Jack moved forward, feeling the fallen sacks with his hands. With eyes closed he listened intently, trying to block out the sounds that Bill was making. There seemed to be a scrabbling noise from above him. It was like a giant rat . . . There it was again!
A gust of wind through the open doors blew a tunnel in the murk, showing him Frederick Hunt, climbing over the mountain of sacks, spreadeagled against them like a black spider. A hundredweight of coffee detached itself and bumped down. Hunt turned momentarily and Jack caught sight of the streak of white that was his face.
He cautiously climbed onto the sacks, then the wind dropped and he was in the grey dark. He closed his eyes to keep out the grit, and climbed by touch alone. The scrabbling grew more intense and a sack, kicked by Hunt, lumped past, striking his right shoulder.
Frozen by a jag of pain, he clung on, before grimly starting to climb again. He came out of the dust and saw Hunt clearly a few yards above him. He tried to increase his speed, and fell back as the sacks gave way.
Hunt was kicking out on purpose now, trying to get the sacks to fall. Jack flattened himself, inching forward, feeling as if he was living a nightmare where no matter how hard he ran, the ground rose up and clung to his feet and legs. More sacks slid past him. If one of those hit him squarely . . .
There was a yell of triumph above him. Hunt reached the top, crawling on his knees. Jack vainly tried to grab the flailing ankle, but Hunt launched himself down the other side.
Jack staggered the last few feet to the top and flung himself down the sacks in a wild slide. Shaken, he picked himself up at the bottom, and made a lunge for Hunt, blinded once more by the dust. His fingers closed on Hunt’s coat, but he shook himself free with a yelp.
All Jack could see were undefined shapes, but the sound of running footsteps was clear enough. Then came a banging, as if someone were hammering wood, followed by a scuffle, a cry, and a series of choking sobs.
Hands outstretched, he walked forward towards the sobs, saw a blur in the dust and pounced.
‘Oy!’ the shape said. ‘Let go.’
‘Merry?’ Jack blinked in the gloom. ‘Merry, is that you?’
‘Absolutely it’s me. Let go, will you? I’m kneeling on Hunt. I caught him at the doors. He’s staying exactly where he is.’
A voice sounded from outside the doors. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’
‘Open the doors!’ shouted Smith. ‘This is Captain Smith!’
There was a creaking noise and light spilled into the dust, revealing the bewildered watchman outside and a black, hunched, sobbing form at their feet.
The watchman coughed as a cloud of dust billowed out into the sunlight. As he saw the destruction in the warehouse, his jaw fell open. ‘Blimey! What in Gawd’s name’s happened? We won’t have this mess cleared up in a month of Sundays and extra for overtime. Who’s the daft sod who did it?’
Jack reached down and pulled Hunt to his feet. The watchman gazed at the battered, grimy figure without a flicker of recognition. ‘Who the ’ell is it?’
Jack held the limp man. ‘Mr Hunt.’
‘Blow me tight!’ The watchman stepped back, looked round the warehouse, and slowly shook his head. ‘What did he think he was playing at?’
‘The police are after him. He was trying to escape through these doors.’
The watchman spat in delight. ‘Cor! The boss, you mean? He should’ve known the river doors are never open on a Monday. No deliveries, see? He should’ve known that. He never did come round here.’
Bill and three other policemen came round the corner, clambering over sacks. ‘You’ve got him, Jack! Good work.’
‘It was down to Merry here, and some very handy closed doors.’
Hunt stirred under Jack’s grip. ‘What . . . What . . . What is the meaning of this?’ he gasped, in a thin caricature of his earlier manner.
Bill smiled with grim pleasure. ‘It means, Mr Hunt, that I am arresting you as an accomplice to murder.’
‘Murder!’ whimpered Hunt. ‘You can’t arrest me for murder. Not murder.’ His breathing was ragged. ‘You think I murdered my father, don’t you? I didn’t, I tell you, I didn’t.’
‘Who’s talking about your father?’ asked Jack, quietly. ‘We never said a word about your father. I want to nail you for what happened to Sheila Mandeville.’
SIXTEEN
It was the early evening when Jack rang the bell of 14, Neville Square. The door was opened by a smiling Pat Tyrell.
‘Come in. I’ve got a surprise for you.’ But Jack had already seen the man standing behind Pat.
‘Jaggard! My word, it’s good to see you once more.’
