Trouble on the Thames (11 page)

***

Ruth awoke with a guilty start and scrambled up hastily out of the big arm-chair in which she had been dozing.

“Oh, it's you, darling! Thank goodness you're back.” She came forward, fastening her dressing-gown which had fallen open. “Well, how did you get on? Is he going to accept your offer?”

Very slowly Sally removed her hat.

“He's dead,” she announced.

“
Dead!
”

“Dead,” repeated Sally. “Somebody came into the bungalow and stabbed him.”

There was a profound silence which lasted for several seconds.

“Gosh!” muttered Ruth huskily.

“Don't look at me like that. I didn't do it.”

“Of course you didn't.” Shaking off her momentary paralysis, the other dragged forward a chair. “Sit down,” she commanded, “sit down there, and I'll get you a drink. You—”

“I don't want a drink: I just want you to listen. I
must
tell you all about it. It's—it's so frightfully important.”

Her partner gave a brief nod. “Go on,” she remarked.

“When I got down to the bungalow it was all dark and there didn't seem to be anybody about. Then I suddenly found that the door was open. I—I walked in and put on my torch, and—oh, Ruth, you can't imagine the horrible shock I got. There he was lying on the floor in a great pool of blood with the handle of a knife sticking up between his shoulders.”

She gave an involuntary shiver and covered her face with her hands.

“It must have been ghastly. What did you do?”

“I was so flabbergasted I nearly passed out. I had to hang on to the door for a moment or two. Then, just as I was feeling a little better, I heard a sort of groan, and I saw that there was someone else there as well.”

“Someone else! You mean the murderer?”

“I thought so at first, naturally. It was only when he began to talk that I felt I must be wrong.”

“Who was he?”

“He didn't know himself. Couldn't even remember how he got there. Somebody had hit him on the head, and he'd completely forgotten everything.”

“
What!
”

“Oh, of course it sounds phoney—horribly phoney—all the same, I'm quite sure that he was speaking the truth.”

“How can you tell?”

“He wouldn't stab a man in the back: he isn't that sort.” Sally swallowed nervously. “If—if I wasn't absolutely certain I shouldn't have brought him here.”

“
You—wouldn't—have—brought—him—here
.” The words came out in a slow, stunned whisper.

“Oh, Ruth, don't be angry. What else could I do? Whoever he is, he's quite decent and nice, and I couldn't just walk out and leave him. If they'd found him there like that they'd have been bound to arrest him.”

“But—but—oh, my God!” A trifle unsteadily Ruth walked across to the sideboard and tilted herself out a splash of whisky.

“You see, even if he's innocent,” continued Sally, “it would have been impossible for him to explain. He can't account for anything until he gets his memory back. That may happen all of a sudden—directly it does—”

“He'll probably grab hold of another knife and stick it into us.” Ruth gulped off a mouthful of neat spirit and put down the glass. “You're bats, darling—absolutely bats. Don't you know that hiding a murderer—”

“He's not a murderer: I don't care what anyone thinks.” Sally laid a hand on her partner's arm. “Come and see him for yourself,” she begged pleadingly. “It's the only way you can possibly judge.”

“Where is he?”

“In the workroom lying on the sofa. I told him I was sharing the place with a friend and I promised I'd bring you down as soon as I'd had a chance to explain.”

Ruth gave a sort of half-despairing shrug. “All right,” she said dully. “We may as well make a night of it now we've really started.”

“Just a second while I collect one or two things. I must bandage up his head before he goes to sleep.”

Hurrying into her bedroom, Sally came back with a sponge and bottle of iodine and a round, paper-covered packet. These she handed to Ruth, and then, crossing over to the fireplace, picked up a small brass kettle which was simmering away gently on the gas-ring.

“That's all we shall want,” she announced. “There's a clean towel down there, and we can use the basin out of the lavatory. Won't matter if it gets a little bloody.”

“Not in the slightest.”

With the resigned air of one to whom the worst has already happened, Ruth stepped out on to the landing. From here a winding flight of stairs ran down to the ground floor, terminating at a curtained arch which gave access to the shop. In another minute the two of them were standing in the narrow stone-flagged basement, where a shaft of light from the half-open workroom streamed out against the opposite wall.

“He's still awake: I can hear him moving about,” whispered Sally. “Wait here while I get the basin.”

She disappeared through a doorway on the left, and emerging a moment later with an enamelled tin bowl tucked under her arm, led the way briskly up the passage. Looking rather like Lady Macbeth in the sleep-walking scene, Ruth followed in her wake.

When they entered the long, somewhat ill-ventilated apartment their guest was in the act of settling himself back on the couch. His shoes and his rain-coat were lying on the floor alongside, and in his hand was a slightly battered silver cigarette case.

