Ten Star Clues

by E. R. Punshon

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” the other mumbled.

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Bobby answered. “You are no more Earl Wych than I am. You’ve given that away half a dozen times. For one thing, you didn’t even know why it is Earl Wych and not Earl of Wych.”

  “Can’t expect a chap to remember everything,” retorted Bertram, trying to pluck up spirit. “Not after all the time I’ve been in the States.”

  “Rubbish. People don’t forget things like that they hear when they are children. Another point. More important. You let slip you had taken out your papers over there. That can be traced. May take some time because I believe you can do it anywhere in any part of any State.”

  “How do you know I gave my right name?” Bertram demanded, evidently thinking that there he had scored a point.

  “That’s a matter for the American authorities to consider,” Bobby answered amiably. “What matters is that it gives us a starting point. Something to work from—to trace your identity.”

  Bertram mumbled something indistinct. Easy to see that he was growing more and more disturbed. Relentlessly Bobby continued:—

  “I told you about the disappearance of a Mr. Bertram Brown from his hotel in Midwych.”

  “Nothing to do with me,” Bertram answered with more confidence. “Nobody I ever knew.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Bobby said. “You admitted you knew someone of that name in the States, but you say it can’t be the same man because he is ‘as good as dead’. I wonder if that means he had been given a long term of imprisonment?”

  “Good at guessing, aren’t you?” Bertram snarled, now all his former unease returning and in even greater measure.

  “Detectives never guess,” Bobby protested, a little hurt. “They draw exact deductions from given premises.”

  Bertram looked impressed but said nothing.

  “Parole system in the States, isn’t there?” Bobby asked. “Do you think it might be applied to a Britisher so as to get rid of him, get him out of the country and save his keep and so on?”

  Bertram’s jaw dropped.

  “I... I never thought of that,” he stammered. “Well, think of it now,” Bobby said grimly. He added:— “If that Bertram Brown you knew, is this Bertram Brown—well, who is he and where is he?”

  By this time his soi-disant lordship was beginning to perspire gently.

  “Now you know,” Bobby went on, “why I told you you were in a spot. Why I told you you had better make a clean breast of it.”

  He paused, watching with scientific detachment his victim’s ever-increasing doubts and fears. He thought to himself with a touch of surprise:— ‘Why, this is the third degree I’m giving him. What would the papers say?’ He continued aloud:—

  “There’s been one murder. You’re under suspicion still. Every one is. Not much evidence yet, but we may get some soon. Was it to your interest old Lord Wych should die before he could change his mind about acknowledging you? Perhaps it was only a temporary arrangement he had been talked into. Perhaps he never meant it to stand. Mr. Bertram Brown has disappeared. Was that to your interest also? and has he been murdered, too?”

  Bertram was on his feet now, very pale, gesticulating wildly.

  “I wish I had never started the damn thing,” he shouted. “Hell, it’s no catch being a lord in this damn old country. Hell, I don’t want to marry that slave-driving vixen, me that’s been married twice already and both of ’em still alive most like, trust ’em for that. Hell, you don’t find me getting blown to bits sitting in trenches all day, not me, and me a full American citizen five years and more.”

  “Clinton Wells put you up to it in the first place, didn’t he?” Bobby asked.

  Bertram nodded gloomily.

  “Know it all, don’t you?” he mumbled.

  Bobby never denied knowledge. He said:—

  “Do you care to make a statement? For you to decide, of course. But it may make a difference. It’s generally taken into consideration.”

  Bertram hesitated.

  “Just as you like,” Bobby repeated. “Your affair. I think we know enough. I’ll have to take you along to headquarters. Not an arrest, you understand. Detained for inquiries, that’s all.”

  Bertram looked as if he thought that ‘all’ was enough and more than enough.

  “Will you promise?” he began.

  “No,” interrupted Bobby sharply. “You get no promises, my lad. All I say is, if you make a voluntary statement, that fact—provided you don’t tell a pack of lies—may be taken into consideration. You’ll need it, too,” he added grimly.

