The Polo Ground Mystery (23 page)

“Absolutely!” replied Ralli emphatically. “There's no other key of that type on Sutton's bunch.”

“What did Fanshaugh say when you pointed out to him that it wasn't the key of the side door?”

“He simply roared with laughter and said you'd probably given him the wrong key off your bunch.”

“He had no other key like it on him?” asked Vereker.

“No. I suggested that possibility at once, but he said he had no other keys on him at all. There the matter ended, and we both concluded that the error lay with you.”

For some moments Vereker stood silently reviewing the matter. At first glance it had appeared to him that Fanshaugh knew more about that key than he had admitted. It had been discovered in his room by the housemaid who had cleaned the room after his occupation. He had obviously lost it, because it had been found under the bed. His conversation with Vereker on the subject had disclosed his uneasiness, and Vereker had led him into an unwitting but very startling admission. He had denied ever having used the side door himself, and yet he had been perfectly certain about the identity of the key. This, of course, was possible and might be explained quite easily by some peculiar conjuncture of circumstances, but it was highly improbable. It pointed to palpable and clumsy lying in an effort to conceal the fact that he had entered the house by that door at one time or another. The only valid reason for such a deception was that he was trying to hide the fact that he had used that door during the early hours of Thursday morning! And now, as if to confirm Vereker's suspicions, he had by a very simple ruse got possession of the key, disposed of it, and handed Ralli a substitute. By so doing, he had deftly removed an important clue, but he had committed an astounding blunder, of which Vereker determined to take full advantage when the moment was opportune. Asking Ralli to keep the whole matter secret and refrain from discussing it further with Fanshaugh, Vereker proceeded on his way.

It was at this point in his investigations that certain vague suspicions which had all along lurked in the crannies of Vereker's mind now became obtrusive. They were all the more insistent because he had from the beginning tried to repress them as irrelevant and without any foundation. He now boldly faced these suspicions and bluntly asked himself the question—had Ralli engineered the whole incident of this key to the side door? The only reason for such a course was to divert suspicion from himself to a quarter where it would eventually prove innocuous. His subtle and penetrating mind had evidently weighed the vital importance of Frederick's disclosure that there had been egress and entry by that side door on Thursday morning, for the footman had discovered that a bolt which he had firmly shot home on Wednesday night had been withdrawn and not properly driven into its socket again. It was a refractory bolt and would prove a serious obstacle to anyone in a great hurry. The direct bearing of that clue was its fixing of suspicion on the inmates of the manor. This new train of thought filled Vereker with a sense of dissatisfaction because it wakened him to the realization that he had perhaps been altogether too confident and somnolent. Perhaps he was dealing with a brain infinitely subtler and readier than his own, and the thought filled him with sharp misgiving. From the very first, Ralli had gone out of his way to be friendly and win his trust. He had discreetly made appreciative remarks about Vereker's talent as an artist to Angela Armadale, to Trixie Collyer, to Captain Fanshaugh, probably hoping that those encomiums would return to Vereker. It was an astute method of flattering, and on a point which Vereker had to admit that he was peculiarly susceptible. Had the suggestion that Ralli's offer of hospitality was prompted by ulterior motives been a brilliantly correct guess by that cunning and experienced officer, Heather? It was extremely difficult to say. If pecuniary gain were a sufficient motive for a man like Fanshaugh to remove Sutton Armadale, the same incitant was infinitely stronger in the case of Basil Ralli. With Ralli the power of that motive had struck Vereker from the very first as overwhelming and, though he always attempted in his work to keep an open mind, he was obliged to admit that in this instance he had allowed his usual watchfulness to relax in a dangerous manner. The realization had the tonic effect of a cold douche and, as he walked slowly back to the “Silver Pear Tree,” Vereker reviewed his latest theory from every angle. In a flash he connected motive with the all-important question of weapon, and it came home to him with a curious shock that Collyer's automatic might be the very instrument by which the murder had been committed. That weapon was at the moment missing; it was a weapon to which Trixie Collyer, and therefore Ralli, could have had easy access. It was a Colt .45. At once Vereker recalled the curious look of uneasiness that had crossed the girl's face when Collyer had gone upstairs to find the pistol. Under the warm impulse of roving imagination the theory became feasible, and little incidents bearing thereon which had at the moment of their occurrence appeared trifling now took on a portentous significance. He hurried back to the “Silver Pear Tree,” eager to communicate the whole of his recent experiences and conjectures to Inspector Heather. That officer, with his cold and solid practicality, would bring the acid test of experience to bear on amateurish enthusiasm. From the clash of their methods and temperaments some valuable residuum of truth would surely emerge. But on Vereker's arrival Heather had not returned, and the landlady of the inn had no information as to when he might be expected. Vereker dined alone, and afterwards waited patiently in his room for the inspector's reappearance. To pass the time, he took from an old bookcase a musty and ancient copy of Locke's
Essay on the Human Understanding
. He became immersed in the chapter on the “Reality of Knowledge,” and ploughed steadily on until he reached the chapter dealing with “Enthusiasm.” There he fell sound asleep, and woke to find that it was nearly midnight. He rose and went to Inspector Heather's room. There was no response to his knock and, on quietly opening the door and striking a match, he discovered that the room was unoccupied. Heather had not returned. Doubtless something of great importance had occurred, and with a feeling that events were now shaping towards a startling revelation, Vereker crept noiselessly back to his own room and undressed. Before he fell asleep his latest theory concerning the possibility of Ralli's connection with the murder of Sutton Armadale seemed to suffer a painful shrinkage. The first warm glow of enthusiasm had dissipated in a mysterious way, and as he reviewed the matter he began to wonder why he had been so fired with its possible importance some hours previously. Thence his mind rambled on to the subject of the extraordinary vagaries of that very thing the human mind, of words as the medium of expression of ideas—a conversion of soul to sound—of the relations between human thought and reality, until the very idea of his own existence seemed to acquire a strange tenuity, and he slipped away into the restful oblivion of sleep.

