by David Case
“It is. I know the man. Sam Cooper. I knew him before the accident as well, and can testify that he certainly has been injured.”
“Yes, we ascertained that,” Peal nodded. “But that brings us to the first, well, inconsistency. If Snow were to make a proper examination, he’d have needed equipment—x-ray machine, surgery, whatever. And obviously, Mallory not being a doctor, he could not have found that equipment at The Croft. It is possible that he came merely to make a preliminary examination, of course—although his office maintains that Snow never worked in that way—but if that were the case, the examination would have taken only a day or two at the most, after which he’d have to have the patient brought to London. Why then did he remain for several weeks?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Nor had we. Apparently Snow was a very thorough and conscientious man. He would hardly have been satisfied with less than a full examination. Nor had he brought any of his portable equipment with him.” Peal frowned and regarded me intently. “This bothered me. I went back to Mallory’s and put the question to him. He didn’t seem surprised at all, and told me that Snow and he were friends; that Snow had come on a friendly visit and had examined Sam Cooper merely as a favor to Mallory. I asked why he’d not told us that in the first place, and he said it hadn’t seemed important. Probably didn’t, to him. Somehow, though, I wasn’t satisfied with this. Why would Snow have let his office think he was on a business trip? Oh, perhaps he wanted to get away for a while, take a holiday, you know, without anyone realizing he was relaxing. Quite likely. Men, especially important, conscientious men, get that way. They get the idea that it’s wrong to neglect their work. Don’t know why.” The inspector grinned and assumed a diffident expression. “I go to Torquay every year, myself. Take the wife. Never think about work at all for a fortnight. That’s as may be.
“Still, a few aspects didn’t seem to fit into place. Snow’s wife, for instance, had never heard Snow mention Mallory. Now that’s odd—old friends and all—friendly enough for a two-week visit. Well, it gave me to consider. There are quite logical explanations, of course. Who knows? Snow might have had a woman with him, something like that. Maybe Mallory was in the habit of fixing him up with a girl from time to time. Nothing much wrong with that. I’ve seen worse. Seen it happen right in Torquay, even. Men you’d never dream of as philanderers, all of a sudden they turn up with some young doxy or other, drinking and dancing and God knows what. Well, I’m not trying to make a point of morality over this, just mention it as a possibility. We may never know—”
He paused. I said, “Is that all?”
“Not quite. Snow’s body, as you may know, was found not far from The Croft. Mallory claims that Snow had left, intending to walk to the train station in the village here. Said he offered to drive him in, but that it was a fine day and Snow preferred to get the exercise. Maybe so. But just on the odd chance I had that checked with Snow’s wife. She told us that her husband never walked. Had a right hatred of walking, in fact. Apparently he used to maintain that walking and exercise was only fit behavior for heart surgeons and general practitioners, and that brain surgeons were above such nonsense. Well, on holiday maybe he was different. Maybe.” He shook his head doubtfully, and then continued, “We haven’t found his suitcase yet, however. Figure the killer must’ve made off with it. That’s strange, it didn’t look as if the motive was robbery, and Snow had money in his pockets. Why would the killer have stolen a suitcase and left money? Just another piece that doesn’t quite fit. Then this second murder occurs. Lad killed close by The Croft; actually on his way there, in fact. Well, sir, you can see how these minor inconsistencies begin to add up.”
I cleared my throat. “Surely just coincidence.”
“Oh, no doubt.”
“What reason could Mallory have to kill Snow?”
“What reason did Snow have, really, to come here?”
“Hm. Well, leave Snow out of it. Mallory could certainly have had no reason to kill the boy.”
“No. Unless,” Peal shifted uneasily in his chair, “this isn’t an official theory, but suppose Mallory—or anyone, for that matter—killed Snow for some definite reason. Then he got the wind up; was afraid that our investigations would uncover his motive. Might he not decide to obscure the issue, to make it appear the work of a madman, motiveless, by killing again?”
“That’s rather farfetched.”
“Yes, as I said, not an official theory.”
“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for at The Croft?”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. It’s just that you might come upon something accidentally. For instance, now that you know the story—suppose you were to find Snow’s suitcase?”
“I see,” I replied, realizing for the first time that Mallory actually was a genuine suspect.
“You will keep your eyes open, then, sir?” Peal asked, standing up.
“Yes, all right.”
“I appreciate it. In a case like this, we have to look at all the possibilities. What’s been done is bad enough. Any way we can prevent another murder—”
He moved heavily toward the door; I rose to usher him out, but he turned back.
“Oh, and I’d advise you to be careful.”
“Careful? Do you think I’m in danger?”
“With a madman, sir, everyone is in danger. After all, Snow was a houseguest at The Croft, just as you will be. And the Brooke lad was headed there, just as you.”
“Oh, I shall be all right.”
A trace of annoyance passed over Peal’s face.