“What have you been doing?” demanded Sally. “I told you to lie perfectly still.” She marched forward to the couch, and with a disapproving frown put down the basin and the kettle.

“Sorry.” The speaker forced a penitent smile. “Felt I'd better get out of these before you came back. Didn't know I was so wet and dirty.”

“You've got to be good and obey orders.” Sally picked up a towel which was lying on the table. “This is Ruth,” she added. “I've explained everything, and she's been fearfully nice and sporting about it.”

“You're both marvellous! I—”

“Don't talk. Just lie down and let me have a look at your head. It's got to be washed and bandaged.”

Without protesting the patient turned over on his side, and having rolled up her sleeves to the elbow, Sally set to work. Except for an occasional word to Ruth, who stood by acting as “dresser,” she conducted her ministrations in silence.

“There!” she observed, straightening up with a relieved sigh. “That will keep it clean and stop it from bleeding. You've got a nasty bruise and it's begun to swell a little, but I don't think there's any very serious damage.” She paused. “Why are you holding that cigarette case? Do you want to smoke?”

“Thought I might find out who I was, so I had a run through my pockets. Only thing I dug up was this.”

Sally leaned over him and scrutinised the monogram in the centre. “Looks to me like an O and a B. I expect they're your initials?”

“Ought to be. Doesn't seem to help, though.” The stranger wrinkled his forehead.

“How about Oliver?” suggested Ruth.

“Oliver will do for the time being.” Sally took the case from his hand and placed it on the table. “Don't worry yourself by trying to think,” she continued: “it will all come back to you suddenly without the slightest effort. The only important thing now is that you should get off to sleep.”

The grey eyes which were looking up into hers closed wearily.

“O.K., angel,” murmured their owner.

Taking charge of the discarded coat, which she hung over the back of the chair, Sally picked up the basin and moved towards the passage. Ruth, who meanwhile had collected the remainder of their medical equipment, followed in silence. At the last moment she turned to cast a final glance at the recumbent figure on the couch, and then, switching off the light, closed the door and turned the key. The latter object she transferred to the pocket of her dressing-gown.

“Well, darling,” whispered Sally eagerly, “what do you make of him? He doesn't look a bit like a murderer, does he?”

Ruth shook her head.

“I think he's rather a pet,” she admitted. “All the same, I'm glad we had that lock mended.”

Chapter VII

Clattering noisily down the long slope, and crossing the stone bridge, the big, clumsy-looking farm lorry continued its journey up the opposite rise. Little by little the sound of its wheels faded into a low rumble, and raising his head, Mr. James Wilson was just in time to see it disappearing round the base of a distant tor. Then once again the bleak vista of rock and heath was as deserted and silent as ever.

A forlorn enough figure, with his drab prison clothes and his unshaven chin, Wilson stood there amongst the thick cluster of brambles and gorse, where for the past fourteen hours he had been patiently waiting for another spell of darkness. As a hiding-place, which at the same time possessed all the advantages of an observation post, the spot had undoubtedly been well chosen. On one side it commanded an uninterrupted view of the road for the best part of a mile, while on the other, where the moor made an abrupt and precipitous descent, a wide panorama of lush meadows and dark-green splashes of woodland unrolled itself peacefully in the warm September twilight. It resembled one of those alluring railway posters which invite the prospective traveller to spend his holiday in “Glorious Devon.”

At the present moment, however, Wilson's eyes were gazing in the contrary direction. They were fixed upon a small, solitary, granite-built house, standing in an ill-kept kitchen garden about twenty yards from the near end of the bridge. Adjoining it was a low outbuilding that looked like a garage, and from there a roughly made gravel track, bordered by a row of stunted fir trees, ran down to a wooden gate facing the roadway. The whole property was surrounded by a wire fence, several strands of which were obviously in need of repair.

All day, except for a few odd intervals when he had fallen asleep through sheer weariness, he had been peering across hungrily at that lonely and somewhat forbidding homestead. An inhabited house, with its owner temporarily absent, was the very object that he had been yearning to come across ever since his escape from the prison. Now at long last it seemed as though his unspoken prayer had been answered. Twice during the course of his vigil he had seen a would-be visitor hammer on the door without evoking any response, and the belief that here, almost within a stone's throw, lay the Heaven-sent chance of obtaining those two vital necessities, food and a change of clothes, had been steadily deepening as the long hours wore gradually on.

Several times, indeed, he had been sorely tempted to creep out of his refuge and investigate for himself. Being fully aware, however, that the whole countryside was only too anxious to assist in his recapture, the danger of attempting such a feat by daylight had been sufficiently obvious to restrain his impatience. From any one of those rocky crests keen eyes might be keeping watch upon the surrounding moor. A single suspicious movement would be enough to attract their attention, and once the alarm was given it would mean a speedy ending to his desperate bid for liberty. Before nightfall he would be back again in that cursed cell, with a bitter sense of failure and frustration added to the corroding hatred that already filled his heart.

