He ran the car up upon the grass and got out. The police-car drew up into the shelter of a little quarry on the opposite side of the road. When the observers came up with him, Wimsey was already rolling back the rug and pulling out the bicycle.
‘Ye’ve made verra gude time,’ observed the Inspector. ‘It’s jist on 10 o’clock.’
Wimsey nodded. He ran up on to the higher ground and surveyed the road and the hills to left and right. Not a soul was to be seen — not so much as a cow or a sheep. Though they were only just off a main road and a few hundred yards from a farm, the place was as still and secret as the heart of a desert. He ran down again to the car, flung the painting-kit upon the grass, opened the door of the tonneau and clutched ruthlessly the huddled form of the Chief Constable who, more dead than alive after his disagreeable journey, hardly needed to feign the stiffness which was cramping him in every limb. Hoisted in a dismal bundle on Wimsey’s back, he made a last lurching stage of his progress, to be dumped with a heavy thud on the hard granite, at the edge of the incline.
‘Wait there,’ said Wimsey, in a menacing tone, ‘and don’t move, or you’ll fall into the river.’
The Chief Constable dug his fingers into a bunch of heather and prayed silently. He opened his eyes, saw the granite sloping sharply away beneath him, and shut them again. After a few minutes, he felt himself enveloped in a musty smother of rug. Then came another pause, and the sound of voices and heartless laughter. Then he was deserted again. He tried to imagine what was happening and guessed, rightly, that Wimsey was secreting the bicycle somewhere. Then the voices came back, and a few muttered curses suggested that somebody was setting up an easel with unpractised hands. More laughter. Then the rug was twitched from his head and Wimsey’s voice announced, ‘You can come out now.’
Sir Maxwell retreated cautiously on hands and knees from the precipice, which, to his prejudiced eyes, appeared to be about two hundred feet in depth, rolled over and sat up.
‘Oh, God!’ he said, rubbing his legs. ‘What have I done to deserve all this?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Wimsey. ‘If you had been really dead, you know, you wouldn’t have noticed it. But I didn’t like to go as far as that. Well, now we’ve got an hour and a half, I ought to paint the picture, but, as that is beyond me, I thought we might have a little picnic. There’s some grub in the other car. They’re just bringing it up.’
‘I could do with something to drink,’ said Sir Maxwell.
‘You shall have it. Hullo! Somebody’s coming. We’ll give them a start. Get under the rug again, sir.’
The distant clack of a farm-lorry was making itself heard in the distance. The Chief Constable hurriedly snatched up the rug and froze. Wimsey sat down before the easel and assumed brush and palette.
Presently the lorry loomed into sight over the bridge. The driver, glancing across with natural interest at the spot where the tragedy had taken place, suddenly caught sight of the easel, the black hat and the conspicuous cloak. He gave vent to one fearful yell and rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The lorry went leaping and crashing forward, scattering the stones right and left in its mad progress. Wimsey laughed. The Chief Constable sprang up to see what was happening and laughed too. In a few minutes the rest of the party joined them, so agitated with laughter that they could scarcely hold the parcels they were carrying.
‘Och, mon!’ said Dalziel, ‘but that was grand! That was young Jock. Did ye hear the skelloch he let oot? He’s away noo tae tell the folks at Clauchaneasy that auld Campbell’s ghaist is sittin’ up pentin’ pictures at the Minnoch.’
‘I trust the poor lad will come to no harm with his lorry,’ observed the Fiscal. ‘He appeared to me to be driving at a reckless pace.’
‘Never mind him,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Lads like that have nine lives. But I’m dying of hunger and thirst, if you are not. Half-past five is a terrible hour for breakfast.’
The picnic was a cheerful one, though it was a little disturbed by the return of Jock, supported by a number of friends, to view the phenomenon of a ghost in broad daylight.
‘This is getting rather public,’ said Wimsey.
Sergeant Dalziel grunted, and strode down to warn the spectators off, his stalwart jaws still champing a wedge of veal and ham pie. The hills returned to their wonted quiet.
At 11.25 Wimsey rose regretfully.
‘Corpse-time,’ he said. ‘Here, Sir Maxwell, is the moment when you go bumpety-bump into the water.’