“Overconfidence doesn’t do, Ashley,” he said. “There are certain aspects to these murders—things so gruesome that we’ve thus far kept them quiet, to avoid panic. But you had best not be incautious. No solitary walks, nothing like that. No doubt you think yourself fit and able to defend yourself. No doubt Snow felt the same way. But this madman is inordinately powerful. Preternaturally so, in fact.” Peal was staring solemnly at me. “The bodies were mutilated in a degree—Ashley, it looked more like the work of a wild beast than a man. The doctor had never seen anything like it. The pure frenzy of the attack—The killer didn’t cease until long after the victim was dead. It was as if murder wasn’t enough, as if he wanted to utterly destroy the body. And Ashley, the bones were crushed and the flesh torn—by human teeth.”
Then he went out.
6
I retired early that evening and slept well enough, mercifully without dreams. Dawn arrived serene and clear, a burnished saffron glow on the eastern rim. I dressed and went down to the breakfast room, intending to telephone Mallory after I had eaten, but as I sat in those cheerful surroundings with the early morning sunlight shimmering in the yellow curtains, I instead determined to walk out to The Croft. It was only two or three miles, an hour’s jaunt at the most, and I told myself I needed the exercise. But was that the reason? Or had my conversation with Peal induced me to behave like an investigator? Did I wish to trace the path on which my telegram had sent the messenger to his ghastly death? Perhaps.
I sought out Mabel, settled for my second night’s lodging, and secured specific directions to The Croft; went up to look in on John, who watched me with quiet eyes and made no attempt to move his shattered jaw; and finally repaired to my room and packed my valise. As I lifted it, the weight struck a response. I had brought little enough, but the suitcase would be bothersome to carry along, and moreover it occurred to me that I might just as well arrive at Mallory’s without luggage. God knew what things would be like there. If I were to leave my suitcase at the Red Lion, I would have a ready excuse for early departure. Resolved upon this, I opened the case again and put my toothbrush into my pocket, then took the case down and arranged to leave it with Mabel. She was amenable enough, hoping for further custom. She accompanied me to the door, and as I stepped into the street, said, “Don’t let the monste
r get you now, Mr. Ashley.” I saw that she had been converted to Coots’s thinking.
Fleecy clouds were pulling apart in patterns against a cerulean sky, above venerable oak trees, dividing like woolly amoebas in their eternal solitude. Clouds, like the single-celled stuff of life, were immortal, I thought; it is only awareness of death that curses man with mortality. I walked along a narrow path with hedgerows on one side and rolling fields on the other. It was a gentle region, one known to young Brooke all his life, and an incongruous setting in which to perish by violence. I wondered if I’d know the spot when I came to it. Perhaps there would be visible signs, the undergrowth torn up, the ground gorged by drinking blood, chalk marks made by the police to describe the position of the body; perhaps I would sense the scene instinctively, by a chill of the flesh, a dim cry in my ears. Was it more terrible to die in such an unlikely locale, or was it a peaceful landscape to lay a corpse, mild and pretty, where the dead body could take root and sprout new life from its own decay, regenerated by the fertility of its spilled fluids?
I wanted to smoke and played a game with myself, seeing how far I could progress before yielding to the urge. It was a charade in which I sometimes indulged on walks by my cottage, where the landmarks were well known, but here on a strange path I found new dimensions added, new rules and unexpected goals. Just one more tree, I told myself; no, not that one, the larger one ahead; and then, just to that pillar of rock, that was easy enough, we’ll just attempt to make it as far as that fence ahead, and all the while thinking how curious it was that clean fresh air invariably instills the desire for tobacco. Paradoxes known to man, I mused, and patted my pocket to assure myself that my pipe was waiting there; taking strength from the assurance to walk another hundred yards without surrendering to the temptation. I was making good progress, my legs felt light and strong, I gazed about at the countryside and down at the dusty path where my long shadow ran out before me as if stamped from the earth. Presently I heard an automobile in the distance, coming from behind. It drew closer, sound waves compressing. I didn’t look back, but as it closed I stepped to the side to let it pass. Instead, the vehicle drew up beside me. It was a police car. The driver was uniformed. Inspector Peal, beside him, nodded out at me.
“On your way to The Croft?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Give you a lift?”
I hesitated, content to walk.
“I’m going near there. Looks like we might have our first break.” He knew that would interest me. I clambered into the back seat. Exercise abandoned, I gave up the game and began filling my pipe. The car started up smoothly. Peal offered nothing further.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Looks like we may have a couple people who saw the killer,” he said. “Group of vagabonds camped out here. Chive had an idea they might’ve seen something—says they don’t miss much—and it turns out it was a pretty good idea at that. Looks like they saw the killer either just before, or just after, he did the Brooke lad in.”
“How can you know it was he?”
“Well, can’t, really. But whoever they saw scared hell out of them, so we know at least he looked strange. They’re a superstitious lot, and suspicious, too, and if they were more frightened by this character than they are by Constable Chive, well, he must’ve looked pretty wild. That could be an advantage, too. If he looks normal, what the hell. But if we can get a description that sets him apart, then we have something to work on.”
“But if they didn’t actually see him kill the boy—”
Peal snorted.
“Ah, we’d never get them into court to testify, even if they did. They’d just hitch up their wagons and move on. Outside our legal system, they are. Deny everything. Hard to even identify them as witnesses. But that’s not my worry, I just want to find this guy before he kills again.”