Taking from his pocket the last of the sour and rather hard apples which he had filched from a cottage garden during the previous night, he settled down again grimly to await the oncoming darkness. Despite his hunger and fatigue he was obsessed by a kind of savage happiness. In the teeth of almost impossible odds he had at last succeeded in carrying through the first part of his programme, and now that Fate, in the shape of this deserted house, had seen fit to step in and lend him a helping hand, the chief problem that still confronted him appeared to be on the point of solving itself. To his half-insane mind, warped by interminable months of solitary brooding, such a state of affairs was in no way surprising. A passionate conviction that the longed-for hour of revenge would eventually arrive had never deserted him, and as he lay there chewing slowly and staring up into the dark-blue vista above, a wave of fresh and exultant strength seemed to come flooding back into his tired and aching limbs.

Very gradually the long streaks of crimson and gold faded out of the west, while one by one the more distant peaks became merged in the gathering dusk. High overhead an army of stars was already beginning to invade the sky. The moment for action was at last drawing near, and rising to his feet again with a purposeful deliberation, Wilson commenced to push his way stealthily through the tangled screen of brambles. Gripped in his right hand was the broken strip of iron railing which had been lying beside him in the grass.

He had advanced as far as the last bush, and was just straightening up to make a final cautious inspection, when the unmistakable hum of a motor-cycle suddenly broke the silence. His lips tightened and his whole body became tense and motionless. Almost simultaneously a yellow light swept up over the crest of the slope, and sailing down the road like some gigantic firefly, came to an abrupt halt exactly in front of the wire fence. In another moment the rider had dismounted and was pushing open the gate.

With a sickening feeling of disappointment Wilson stared across at the burly, leather-coated figure which had so shatteringly broken in upon his plans. Of all conceivable mischances, this last-minute return of the owner of the house had been the one which he had least expected. Only a minute ago everything had appeared to be perfectly clear sailing, and now—a whispered oath broke from his lips and the fingers that were clutching the rail tightened in convulsive fury.

Pursuing his way up the gravelled track and unlocking the door of the garage, the intruder wheeled his machine inside and propped it against the wall. The headlamp was still on, and from across the road he could be seen removing his coat and unstrapping a goodish-sized parcel from the luggage carrier at the rear. This he placed carefully upon a bench, and then, leaving the light still blazing away unchecked, stepped out again into the open and vanished up a narrow path which appeared to lead round to the back door.

Imminent danger, as Doctor Johnson has pointed out, has a remarkably bracing effect upon the intellect. After that first spasm of almost uncontrollable rage Wilson's mind had been working at top speed. The sight of the motor-cycle had opened up a whole fresh world of possibilities, and as the figure of its proprietor melted into obscurity, a sudden desperate resolve crystallised in his heart. It was obviously a question of now or never.

Stealthily as a panther he slid out from behind the bush and keeping his head well down, darted across the rough stretch of grass that separated him from the road. In a few minutes he had arrived at the gate. On one side of the short ascent lay a belt of black shadow cast by the line of fir trees, and taking advantage of this to cover his approach to the garage, he tiptoed silently across the intervening path and flattened himself stiffly against the front wall of the house.

He had hardly taken up his new position when an indifferently whistled rendering of “Annie Laurie” began to filter through the night air. Almost at the same instant there was a crunch of approaching steps. Nearer and nearer they came, advancing leisurely along the narrow passage, and then, with the last unfinished note still issuing from his lips, the unsuspecting soloist suddenly made his appearance.

Whack!

The iron rail thudded down on to the thick leather cap, and crumpling at the knees, its wearer slumped forward like a pricked bladder. As he fell the top of his head struck against the low stone parapet that bounded the garden.

It was obviously no moment for dawdling about, and in any case indecision was not one of Wilson's failings. Dropping his weapon and grabbing hold of the prostrate body by the ankles, he hauled it unceremoniously across the gravel and dragged it into the garage. The heels flopped down upon the concrete floor with a dull clatter, and in less time than it takes to write the words he had swung home the heavy, stoutly hinged door and was leaning against the bench panting for breath.

As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, the first object to which he turned his attention was the large square package beside him. It consisted of a wooden box covered by a thick layer of brown paper, and on wrenching away the latter he found himself confronted by what appeared to be the fruits of a day's marketing in some neighbouring town. For a moment he could scarcely believe his eyes. With fumbling haste he pulled out two loaves of bread, a slab of cheese, a tin of biscuits and a carton of lump sugar, and then, resisting a clamorous urge to satisfy his hunger straight away, picked up the discarded coat which its owner had also flung down upon the bench.

