Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  With a loud cry, Clem pounced on one of the bottles, pulled out the cork and took out an enormous draught of its contents.

  “That’s better,” he said, looking at Dorice. “Much better.”

  He picked up a second bottle in his other hand and came towards her.

  “It’s wonderful, Dorice,” he said, apologetically. “Why don’t you try some?”

  She was about to refuse, when she noticed how speedily his eyes were growing wild. In a few moments he was turning, before her eyes, in the horrible creature who had been her nightmare ever since Manners had brought him to the flat. He might become beastly to her, after all. She had fought and lost, and she would have to face it. But if the drink had that immediate effect on him it might do the same with her. If the worst came to the worst, she might get over it more easily if she drank some of the stuff, too. At any rate, she might have it ready. Nothing much mattered now.

  “Pour me out a glass,” she said.

  “Good girl,” said Clem.

  He took another long drink from his bottle and called upon her to join him.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll have it in a minute.”

  Clem was looking more and more wild. When he spoke, his voice was thicker and louder. He swung the heavy crowbar as if it were the lightest of canes and marched above the cave shouting insults at Manners. Still he made no move towards Dorice, and she felt a little more reassured, although she kept her eyes on the full glass beside her. Then he stopped and stood towering over her, his eyes gleaming frightfully and his huge frame shaking. It’s coming, thought Dorice, and reached out to the glass.

  “That’s right, my girl,” he said. “Drink, my lovely Dorice, and then we’ll have another song and you shall teach me how to sing it.”

  She raised the glass to her lips, but only took a small sip. There was still an outside chance. Even the very small quantity she swallowed, however, made her cough and splutter.

  Clem roared with laughter, which reverberated through the cave. He shouted that she would get used to it, and again called for a song.

  Without hesitation she settled to her task. Her throat burned with the fiery liquid that had passed over it. Her eyes watched for the slightest change of movement by Clem. Yet, had she been a maestro cherishing the voice of the greatest prima donna, she could not have taken greater trouble.

  A singularly unmelodious duet echoed through the cave as Clem beat time through the air with the crowbar and strained the notes to lengths of inordinate feeling.

  “Oh, no-o-o-o-o, it isn’t the bre-e-e-e-e-e-eze,

  It’s lo-o-o-o-ve in blo-o-o-o-o-o-om.”

  Chapter XXI

  Hested Again

  Harrison took the unprecedented course, on the way to Hested, of leaving Henry to drive the motor-car and himself sitting in the back with Peary. The latter was still bantering Harrison when he received the shock of the news of the murder at Redford. From that point he did not say another word until Harrison had roughly explained the course of recent events.

  “Sorry, Harrison, for being such a fool,” said Peary. “I didn’t realise things were as serious as that.”

  “That’s all right, Peary,” answered Harrison. “But I thought you might like to be in at the final reckoning.”

  “You bet I would,” was the reply. “I’d turn down a hundred-guinea brief for it.” He saw Harrison’s eyes twinkle. “I know opportunity’s a fine thing, of course. Still, to see this Mr. Manners caught—”

  “Careful, Peary,” said Harrison. “Don’t let’s count our chickens. Mr. Manners is a very remarkable man, a criminal of the highest order, that’s obvious. He may have thought of the logic of it, too. He may have seen, all along, that murder was the eventual climax, and laid his plans accordingly.”

  “Preposterous, Harrison.”

  “He moves and thinks very quickly. We’ve seen that. He may have passport and ticket all ready for such an emergency. It’s no use looking incredulous, Peary, the man is obviously an unusual type. He plans elaborately. He attends to detail. I expect he is well on his way out of the country by now.”

  “Very well,” said Peary. “Then why are we rushing off to Hested?”

  “Really, Peary, I’m ashamed of you,” answered Harrison. “There’s something sadly astray with you this morning.”

  “But if you’re not likely to find Manners?”

  “We must get on the track of Clem Tarrack. Don’t forget what I told you about the girl.”

  “I know. But do you think that Manners raced all the way back to Hested with her?”

  “Most likely,” said Harrison. “It’s his headquarters, and he must think it’s safe enough. Besides, he has had ample time to get back to London again and make for the Continent.”

  “So the girl may be in the cave with this man?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Heaven help her,” said Peary.

  “Yes, it’s a pretty poor outlook. Manners makes his arrangements carefully enough. I’m afraid she doesn’t stand much chance.”

  “It’s devilish,” cried Peary.

  “That’s his whole attitude to women,” said Harrison.

  “The sister stood up to him,” said Peary.

  “Up to a point,” answered Harrison. “If she told me the truth.”

  Peary smiled at Harrison’s tone. “You don’t like her very much, do you?” he said.

  “I don’t,” was the emphatic reply. “She’s a type I particularly object to.”

  “You can’t blame her for looking after herself.”

  “She hasn’t a grain of loyalty in her make-up, and when you get that in a woman, the result is specially obnoxious. Disloyal to her sister, disloyal to Manners, she’d be disloyal to anybody or anything when occasion arose.”