We drove on.
Chive was standing beside a call box, his bicycle leaning against a rough hewn fence. We drew up beside him, and he approached the car, touching his helmet.
“ ’Fraid you’ll have to leave the car here,” he said. “It’s not far.”
“You manage from here?” Peal asked me.
“May I come with you?”
Peal looked at me and shrugged.
“Don’t see why not.”
The driver remained with the car, and Chive led us through the fence and out across the field. The landscape extended in a profusion of daisy-bedizened verdure, while a line of rocky tors loomed starkly on the horizon. Chive was chattering, “You must understand, sir, these are difficult people. They have no faith in legal justice. Not easy to get a word out of them. You see, they have no sense of innocence, not to mention guilt. Suspicious. As far as they know, seein’ a murderer is just as great a crime as committing a murder.”
“But did they admit seeing someone?” the inspector asked.
“Yes, sir, they did. But as for judging the truth of their words—why, they no more know what truth is than attempt to tell it.”
“Hm. Can we offer them something? Tobacco? A few bob?”
“Wouldn’t advise it. They see the chance for gain, why they’d say whatever they thought you wanted to hear.”
“Just what did they tell you?”
“I’d rather, if it’s all right, sir, have them repeat it to you.”
Peal looked at him.
“What’s got you upset, Chive?” he asked.
“Well, sir—they think it was a werewolf.”
“Oh,” replied Peal, and we walked on.
The earth was soft underfoot, sucking at my boots as if to draw me down into the ground, a vast grave yearning for a tenant. As we neared the top of the rise I detected the gypsy camp below us, beside a narrow stream. The wagons were drawn up by a small copse. They were brightly painted and gaily trimmed and had huge wooden wheels. The horses grazed off to one side; large patient brutes with great shaggy feet. As we approached I noticed that a small dark man and a woman in a bright shawl were sitting on the steps of the first wagon. No one else was in sight, although I sensed eyes in the other wagons. Both figures were smoking stubby black pipes; the man looked sullen, the woman nervous.
“Mind the dog,” Chive cautioned.
“What?” said Peal, and as he spoke a buckskin blur rushed at him from beside the wagon. Peal stepped back very quickly, colliding with me. I had a flashing glimpse of Chive’s unintentional grin. Something clanked, and the dog’s charge was arrested a scant yard from our legs.
“He’s chained, sir,” Chive reported belatedly.
“What in hell is that?” asked Peal.
“Pit bull terrier, sir.”
The brute, straining on a heavy length of chain, thundered with muscle. It made no sound whatsoever: the warning lay in its eyes, malevolent yellow orbs glowering upon us. The creature was not very tall, though its legs bowed around the mightiest chest I have ever seen on a dog. The choke collar cut into its throat, unnoticed, as it strained to ravage us. The man on the wagon was amused, although still sullen. He waited for a few moments before he called back the bull terrier. It obeyed instantly, but reluctantly, its none-too-gracious retreat attended by an obbligato of menacing snarls. Its fangs were obtrusive ivory triangles in that slavering wedge of a jaw.
“Some dog,” Peal observed.
“Pit bull, sir,” Chive reiterated, somewhat grimly. “Don’t expect you see many of them up at London.”
“We do not.”
“They use them to fight.”
“Fight what?”
“Well, anything, really. But mostly they fight other pit bulls. It’s a sort of sport among these people. Wagering and all. Not legal, of course. But hard to catch ’em at it. I’ve been on the lookout.”
“Worse things than dog fights,” Peal said.
“Yes, sir. They are bred to it.”
&nb
sp; The bull terrier had assumed a couchant posture beside the wagon, not curling as dogs do but down on its belly with its paws extended fore and aft because of the width of that massive block of body. It continued to scrutinize us with watchful golden eyes. Peal, walking gingerly, moved up to the wagon.
“This is Inspector Peal,” Chive announced. “He’d like you to tell him as you told me, Mr. Smith.”
“Already told it once,” Smith said.
“Yes, if you’ll just repeat it.”
“You forgot it, eh?”
“Just cooperate,” Peal said harshly.
The dog drew back its lips.
“Quiet, Job,” Smith said. He looked up at Peal. “I call him Job. That’s from the Holy Book. I call him that because he has great patience. Once he closes his teeth in another living creature, he will never relent until that creature has ceased to live.”
“It’s a fine dog,” Peal observed.
“Dumb brute. Don’t know but to bite. Just as soon take the leg off a policeman as not.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Well now, if you’ll be kind enough to tell me about this stranger you saw?”
“Had to tell about the dog first.”
Peal appeared puzzled.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” Smith asked Chive.
“That’s right, sir,” Chive agreed.
“What’s the connection?”
Smith looked at the constable.
“Well, sir,” said Chive, “it appears as how this dog was terrified by the stranger.”
Peal offered cigarettes to the couple. They both accepted one, carefully banking their pipes for later. After they were smoking, Peal inquired, “So you saw this man—what? Three nights ago, right?”
“Weren’t no man.”