‘Is it?’ said the Chief Constable, ‘I draw the line there.’
‘It would make you rather a wet-blanket on the party,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, we’ll suppose it done. Pack up, you languid aristocrats, and return to your Rolls-Royce, while I pant and sweat upon this confounded bicycle. We had better take away the Morris and the rest of the doings. There’s no point in leaving them.’
He removed Campbell’s cloak and changed the black hat for his own cap, then retrieved the bicycle from its hiding-place, and strapped the attaché-case to the carrier. With a grunt of disgust he put on the tinted spectacles, threw his leg across the saddle and pedalled furiously away. The others packed themselves at leisure into the two cars. The procession wound out upon the Bargrennan road.
Nine and a half miles of crawling in the wake of the bicycle brought them to Barrhill. Just outside the village, Wimsey signalled a halt.
‘Look here,’ said he. ‘Here’s where I have to guess. I guess that Ferguson meant to catch the 12.35 here, but something went wrong. It’s 12.33 now, and I could do it. The station is just down that side-road there. But he must have started late and missed it. I don’t know why. Listen! There she comes!’
As he spoke, the smoke of the train came in view. They heard her draw up into the station. Then, in a few minutes, she panted away again.
‘Well on time,’ said Wimsey. ‘Anyway, we’ve missed her now. She’s a local as far as Girvan. Then she turns into an express, only stopping at Maybole before she gets to Ayr. Then she becomes still more exalted by the addition of a Pullman Restaurant Car, and scorns the earth, running right through to Paisley and Glasgow. Our position is fairly hopeless, you see. We can only carry on through the village and wait for a miracle.’
He remounted and pedalled on, glancing back from time to time over his shoulder. Presently, the sound of an overtaking car made itself heard. An old Daimler limousine, packed with cardbord dress-boxes, purred past at a moderate twenty-two or three miles and hour. Wimsey let it pass him, then, head down and legs violently at work, swung in behind it. In another moment, his hand was on the ledge of the rear window, and he was free-wheeling easily in its wake. The driver did not turn his head.
‘A-ah!’ said Macpherson, ‘It’s our friend Clarence Gordon, by Jove! And him tellin’ us he’d passed the man on the road. Ay, imph’m, an’ he wad be tellin’ nae mair nor less than the truth. We’ll hope his lordship’s no killt.’
‘He’s safe enough,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘providing his tyres hold out. That’s a very long-headed young man, for all his blether. At this rate, we’ll be beating the train all right. How far is it to Girvan?’
‘Aboot twelve miles. We ought tae pass her at Pinmore. She’s due there at 12.53.’
‘Let’s hope Clarence Gordon keeps his foot down. Go gently, Macpherson. We don’t want to overtake him.’
Clarence Gordon was a careful driver, but acted nobly up to expectation. He positively put on a spurt after passing Pinwherry, and as they attacked the sharp rise to Pinmore, they caught sight of the black hinder-end of the train labouring along the track that ran parallel and close to the road. As they topped the hill, and left the train behind them, Wimsey waved his hat. They span merrily along, bearing to the left and winding down towards the sea. At five minutes past one, the first houses of Girvan rose about them. The pursuer’s hearts beat furiously as the train now caught them up again on their right and rushed past them towards Girvan Station. At the end of the town, Wimsey let
go his hold on the car, sprinting away for dear life to the right down the station road. At eight minutes past he was on the platform, with three minutes to spare. The police force, like the ranks of Tuscany, could scarce forbear to cheer. Leaving Dalziel to arrange for the safe keeping of the cars, Macpherson ran to the booking office and took three first-class tickets to Glasgow. As he passed Wimsey on the platform, he saw him unstrapping the attaché-case and heard him cry to the porters in an exaggerated Oxford accent: ‘Heah! portah! label this bicycle for Ayr.’ And as he turned from the booking-window the porter’s urgent voice came right in his ear:
‘One first and a bicycle-ticket to Ayr, and make it quick, laddie. I must be gettin’ back tae my gentleman.’
They tumbled out on to the platform. The bicycle was being bundled into the rear van. They leapt for their carriage. The whistle blew. They were off.
‘Gosh!’ said Wimsey, wiping his face. And then: ‘Damn this thing, it’s like a fly-paper.’
