The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  Which need not have troubled him. Clem with a bullet in his shoulder and only one coherent thought—to get to Ian, had realized even as he fell that that particular neighborhood was no longer a healthy resort. He had taken the simplest way out and retreated through the ground floor of the house. It was less likely that he would be followed through there. A short period of wandering from mews to mews had eventually brought him to Piccadilly and a taxi rank.

  The owner of the taxi that drove Clem out to Reigate thought his fare was drunk and it was weeks before he discovered that a certain dark stain on the upholstery of the back seat was made by blood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mrs. Greer trotted contentedly up the drive of Marske House. Fresh from the burning, soul-searing passion of “Flaming Hearts” she was well pleased with life. Like many of her class, she had a streak of sentimentality that could be awakened by a trashy love story, and for three hours she had positively wallowed in—strong silent men—moonlight nights—dusky girls and a drunken scene in, to quote herself, “One of those car-bare-its.” Reaching her kitchen she removed her outdoor clothes and found her slippers before going into the front of the house.

  In the hallway she encountered Barbara, and the encounter gave her very little pleasure. Mrs. Greer was not an admirer of the modern girl, or, in particular, of Barbara. Furthermore, she was not altogether blind to the danger of Barbara’s presence in a house where much might be discovered if one took the trouble to look, or listen. Consequently her greeting was not warm. In fact it was as cold as she could make it.

  Barbara, aware of the other woman’s antagonism, but at a loss to explain it, ignored it as usual.

  “Is Clem in, Mrs. Greer?” she asked.

  “He is not.”

  “Or my uncle?”

  “Nor him. Do you want anything?”

  Barbara frowned. There were limits to her patience.

  “I wanted one or the other of them to help me fix a damaged mudguard,” she answered. “I’m afraid that needs a man.”

  Mrs. Greer sniffed and passed on, leaving Barbara to sally forth and tackle the mudguard on her own.

  Having helped herself to some of Ian’s good, but diminishing wine, Mrs. Greer returned to her kitchen and again fell into pleasant reminiscences of “Flaming Hearts,” while she busied herself preparing breakfast for the following morning.

  It was not till she heard Barbara go upstairs to her bedroom that Mrs. Greer had her first misgivings. At the precise moment that Barbara shut her door Mrs. Greer suddenly realized what an excellent prey she was for strong silent ravishers. True, Barbara was in the house, but a girl was not really much of a protection, and she found herself wishing that Clem or Ian would put in an appearance. The house was very quiet, and Mrs. Greer’s imagination was unpleasantly active. It is always the woman whose face alone is sufficient protection, who most ostentatiously defends her chastity, and Mrs. Greer’s illusion that she was still desirable had survived the birth of her grandchildren.

  And yet there was something rather thrilling in her fears. Her thoughts, as she busied herself peeling onions, remained with the scented beaches of Tahiti until she was recalled by the scent of the onions to matters mundane.

  Was there any bacon in the house? If not, Ian in the morning would be unbearable.

  Mrs. Greer belonged to a school that believed in humoring its menfolk, and with a despairing cluck she proceeded to ransack the larder. Her faith in the old adage, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” was unshakable, and she believed that a woman could tell a man’s condition by his appetite. As long as he had the constitution, digestion and general appearance of a horse, he was well. Similarly, if he couldn’t eat he was in love, sick, or drunk. She knew. She had had some experience with her husband, “Flash.” Where was that bacon?

  She never found it. At that moment the light went out and a sack descended over her head, stifling her startled squawk.

  At the same moment a sibilant voice suggested that if she remained silent she might live to speak another day.

  Gawd! She’d remain silent all right. Held in a grip of steel she had no doubt that she was about to be sacrificed on the altar of love. And yet there was nothing particularly caressing in the way she was suddenly jammed into a chair. And to be tied to that chair with ropes that cut into her flesh did not seem to argue that her paramour was particularly considerate, even although he appeared to be original. Mrs. Greer alternately thrilled and shuddered, but her “strong silent” attacker was not even looking at her.

