Fayre rode back to Staveley very much divided in his mind between the mysterious Mr. Page and Gregg. Of the two, he was inclined to suspect the doctor, who seemed to be getting more and more involved in the whole business and for whose brains he had already conceived a wholesome respect. The other man was probably nothing but a harmless motorist who wanted his car badly enough to brave the weather and fetch it.
He found Cynthia writing letters in the drawing-room and gave her a short account of his visit to the garage.
She fastened onto the Page episode with an enthusiasm Fayre found pathetic. He told her frankly that he considered it of minor importance.
“You must remember that there may have been any number of people fetching their cars from garages just about that time. It isn’t as if we’d been able to trace the number of the car. There is nothing except its size that answers to the carter’s description.”
“Still, that’s about all we’ve got to go on anyway, Uncle Fayre, and the time does fit in. He could have gone round by Miss Allen’s and reached the farm just about the time the tramp saw him. I know, because I’ve done it in a car myself.”
“And the bottle in his pocket was a revolver, I suppose?” laughed Fayre, knowing the disappointment that lay in store for her if the whole thing petered out and determined not to encourage her in a false hope.
“Why not?” she said seriously. “And why did he keep his goggles down all the time? That woman was right: it is unusual.”
“All right, my dear, we’ll add him to our list of suspects; but I don’t quite see what we’re going to do about it.”
“I do,” was Cynthia’s decisive answer. “I’m going to put the garages at Carlisle through a small sieve. I’ll bet he did stay there, if he was going south, and, if he did, he must have garaged the car.”
“But I told you I’d drawn Carlisle the other day. It was hopeless.”
“What did you do?” she burst out scornfully. “You went to three or four of the big, obvious places. That’s not where I’d park my car if I were trying to get away on the quiet. You wait, Uncle Fayre. If he went there at all, I’ll run him to earth, you’ll see!”
“And what do you propose to do? You can’t go sleuthing about Carlisle all by yourself. They must know you pretty well there and we don’t want this affair talked about.”
“I’m not going by myself. I’m going with Tubby Campbell.”
“Tubby Campbell?” murmured Fayre helplessly.
“If you weren’t just a measly bicyclist you’d know his name at Brooklands,” she scoffed. “He married the clergyman’s daughter at Galston and they’ve settled at Carlisle. I’ve always promised I’d stay with them. I’ll ring them up and go over for a few days and see what Tubby can do. If anybody will know how to set about it, he will. It’s a gorgeous idea, Uncle Fayre; you must admit it!”
“You’ll probably do the thing much more efficiently than I did, I admit that. But don’t let your enthusiasm run away with you. Don’t forget that it is probably a very forlorn hope!”
“If you think that, really, it means that you’ve got something else up your sleeve,” was Cynthia’s shrewd and unexpected comment. “What is it? Is it Dr. Gregg?”
Fayre was taken unawares.
“I have got an idea,” he said slowly. “But it’s so vague at present that I tell you frankly I’m going to keep it to myself. If it comes to anything, you shall be the first to know, but, so far, it’s only fair to say that I’ve come up against a blank wall. I think your field of investigation is likely to prove quite as fruitful as mine.”
For a moment she looked disappointed. Then:
“All right,” she agreed. “You get to work at your end and I’ll see what I can do at mine. If you only knew the relief it is to do something instead of sitting watching other people!”
The cry came so straight from her heart that Fayre was glad he had not succeeded better in his efforts to discourage her. At least the search would keep her employed during a very anxious period and he felt, too, that he could tackle Sybil and her questions better without Cynthia. He had been dreading the time when the two would get their heads together over Dr. Gregg and begin putting two and two together in earnest. Cynthia, he knew, already suspected that there was something behind his own visit to Carlisle. He would be able to pursue his investigations more freely in her absence.
CHAPTER XIII
Having at last found something definite to do Cynthia proved herself a very able organizer. By lunch-time the next day she had extracted an invitation from the Campbells, squared Lady Staveley and packed her trunk. Directly the meal was over she started for Carlisle, brimming with enthusiasm for the task she had set herself.
Her departure was followed almost immediately by the arrival of Gregg on his daily visit to Lady Kean. He had barely turned the first bend on the wide oak staircase before Fayre was on his bicycle, riding his hardest in the direction of Gregg’s house.
His disappointment at finding the doctor out was convincing enough to impress the maid, who showed him into the little surgery, assuring him that her master was certain to be in soon, as he was always at home to patients from four to six in the afternoon. Fayre, after a moment of apparent hesitation, decided to await his return and settled down to the inspection of the very stale literature provided by Gregg for the use of his patients. The maid, recognizing him as the gentleman who had called on a previous occasion, departed with a clear conscience to the back regions, leaving him to his own devices. He waited till she was out of sight and then, with a rather guilty smile at the thought of Lord Staveley’s injunctions of the day before, cautiously opened the door leading into the study. A quick glance through the window assured him that the small front garden was deserted and that he could carry out his plans unobserved. The farther door, which led into the front hall, was shut and he opened it carefully, leaving it ajar, that he might be sure of hearing the footsteps of the maid should she r
eturn. Then he sat down at the writing-table and went quickly, but efficiently, through the mass of papers with which it was littered. As he expected, none of them had any bearing on the subject he had in mind. Neither was there anything of interest to be found in the top drawer, which he found unlocked.
The desk was of a standard make and closely resembled one he had used in his office in India, the key of which he still carried on a ring in his pocket. He tried this key and, to his relief, it fitted the two rows of drawers on each side of the knee-hole. The first two drawers proved disappointing, but at the back of the third he found a packet of letters, tied together and docketed: “Baxter.” He glanced hastily out of the window once more, but there was no sign of Gregg and, slipping out the first envelope in the pile, he opened it.
It contained a letter from Baxter to Gregg and, as Fayre read it, he felt himself grow hot with shame at the part he was playing. If it had not been for Leslie’s danger and the unworthy part he believed Gregg to be playing in this game of life and death, he would have bundled the letters back into the drawer and locked it, for the letter was that of a broken man to a friend from whom he had no reservations. It seemed to have been written more in grief than in anger and in it Baxter said that he had traced his wife to Brighton, where she had been staying openly with Captain Draycott and that he proposed to do his utmost to persuade her to return to him. It was evidently in answer to a letter from Gregg, urging him to take action. This, he declared, he did not intend to do unless he were persuaded that the step would insure his wife’s happiness and then only on the undertaking from Draycott that, in the event of a divorce, he would marry her. It was an honest, straightforward letter, pathetic in its complete selflessness. On the envelope Gregg had scribbled a pencilled note:
“L. has seen her in Paris several times with a man whose name he was unable to discover. Comparing dates I have ascertained that Draycott was in Egypt at the time. L., knowing I was interested, took the trouble to trace them to their hotel, but is convinced that they were staying there under an assumed name. Useful evidence, if she interferes with the boy and I shall not hesitate to use it. Draycott will not stand for that sort of thing!”