Mystery of Mr. Jessop (33 page)

“There was two other gents,” he said, “before you, wanting to know what had happened and if anyone had been hurt.”

Ulyett at once asked about these other visitors. The cottager was quite willing to talk, and though he had not seen their car, since that had naturally remained in the lane above, out of sight, he was able to give of the men themselves a fairly good description.

“Tall, thin gentleman, one of them,” he said, “and the other not very tall, but a big chap all the same – flat nose, and looked as if he had done a bit of boxing in his time.” Further details he added made it plain that it was Mr. Jacks and his manager, Obadiah Wright, whom he had seen.

“Was it them got the diamonds?” Ulyett muttered. “Looks like we're a day behind the fair.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, rather dismally. “Anyhow, they've got clear away.”

“Have to get to a 'phone quick as we can,” Ulyett said, “and send out word they were in this neighbourhood. Of course, with these blessed cars, they may be fifty miles away in any direction by now. I wish to the Lord,” he said bitterly, “every inventor was smothered at birth.”

From the bank above, Higson called down to them in a shrill, excited whisper. He was in the act of starting to clamber down the steep bank. He called to them:

“I've just seen him – plain I saw him, peeping out at me from behind the trees – the chap you want me to identify.” As he spoke, there rang out a swift succession of heavy pistol shots, rapid and dreadful in the quiet evening air. Higson screamed out aloud; he flung up his arms and screamed again, and down the steep bank he plunged headlong, to lie in a bleeding, unconscious heap at their feet.

For a moment, a fraction of a second, the sheer dread and unexpectedness of the thing held them motionless. Bobby always remembered the open-mouthed gape of the cottager as he stared uncomprehendingly upwards, like a man who had just seen a tree walking or heard an animal begin to talk.

“Look after him,” shouted Ulyett, with a gesture at the prostrate Higson, and made a gallant rush at the steep bank.

But years had robbed him of some of his former agility, and had bestowed upon him instead a certain rotundity of form. His rush carried him half way up the bank, but there he slipped, stumbled, rolled down again. Bobby, who had bent down to assure himself that Higson was still alive, said to him quickly:

“Let me, sir, may I?”

Without waiting for a reply, he charged up the bank and reached the lane above. A thin wisp of smoke still hung in the air under the trees just opposite, and Bobby plunged headlong in pursuit into the wood.

It was very quiet and still there beneath the trees, and very dark as well, for it was growing late now and here in the wood night had already come. The assassin, too, had had some moments' start, and Bobby was soon convinced that pursuit was hopeless. He pushed on, however, and came out presently on the other side of the trees. In front was an open field, beyond that again the main road, and from it came the sound of a motor-car growing fainter as he listened.

“Making off at about a hundred m.p.h.,” Bobby muttered.

He hurried back, for it was plain there was no more to do, and found that Ulyett and the cottager between them had managed to get Higson up the bank, into the car.

“Have to get him to a doctor first of all,” Ulyett grumbled. “Give the gunman a nice start, worse luck. We'll have the wood gone over in the morning, though, and we may find something to help. Pity it's nearly dark. Not that footprints are much good nowadays, with everyone wearing the same kind of shoe from the same multiple shops. We may find the pistol, though, or something useful.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I suppose this means Higson was recognised, too, by whoever it was he recognised, and the idea was to stop his giving evidence. Is he badly hurt, do you think, sir?”

“Hit twice,” Ulyett answered; “the other shots must have missed. One hit in the back under the ribs and another in the shoulder. I should think it's a toss-up whether he pulls through or not.” Slowly Ulyett added: “Jacks and Wright seen in the vicinity, and known to possess a pistol.”

“Small calibre automatic their licence was for, I think, sir,” Bobby reminded him. “I thought what we heard sounded more like a revolver, '45.”

Ulyett was looking at him doubtfully.

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “I see what you mean.

But then –” He lapsed into deep thought. “Oh, well,” he said. “First thing is to get this poor chap to hospital or a doctor's, and then we can try to work it out.”