  “Oh, all right,” Bertram said, his last shred of resistance broken down. “It was him started it, Clinton Wells, I mean. I’d never have thought of it, never had the gall to try it on. He said it was on Easy Street. If you ask me, he was in a spot himself. At his office. That’s my idea. It was Bert told me to go to the lawyers first, to find out how the old man was likely to take it, the old lord I mean. That was after they had handed Bert a ninety-nine-year sentence. Hadn’t had as much to do with it as the rest of the boys, but it was him had to stand the racket.”

  “What was it?” Bobby asked.

  “Bank,” explained Bertram. “A guy got himself shot. Bert wasn’t in it. But the cops picked him up where they found some of the dollars. So they soaked it to him. He got word to me to come see him. Asked me to go back home and tell his people so they could do something about it. Ninety-nine years, that’s a packet. Gave me all his papers and such like. Told me where to get ’em, so the cops wouldn’t know who he was. Talked a lot about the honour of the family, and him with a ninety-nine-year stretch to do. I was to go to the lawyers first so they could break it to the old lord and see how things lay with him. Bert hadn’t a notion then it was him was to be the next lord. He reckoned there was several in the family came first. When I got back home—I was born round these parts, that’s how Bert and me first got pally—it was Clinton Wells I saw at the lawyers’ office. He’s a smart guy all right. Worked it all out while I was sitting there. Smart as the devil. I said: Nix. I said: The old lord, he’ll know I’m not the goods. But Clinton Wells, he showed me how we could fix him.”

  “How?” Bobby asked.

  “Mixing it. Half truth, half lies. A story always goes best if part of it’s true. Noticed that?”

  “I have,” agreed Bobby. “So have the poets. A lie that is half a truth is always the stuff to give ’em.”

  “That in poetry?” asked Bertram, impressed. “He knew his stuff, that poet.”

  “Sometimes poets do, though it is not generally known,” Bobby remarked. “Well?”

  “He fixed it so I was to tell the old lord how Bert hadn’t got ninety-nine years but only nine months in the cooler, and how the cops and the newshawks, too, had their noses to the trail who he really was. So how about me being him for nine months, because if the old lord handed out a certificate I was him, I mean, that I was his genuine grandson, then when they heard that on the other side, then cops and newshawks, too, would lay off, thinking the lad in the cooler wasn’t any more a British lord’s grandson than they were themselves.”

  “What was to happen when the nine months were up and no grandson appeared?” Bobby asked.

  “I was to have the job of finding him,” Bertram answered. “The idea we put up to start with was that I was to have a fat wad for being him while I was here, and then another wad to go back to the States and hunt him up and bring him home.”

  “You mean the real Bertram? But he was serving a ninety-nine-year sentence?”

  “That’s so, but the old man thought it was nine months. When the time came, we reckoned to let on what it really was. Clinton Wells said maybe rather than have such a scandal break, the old lord would go on letting me be—it the grandson, I mean. Because of the family honour. Dead nuts they all were on the family honour. Used to make me laugh, with that ninety-nine-year packet in the background. But they were all so keen
on it, Clinton Wells said maybe they wouldn’t see any other way to have it saved.”

  “Nonsense, and Clinton Wells knew it,” Bobby told him. “Once Lord Wych knew the truth, he would have faced it. He would never have dreamed of accepting a stranger as heir to the family title and estates. Also he would have known the truth would be sure to come out in the long run. Ralph Hoyle was already threatening legal action. For nine months perhaps, until the real heir got back. Not a day longer. But that explains why he insisted that he was doing Ralph no injustice. He wasn’t in a sense, since there actually was then an heir who came before Ralph.”

  “Clinton Wells said it might be that way,” Bertram answered. “If when the old lord knew it all, he wouldn’t stand for me being the next lord after him—and mind you, I was tickled to death at first at the notion of being a British lord, me being had for a sucker, and never suspicioning what it meant, or knowing anything about Miss Anne what ought to be running a farm down Tennessee way, nor how there was going to be a war and every one taking it I wanted to be the world’s little hero. I thought it was a cinch being a British lord, but now I’m just as glad as not to be out of it.”