A hurried search through the pockets brought to light two more heartening discoveries. One was an unopened packet of twenty cigarettes, the other a tattered wallet with five new, crisp, clean one-pound notes tucked away in a separate compartment.

A trifle dazed by this staggering rush of good fortune, he stepped forward and peered down at the sprawling figure in front of him. By the light of the lamp reflected from the end wall he could see that the man was still alive. Thanks to the thick cap, the blow which would otherwise have fractured his skull had apparently only succeeded in stunning him, and with a grunt of relief, for he no longer felt the faintest animosity against his victim, Wilson turned quickly to examine the motor-cycle. To his unspeakable joy the tanks proved to be nearly half full.

II

“So!”

Von Manstein removed his eyeglass and polished it carefully with a silk handkerchief. Then, replacing it in position, he once more picked up his evening paper and concentrated his attention on the double-headed paragraph at the top of the right-hand column.

MURDER AT A THAMES BUNGALOW
Well-known Sportsman Found Stabbed

Early this morning the body of Mr. Granville Sutton, a familiar figure on the racecourse and in the West End of London, was found lying on the floor of his riverside bungalow which is situated about half a mile below Playford. Mr. Sutton had been stabbed between the shoulders, and death must have been practically instantaneous. The discovery was made by a lad named George King, who was engaged in his customary task of delivering milk. King immediately raised the alarm, and within a few minutes Superintedent Fothergill, of the local police, had arrived upon the scene and taken charge of the investigations. The disordered condition of the bungalow points to robbery as having been the probable motive of the crime. There were signs which suggested that the murderer arrived and escaped by car, and it is considered not unlikely that this clue will be of considerable assistance in establishing his identity. Anyone who may have noticed a motor-driven vehicle either entering or turning out of the Playford-Thames Ferry Road between the hours of ten and midnight is requested to communicate with the police at the earliest possible opportunity.

“Mr. Craig.”

Frederick, the wooden-faced manservant who had opened the door, moved stiffly to one side, and following close on the announcement of his name, Mark Craig walked into the room.

“Sorry to be late. Had a spot of trouble with the car.” The visitor glanced back as though to satisfy himself that the door had been properly closed, and then, with an abrupt change of expression, advanced towards the easy chair from which his host had made no attempt to get up. “You have read the evening papers?” he demanded.

Von Manstein nodded. “It appears that you are to be congratulated. You seem to have handled the affair most successfully.”

“Glad you think so.” Craig sat down heavily on the big ottoman that jutted out from the corner of the fireplace. “There's a lot more to it, though, than they've got hold of yet.” He paused. “Something has happened that no one on God's earth could have possibly foreseen.”

“Indeed!” The Count raised his eyebrows. “Nothing that might lead to any unpleasant consequences, I hope?”

“On the contrary, it may turn out devilish useful.”

“I'm relieved to hear it. You had better help yourself to a drink and tell me the whole story.”

Accepting the invitation, Craig turned to the small inlaid table at his elbow, where the necessary ingredients, in the shape of a syphon and a decanter of whisky, had already been set out. There was a brief silence, and then, relinquishing his half-emptied glass, he looked up again to face the cold, watchful stare of his companion.

“Wasn't any fault of ours: the plans I'd made worked out perfectly. We got there soon after it was dark, and I'll take my oath no one had spotted us. It had been raining like hell for the last two hours. Sutton opened the door himself, and I guess from his face he'd been expecting someone else. I'd got my piece ready, though; and as soon as he tumbled to the idea that we'd come over to talk business he made no trouble about letting us in. I could see he was carrying a gun in his pocket, but it was about as much use to him as a sick headache. That guy Kellerman is as quick as a cat. Never seen a smarter bit of work in my life.”

“What did you expect? We are not in the habit of employing bunglers.”

“I'd say not!” Craig picked up his tumbler and took another long gulp. “Next job was to go through the bastard's papers, but before I started in I sent Kellerman outside just to make sure that I wouldn't be interrupted. I told him that if anyone came snooping around he was to lay him out with that rubber cosh of his. We'd left the knife in the body on purpose. It was one I'd specially fixed up—cut some initials on the handle so as to give the cops something to get busy on.”

“An admirable idea.” The speaker nodded approvingly.

“Well, I was just about through when I heard the bump. Seems that a guy had come sneaking out from some trees at the back and got over the fence. Meant to have a squint through the window, I guess. Kellerman had fixed him right enough, and it didn't take us long to cart him inside. He was out to the world, and I'll lay odds he never even knew what hit him.”

The listener frowned.