The Counsellor Page 19

  “You’re really quite clever, Mark,” Sandra confessed frankly. “I didn’t think you’d make much of a success as a ’tec, but I’m changing my ideas.”

  “Put the bouquets in the wash-hand basin,” directed The Counsellor solemnly. “And send them to the hospital, later on. Now need I underline the rest of the details? Obviously Treverton was killed by carbon monoxide in his office and his body was carried round to the garage afterwards. The killer, X, whoever it was, could easily lift the corpse out of the office window and take it into the garage, which is just opposite. Then the faking with the foot-pump, etc., was child’s play. And, by the way, I forgot to mention that in my search for my imaginary paper I had a look at the office windows. They’d been fixed with little wedges so that they wouldn’t open—a job that could be done in a couple of minutes by X, if he were in a hurry. A thoughtful cove, evidently. Not to be under-rated, by any means.”

  “But who is X?” demanded Sandra, evidently now quite ready to believe that The Counsellor had a complete solution up his sleeve.

  “I don’t know, but I can find out,” said The Counsellor, using one of his favourite clichés. “And I’m going to find out.”

  “But why did they bother about you?” questioned Standish. “You aren’t in the cast at all, except as a super.”

  “That point has not entirely escaped me,” said The Counsellor with heavy irony. “In fact, I’ve thought over it a good deal, Wolf. One thing’s plain. I became of interest to X, whoever he is, only after I’d butted in and made an offer to buy the company.”

  “But what on earth did you want to buy it for at all?” demanded Sandra. “It’s not a line you know anything about, and it’s not even a paying concern.”

  “I’m not sure that I want to buy it,” explained The Counsellor. “But what I did want to do was to prevent this gang disposing of the company without consulting Miss Treverton, who’s the principal shareholder now. She wasn’t at the meeting, of course. And these fellows were calmly preparing to sell out on terms that would have involved her in a heavy loss. So I nipped in with my offer and held up the whole affair for a month or so. That gives her time to reappear and look after her rights—if she ever does reappear,” he added sombrely.

  “And so they tried to knock you out?” said Standish incredulously. “It doesn’t sound likely. In fact, it makes bosh to me. Who’s going to commit murder for the sake of a derelict company? You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mark.”

  “May be. But if it’s not that, then why try to knock me out at all?”

  “Perhaps because you’ve interested yourself in Miss Treverton,” suggested Sandra.

  “But it was Whitgift—one of the crew—who dragged me in at the start,” objected The Counsellor. “That won’t fit, Sandra. No, this is it, as I see it. Somebody is very anxious to get control of that company. Now it’s not because the thing’s a little gold mine. Even at the very best under energetic management, it won’t pay anything remarkable in the way of dividends. So I believe, anyhow. And yet somebody wants it badly. Why?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Standish.

  “I shan’t. I’ll tell you, instead. As a straight proposition, the thing’s a poor affair. But suppose you bent it a bit? Turned it into a crooked concern. And suppose that crookery made it a gold mine. Here’s a notion. I don’t say it’s true, but it might fit the case. Sandra told us these Ravenscourt Press reproductions were the best on the market. I’ve examined one of them, pretty carefully. Short of a close and careful scrutiny, you couldn’t tell them from the originals. Now most of their work is in the reproduction of rather out-of-the-way pictures, the lesser-known good stuff. They generally keep off the beaten track. That means they go to private collections to do their photographing, mainly.”

  “That’s true enough,” Sandra confirmed.

  “I had it from Treverton himself. Well, then. Suppose I’m the company’s photographer. I go by permission to a private collection and I see a nice little picture, worth a fair amount, hung well up out of range for close inspection. I ask to have it brought down and I photograph it for reproduction. The reproduction’s made, and care’s taken to make it absolutely like the original in every way, even to the canvas foundation. Then I say: ‘Sorry! This hasn’t been a success. Mind if we photograph it again and have a second shot?’ The owner’s not likely to object, since he’s already given permission for the reproduction. So down I go again, and by hook or crook I substitute my reproduction for the original and take the original away with me. The reproduction’s hung up again, and it’s a hundred to one that any specialist will turn up in the next few years wanting to see that picture particularly. Who else is going to give it attention? Nobody, so far as I can see. And meanwhile I can sell the original on the quiet to some collector who’s prepared to ask no awkward questions. At the worst, what I sell him is an unknown replica.”

