The Polo Ground Mystery (7 page)

“Fairly sound, Mr. Vereker. You've made a big advance since the Bygrave case.”

“There's another thing I've learned since then, inspector.”

“What's that?”

“The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Perhaps the burglar manoeuvred Armadale so that the sun would be in his eyes. But tell me, which direction do you think the murderer took after he'd done his dirty work?”

“I've been figuring that out. I should say he hugged the stable and kitchen-garden wall until he reached the main road. This would cut out any risk of his being seen from the house. And now I'm going to give you a valuable bit of information. Very early that morning, Mr. Ralli, as he lay awake, heard a car start up on the main road, and Mrs. Burton, the gardener's wife, heard that car pass the lodge at the front gates at great speed. Unfortunately neither is certain at what time that car passed,but it's significant and probably fits in rather neatly.”

The inspector had hardly finished speaking when Vereker suddenly knelt down on the ground and began to examine a small hole in the turf which the whitewash line marking the spot had made clearly visible.

“What have you got there?” asked the inspector curiously.

“I thought at first it was a bullet hole, Heather, but it's not. It's too large for that. There is also the run of a circular impression round it. What do you make of it?”

“I told Sergeant Goss to mark the place with a cross, and I dare say he shoved in a sharpened stake as a temporary indicator.”

“Possibly,” returned Vereker thoughtfully, “and possibly not. In any case, I suggest we make another thorough search of the ground round here for those two cartridge cases—if there are two.”

“That's why I came up here,” replied the inspector, and getting down on hands and knees commenced the irksome task.

“A nice snap you'd make for the picture page of the
Daily Report
, Heather,” remarked Vereker, laughing. “Detective Inspector caught grazing in an unguarded moment. Pity there's not a clump of thistles in the foreground!”

The inspector was too intent on his search to reply to this facetiousness, and for the next half-hour neither man spoke as he diligently covered every inch of the ground round the cross marking the spot where Sutton Armadale fell. Vereker was the first to break the silence.

“Here's a thing and a very pretty thing,” he suddenly exclaimed as he rose to his feet and approached the inspector.

The latter jumped up quickly and glanced anxiously at the small brass object which Vereker held out on the palm of his hand.

“By God, that's a rare bit of luck!” he exclaimed. “A .45 automatic cartridge case. We must recommend you for promotion for this, Mr. Vereker. I wonder how we missed it on the first search.”

“I can explain, Heather. I found it down the hole which you think Sergeant Goss made with a sharpened stake. Your friend Goss oughtn't to be trusted with sharpened stakes. He's dangerous enough with a baton. I've made another find, Heather. There's another hole made by Goss's sharpened stake some twenty or thirty yards off. There's nothing in it, I'm sorry to say.”

The inspector took the empty shell from Vereker and, after examining it carefully, wrapped it in cotton-wool to prevent further scratching or abrasion and placed it in a match-box. Thrusting the box into his pocket with a shade of jubilation, he exclaimed:

“That ought to settle once and for all whether there was more than one pistol used in this shooting.”

At this juncture the attention of both men was arrested by the emergence from the stable-yard gate of Sergeant Goss himself. The sergeant was carrying under his arm a brown paper parcel, and on seeing his chief he hurried his pace almost to a run. He was unmistakably excited, which was a most unusual emotional state for Sergeant Lawrence Goss.

“Well, sergeant, got our man wrapped up in that parcel?” asked the inspector.

“Tidy bit of him, I think, sir,” replied the sergeant^ as he untied the parcel and displayed to view a well-worn but recently cleaned suit of clothes.

“What the devil!” exclaimed the inspector with a puzzled frown as he glanced at the garments. “Where on earth did you find this packet?” 

“Burton, the head gardener, found the parcel tucked away under some bushes near the swimming-pool, not fifty yards from the house,” replied the sergeant. “He thought it was a bit rum and might have something to do with our case so he 'anded the lot over to me.”

“Any tailor's or cleaners' marks on them?” asked the inspector.

“Not a hiota, sir,” replied Goss, gravely aspirate.

