Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  The tunnel eventually gave on to a large cavern, the crystals of which threw back the light of the electric torch in a multitude of colours. Along one wall of the cavern was a rocky ledge about three feet wide which connected with the opening from the tunnel. Down from the ledge was a sheer drop. What its distance might be it was impossible to judge, but at the moment it seemed to extend to the very bowels of the earth. The slim man shook slightly as he moved cautiously along the ledge, as if he knew too well the danger in the smallest false step. The other, despite his uncouth size, moved along it with the utmost confidence, almost with the sure-footedness of a tightrope walker.

  The ledge ended in a similar hole to the one with which it had begun and the pair passed into another tunnel. This second one was quite short and ended in a cave of good proportions, fitted up as a human living room. There was a table with a wooden chair. In one corner was a camp bedstead and in another a wooden cupboard. On the far side was a heavy wooden door, carefully guarded by an iron bar and a padlock.

  The shorter man lit a lamp on the table and threw himself down on the camp bed.

  “Take that stuff off,” he commanded.

  The other obediently went across to a pail of water and after much exertion returned with his face in a normal state. Gone were the foul streaks of colour which had seemed so hideous. Instead there was a kindly, rather stupid, countenance, the most remarkable feature of which were the feverishly bright eyes.

  Towering over the figure on the bed, he said one word, “Drink.”

  “Not yet,” snapped the other.

  “Drink,” repeated the giant.

  “No,” commanded the other.

  “I must have it.”

  “You will do as you are told.”

  “But you promised,” pleaded the giant.

  “Don’t argue, Goliath,” came the sharp reply. “You will get nothing until I know what happened tonight.”

  “But you promised. Directly I had done my job.”

  “Yes, but what sort of a job have you done. You haven’t obeyed orders, Goliath, I can tell by the way you speak. You know what happens to those who don’t obey orders?”

  The giant looked sulkily at the other.

  “Answer me,” cried the man.

  “Yes, I know,” was the reply. “But I tell you I can’t go on without a drink.”

  “Oh, you are going to give me orders, are you?” said the man on the bed, fiercely.

  There was a pause. The man on the bed moved his position, all the time keeping his eye fixed on the other. He hoped it had seemed quite natural, but, by doing so, he had managed to get his hand close to the revolver in his hip pocket. That was a comfort, anyhow. He could get it out quickly enough if it came to trouble. Not that it was likely. He knew exactly how to deal with Goliath. All the same, things had been growing a bit different lately. Larger potations had been progressively necessary to work Goliath up to the proper pitch, with the result that he couldn’t be certain that the giant might not suddenly get quite out of hand. Whatever happened, there was going to be no more drinking until he had the whole story. Something had happened at the house at Redford, something that made him apprehensive. Time was precious. He must know quickly.

  “Well?” he asked, menacingly.

  “I didn’t mean it, Mr. Manners, really I didn’t,” said the giant, cringing in front of him. “But you won’t keep me too long, will you?”

  “That depends entirely on yourself,” said the other.

  “Be kind to me, Mr. Manners,” pleaded the giant.

  “Why were you so long in the room?”

  “I tapped on the window, but she didn’t seem to hear me,” answered Goliath. “She seemed to be sleeping very soundly. So I got into the room. As you told me to, Mr. Manners.”

  “And to come out again directly she woke up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Those were your orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you disobeyed them?”

  “She was beautiful to look at,” said the giant, wistfully.

  “For heaven’s sake tell me what you did.”

  “She had a smooth neck, so soft and smooth as she sat up and stared at me. I put my hands round it. It was softer than I expected. I pressed my fingers in and suddenly she looked all different. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. I swear I couldn’t, Mr. Manners. And then she didn’t seem to breathe any more. I shook her, but nothing happened. She was just like a bundle of clothes. That is why I was such a long time. I didn’t like her to be like that.”

  Manners said nothing. The shock had come, and here was some hard thinking to be done.

  “You killed her, Goliath, you realise that?” he asked, quietly.

  “She was beautiful to look at,” answered the giant, as if not grasping the other’s meaning, “and so soft and smooth.”

  “You killed her,” went on Manners. “And the law kills the killer.”

  The giant nodded comprehension.

  “I am your law, Goliath,” Manners continued. “But I am not going to kill you. I am kind to you.”

  “You are very kind to me, Mr. Manners,” said the other. “You will let me drink now?”

  Manners jumped up from the bed and, producing a key, proceeded to unlock the padlock on the iron bar across the heavy wooden door. It took some considerable effort to push it open. The light of the lamp revealed a smaller cave with a wooden shelf or two fixed on its walls. A cask and a number of bottles and glasses stood on one of them. Manners selected a bottle and glass, putting them on the table, carefully relocked the door.

  From the bottle he poured a brownish-purple liquid into the glass until it was half full and then handed it to the other. The giant lifted it quickly to his mouth and gulped some down.

  “Don’t drink it all at once,” ordered Manners. “You won’t get any more for some time to come. Sit there quietly and drink it slowly. I want to think.”

