The Counsellor Page 11

  “Well, what’s your point?” demanded Sandra, who had little interest in rural geography.

  “Somewhere along that track, this man Querrin must have been waiting with his suitcases ready packed,” The Counsellor pointed out. “Question is, where did she pick him up?”

  “Assuming that she did pick him up on that stretch,” objected Standish. “She may have picked him up after she left that road and turned towards the Great North Road.”

  “In that case, speculation’s fruitless,” said The Counsellor, “so let’s not suppose it. My point is that no man burdened with a couple of suit-cases is likely to walk a step further than he has to. To get on to that stretch of road, he must have come by car or by bus or he must have had only a short distance to walk. Amblesham and Witton Underhill are one mile and two miles off the road, so if he walked from either of them, he’d stop at the turn-off from the main road in either case; and I doubt if any man in his senses would tote a suit-case for a mile if he could find any other way of doing it. So we come to buses and taxis. Make a note, Sandra, to put an inquiry about this into the next broadcast. No name, of course. Just the usual reward to any busman or taxi-driver who picked up a gentleman with two suit-cases in that part of the county. And for information as to where he set the man down, of course. That finishes the map. Now what about your affairs, Wolf?”

  “The stuff from Somerset House? It’s here,” Standish explained, producing some papers from his pocket. “To start with, here’s the Memorandum of Association of the Ravenscourt Press. . . .”

  “Skip that,” ordered The Counsellor. “Or, no, give us the list of subscribers. Just note them for me, Sandra, in case I need a separate copy. Go on, Wolf.”

  “James Treverton, Longstoke House, etc., gentleman, 500 shares; Wallace Whitgift, same address, printer, one share; John Albury, Elm Villa, Grendon St. Giles, etc., chemist, one share; Frederick Barrington, 19, Partington Square, London, W.1.—that’s their London depot—clerk, one share; Harold Dibdin, same address, clerk, one share; Jenny Lydbrook, 11, Shrewsbury Street, Grendon St. Giles, typist, one share; Doreen Wickwood, 7, Blackthorn Lane, Grendon St. Giles, typist, one share. Total 506 shares, with the necessary seven subscribers.”

  “Treverton and his staff, evidently. Part of his staff, anyway. Now what about the shareholders?”

  “Capital, £12,000, divided as follows: James Treverton, £6,098; Helen Treverton, £3,000; Whitgift, £1,200; Albury, £1,000; Barrington, £500; Dibdin, £200; and Jenny Lydbrook and Doreen Wickwood hold a £1 share each. Treverton’s Managing Director. Whitgift’s a second Director. Barrington’s the Secretary. Want the bankers, auditors, and so on?”

  The Counsellor shook his head.

  “No Preference Shares? No?” he asked. “And did you see a copy of the balance sheet?”

  “Never paid a dividend,” Standish volunteered. “Losses every year, running from £500 or so up to £900 at the peak. That Press seems to be a philanthropic institution for supplying the public with something it won’t pay for.”

  “Not much wonder if the investors on the staff are grumbling, then. Whitgift told me the thing could be made to pay well enough if it were run on better lines. But old man Treverton holds a majority of the shares, so I suppose he can call the tune unless they could fake a liquidation. Mad as a hatter, he seems to be, wherever his Press is concerned,” said The Counsellor, taking out his cigarette case.

  “And what do you make out of all this stuff?” demanded Sandra rather impatiently.

  “Some idea of Miss Treverton’s financial status,” answered The Counsellor. “She’s no pauper, that’s one thing clear. She’s got £3,000 locked up in this dud non-dividend-paying show, and beyond that she’s got capital enough to bring her in sufficient income to live on. I heard a rumour that she wanted to take her money out of this affair and it’s led to friction between her and her dear uncle. I don’t wonder. £3,000 is always £3,000. They’d have to buy her out or let the shares go to the public, if she insisted. And my impression is that Treverton would simply hate that. He wants no fresh discontented share-holders asking about dividends. There’s trouble enough in that line for him already. By the way, Wolf, did you notice in the prospectus whether they had any borrowing powers?”

  “There’s a provision for that,” Standish said.