Their cottager friend was able to direct them to a small local hospital only two or three miles distant. If they turned north along the main road at the foot of the lane and took the first turning they saw on their left, they would get there, he thought, in less than a quarter of an hour. They followed his directions accordingly, Bobby driving very carefully as he tried to strike the happy medium between the high speed desirable to get the injured man to the hospital as quickly as possible, and the necessity for avoiding jolts and jars. Ulyett was holding Higson in as comfortable a position as possible, watching, carefully, too, to see that the hastily applied bandages did not slip. He said to Bobby:

“What about that parcel you said Higson brought along with him?”

“The raincoat?” Bobby asked. “At least, I suppose it's that. If it's anything else was pawned that night, it'll knock all my ideas of what happened on the head. Shall I look, sir?”

“Yes, do,” Ulyett said, lowering the unconscious Higson into the seat and supporting him there with cushions.

Bobby ripped open the parcel. As he expected, it contained a raincoat, nearly new. A ticket attached gave particulars showing when it had been pledged, and for how much. Putting his hand into one of the pockets, Ulyett brought out a rubber glove from which the thumb had been torn off.

“Look at that,” he said.

Bobby looked at it gravely. He remembered the thumb-piece from such a glove caught in the trigger of the pistol that had dealt Jessop his death.

“Conclusive, sir, isn't it?” he said.

“If Higson dies,” Ulyett asked, “shall we be any further forward?”

Bobby did not answer. A mistake, he supposed, not to have taken Higson's evidence in full while that had been possible. One could never be sure of the future. It had seemed better, of course, that Higson should make his identification without any name having been mentioned, so that no question of previous prejudice could arise. Now it was doubtful if any identification at all were going to be possible.

They reached the turning their cottager friend had warned them to look out for. Bobby turned into it, and almost at once they saw a car lying upset half in and half out of the ditch by the roadside.

“Another accident,” Bobby said. “Not one of our lot this time, I suppose.” And, almost before he had finished speaking, both he and Ulyett were staring blankly, in a kind of dazed bewilderment, as if this time quite unable to believe their own eyes.

For there in the field just beyond was a bundle – a shapeless bundle, a sack, a parcel, a what you will – performing apparently spontaneous gyrations, standing on one end one moment, the next prostrate again and rolling on the ground, then once more wriggling itself upright.

“Someone inside,” Ulyett gasped. “What's up now?”

Bobby brought the car to a standstill. Both Ulyett and Bobby jumped out, Ulyett still holding the raincoat. Together they raced towards the still gyrating sack.

They reached it just as once more, after remaining on end for a moment or two, it had toppled over. Bobby had ready in his hand a pocket-knife he had opened as he ran. With it he ripped the thing open, and there appeared the head and shoulders of the Duke of Westhaven.

“I have been requiring assistance for some moments,” he said with cold rebuke. His eye caught the coat Ulyett, who had just come up, was still holding in one hand. “Ah, my raincoat,” he said, and incontinently fainted.

At the cottage hospital, which was only about a mile and a half further on, the duke and Higson received prompt attention. Higson's wounds were dangerous, it was said, but there was an excellent chance of recovery unless unexpected complications ensued. The duke's condition was diagnosed as due to more than a mere faint; shock was the convenient word used, rest and quiet the treatment ordered, and he was at once put to bed in a vacant cot, next, alas! to the bed occupied by Higson; to Ulyett's shocked remonstrance, when he knew this, the inadequate excuse being tendered that the hospital had no other vacant bed, and that its only private ward was occupied by two jaywalkers suffering due penalty for obstructing the passage of a motorist to whom had been confided by his firm the task of demonstrating the merits of a new car model, by lowering the road record from Land's End to John o' Groat's.

“There's an appeal out in the papers for funds to provide another private ward,” said cheerfully the young doctor who told Ulyett this. “Perhaps the old blighter you've trotted in will cough up the dough when we've got him toddling again.”

“Better,” suggested Bobby, “charge him a whacking fee – a bill duly delivered is worth a dozen appeals in the Press.”

