The Polo Ground Mystery (21 page)

The arrival of Inspector Heather cut short his reverie. The police officer was all bustle and cheerfulness, which was a sure indication that he had struck an exciting trail.

“There's a sprightliness in the step, Heather,” said Vereker, on seeing him, “a movement from the fantastic toe to the more fantastic buttock which tells me that things are going well. I know the meaning of that choreographic grace, and the fluttering of your moustache drives me to extempore poetical composition:

Help yourself to a Scotch, and report.”

“Nothing definite, Mr. Vereker, but a general advance. We've got on the track of Mr. Jonathan Portwine, and I shall run up to London first thing tomorrow and listen to what he has got to say for himself. There's the inquest in the afternoon, which will simply be adjourned, but which I must attend. Peach has returned from his quest for a job, and his general demeanour shows he's in a very ugly mood. We're hot on the footsteps of Mr. Raoul Vernet. The yeast begins to work!”

“But, as a foreigner resident here, isn't Vernet registered?” asked Vereker.

“He's a bird of passage like many Continental criminals. They manage to land in England by a day excursion, get lost, and return to the Continent in the same way at a later date.”

“Where did you find Portwine?”

“In Limehouse. In a boarding-house ‘where sailor men reside and where are men from all the ports from Mississip to Clyde,' as Mr. Kipling puts it, or in words to that effect.” 

“Heather, I feel sure you'll spend your retirement writing verse—instead of reminiscences. Sonnets from Scotland Yard, eh?”

“I think ‘Heather Honey' would be more poetical,” replied the inspector, with ludicrous gravity, “but we're anticipating. Any news from your front?”

“Wait a minute. Have you traced that automatic?”

“The answer's in the negative, but I've an idea we'll lay hands on it yet.”

“More anticipating! Have you found out who Gastinne Renette is?”

“Yes, Mr. Vereker, a very famous gunsmith in Paris!” replied the inspector, and burst into hearty laughter. “I'm sure Mr. Gastinne Renette is not the man we want.”

“Well, I'm damned!” exclaimed Vereker, with disappointment. “Never mind, it's only another refractory piece that didn't fit into the picture puzzle. I must pin my faith to Raoul Vernet as a suitable alternative. He's known to the Sûreté, I suppose?”

“They've an idea who the gentleman is. He's not French but a Belgian, and hails from Louvain. We shall probably hear more of him later. He was a jeweller's assistant who turned crook, and is an expert on pearls!”

“That looks promising, Heather,” said Vereker, with enthusiasm.

“In connection with Portwine it's a good line, because Vernet is very friendly with seamen of many nationalities. He's a ‘man of infinite resource and sagacity,' as some one has said.”

“Your pal Kipling again, Heather, if I'm not mistaken. Still, I'm going to complicate matters now. Did you get the number of that Rover Meteor, which you located on the Nuthill road on Thursday morning?”

“Yes. That car is still in a garage in Purley and belongs to Mr. Stanley Houseley. I shall call on him for a little explanation.”

“It's not in a garage in Purley now, Heather. It turned up at Vesey Manor with its owner and Mrs. Armadale this morning. I've seen them both.”

“And had polite conversation. What fruit?”

“He was on the Nuthill road at two o'clock on Thursday morning for the purpose of an elopement with his lady-love. I should like to elope with her myself, but let that pass. The lady changed her plans at the last minute because she had to interview her solicitor next morning about divorce proceedings against her husband.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Heather. “That's news, if you like.”

“One moment, inspector. Mr. Houseley said goodbye and went back to town.”

“What time did he get back?” asked Heather.

“Eight o'clock—six hours to cover twenty-five miles. There's something about that which requires explanation. I tried to get one from Mr. Houseley, but he suddenly grew truculent, though he indirectly admitted he'd had a breakdown.”

“Of course the breakdown may have been faked. On the other hand, he may be telling the truth, especially if he's one of those owner-drivers who boast they're born motorists and drive by instinct.”

“Another point, Heather. This Mr. Houseley knows a good deal about automatic pistols, and in his younger days was, as he admits himself, a very fair shot!”