  Standing at the open window he stared intently down the garden, and the moonlight gleamed on something he held in his hand. Suddenly he pushed the window open and flattened himself against the wall, with a certain purpose in his eyes that boded ill for someone.

  That someone was Clem Wade. His eyes dim and his shoulder one burning ache Clem came slowly up the path through the little kitchen garden towards Mrs. Greer’s kitchen. Now that his objective was in sight the strength that had sustained him since he staggered away from his brother’s flat seemed to desert him, and he lurched frequently. Haggard faced, and with one dirty hand clutching the dark stain on his shoulder, he made his way uncertainly towards the kitchen door. Almost within touching distance he paused.

  Framed in the window was a face he had good cause to remember, and the quiet effeminate voice that spoke was one with which he was only too familiar.

  “Apparently I made a bad job of my last corpse,” murmured the Poacher softly. “I had an idea that you took quite a lot of killing, Clem.”

  Looking into those smiling eyes Clem made a sudden despairing effort to turn and run, but the stranger was too quick for him.

  Mrs. Greer heard the two soft plops, but she could only guess at what was happening. And did, accurately. She was not unfamiliar with the sound of a silencer, or the results of its use.

  She sat there paralyzed while her “cave man,” vaulting lightly through the window, reached the dying Clem in one lithe bound and placed something on his chest.

  Mrs. Greer heard her “lover” go, but sat on silently, presenting that rare phenomenon—a woman with the power to speak, who did not do so. When she eventually regained her voice it was only the merest croak. At first. Then she screamed.

  “Miss Teyst. Miss Teyst. Gawd. Barbara, where are you?”

  With the frenzy of terror she struggled with her bonds, and in some way contrived to writhe herself free. Still trembling, she hurled the sack and ropes aside and crept to the window.

  What she saw there choked her utterance as effectively as her former terror.

  Lying on the ground was a figure, the head bathed in moonlight and something else, but quite unrecognizable. That alone was sufficient to reduce her to an agonized fearful silence, but the sight of the grim face of Ian, as he knelt beside the dead, horribly disfigured Clem was even worse.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, and she noticed that he spoke in a peculiarly level, cold voice.

  “I—I didn’t know that you were back,” she panted. “Gawd, Ian, what’s happened? I heard him fire—he used a silencer. Who’s that?”

  Ian looked down at the still figure before him.

  “That,” he said, “is Clem.”

  “In them clothes? Here, what are you telling me? I know——”

  “How did this happen?” snarled Ian suddenly. “I was coming in when I heard your scream and found him lying here.”

  Mrs. Greer gulped and poured out her story. As she told it Ian glanced down at the slip of paper he held, on which was scrawled, “The Poacher never misses twice.”

  Before she had finished he rose to his feet and stuffed the note into his pocket. As he passed her she saw something in his hand that made her cower back. Through the lower rooms he padded softly, searching and finding—nothing. Above stairs the result was the same. Finally he entered Barbara’s room and switched on the light. Mrs. Greer followed him nervously.

  At any other time the
sight of Barbara’s ruffled head on the white pillow, protected by a no less white rounded arm, would have excited his admiration. Now he looked down at her with calculating eyes. He seized her shoulder and shook her roughly.

  She moved uneasily, but that was all, and with a tightening of his lips he shook her again more roughly—with the same result.

  It was then that he noticed the glass on her table for the first time. He picked it up and sniffed at it.

  “The Poacher does his work very thoroughly,” he said. “Barbara’s sleeping draught has been added to.”

  Turning, he stared out of the window, and Mrs. Greer, as though afraid of being left on her own, joined him. “My Gawd,” she whispered, “who is it, Ian? I don’t like it, I tell you. ‘We’re not safe with this shadow that comes and goes, killing——Look!”

  The last word was almost a shriek, and following the direction of her pointing finger he stared at the entrance of the drive.