  The giant smiled back at him with a look of contentment. It was obvious that the drink had already mainly satisfied the terrible pangs of an overwhelming craving for it.

  “That’s better,” he said, leaning back in his chair and relaxing his limbs.

  Manners lay down again on the bed and lit a cigarette. Of course it was a shock, but one for which he had been mainly prepared. He had watched the effect of the drink on Clem Tarrack and had seen him steadily deteriorate. Larger doses had been necessary to get him to the sticking point and, at the same time, he had grown more violent. It had only seemed a matter of time before Clem lost his self-control under its influence, and then murder was a more than likely result. The brute didn’t know his own strength, and a friendly gesture from him might be a deadly blow from another.

  It was satisfactory, though, not to be taken by surprise. If you planned ahead and thought out all the possible consequences, you kept your head when something like this happened. It was panic that undid most criminals. Criminals, thought Manners cynically; people always think of them as a class, a collection of men of a particular type. That applied to those who were caught, not to those who were successful. They were usually caught for the same reason, especially when murder was the trouble, because they suffered from panic, and either could not think of a suitable plan after they had done it, or bungled the plan they had previously prepared.

  Of course it needed a bit of intelligence, but it was futile to think of making anything out of crime without it. He had made a study of things, and had reaped a rich harvest. His plans had been uniformly successful at the beginning. He had, however, been sensible enough to realise that good luck could not last for ever. Now he had a pretty little packet tucked away, mainly in a Swiss bank, as a result of his efforts. The going had become decidedly bad. Clem had put the finishing touch to it, although Sybil Norton’s suicide had been a definite danger signal. He supposed that the criminal of the type that got caught would persist in going on and taking steadily-increasing risks. That was not Manners’ way.

  In
the midst of this wave of self-satisfaction, he suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling of apprehension. Suppose that detective fellow, Clay Harrison, had really discovered anything? He had been mighty quick on the trail to Dorice and he had turned up at Hested, too. He might be an intelligent fellow into the bargain. But he was a detective, and his knowledge of the criminal could not go further than the poor fools who not only allowed themselves to be caught, but asked for it. He could not know what it meant to be up against a man like Manners. At that moment he felt almost sorry for Harrison, and the impossibility of the task in front of him Still he had brought it on himself, and the poor devil might not even be alive now.

  “You are quite certain it was Clay Harrison?” he asked Clem, suddenly.

  “Absolutely,” answered the giant, “I recognised him.”

  “And the landlord asked him if he was?”

  “That’s right. And he even told mother his name.”

  “Poor fool,” said Manners.

  “I ran and warned mother about him, so she couldn’t make a mistake.”

  “What did you tell your mother?” asked Manners, suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” was the reply; “except that this Clay Harrison wanted to hurt me and she was to be careful. And that’s all.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There was another man with him?”

  “Yes, a smaller man and younger, too.”

  “And you put in the dose I said?”

  “Of course,” answered Clem, oblivious of the fact that he had emptied the whole of the bottle entrusted to him by Manners instead of a small part of it.

  “And they drank it?”

  “Every drop,” was the reply. “I heard the Harrison man say it was bitter, and I looked at the pots when they came out, and there wasn’t a drop left. You are pleased?”

  “Yes, I am pleased, Goliath,” returned Manners. “And I may reward you.”

  Manners fell to thinking again. If Goliath had done his job properly and there seemed little reason to doubt it, that disposed of Clay Harrison—and his helpful friend into the bargain. It was clever of him to have discovered Hested. Manners would have liked to know how he had done it. Still, by doing it he had walked straight into a trap. It was much cleverer of Manners himself to have left nothing to chance; to have laid his plans on the assumption that Harrison might stumble on Hested and accordingly to be fully prepared.

  Clay Harrison disposed of, and, very conveniently, too, as matters had turned out, the rest of his scheme was easier sailing. When he had spoken to Clem of the fate of a killer he had, for one brief moment, wondered whether it would not be best to shoot the giant, then and there. A simple solution which destroyed every trace, but Manners himself shrank from killing. He might use a revolver in a desperate emergency, but he could not kill a man in cold blood. He rather despised the gangster type which could behave with such lack of finesse.

  His passport was ready and the tickets to Paris—the latter were available for any day. He had to make certain that Goliath would stay quiet in the cave for most of the coming day, and the plan was complete. He could not rely on an overdose of the drink. That might be too risky. Goliath might even get so violent that he would dash forth above ground quite beyond restraint. No, the original plan was the soundest.

  “You still want the girl you talked so much about?” he asked Clem.

  Clem’s eyes gleamed and he nodded vigorously.

  “Suppose I fetched her for you?”

  “You would do that, Mr. Manners?”

  “That is the reward I mentioned,” said Manners. “But you must wait here until I get back with her.”

  “You will not be long?”

  “Not very,” was the reply. “You try to get some sleep.”

  “You are kind to Clem,” said the giant. “The little girl is very sweet. Clem will be kind to the little girl.”