  “When did they hold their last general meeting?” asked The Counsellor incuriously.

  “June 27th, 1937,” said Standish, after consulting his notes.

  “And now it’s September 15th, 1938.” He counted the months over on his fingers in an undertone. “They’ll have to buck up if they want to get their next meeting within the statutory fifteen months. Well, that’s their affair. I don’t suppose they’re going to declare a dividend this time either, so they won’t be unduly excited.”

  Miss Rainham evidently felt that the time had come for plain speaking.

  “After all this fuss, Mark, you’ve really discovered nothing about that affair. You’ve poked your nose into it against our advice, and possibly caused some annoyance to that girl, for all you can tell. But you’re no nearer finding out where she is than you were at the start.”

  The Counsellor examined the tip of his cigarette with great earnestness. A faint, transitory smile flitted across his face before he defended himself.

  “I know where she isn’t, and that’s always something, Sandra. And I know where she wasn’t, too, and that’s something more. Wait till the replies to the next broadcast come in. Then we’ll talk a bit more about it.”

  “You might ring up the Anchor Line and find out whether she and Querrin are aboard that liner,” Standish suggested. “Shall I do it?”

  “Certainly, if you like to spend the money. But not my money, Wolf. No, not my money. I’m not bothering about certainties. And that reminds me of an old country wife I once came across who had a still more aged husband. The old boy sat about a good deal—he was past work. I asked the old lady what he did with himself. “Oh, he just sits there, thumpin’ and thumpin’ at the thinkin’.’ That’s the line for you, Wolf. Just you go ‘thumpin’ and thumpin’ at the thinkin’,’ and perhaps you’ll see what I saw a while ago. It’s interesting.”

  Chapter Eight

  Exit Treverton

  ON Sunday, from Radio Ardennes, The Counsellor sent out his S.O.S. to bus-drivers and taxi-men, asking about a gentleman burdened with two suit-cases. Monday brought no response. When he went to his office on Tuesday, he rang for Sandra Rainham.

  “Any answers to that S.O.S. this morning?” he demanded, when she came into the room with no documents in her hand.

  Sandra shook her head.

  “Nothing, so far,” she declared. “I’ve just been through the morning mail.”

  “Looks as if we’d drawn blank,” The Counsellor commented in a disappointed tone. “And yet I’d hoped for better luck. A quid usually draws ’em. It begins to look as if Master Querrin must have toted his suitcases with his own fair hands to wherever she met him.”

  “You can’t very well put out a broadcast asking for information about anyone seen carrying two suit-cases,” said Sandra. “It’s not such an uncommon sight as all that. You’d be flooded out with demands for your reward.”

  “That’s so,” admitted The Counsellor, ruefully.

  “Wolf will laugh,” Sandra pointed out, gently.

  “And you, too, no doubt,” snapped The Counsellor.

  “No, not exactly,” she admitted. “That abandoned car sticks in my throat.”

  “I don’t wonder,” said The Counsellor, ambiguously, “I can’t swallow it myself. But since Wolf’s not among those present, I’ll admit that I may have to revise some of my ideas.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well,” said The Counsellor, rather fretfully, “we’ve drawn blank in the Story of the Young Man with Two Suitcases. But is it a snick that he had those suitcases with him when the girl picked him up? The first we hear of suitcases is at Tuxford. But before that,
those two must have passed through Stamford, Grantham, and Newark—all sizeable towns. Any of them could have furnished passing travellers with two suitcases and equipment enough for a couple of nights in hotels. They were new suitcases, remember. But against that, there’s the fact that they had his initials on them. That wasn’t necessary and it would have meant waiting while the lettering was put on. And the time-schedule doesn’t indicate that they wasted any time on any of those three places. So there you are—and where are you?”

  Before Sandra could offer any comments, the telephone buzzer sounded at The Counsellor’s elbow. He picked up the receiver and began a conversation with someone unknown. His own contribution to it conveyed nothing to Sandra, for it consisted merely of monosyllables indicative of surprise, acquiescence, dubiety, tolerance, and eagerness. At last he put down the instrument and turned to his secretary, with the air of one who is sure of making his effect.

  “Well, that puts the cat among the pigeons,” he announced.

