by Peter Baron
He made three calls to different parts of London before he replaced the receiver. All of them were brief, and all of diem ended with the same phrase, “And for God’s sake, come quickly.” The varying ways in which they were received caused him a faint smile, but he refrained from comment and, his preparations finished, walked slowly out of the Post Office.
He suddenly realized that he was looking on the Surrey countryside for perhaps the last time, but curiously the knowledge brought him only a feeling of peace. The world that he was leaving was one that had done little for him, and although he had taken his toll of it the payment had left a bitter taste.
Out on the London road, he set his face towards Brighton and began the last stage of his journey.
At the same moment Sergeant Woods, of the Surrey Constabulary, had a puncture that delayed him and resulted in promotion.
It was the Sergeant’s custom to cycle backwards and forwards between his home and the station, and he had just reached the green-walled tunnel that leads to the Market Square of Reigate when he heard the unpleasant hiss that heralds a deflating tire.
Sergeant Woods descended and addressed a few words to a fortunately non-existent audience in which he whole-heartedly damned flinty roads, Highway Committees, tires and bicycle makers. It was at that point that he remembered he had lent his tool bag to his son. Therefore he damned his son, and turned round to seek assistance elsewhere.
He found it, or thought he had, in the shape of a lorry drawn up on the other side of the road and, leaning his bicycle against the wall, walked across to try and borrow some solution and patches.
He was already framing a further indictment against the Highways Committee when he realized that the lorry had no occupant. Sergeant Woods said, “Damn!” and meant it. He began to ponder a point of etiquette, namely, whether it was playing the game to apprehend a man for leaving a lorry in a place where parking is not permitted, from whom one had been about to seek assistance.
He came to the conclusion that it was not, and was on the point of retiring when he noticed some dark stains on the driving wheel of the car. As he remarked, tritely, on a later occasion, “There are stains and stains,” and these were undoubtedly stains. To be exact, blood stains.
He looked at the lorry thoughtfully, and having made quite sure that what he saw on the driving wheel were stains and not merely stains, took out his notebook and walked round to look at the identification plate.
Staring down at the mud-covered plate he frowned, half afraid to congratulate himself on his find. He had been present when the Inspector in charge had received the warning to all stations concerning the missing van, and, after all, this was a threeton Ford van, and there was blood on the driving wheel.
Turning the pages of his notebook he came to the details he had jotted down earlier in the day concerning Ford Van No. LO9721, and stooping down scraped the mud off the number plate to reveal—LO9721.
Sergeant Woods looked round him warily. This was a moment for action certainly, but cautious action. His was so cautious that it almost ceased to be action, but his reward was in heaven only. After ten minutes’ search he abandoned his day dream of arresting the Colonel single-handed, and dumping his bicycle in the rear of the van, took the wheel and set out for the station.
As he explained to the Inspector, it was “just a matter of using the eyes God gave you, nothing more.” His superior officer agreed, but suggested that Sergeant Woods used the mouth God gave him too frequently. A remark which shattered the other’s faith in man’s humanity to man.
Listening to the Inspector’s telephone call to the Central Branch, he reflected bitterly that the “Yard” got “all the plums,” and that this particular case should, by rights, be dealt with by the County Constabulary. It would at least give a “good man” a chance.
He made the same remark an hour later to Inspector Keating when that person arrived in a car with Superintendent Kaye and two of the Squad. Keating ignored the remark and, having seen two more of the Squad’s cars pull up beside the first, took Kaye for a walk round the market square.
And so it was that the dusk of that day found Keating and the Superintendent standing in the market square before the door of the “White Hart” Hotel, reflecting on the cul-de-sac into which they had been led.
Beyond the finding of the lorry they had had no success, but success was something that both of them had long since decided was a relative quantity.
On Keating their persistent reverses had an unusual effect. So unusual that he was positively cheerful, and became imbued with a desire to sing. And did so.
“‘On wings of song, beloved,’” he bawled, and his bowler hat was promptly jammed over his ears.
“You can either be a tenor,” said Superintendent Kaye kindly, “a sweet melodious tenor, or else a rich resounding baritone, but what you cannot be is a bronchial bassoon.”
Keating regarded his superior gloomily.
“Would you like me to sing ‘In a Perishing Market?’” he asked aptly and, readjusting his hat, resumed his solo. As a proof of his independence he raised his voice an octave and overwhelmed whatever little opposition there might have been at that time of the evening.
He had reached that part of the song in which “the Ganges is flowing” when he paused abruptly and turned on Kaye with an unfriendly stare.
“Reigate,” he said, “is a nice place, a pretty place, a homely place, but apart from that I’ve got no use for it. Are you expecting the Colonel to dash up and beg you to put the bracelets on him?”
Kaye eyed the other’s sturdy figure amiably. He had a great regard for Samuel Keating, a regard born of a long association, and one that he knew was reciprocated. Keating’s friendship was one of the things on which Kaye set any value, and his brain one of the things on which he set no reliance.
“Your brain isn’t as large as your feet, neither is it so powerful as your voice, but if you can’t answer your own questions in five minutes, I’ll do it for you. ‘Life is the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises.’ That was said by a more talented bearer of your name. You ought to read Butler, Sam.”
