The Polo Ground Mystery (13 page)

“Miss Cazas seems to have a more literary turn of mind than I was crediting her with,” he remarked to Ralli, as he indicated the volume.

“Good Lord above! What tempted her to take that book from the library? It was one of my contributions. Edmée would take as much interest in it as she would in
The Voyage of the Beagle
. When she asked me to recommend her something to read the other day, I said I didn't know her taste, but that one of the most amusing books we had was Dekker's
The Honest Whore
. She promptly went off to search for it.”

“By the way, Ralli, how did she take the tragedy of your uncle's death? I suppose it meant a lot to her.”

“She was a bit hysterical at first, but soon regained her composure. She returned to town about three o'clock. She ate a fat lunch and excused her shameless hunger by remarking that she'd only had a cup of tea and some lipstick for breakfast. She's what a kindly reviewer of fiction would call an unsympathetic character. But let's get out of this. I can't stand her scent.”

“I've been trying to remember that particular scent ever since I entered the room,” remarked Vereker.

“Can't say what it is,” replied Ralli, as he turned towards the door, “but it reminds me of a civet cat. Matter of association, I suppose.”

On entering the corridor once more, Ralli turned to the right where a staircase led to the floor above.

“You'd better have a look at my uncle's room, Vereker. There, your hawk's eye may be able to pick up some scrap of information that may be useful.”

Sutton Armadale's room was one of almost monastic simplicity. There was little in it that was suggestive of comfort. Vereker had looked for Sardanapalian luxury; he found by contrast the asceticism of an Antisthenes. He wondered whether this had been part of his pose or a true expression of his inner self. A set of “Quorn Hunt” aquatints by Henry Aiken were an illuminating disclosure of his pitiably obsequious worship of a cult.

A writing-table stood by the window, and beside it a plain chest of drawers in light oak. On the table was a telephone standard, a telephone directory, a blotting- pad, a stationery box, a desk fountain-pen, and a surveyor's round leather measuring-tape. Two doors facing one another led into a dressing-room and a bathroom respectively. Vereker walked over to the writing-table and surveyed the various articles on it critically. He picked up the measuring-tape, looked carefully at it, and replaced it slowly on the table. His face had suddenly grown thoughtful. Then he casually put his hand on the handle of the right-hand top drawer and pulled the drawer open. It contained an empty cardboard box such as is supplied with a Colt automatic pistol when bought, two cleaning rods, two cleaning brushes, and two boxes of .45 calibre pistol cartridges. Picking up the boxes of cartridges and almost oblivious of Ralli, who now stood beside him, he examined them. One was still intact, and from the other fourteen cartridges had been taken. Returning the cartridges to the drawer, he took out the cardboard box and turned it over casually as he inspected it. All at once something arrested his eye. Two words were scribbled hurriedly in pencil on the bottom of the box. They were written in an execrably bad hand, but after some trouble Vereker deciphered them as “Gastinne Renette.” Turning to Ralli, he asked:

“Is that your uncle's handwriting?”

“Yes, that's his fist. What are the words?”

“Gastinne Renette—obviously French or Belgian.”

“They're Greek to me,” commented Ralli, “but they sound like a name.”

“I think you're right. I wonder who he is. Can you remember if your uncle possessed two .45 automatic pistols, Ralli?”

“I didn't know he possessed even one. I've heard ‘Fruity' Fanshaugh say my uncle was a rattling good shot with a pistol, though he always added that he handled a shot-gun as if it was a fly-swatter and made a day's shooting as nerve-racking as trench warfare when the enemy was strafeing. His record was two beaters a season.”

“Strange that he should have two cleaning rods and two brushes for one pistol,” remarked Vereker, and returning the cardboard box to the drawer closed it.

Then he carefully examined the blotting-pad. The paper was immaculate except for a few ink impressions on the centre and a sentence written in pencil on the corner. The sentence written in pencil read, “It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. D.J. C4. S.41.”, and the ink impression, when reversed in a mirror, showed where an envelope had been blotted. The address ran, “Mr. J. Portwine, Learoyd Street, W. Hartlepool.” Taking a note of these, Vereker remarked:

“They may possibly fit into a scheme of things. Won't do to leave a stone unturned. We needn't trouble your solicitors for Portwine's address in any case, Ralli. I suppose you know what these drawers contain?” 

“Indeed I don't. Haven't had time to go through them yet, but I believe they contain all my uncle's private papers. If you'd like to go through them with me, I shall be glad.”

