The Polo Ground Mystery (28 page)

For some minutes Vereker was silent, and as he pondered his face assumed an air of unusual gravity.

“You've told Degerdon of the part you played in putting Sutton Armadale out of pain?” he asked at length.

“Yes, I saw no reason for hiding it from him,” replied Fanshaugh frankly.

“You're perfectly certain that Sutton Armadale always shot with his left hand when using a pistol?”

“Absolutely certain. I've seen him practise on innumerable occasions, and he never used his right hand. His right eye was useless even behind plate-glass, and he was naturally left-handed.”

“Then I'm sorry to say, Fanshaugh, after what you've told me, that I've very grave doubts about that duel of Degerdon's. It seems pretty clear to me now that no duel took place at all!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, with marked trepidation. “How on earth do you make that out?”

“You will remember that Sutton Armadale was shot in the abdomen. The bullet entered on the right side and, as Macpherson the expert on gunshot wounds said, came to rest behind the left iliac crest, or in plain English behind the left hip bone close to its upper edge. Now if Sutton fought a duel with Degerdon, how could the bullet enter the right side of the abdomen? If Sutton faced his opponent, as the majority of duellists do—that is, chest and stomach to the front—it would have been a sheer impossibility for Degerdon's bullet to hit him on the right side. If Sutton had been right-handed, he might have turned sideways to Degerdon so as to present a narrower target and been wounded as he was; but a practised duellist would never do this, because a bullet entering the body might then traverse the whole width of the trunk and have a terrible chance of proving fatal. Sutton was left-handed, and, if he had adopted the sideways method of presenting himself, it would have been equally impossible for him to be shot on the right side of the abdomen. Have you got me? Is it clear to you?”

“Perfectly clear, old chap. I hadn't thought of that. That's where brains count, and I haven't got more than my share. But how the devil do you explain things?”

“It looks uncomfortably like murder to me,” remarked Vereker gravely.

“Lord above, this is serious!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, deeply perturbed.

“Another damning piece of evidence against Degerdon is the fact that Sutton never fired his automatic,” continued Vereker solemnly.

Captain Fanshaugh's face at once assumed a look of amazed incredulity.

“But Degerdon said that Armadale was quicker than he was and managed to loose off a good second before himself. I think you're talking poppycock now Vereker!”

“Perhaps Degerdon's a liar,” replied Vereker quietly. “I don't know the young man well enough to say so definitely, but how do you account for the fact that there were six live cartridges in Sutton's automatic when the police took charge of it? The magazines of both pistols were fully loaded, you say?”

“With seven cartridges each,” replied Fanshaugh emphatically.

“If Sutton fired one and you fired another out of the same pistol, how could there be six cartridges left in Sutton's automatic when it was found?”

“Phew!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, wiping perspiration from his forehead. “That damned point never entered my calculations. I've never bothered about the number of cartridges left in the magazine!”

“It was a bad oversight, but, of course, mistakes are frequently made by taking things for granted. There's another part of your yarn, Fanshaugh, which strikes me as weak. It may be all right, but it doesn't sound quite feasible to me. Is it likely that Degerdon would get up at three o'clock in the morning to carry on a quarrel with a young lady in her bedroom, seeing that they were both guests in another man's house?”

“Well, it looks rather fishy, but even after your pointing out the discrepancies in Degerdon's story of the duel, I can scarcely bring myself to think he's such an abominable liar.”

“Perhaps it was something altogether different,” remarked Vereker, and in his own mind there arose a strong suspicion that Degerdon's presence in Edmée Cazas' bedroom had some connection with his theory about the stolen necklace. He noted it for further inquiry and, turning to Fanshaugh, said:

“You've not thoroughly cleared up the mystery of that key to the side door, Fanshaugh.”