Keating began to dean his pipe. “If you’re in one of your My-dear-Watson moods, go right ahead. I love to see you happy, but I still don’t see why we’re standing here—thirsty.”
And he was not enlightened until a small man appeared suddenly at Kaye’s elbow.
“Just had a wireless, sir,” he reported. “Dennis Teyst left the Hotel Gorringe at seven o’clock, traveling in a blue Chrysler. Our people lost track of him at Croydon. Ralph Teyst left his flat at five past seven and got to Victoria at seven fifteen. He took a ticket to Reigate, and we’ve got a man on the train. The other fellow, Ian, left his flat at ten past, and is coming down by a later train. There’s one of our people on that, too.”
Kaye nodded and turned to Inspector Keating.
“Anything stirring in the undergrowth?” he asked politely.
“Go on. Ill buy it.”
“I seem to remember you telling me that the Colonel was going to bridge the gulf with emeralds,” murmured Kaye, and Keating metaphorically kicked himself.
“My brain’s decaying,” he observed.
“The process started on the fifth of October forty-odd years ago,” Kaye grinned. The fifth was Keating’s birthday. “I hope that our people will trace at least one of the Teysts to the Colonel, but it’s doubtful. They know they are being foxed, I fancy.”
He glanced at his watch. It was then a quarter past eight, and he strolled across the square to the nearest of the Squad’s cars, and stood watching the man who sat in the back seat with a pair of earphones on his head. They were connected to a small black box on the floor of the car, and periodically the Squad’s “Sparks” held up his hand warningly as he “listened” in.
At a quarter past nine Kaye received the message that he had been expecting. The Squad had lost trace of Ralph and Ian after they left Reigate Station.
“Any suggestions, Sam?” he asked.
Keating scratched his head. “House to house search,” he suggested. “How many of the Squad are down here?”
“Ten, sir,” answered the operator, and removed his earphones.
“Well, that’s enough to comb this one-eyed show. Go to it, boy.”
The man saluted, and leaving the car hurried across to the group of young men talking on the other side of the square.
As soon as the Squad moved away Keating seated himself on the curb.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Kaye,” he said dogmatically. “George is no fool. This is a blind—maybe to cover a raid.
I’ll lay you any odds you like that George is in Piccadilly or Birmingham—anywhere but Reigate.”
But he was wrong. At the moment that he made the statement the Colonel was in a house less than a mile away, awaiting his brothers, and the end.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ralph Teyst’s life was made up of likes and dislikes in the proportion of about one to one hundred. The only person in the world for whom he felt either affection or admiration was Ralph Teyst, and of the hundred whom he could not tolerate there were none who could wrest pride of place from his three brothers. He envied George his brain, Ian his reserve, and Dennis his figure—particularly the last, since Ralph’s own figure bulged in those places where it should not have bulged and presented a painful contrast to the slim and athletic figure of his younger brother.
Ralph was brooding on those things as he turned into the gateway of “Marske House.” The name itself offended him, because it was so typical of George. Why the devil anyone should name his home “Marske House” passed the comprehension of Ralph. He could see no possible derivation for the name, and to be quite candid, no sense in it. It was an offense to the eye and the reason. So was George.
With which reflection Ralph bowed his head to the wind and plunged on up the drive, and like all fat men, he made hard going of it. So hard, in fact, that when he halted halfway from the house to regain his wind he was in no condition to receive the shock that was in store for him.
It took the form of a tap on the arm, and Ralph jumped as if he had been shot and instinctively reached for his arm-pit. Fortunately Ian spoke, or he would also have jumped—with reason.
“Careful, Tubby,” he said warningly, and stepped out from the shadow of the trees lining the drive. “Sorry I startled you. I came across country and had to scale the wall.”
Ralph, recovering from his shock, glared at his brother. He, too, had been forced to deploy for some time. The Squad had been unpleasantly persistent. He eyed his brother for a full second, conscious of no abiding sense of well-being, and then plunged on again into the wind.
Ian shrugged and fell into step beside him.
“Well, Ralph?”
Ralph’s teeth clicked. It was Ian’s customary greeting, and it annoyed Ralph exceedingly. He was not well. He was a martyr to indigestion, far too fat and appallingly short-winded, and considering that Ian was perfectly aware of these things, Ralph thought that the remark was entirely superfluous. He eyed his brother’s upright figure unfavorably and mooched on.
Which was all Ian had expected. It was their first meeting for a year, but to have expected either cordiality or tolerance from Ralph would have been not merely optimistic, but absolutely imbecile.
Side by side they plodded on, and had almost reached the steps leading to the portico when, as though by common consent, they parted suddenly and stepped back into the shadows on their respective sides of the drive.
Two minutes later a smoothly running Chrysler slid up the drive and came to a standstill before the house.
A tall, slim and very immaculate person climbed from the driving seat, and at once put the car between himself and the two men who had stepped from the shadows.
“Well, Dennis?”
The habitual greeting made Ralph wince, but it came as a relief to the owner of the car. His right hand came slowly out of his raincoat pocket and he nodded.
