Terror Tower

by Gerald Verner

‘This is Dr. Peters, our police doctor,’ said Hartley as he came up and introduced Lowe.

  The doctor grunted, but made no other acknowledgment of the introduction. He was a man of medium height with stooping shoulders, and the owner of an unusually long and skinny neck that protruded from a collar several sizes too large for him. His eyes were pale blue and watery, and he had a habit of sniffing every few minutes as though suffering from a perpetual cold.

  The superintendent took him over to the dead man in the ditch, and after staring down at him for a second or two, the doctor dropped on to one knee.

  ‘Give me a little more light, will you?’ he said sharply, and Lowe added the light of his own torch to that of Hartley’s.

  Dr. Peters’ examination did not last long.

  ‘He died from a bullet wound in the head,’ he announced, rising to his feet. ‘It was fired at close range, and has passed right through the brain, making its exit at the base of the skull.’

  ‘Can you tell us approximately how long the man has been dead?’ asked Hartley.

  The doctor pursed his lips.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ he asked, and supplied the answer to his question by looking at his watch. ‘H’m! Twenty minutes past three. I should say he met his death somewhere between eleven and twelve. It’s impossible to tell within an hour or so, but he’s certainly been dead for over three hours. I can’t be more accurate at the moment. There’ll have to be a post mortem, of course, and then I’ll be able to tell you more about it.’

  ‘You say there was nothing in his pockets, sir?’ said Hartley, turning to the dramatist, and Lowe shook his head.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied.

  The superintendent frowned.

  ‘I wonder who the fellow is?’ he muttered. ‘The first thing we’ve got to do is to establish his identity.’

  He scratched his chin.

  ‘We might as well get him out of that ditch, anyway,’ he continued. ‘Give me a hand, will you, Walsh?’

  The constable, who had been standing by in silence, moved forward to the assistance of his superior. Between them they lifted the limp form out of the ditch and laid it down on the path at the side of the road. As soon as the body had been moved Lowe leaned forward and made a swift search of the place where it had lain.

  ‘There’s no sign of a weapon,’ he remarked when he had finished, ‘so the remote possibility that it was suicide can be ruled out.’

  He walked over to the dead man and made a more careful examination than he had been able to do previously. He paid considerable attention to the hands and to the soles of the shoes. He found nothing that offered even the suggestion of a clue.

  ‘I was hoping,’ he said, straightening up, ‘that there would be something that would tell us where this man had been shot.’

  ‘Where?’ said Hartley, rather puzzled.

  Lowe nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I don’t think he was shot here. I think he was brought here after he was dead.’

  ‘What makes you say that, sir?’ asked the superintendent.

  The dramatist pointed to the wound in the dead man’s forehead.

  ‘You can see that he’s lost a considerable amount of blood,’ he said. ‘A great deal more than has run down his face and been soaked up by his collar. Apart from that, the exit wound made by the bullet is a fairly large one. There must have been even more blood from that, and yet if you look at the ditch where he was lying you’ll find that there’s not a trace of blood at all. That, in my opinion, proves that he was not put there until some time after he was dead.’

  ‘I see what you mean, sir,’ said Hartley.

  He went over and peered down into the ditch.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right, sir,’ he continued, coming back, ‘there isn’t a trace of blood.’

  ‘You don’t want me any more, do you?’ broke in Dr. Peters, a little impatiently. ‘Because, if you don’t, I’d like to get back. I had a pretty hard day yesterday, and to-day is going to be equally as bad. I’ll let you have my preliminary report by nine o’clock.’

  ‘If you wait a minute or two, Doctor,’ said the superintendent, ‘I’ll come back with you. There’s not much more we can do here.’ He beckoned to the constable. ‘You’ll wait here, Walsh, with the body until the ambulance arrives,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Walsh, and the expression of his face showed that he did not relish the job that had been allotted to him.

