Footsteps in the Dark (19 page)

Charles nodded, and followed him to a distance of a few yards beyond the gate. A ditch, with a bank surmounted by a hedge, flanked the lane, and they sat down on this bank in silence.

No sound came from the house on the other side ofthe ditch. After perhaps twenty minutes Charles yawned.

"We must look uncommonly silly," he remarked. "I don't believe he's in. Or else he's gone to bed, and left a light burning."

Peter stood up. "I'm going to try and have a look inside," he said.

"You can't go spying in at a man's windows," Charles objected.

"Can't I?" Peter retorted. "Well, you watch me, and see. I've no compunction about spying on Duval whatsoever. The trouble with you is that you've got a legal mind. I don't somehow see Duval & Co. displaying a like punctiliousness where we're concerned."

He carefully lifted the sagging gate out of position, and stole up the tangled path to the house. Charles saw him apparently listening at the window; then he crept round to the back, and was gone for some time.

He rejoined Charles presently. "Can't hear a sound," he said. "But there's certainly a light. Just youu come up, will you?"

Charles sacrificed his principles, and followed Peter up to the front door. He stood listening intently. It was just as Peter had said: not the smallest sound came from the room on the other side of the door.

"I believe you're right," Charles whispered. "He's either out, or asleep. If he's asleep I propose to wake him."

Before Peter could stop him he had raised his hand and knocked smartly on the door.

"You ass!" Peter hissed. "If he's there we don't want to disturb him!"

"If he's there his talk was all moonshine, and it doesn't matter whether we disturb him or not," Charles replied. He knocked again.

The answering silence was a little uncanny. They waited, then Charles knocked louder than ever.

"By Jove, I believe he is out!" Peter said. "Take care he doesn't come back suddenly and see you." He moved boldly towards the window, and set his eye to the dirty glass where the curtains inside just failed to meet. Suddenly he spoke in a sharp, uneasy voice. "Charles, just come here a moment. There's something… Here, take a look. What's that thing you can just see?"

All his scruples forgotten Charles pressed his face up against the glass. "I can't quite - it looks like an arm. Yes, it is. Then someone must be standing there! But - damn this curtain!" He pressed closer, staring between the narrow gap in the curtain. The thing that was just discernible was unmistakably an arm in an old tweed sleeve, and below the edge of the frayed cuff a hand hung slackly. Charles stood still, trying to see more, but the gap was too small. But all the time he watched the hand never moved, and no sound broke the silence.

He turned. "There's something wrong here," he said. "We've got to get in. Try the door."

Peter put his hand on the latch. "Bound to be bolted - unless he's out."

But the latch lifted, and no bolt held the door in place. He pushed it cautiously open and peered in. Then a startled exclamation brought Charles up quickly to look over his shoulder. "Oh, my God," Peter cried on a note of horror.

For there, in the centre of the squalid little room was Louis Duval, quite dead, and hanging from one of the hooks in the beam that Charles had noticed.

Chapter Thirteen

The body hung horribly limply, and the face which was turned towards them was slightly discoloured as though death had resulted from strangulation rather than dislocation. The mouth hung open, and between lids that were almost shut the whites of the eyes gleamed in the lamplight.

Peter's hand fell from the latch of the door which he was still holding. He felt sick, but conquering the rising nausea he went up to that still figure, and touched one of the drooping hands. It felt chilly, and with a feeling of loathing he let it fall. The arm swung for a moment and then was still.

"Dead…' Charles said. "Poor chap!"

Peter was looking round the room; it was untidy, and a dirty plate with a knife and fork stood on the table, but there were no signs of any struggle having taken place. The only thing that seemed significant was a fallen chair, and from its position it looked as though Duval had kicked it from under his feet when the rope was round his neck. "Think the whole affair got on his nerves so badly that he - did himself in?" Peter said, instinctively lowering his voice.

Charles shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible; he was pretty distraught to-night. But I can't help thinking of what he said about the other man who died."

Peter jumped and looked round. "You don't think - the Monk did this?"

Charles did not answer immediately. "He was trying to find out who the Monk is," he said after a short pause. "He was scared out of his life; he was afraid he was being followed. So much was he afraid that he carried a fairly murderous knife on him. Now we find this." He made a gesture towards the hanging corpse.