Next morning, Vereker was roused by the quiet opening of his door and the slow, smiling appearance of Inspector Heather's broad face as he peered into the room.

“You're awake at last!” said the inspector.

“I needed a decent sleep after waiting up till all hours for you, Heather. Where the devil did you get to yesterday? You look tired.”

“I am. I've been up all night, and now I'm going to turn in.”

“What business kept you out of bed?”

“I'll let you know later. See that they wake me about tea-time; it's deadly important.”

“I believe you've been night-clubbing as a relaxation.”

“Night-watching's more in my line. The landlady told me you were rather anxious to see me last night, so I thought I'd have a word with you before I went to bed. Is it anything important?”

“It looked frightfully important at the time. Now I'm not so sure.”

“Has it anything to do with the automatic we're looking for?” asked Heather, with a note of eagerness.

“Well, yes, it may possibly be the very weapon,” said Vereker very quietly.

“You've found it?” asked Heather excitedly.

“Don't jump to hasty conclusions, inspector. I've discovered that Sutton Armadale used to have three Colt .45 automatics. He gave Collyer one, and kept one or possibly both of the others. Now, as either Miss Collyer or Ralli could easily have laid hands on Collyer's pistol, I thought I'd borrow it for your inspection. After firing a couple of cartridges out of it, you'd be in a position to say whether it was the weapon which discharged the cartridge case I picked up on the polo ground.”

“That's sound work, Mr. Vereker! Where's the weapon?”

“God knows. Collyer went to look for it, but couldn't find it in its customary drawer in his bedroom. He's going to search for it and let me have it to-day. If he can't lay hands on it—and I've a suspicion he won't—the result will be a clear line on Miss Collyer or even Mr. Ralli. There's sufficient motive in either case, don't you think?”

“Blithers, Mr. Vereker, blithers! It points to my first suspect, Frank Peach. He used to visit the cottage daily, being one of Miss Trixie's best boys, and I hear he has been threatening both Ralli and the girl quite recently. This is excellent. Now we shan't be long!”

“If that's all you can offer as a suggestion, Heather, I'm not interested. Go to bed and be damned to you!”

“I'm going, and the same to you with gravy. See you later.”