Jaggard shook Jack’s hand with a shy smile. ‘Pat phoned and said it was safe to come back. I’ve been holed up at a friend’s place,’ he added, leading the way into the morning room. ‘I say, he won’t get into trouble for that, will he?’
Jack paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Why don’t we draw a discreet veil over that? Rackham’s conscience isn’t allowed to be as elastic as mine. Where is he, by the way?’
‘In Uncle Frederick’s study,’ said Pat, ‘gathering up papers.’ She hesitated then spoke in a rush. ‘Is it really true Uncle Frederick’s guilty of murder? I can’t work out what happened.’
‘I think I’d better explain everything,’ said Jack. He opened the door. ‘Merry! I hoped you’d be here.’
‘I came with Rackham,’ said Smith. ‘Legally speaking, I seem to be in charge of the whole shooting match, so I have to be here.’
‘You looked just like H.R.H. when you said that,’ said Pat.
‘As I’ve said before, there are worse people to take after,’ said Smith.
Bill came into the room. ‘I thought I heard you arrive. I’ve just about finished in the study.’
Pat went to the sideboard and poured them all drinks.
‘Thanks,’ said Bill, taking his whisky. ‘I feel I’ve earned this. Now we’ve got Frederick Hunt tucked up safe and sound, it’s all over bar the shouting. By the way, Jack, there was a marconigram from Robert Waldron waiting for me at the Yard. You’d better read it.’
Jack glanced at the yellow form. ‘That’s much as we thought, isn’t it?’
‘Major Haldean – Jack,’ said Pat Tyrell. ‘Is Uncle Frederick guilty of murder?’
Jack nodded. ‘Technically, yes. He certainly knew all about it and kept quiet. The actual murderer was greedy, just like Frederick Hunt, but he was also cool headed, resourceful, and utterly self-centred.’
‘Laurence Tyrell,’ said Jaggard grimly.
‘Laurence Tyrell?’ repeated Meredith. ‘He can’t have killed Valdez or Helston, Jack. He was in Brazil. His reports from the plantation . . .’
‘Were sent to Frederick Hunt. They might be dated December or January, but we only have Hunt’s word for it that’s when they were received.’
‘I see . . .’ Meredith stopped. ‘No, I don’t. Did Tyrell come over from Brazil to kill Valdez, then?’
‘I think,’ said Jack, ‘I’d better go right back to the beginning.’ He picked up a box of matches and lit his cigarette.
‘The beginning, in this case, goes back a long way. In 1917, Laurence Tyrell had run through all his money and was on the brink of being cashiered. In the middle of Passchendaele, with men dropping like flies around him, the thought of dying must have seemed fairly attractive. Especially if he didn’t die at all . . . Now, I can’t prove this, but I believe he deliberately marked down John Marsden of the Sixteenth Battalion, Royal Western Australian Regiment, as a useful person to be. He was certainly a very convenient person to be, as he had no family to identify him.’
‘Larry killed the real John Marsden, you mean?’ asked Pat, with a quaver in her voice.
Jack shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth, I think so, but the Germans might have done it for him. In any event, John Marsden, complete with a total loss of memory and a clean sheet, was shipped off to Australia.’
‘W
hat if he met someone who’d known the real Marsden?’ asked Meredith.
‘What if he had?’ said Jack. ‘Tyrell had been told by the doctors who’d treated him that his name was Marsden. It wasn’t his fault if they’d got it wrong. He told us something of his life in Australia, and I’m inclined to believe most of his story was true. A lie’s much more convincing if it’s seasoned with truth. I did wonder, though, why, come last April or thereabouts, he left for Brazil. Obviously he wasn’t trying to chase his forgotten past and, granted the sort of man he was, I thought there might be a more sinister reason.’ He looked at Bill. ‘You agreed, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ said Bill. ‘And, although we can’t prove anything – as yet, anyway – I honestly think you’ve cracked it, Jack.’
‘I looked in at the British Museum,’ said Jack, ‘and did some digging in the Australian Press. Tyrell mentioned a town called Mullgarrie in the Coolgardie Goldfields. In March The Coolgardie Nugget reported that three miners, who were rumoured to have made a strike, had been shot and killed at their camp at White Flag, which is about fifty miles or so from Mullgarrie. No gold was found at the camp and it’s obvious they’d been killed for their finds. Two weeks later the Nugget reported that a shotgun belonging to one of the dead miners was sold in Mullgarrie. The police had a description of the man who sold it. He was about six foot tall, fair haired, bearded, and spoke with an English accent. He was never caught.’
