The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  Trying the door softly he pushed it open and peered into the room. After a few moments he switched on his torch, but one glance showed him all that he had expected to see. The room was empty and the bed had not been slept in.

  He stepped inside, and closing the door sat down on a chair. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist watch he saw that the time was exactly twenty minutes to two, and composed himself to await the return of the man he knew as Crale. Only now he no longer thought of that gentleman as “Crale.” He spoke the alternative name softly to himself in the darkness.

  “The Poacher!”

  He had no doubt that “Crale” would return. He had only gained one of the original slips that night. The other was the bogus one that Larry had himself written, and those two would not make sense, as “Crale” would discover. The thought pleased Larry. He stretched out his legs and settled down to wait.

  But Superintendent Kaye was in no hurry. Standing beside Brown in the porch of the lodge he looked up the drive to the silent house, partially hidden by the trees.

  “To-night we make our killing, Brown,” he said slowly. “Sometime soon Larry will make a move. Probably has.” Brown, rejoicing in his new found freedom, was showing more interest in his superior’s words than he had shown in anything for the past three days.

  “Meaning, he’ll try to get Ian’s slip?” he asked.

  “Yes, and unless I’m mistaken the Poacher will show his hand. Larry won’t leave Reigate till they meet—neither will the Poacher. We’ve got them both where we want them.”

  “The Poacher’s got the third slip, then?”

  Superintendent Kaye extinguished his cigarette and eyed his assistant sideways. “Yes,” he said slowly, “the Poacher’s got the other slip.”

  He took out his watch.

  “Ten to two. I’ve got to get back. Really, respectable butlers were all in bed hours ago.”

  “What do I do—spend the night here?” Brown asked. “Your head possesses all the retentive powers and none of the uses of a sieve,” said Kaye patiently. “Why do you think I let you out? You’re going to Reigate to get Keating. Give him this letter—he’ll know what to do.”

  Brown took the proffered envelope and looked dubious. “Waking Inspector Keating at two in the morning isn’t a thing I’d do from choice, sir. Besides, anything might happen between now and our return. If I do return. Inspector Keating is uncommonly awkward when his sleep is disturbed.”

  “Never mind that, get him. Probably quite a lot will happen while you’re gone, but I’ll handle that. You’d only be in the way. So would Sam. I don’t want an elephant accompanying me on—a rather delicate mission.”

  Brown shrugged and stepped into the drive.

  “Right. Ill get him,” he said lugubriously, and keeping dose to the shadow of the trees, he moved away in the darkness.

  Kaye followed suit a minute later and made his way back towards the house. Letting himself silently into the pantry he walked through the house to the hall and made his way upstairs. On the landing he paused undecided. Something told him that Larry’s bedroom needed a little attention, but there was at least one other room in the house that had a prior claim to his interest.

  It was then that he heard the groan. It came from Ian’s room, and as he waited it was repeated.

  It told him much and he saw the need for caution. Stripping off his coat and waistcoat he rolled them up and placing them on the floor, hastily unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing neither collar nor tie, and with a swift glance down at himself reflected complacently that his apparel showed all the signs of a recently-awakened and hurriedly-garbed man.

  Then he knocked gently on Ian’s door and opened it.

  Ian was lying sprawled face down on his bed, his hands clasped round his head. He looked up with a haggard face as Kaye entered.

  “Pardon me, sir; I heard you groaning. Are you unwell?”

  Ian spoke with an effort.

  “Was I making all that row? No—I’m all right—bit of a headache.”

  Kaye smiled sympathetically. He had seen the smear of blood behind Ian’s ear.

  “You appear to have some blood on the back of your head, sir,” he ventured, and Ian started.

  He looked down at his hands and saw blood on one of them—the one that had touched his head. Evidently that blow had done more damage than he had thought.

  “Yes,” he said unsteadily. “A scratch—that’s all.”

  Kaye’s eyes glittered. Apparently Larry had acted.