In his left hand, concealed by the hat which he had removed for the sake of coolness, he held something which he now displayed with a grin. It was a luggage-label for Euston.
‘Simple as shelling peas,’ he said laughing. ‘I pinched it while he was wheeling the bike off to the van. All ready gummed, too. They do things handsomely on the L.M.S. Fortunately the pigeon-hole was labelled, so I didn’t have to hunt for it. Well, that’s that. Now we can take a breather. There’s nothing else till we get to Ayr.’
After a stop at Maybole to collect the tickets, the train ran merrily along to Ayr. Almost before it drew up at the platform, Wimsey was out of the train. He ran back to the rear van, with Macpherson hurrying at his heels.
‘Let me have that bicycle out, quick,’ he said to the guard. ‘You’ll see it there. Labelled to Ayr. Here’s the ticket.’
The guard, who was the same man whom Ross had interviewed previously, stared at Wimsey, and appeared to hesitate.
‘It’s a’ richt, guard,’ said Macpherson, ‘I’m a police officer. Let this gentleman have what he wants.’
The guard, with a puzzled look, handed out the bicycle, receiving the ticket in exchange. Wimsey pressed a shilling into his hand and hurried with the bicycle along the platform to a point near the station entrance where the end of the bookstall masked him from the view both of the guard and of the booking-clerk. Dalziel, seeing that Macpherson was involved in explanations with the guard, followed Wimsey quietly, and was in time to see him moisten the Euston luggage-label with an expansive lick and clap it on to the bicycle over the Ayr label. This done, Wimsey marched briskly out, attaché-case in hand, and plunged down the little side-street and into the public convenience. In less than a minute he was out again, minus spectacles, his cap exchanged for the soft felt hat, and wearing the burberry. Passengers were now dashing through the booking-hall to catch the Glasgow train. Wimsey joined them and purchased a third-class ticket to Glasgow. Dalziel, panting on his heels, purchased four. By the time he had paid for them, Wimsey was gone. The Chief Constable and the Fiscal, waiting near the hoarding at the head of the side-bays, received a cheerful wink from Wimsey as he strolled up and planted the bicycle against the hoarding. They were probably the only people who noticed this manoeuvre, for the Pullman Car had by now been attached to the train, and the platform was filled with passengers, porters and luggage. Wimsey, his hands before his face lighting his cigarette, wandered away towards the head of the train. Doors slammed. Dalziel and Macpherson skipped into a compartment. Wimsey followed. The Chief Constable and the Fiscal did likewise. The guard shouted ‘Right away!’ and the train moved out again. The whole business had occupied exactly six minutes.
‘There’s another good bicycle gone west,’ said Wimsey.
‘No,’ said Macpherson. ‘I saw what ye’d be after an’ I warned a porter tae send it back tae Gatehouse. It belongs tae the constable, and he wad not care tae be wantin’ it,’ he added, thriftily.
‘Splendid, I say — it’s all gone rather prettily so far, don’t you think?’
‘Charmingly,’ said the Fiscal, ‘but you’re not forgetting, Lord Peter, that this train doesn’t get into St. Enoch till 2.55, and that, according to these motor-people — er — Sparkes & Crisp — Mr. Ferguson was in their show-rooms at ten minutes to three?’
‘That’s what they say,’ replied Wimsey, ‘but Ferguson didn’t say that. He said “About three”. I fancy, with luck, we may be able to reconcile those two statements.’
‘And how about that other ticket you’ve got there?’ put in Sir Maxwell. ‘That’s the thing that’s been worrying me. The ticket from Gatehouse to Glasgow.’
‘It doesn’t worry me,’ said Wimsey, confidently.
‘Oh, well,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘if you’re pleased, we’re pleased.’
‘I have not enjoyed anything so much for a long time,’ said the Fiscal, who seemed quite unable to get over his delight in the excursion. ‘I ought to be sorry to see the net closing round this poor Mr. Ferguson, but I must admit that I find myself a prey to excitement.’
‘Yes — I’m sorry for Ferguson too,’ answered Wimsey. ‘I wish you hadn’t reminded me, sir. But it can’t be helped, I’d be sorrier still if it was Farren, for instance. Poor beggar! This business will tie him by the leg for ever, I’m afraid. Opportunity doesn’t come twice. No; the only thing that’s really worrying me is the possibility of this train’s getting in late.’