“Plague seize that key! It has cost me some sleepless nights. In my excitement I lost it. It must have been when I was dressing or undressing on Thursday morning. I was afraid I'd lost it in the house, but I wasn't certain. When the bally thing turned up in your possession, I got the shock of my life. I had a suspicion you were jinking when you told me where you'd found it, and I decided to get rid of that key if possible. I was a bit surprised when you handed it over so confidingly. For a moment I thought you'd handed me a dud, but on looking at it afterwards I was glad to see that it was the right key. I handed Ralli a substitute and buried that key darkly at dead of night.
Requiescat in pace!
But what are you going to do about all this business? I want to know, Vereker. I'd like to settle up my affairs and leave all tidy if the worst comes to the worst.” 

“I'll let you know in good time, Fanshaugh. I've not got to the end of my investigations yet, and when I do it will be time enough for me to decide on future action—if any.”

“I appreciate your frankness, old chap, and thank you. At the same time, I might as well tell you I don't care a continental either way now. I never stand looking at a ‘rasper,' and the sooner you wind up this affair the better I'll be pleased!”

“There's one more question, Fanshaugh. Did you tell Miss Edmée Cazas about this duel business?”

“Oh, yes, Degerdon told her all about it afterwards in my presence.”

“How did she take it?”

“There was a positive gleam of triumph in her eyes, and I've never seen a woman more beautifully flushed with life. They had fought for her—her favours. She was the prize; her beauty had been a matter of life and death. She kissed Degerdon passionately. A human life had been sacrificed for her charms. To paraphrase some poet fellow—‘But oh, the dismal mockery of the winning when she's won!'”

When Vereker arrived at the “Silver Pear Tree,” it was close on midnight. He was surprised to see a light in Heather's room and hoped that the inspector was still up. Knocking cautiously at the officer's door, he heard a thoroughly disgruntled “Come in,” and entered to find the inspector sitting at a table on which lay his note-book and papers scattered in untidy array. There was a worried look on his usually cheerful face.

“What's the matter, Heather? You look thoroughly peeved,” remarked Vereker.

“I've a good mind to send in my papers and give up the game, Mr. Vereker,” replied Heather wearily.

“This is heart-breaking news, Heather; let's cry together. I'm in a similar mood. There seems no end to this tangle. As soon as you feel you're on top of your man, you discover you've made an almighty bloomer and have got to start all over again on another tack.”

“Have you anything to report?” asked Heather more cheerfully.

“Stacks! I think I've solved the mystery of the burglary. I'm going to ring up Ralli first thing in the morning and tell him to have Mrs. Armadale's room searched again for the missing pearl necklace.”

“What makes you think it's there?” asked the inspector eagerly. “The room has been properly ransacked already.”

“I've a suspicion amounting almost to a certainty that it returned there early this afternoon!”

“This sounds like beefsteak and onions! Let's have the yarn!” said Heather, considerably brighter.

Vereker then carefully related to the inspector the whole of his theory of the theft of Mrs. Armadale's pearls, winding up with the story of his interview with Miss Cazas that afternoon.

“You see, Heather, I was confident that I had her in a corner. I thought she'd capitulate when I let her know we practically had our hands on her accomplices, Vernet and Ferray, and that with luck that necklace was as good as back in Mrs. Armadale's safe. She wasn't even badly shaken. At first glance I was inclined to think she was putting up a superb bit of bluff. Feeling that my theory was fairly unassailable, I at once began to wonder where the wrong link was. Then I suddenly remembered she'd gone to Vesey Manor to say good-bye to Ralli after lunching with my friend, Ricardo, and I saw everything in a blinding flash. Ricardo's interview with her had evidently fairly put the wind up her, and she must have been pretty well scared already by thinking the police were connecting burglary with murder. As she herself is not a professional thief to our knowledge, she must have decided to return the stolen property before things got too hot. Probably she and her accomplices had already settled on this plan. To men like Vernet and Ferray there's always a pleasing difference between a prison cell and a hangman's rope. Her last shaft at me when she shook hands on parting gave me the cue, and I felt that I was once again on the right rail.”

Heather, who had listened to Vereker's story with profound interest, now rose and held forth his hand.

“Shake on it, Mr. Vereker. I can say sincerely, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.' The necklace has been found. Mr. Ralli came here about five o'clock to tell me the astounding news. After this I must see about a Chief Constable's job for you.”