  “Very well, sir, I trust that you will have recovered by the morning,” he said, and retired. He took the precaution of locking the door on the outside with Brown’s master key.

  Ian heard him do it and rose weakly to his feet. For a brief second he fought off the inertia that was paralyzing him, and tugged feebly at the door. “Crale’s” action in locking it supplied him with at least one clue to the tangle that encompassed him. Kaye had been right. “Crale” was the Poacher.

  With the thought still fresh in his mind he tugged at the door again, but the stout oak had nothing to fear from a man weakened by concussion of the brain. It resisted him even when he fell heavily against it, unconscious.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Outside Ian’s door Kaye paused to slip on his coat and shoes before going to his own room. He had two other calls to pay that night of a nature sufficiently unsocial to necessitate the carrying of a weapon, and it was to get that weapon that he returned to his own room.

  Reaching it he slipped quietly inside and felt his way across the room in the darkness to the table by the window, in the drawer of which reposed a Browning automatic.

  He reached the table and had already opened the drawer when two muscular hands closed on his throat. At the same moment a knee was thrust into the small of his back and his head was dragged back until he thought his spine must snap at any moment.

  For what seemed an age he remained with his body curved like a bow. Then the pressure on his back ceased and he was forced swiftly but silently to his knees. As he sank he made a vain clutch at the hands that held him and was promptly rewarded by being forced down on his back with his legs beneath him in such a way that they threatened to break at the knee joint.

  By a desperate writhe he succeeded in freeing his legs, and contrived to grip his assailant’s wrists. The effort amused the man who held him, and he heard a faint chuckle that betrayed the other’s identity.

  “Turn it in, Crale,” whispered a voice that he recognized as Larry’s. “Intellectually you may be my superior, but physically you’re not in the same class.”

  To which witticism Kaye could have made many cutting retorts if speech had been possible. But at the moment it was not. He contented himself with glaring up into Larry’s face, which grew more distinct as his own eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The other had dropped into a kneeling position beside his captive, but the change in no way benefited Kaye.

  “Now, my friend,” said Larry softly, “You’re going to make the crook’s supreme sacrifice. You’re going to speak the truth. And for the sake of my immortal soul remember Livy’s statement that ‘Things past may be repented but not recalled.’ I should just hate you to be the cause of something that I might repent but certainly could not recall!”

  He relaxed his hold slightly, and Kaye took a deep breath. “If you could stop asphyxiating me and let me change an exceedingly uncomfortable position,” he said huskily, “I could prove conclusively that no upright man ever lies.”

  “If you do maul the truth in the next few minutes,” said Larry pleasantly, “I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you will never break the ninth commandment again. Where are those strips of paper?”

  “What strips?”

  “Careful. You know what I’m referring to—the strip of blue paper that you removed from Ralph’s safe, and the one you took from the ebony ruler tonight.”

  Kaye foresaw the need for diplomacy.

  “The Poach
er has them,” he said with difficulty.

  “Is any one disputing that? I’m merely suggesting that the Poacher should give them up!”

  “Some one’s been tampering with your data,” Kaye gasped. “I’m not the Poacher—in fact, I shall soon cease to be anything if you don’t take your hand away from my windpipe.” Larry glared down at him.

  “The prospect of hurting you makes me positively miserable,” he hissed. “At the same time I’m liable to wallow in sorrow if you don’t hand over those slips.”

  “You’re liable to do that anyway,” Kaye retorted. “Murder is one of the things that even you can’t get away with, Larry.”

  Abruptly Larry loosened his hold.

  “Larry,” he repeated. “What’s the idea? Why ‘Larry’?”

  “I pass. Presumably it was Mrs. Wade’s idea of a nice Christian name. It certainly wasn’t your father’s idea, because his death preceded your birth!”

  That shook Larry badly. He sat and stared down at Kaye.

  “You seem to have got my history pretty pat,” he said slowly. “Who the devil are you anyway?”

  Superintendent Kaye coughed. Larry’s grip had momentarily choked him.