  “Does it? All I heard was ‘Yes’ and ‘Well’ and others like them. I’m not a mind-reader. Don’t be so mysterious, Mark. You’re no good at it.”

  The Counsellor ignored this.

  “That,” he said with dignity, “was my old friend Inspector Pagnell asking for my assistance.”

  “He did that once before,” said Sandra, rather exasperated by this procrastination. “Whose tail-wagger’s missing this time?”

  “Treverton’s suicided,” said The Counsellor, concisely.

  “What! Killed himself?” ejaculated Sandra, completely taken by surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as Death,” said The Counsellor seriously. “He didn’t put in an appearance at breakfast this morning. When they went to knock him up, his room was empty. Bed unslept in. No sign of him anywhere. They hunted about until at last someone thought of looking to see if his car was in the garage. They found him in the garage, dead. The usual thing: garage doors shut and the car engine been running. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “It may have been an accident,” Sandra objected, since she did not like the idea of suicide.

  “Pagnell doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “And why did the inspector ring you up?”

  “Apparently he thinks I know more than I cared to tell him the other day, and he’s clutching at any straw that might help him for the inquest. As a matter of fact, I’ve got an idea or two. But they’re so cloudy that I wouldn’t care to put them down in black and white,” said The Counsellor cautiously.

  “Are you connecting this suicide with that girl’s disappearance in any way?” Sandra demanded, as the thought occurred to her.

  “Everything’s connected with everything else,” said The Counsellor instructively. “I shouldn’t wonder if that was true in this case.”

  “Oh, don’t be an ass, Mark,” exclaimed Sandra sharply. “It’s too serious a thing to be funny about. Think of that poor man, dead.”

  “You never knew him. And I didn’t like him,” pointed out The Counsellor. “What I’m really worried about is that girl, I may tell you. There’s something serious afoot, Sandra. I’m not getting above myself,” he added seriously, “but here have I been rousing the countryside from Radio Ardennes, and generally showing that I’m poking my nose into this affair of that girl—and now we get this suicide. A bit sinister, that. Have I, in some way, made things too hot for Treverton? It almost looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, both Wolf and I told you to leave it alone at the start,” Sandra reminded him. “I only hope, Mark, that you haven’t let yourself in for sackcloth and ashes.”

  “That’s as it may be,” The Counsellor retorted. “Never judge a tale till you’ve heard the end of it, Sandra. And if I have to repent, there’s always one advantage: I know where to buy a repentance stool. They keep ’em at Gretna.”

  “You’re a brute,” said Sandra. “All you’re really thinking about is how to gratify your ‘satiable curtiosity.’”

  “We’ll let it go at that, then. Meanwhile, duty calls. Or at least Inspector Pagnell does. Just ’phone for my car. I’ll be ready by the time it comes. You and Wolf can keep shop here while I’m away. If I’m wanted, try the Grendon St. Giles police station.”

  “It would serve you right if they locked you up there. You’ve got no finer feelings, Mark, I know; but you needn’t show it so plainly.”

  The Counsellor dismissed her and busied himself with some routine matters until his car arrived. When he reached Grendon St. Giles, Inspector Pagnell was waiting for him at the Police Station.

  “Now I’m going to make a note of what you say,” the inspector warned him as he showed him into an unoccupied room. “That’s just a matter of routine, of course, sir; it doesn’t mean I’ve any suspicions of you.”

  “Right!” The Counsellor assured him. “But you see, Inspector, one of us has got to start the play. And that’s going to be you. And I shan’t take any notes. So you can put your paper away for the moment.”

  “I don’t quite see it that way, sir,” said the inspector, rather coldly.

  “But I don’t see it any other way,” declared The Counsellor. “You want to hear what I know that bears on this business. How the deuce do I know what bears on it until I’ve heard your story? My way’s the quicker of the two. Stands to reason.”

  Inspector Pagnell was no fool. He realised the force of The Counsellor’s argument. He realised also that he had no power to extract any information whatever, if The Counsellor turned obstinate. After a few moment’s consideration, he gave in gracefully.

  “Very well, sir. I’ll be frank with you and I expect you to play the game by me in return.”

