Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic (18 page)

“Turn right,” Shelley told the driver as they got back into the car. “Then drive hell-for-leather until we catch them. Don't care about speed limits; they don't matter in this case.”

As they swung out into the road, the car took up speed and then raced along the road, the speedometer quivering higher and higher on its dial. Henry Fairhurst held his breath with suppressed excitement. This, he told himself, was the real thing. Sarah would have to believe him now. Never again would she be able to order him about, see that he wore bed-socks and took his aspirin when an influenza epidemic was on. He had been in on the end of a man-hunt, and no one, after this, would be able to order him about any more.

Chapter XXII

The End of the Chase

“You think then, sir,” said Cunningham as they rolled along the road, “that this man who has kidnapped Miss Arnell is the murderer?”

“Not a doubt about it,” answered Shelley absent-mindedly, his whole attention being concentrated on the road ahead.

“But why?” Cunningham persisted.

“Why what?”

“Why did he kill those two men?”

“My dear Cunningham, your memory is failing you,” laughed Shelley. “Because he forged the will, and then killed Arnell, under the impression that the two men whose signatures as witnesses he had forged were both dead. When he found that one of them was still alive, he had to be killed in his turn. And that, as in all these double murder cases, was where he slipped up so badly. If he had been content with the murder of Arnell he would probably have got away with it quite satisfactorily. Baker would have been arrested, and tried, and hanged. And everyone would have been satisfied.”

“Except Baker, of course,” added Henry Fairhurst in a voice that was so faint as to be almost a whisper.

Shelley laughingly agreed. But it seemed that Cunningham was in a persistent mood, for he went on with his questioning, casting only the merest occasional glance at the road ahead. After all, it was just as well to get everything clear before the final scene of the mystery, which, he thought, would probably be very like the final scene in other mysteries in which he had been concerned. After all the excitement of a murder-hunt, it always seemed to Cunningham that the mere prosaic fact of an arrest came as an anticlimax. Still, he told himself (and here Henry Fairhurst would certainly have agreed with him) this case was in one respect unique. They were chasing an undoubted murderer. He had a known identity as a criminal with a record. Yet they did not know his motive in the case, nor did they know who he was. That he must be someone with whom they had already come into contact in the case was certain.

“Who do you think he is?” he asked, as this train of thought started in his mind.

“Who do I think who is?” asked Shelley, who seemed to have somehow developed a most irritating strain of repeating each question as it was put to him.

“The murderer.”

“J. K. Wallace.”

“But who is J. K. Wallace?”

“Con-man and general swindler.”

“I know that, chief. But what's he doing in this case?”

“That,” Shelley announced, “is just what I should like to know, Cunningham. I'm pretty certain that the motive will stare us in the face when we know how he's connected with Moses Moss. It's pretty obvious that he must have some sort of hold over that young man.”

“Blackmail,” Cunningham suggested.

“I rather fancy not,” was Shelley's comment. “You see, I've made some enquiries into that young man's past history, and, while he's never done much honest hard work, yet he's never, as far as I can find out, been on the shady side of the law. He's always had enough sense to run straight—at any rate, as far as I've been able to find out. Of course, there may have been some hidden transactions in the past which we haven't been able to trace.”

“Mr. Shelley,” interposed Henry Fairhurst unexpectedly.

“Yes.” Shelley turned round and faced the little man, whose face was positively shining with the excitement of the information which had, it appeared, suddenly occurred to him.

“I suppose it never occurred to you to find out if Mr. Moss had any ability as an artist.”

“You think he might have forged the will himself, I suppose,” commented Shelley.

“The thought did occur to me,” Henry admitted, and his beam grew brighter than ever. But it was a beam which was soon quenched.

“We did enquire about that,” Shelley said. “And he had no artistic ability at all, as far as was known.”

Henry's face fell.

“Then you think that he had nothing to do with it,” he said.

“I wouldn't go as far as to say that,” answered Shelley. “But I should be prepared to take a bet of ten to one that he knows nothing about the murders.”

“H'm.” Henry did not seem at all impressed, but did not feel inclined to dispute the issue. And, in any case, further argument was prevented by a sudden discovery of Shelley.

“Stop!” he shouted, and, with a shriek of protest from the brakes, the obedient driver brought the speeding car to a sudden standstill.

“What's the matter?” asked Cunningham in puzzled tones; and Shelley pointed to a stationary car which was just in front of them. It was a fast-looking, rakish sports saloon.

“What price Mr. Wallace?” Shelley murmured, and Cunningham, not for the first time in his career, marvelled at his chief's wonderful powers of observation, able to pay attention to every vehicle on the road at the same time as he was carrying on a conversation which would have occupied the whole mind of most people.

“Looks like it, doesn't it?” he said; and then followed Shelley on to the road and over to the empty car.

They looked at the tyres, and then Shelley gave vent to a grunt of pleased satisfaction.