  “My friends call me a variety of unpleasing names,” he got out, “but I was christened, Grahame Noel Kaye.”

  “Kaye!”

  The word Was literally torn from Larry, and the revelation seemed to numb him. In that second he saw all his schemes tumbling to the ground. With the knowledge came a dull rage and a desire to close his fingers tightly on the other’s throat.

  “And I thought you were easy,” he said at last. “By God, this has taught me something.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Kaye replied maliciously. “You’ve got a lot to learn. You know I find myself more and more in agreement with Plato every day. ‘It is better to be unborn than untaught,’ Larry.”

  At another time his cool assurance would have compelled the other’s admiration, but at the moment Larry had no time for anything but the immediate issue.

  “Who is the joker that I’ve got at the lodge?” he whispered harshly.

  “That,” said Kaye, “is Detective Sergeant Brown of the Central Branch, a splendid substitute for my humble self, Larry, but compared with you, an unconvincing tyro. Your effort as a Superintendent outshines mine as a butler.”

  Larry looked at his triumphant enemy and spoke half enviously.

  “I hand it to you, Kaye, you looked the part.”

  “‘Cucullus non facit monachum’,” Kaye gibed, “although I admit that this particular cowl fitted the monk well.”

  But Larry’s interest in cowled monks was slight. He was thinking desperately, remolding and planning his way out of a difficulty whose magnitude he was only just beginning to appreciate. When he spoke, his voice was harsh.

  “Well, that doesn’t alter facts. I’ve got you where I want you, and Keating. You’re through this time, you dirty trickster, and for once you haven’t got what you were after.”

  He laughed, and suddenly plunging his hand into his pocket withdrew a cigarette case. With one hand he opened it and took out a slip of paper. His grip on Kaye’s throat sent the blood to the Superintendent’s head.

  “Look at it,” Larry derided, waving it in Kaye’s face. “You know what it represents? It’s worth fighting for, Kaye, and damn it I’ll fight.”

  It was a petty triumph—but Kaye had no time to feel the mortification of the vanquished. Through half-closed eyes he saw that the door behind Larry was slowly opening—opening until it stood wide to reveal a dark-clad figure whose identity he had no need to guess.

  “You—fool,” he gasped thickly. “The—door—!”

  ‘With those words the meaning of the slight draught on his back came to Larry and he wheeled suddenly. He saw the Poacher just too late, and as he flung himself sideways, a pin-point of fire issued from the newcomer’s right-hand pocket.

  Only a soft “plop” broke the silence, and then a strangled gasp as Larry reeled sideways and slithered down the wall.

  With the reek of cordite in his nostrils Kaye lay rigid, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the man with the gun.

  From the doorway the Poacher spoke softly, his voice muffled by the thick scarf that covered his mouth.

  “Superintendent Kaye, of the Metropolitan Police Force, R.I.P.”

  There was something almost inhuman in the words, and to the watching Kaye, something almost animal in the swift silence of the Poacher’s movements as he crossed to the fallen Larry. Standing above the prostrate man he stared down at the dark patch welling on Larry’s shirt front and then turned his peculiarly gleaming eyes on Kaye.

  “Kaye knew too much,” he said gently, “but I doubt if his knowledge will be of any further use. No man ever guessed the Poacher’s identity and lived to boast of it.”

  He stooped swiftly, and picking up the blue strip of paper that Larry had dropped as he fell, felt in his pocket. Still watching Kaye intently he withdrew three corresponding slips of paper. For less than a second he stared at them and then allowed the uppermost to fall from his fingers. It was the one that Larry had so carefully concocted.

  “Clever, very clever, Kaye,” he murmured, his eyes shifting to the inert Larry, “but I shall never know how you forced Larry Wade to give it up.”

  The problem seemed to interest him, but it did not make him forget Kaye’s presence. The gun in his hand was a perpetual suggestion that the floor was Kaye’s safest resting place. And to do Kaye justice—he was not too proud to accept advice.

