The Spirit Murder Mystery (29 page)

“So that's your solution, Mr. Vereker! I can't agree with you. And how do you account for the recent row in Noy's bungalow, the smashed furniture, and the blood spatters? Doesn't it strike you that after Orton had written to him, advising him to quit, that Noy refused to budge. Say, Noy threatened to blow the gaff. There would be a fight. Orton doubtless came armed, killed his man, and has since disposed of the body, possibly in one of those secret tunnels. Now that I come to think of it, the letter was probably written after the row, to make it look as if Noy had taken the tip and cleared out. In support of my theory that Noy is not the murderer, there's his story to us of seeing a motor car down at Cobbler's Corner on the night previous to the discovery of the bodies. If he were the murderer, he wouldn't be such a fool as to put us on to his own tracks like that.”

“You're now working purely on surmise, Heather. That's my amateur method. It's not like you and I think you're a bit rattled because you know you're whacked,” argued Vereker, smiling at the inspector. “Against your theory that Orton came to Noy's bungalow and killed him to prevent him informing, it's hardly likely that he'd have done so in broad daylight. I saw Noy in the morning. You visited the bungalow in the afternoon and came and told me a little later. Your theoretical murder must have occurred in the interval. Of course, it's possible, but it's hardly likely. I think Noy felt that we were on his tracks when he found me nosing round his shanty. His story about the motor car at Cobbler's Corner was a ruse to fling us off the scent, for we knew that he had no motor car. He probably thought his story of that motor car would be corroborated by some other chance witness, and the fact would certainly tend to deflect suspicion away from himself. I feel sure Noy is very much alive, and it's your job to find him. As for the smashing of his furniture and the blood stains about the room, it's clear there was a fight. When you spoke to Battrum, did you mention that car lights had been seen on the road near Cobbler's Corner?”

“I did. Orton and he had told me, just after I took up this case, that they had seen Thurlow step into a car at the corner of Yarham green, on the night of his disappearance. When I learned that Noy had seen a car on the road at Cobbler's Corner, I questioned Orton and Battrum again in the hope of getting some information about the appearance of the car and its number. I told them Noy had confirmed the presence of a strange car in the mystery.”

“As you know, Heather, Runnacles said that he was sure that it was a motor lorry, and that Joe Battrum was driving it. Battrum may have taken it into his head that Noy had split on him and was trying to fling suspicion his way. He was drunk for some days before he committed suicide, and I daresay he thought he'd have it out with Noy. They probably quarrelled and came to blows. But all this is highly supposititious.”

“Ah, Algernon, you've got the word correct! I once mixed it up with a medical term and have never forgotten it since,” interrupted Ricardo, laughing loudly at the recollection.

For some moments there was silence, and then Vereker exclaimed, “I've still to find out the identity of the ghost who visited me in this room, when I was alone. On that point I'm still at sea.”

“I can shed some light on that subject, Mr. Vereker,” said Heather. “When I first called on Mr Arthur Orton, I was met at the door of Church Farm by a buxom young woman. She is Orton's housekeeper, and from what I can gather, has intentions of making the gentleman her husband. I have seen her again since then, and the first thing I noticed about her was her remarkably small feet. You were on the track of a lady with small feet, and this led me to look at her tootsies. You mentioned that the ghost's feet were capable of wearing size three in shoes. I couldn't say off-hand that Miss Shimpling, for that's her name, wears size three, but it's probable. In the light of your tunnel story, I reckon she's your ghost. What do you think?”

“That's the lady. I've had her in my mind for some time, Heather, but have never had the chance of measuring her for shoes. Also, Clarke the cobbler, mystified me by saying that Miss Garford was the only woman in the village who wore size three in shoes, as far as he knew. The ghost, however, is a side issue, and I haven't troubled myself much about her.”

“But what was her motive?” asked Ricardo. “That ghost was the only person in the case that interested me after Miss Thurlow and Dawn Garford.”

“I see the motive clearly now,” resumed Vereker. “In my first conversation with Miss Thurlow, she told me frankly that Orton admired her. He possibly admired her future wealth at the same time. She, in turn, was attracted by Orton. The housekeeper, if I am a judge of women, would soon tumble to the fact that there was just a chance of Miss Thurlow becoming Mrs. Orton. After Thurlow's murder, the opportunity presented itself of scaring Miss Thurlow out of Old Hall Farm. She knew about the secret passage to this house and worked out her scheme. However, it's not likely that Miss Thurlow will trouble her any more on that score. As for Orton, Heather, what are you going to do about him?”