“I'm lunching with a friend in town, but I'll be back for tea if possible. At that time I hope I'll find you a little brighter intellectually.”

Outside L'Escargot, Vereker met Ricardo accompanied by a tall, rather lanky young man who was a stranger to him and whom Ricardo introduced as Aubrey Winter —Angela's cousin. Ricardo, in morning coat, silk hat, light gloves, a buttonhole, and a cravat tie that seemed to dominate the ensemble, was resplendent enough for a wedding. Vereker eyed him up and down critically.

“A bit shrill, Ricky! I'm surprised at this reaction from Bohemia. It's a great compliment to me, or rather to my lunch.”

“Sorry, but I'm not lunching with you. You didn't give me sufficient notice—I've to sardine my engagements nowadays.”

“Then what's the gay occasion?”

“I'm taking Laura Hardinge to Prince's.”

“Am I to gather that you wish to float a loan?”

“I shan't issue the prospectus to-day. An unexpected cheque arrived this morning. The
Report
has accepted my serial,
The Cost of Loving
. I can hang out for a very brief period.”

“Quite a good title,” remarked Vereker, with a smile.

“Struck it by accident. A French pal of mine came over for a month's holiday, but he returned to Paris after a fortnight. He said the ‘cost of loving' was too high in London.” 

“Would it trouble you to return that tenner?”

“Seriously. It can't be done to-day, Algernon. Some other day, perhaps—on a more auspicious occasion, we may discuss reparations. Then I shall probably suggest some sort of moratorium.”

“I shall be at my club during the afternoon. Shall I see you later?”

“It's just possible. I have lots of news. In the meantime I thought you'd like to regale Aubrey. He's at a loose end and always looks like a cartoon of Famine in Russia, so I brought him along as a substitute. He'll do you justice. Try their
crêpes de volatile
—they're most entertaining. Bye-bye.”

With a flourish of his cane, Ricardo hailed a taxi, jumped in, and disappeared. Aubrey Winter and Vereker entered the restaurant. Vereker had all along been anxious to see Aubrey Winter, and was secretly grateful to the tactful Ricky for arranging the meeting. He found Winter an ingenuous and good-natured youth, and soon drew the conversation round to the subject of Sutton Armadale's murder.

“Your bedroom was next to Fanshaugh's, I believe,” said Vereker.

“Yes, on one side, and on the other was Armadale's suite.”

“Can you recollect hearing anything unusual during Thursday morning?”

“My dear fellow, it was a night of alarums and excursions. I seemed to be hearing rumblings on all sides at all hours. I'm a wretched sleeper. The night was putridly hot, and, besides, I was rather troubled by a personal affair.”

“I hope you won't think me impertinent if I suggest that it was on account of Miss Cazas,” said Vereker.

Aubrey Winter blushed rather refreshingly.

“Ricky has been talking about me, I see. I must admit that Edmée gives me many sleepless nights. I'm desperately fond of her, and I'm afraid I'm in the rotten position—”

“I understand these things, Winter; I've had some experience,” interrupted Vereker tactfully. “Did you hear Armadale moving about during the night, or rather morning?”

“Yes, at about three o'clock I heard his door open and close, and I feel sure he went downstairs. He must have been downstairs about a quarter of an hour. I thought I heard him come up again, and I feel pretty certain he entered Fanshaugh's room before he went back to his own.”

“That's very strange,” commented Vereker.

“What's stranger to me is that ‘Fruity' makes such a bally mystery about the whole thing. He asked me particularly not to say anything to the police about what I'd heard, because it would only confuse the issue unnecessarily. Frankly, I hate any hole-and-corner sort of business, and if the police question me I shall tell them the truth. There's nothing to be gained by any sort of hanky-panky in such matters.”

“I think you're right, Winter. Moreover, it's dangerous.”

“It has nothing to do with Sutton's murder, or suicide, or whatever it is, so I can't see why there should be any mystery-making.”

*“No, no, certainly not; there's nothing like being frank in a case like this. Did you hear Sutton go downstairs when he is supposed to have heard the burglar, say between four and five o'clock?”