  “I suppose,” Bobby remarked, “you hadn’t sense enough to see how entirely, if the scheme had gone through, you would have been under Clinton Wells’s thumb. He would have had the last penny out of you. If you had tried to kick, he could have posed as having been deceived by you, but having gradually discovered the truth. And so established a claim on Ralph, made sure for ever of the Wych estate business, and made sure, too, of a first-class reputation as the man who unveiled the great Wych peerage conspiracy. A foot in both camps and all ready for it if you tried to kick. But you would never have dared.”

  “I figured it might be that way,” the other answered composedly. “I remember first day I thought that was going to be his game when he staged that bit about being Ralph’s attorney and acting for him against me. I didn’t like it much, but he talked me down. Said having it that way, he would know every move on Ralph’s side and have all the answers pat. I never trusted him, but me being had for a sucker, same as I said before, I reckoned the chance of being a British lord was worth it. Now I know a whole heap more about the job, and I’m not so keen.”

  “We had better go back to the castle,” Bobby said “I must ring up Colonel Glynne and see what he thinks.”

  “Mind you,” added the sham Bertram as they walked along, “I haven’t an idea who corpsed the old lord—Ralph, I thought, along of being peeved about me. Only afterwards I wasn’t so sure. I did think at times it might be Miss Anne in a hurry to put her hands on me and the rest of it all at once.”

  Bobby made no reply, and when they reached the castle he got the use of one of the ’phones. He had his story to tell, but there was news for him also. Presently he rang off.

  “Clinton Wells is on his way here,” he said to his companion. “At least I think he is coming here. He seems to have guessed there are developments, and probably he is coming along to tell you what to say. Or perhaps,” Bobby added thoughtfully, “he means to double-cross you now things are getting warm. Pretend he has just found you out. It’s pretty certain that’s a card he was keeping up his sleeve. I’ve my instructions, though.”

  They had not long to wait, for soon Clinton Wells arrived, driving up the long avenue that led to the castle. Bobby had asked that he should be brought straight to this room without being told who was there. Yet he showed little surprise when he saw who were the occupants. One quick glance from Bertram to Bobby and back, and he seemed to divine instinctively what had happened.

  “Inspector,” he began, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s a bit of luck. I may as well tell you at once I have found reason to believe that this man is an impostor.”

  “You dirty, double-crossing—” began Bertram in a fury, but Bobby checked him with a lifted hand.

  “Mr. Clinton Wells,” he said, “last night we detained Martin, the butler here, for inquiries. This morning he has made a statement. I have just been informed by ’phone. It seems he is prepared to give evidence that on the night of the murder he heard shots fired and he saw you running away. That, of course, makes him an accessory after the fact, but he will probably be accepted as king’s witness.” Clinton Wells listened quietly and with a faintly contemptuous smile.

  “Do you really think any jury is going to believe that yarn?” he asked. “As a matter of fact, Martin meant blackmail, he tried it on a few days ago, he hinted at some such yarn. I only laughed. I thought it too ridiculous. I kicked him out. This is his revenge.”

  “I agree Martin is not a very reliable witness,” Bobby answered. “I am inclined to believe, when we go into it, we shall find he is on record for something like blackmail before. All the same, as I am to take you to headquarters where you will be charged with murder, I must warn you before you say anything more.”

  “You seriously intend to charge me with the murder of old Lord Wych on the word of a scamp like Martin?” Clinton Wells asked incredulously. “You’ll be the world’s laughing stock.”