Pat reached out for Jaggard’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘Is that Larry?’ she asked.
‘I think so,’ said Bill. ‘When I heard Jack’s theory, I cabled the Western Australia Police to see if there’s more evidence. It fits. Triple murder is as good a reason as any for Tyrell to up and skip to Brazil. There’s no British law and it’s over ten thousand miles from Western Australia.’
‘Why did he turn up at the Hunt plantation?’ demanded Meredith.
‘The irony of it?’ suggested Jack. ‘Tyrell had a sense of humour and maybe he really did pick up a bottle of Royale Coffee. It wouldn’t take him long to find out that Ariel Valdez was a crook. The fraud, orchestrated by Frederick Hunt and enthusiastically supported by Valdez, had been going on a long time.’
‘It’s over three years now, Jack,’ put in Meredith Smith. ‘Frederick Hunt’s taken a packet out of the company.’
‘Absolutely. Inevitably, Tyrell wanted a piece of the pie. However, if Tyrell came in on the deal, that’s so much less for Senhor Valdez. It doesn’t take much imagination to see that they’d have words about it.’
He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I’m absolutely certain that somewhere in Branca Preto is the undiscovered body of Ariel Valdez.’
‘Valdez was killed in Brazil?’ said Jaggard. ‘But . . .’
‘Valdez was killed in Brazil,’ repeated Jack. ‘Bill and I are sure of it. You see, it wasn’t Valdez who came to London. It was Laurence Tyrell.’
‘My God,’ whispered Pat. ‘I’m starting to understand.’
‘Tyrell would want to come to London very much. For a start, Valdez had the trip planned, and it was safer to let Valdez appear to be alive. He would also want to thresh things out with Frederick Hunt. A bottle of hair dye, glasses and a moustache made him look enough like Valdez to pass for the man on Valdez’s passport. He might even have had a false passport made, and I think he’d picked up enough Portuguese to pass as a Brazilian. As far as the plantation was concerned, he was safe enough. He had De Oliveria handy to look after things while he was gone. All Tyrell had to do was write his reports and give them to Frederick Hunt to file away in London.’
‘This is absolutely horrible,’ said Pat with a shudder. ‘Uncle Frederick knew?’
‘I’ll say he knew. You’ll remember the first meeting between Valdez and Frederick Hunt took place on the twenty-ninth of December, when your brother was away. Hunt wouldn’t want Helston there and neither did Tyrell.’
He looked at Pat. ‘Did your Uncle Frederick ever meet Tyrell? When you were married, I mean?’
Pat shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t.’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s much as we thought. He wouldn’t recognize him. Hunt would know immediately, of course, that Tyrell wasn’t Valdez, but that needn’t, in practical terms, make much difference. Hunt wanted the fraud to continue and Tyrell was a willing partner. I bet Tyrell wanted a sight more money than Valdez though. Tyrell had Hunt by the short hairs all right. All he had to do was to go back to Brazil and, as John Marsden, write an informative letter to H.R.H., and Frederick Hunt would’ve been dropped right in it. Tyrell left Hunt to think it over and went off to Paris for the New Year, having arranged to meet again on the ninth.’
‘Wasn’t he taking a devil of a risk, Jack?’ asked Meredith. ‘I mean, there’s a good chance he’d bump into someone who used to know him.’
Jack shook his head. ‘It wasn’t as risky as you’d think. Dark hair, glasses and a moustache are a fairly good disguise. It wouldn’t wash for a minute with someone who’d known him well, but he wasn’t going to meet them. That’s why he went to Paris, among other reasons. Now in Paris, he saw you, Jag. You’re a fairly well-known man and Tyrell knew exactly who you were. You were the bloke who’d married his wife.’
Jaggard flushed. ‘Can we skip over that bit? Please?’
‘Okay . . . but although that information wasn’t of any use to him then, it was later on. Tyrell came back to London and, on the ninth of January, arrived at Hunt Coffee for his second meeting with Frederick Hunt.’
Pat swallowed hard. ‘That’s when Mark came back.’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s where it all went wrong. The meeting was already underway when your brother walked in. Tyrell probably tried to bluff it out, but it wouldn’t work. Helston knew the real Valdez and also knew Laurence Tyrell.’