  “No, I shall never know,” the Poacher repeated slowly, “unless——”

  He peered down sullenly into Larry’s face and drew back as if he had been stung. Then he wrenched savagely at Larry’s beard. As it came away in his hands he muttered two words so faintly that Kaye barely heard them.

  “Larry Wade!”

  The knowledge brought a look of bewilderment into his eyes, but it vanished as he turned them on Kaye.

  “An astute young man,” he said, “very astute, but careless. Apparently he aspired to nobler things—among them the identity of Superintendent Kaye. Yes—Superintendent Kaye——”

  He paused and something seemed to occur to him.

  “Get up, you—and pick up that thing.”

  He motioned to Larry and his coat pocket bulged ominously. Kaye got to his feet slowly, and walking to Larry picked him up in his arms. Something told him that the Poacher, who held life so lightly, would not attach much value to shortening the existence of even a Superintendent of Police if he proved disobedient.

  “Downstairs,” said the Poacher, “and if life is a weakness of yours, go quietly.”

  Kaye shrugged and walked past the other with his burden. He descended the stairs with the Poacher behind him, and at the other’s command entered Ian’s study.

  The Poacher closed the door softly.

  “Put your friend on the floor and sit down yourself,” he said coolly.

  Kaye lowered Larry gently to the floor and seated himself in a chair. The Poacher moved softly to his side and Kaye felt the barrel of the automatic pressing into his side. He made no move while the other ran one hand deftly over his clothing and allowed the Poacher to relieve him of a pair of handcuffs without protest.

  “An unusual possession for a butler,” said the Poacher mockingly.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  With the same indifferent expression, Kaye submitted to being handcuffed.

  “It is now two-thirty,” said the Poacher, glancing at the clock on the table, “and my train does not leave until four-thirty. That gives us two hours to discuss your future—Mr. Crale—or to give you your due distinction—Superintendent Kaye!”

  It was then that Kaye made a discovery concerning the eyes that had momentarily been so close to his own.

  Their owner was a maniac!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The knowledge that his captor had penetrated his alias did not disturb Kaye
. He grinned openly.

  “So you know at last?” he said.

  “Yes, I know now.”

  “Well, this is an age of revelation,” Kaye answered equably, “but I must turn to literature for my inspiration. In the words of Guilbert, ‘When a man’s afraid, a beautiful maid is a charming sight to see’.”

  The Poacher’s eyes glittered amusedly and abruptly “he” pulled the scarf from “his” mouth. Superintendent Kaye gazed unmoved into the face of Barbara Teyst.

  “That,” he said, “is much more pleasing.”

  “Thank you,” she said warily, and her voice was no longer disguised, “but I don’t think you have very long in which to enjoy your discovery.”

  Kaye shrugged. “Forgive me if I don’t take you seriously. I’ve heard that threat so often. By the same token, I’ve known the identity of the Poacher for a month and—well—I’m not dead yet.”

  “Yet,” she agreed, “but I’m afraid you are going to pay the penalty of too much knowledge. You know they say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing—let me assure you a great knowledge is even more dangerous.”

  “In spite of which—I should like to increase mine.”

  “You shall. Even the law grants a dying man his request.”

  Kaye ignored the sinister suggestion and tried to settle himself more comfortably in his chair.

  “Of course, I have always known that crookedness runs on your father’s side of the family,” he said smoothly, “and that your own talents in that direction were a natural inheritance—but I have only just recollected the insane strain in your mother’s family.”

  For a moment he thought she would strike him. Then she laughed harshly. A hideous grin transfigured her normally attractive face and her lips drew back in an ugly snarl. The madness in her blood leered at him from her eyes as she exulted.

  “Yes, I’m mad, Kaye,” she screamed at him and thrust her face close to his own. “Mad—mad—mad. Do you hear, you fool? But how much less sane than the fools around me? How much less sane than that poor weakling, Ralph—the clever Dennis—our amiable Ian or that blundering oaf, Keating? Answer me, damn you!”