“See,” he said, and pointed to the back off wheel. Cunningham obediently looked, and at once saw the cause of Shelley's satisfaction. The tyre was a Dunlop, and it had a patch. This was certainly the car that had driven out of Blackthorn Farm, just prior to their arrival at the deserted house!

“Cunningham,” said Shelley, emotion making his voice tremble. “Cunningham, my lad, we've got him!”

“Why did he abandon the car, I wonder?” Cunningham murmured.

“Breakdown, I expect,” answered Shelley, as he strode to the front of the car, threw open the bonnet, and made a cursory examination of the engine.

“Well, that was a bit of luck for us, anyhow,” he said, pointing to the petrol-tank, from which he had just removed the cap.

“Ran out of petrol, eh?” said Cunningham, and roared with laughter.

“That's about it,” answered Shelley. “And not so long ago, either,” he added, feeling the radiator with his hand. “The radiator is still distinctly warm to the touch.”

They hurriedly clambered back into the car, and were soon buzzing along the road again. By this time they had got well up into the hills, and the road twisted and turned almost like a corkscrew. Not far ahead they could see, in a dip of the hills, a stretch of grey mirror—one of the mighty reservoirs which keeps Sheffield supplied with water.

“Should catch him very soon,” Shelley remarked. “He can't have got more than a mile or so.” He leaned over the front seat in his excitement, as he gave further instructions to the driver.

“If you see a man and a girl walking,” he said, “slow down, but not too much. We don't want to give him the alarm too soon, you know.”

“That him, sir?” asked the driver, pointing to a steep hill ahead of them. Near its summit could be seen two human figures, easily recognisable, even at this distance, as a man and a girl.

“I believe it is,” answered Shelley. He was quivering with excitement now, for he felt that the end of the long chase was at hand, and his excitement was in some subtle way communicated to the others.

Slowly they drew near to the two people ahead, and they realised that they were those whom they had been chasing. Suddenly, however, the man glanced over his shoulder, a look of anxiety and fear overspread his face, and he broke into a kind of shambling trot, the girl's arm tightly clasped in his hand.

“Drop that girl's arm, Wallace,” Shelley shouted as they came within hearing distance. “We've got you!”

The man looked around once more, and then, dropping Violet's arm, he raced to the side of the road, vaulted the low stone hedge which separated it from the moorland, wild and dreary, and hurried up the steep slope of the hill.

Shelley opened the door of the car. “Look after the girl, Cunningham,” he said. “I'm going after him.” He took his automatic from his pocket, and vaulted the hedge in his turn.

But Wallace had got a considerable start on him, and the slope was steep. When Shelley reached the summit of the first little hill, Wallace was nowhere to be seen. Cautiously, the detective put his head around a large rock mass, only to draw it backwards quickly as a bullet whizzed by, unpleasantly near his ear.

“Ah-ha!” An insane, cackling laugh rang out. “You'll never catch me, Mr. Detective.”

“Wallace,” Shelley said sternly. “You know that you're beaten. You know that you'll never get out of these hills alive. Better give yourself up, my man.”

The answer was another bullet and another laugh. “So I shan't get out of these hills alive, eh?” came the question, uncannily sounding from a man who was still hidden securely behind another rock, not far from the edge of what appeared to Shelley to be a steep, precipitous drop, the reservoir's still depths being far below the level at which they had arrived.

“Well,” the owner of the voice went on, “if I don't get out alive, neither shall you, my fine fellow.”

“What's the use,” asked Shelley, gripping his automatic tightly, and wondering if there was some way in cutting off his adversary's retreat, “of trying to kill me? It won't make things any better for you. You've killed two men already.”

“Yes,” came the answer. “I've killed two men already, and I'll kill more before I've done. They can only hang me once, no matter how many men I've killed.” And again there sounded that wild laughter, echoing in the hills so that it seemed to Shelley as if the whole atmosphere was quaking with crazy mirth.

Then Shelley saw the man's head. He was slowly peering around the corner of the rock behind which he had contrived to hide himself. Shelley drew his automatic, took quick aim, and fired. He saw a piece of rock close by the man's head detach itself from the bulk of the granite. But the head was rapidly withdrawn.

“You'll have to shoot better than that, Mr. Detective,” said the man, but Shelley felt that there was a little uncertainty in his tone now. No longer was there any of that laughter in his voice. It betrayed anxiety and fear.

Then the end came—it came far more quickly than Shelley had anticipated. He was watching the man carefully—or rather, he was watching the rock behind which the man was still hiding. Suddenly Wallace emerged. His face was deathly pale, and his beard stood out very black against the clear whiteness of his skin.

“Come on, damn you!” he shouted, waving a revolver around his head, and walking backwards away from the rock. “Come on and fight! If you can hit me, I'll give in. If I can hit you, you'll have to let me go free. How's that for a bargain, my friend?”

Shelley replied: “A detective makes no bargain with a criminal, Wallace. You must give yourself up. Throw away that revolver, and come over here.”