“May I have a look at them, inspector?” asked Vereker eagerly.

“Certainly, Mr. Vereker; though I can't for the life of me see what they've got to do with our case at the moment.”

Taking the suit, which consisted of trousers, waistcoat, and jacket, from the sergeant, Vereker examined them very carefully, turning over the garments one by one.

“This waistcoat interests me particularly,” he exclaimed at length, as he held the garment close to his face and sniffed at it suspiciously. Then handing the suit back to the sergeant, he added, “Reach-me-downs, recently cleaned. They still smell of benzine or petrol. You have a little line of inquiry there, inspector. I hope you'll be generous enough to let me know what you discover. I can't waste my time hunting up old do' shops and cleaners.”

“I'll play fair, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector, and glancing at his watch remarked, “I think I'll get back to Nuthill police station. Any other news, sergeant?” 

“There was a 'phone message from headquarters for you, sir. I took it. Sir William Macpherson reports that he is almost certain that the bullet extracted from Mr. Harmadale was not fired from the Colt pistol found in the dead gentleman's 'and.”

“Good. So you see, Mr. Vereker, we can safely take it that Armadale was murdered and didn't commit suicide. The cartridge case you found just now ought to confirm, and then for the weapon itself! By the way, Goss, did you mark the spot here on the polo ground with a sharpened stake?”

“No, sir. I marked it temporary with my 'andkerchief and a pair of 'andcuffs,” replied the sergeant.

At this information Vereker was obliged to laugh.

“I think we can say right away that those holes were made before the murder was committed, Heather. Otherwise the cartridge case wouldn't have found such a neat little hiding-place.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” remarked the inspector, “but it's a nice point. I'll make a sleuth of you yet, Mr. Vereker. Now I think I'll get back to Nuthill.”

“I feel I ought to nose round for a bit, Heather,” said Vereker, as the inspector and sergeant turned to go. “I've a notion that there ought to be another shell somewhere. I'm working on your statement that you think there were three shots fired. Don't stop too long at the ‘Silver Pear Tree.' You've got a big day's work in front of you to-morrow.”

On Inspector Heather's departure, Vereker glanced at his watch, and finding he had still two hours of daylight before him decided to explore what he called the “physical geography” of the case. Leaving the north end of the polo ground, he skirted the western wall of the manor grounds and came into the meadows forming the valley between the house and the gently swelling wooded hills to the north. In front of him, across those meadows, Hanging Covert loomed hazily through the golden sun-dust, and to the right frowned Beech Wood, in which he could now clearly discern the western gable of Collyer's cottage. At the eastern end of this valley and closing it lay the dark mass of Wild Duck Wood. After a careful survey of this scenery, he wandered towards Wild Duck Wood, with the intention of making a circuit of the meadows which lay like an emerald arena in this natural amphitheatre. As he walked leisurely through the lush grass, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, his mind was turning over in a series of permutations the matter of those two reports heard by Collyer, the keeper, and Basil Ralli. If Armadale's assailant had fired two shots and the murdered man had fired one, the conflicting evidence of the reports heard was mysterious. The only satisfactory deduction that he could make at the moment was that only two shots had been fired, and that both had been fired from Armadale's own pistol. The second empty cartridge case which he had found and which Heather had taken for examination would clear up this puzzle. Sir William Macpherson's report upon the bullet which he had extracted ran contrary to this supposition, but even Sir William had been guarded in his statement, and it was notoriously difficult to be certain on such a point. The number of live cartridges left in Armadale's pistol also conflicted with his theory, unless there had been one in the barrel in addition to the usual seven in the magazine. He also had a recollection that some of these magazine clips in automatic pistols were fairly elastic. If his theory were correct, the question at once rose—how did the burglar obtain possession of Mr. Armadale's pistol? It was obvious that he might have wrested it from him in a struggle, but Vereker was instinctively chary of accepting the obvious in criminal investigation. If the shell which Heather had taken with him for examination proved to have been fired from a weapon other than that found loosely gripped in the dead man's hand—and such a question might be finally answered by micro-photography—his assumption at once fell to pieces. The supposition that the burglar had obtained possession of Sutton Armadale's pistol prior to his robbery opened up an engaging problem for solution. It simply bristled with possibilities and blew a cloud of suspicion over the staff of servants and the guests in the house. It was going to be a thoroughly intriguing and intricate piece of work, and at the very thought Vereker's eyes shone with excitement.