  “But she came and told you about her sister?”

  “She was quick enough to see that Manners was getting on the dangerously wrong side of the law,” answered Harrison, “and didn’t intend to be mixed up in it. She had to find some reason for coming to me, and some story to justify it. Manners carrying off her sister was the best to hand, so she used it.”

  “Then she can’t be particularly keen on waiting about in the flat as you told her to.”

  “I don’t suppose she has gone near the place, and I don’t imagine she thought I supposed so. No, directly Miss Rose Locket left the chambers she disappeared into some obscure spot where she is not likely to be found. She calculates, too, that now she has told me most of what I want to know, nobody will make a serious effort to look for her.”

  “So that’s the end of Rose Locket,” said Peary.

  “Unless she feels like being disloyal to some friends she makes in the future,” answered Harrison, grimly.

  At a turn in the road near Hested, Harrison called out to Henry to pull up beside a man who was obviously looking out for them.

  “Get in, Sergeant,” said Harrison, greeting him warmly. “Peary, this is Sergeant Rutley of Hested. Mr. Peary, Sergeant, is a barrister, and quite skilful at arranging a holiday in prison for the criminals you catch.”

  “We haven’t caught one yet, sir,” answered the sergeant, getting into the motor-car, “if he is one.”

  “I’m afraid there is little doubt of it,” commented Harrison.

  “Still, I can’t believe it of Clem,” said the sergeant, doggedly.

  “I know, Sergeant,” said Harrison, gently. “You are so certain that everybody has done everything they could for him.”

  “That’s just it, sir,” went on the sergeant. “We have never really let him out of our sight. I don’t see how anything could have happened.”

  “But it has happened.”

  “You say so, sir.”

  “The facts say so, Sergeant.”

  “Well,” said the sergeant, his colour rising, “I’d rather arrest my own brother than Clem.”

  The people they passed in the village street looked upon them with the same lack of enthusiasm as they had receive
d from the landlord. It was obvious that they had all some idea of Harrison’s errand and were afraid of any harm befalling the Tarracks.

  Harrison walked along to the little cottage with Peary while Henry and Sergeant Rutley came behind them. The latter had half suggested that there was no need to accompany them, but a look from Harrison had stopped him in the middle of his sentence. As it was, he walked somewhat behind Henry as if to convey to his disapproving neighbours that he was reluctantly with them but certainly not of them.

  “Rather wonderful, Peary,” said Harrison. “This village loyalty.”

  “For two pins any one of them would heave a brick at us,” said the other.

  “I don’t like the job myself,” said Harrison. “But it’s got to be done.”

  Just as they reached the cottage gate, Mrs. Tarrack appeared at her door, which she carefully shut behind her. She came along the little garden path to the gate, ready to speak with Harrison just as she had done the day before.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tarrack,” said Harrison.

  “Good morning,” replied the woman, standing firmly by the gate.

  “I want to speak to you,” said Harrison.

  “I’m waiting,” was her answer.

  “Not here,” said Harrison.

  “Why not?”

  “It is something which I think you would prefer to discuss in private,” said Harrison, looking round at the little crowd of villagers which had followed in their train and was now pressing forward to hear what was being said.

  “I have nothing to discuss in private with you,” said the woman, firmly.

  “You will please trust my judgment, Mrs. Tarrack,” answered Harrison, with equal firmness. “Please let us go inside.”

  “You shall not come into my house,” she snapped.

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” said Harrison, to the accompaniment of a murmur from the villagers.

  The woman looked at Sergeant Rutley, who shook his head miserably to indicate that she must agree.

  Mrs. Tarrack went back to the door and threw it open without a further word and waited to be followed.

  “Sergeant Rutley and I will go in alone,” said Harrison.

  The sergeant followed him, a picture of utter desolation. As a policeman he was doing his duty, but at the price of forfeiting the esteem of every worthy member of the Hested community.

  “Close the door, Sergeant,” ordered Harrison. “Now, Mrs. Tarrack, where is Clem?”

  “In bed,” was the answer. “He is ill.”

  “I must see him.”

  “You can’t, I tell you, he is too ill.”

  “Where is his room?”

  “You shan’t see him,” cried the woman.

  “I’m afraid I must,” answered Harrison, realising that the woman had kept her eyes fixed on a small door at the side of the cottage. He jumped suddenly to his feet and, before either of the others could prevent him, had thrown the door open. It revealed a tiny room, the main furniture being an iron bedstead which showed no signs of any occupant.

  “I thought as much,” said Harrison. “This is your son’s room, isn’t it?”

  The woman seemed to have lost all powers of resistance after Harrison’s discovery and answered feebly, “Yes.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and then burst out, “I wish to God I did.”

  “Then why did you lie to me? I am trying to find him.”

  “I know,” said the woman. “To do him some harm.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They told me.”

  Harrison looked at Sergeant Rutley.

  “Not him,” said the woman. “But everybody knows you have come here to take him away to prison.”

  “I want to speak to him first,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, but take him away afterwards.”