"No sign of a struggle," Peter said, again scanning the room. "And his hands are free, and there's that chair which he obviously stood on."

"His hands might have been bound," Charles said. "No, don't touch them. This is a matter for the police. Come on, let's get out of this: we can't do anything here. We'd better go on to the Inn, and ring up the police-station at Manfield."

"Charles, we can't leave him hanging there!" Peter said, impelled by his horror of that dangling corpse.

"He's been dead for at least an hour from the look of' it," Charles said. "We can't do any good by cutting him down, and the police won't thank us for interfering. Come on: let's get out, for God's sake!"

Peter followed him into the garden. As Charles shut the door he said: "Door was unbolted. It looks damned black to me."

"Why should he bolt the door if he meant to kill himself?" was Peter's answer.

Charles did not say anything. Both he and Peter were glad to be out of that dreadful room, and they set off at a brisk pace towards the village.

The Inn was only some ten minutes' walk distant from the cottage, and they soon reached it. The place was in darkness, but they pressed the electric bell, and heard it ring somewhere inside. After a short interval the door was opened, and the barman's startled face looked out.

"I want to use your telephone," Charles said curtly. "It's urgent, so let me in, will you?"

Spindle seemed reluctant to let him pass, but Charles pushed by him without ceremony. "Where is it?" he asked impatiently.

"What - what's happened, sir?" Spindle said. "I 'ope - no one's taken ill?"

"Never you mind," Charles said. "Where's the telephone?"

"There's a box outside the coffee-room, sir. But I don't know as - I don't know as Mr. Wilkes…'

"Rubbish! Wilkes can't possibly object to having Ills telephone used. Where is he?"

"He's Born to bed, sir. I'll show you where the 'phone is, and call 'im."

He led the way down the passage to a telephone box, and casting another wondering look at them made off in the direction of the back premises.

Charles found the number he wanted, and stepped into the box. Peter remained at his elbow, listening. He supposed the landlord's room must be reached by way of the back stairs since Spindle had gone in that direction, but a moment later Spindle reappeared, and saying that he would rouse Mr. Wilkes at once, went quickly up the stairs that ran up at the front of the house.

Charles had at last got himself connected with the police-station, and was endeavouring to make an apparently sleepy constable understand. "Hullo! Hullo, is that Manfield Police Station?… Yes? This is Malcolm speaking - Malcolm… M.A.L.C.O.L.M. — yes, Malcolm, from Framley… No, Framley. Is Inspector Tomlinson there?… Damn! Look here, you'd better send a man over at once. There's been an accident… No, I said there's been an accident… Yes, that's right… What?… Well, it's either suicide, or murder, and the sooner you get a man over here the better… You'll what?… Oh good, yes!… I'm speaking from the Bell Inn, and if you call for me here I'll take you to the place. Right, good-bye." He hung up the receiver, and turned to tell Peter what the constable had said. "He's going to get hold of Tomlin…' He broke off, staring past Peter. The front door was open, and on the threshold, his hand on the latchkey which he had not yet withdrawn from the lock, was Michael Strange, standing as though arrested by what he had heard, and looking directly at him.

Peter turned quickly, following the direction of Charles' gaze. "Strange!" he ejaculated. "What the hell are you doing?"

Strange drew the key out of the lock, and shut the door. "I might echo that question," he said coolly. He came towards them, and they saw that he was looking decidedly unpleasant. "What have you found?" he said.

Charles laid a restraining hand on Peter's arm. "Do you know, that is something we propose to tell the police," he said. "I don't immediately perceive what it has to do with you."

Strange looked at him under frowning brows. "Look here," he said harshly, "if you're wise you'll stop poking your nose in where it's not wanted."

Charles' brows rose in polite surprise. "Is that a threat?" he inquired.

"No, it's not a threat. It's a warning, and one which you'd do well to follow." He swung around on his heel as he spoke and went up the stairs without another word.

Peter had started forward as though to pursue him, but again Charles checked him. "Leave it," he said. "We've no right to detain him. All we can do is to tell the police."

"While you stand on ceremony he'll get clean away!" Peter said hotly.

"I don't think it," Charles answered, "if he had anything to do with what we found to-night I'm pretty sure we've discovered who the Monk is. And he's a damned cool customer - much too cool to give himself away by bolting." He glanced up the staircase. "I don't know about you, but I feel as though I could do with a stiff peg. What on earth's Wilkes up to all this time?"

