Hangmans Holiday (15 page)

“There’s been nothing in the papers about the tin box,” put in the man in the burberry.

“They don’t let everything get into the papers,” said the sergeant.

“It doesn’t seem to be in the paper our disagreeable friend is reading,” murmured Mr. Redwood, and as he spoke, that person rose from his seat and came over to the serving-hatch, ostensibly to order more beer, but with the evident intention of overhearing more of the conversation.

“I wonder if they’ll catch the fellow,” pursued Redwood thoughtfully. “They—by Jove! yes, that explains it—they must be keeping a pretty sharp look-out. I wondered why they held me up outside Wintonbury to examine my driving-licence. I suppose they’re checking all the Morrises on the roads. Some job.”

“All the Morrises in this district, anyway,” said Monty. “They held me up just outside Thugford.”

“Oho!” cried Arthur Bunce, “that looks as though they’ve got a line on the fellow. Now, sergeant, come across with it. What do you know about this, eh?”

“I can’t tell you anything about that,” replied Sergeant Jukes, in a stately manner. The disagreeable man moved away from the serving-hatch, and at the same moment the sergeant rose and walked over to a distant table to knock out his pipe, rather unnecessarily, into a flower-pot. He remained there, refilling the pipe from his pouch, his bulky form towering between the Disagreeable Man and the door.

“They’ll never catch him,” said the Disagreeable Man, suddenly and unexpectedly. “They’ll never catch him. And do you know why? I’ll tell you. Not because he’s too clever for them, but because he’s too stupid. It’s all too ordinary. I don’t suppose it was this man Beeton at all. Don’t you read your papers? Didn’t you see that the old lady’s sitting-room was on the ground floor, and that the dining-room window was found open at the top? It would be the easiest thing in the world for a man to slip in through the dining-room—Miss Steward was rather deaf—and catch her unawares and bash her on the head. There’s only crazy paving between the garden gate and the windows, and there was a black frost yesterday night, so he’d leave no footmarks on the carpet. That’s the difficult sort of murder to trace—no subtlety, no apparent motive. Look at the Reading murder, look at—”

“Hold hard a minute, sir,” interrupted the sergeant. “How do you know there was crazy paving?
That’s
not in the papers, as far as I know.”

The Disagreeable Man stopped short in the full tide of his eloquence, and appeared disconcerted.

“I’ve seen the place, as a matter of fact,” he said with some reluctance. “Went there this morning to look at it—for private reasons, which I needn’t trouble you with.”

“That’s a funny thing to do, sir.”

“It may be, but it’s no business of yours.”

“Oh, no, sir, of course not,” said the sergeant. “We all of us has our little ’obbies, and crazy paving may be yours. Landscape gardener, sir?”

“Not exactly.”

“A journalist, perhaps?” suggested Mr. Redwood.

“That’s nearer,” said the other. “Looking at my three fountain-pens, eh? Quite the amateur detective.”

“The gentleman can’t be a journalist,” said Mr. Egg. “You will pardon me, sir, but a journalist couldn’t help but take an interest in Mr. Redwood’s synthetic alcohol or whatever it is. I fancy I might put a name to your profession if I was called upon to do so. Every man carries the marks of his trade, though it’s not always as conspicuous as Mr. Redwood’s sample case or mine. Take books, for instance. I always know an academic gentleman by the way he opens a book. It’s in his blood, as you might say. Or take bottles. I handle them one way—it’s my trade. A doctor or a chemist handles them another way. This scent-bottle, for example. If you or I was to take the stopper out of this bottle, how would we do it? How would you do it, Mr. Redwood?”

“Me?” said Mr. Redwood. “Why, dash it all! On the word ‘one’ I’d apply the thumb and two fingers of the right hand
to
the stopper and on the word ‘two’ I would elevate them briskly, retaining a firm grip on the bottle with the left hand in case of accident. What would you do?” He turned to the man in the burberry.

“Same as you,” said that gentleman, suiting the action to the word. “I don’t see any difficulty about that. There’s only one way I know of to take out stoppers, and that’s to take ’em out. What d’you expect me to do? Whistle ’em out?”