‘How did Tyrell get out of that?’ asked Meredith.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the truth unless Frederick Hunt comes clean,’ said Jack, ‘but Tyrell must have spun Helston enough of a yarn to keep him quiet. It was probably similar to the story he told us. He’d lost his memory, etcetera, etcetera, and, knowing his wife had married again, he’d turned up as Valdez to see how things were and if there was any chance for him. Pick up any popular magazine and you’ll see a heartbreaking variant on the theme of a forgotten husband giving up all for his wife’s greater good. I’ve even written a couple myself, God help me.’
‘And he’d believe it?’ said Jaggard sceptically.
‘The secret’s in the telling. And, to be fair to Helston, we believed a version of it. There’s enough genuine cases of shell shock and loss of memory to make him hesitate. Helston was a decent man by all accounts, and the decency of gauging his sister’s reaction before turning up out of the blue would probably appeal to him. After all, he didn’t know Hunt and Tyrell were as crooked as corkscrews. He might be uneasy but he didn’t know.’
‘Wouldn’t the fact that Tyrell had borrowed Valdez’s identity give him a clue?’ asked Jaggard.
‘It obviously did make him think a bit, but, as an honest man himself, Helston gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least until that evening when they’d arranged to meet again.’
‘How on earth do you know all this?’ asked Jaggard, turning his scepticism onto Jack.
‘Helston’s reactions,’ said Jack, reaching for another cigarette. ‘If he knew there was something really dodgy afoot, he’d have told H.R.H. and called the police into the bargain. He didn’t do that, but he was uneasy.’
‘What happened after the meeting?’ asked Pat.
‘Tyrell had a problem. Helston wouldn’t keep quiet indefinitely. Helston had to go, but it’s no joke removing a man as cared for as your brother. Tyrell would know if Helston was killed, both he and Hunt, as among the last people to see him, would be under suspicion. That might be all right for Hunt, but it’s the last thing Tyrell wanted. His credentials would be blown immediately. Howev
er, if Mark Helston didn’t die but merely disappeared, he could get away with it. So, with the connivance of Frederick Hunt, he worked out a plan.’
‘You mean Uncle Frederick knew Larry was going to murder Mark?’ asked Pat.
‘He certainly knew about it afterwards, but beforehand . . . All I can say is, he probably guessed. Your Uncle Frederick strikes me as a man who can ignore a dickens of a lot if it’s in his own interests. One thing which should have alerted him was that Tyrell took your brother’s silver paperknife from the office. It made a very nice weapon. I don’t know how long Tyrell took to dope out his scheme, but he certainly had everything in place by that afternoon.’
Jack blew out a deep mouthful of smoke. ‘I don’t like this bit. None of it’s nice but this is cold-blooded callousness. Tyrell looked for a man who would roughly fit the passport description of Valdez. He found one Richard Wainstall, poor devil, a man down on his luck. Presumably he persuaded him there was a job in prospect, and he told him to come, that afternoon of the ninth, to the house in Gower Street. The house must have seemed like a good place to leave a body, but he couldn’t have possibly have known it was as good as it was. We only found it weeks afterwards because we looked for it.’
‘Because you looked for it,’ put in Bill. ‘We didn’t find it.’
‘The house stood out like a sore thumb, it was so neglected,’ said Jack. ‘Presumably that’s why Tyrell picked it. He forced a window and got in at the back. Then all he had to do was open the front door to Wainstall. I presume Wainstall had the patched or holed shoes – you remember how the footprints showed up, Bill? There was also the mark of the hip flask in the dust. I bet Tyrell gave Wainstall a drink. The drink would be drugged. When Wainstall was under the influence, Tyrell stripped off his clothes and stabbed him.’
‘Why drug him?’ asked Jaggard.
‘Practicalities,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘It’s easier to stab someone if they’re insensible, and Tyrell wanted Wainstall’s clothes without any blood on them. He’d need them for later. Taking the clothes, he went back to his hotel. At seven in the evening he left, having told the desk clerk he was going to meet a friend and might be out all night. He had with him a bag, which must have contained, amongst other things, Wainstall’s clothes. By the way, Bill, that explains why he wasn’t wearing evening dress. That puzzled us, remember? He couldn’t leave the hotel with a suitcase, as he was only meant to be away for an evening, and the bag he had was full of Wainstall’s things. He simply didn’t have room for a complete change of kit, including shoes, to wear the next day. Once he’d left the Montague Court Hotel, it was essential he didn’t return. Valdez was set to disappear as surely as Mark Helston. Considering the real Ariel Valdez’s body must be somewhere in Branca Preto, to have him apparently vanish weeks after his death in London was a pretty neat trick.
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