“The devil he was! But no, Mr. Vereker, I can't feel that you're on the right track.”

“On the contrary, I'm certain I'm somewhere near it. By a process of elimination, I hope I shall get there. Again, there's the clue of that side door of the manor, near the gun-room, which Frederick is positive he bolted securely on Wednesday night. An incident has happened in connection with the key of that door which is mysterious, to say the least of it. When Mr. Ralli looked for that key on his bunch yesterday, he found to his surprise that it wasn't there, and he's convinced it hasn't been on the bunch since that bunch came into his charge. It was found on Thursday, the day of the murder, under the bed in the room which Captain Fanshaugh occupied on Wednesday night.”

“But you don't suspect Captain Fanshaugh of having any hand in this job?” asked the inspector.

“I suspect anyone and every one. Now you've thoroughly questioned the servants in the house, do you think they're all right, Heather?”

“Right as rain! Dunkerley, the butler; Frederick and George, the footmen; Parsons, Mr. Armadale's valet; Ted, the pantry boy; the grooms, stablemen, cooks, maids—every one is above suspicion.”

“Well, I'm leaving that end of the business to you. Mr. Armadale was rather a gay bird, and from his past history we know he was not above paying attentions to a pretty maid. You've made sure that history hasn't repeated itself and roused jealousy?”

“I've thrashed that out pretty thoroughly. There was nothing that gave me a single clue. We're left with seven possibles among the men: Portwine, Peach, Ralli, Degerdon, Fanshaugh, Winter, and Raoul Vernet; among the women, Mrs. Armadale and Miss Cazas.”

“You've forgotten some one, Heather, and that's Miss Trixie Collyer, his illegitimate daughter.”

“I took her into consideration very early in the day, but couldn't spot a strong enough motive.”

“You're forgetting, Heather, that Armadale objected very strongly to Ralli's entanglement with her. The young lady knew that Mr. Armadale stood in the way of a very desirable marriage for her. Now that he's out of the way, her dream is going to come true.”

“I figured that all out, but working on the principle that women very rarely use fire-arms, I'm rather inclined to suspect Mr. Ralli than her.”

“It's a shaky principle, Heather. You remember Mrs. Caillaux, who shot the editor of the
Figaro
; and recently in France and on the Riviera similar shootings have taken place. Miss Collyer, brought up as a game-keeper's daughter, would almost instinctively turn to fire-arms as a means of accomplishing her ends.”

“You're casting too wide a net, Mr. Vereker. In your inquiry you must try and keep in view that the murder is connected with the burglary until you've definitely proved it isn't.”

“I've worked up a nice little solution of the burglary, Heather, but I must make one or two more moves before I can confidently disclose it to you. It may be connected with Mr. Armadale's murder. If it is, you'll have to do your damnedest to lay M. Raoul Vernet by the heels as quickly as possible. By the way, a second car, a Trojan, stopped on the Nuthill road on Thursday morning. Any news of it?”

“Oh, yes; a stolen Trojan car was found abandoned by the side of the road near Whyteleafe. Our lines seem to be converging, Mr. Vereker,” said the inspector, rubbing his hands briskly together, “and I think the fact entitles us both to one more toothful of your excellent Scotch before lunch.”

After this meal, Inspector Heather set off for Nuthill Police Station, and Vereker, feeling rather at a “loose end,” thrust his sketch-book into his pocket and made his way to his sketching ground in a clearing of Wild Duck Wood. The spot, apart from its pictorial value, drew him on account of the mysterious incident that had occurred there on his last visit. Clear-cut in his visual memory was a brown Harris Norfolk jacket and the set of a young man's head and shoulders. On encountering Ralph Degerdon, some hours later at Vesey Manor, that vignette had been recalled with startling vividness. Degerdon was then wearing light grey tweeds and a soft felt hat, but the carriage of head and torso were similar, if not the same. Subsequent conversation had gone far to invalidate Vereker's surmise that it was Degerdon he had seen, but an uneasy doubt haunted his mind. He had brought with him the shooting-stick which Ralli had given him, and found it a fair substitute for a sketching-stool. As he was making his rapid charcoal studies on tinted Michallet, he was struck a sharp stinging blow on the ear by a missile which, on investigation, proved to be an acorn. As there was a complete absence of wind, he was at first rather surprised, but absorption in his work soon erased the incident from his mind. A second acorn, which hit his sketch-book squarely in the centre and bounded into the air in front of him, caused him to rise and glance swiftly round. There was no one in sight; but, guessing that the marksman must be some practical joker in concealment, he thrust his sketch-book into his pocket and was about to beat the surrounding covert. At that moment, from a clump of guelder, there appeared the grinning face of Captain “Fruity” Fanshaugh.