“But this gentleman’s quite right, all the same,” put in the Disagreeable Man. “You do it that way because you aren’t accustomed to measuring and pouring with one hand while the other’s occupied. But a doctor or a chemist pulls the stopper out with his little finger, like this, and lifts the bottle in the same hand, holding the measuring-glass in his left—so—and when he—”

“Hi! Beeton!” cried Mr. Egg in a shrill voice, “look out!”

The flask slipped from the hand of the Disagreeable Man and crashed on the table’s edge as the man in the burberry started to his feet. An overpowering odour of violets filled the room. The sergeant darted forward—there was a brief but violent struggle. The girl screamed. The landlord rushed in from the bar, and a crowd of men surged in after him and blocked the doorway.

“There,” said the sergeant, emerging a little breathless from the mix-up, “you best come quiet. Wait a minute! Gotter charge you. Gerald Beeton, I arrest you for the murder of Alice Steward—stand still, can’t you?—and I warns you as anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial. Thank you, sir. If you’ll give me a ’and with him to the door, I’ve got a pal waiting just up the road, with a police car.”

In a few minutes’ time Sergeant Jukes returned, struggling into his overcoat. His amateur helpers accompanied him, their faces bright, as of those who have done their good deed for the day.

“That was a very neat dodge of yours, sir,” said the sergeant, addressing Mr. Egg, who was administering a stiff pick-me-up to the young lady, while Mr. Redwood and the landlord together sought to remove the drench of Parma violet from the carpet. “Whew! Smells a bit strong, don’t it? Regular barber’s shop. We had the office he was expected this way, and I had an idea that one of you gentlemen might be the man, but I didn’t know which. Mr. Bunce here saying that Beeton had been a chemist was a big help; and you, sir, I must say you touched him off proper.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Egg. “I noticed the way he took that stopper out the first time—it showed he had been trained to laboratory work. That might have been an accident, of course. But afterwards, when he pretended he didn’t know the right way to do it, I thought it was time to see if he’d answer to his name.”

“Good wheeze,” said the Disagreeable Man agreeably. “Mind if I use it some time?”

“Ah!” said Sergeant Jukes. “You gave me a bit of a turn, sir, with that crazy paving. Whatever did you—”

“Professional curiosity,” said the other, with a grin. “I write detective stories. But our friend Mr. Egg is a better hand at the real thing.”

“No, no,” said Monty. “We all helped. The hardest problem’s easy of solution when each one makes his little contribution. Isn’t that so, Mr. Faggott?”

The aged countryman had risen to his feet.

“Place fair stinks o’ that dratted stuff,” he said disapprovingly. “I can’t abide such nastiness.” He hobbled out and shut the door.

“H
ALF A MILE ALONG
the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the left at the signpost,” said the Traveller in Mangles; “but I think you’ll be wasting your time.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Montague Egg cheerfully, “I’ll have a shot at the old bird. As the
Salesman’s Handbook
says: ‘Don’t let the smallest chance slip by; you never know until you try.’ After all, he’s supposed to be rich, isn’t he?”

“Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,” acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. “But they’d say anything.”

“Thought you said there weren’t any neighbours.”

“No more they are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!”

Mr. Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and let his clutch in with quiet determination.

The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday morning in June—worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for the seashore about Beachampton—but as soon as he turned into the little narrow lane by the sign-post which said “Hatchford Mill 2 Miles,” he was plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry of an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own Morris. Whatever else the mysterious Mr. Pinchbeck might be, he certainly was a solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down the lane, Monty caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the middle of a neglected-looking field, he began to think that the Traveller in Mangles had been right. Rich though he might be, Mr. Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and spirits supplied by Messrs. Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly. But, remembering Maxim Five of the
Salesman’s Handbook,
“If you’re a salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors to a billiard-ball,” Mr. Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted the sagging gate and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and drove forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-weather traffic.

The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr. Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature persistent and inquisitive, Mr. Egg stepped up to the window and looked in. What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door, pushed it open and entered.

