by Peter Baron
As a car it was of no use to the Poacher and its loss would not grieve him. Chiefly because it belonged to someone else. At the same time the Squad had a flair for tracing the owners, or last occupiers, of abandoned cars, and the Poacher had his own reasons for not wishing to encounter either the Squad or Inspector Keating. Particularly not the latter.
Keating was not of a forgiving nature and on the subject of their last meeting he had much to forgive. The Poacher smiled in the darkness. He had covered the Colonel’s retreat very effectively on that occasion and there was something ironic in the fact that he had covered it to no purpose. At least, no purpose benefiting himself.
Before a treacherous tire burst had upset his calculations he had had one man, the Colonel, to deal with. Now, the secret of the bracelet’s whereabouts was split up among three others. Not an insurmountable difficulty, but disheartening. Decidedly disheartening.
Reflecting sadly on miscarriages of justice the Poacher extinguished his cigarette and replaced the earphones in the tool box beneath an oily rag. He regarded the installation of that little apparatus as one of the most noteworthy things that he had ever done. Given absolute freedom from interruption he could have enjoyed Inspector Keating’s monologue concerning man’s descent from apes, for much longer.
And Keating’s inspiration was by no means exhausted. In point of fact it was considerably amplified by Brown’s sudden reappearance.
Standing at the head of the steps, Keating observed Brown’s triumphant approach in the Squad’s long gray roadster with homicidal thoughts. There was an expression of contentment on Brown’s face—as he descended—a placid satisfaction that annoyed Keating.
The fact that the roadster had a smaller car in tow did not immediately strike Keating as significant.
“Of course if you like riding up and down the drive, don’t let me spoil your childish pleasure,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “At the same time, what’s the idea of having a motor show at midnight?”
“Found this car at the back of the house, sir,” said Brown.
“Very interesting. Found, you said? Have you been straightened by a night club owner?”
Brown smiled weakly. “Fact, sir.”
“H’m, whose is it?”
“It isn’t Ralph Teyst’s, or Ian Teyst’s, sir, and Dennis was driving a Chrysler.”
Inspector Keating looked at the car and grunted. It was a smart blue saloon and fairly new.
“Are our fellows still combing the grounds?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. The place seems to be deserted.”
“What did you expect, a garden party?”
Keating glared at his subordinate and Brown shifted uncomfortably.
“Put the damn thing in the garage,” Keating continued. “We aren’t trailing that round all night. The local people can trace the owner.”
Brown saluted and got back into the car. Turning it in a circle he headed for the garage, while Keating leant against the porch and muttered profanely.
Under his superior’s derisive eyes Brown backed the Squad’s Benz and uncoupled the other car. Then he opened the garage doors and began to push his find into the blackness of the interior.
Keating, waiting and smoking reflectively, went still further into the matter of Brown’s ancestry. After five minutes he came to the conclusion that Brown had gone to sleep in the garage. Which, without being literally true, was a reasonably accurate hypothesis. Actually he was unconscious. A spanner applied externally invariably induces a certain lassitude in the recipient.
Keating was unaware of that, but as the minutes passed he smiled resignedly and prepared to make Brown a present of further information concerning his lineage.
That was as far as he got. As he stepped forward something smacked against the stonework of the porch and a chip of stone stung his face.
With a startled grunt he leapt backwards and slammed the door as two more bullets ricocheted off the smooth pillars.
At the same moment a lithe figure vaulted into the driving seat of the Squad’s car. Superintendent Kaye was the only man who actually saw its mad career down the drive, but all Reigate heard the powerful engine roaring as the gray car tore through the town.
Even if the engine of the blue saloon had not been tampered with it could not have overtaken the Benz, but Keating lost ten minutes finding out why the car wouldn’t budge from the garage. Having found that out he wasted a further two minutes trying to discover some new and adequate description of what the makers called a Spangler Six. He succeeded. Subsequently he discovered the car’s owner and allowed him to share the secret. But it took the Squad three days to trace their Benz, and when they found it the driving wheel was missing, the tires were slashed to ribbons? and the gasoline tank looked like a nutmeg grater.
Inspector Keating’s remarks on that occasion were not only unreasonable, they were unprintable.
CHAPTER NINE
From the age of five upwards, Ralph Teyst had never allowed any kindly feeling for his fellow men to interfere with the normal course of his life. As far as he was concerned, altruism was one of the things that’ did not pay interest, unless it was five per cent, on the Bank of Hereafter. Consequently the thought that he had probably shaken hands with his brother George on the previous day for the last time,, disturbed neither his thoughts nor his appetite.
He liked his elder brother dead no better than he had liked him living—in fact, George’s greatest sin in Ralph’s eyes, had been that of living at all. All his life George had thought on another plane, and even in death had chosen to complicate what would have otherwise been a perfectly simple bequest.
Staring at the paragraph that announced the finding of George Teyst’s body at his house, Ralph brooded on the fact that he was no nearer to discovering the d’Essinger emeralds than the police were. He could and would have been if the brotherly-love bug had not bitten his brother and resulted in the cryptic contents of the letter that still lay on the table by Ralph’s plate.