  “I’m afraid you are right, Mrs. Tarrack,” said Harrison, solemnly.

  “You see,” cried the woman. “Then why torture me?”

  “Mrs. Tarrack,” said Harrison, “something very serious has happened. That Clem had some part in it there is no doubt. If I knew what that part was I could help him.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I swear I don’t.”

  “I realise that, Mrs. Tarrack, and I certainly do not wish to torture you, but I must tell you that you could have prevented it happening at all.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You could have stopped Clem going out last night.”

  “But—” started the woman.

  “Mrs. Tarrack, I must have the truth, if I am to help Clem. Believe me, I want to do everything I can for both him and you.”

  “I tried to stop him,” said Mrs. Tarrack, despairingly.

  “Well?”

  “After you had called here I knew something was wrong and so, when we had both gone to bed, I listened. When I heard him moving I came downstairs and saw him creeping out. I begged him on my knees not to go out, but he pushed me on one side, me, his mother, and wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Has he stayed out like this before?”

  “No.”

  “But he has been out during the night?”

  “Yes,” said the woman, after some hesitation.

  “Often?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did not try to stop him?”

  “I thought there was no harm in it.”

  “Although the whole village trusted you to see that nothing happened to him?”

  “He was always asleep in his bed when I came down in the morning.”

  “You were afraid to stop him,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, I was afraid,” answered the woman, defiantly. “If you must know, there was something he wanted, something to drink. He had to have it. He could not do without it. If you had sat here, as I have, and watched him getting restless, just waiting for the evening to finish so that he could go out and feel better again, you would know what it meant.”

  “I think I realise,” said Harrison, gently.

  “I tried to help him, but it was pitiable to watch him. He cried sometimes. I didn’t dare tell anybody in Hested, and I just hoped for the best. I did wrong, of course I did.”

  Harrison looked pityingly at the woman. There was no object in prolonging the interview. It seemed certain now that Clem Tarrack was somewhere in the caves.

  “Tell me what has happened,” said Mrs. Tarrack, suddenly.

  “Better not,” said Harrison.

  “I can stand it,” was the reply. “But I must know.”

  “A girl has been murdered,” said Harrison, quietly.

  The woman looked wildly at Harrison for a moment and then, with iron self-control, walked across to the door. Throwing it open wide, she said, “I see. You won’t want to talk to me any more now, will you?”

  Chapter XXII

  Death And Capture

  Harrison and Rutley rejoined Henry and Peary outside the cottage. By this time there were about twenty people standing around the gate. They glowered at the strangers, and one of them with the physique of a village blacksmith, muttered audibly, “Are we going to put up with them?”

  Sergeant Rutley looked fiercely at the man. He had obviously been impressed by the conversation in Mrs. Tarrack’s cottage, for he said, sternly, “Now then, Huggett, none of that. Don’t you or anybody try to obstruct Mr, Harrison in the performance of his duty.”

  The crowd wilted with surprise, but the Hercules addressed as Huggett was not so easily suppressed, and replied, “I like that from you, Rutley.”

  “And you won’t like something from me,” came the majestic reply, “if you start to argue with the law. Now clear away, all of you. There’s nothing to see and nothing to hear.”

  The crowd immediately began to disperse, in a shame-faced manner, and even Huggett, thinking better of a remark he was about to make to Rutley, turned tail and followed them.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Harrison. “I realise
how unpleasant this job must be to you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” answered Rutley, “I am sorry I didn’t see the thing more clearly at the start.”

  “Now,” said Harrison, to the three of them, “our next move is to the War Memorial.”

  “Are you going to watch there as well, sir?” asked the sergeant, with surprise.

  “We were all going to watch there, Sergeant,” answered Harrison.

  “The War Memorial, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “But anyone would think you expected something to come up out of the ground, sir.”

  “Exactly, Sergeant,” said Harrison, receiving in turn a look which might convey extreme pity for the demented.

  As they turned into the narrow road which passed along the bottom of the field on the higher slope of which the white cross was cut, they saw a small motor-car.

  “What idiot left that there?” asked Harrison, angrily.

  “No idea, sir,” answered Rutley. “Nothing to do with me.”

  “Dash ahead and get it moved, Henry,” said Harrison. “Have it parked in the village somewhere, anywhere but here.”

  Henry ran forward and so speedily did he carry out his instructions, that, by the time the others had reached the footpath which led up the side of the hill to the memorial, the car passed them, driven by a young man who smiled at Harrison as he passed.

  Henry was wreathed in smiles as he greeted his master. “Metman, sir,” he announced, “Scotland Yard.”

  “Yes, I saw who it was, Henry,” answered Harrison. “He ought to know better than that. What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Henry. “I just gave him your message, sir, and off he went.”

  Peary marvelled at the series of expressions which crossed the face of Sergeant Rutley. Horror at the issuing of orders to anyone coming from Scotland Yard was succeeded by overwhelming astonishment that such orders should be so promptly obeyed. This Clay Harrison must be someone superhuman to have such authority. Indeed, from this point the sergeant treated him with almost overpowering deference.