“I'm going to arrest him right away on suspicion. In any case, I've got him on the illicit distillation business, if not on the major count. Now, gentlemen, I think I'll go and carry out that very pleasant task. It's the first time for a long while that I've snapped the darbies on my man. My car's down at ‘The Walnut Tree,' and it's not in first class order. It would take some time before I could get it seen to. You've got a car here, Mr. Ricardo?”

“I have, and she's fighting fit. ‘Gladys' will be delighted to carry such a famous 'tec to make an arrest. Shall I get her ready?”

“By all means, and if she'll carry four passengers, she's just the thing.”

“You can squeeze yourself and prisoner into the dicky, Heather. You'll probably like to sit on top of your prey, so to speak, so that'll be O.K.”

“Come along then, Mr. Vereker. We'll all go together. As you've played the leading part in the case, you ought to be in at the kill.”

“No, Heather, I'm not coming. I don't like to be in at the kill on any occasion, and I've a decided aversion to seeing Orton arrested for murder. Though he's doubtless an accessory and wanted for the job of illicit distillation, he has been driven into an awful hole by force of circumstances. He'll have to face the music now, and that'll be what he deserves, but I'm not going to chortle over his discomfiture. By the way, he's fond of music and an admirer of Handel and Haydn. When you've cleared up the history of the Yarham case, I'm sure you'll discover he was the mysterious organist, who first put me on the track of a solution of the whole business. I've got to thank his musical leanings for that first extraordinary clue. If he had thought his organ playing could be heard at Old Hall Farm, he'd have chucked it before he did.”

“Perhaps he did guess,” remarked Heather. “He seemed to have a strong objection to the Rev. Sturgeon's excavations.”

“That arose from his fear that the rector would finally find his way to Church Farm, Heather. It was one of the factors that led me later to suspect that Church Farm was probably the terminus of the unexplored tunnel and the centre of the hooch factory.”

“I must say that nothing escapes you, Mr. Vereker. But if I don't hurry, the gentleman may escape me. He may get the wind up at any moment now and make a dash for liberty. Come on, Mr. Ricardo, we must go.”

“Au revoir, Heather. Miss Thurlow returns to-morrow, I believe. At least, that was her intention. I shall sleep at ‘The Walnut Tree' to-night, pack up, and after bidding the lady good-bye, return to my flat in town. I'll see you both at the inn, later on to-night, I suppose. When you've finally caught the real murderer, Ephraim Noy, I'll expect you to ring me up in London and fix a rendezvous. The bet was fifty cigarettes, Heather, and I'll take the money now.”

“Oh no, not yet, Mr. Vereker. I was on Ephraim Noy to start with. Since then I've swapped horses with you, because I'm sure you were on Orton when you began. I've still got a chance of that barrel of beer. I may score my K.O. in the last round. Stamina's my strong suit, and I still hope to administer the sleep wallop, as they call it. So long, for the present.”

About eleven o'clock the same night, Vereker sat in his private sitting-room in “The Walnut Tree.” He had packed all his belongings, and his interest in the Yarham murder had fallen almost to zero. To kill time, he was reading an essay of his favourite author, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Neither Ricardo nor Heather had returned, and he was wondering what had happened to them. Knowing his friend's propensity for speed, he was disturbed by the thought that there might have been an accident. As time passed, he grew more and more anxious on that score. Then, to his relief, he suddenly heard the sound of a door being closed below. There followed the rapid ascent of familiar footsteps and the next moment Ricardo entered the room.

“I'm damned glad to see you back, Ricky! I expected your return long ago. When you didn't turn up, I began to think you'd had a smash. What has kept you?”

“A smash, Algernon, but fortunately Gladys wasn't involved.”

“A smash. What do you mean?”

“Let me begin at the beginning, Algernon. Once upon a time there lived in Yarham...”

“Shut up, and get on with the story!”