“Hello, Ian, why the bashful retirement?”
Dennis Teyst, the “baby” of the family was probably the most vicious of the four, but his undeniably effeminate face concealed the fact. Both taller and slimmer than Ian, he had not the other’s graying hair nor yet his sturdy figure, but there was a resemblance more marked perhaps when the slow appraising quality of his eyes became apparent. Their eyes were their sole link with the Colonel and the one feature that repudiated their relationship with Ralph. For Ralph’s eyes were both small and furtive. More furtive than usual at that moment.
“Is this deliberate or accidental?” he asked suddenly, and Dennis, with a cultured accent that owed its origin to mimicry only, answered him.
“Would anyone deliberately choose to meet you on a windy night in a cold drive? Come down to earth. I had a ‘phone call from George.”
“And I,” said Ian.
“Any idea what the old lad wants?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. And we sha’n’t find it by standing in the drive like dummies.” Ralph glared at his younger brother’s beautifully creased trousers. “Tailor’s dummies!”
Dennis smiled and took a key from his pocket. It was a relic of the days when all three with George had been joint tenants of the house that none of them had entered since they last parted. Walking up the steps he fitted the key into the lock of the door and turned it.
The others followed him slowly and halted just inside the dark hall. The silence of his companions and the house in which they stood did not affect Ian, and Ralph was too busy with uncharitable thoughts of his brothers to notice anything else, but the quietness and. absence of light had its effect on Dennis.
“Maybe standing in a dark and drafty hall amuses you blokes,” he observed, “but it doesn’t reduce me to tears of ecstasy. What’s the general plan of campaign? Sit pretty till our George chooses to show up?”
“Exactly that, and he won’t keep you long,” said a voice from behind them, and all three turned to see the Colonel standing in the doorway of the room that had been his study.
He had long since discarded his disguise and stood there pallid and haggard, clad in a loose dressing gown.
The effort of standing seemed to exhaust him, and he leant back weakly against the door. It was Ian who moved forward to his assistance.
“What’s the trouble, George? Stopped a blighty one?”
“A scratch,” nodded the Colonel. “Come in here, I want to talk to you three.”
He leant on Ian’s arm, and with his aid walked to the chair in which he had been sitting when they arrived. Ralph and Dennis, following more leisurely, betrayed no particular interest, but George had not expected interest. At least, not at that part of the proceedings.
The room in which they stood was a long one with French windows looking out on to the big garden. The general mustiness of the place told of long disuse, and the dust sheets covering the furniture showed up with startling whiteness in the dusk. A couch had been requisitioned as a bed, and on an adjacent table was the remains of a meal.
George motioned his brothers to come closer. He conveyed the impression that he was saving his voice to speak only those things that were of importance.
The awkward pause irked Ralph, and he spoke testily.
“What is it this time? I suppose you want help in some form or other. You pull a fool raid like that Plaza stunt and then whine to us to get you out. What is it? Money?”
“No thanks, I’ve all the money I want,” answered the Colonel, but it obviously cost him an effort to answer, and to answer civilly.
“A night nurse?” suggested Dennis.
“I’m beyond the need of nurses or doctors,” George replied quietly, and the only regrets were Ian’s.
“Dangerous?”
“Fatal.”
“Good God, not——”
“Exactly. It needn’t worry you, Ian, and I don’t suppose it will worry Ralph.”
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p; It did not. And if Dennis was disturbed by what he had heard he concealed it admirably.
“I gather there was some general idea hatching in the master brain when you summoned the family, George? I mean, just a suggestion. You didn’t invite us because you liked our company, or because you wanted to tell us that we weren’t mentioned in your will?”
The Colonel looked at Dennis wearily.
“No I didn’t call you here to tell you that. I called you here to bequeath you jointly the proceeds of my last—er—little effort.”
He saw the interest in two faces and smiled.
“And to outline a stipulation.”
The interest unaccountably flagged. Ralph in that moment had a premonition of what was to follow, and it tinged his reflection unpleasantly. Apparently George had got the brotherly love bug again, and badly. Which made things all the harder to bear, because at that moment Ralph’s only emotion with regard to his brothers was that of tolerance under difficulties.
His “What is it?” and Dennis’ face, told their own story. With Ian it was different. Not even their quarrel had lessened his affection for his eldest brother.
“You all know I’ve pulled off a pretty useful coup,” said George.
“And paid a pretty useful price for it,” said Ian.
“The price varies with the purchase. I have no regrets unless it is for what I see in all your eyes.”
“Tears?” suggested Dennis flippantly.
“Enmity. It makes me wonder if what I am doing is worth the effort.”
Ralph sneered. “You’re making me wonder if what you’re doing is worth all this cant.”
The Colonel coughed suddenly and raised a handkerchief to his lips. As he did so his dressing gown fell open revealing a clumsy bandage across his chest.
Ian stared at the bloodstained wad of linen and frowned.
“Something’ll have to be done to that, George. Where did you get it?”
“Right lung. You can’t do anything, I tell you, I’m through. It’s a matter of hours, and I’ve got a good deal to say before——”