Ulyett rebuked sternly so uncalled-for an expression of opinion. Before this he had been busy at the 'phone, calling up the headquarters of every police force anywhere near so that now he hoped the whole country-side had become one huge watching eye. Every car was to be stopped, and its inmates questioned and detained if their identity and innocence were not clearly established. Pedestrians, too, were to be examined, since there was a possibility that cars might be abandoned. On railway stations and 'bus stops the closest watch was to be kept. Over an area of something like a hundred miles from side to side was to be spread, in fact, a kind of enormous drag-net, through which Ulyett observed with complacence only a very slippery fish indeed would have any chance of escaping.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, though thinking to himself that the fish they had to deal with were slippery beyond compare.

“Only,” added Ulyett, with a discontented grunt, “they all want to know what it's all about – as if,” he grumbled, “anyone could tell what a nightmare was about. What do you think's been happening, Owen?”

Fortunately, it was plain he expected no answer, and Bobby therefore, busy at the moment refilling their tank with petrol he had been able to obtain at the hospital, was spared the necessity of replying. It was quite dark now, and Ulyett had decided that they would spend the night at Cheltenham. But he wanted first to go back to the scene of the burning of the van and the shooting of Higson, to await there the police he had asked should be sent to keep ward and watch till daylight permitted a close search of the scene of the accident, of the ashes of the van in case they still concealed the necklace, and of the wood in which it was hoped might be found evidence of the identity of Higson's assailant.

The night was dark, only a few stars showing in a cloudy sky. The wind was rising, bringing with it a hint of rain, and Ulyett looked up in a very discontented way.

“Going to be a storm,” he muttered. “Lots of heavy rain to wash out any footprints or tracks. Just our luck.”

The dark, unlighted roads – for this was no “built-up” area – imposed care and a certain restraint of speed on Bobby. When they were near the spot where the lane down which they had followed the furniture van joined the main road, they saw the lights of a car drawn up by the roadside a little further on.

“Wonder who it is?” Ulyett grunted. “None of those we want, I suppose, but we had better see.”

Bobby halted accordingly, and, getting down, went across to where the strange car stood on a strip of grass by the roadside under the shadows of the overhanging trees of the little wood behind. By the light of the headlamps he could see a man who had evidently just completed the task of changing a tyre. Near him was a woman engaged in putting away the tools her companion had been using. Bobby, recognising them, exclaimed:

“Hullo, Mr. Ghenery. Oh, and Miss May, too.”

He had spoken loudly on purpose. Ulyett, who had been listening, got down at once and came to join them. Denis, wiping his hands on a rag, looked up and said:

“Oh, it's you chaps again, is it?”

“I'll trouble you to explain –” began Ulyett in his most official voice, and then paused, not quite sure what exactly it was they were to explain.

“Well, if you want to know, and as I suppose you're on it, too,” Denis answered, “we've been chasing around after the Fellows necklace. Jacks and Wright are after it, too. I expect you know? They got a tip somehow it was packed away in a furniture van.”

“What's your interest in the Fellows necklace?” demanded Ulyett.

“Five thousand pounds reward for it, isn't there?” Denis retorted. “Five thousand jolly good reasons for anyone to be interested in it, if you ask me. Enough for a good whack each for Miss May, for Miss Ellison, who tipped us off, and for me, too. Worth scooting round a bit for.”

“The furniture van has been found overturned and burnt not far from here,” Ulyett said. “No trace of the driver or his mate. A man who had given us information has been shot and dangerously wounded. The Duke of Westhaven has been assaulted – shockingly assaulted,” added Ulyett, feeling that a duke deserved an adverb.

“What?” said Denis, bewildered. “What's all that?”

“What do you know about it?” demanded Ulyett.

“Things been happening,” Denis commented. “We've been out of it, though. An old girl way up on the hills told us the van we were hunting had been at her place. But she did us down for some reason. Told us the van had gone down a lane she showed us she said led to the high road. Instead, it led us to an empty farm and a bog, where I'm jolly sure no furniture van ever got through. We got stuck so badly I thought we were there for keeps. When we did get out, I wasn't going to risk going back the same way. We found a cart-track that looked good, but it led us right in among trees. We foundered on some stumps that finished my front near tyre for good and all. I've just been changing it.”