  “Right!” agreed The Counsellor, beaming. “Now we understand each other, and we’ll get on like a house on fire. Start in. I’m listening.”

  Pagnell produced a notebook which he consulted occasionally during his narrative. Having flattened it out on the table before him, he began.

  “Last night, Treverton had his dinner as usual. He dined alone, of course, since his niece isn’t here. He puts on a dinner-jacket always, and he did so last night. After dinner he generally goes to his study or office or whatever you call it.”

  “I know the place,” interjected The Counsellor to save explanation.

  “He went up there last night. It seems that sometimes, when he doesn’t want to be disturbed, he locks his study door; and then no one is allowed to bother him.”

  “Like sporting his oak,” elucidated The Counsellor. “Quite so. Go on.”

  “At about ten o’clock, his housekeeper, Mrs. Yerbury, had a question to ask him about some household affair; and she went up to the study and tried the handle gently as she usually does. The door was locked, so she came away again without trying to attract his attention, as is her usual custom in such cases. She could ask him her question at breakfast time, she explained to me. When I pressed her, she said she heard nothing in the room—I mean no movements or that kind of thing. He was evidently sitting down either at his desk or in an armchair. Asleep, perhaps. I gather from his housekeeper that she suspected he didn’t always work after dinner. Took a nap, instead.”

  “No proof that he was in the room at all, then?”

  “Not from her, but I’ve got it elsewhere,” Pagnell explained. “At about eleven o’clock, the maid came back up the avenue. She’d been having her evening out. She happened to notice the lighted-up window of the study. Nothing remarkable in that seeing that it was the only lighted window on the front of the house at the time. This girl—her name’s Florence Etham—kept her eye on the window as she came up towards the house. You know how one tends to look at any light in a dark night, a sort of home-and-friends feeling. Well, while she was looking up, she saw a shadow cross the blinds. They’re light holland, and take shadows sharply; and she’s quite positive that the shadow she saw was Treverton’s. All the rest of the men about that place are big fellows. Treverton was on the small side and he walked with a sort
of strut that was unmistakable. You’ve seen him yourself.”

  The Counsellor nodded.

  “I’m quite satisfied about that bit of evidence,” Pagnell continued. “So that establishes that he was in his room with the door locked at about 11 p.m. That’s quite normal. He never went to bed before midnight as a usual thing. The maid went in by the back-door of the house, had a chat with the house-keeper for a few minutes, and then they went upstairs together to bed. They’re both quick and sound sleepers, they tell me, and that finishes their evidence about last night’s doings.”

  “Seems quite all right,” commented The Counsellor. “Go on.”

  “Now we come to breakfast time,” continued the inspector. “It seems the maid knocks on Treverton’s door in the morning but as a rule he never bothered to reply. She knocked as usual and wasn’t surprised to get no answer. She went along to the study, which she usually tidies up before breakfast. The door was open and the place was empty. Nothing unusual, you see. She cleared out the ashtrays and so forth, pulled up the blinds—there were no curtains—and opened the windows to air the place. What are you smiling at, sir?”

  “No curtains,” explained The Counsellor. “That’s all of a piece with Treverton’s economical methods, you know.”

  “They give him the name for being a bit near,” the inspector confirmed. “But to go on with the story. Treverton didn’t show up in the breakfast room, which was a bit unusual, for generally he’s like a bit of clockwork. They didn’t think anything of it until an hour went past. Then the housekeeper took it into her head he might be ill, so she went up and hammered on his bedroom door. No reply. More hammering. Nothing doing. So at last she decided to push open the door, and she put her head in. She got a bit of a start, she says, when she found the bed hadn’t been slept in, and his pyjamas were where they’d been left the night before.”

  “Sensation!” said The Counsellor. “And what did they do next?”

  “They didn’t know what to do, and I don’t much blame ’em,” said Pagnell. “After all, an old gent might go for a morning stroll, though it wasn’t much in Treverton’s line, apparently. So they just talked it over between them and decided to wait till some stronger character turned up to take responsibility. Whitgift, who lives at the lodge, was due fairly soon; so they made up their minds to wait till he arrived and see what he made of it.”