The actual message was short and concise. It read:
“My dear Ralph,
“By the time you receive this I shall, I hope, be dead. I do not expect either a wreath or a kindly thought, but I do expect you to resume your old relationship with Ian and Dennis. It rests with you. The enclosed strip of paper which is valueless without their cooperation, may prove more persuasive than
“Your brother,
“GEORGE.”
“‘The enclosed strip of paper which is valueless without their cooperation,’ “ said Ralph wearily. It was, quite. He picked it up and studied it. It was a piece of blue paper three inches long and an inch wide. On it was written in rather shaky letters:
George had been right. By no stretch of imagination could those cryptically arranged letters make any sort of sense. It might be a complete message in itself, in cypher, or part of an ordinary uncoded message, but whatever it was, as it stood, it was valueless.
Silently, but with the utmost concentration, Ralph endeavored to find words that adequately described his dead brother. He failed, and glowered at the report of George’s death. It interested him less than the financial news to which he mechanically turned.
Every morning until a quarter to nine he studied market prices, “preparatory to going to the office.” That was a piece of fiction to which he had rigidly adhered. He had once supplied his daughter with the information that he was “something in the city” and had had the good sense to maintain the illusion. It was George who had foreseen that in later years Barbara might conceivably require some explanation of her father’s mysterious comings and goings, and the vague reference to stockbroking successfully explained away Ralph’s precarious and vacillating income.
Somehow the financial news held no interest for Ralph that morning. The realization that George had spoken nothing but the truth when he said that his brothers would be forced to cooperate, came between him and the newspaper.
Tossing it aside he rose to his feet and took up
the strip of blue paper again. It took him five minutes to realize that looking at it upside down, sideways and back to front was not likely to provide him with a solution. Then he walked across the room and came to a halt before a Turner landscape set almost in the middle of the wall.
It was a copy and a good one, but it interested Ralph as little as it had done on the day it was presented to him. Pushing it aside he revealed a small brass disk set in the wall which, after a complicated system of turns and reverses resulted in a small circular section of the wall swinging out on perfectly oiled hinges. The cavity revealed was lined with steel and contained the few papers that Ralph preserved.
They were love letters. Other people’s and, produced at the right moment, possessing a distinct commercial value. Ralph was no sportsman, but “putting the black” appealed to him as much as “putting the weight” appealed to athletes.
Placing the blue paper in an envelope, he tossed it on top of the letters and closed the safe. He replaced the Turner and stared at it disgustedly, not because he disliked what it portrayed, but because it had been given to him by George—George who could make his influence felt while he himself was no longer alive to exert it.
Ralph dropped into a chair and tried to find a solution that did not exist. He was still trying when Barbara came down to her breakfast.
To most men a beautiful daughter is a possession outmatching all else, unless it be an even more beautiful wife. And most daughters have something to say in the morning to a father, even if it is only “Lend me” or “Buy me.” But these two were above all, original.
Ralph scowled and Barbara seating herself opposite him promptly did her best to forget that such a person as Ralph Teyst existed. To do her justice she was fairly successful. And no one could say that Ralph regretted this state of affairs.
Barbara at that time was an undeniably attractive young person in her twenty-fifth year. In fact, a younger edition of the late Mrs. Ralph Teyst. That was why Ralph detested her. Her dainty shingled head annoyed him nearly as much as the small mouth, slender nose and candid blue eyes beneath their silky lashes and delicate eyebrows. Her smart French shoes, with their short toes and her shapely legs rising from them and disappearing into the knee-length, sleeveless frock of powder blue, irked him. The slender graceful curves of her young body were as gall and wormwood to him because they faithfully copied those of Eleanor Teyst at her daughter’s age.
Eleanor Teyst had lived three years with Ralph before the arrival of a daughter and the chance to gratify her own desire to die. Ralph was responsible for both and the doctor in attendance had commented on it disapprovingly. He also spoke with unwonted directness when Ralph declined to make a decision. Forced to use his own judgment, he saved the child. The death of its mother left Ralph unmoved.
As Barbara well knew, her father had entertained one generous thought of his wife. He was grateful to her for dying. After Barbara had reached the age of sixteen he would have extended the same gratitude to her for performing a like service. But Barbara was almost distressingly healthy.
And never healthier than on that morning. Seated opposite him she read her letters coolly and tossed one addressed to him across the table. He opened it hastily to meet with yet another disappointment. The letter was as lengthy and fraternal as all other epistles penned by Dennis. It might have been written to a stranger:
“I ‘phoned Ian last night. He declines to meet us in any way. Wait until you hear further.
“from
“DENNIS.”
Ralph tossed the note aside and swore softly. He swore less softly when he saw that Barbara had picked up his discarded paper and was studying the report of her uncle’s death.
Still it had been bound to come. As well now, as later. Nevertheless, he was uneasy. The paper gave full details of the robbery and his brother’s name accompanied by a photograph was reproduced on the front page. It was the first time that George’s photograph had ever appeared in any of the papers and it was decidedly trying. Ralph foresaw that the Colonel’s association with the case might divert a share of Barbara’s suspicion to himself. That also was trying.