  “Yes, Dorice is sweet,” said Manners. He was not so certain, however, of Clem’s kindness. Anyhow, Dorice it deserved anything that was coming to her. She was a dirty little traitoress, whatever Rose might like to say, and anyone who treated Frances Manners like that could not escape punishment. Clem might treat her decently, but it was very unlikely. Still, she would keep him occupied long enough for Manners’ purpose, and the plan would be rounded off to his entire satisfaction. Clem was now almost asleep, and Manners, noticing this, got up from the bed, and told Clem to take his place. No sooner was the giant settled comfortably than he fell off into a deep sleep. “That will last him some time,” thought Manners with satisfaction, but, even as he did so, he began to feel strangely lonely with the disappearance of the last signs of consciousness in his companion. He felt very weary, too, and sat down in the chair by the table. Would the wonderful plan to which he had given so much thought work out all right after all? Were there some obvious points he had neglected? Was the punishment he had devised for Dorice too drastic? In fact, was his self-confidence as justified as he imagined?

  He even felt a little frightened. Was his nerve breaking under the strain? Had the events of the last night been too much for him? Would it not be far better to take the easiest course and shoot Clem then and there? It was crude, certainly, but it was final. He looked across at the sleeping man, lying in an almost childlike position. Manners had no sentimentality, far from it, but he could not kill a sleeping man. No, he wasn’t a killer. That was beyond him. But he must get control of himself. This mood would never do.

  He looked at the bottle on the table. Why not? It would steady him. He had always made up his mind not to touch the stuff himself. It was much too dangerous. He had seen how quickly the craving had possessed Clem, body and soul. But he was weary, utterly worn out. And he had so much to do. He would never be likely to touch the stuff again. One drink couldn’t hurt him. He must have a pick-me-up.

  He poured out a glass and sipped. Glory, it was powerful stuff. It went straight through the veins like a fiery flood. That was better. Already the mood of despondency seemed to be departing. He drank again and finally finished the glass.

  How extraordinary to have thought he was losing confidence. The plan would work out perfectly. He had framed it, was not that enough? He, the man who could laugh in the face of a pigmy like Clay Harrison? Let the cheap detective rot for thinking he could get the better of a mind like Manners’. Still, time was precious and he must make the next move in the programme.

  He went across to the heavy door and quietly unlocked the padlock. From within he produced a thick crowbar and then carefully relocked the door.

  Turning down the lamp to its lowest glimmer, be deposited the crowbar in a dark corner by the entrance of the cave.

  “Artistic touch,” he said to himself, grinning rather foolishly, “I think of everything.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Technique Of Terror

  Harrison and Henry arrived at the chambers at about the same time and were greeted by Eric, whose desire to report on his stewardship was beyond repression and was obviously giving him acute physical discomfort. Fearing a rebuff, he did not dare raise his voice while the others were exchanging greetings, but his face fell to a pitiable angle when he heard Harrison invite Henry to his room, for, by the tone of voice, this certainly meant long, personal conversation.

  The look of his junior assistant was not, however, unnoticed by Harrison, who thereupon turned to Henry and said, “I think we had better listen first to the officer on duty yesterday.”

  Eric smiled joyfully, even his red hair seemed to radiate pleasure at his master’s understanding. Harrison settled down at his desk. Henry stood waiting with his pencil and note-book, and Eric, at the given signal, reported minutely on his stewardship.

  The callers, by telephone and personally, had been mainly unimportant until Eric reached the name of Peary. He had telephoned, and when he had heard that Harrison was out and was being represented by Eric, had stated that his substitute would do equally well.

>   Henry smiled, but Harrison did not move a muscle as he said, “Excellent, Eric, he realises the confidence I place in you. Did he leave any message?”

  “Yes, sir, very curious, sir, he said two words would be enough.”

  “What were they?”

  “He said just say to you ‘he did’ and that you would understand.”

  “Quite right.”

  “You do understand, sir?”

  “Certainly, Eric.”

  “I’m glad, sir,” said Eric, in a relieved tone; “I thought he might be pulling my leg.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing else actually in the way of business, sir, but I think I noticed something curious. That boy at Bonnington’s, sir, the one I got the names from—”

  “I know. The heavy eater.”

  “Yes, sir, that one. Well, when I went to the door to answer the bell for one caller, I could swear I saw him on the stairs looking at me. It struck me as queer, sir, because you actually told me to keep in touch with him.”

  “Do you think he recognised you?”

  “I shouldn’t have thought he would have recognised anyone, sir.”

  “That’s not the point, Eric. He may have been under orders to see if he could recognise you.”

  “He didn’t show any signs, sir.”

  “Then I expect he did. Did you see him again?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then it’s more than likely. You say you could swear to him?”

  “Difficult to mistake him.”

  “That may be important, Eric. Anything else?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Eric departed, warmed by a smile of approval from his master.

  “Now, Henry, for your report. You did what I told you?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Henry. “The dragon was quite scared when I gave her the pistol.”