“Right-ho! After leaving you at Old Hall Farm, the inspector and I made our way straight to Church Farm. We moved somewhat, for Heather was blowing with impatience and rattling his handcuffs in a very irritating manner. He was the incarnation of law and order and you-must-do-what-you're-told! We left the main road and turned up a lane that must have been made by the first barbarous inhabitants of Suffolk. Heather said it was called a drift. I'd like to know who put the ‘d' into it. We bumped up this natural chasm at a great pace, and Heather began to cushion off the coach-work in thrilling fashion. It reminded me of a good rally at Wimbledon. Suddenly we saw a car approaching us from the farm. Orton was driving the car at a comfortable pace, but when he spotted the inspector in ‘Gladys,' he promptly accelerated. The drift is wide, so I slewed well away from him, in case his intention was to bullock into us. Heather hailed him to stop, but he ignored the summons and fairly whizzed past us. ‘He's smelt a rat!' said Heather. ‘After him as fast as you possibly can, Mr. Ricardo. We mustn't let him escape.'

“I spun the car round as if it was on a pivot, and after him we went, hell for rubber! Heather's weight tested the springs to the utmost as we progressed like a chamois down the drift once more. When we got on the tarmac road, I felt happier and let ‘Gladys' stretch herself. Orton was about a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, and by the way he let his bus rip, we knew our purpose had been discovered. Up went the speedometer, forty, fifty, sixty. I thought we'd overhaul him easily at that speed, but I was mistaken. He began to draw away, and I began to envy him the possession of his car. I had my misgivings about ‘Gladys's' ability to sustain the pace, and I think Heather guessed my thoughts.

“‘Take her muzzle off!' he said grimly. ‘We must overhaul him at all costs.'

“‘She's doing seventy now, Heather, but none too sweetly. I don't think she can do much more,' I replied.

“‘The blighter's leaving us standing. Take off her muzzle, Mr. Ricardo!'

“‘I've taken off everything possible, Heather. She's sprinting in her bloomers,' I replied testily.

“‘Bust her if necessary,' advised Heather feverishly, but that, of course, was a counsel of perfection. Still I was doing my best to follow his instructions. It seemed useless. Orton's car began to increase the distance between us. Slowly but surely he was drawing away. It was damnable, Algernon. My excitement began to ebb and give place to a horrible feeling of being licked. You know when you're beaten at boxing and are only waiting for the K.O. It was something like that. I was quite certain when we started in pursuit that ‘Gladys' would wheel round her opponent like a bird of prey. Instead, she was being made to look like a penguin after a swallow. Our speedometer trembled up to seventy-five and we hung on to our man somehow. Fortunately the roads were clear of traffic and fairly straight. Corners we skated round on our outside edge. Mile after mile we slugged away after him, and it gradually began to dawn on me that we had got his measure.

“‘I think we can manage to keep him in sight, Heather,' I remarked at length with a certain amount of satisfaction, for my spirits were beginning to rise once more. You know the effects of a bottle of Pol Roger at eleven o'clock in the morning. It was like that.

“‘Good lord, is that all we can do!' groaned Heather dismally. ‘I thought this car was a greyhound. It's more like an overfed Peke. I wish we'd taken my old bus.'

“This rattled me into my habitual flippancy. ‘Have you got a revolver, Heather?' I asked. ‘What d'you want a revolver for?' he queried. ‘I don't want one,' I replied, ‘but if you're a good shot, you might puncture his rear tyres neatly. It has often been done—in fiction. If you're a poor marksman, you could keep firing it behind us. The explosions would give us an extra kick.' This reduced him to speechlessness, and he began twisting his moustaches savagely. I had barely got the words out of my mouth, when I noticed that we were beginning to creep up on our adversary. Either he was slowing down, or something had gone wrong with his car.

“‘We're pulling up on him, Heather. What do you think has happened?' I asked.

“‘A miracle!' replied Heather curtly, but I could see he was getting buoyant once more. ‘Take her bloomers off!' he roared hoarsely as he saw we were coming up with Orton at a magnificent rate. But we were soon to discover the reason for Orton's slackening up. The road was getting narrower and twisting about in the usual Suffolk style. Then, all at once, there was a hairpin bend ahead and one of those prehistoric bridges common in these parts. I couldn't see it, but we were to learn the fact a few minutes later. Orton possibly knew that feature of the landscape and was going to play for safety. But he was going too fast and couldn't keep his car under control. He went into a skid, tried to skid out of it, and then there was an almighty crash! His bus bullocked into the old stone wall of the bridge tore it up like blotting paper, and did a somersault sideways. I had just a nice distance to let ‘Gladys' come up panting to the scene of disaster. Heather popped out like a frog escaping from a duck, and I joined him with my instinctive, leisurely grace. We just managed to extricate Orton before his bus burst into flames. He was unconscious when we got him out. We both thought he was done for and were going to put him gently on the side of the road, when he opened his eyes and stared rather wildly at us.