The train, however, ran most creditably to time, and drew into St. Enoch at 2.55 to the minute. Wimsey was out of it at once and led his party along the platform at a great pace.
As they passed the entrance to the station hotel, he turned to Sir Maxwell.
‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘though I don’t absolutely know, that it was at this point that Ferguson caught sight of Miss Cochran and Miss Selby and their party. They were probably just emerging from their lunch, and he guessed that their friends had come along to meet their train at Glasgow.’
He broke off to wave frantically to a taxi. The whole five of them crammed into it, and Wimsey directed the driver to set him down in the street where Messrs. Sparkes & Crisp had their show-rooms.
‘And drive like blazes,’ he added.
At five minutes past three he tapped on the glass. The driver pulled up and they all scrambled out on to the pavement. Wimsey paid off the taxi and headed off at a brisk pace for the motor show-rooms a few yards away.
‘Don’t let’s all go in in a bunch,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Sir Maxwell, and the others can drift in afterwards.’
Messrs. Sparkes & Crisp possessed the usual kind of establishment, filled with tall show-cases exhibiting motoring gadgets. On the right was a counter, where a lad was earnestly discussing with a customer the rival merit of two different brands of shock-absorber. Through an archway appeared a glittering array of motor-cycles and side-cars. A frosted-glass door on the left appeared to lead to an inner office.
Wimsey darted silently in with Sir Maxwell and disappeared behind a show-case. The lad and the customer continued their discussion. After about a minute, Wimsey emerged again and strode wrathfully to the counter.
‘See here, sonnie,’ he said, peremptorily, ‘do you want to do any business today, or don’t you? I’ve got an appointment and I can’t wait here all afternoon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve been hanging about here for the last ten minutes.’
‘Very sorry, sir. What can I do for you?’
Wimsey brought out his brown-paper parcel from the attaché-case.
‘You’re agents for these magnetos?’
‘Yes, sir. That will be our Mr. Saunders. Excuse me one minute, sir. Call him down, sir.’
The youth dashed to the frosted-glass door, leaving Wimsey to endure the furious stare of the specialist in shock-absorbers.
‘Will you come this way, sir?’
Wimsey, attaching his party to him with a glance, plunged through the door and was conducted to a small office where ‘our Mr. Saunders’ sat,
in company with a typist.
Mr. Saunders was a fresh-faced young man with the Eton-and-Oxford manner. He greeted Wimsey like one welcoming an old schoolfriend after many years’ absence. Then he glanced beyond him to Sergeant Dalziel, and his breezy gusto seemed to suffer a slight diminution.
‘Look here, old horse,’ said Wimsey, ‘you’ve seen this magneto before, I fancy?’
Mr. Saunders looked at the magneto and its number rather helplessly, and said:
‘Yes, yes, oh, yes, to be sure. Quite. Number XX/47302. Yes. When did we have Number XX/47302 through our hands, Miss Madden?’
Miss Madden referred to a card-index file.
‘It came in for repairs a fortnight ago, Mr. Saunders. It belongs to Mr. Ferguson of Gatehouse. He brought it in himself. Defect in armature winding. Returned to him the day before yesterday.’
‘Yes — exactly. Our fellows at the shops reported a defect in the armature winding. Quite. I hope it is quite O.K. now, Mr. — er—’
‘After that,’ said Wimsey, ‘you may remember getting a visit from my friend here, Sergeant Dalziel.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Mr. Saunders. ‘Quite so. You’re very well, I hope, Sergeant?’
‘You told him then,’ said Wimsey, ‘that Mr. Ferguson came in here about ten minutes to three.’
‘Did I? Oh, yes — I remember. Mr. Crisp called me in. You remember, Miss Madden? Yes. But I didn’t say that. Birkett said that — the young man in the show-room, don’t you know. Said the customer had been waiting ten minutes. Yes. I didn’t see the chappie when he came in, you know. I found him waiting when I got back from lunch. I was a little late that day, I think. Yes. Lunching with a customer. Business, and all that sort of thing. Yes. Mr. Crisp rather hauled me over the coals, I remember. Ha, ha!’
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