The Empty House (16 page)

It explained something which had been worrying him before. If Professor Petros was a fake, and up to some mischief, why had he allowed Peter to visit the dig? Peter, it was true, had assured him that he knew nothing about archaeology, but why take the risk at all?

“That’s when it was fixed,” said Peter to himself. “When Stephen took me for that tour of the trenches. I caught him looking at his watch. He had been told to keep me out of the way for a specific time. It must be quite a simple gadget to fix. And quite easy to find.”

It was a black metal box, about six inches square, spot-welded onto the frame inside the back panel of the trunk. No tools that Peter had would remove it, but the front panel of the box was only held by a thumbscrew. Peter opened it and examined the complicated contents with interest.

“You’re a talkative little bastard,” he said. “But you shall talk no more.” Using a pair of long-nosed pliers, he extracted the miniature valves and broke the tiny connecting wires. Then he screwed back the front of the box, got back into the car, and drove off happily.

Next morning Peter was wakened by bells and realised that it was Sunday. He found a note: “Gone to Mass at St. Barnabas’ Church. Eggs on the dresser, bacon in the fridge.” He had cooked and eaten his breakfast by the time the Captain got back.

Peter said, “Would it be all right by you if I wanted to stop on here for the rest of the week?”

“No problem,” said the captain, “If you’re hard up for something to do, you can help paint the other bedrooms. We want to be shipshape by next Monday.”

“What I must do first is drive out and collect my stuff, and make my peace with Dave Brewer. I’ve paid for the week in advance, so he won’t be the loser.”

However, it was not Mr. Brewer who opened the door of the Doone Valley Hotel to him. It was Detective Inspector Home, who said, in his placid West Country voice, “We’d been hoping you’d put in an appearance, Mr. Manciple. You’ve been what I might call off the map lately, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been—” said Peter, and was stopped, at the last moment, by an absurd recollection of his mother saying, “When will you understand? The police are on the other side.” He changed it at the last moment. “I’ve been touring round a bit. Have there been some developments here?”

“You might call it a development, yes.” The Inspector led the way through the hall and out into the yard at the back. “Perhaps you’d care to have a look at something we’ve got here.”

He opened the door of what had once been the dairy, and Peter followed him in. With no presentiment of what he was going to see, the shock was uncushioned.

Where the milk churns and butter crocks had once stood lay little Dr. Bishwas. His body was covered by a blanket, but his face was exposed. His mouth was half open, and his lips had drawn away from his teeth in some convulsion of agony in the seconds before death had released him.

As Peter put out his hand to the blanket, the Inspector said, “No, sir. I wouldn’t look, if I were you. The body’s not in a very pleasant state.”

“I was going to cover his face,” said Peter with a shudder. “Where did they find him?”

“He was found half in, half out of the Culme, way out on the moor. It’s a place where the water comes down fast, among the rocks.”

“You mean he was drowned?”

“We haven’t had the autopsy yet. But no, sir, I don’t think he died by drowning. Nor I don’t think he fell into the river by accident. Both his legs were broken, you see. Snapped across the shin. Hold up, sir. You’ll feel better outside.”

He steered Peter out into the yard. Peter fought down his nausea, and said, “Have you any idea how – or who—”

“That’s two questions. Three, really. How, who, and why? That’s why I was glad to see you, being perhaps the last person who spoke to the poor gentleman before this happened to him.”

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

“You told me about it when we spoke at the hotel in Riverton. In outline, as you might say. I wondered if you could fill in some of the details. The best way would be if we ran over the ground. We could go in my car. Perhaps that would be more comfortable.”

The Inspector’s voice was fatherly, but Peter was beginning to tune in to the undertones. He realised that he had been subjected to a carefully prepared shock in order to loosen him up, and the realisation went some way in restoring his balance.

As they drove past the Research Station, he answered the Inspector’s questions slowly. Yes, he had had a telephone call that evening. He had picked up Dr. Bishwas at the corner of the boundary fence. Yes, just about here. Bishwas had been waiting for him, had got into the car, and they had driven along the track.

He could see the barn ahead of him, and a section of the track which had been marked with white tapes.