“Not a bad shot, Fanshaugh,” said Vereker, laughing.

“You were a sitter, Vereker,” replied Fanshaugh, and emerged into the open.

“I didn't expect to meet you here,” remarked Vereker.

“I lunched with a friend over at the Guards' Depot at Caterham, and, as I felt like exercise, I thought I'd make a cross-country journey back to Nuthill. There's nothing like trudging to give a man an accurate knowledge of his country. The best man to hounds I ever knew regularly spent some days foot-following during the cub-hunting season. I see you're sketching. Ralli told me you were a painter, not a ‘real one as climbs up a ladder,' but a High Art walla. Have you seen him lately?”

“I saw him this morning. He asked me to run over to the manor and meet Mrs. Armadale and your friend, Houseley.”

“Ah, it does a man good to see Angela. There's my ideal of a woman, plenty of bone and full of quality. How's she standing the strain of this affair?”

“Admirably, I should say.”

“Glad to hear it. And her
cavaliere servente
, Houseley? More attentive than ever now there's hope, I'll bet. By the way, I hear you're very friendly with the Yard inspector whose down here on this Armadale job. Has he got any nearer to a solution of the puzzle?”

“He doesn't say very much, but I gathered from his cheerful manner this morning that he's hot on the trail.”

“Has he found the pistol yet?” asked Fanshaugh casually.

“I'm almost certain he has; he's so chirpy. They've been scouring these woods and fields very thoroughly,” said Vereker, with an observant eye for the effect of his words.

“Very disturbing for game,” remarked Fanshaugh, with a note of uneasiness which did not escape the alert Vereker.

“I suppose so,” he agreed, and added, “From what I gathered in our chat this morning, one of the principal clues in the case has something to do with the side door to the manor—the one near the gun-room.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, with ill-concealed surprise. “But what's the clue?”

“I couldn't say exactly, but there's some question about the bolts,” replied Vereker cautiously. “Have you ever used that door or noticed anything peculiar about it, Fanshaugh?”

“Never been through it in my life. Sutton had a weakness for that door. He used to call it his own particular postern, and always carried the key to it on his person.”

“Do you know if there were other keys to it?”

“I've never heard of one, but there are sure to be others. Angela would be certain to have a duplicate.”

Producing the bunch from his pocket, Vereker picked out the key which Ralli had given him that morning and said:

“I wonder if this key's one of them.”

“That's one,” said Fanshaugh eagerly. “Where the devil did you find it?”

“I didn't exactly find it,” replied Vereker, with a mingled sensation of surprise and satisfaction. “Has one been lost?”

“How the devil should I know?” exclaimed Fanshaugh clumsily.

“Of course not,” agreed Vereker amiably, “but you feel certain that it is a key to the side door near the gun-room?”

“I'm almost certain,” assured Fanshaugh, with painful hesitation, as he looked shrewdly at Vereker. Had he been sufficiently observant and had he known his companion better, he would have noticed a slight tension of the masseter muscles—the only indication in Vereker's face of the sudden thrill of excitement which he was rigidly suppressing.

“I must hand it to Ralli when I see him again,” said Vereker, with well-feigned calm, as he returned the bunch to his pocket.

“It may have an important bearing on the case. How did you get hold of it?” asked Fanshaugh, with continued interest.

“It was lying on an occasional table in the room which Ralli has put at my disposal at the manor while I'm knocking about this neighbourhood,” replied Vereker unabashedly.