  “For a long time,” Bobby answered slowly, “I have thought you were probably the murderer. It was almost certain the pistol used was either the Wych estate office pistol or the one kept in the castle library. But there was evidence Miss Anne Hoyle had the one from the castle library, and though she very foolishly attempted to hide it, it has been found now, and we know from expert examination that it is not the murder weapon. Nor did it ever seem likely that she was guilty. But your own story of what happened in the estate office the day of the murder, the last time the pistol there was seen, showed that you had the opportunity to secure it. You were the only person left alone in the office with the key, the pistol, and the safe. Mr. Longden never had the key of the office door. Ralph hadn’t the key of the safe. He might have provided himself with duplicate keys, but there was no evidence that he had done so, and if he had contemplated committing murder with the pistol it seemed unlikely that he would have gone to such pains to advertise his possession of the thing. So you see, you seemed indicated, but I had to wait till we could get hold of the pistol before we had the proof we wanted. Expert examination of the weapon and the bullets taken from Earl Wych’s body give it now. What bothered me was that at first I couldn’t imagine any possible motive. But now I know about your elaborate scheme to put up an impostor as the next Earl Wych and then be able to blackmail him to your heart’s content. You would have been almost earl yourself, wouldn’t you? When Ralph Hoyle threatened legal action, and when Earl Wych showed he was beginning to be suspicious, you got frightened and tried to make yourself safe by egging Ralph on to quarrel with the old earl and then murdering the old man before he could repudiate the impostor, at the same time fastening suspicion on Ralph. I don’t suppose you cared very much whether Ralph were actually hanged or not, the mere suspicion would have ruined his chance of being successful in a lawsuit.”

  Clinton Wells had listened quietly, smiling all the time with what seemed a confident and slightly contemptuous amusement. Whatever Bobby had hoped for by way of reaction or self-betrayal failed to materialize.

  “Of all the ingenious fantasies spun out of nothing at all,” he said coolly when Bobby paused. “Good gracious, if you were mad enough to attempt to take such a case into court, you would very soon be laughed out again. No jury would listen for a moment.”

  “Well, perhaps not,” Bobby agreed unexpectedly. “So we are not charging you with the murder of old Lord Wych. It might be difficult to secure a conviction.”

  “Glad you think so,” Clinton Wells sneered. “Good morning.” He turned towards the door, and then stopped and frowned when he saw a plain clothes constable lounging there. “Of course, you understand,” he said, “the matter will not end here. You will hear more of it.”

  “But we are charging you,” Bobby continued, once more unexpectedly, “with the murder of Bertram Hoyle, passing as Bertram Brown, but actually having succeeded to the Wyc
h peerage, though he himself never knew it. He was recently released under the parole system from an American prison, he called to see you at your office in Midwych, he left there in your company, his body has now been discovered, in Wychwood Forest, near the Charles the Second oak—”

  Abruptly Clinton Wells’s composure deserted him, he made a step forward, staggered, collapsed on the nearest chair.

  CHAPTER XXI

  CONCLUSION

  On the sea front at Torquay, for this was still the period of the ‘phoney’ war, with the Maginot Line complex in full force and the British government still murmuring complacently that ‘ time was on our side’, Bobby and Olive were seated together. The strenuous days Bobby had endured during the inquiry into the Castle Wych case had earned him a brief special leave. On his knees lay the morning paper in which he had noted three items of very different import. For one recorded the dismissal by the Court of Appeal, without any reply thought necessary, of the appeal Clinton Wells had made against the death sentence passed at his recent trial; the second mentioned the departure for the United States, ‘on a long visit’, of Miss Anne Hoyle, grand-daughter of the late Earl Wych, and cousin to the present earl; and, thirdly, an announcement of the engagement of Ralph, Earl Wych, to Sophia, daughter of the Rev. Louis Longden, of Brimpton Wych, Midwych, Wychshire.

  “And not a word or a hint in the papers anywhere,” Olive said admiringly, “about the real Bertram having been in an American gaol and only released on parole.”

  “Decent of the papers,” Bobby admitted. “There have been one or two hints, though, in some of the less responsible gossip columns, but luckily they weren’t sure enough of their facts to say much, and the tale was too extraordinary for much to be said without the full information they hadn’t got.”

  “I never believed it would be possible to keep so much back,” Olive said. “I thought everything would have to be told at the trial.”