“We’ll keep over to the left here,” said the Inspector. “We’ve hopes we may be able to pick up some tyre marks. The ground was still pretty soft.”

“You’ll certainly find
my
tyre marks.”

“We were thinking of the other car, sir. The indications are that the Doctor was brought back here after you’d gone. It’d be a handy sort of place if they wanted to question him. If you’d step out now, we’ll have a look inside and you can go on with your story.”

There was a very faint smell in the barn. It had not been there before. Was it blood or sweat? Or was it fear?

Sergeant Rix was in the barn. He greeted Peter as an old friend. “Funny how things always seem to start moving when
you
turn up,” he said genially. And to the Inspector, “I found these bits of rope in the hay. The cut ends look quite new. And this.”

It was a rolled-up ball of handkerchief.

“Could be blood on it.”

The Inspector produced a cellophane bag and said, “Pop it in here, Sergeant.”

They might have been two boys clearing up after a picnic.

“I imagine this was the place you had your little talk, sir.”

“Yes,” said Peter. “Dr. Bishwas sat up there. On the edge of that sort of manger thing. I was down here.”

“Would you have been sitting down, too?”

“Most of the time I stood up. Part of the time I sat on that bale of hay. Is it important?”

“I was wondering whether anyone standing outside – at the back of the barn, say – could hear what you were saying.”

“I imagine they could hear every word.”

“You said something about a car stopping.”

“Yes. I heard a car check at the end of the lane. It didn’t actually stop.”

“When would that have been?”

“About a quarter of an hour after we’d started talking. Maybe a bit more.”

The Inspector was examining the inside of the barn with impersonal curiosity. Maybe he was seeing it as a photograph illustrating the book of the crime? To Peter it was a place of horror. A place where a little creature had been roped to the hayrack, gagged with his own handkerchief, and tortured to death. When would that fatuous Inspector and that oafish Sergeant stop pottering around, peering into things which no longer mattered? Come to that, why couldn’t he just say, “To hell with you” and walk out?

He could hear a car coming up the track. The Sergeant looked out, and said, “It’s the Army, sir.” They went outside, the Inspector closing the door carefully behind them, as if to prevent the escape of any clues which he might have overlooked.

The new arrival was a light utility car with Army markings. The man who got out, though not dressed in uniform, had the look of a soldier. He had a round, weather-beaten face, protuberant eyes, and a gray waterfall of a moustache.

He said, “I’m Bob Hay. You must be Peter Manciple.” He shot out a brown hand and Peter found himself shaking it. “If you’ve finished with Mr. Manciple, Inspector, I’d like a word with him.”

“That’s all right, Colonel. I think he’s told us all he can. For the time being, that is.”

“Jump in,” said the Colonel. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” During the drive he said nothing. Peter studied his face, but it said nothing, either. It was the sort of face a young soldier started to cultivate at Sandhurst, adding a line here and a fold there as rank and experience increased, until at the end it was as perfect a piece of protective covering as the bronze masks behind which warriors of old had hidden their thoughts and fears.

As they were getting out, the Colonel said, “There seem to be a lot of people about. Is there anywhere we could have a little pow-wow?”

“The best place would be my bedroom.”

When they got there, the Colonel annexed the only chair and Peter sat on the end of the bed. The Colonel said, “There’s no need to go over everything you told Inspector Home. I’ve read your statement. It seems quite straightforward. But there’s one thing that puzzles me. That rendezvous you fixed with Dr. Bishwas. You drove straight there, I suppose? The opposition seemed to pick it up damned quick. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, by any chance?”

“I told Dave Brewer I was going out. I didn’t say where.”

“No one else? No one at all?”

“No. But I did leave a messsage.”

“Oh. Who for?”

“For no one in particular. I thought the whole thing might be some sort of trap so I wrote a note explaining where I was going and who I was going to meet, and left it propped up on that mantelpiece.”

The Colonel got up, examined the mantelpiece, and then walked across to the window. He said, “Never seen a room quite so easy to burgle. Asking for trouble. Do you realise the outhouse roof runs up to within two foot of your windowsill?”