  For one brief minute he saw the shadow—the shadow of a man, that hovered and was gone.

  Ian left the room like a man possessed, almost hurling Mrs. Greer backwards in his flight. She whimpered out a request to him not to leave her and literally tumbled down the stairs after him, but at the door she paused and left him to pursue his dash into the shrubbery alone.

  Reaching the wall he peered up and down, but the road was deserted.

  Mrs. Greer was groveling on the steps when he returned to the house.

  “We ain’t safe, I tell you,” she whispered. “We ain’t safe. What are we going to do, Ian? Who done it? For Gawd’s sake say something. Who done it?”

  “The Poacher,” he said and passed the note to her.

  “The Poacher? Who’s he?”

  “How the hell do I know?” he snarled, and it was the first time she had ever heard him swear. “For God’s sake stop that row, I want to think—to think.”

  He flung past her into the hall and dropped into a chair.

  She followed him and closed the door, never taking her eyes from him.

  “What are we going to do,” she whispered. “Barbara mustn’t know——”

  “She won’t,” he snapped, “and now keep your mouth shut. We’re in no immediate danger. You say the Poacher used a silencer. Very well, no one but you heard him.”

  His callous indifference gave Mrs. Greer pause. Certain awkward little things that had still to be explained occurred to her. She stared down at his bowed head suspiciously.

  “When did you come in?” she asked.

  “Just as you started shrieking.”

  “I’ve got your word for it!”

  He laughed harshly. “You think I shot him? You fool. Listen. I sent Clem to overhaul his brother’s flat. Presumably he did so. Does that suggest anything to the space where your brain ought to be?”

  Mrs. Greer’s expression remained suspicious. She could not follow Ian’s more agile reasoning, neither could she forget that she had found him kneeling beside the dead man.

  He followed her train of thought perfectly.

  “If Clem raided Larry’s flat it’s not unlikely that he was either interrupted or left something behind which identified him—he always was solid oak from the collar up. Supposing he was followed back from the flat by the Poacher?”

  “But how would the Poacher get there. He didn’t know—struth, is Larry the Poacher? Is that what you mean?”

  “At last,” he sighed.

  “But it wasn’t Larry I seen about here the last few days. It was the feller we just saw,” she said quickly. “And, anyway, if he is the Poacher what’s he want down here?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” he answered slowly, “if Clem got something that was intended for me. You see the Poacher and I happen to be interested in the same thing, at the moment.”

  “Why should Larry kill his brother?” she persisted. “And how do you know it was Larry? The fellow I saw didn’t look like Larry. I only caught a glimpse of him, of course, I couldn’t see much——”

  “You never do see anything,” he cut in bitterly, “except films. And now lend me a hand.”

  She cowered back against the wall, her eyes wide with fright.

  “You ain’t goin’ to—you don’t expect me to—“ she began and then fell silent.

  “I expect you to do as you’re told unless you want to find yourself in Queer Street. Go round to the garage and get Barbara’s car.”

  Glad to avoid contact with the thing that had been Clem she hurried off to the garage. She had learnt to drive at her husband’s request, and had frequently driven him on dubious missions, but had she been forced to drive far that night, there would have been more than one death, her own included. As it was, she managed to drive round to the front door without mishap.

  Getting out, she sat down suddenly on the running board—her legs definitely ceasing their functions. She had an idea that Ian would need help to carry Clem’s body to the car, and her feet automatically refused to carry her trembling body to the THING.

  There was no need. Even as she ruminated on the horrible possibility she started up to find Ian descending the steps with the limp figure of Clem in his arms.

  “Get my old coat from the wood shed,” he directed, and when she returned he wrapped it round the body and bundled it into the car.

  She shuddered as it toppled sideways.

  “You’re not going to make me—make me, sit inside,” she panted.

  “Yes, inside the house,” he snapped and closed the door of the car.

  She watched him turn the car and vanish down the drive. It was not until the tail light disappeared that she realized she was alone.