“When will it be convenient? It'll possibly take us some time.”

“I'm ready now. We might be able to run through them before lunch. What do you think?”

To this proposal Vereker at once agreed, and Ralli, producing a bunch of keys, unlocked all the drawers on both sides of the writing-table. For two hours both men worked busily together, carefully scanning the contents of neatly tied and methodically arranged bundles of correspondence. On completion of the task, Vereker was constrained to admit that they had apparently drawn blank. Besides these letters and copies of letters, the drawers contained nothing but two small volumes by the late Walter Winans. They were
The Modern Pistol and How to Shoot It
and
Automatic Pistol Shooting
.

“I'd like to run through these two books when I find time. May I take them with me, Ralli?”

“By all means. I'm sorry you've dug out nothing worth having.”

“On the contrary, I think I've made one or two rather startling discoveries. I'm just beginning to get thoroughly excited.”

“Good Lord, I'm glad to hear it! You look about as excited as an Egyptian statue. You didn't shout the good news to me.” 

“As a huntsman would say, I'm not a ‘babbler.' I never speak when I'm not sure of the scent.”

Glancing at his watch, Ralli now proposed that they should adjourn for lunch. Before descending to the dining-room, however, Vereker insisted on looking into the bedrooms that Ralph Degerdon, Aubrey Winter, and Captain Fanshaugh had slept in on Wednesday night. Of these apartments he made a very careful survey, noting their order in the corridor and their disposition in relation to Sutton Armadale's rooms, to the staircase, and to the rooms below. He also examined every object that might still bear some trace left by the last occupant. During this search, Ralli watched him with quiet but unflagging interest, alert to notice what those inquisitive and observant eyes might seize on with suddenly awakened curiosity.

“You say that Aubrey Winter's very much in love with Miss Cazas?” asked Vereker, looking through the room which Winter had occupied.

“He's in love with her all right, but Aubrey's attitude to Edmée always reminds me of the attachment of an affectionate poodle to its mistress. He's a quiet, matter-of-fact youth without any fire. Slow but sure combustion!”

“Would he be capable of jealousy?”

“Not of violent jealousy, in my opinion.”

“He was quite friendly with your uncle?”

“A great admirer of him. The ability to make money always struck Aubrey as something supernatural. You can't blame him; everybody thinks so more or less.”

“Did he know that your uncle was infatuated with Miss Cazas?”

“He had some sort of inkling, I suppose, and I dare say he questioned Edmée about it. But you know the subtlety of a woman of her type. She'd mesmerize poor Aubrey into the belief that her relations with my uncle were as innocent as a child's. If he doubted her, she'd at once assume an outraged air and threaten instant dismissal from favour. Aubrey would promptly crawl and promise never to be a bad boy again. She'd then give him a peck of a kiss as a sort of figurative hanky with which to blow his nose and wipe away his tears.”

“Poor Winter, I'm sorry for him. I've been through that hoop.
Improbe amor
,
quid non mortalia pectora cogis!
” said Vereker.

*“After that mouthful—lunch!” exclaimed Ralli, and led the way downstairs.

After lunch, Ralli suggested a siesta on the veranda under the balcony on the north side of the house. There, Vereker turned the conversation on the happenings of the eve and morning of the murder.

“Can you remember, Ralli, at what time Dunkerley woke you and broke the news on Thursday morning?” he asked.

“It was dawn when I heard the two shots fired, that's roughly five o'clock, summer time. Then I fell asleep and was roused by Dunkerley shaking me like a terrier shaking a rat. The sun had just risen, so that it must have been about six. The old boy was in such a state that he had some trouble in blurting out, ‘Wake up, sir, your uncle has been murdered!' I was half asleep, and I took his words as ‘your uncle's being murdered.' In my dazed state I thought it was some one playing a brutal sort of practical joke. The shock I got wasn't conducive to my bothering about the time. I simply leaped into my dressing-gown and rushed downstairs to break the terrible news to Angela.”

“That reminds me, you forgot to show me your own room, Ralli,” interrupted Vereker.

“Damn it all, so I did! It's next to my uncle's, the farthest bedroom along that corridor from the staircase. Have a look round any time you like.”

“I'm not suspecting you at present,” smiled Vereker amiably.