“I suppose someone could have got in,” agreed Peter. “But even if they did, they didn’t read the letter.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it was still unopened when I got back.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because,” said Peter, “I used my eyes.” He was beginning to find the Colonel’s Orderly Room manner irritating. “It was still sealed. I saw it. As a matter of fact, I believe I’ve still got it somewhere.” He opened his briefcase and found the letter. He also saw, reproaching him, his unfinished and undispatched report to Arthur Troyte.

The Colonel took the envelope, handling it gently. He said, “You should have used your fingers, Mr. Maniciple, not your eyes. This letter has certainly been read. It’s a very old trick. You can do it with a wire. In India, servants who were interested in your correspondence often used a thin sliver of bamboo. Push it in here, at the top. See the hole? Wind the letter round the bamboo, and pull it out of the hole. It goes back the same way, in reverse. If you run your fingers over the envelope – feel it – you can always tell if it’s been tampered with.”

Peter thought about this, and then said, “I wonder if you’d mind being a bit more explicit, about things in general. If I’m involved in something, surely I’ve the right to know what it is.”

The Colonel sat for quite some time, smoothing his hand down over his splendid moustache. Then he said, “Intelligent chap like you, I should have thought you’d have guessed by now.”

“A bit here and a bit there. For instance, I’m pretty certain that Professor Petros is a fraud.”

“Oh, what makes you think that? You’re not an archaeologist yourself, by any chance?”

“No. But I’ve got friends who are.”

He told him about this. When he had finished, he had the impression that the Colonel was looking at him with a little more respect. He said, “You’re right and wrong. Petros is an archaeologist. Not a very well-known one, but genuine enough for the purpose of the man who hired him.”

“A man who calls himself Stephen?”

“Good,” said the Colonel, as though he was examining an O.C.T.U. candidate. “I give you good marks for that. Spotted Stephen, did you? A very dangerous character. A high-class professional. We know a good deal about Mr. Stephen.”

“I thought his English sounded a bit stilted. What nationality is he?”

“No nationality. A citizen of the world. His father was a French Jordanian. His mother came from South America. He’s married to a Lebanese-Arab girl. And probably to half a dozen other girls in different parts of the globe. He was educated at the American University in Beirut. And very well educated, too. A charming man. He’d quote Thucydides while chopping your fingers off one by one.”

“If he’s a thug, why don’t you pull him in? Him and his fellow thugs? And deport the Professor?”

“Lots of reasons. First, because we’ve nothing specific to charge them with. Second, because if you start deporting professors, you get half the parlour pinks in the country round your neck. And third, because the situation was nicely balanced, very nicely balanced.”

“But why should anyone be watching Dr. Wolfe?”

“Because,” said the Colonel, “he’d shot his mouth off in that unfortunate article he wrote. You heard about that?”

“I heard about it. And I thought that anyone in their senses would have realised that it was a joke.”

“Nobody would think it a joke if there was even an outside possibility of having their water supply biologically attacked. A big country like Canada or Russia – it’d be unpleasant but not fatal. A small country with a limited water supply like Israel, it’d be a very different thing. They could be wiped out. No – they had to watch him. And we had to watch them. One party made a move, the other party would make a move. Like a game of chess. And then—are you a chess player, Mr. Manciple?”

”Yes.”

“I had a feeling you might be. I know very little about it, myself. My children tried to teach me once, but they soon gave it up. However, I remember one move. I forget what the technical term is, but it’s when the king changes places with one of the rooks.”

“It’s called castling. You’re only allowed to do it once, because it changes the whole pattern.”

“Right,” said the Colonel. “And that’s exactly what happened when the guard Lewis got knocked down by some hit-and-run hog and killed.”

“It was an accident, then?”

“No reason to think otherwise. But it certainly pressed the button. Dr. Wolfe took fright. His car went over the cliff at Rackthorn Point. When I saw that happen, I knew the watching period was over. What I didn’t anticipate—” the Colonel directed a bilious look at Peter—”was the arrival on the board of a new piece. A remarkable piece who seemed able to move in any direction he chose.”