In his preoccupation, he had sauntered at an easy pace along the north wall enclosing the main grounds of the house. His head was bent, his eyes scanning the grass through which he brushed and noting the gradual accumulation of buttercup pollen in the creases of his shoes. Suddenly he looked up, to discover a few paces in front of him the back view of a man dressed in a light tweed suit and grey felt hat. His head was thrust forward and downward, so that only the back half of the curved rim of his hat was visible, and on his shoulders could be seen the rosy finger-tips of two slim feminine hands. There followed the sound of an ecstatic kiss, the tweed suit drew itself erect, raised a hat with easy, theatrical grace, and next moment the recipient of the kiss turned and fled across the meadow towards Wild Duck Wood. Vereker stood rooted to the ground in embarrassment, but his eye did not fail to notice the beauty and symmetry of that fast-receding figure. Never had he seen a woman run with such delightful freedom. Most men, he thought, would be willing to play Hippomenes to such an engaging Atalanta. Then her lover, who had stood entranced watching her, seemed suddenly to become aware of an intruding presence, for he turned sharply round and confronted Vereker. The latter, in spite of an effort at detachment and the assumption of a clumsy air of not having witnessed the recent delicate expression of human passion, looked painfully gauche. He expected to see a similar manifestation of discomposure on the stranger's face, but to his surprise that singularly handsome countenance, after an almost imperceptible frown, made a strong but not quite successful effort to avoid a broad grin.

“A sense of humour!” thought Vereker, and was about to pass unconcernedly on his way when the stranger accosted him with the question:

“I suppose you know you're trespassing, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Vereker, in whom the word trespass always raised a sudden and furious combativeness, “but it's a confirmed vice of mine. I'm always willing to pay for any damage I may do, and don't mind being prosecuted in the least. Unless I'm greatly annoying other people, I take it as a right to wander across my own country—shall I be lyrical and say, ‘England, my England, England my own!'?”

“Monopolize it by all means,” said the stranger reflectively and without any show of annoyance. “Personally I raise no objections to your claims; but, as a murder was committed on the adjacent polo ground yesterday morning, the police are rather anxious that no unauthorized persons should be allowed about the place.”

“I understand,” replied Vereker, considerably mollified. “I came up here in company with my friend, Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard, as a sort of unofficial helper. I'm also a representative of the
Daily Report
.”

“Then there's nothing more to be said,” interrupted the stranger quickly, and after a steady scrutiny of Vereker's face, asked, “Is your name Algernon Vereker, by any chance?”

“Anthony, to be correct, but I've always been known to my friends as Algernon—unabbreviated.”

“I thought I couldn't be mistaken. For two or three terms I was your contemporary at Magdalen.”

“I can't say I remember you,” replied Vereker.

“Ah, well, being forgotten is one of the major advantages of mediocrity. I remember you chiefly through a series of wickedly malicious caricatures. They long outlived your going down. You do draw, don't you?”

“I'm afraid I do. It has been a bally curse from a worldly point of view. The sarcasm of art is never forgotten, and you can't give it the lie,” replied Vereker, with a laugh. “Still, I'm annoyed at not remembering—”

“My name's Ralli, Basil Ralli. I'm a nephew of the Sutton Armadale who—Of course you've heard?”

“Oh, yes, that's why I'm here. I'm awfully sorry.”

“Please don't condole with me. Polite hypocrisy in another makes me more uncomfortable than it does in myself. My uncle was never very fond of me, and towards him my feelings were no stronger. Some realist has said that a large legacy assuages grief. I had damned little grief to assuage, and my uncle, to my surprise, left me all his fortune and this rather jolly estate to assuage it with. I feel like a child who has suddenly been given the moon.”