He decided on the ponderous fatherly touch, and doomed himself.
“Ah, Barbara,” he said slowly, “I want to talk to you about that.”
“About what?”
Even the nicest voice may offend some men. At the moment the croak of a raven would have been preferable to that cool rather challenging voice, from Ralph’s point of view.
“The d’Essinger case,” he answered. “You’re wondering how a member of this family—your uncle—came to be mixed up in the business. Was, in fact, the criminal concerned.”
“On the contrary, I’m only wondering at this sudden burst of solicitude.”
And she was. Normally their most intimate exchanges seldom exceeded a coldly polite request to “close the door” or “pass the paper.”
Ralph’s eyes flickered uneasily and fixed themselves on his daughter’s pretty lips, which eventually framed a disinterested “Well?”
“Your uncle George,” he continued gravely, “has for many years led a double life. It is a thing that I have tried to keep from you.”
He coughed. It had occurred to him that in the past he had tried to keep many things from her and not out of solicitude. It had also occurred to Barbara and her smile betrayed it.
“George,” said Ralph hastily, “was always a wild unsettled fellow, but God alone knows, none of us ever expected it would come to this. We have all known that his dealings were a trifle shady, but this is the first and unfortunately the last time that the police have ever had anything on him—er—against him.”
He paused and reflected on the thoughtlessness of a brother who could inflict such pain on his nearest and dearest. At least that was the impression he was striving to create. He succeeded indifferently as a certain chilliness in the reception warned him.
“To have his photo in all the papers—to see one’s name disgraced and to know that one is forever discredited in the eyes of the world—it’s ghastly,” said Ralph, and there is no doubt that having got into his stride he would have achieved quite a plausibly virtuous indignation. As it was an unfilial child took the liberty of interrupting its parent.
“Uncle George died as he lived,” she said curtly. “A crook.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were brighter than usual. Ralph saw the signs with a certain uneasiness but contrived a pained “Barbara!”
“My name,” she agreed. “If it gives you any pleasure to lie, go on, but don’t count on my applause. I know George Teyst was a crook, just as I know that you are. I’ve known it for years. It doesn’t disturb me in the slightest.”
Ralph made a valiant effort to adjust himself to this new angle.
“My dear girl, are you suggesting——?”
“Yes, I am. If you think I’ve endured a lifetime with you without realizing the respective professions of George, Dennis, Ian and yourself—well, give up thinking. It isn’t your strong point.”
Ralph scowled. “You’re suggesting that I am a crook?”
“No, I’m not responsible for the suggestion. I’m stating a known fact. But beyond the fact that you’re crooked, you’ve got nothing in common with the other three. They at least are men.”
Ralph flushed, and mentally kicked himself for doing so. The situation was fast passing out of his control.
“You don’t realize what you’re saying,” he jerked out.
“Only too well. When men from Scotland Yard come here questioning, or trying to question me, about your movements, I don’t think that they are interested in your health, unless they want to know if you’re likely to live to the next Assizes.”
That was a blow. It took Ralph some time to assimilate the full danger of what she had revealed.
“The Yard? Here? Do you mean that?”
Barbara looked at him with embarrassing directness.
“Amazed innocence isn’t your forte
,” she said. “And now do you mind going? Your office is probably going to rack and ruin in your absence, and I have some typing to do. My new story lacked the material for a perfect cad. I’ve recently found that material, but I’m not painting a picture and I don’t need a permanent model.”
Ralph’s eyes glittered. Her new story. To hell with her writing. He regretted that as soon as it occurred to him. Once she was successful she would take herself off. He knew the type. More power to her arm. She couldn’t clear out too soon to please him.
He glared at her, and rising, stalked from the room. God, how he hoped that she would be successful. And he hoped still more that he himself would be successful, but the hope was not realized. All that day he haunted those places that Ian was known to frequent, without finding him. His flat too was apparently unoccupied and Ralph’s frequent telephone calls remained unanswered.
Life was very trying. At the end of that day Ralph would have cheerfully murdered any of his brothers. He even regretted that such a course would not be possible in the case of George, whose death he almost regarded as a defection.
He was reminded of the pleasant theme of murder when he found Barbara writing in the living room on his return, but he refrained from using any more dangerous weapon than a murderous look.
Neither did the appearance of Keating in the street below fill him with a sense of well-being. True, Keating was apparently taking a harmless constitutional, but those innocent walks of his frequently led to other people taking slightly longer journeys. Ralph watched him disappear round the corner, and then went to bed, a decidedly frightened man.
He would have been even more frightened if he had had occasion to enter the living room at two o’clock the following morning. At that indeterminate hour the living room looked a decidedly eerie place. The walls seemed to dissolve into blackness. A sinister room, silent and full of shadows. Notably, one at the window.
And that particular shadow was moving.
A faint scratching sound pierced the stillness as the intruder, crouched on the balcony outside, tried the catch of the window with a slender steel instrument. And not only tried but succeeded. Slowly the catch surrendered and the window swung open to admit a visitor.