“Not me,” said the man with a crafty grin. “You're afraid of me, that's what it is. You know what a good shot I am.”

Suddenly Shelley sprang out from his shelter, as he saw what was happening. The man raised his revolver, taking a further step backward to prepare his aim, and…Shelley dashed towards him, but too late.

When he reached the spot where Wallace had been standing, he saw that the man's body was bouncing over and over down the precipitous slope on the very edge of which he had been standing. As he watched, Shelley perceived it fall with a resounding splash into the waters of the reservoir far below.

“So,” said Shelley, “may perish all bad men.”

Chapter XXIII

Some Documents

1. Extract from Report of Inspector Shelley to the
Chief Commissioner of Police at New Scotland Yard.

The body of the guilty man was afterwards recovered from the reservoir. On it there were found documents (enclosed) showing that he had for some years been lending money to Moses Moss, having been told by Moss that he had a rich uncle—Professor Arnell—who was in bad health, and who was going to leave him money. There is no evidence that Wallace ever believed this, but it seems probable that he soon formed his plot of murdering Professor Arnell and forging his will, thus ensuring that the money would be paid to him. He has been connected with several blackmail plots, and it is highly probable that he would later have blackmailed Moss, by pretending to have knowledge proving that Moss had killed his uncle.

He did not leave the money to Moss himself in the forged will because he was afraid that Moss would be suspected of the crime, and he knew that the will would be called invalid in that case.

He kidnapped Miss Arnell with the idea of terrorising her into marrying Moss, when the money would have come within his grasp. If she persisted in her refusal, he was planning to murder her also, but in such a way that it would merely seem that she had disappeared, and then the legal steps necessary to assuming her death would have been taken.

I may say that I am pleased that the man died in the way he did, for I am firmly convinced that if he had lived, we should have found that he was insane, and unfit to plead.

The way that things have turned out seem to me to be the better for all concerned.

(Signed) Henry Shelley, Detective-Inspector, C.I.D.

2. Letter from Henry Fairhurst to Moses Moss.

My dear Mr. Moss,

It was without doubt a most extraordinary concatenation of circumstances. But the fact remains, as I told you the other day, that the man who kidnapped our fair young friend wished her to enter into matrimony with yourself. And the other fact, which I promised that I would reveal to you as soon as circumstances rendered it in any way possible for me to do so, is merely this: the murderer and kidnapper of Miss Arnell, and the villain, in short, who was responsible for the troublous circumstances which have involved us all—and a strangely variegated crowd we were—was a man to whom you owed a lot of money. That was the item of evidence, so I am led to understand by our good friends the police, which first put them firmly on the somewhat difficult trail of the gentleman in question. I hope that you will follow me, my dear Mr. Moss. I conclude, my dear sir, with all good wishes to yourself.

Yours very sincerely,

Henry Fairhurst.

3. Letter from Violet Arnell to Inspector Shelley.

Dear Inspector Shelley,

I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for all you have done. I may say that Harry joins me in this, for he feels that if it had not been for your valuable assistance in this dreadful business, we should never have been united.

Again with all our thanks,

Yours sincerely,

Violet Arnell.

P.S.
—We get married on Tuesday next.

4. Letter from Moses Moss to Inspector Shelley.

Dear Inspector Shelley,

Mr. Fairhurst tells me that you think the murderer of Professor Arnell was a man to whom I owed money. He also tells me that he was a criminal who had previously been in the hands of the police—a man, I understand, called Wallace. But I assure you that I have never known anyone called Wallace, not to mention owing him money. Could you explain this to me, or is the secret too deep and too official, and all that sort of thing?

Yours faithfully,

Moses Moss.

5. Letter from Inspector Shelley to Moses Moss.

Dear Mr. Moss,

I can't understand how you didn't tumble to all this without my having to tell you. Mr. Wallace, who had been in our hands before over a little matter of a cheque that was wrongly signed, and who had, in the last few years, been making a pretty little income by blackmail, was also a money-lender. He had many of the younger “smart set” in his clutches, and his money-lending activities gave him a very useful jumping-off ground for his blackmail plots.

Need I say more? Oh, I suppose I must give you the name under which he carried on his business. It was Victor Isaacs, and he had an office in Ludgate Hill. The funny thing is that at one stage I suspected you, and, in making enquiries into your financial status (if I may thus refer to what is, I suppose, a pretty delicate matter), I actually visited Isaacs's office. But he was out, and I saw a clerk. At that very moment Isaacs was kidnapping Miss Arnell. Still, least said, soonest mended, all's well that ends well, and so on. Good luck to you!

Yours,

Henry Shelley.

6. Telegram from Inspector Shelley to
Mr. and Mrs. Baker, honeymooning in Cornwall.

Bless you Violet. Bless you Harry. From your fairy godmother.

7. Retort of Miss Sarah Fairhurst when Mr. Henry Fairhurst told her the truth about the murder.

Fiddlesticks!