“I suppose one of the servants found it in Mrs. Armadale's room,” suggested Vereker, beaming with satisfaction.

“No. Miss Edmée Cazas herself found it quite accidentally when hunting for her lost diary. She had lent her diary to Mrs. Armadale to amuse her and didn't remember getting it back. First she searched her own room and then looked in Mrs. Armadale's. Thinking that that good lady had probably left it on a chest of drawers, whence it might have been brushed off in the excitement of Thursday morning, she glanced behind the chest of drawers near her dressing-table and there, sure enough, was her diary. Getting one of the servants to help her, she moved the chest of drawers, and behind it, to the amazement of both, was Mrs. Armadale's necklace as well! It takes a lady with brains to find lost pearls, and I suppose we must admit she has fairly licked us hollow!”

“I'm sorry the burglar found the safe empty,” said Vereker, laughing. “I'd have liked to see his face when he found that all his trouble had been in vain. But how about the murder issue? I can see from your face, Heather, that you've struck a nasty snag.”

“Hit it good and hearty, Mr. Vereker. First, let me say Portwine has been questioned and gave a clear and truthful explanation of his movements. He has a perfect alibi for Wednesday night and Thursday morning. He had only called on Sutton Armadale to tell him that his wife was dead and ask him a question or two about his wife's pension. He's such a mellow wine that Mr. Armadale, out of the kindness of his heart, told him not to worry about the pension, because he had decided to continue its payment to Portwine in grateful memory of Mrs. Portwine's faithful services to his first wife. So Portwine is out of the picture, and that reduces my line of attack to young Peach, and I'm having him closely watched.”

“Any trace of the automatic?” asked Vereker.

“We found it day before yesterday,” admitted the inspector rather shamefacedly.

“You barefaced scoundrel, Heather! You've kept that vital information from me for two days. As my father used to say, ‘this is not strictly according to Cocker.' It isn't cricket anyway, but never mind, I'll bowl you out with a ‘sneak' yet. Where did you find it?”

“It was stuck in a guelder bush—I think you call it guelder—not twenty yards from your painting ground. It was just by chance I came upon it as I was beating about.”

“Was it one of Mr. Armadale's?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea. We'll make inquiries and see if we can trace where it was bought. It wasn't bought at Cogswell and Harrison's in Piccadilly, where Mr. Armadale always bought his guns and equipment. I'm afraid it may have been purchased abroad. If so, the outlook's pretty hopeless.'' 

“Is it the pistol Armadale gave to Collyer?” asked Vereker eagerly.

“No. Collyer is absolutely certain of that. The weapon he possessed had his initials, S.C., scratched on the side of the blued steel barrel.”

“Well, I'm hanged!” exclaimed Vereker. “You've proved, of course, that it's the automatic which fired the cartridge case which I picked up on the polo ground?”

“That's where I'm bally well clean bowled, Mr. Vereker. From the micro-photograph of the shell it fires, it's almost as certain as certain can be that it's not the pistol which discharged that cartridge.”

Vereker sank back in his chair with a long-drawn, low whistle.

“Well, if that doesn't simply beat creation!” he exclaimed. “Heather, it looks to me as if this job has got the better of us both. From what you say it's clear you're all wrong about Peach, and, as for me, my man simply couldn't have shot Armadale. But I think the time has come to talk of most important things. While trying to solve the mystery of that burglary, I've naturally kept a skinned eye on the worse issue of murder. I was certain from the first that they presented two distinct lines of inquiry, and up to this moment I was cocksure I'd unravelled the murder puzzle as well. And now you tell me this astounding yarn about the cartridge shell which completely shatters my whole theory. Listen while I tell you the sorry tale.”

Lighting another cigarette, Vereker settled himself in his chair and recounted to the inspector his startling discoveries in the Armadale murder case, finishing his narration with an account of his recent interview with Captain Fanshaugh, but carefully omitting any mention of the part Fanshaugh had taken in the shooting of the financier.