  The next quarter of an hour was the worst she had ever spent, and the sound of the returning car the most welcome she had ever heard. Ian’s normal composure seemed to have returned during his journey. At any rate, he was smiling when he stepped out of the car carrying the coat on his arm.

  “Burn that,” he ordered, tossing it to her.

  She caught it deftly, avoiding touching the lining, but made no move to obey.

  With a gesture of impatience he got back into the car, garaged it, and accompanied her into the house.

  In the hall he looked at her coldly.

  “Pull yourself together,” he directed. “You’ll have to face the police probably during the week. They won’t find Clem yet, but when they do watch your step. Sometime this week you’d better discover an ailing relation and go and visit him.”

  “‘Wouldn’t it look more natural like if you told the police he was missing, tomorrow?” she ventured.

  “Very natural,” he retorted scathingly. “We usually keep the police informed of our movements. Get a grip on yourself, and, above all, don’t say or know anything. If we keep our mouths shut we’ll be safe. It’s a cert that Clem won’t give us away.”

  Yes, that was certain. Clem would never give any one away again. Flat on his back in the Reigate woods with his sightless eyes staring up at the sky he might have lain there unnoticed for weeks. As it happened, he lay there eight hours and then Superintendent Kaye found him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Barbara awoke the following morning with a splitting headache. For half an hour she dozed fitfully in an effort to sleep it off and then rose with a heartfelt “damn.” A cold tub failed to improve matters and having dressed she descended to breakfast in no very pleasant frame of mind. Apparently the rest of the household was in keeping with her mood. There was nothing definite that she could take hold of, and to do them justice her companions exhibited incomparable powers as actors, which she could not appreciate because she did not know they were acting. But she did know that she was getting monosyllabic answers from Mrs. Greer and that Ian had looked up from his paper to say “Good morning,” in a voice not quite so cordial as usual.

  It did not make her curious and her head ached too much for introspection, but it annoyed her. After three ineffectual efforts to elicit something more effusive than “Yes” or �
�No” she put down her cup and looked directly at her uncle.

  “Are you still feeling hipped about my dining with Keating yesterday?” she demanded, with the danger light in her eyes. “Or is my headache making me look on the world with jaundiced eyes?”

  Ian smiled with his lip only.

  “Put it down to your headache. By the way, have you any idea how you came by it?”

  “None at all,” she said. “I feel horribly listless and——”

  “Must you take those sleeping draughts?” he interrupted.

  “Of course. You don’t think I take them because I like the taste or the color, do you?”

  He looked away and tried to speak casually. “How many did you take last night?”

  “One, as usual. Why? Any objection?”

  “None. If you want headaches take them by all means.”

  “Headaches?” she queried. “Don’t be absurd. A sleeping draught wouldn’t give me a headache.”

  “No, but two might.”

  “I didn’t take two.”

  Ian frowned. He was trying to extract the information he wanted without giving her any indication that her glass had been tampered with, and her belligerent attitude was not making matters any easier for him.

  “Do you remember if you left the room after you put that powder in the glass?” he asked.

  “I may have done,” she answered indifferently. “In fact I think I went to the bathroom. What on earth are you driving at? Do you think someone came in and added half a dozen powders out of spite or something?”

  “No, but it’s possible that you did not remember putting in the first powder and added a second when you came back from the bathroom. Don’t bite my head off, my dear.”

  He had got the information he needed. She had left the room and even though it was only for a few seconds, it had been sufficient for the Poacher, who seemed to be something of a quick worker.

  “I’m certain I only took one,” she snapped. “And anyway it’s quite unimportant. Not in my toast, please.”

  This last to Mrs. Greer who started and deflected the spout of the coffee pot. The conversation had all but reduced Mrs. Greer to tears and she was beginning to realize that when she lost “Flash” Sam Greer, she lost her nerve also. Barbara had to repeat her next remark twice before the old lady realized that she had spoken at all.