  ‘Were you thinking of going back to London, Mr. Lowe?’ asked Hartley, and the dramatist after a momentary hesitation shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think I shall stop in the neighbourhood for a few days; anyway, until after the inquest. Is there an inn or anything round here where my secretary and I could put up?’

  ‘There’s the Crossed Hands, in Stonehurst,’ said the superintendent. ‘It’s a very quaint old place, but I don’t know whether it will suit you.’

  ‘If they can take us in it sounds admirable,’ said Lowe.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be able to take you in all right,’ answered Hartley. ‘They don’t get many visitors at Stonehurst. A man called Japper owns the place.’

  ‘We’ll knock up Mr. Japper,’ said Lowe, ‘and see what he can do for us.’

  The superintendent issued his final instructions to the constable and, accompanied by Dr. Peters, followed Lowe and White across to the waiting cars.

  ‘I’d like to see you in the morning, sir,’ he said as Lowe climbed into his own car. ‘You might give me a phone if you fix up at the Crossed Hands, and I’ll come down.’

  Lowe promised and the superintendent said good night.

  Starting the engine, the dramatist backed the powerful car a few yards, swung the long radiator in the direction of the village, and pressed his foot on the accelerator pedal. As the machine gathered speed he heard the noisy chug-chug of the doctor’s car as it drove off towards Hythe.

  Constable Walsh watched the two cars receding in the distance and settled down to his lonely vigil, and as he waited for the arrival of the ambulance a man who had been watching and listening from the branch of a big elm that grew near the spot slipped noiselessly down from his place of concealment and moved cautiously off into the darkness of the night.

  When he judged that he was out of earshot of the constable he began to run, and continued running until he arrived breathless at his destination.

  Chapter Five – Shots in the Night

  The Crossed Hands was in darkness when Trevor Lowe and White arrived, but after their third knock a window was raised and a hoarse voice enquired what they wanted. Lowe explained, and the owner of the voice withdrew his head from the upper window, and after a delay of about five minutes, during which White became convinced that he had fallen asleep again, he appeared at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said huskily, holding up the oil-lamp he carried, so that they could see their way; and they crossed the threshold into a narrow passage, on either side of which were low archways that apparently led into the bars, for the dramatist caught a glimpse of counters with bottles and glasses.

  The man who had admitted them opened a door at the side of the right-hand arch and ushered them into a comfortably furnished bar-parlour. The age of the place was apparent from the heavy oak beams which crossed the low ceiling and the discoloured stone work of the wall. Obviously very little had been done to the original building — at any rate this part of it — for there was no sign of even a suggestion of repairs or modern improvement. It was as it had been in the eighteenth century when the smugglers had met in the tap-room and made their plans to outwit the Preventive men.

  The man who had let them in set the oil-lamp down on a table and eyed them a little suspiciously. He was a big fat fellow, with a large face that was nearly the hue of mahogany. His eyes were small and red-rimmed, and he was almost completely bald except for a thin wisp of reddish hair which stuck up in a tuft above his high forehead. Bloated was the word that leaped to Lowe’
s mind as he took in his appearance, and it was a very apt description.

  ‘Are you Mr. Japper?’ he asked, and the other nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s me,’ he replied, and his voice was harsh and surly.

  It gave Lowe the impression that he resented them. It may, of course, have been due to the fact that they had routed him out of his bed at this unearthly hour. But the proprietor of an inn ought to be prepared for these things. Whatever the reason was, Mr. Japper apparently suddenly realised his lack of cordiality, for he added hastily, and in a more conciliatory tone:

  ‘What accommodation did you want, sir?’

  ‘I want two rooms, if you’ve got them,’ said Lowe, ‘and if you can manage it, a meal of some sort.’

  ‘I can manage the rooms all right,’ replied the landlord, ‘but the only thing I can get you, sir, in the way of a meal is bread and cheese and pickles. Will that be all right, sir?’

  ‘That’ll do excellently,’ said the dramatist. ‘Now, is there anywhere we can put the car?’