“I'm not so sure about that,” replied Ralli, glancing up with a quick, nervous lift of his eyes. “You needn't, anyhow. But reckoning that it took Collyer about three-quarters of an hour after he heard the shots to make his way to Hanging Covert and thence to the polo ground and another quarter to reach the house—which is cutting it a shade fine—it would be as near six o'clock as damn it—perhaps a little more.”

“Was your aunt asleep when you entered her room?”

“Sound as a drum. I didn't know how to break the news to her. But Angela guessed at once by my face that something was seriously wrong. When I told her, I thought she'd faint. She didn't. She pulled herself together, jumped out of bed, and straightway began to dress. I rushed upstairs and burst into Fanshaugh's room. To my surprise he was half dressed, and promptly asked, ‘What's all the bother? I was just getting up to see.' I told him, and then roused Winter and Degerdon.”

“Was Winter asleep?” asked Vereker.

“No, he was sitting up in bed, and on my telling him what had happened, he jumped up with the words, ‘Good God! Have you told Edmée yet?' Without troubling to answer him, I hopped into Degerdon's room. He was fast asleep, and it seemed to me that I took the deuce of a time to wake him. After I'd shaken the liver out of him, he simply rolled over with a muttered, ‘I shan't get up yet. Call me in another hour.' Finally I managed to bring home to him the seriousness of the situation, and he began very collectedly to get up.”

“Was he at all upset?” asked Vereker.

“Not the least bit at first. Degerdon seems at times to be slow in the uptake, but he gradually realized what a horrible tragedy had occurred and appeared to be overwhelmed. This was my impression, but you must remember I wasn't in a condition myself to be very observant. By the time I had pulled on my clothes, Fanshaugh had already left the house. Degerdon had dressed, met Angela, and was accompanying her out, taking her arm. He shouted to me to ring up a doctor and the police and follow as quickly as possible.”

“I wonder why he should suggest police before he was certain it was murder,” remarked Vereker.

“Damn it, but that never struck me,” said Ralli, with a shade of surprise. “In any case, I think I told him it was murder, and I suppose he took it for granted. One doesn't think beneath the surface at such a moment.”

“Perhaps not. Who was the last to arrive on the scene?”

“Edmée and Aubrey together. Aubrey, phlegmatic in temperament, was rather chalky about the face but otherwise perfectly calm. Edmée, nervous and highly strung, was, as I've said, quite hysterical at first, but recovered later in the morning.”

“Fanshaugh seems to have kept his head,” commented Vereker.

“It's what one would expect from a soldier. Frankly, I was mighty glad Fanshaugh hadn't gone back to Nuthill on the previous night, as had been his intention. He was simply splendid!”

“Was it very late when you turned in the night before?”

“Not exceptionally. Excusing myself, I went to bed at eleven. To tell the truth, I was feeling bored with the company. They weren't in a particularly cheerful or bright mood. I had just got a copy of Richard Oke's
Frolic Wind
and had made up my mind to have a go at it in bed. Reading in bed's a habit of mine. I started with the expectation of falling comfortably asleep over it, but for the life of me I couldn't lay it down. About half-past twelve I heard Fanshaugh and Degerdon coming along the corridor. They were in a chirpy mood and talking at the top of their voices. I may add that they both appreciate a drop of really fine whisky. Then, at one o'clock I heard Aubrey Winter enter his room rather quietly, and a quarter of an hour later the closing of my uncle's door told me that he had followed suit.”

“And then you fell asleep?”

“No, I read on till about two o'clock, when I switched off my light and settled down. I fell into a doze, but was wakened by the sound of movements from the floor below. It sounded as if either Angela or Edmée was up and treading rather lightly about her room. I didn't pay much attention to this, for Angela is a restless sort of soul at times. If she can't sleep she'll often get up and rake around for an aspirin tablet or fish out the manuscript of a novel she's writing. No one has ever seen that manuscript, but she admits that she has been at work on it for seven years. She says her genius is volcanic and has alternate periods of eruption and quiescence, but chiefly quiescence. Then I fell off again, but was wakened by the sound of a window being opened. The night was tropical, so that this incident didn't fire my curiosity. Shortly after, I heard a car start up and make off eastward along the Nuthill road. Once more I slipped away to the land of Nod. The dawn light woke me up, as it nearly always does, and it was then I heard the shots. To tell the truth, I wasn't quite sure at the moment that they were shots. I persuaded myself that I'd heard a car backfire on the road and dozed off again. My next sensation was seismic in its violence, and its origin, as I've related, was dear old Dunkerley.”