As though in answer to his question the landlord came into sight at the top of the stairs. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir," he said, "but I stayed to pop on my clothes. Spindle says you wanted to use the telephone, urgent, sir. I do hope nothing's wrong up at the Priory?" He came down as quickly as a man of his bulk might, and they saw that he was fully clothed and that his placid countenance had taken on a look of anxiety.

"No, there's nothing wrong at the Priory," Charles answered. "It's that fellow, Duval. We've just been up to his place, and - he's dead."

The landlord fell back a pace. "Dead." he echoed.

"Dooval? So that's…' A cough broke off what he was about to say. He went on again when the spasm was at an end: "So that's why he never turned up to-night like he generally does," he said. "How - what happened, sir? Was it the drugs he takes, do you think? Perhaps he ain't actually dead. I have heard as how they often goes into a kind of a stupor."

"He's dead right enough," Charles said grimly. "We found him hanging from his own ceiling."

The landlord's rosy cheeks turned suddenly pale. "Hanging?" he whispered. "You mean - someone - did him in?"

"No, it looks like suicide on the whole. I say, can you get us a drink? We feel we need one after this."

Wilkes turned mechanically towards the bar. "Yes, sir. That is, it's after hours, you know, sir, but I can stretch a point seeing what the reason is. I - I take it you wanted to ring up the police?"

"Naturally. They'll be over in about half an hour, I should imagine. Can we sit and wait here till they come?"

"Yes, sir, certainly. Will you have a whisky? And I'd be glad if you'd keep it quiet that I served you after hours, if you don't mind, sir." He measured out two tots, still looking rather pale about the gills. Charles told him to pour a third for himself, and he did so. "Hanged!" he repeated. "My Gawd, sir, I can't get over it! Regular shock it is, when I think how he took his dinner here this morning same as usual. He did seem a bit queerer than usual now I come to think of it, but there, he was always such a one for going off into one of them silly fits that I didn't set any store by it."

"What about the soda, Wilkes?" Peter interrupted.

The landlord started. "I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir." He produced a siphon, and squirted the soda-water into the glasses. "It's given me such a turn I don't hardly know what I'm doing." He sat down, limply. "To think of him - dead! And like that too. It must have upset you, finding him," he shuddered.

"Yes, not a pretty sight," Charles said.

They remained seated in the bar, until the noise of a car approaching roused Wilkes from his awe-struck meditations. The car drew up outside, and he hurriedly concealed the tell-tale glasses. "I'll go and let 'em in, sir," he said, and went out to the main door.

Charles and Peter followed him. Inspector Tomlinson was standing in the entrance, and at sight of Charles he said briskly: "Very good of you to wait, sir. Hope we haven't kept you. If you'll come out I've got a car here, and you can tell me what has happened while we go along to this place. Where is it, sir?"

"Only a stone's throw. I'll direct you."

"Who's the dead man, sir? Do you know him?"

"Duval. The artist I spoke to you about."

"I remember, sir," the inspector said. As usual he displayed nothing but a business-like and detached interest in the occurrence. "Will you get in beside Sergeant Matthews in the front, sir, and tell him the way? This is Dr Puttock, the Divisional Surgeon. Can you find room behind, Mr. Fortescue? I'm afraid it's a tight fit."

Peter managed to wedge himself between Dr Puttock and the inspector, and the car started forward. In a few minutes it turned into the rough lane, and drew up outside the cottage.

"I shall have to ask you gentlemen to come in with me," the inspector said. "Hope you don't mind, sir."

"No, it's all right," Charles said, and got out of the car.

They went into the cottage, and the sergeant, producing a note-book began to write in it, his eyes lifting from it from time to time to observe everything in the room. None of the three men paid any attention to Charles or Peter for some time, but when the body had been taken down and laid on the floor, the inspector seemed to become aware of them again, and said kindly: "Not very pleasant for you two gentlemen, but we shan't keep you very long, I hope Note the position of that chair, Matthews. Looks as though deceased must have stood upon it, doesn't it?" He glanced down at the doctor who was kneeling beside the body, making some sort of an inspection. "Clear case of suicide, eh, doctor? As soon as the ambulance comes we'll get the body away."