  ‘There ain’t a proper garage,’ said Mr. Japper, ‘but there’s a barn round the back where it’d be all right.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll show my secretary where it is,’ said Lowe.

  The landlord hesitated for a moment, and Lowe was under the impression that he was rather reluctant to leave him alone. If he was he did not say so, but after a second’s pause walked heavily to the door.

  ‘If you come with me, sir,’ he said, addressing Arnold White, ‘I’ll take you round.’

  The secretary followed him out, and Lowe dropped into a chair and awaited their return. There was something about the landlord’s manner that he did not like, but what it was he would have found it difficult to say. It wasn’t his boorishness, it was something much more subtle than that. Those small red-rimmed unpleasant eyes had been watchful, and he had surprised in them once almost an expression of alarm. The man was afraid of something or other — what? He had reached no satisfactory conclusion by the time White and the landlord came back.

  ‘Shall I show you the rooms now, sir?’ said Mr. Japper and Lowe nodded.

  The landlord walked over to the lamp and picked it up.

  ‘This way, sir,’ he said, leading the way out into the passage, ‘and be careful of them stairs; they’re a bit narrow to those what’s not used to them.’

  The stairs were narrow and steep, almost like a ladder, but they reached the landing without mishap. Passing along a short corridor, Mr. Japper opened a door about half-way along and stood aside for Lowe to enter.

  ‘This is one of the rooms, sir,’ he said. ‘The other’s next door and a bit smaller.’

  Lowe entered and looked round him. It was a low-ceilinged apartment, with panelled walls, and looked none too prepossessing in the flickering light of the landlord’s oil-lamp. A large double-bed occupied most of the space, and facing the door was a latticed window with leaded panes. In one corner was a washstand and dressing-table combined, a cheap rickety affair that had nothing in common with the aged beauty of the old woodwork. This, with the bed and a couple of plain chairs, made up the entire furniture. The floor was polished and bare, except for one rug, rather worn and tattered, that occupied the centre of the room. It was by no means a luxurious apartment, but it was clean.

  ‘This will do for me,’ said Lowe. ‘Let’s have a look at the other room.’

  The second room, slightly smaller and, except that the bed was a single one, was furnished almost exactly the same as the other.

  ‘This will be all right for you, White, won’t it?’ asked the dramatist, looking at his secretary, and White nodded.

  ‘Anything’ll be all right for me,’ he replied. ‘I’m so tired I could sleep on a plank.’

  ‘I suppose we can stay here for as long as we want to?’ said Lowe, addressing the landlord.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ replied Mr. Japper. ‘We don’t get many visitors nowadays. I’ll be only too glad to have you.’

  The tone of his voice, however, belied his words, and once again Lowe saw that momentary expression of fear flash into his little pig-like eyes.

  They fixed on the terms, which were extraordinarily moderate, and returned once more to the bar-parlour.

  ‘If you’ll give me ten minutes, sir,’ said the landlord, ‘I’ll go and get you your food. Would you like anything to drink with it?’

  ‘I think a pint of ale would go down very nicely,’ said Lowe, and the landlord withdrew.

  ‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it?’ remarked Arnold White as his heavy footsteps faded away in silence.

  Lowe shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a fine old place,’ he said, ‘but it’s been neglected. However, I think it’ll suit us very well, and so long as the food is not too bad it will make a very good place to work from.’ He took out his pipe and began to fill it from his pouch.

  ‘You’d better go to town in the morning,’ he went on, stuffing tobacco carefully into the capacious bowl. ‘We shall want some things if we’re going to stay.’

  White nodded, suppressing a yawn.

  ‘It’s morning now,’ he remarked. ‘I wish that chap would hurry up with the food; I’m dying to go to bed.’

  ‘I’m feeling a bit tired myself,’ confessed Lowe.

  ‘I wonder if that fellow in the ditch —’ began White, and stopped as the dramatist held up his hand with a warning gesture.