When you arrive at a person’s house with no intention beyond selling him a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find him stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp. Mr. Egg had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like what he saw. He put the table-cloth over it. Then, being a methodical sort of person, he looked at his watch, which marked 10:25. After a minute’s pause for consideration, he made a rapid tour of the premises, then set off, driving as fast as he could, to fetch the police.

The inquest upon Mr. Humphrey Pinchbeck took place the following day, and resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. During the next fortnight, Mr. Montague Egg, with some uneasiness, watched the newspapers. The police were following up a clue. A man was requested to communicate with the police. The man was described—a striking-looking person with a red beard and a check suit, driving a sports car with the registered number WOE 1313. The man was found. The man was charged, and Mr. Montague Egg, three hundred miles away, was informed, to his disgust, that he would be required to give evidence before the magistrates at Beachampton.

The accused, who gave his name as Theodore Barton, age forty-two, profession poet (at which Monty stared very hard, never having seen a poet at such close quarters), was a tall, powerfully built man, dressed in flamboyant tweeds, and having a certain air of rather disreputable magnificence about him. One would expect, thought Monty, to find him hanging about bars in the East Central district of London. His eyes were bold, and the upper part of his face handsome in its way; the mouth was hidden by the abundance of his tawny beard. He appeared to be perfectly at his ease, and was represented by a solicitor.

Montague Egg was called at an early stage to give evidence of the finding of the body. He mentioned that the time was 10:25 a.m. on Saturday, June 18th, and that the body was still quite warm when he saw it. The front door was locked; the back door shut, but not locked. The kitchen was greatly disordered, as though there had been a violent struggle, and a blood-stained poker lay beside the dead man. He had made a rapid search before sending for the police. In a bedroom upstairs he had seen a heavy iron box standing open and empty, with the keys hanging from the lock. There was no other person in the cottage, nor yet concealed about the little yard, but there were marks as though a large car had recently stood in a shed at the back of the house. In the sitting-room were the remains of breakfast for two persons. He (Mr. Egg) had passed down the lane from the high-road in his car, and had met nobody at all on the way. He had spent perhaps five or ten minutes in searching the place, and had then driven back by the way he came.

At this point Detective-Inspector Ramage explained that the lane leading to the cottage ran on for half a mile or so to pass Hatchford Mill, and then bent back to enter the main Beachampton road again at a point three miles nearer Ditchley.

The next witness was a baker named Bowles. He gave evidence that he had called at the cottage with his van at 10:15, to deliver two loaves of bread. He had gone to the back door, which had been opened by Mr. Pinchbeck in person. The old gentleman had appeared to be in perfect health, but a little flurried and irritable. He had not seen any other person in the kitchen, but had an impression that before he knocked he had heard two men’s voices talking loudly and excitedly. The lad who had accompanied Bowles on his round confirmed this, adding that he fancied he had seen the outline of a man move across the kitchen window.

Mrs. Chapman, from Hatchford Mill, then came forward to say that she was accustomed to go in every weekday to Mr. Pinchbeck’s cottage to do a bit of cleaning. She arrived at 7:30 and left at 9 o’clock. On Saturday 18th she had come as usual, to find that a visitor had arrived unexpectedly the night before. She identified the accused, Theodore Barton, as that visitor. He had apparently slept on the couch in the sitting-room, and was departing again that morning. She saw his car in the shed; it was a little sports one, and she had particularly noticed the number, WOE 1313, thinking that there was an unlucky number and no mistake. The interior of the shed was not visible from the back door. She had set breakfast for the two of them. The milkman and the postman had called before she left, and the grocer’s van must have come soon after, for it was down at the Mill by 9:30. Nobody else ever called at the cottage, so far as she knew. Mr. Pinchbeck was a vegetarian and grew his own garden-stuff. She had never known him have a visitor before. She had heard nothing in the nature of “words” between Mr. Pinchbeck and the accused, but had thought the old man was not in the best of spirits. “He seemed a bit put out, like.”