  ‘Don’t discuss things here,’ he said in a low voice, and jerked his head towards the door. ‘You don’t know how far your voice carries and I don’t want the landlord to hear too much.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said White, taking the hint, and began talking about nothing in particular until Mr. Japper appeared with a laden tray.

  They were both hungry and welcomed the meal. The cheese was good and, embellished with pickled onions and washed down with light ale, formed an excellent repast. When they had finished Lowe rose and brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat.

  ‘Now I think the next thing is bed,’ he remarked, and almost as though he had heard, the stout landlord came in with two lighted candles.

  ‘Have you had everything you require, sir?’ he asked, glancing from one to the other.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said the dramatist.

  ‘Then I’ll say good night, sir,’ replied Mr. Japper. ‘What time would you like to be called?’

  Lowe considered.

  ‘Nine o’clock will do,’ he said. ‘And we’ll have breakfast at half-past.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Japper. ‘Good night to you both.’

  They wished him good night and he withdrew.

  Waiting until his heavy footsteps had ascended the stairs and they heard the closing of his door, they picked up the candle and followed. In the gloomy corridor they parted for the night — or rather for what remained of darkness — and retired to their respective rooms. Lowe undressed immediately and got into bed. To his surprise it was a great deal more comfortable than it looked. The mattress was well sprung and the overlay of feathers embraced his tired limbs with a degree of comfort that should have sent him to sleep at once. Perhaps it was due to this very fact that he remained wakeful. He was unused to a feather bed. He did not consider it healthy and preferred a harder mattress. Whatever it was, he was a long time getting to sleep, and lay staring at the darkness above him, his thoughts going over the events of the evening. Presently, however, he began to feel drowsy, and he was almost on the point of falling into a doze when he became dimly conscious of a sound in the house below. Only half-awake, he wondered vaguely what it could be, and decided that somebody was talking. The low muttered rumble of voices came plainly to his ears, and then as sleep descended on him suddenly all sounds were blotted out . . .

  What it was that woke him he never knew, but he found himself sitting up in bed and staring at the oblong square that marked the position of the window. The dawn was breaking, and in the grey light he saw that one of the latticed panes was open, and half lea
ning through, shadowy and indistinct in that misty light, was the figure of a man. Even as Lowe looked the intruder raised one hand, and instinctively the dramatist threw himself sideways out of the bed.

  Plop! There was a muffled sound and something struck the bed-rail close to where his head had been with a sharp tinkling sound.

  Plop! Plop!

  The man at the window fired again twice, and this time the bullets buried themselves in the pillow. Lowe was on his feet now, and as he made a rush for the window his foot caught against the leg of the bed and he fell sprawling. The crash he made must have frightened the night-marauder, for when he succeeded in scrambling to his feet the window was empty and nothing but the dawn light shining through!

  Chapter Six – Lowe Wonders

  Trevor Lowe hurried over to the window and leaned out. It overlooked the back garden of the Crossed Hands, and beyond this was a vista of meadows and ploughed fields. In the grey haze of the coming day it was difficult to see very clearly, but the dramatist thought that there was a movement in the shadow of a tall hedge. Narrowing his eyes so as to get a better focus, he found that he was not mistaken. A crouching figure was hurrying away, and even as he looked it disappeared round a clump of laurel bushes.

  It was useless attempting to follow. By the time he had put on some clothes and gone downstairs the shooter would have had ample opportunity for getting well away. He turned his attention to the wall of the house, to see how the intruder had managed to get to the window, and discovered that it had been simple enough. A ladder was reared up beside the casement, the top reaching a foot above the sill. Lowe withdrew his head, and going back to the bed, lighted the candle that stood on the little table by the head. He was in the act of blowing out the match when he heard a movement outside the door, and stood rigid. There came a gentle tap, and then White’s voice called softly:

  ‘Hullo! Mr. Lowe! Are you all right?’

  Lowe went quickly over to the door and, unlocking it, pulled it open.

  ‘Come in,’ he said briefly; and as the secretary entered he shut and relocked the door behind him.