  “Devilish ingenious,” Standish admitted. “But could it be done?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out,” retorted The Counsellor. “All we need do is to make a list of these reproductions and send a real expert down to look at the pictures in the collections. That can easily be fixed up to look innocent enough. You’re writing a book on the subject, Sandra, if we happen to need you as an excuse. And if we find one wrong ’un amongst them, then we’ll know why somebody’s so eager to get hold of this company—which controls that particular method of reproduction, with its faked canvas and all the rest of it.”

  “Might be something in that,” admitted Standish, judicially. “Go on.”

  “I may be wrong in details,” The Counsellor confessed frankly, “but it needs some scheme of that sort in the background to account for the three things we know about: the girl’s disappearance, Treverton’s death and the attempt on me. The girl’s removal served a double purpose. First, it left Treverton alone at Longstoke House at night except for the servants, who have orders not to disturb him in the evenings. That made it easier to contrive his removal since his body had to be transferred from the office to the garage without anyone seeing what was being done. Second, after Treverton’s death, Miss Treverton was the only shareholder big enough to outvote the others combined, so by removing her they made sure they could carry through this sale which they seem so keen on. Treverton was killed, obviously, because he would never voluntarily have allowed control to go out of his hands. And they tried to knock me out because I threatened their scheme by making an offer for the company.”

  “You’re assuming Treverton was honest,” objected Standish. “It’s on the cards that he wasn’t. He may have had a hand in the substitution game all along, for all you know. In that case, they must have done him in simply to concentrate the winnings in fewer hands.”

  “My impression was that he was honest,” declared The Counsellor. “In fact, I thought he had a bee in his bonnet about the honest side of the concern; and that would have been quite unnecessary if he’d been drawing illicit profits.”

  “Except that he may have taken a pride in his work,” commented Standish, “whether he was running a side-line or not. But go on with your yarn, Mark. You haven’t told us what happened after you got away safely.”

  “I’m not sure I did the right thing,” The Counsellor confessed rather dubiously. “But I wasn’t in a good state for clear thinking, you know. And I was damned mad with the swine who tried to knock me out. So I stopped the car in Grendon St. Giles and had a chat with Inspector Pagnell. In fact, feeling so rotten, I brought him along to town with me, because I couldn’t hang about there any longer. I wanted to get home and see my doctor as soon as I could. So I gave Pagnell all the news I had and then packed him back to Grendon St. Giles under Picton’s care. An hour or two of delay didn’t matter much; for I’m sure all their murder-plant was cleared away even before I recovered consciousness, so there would have been nothing for Pagnell to find, even if he’d gone straight up to Longstoke House as soon as I reported to him. They could dismantle the whole cabo
odle in a couple of minutes. I didn’t think it worth while to go to the garage myself, before leaving, because I was sure there’d be nothing to see by that time.”

  “If you had,” suggested Sandra, “most likely they’d have knocked you on the head, or something, and told Picton that you’d had another fit.”

  “Quite likely, being the resourceful coves they seem to be,” The Counsellor agreed. “But to continue. Pagnell rang me up this morning to report progress. He and a couple of constables went up to Longstoke House during the night, and had a good look round the garage. Pagnell doesn’t seem to mind a little technical burglary in the cause of justice. Everything was ship-shape by that time, of course. The old hose was back amongst the other odds and ends and the acetylene gas reservoir was empty. Nothing left to show what game had been played—except one point. The petrol tank of Treverton’s old car was a quarter full. Now, if you remember, Pagnell examined that tank after Treverton’s death; and then it was bone-dry because the engine had gone on working until the petrol ran short, that time. So someone must have put more petrol into it in preparation for doing me in. That gives independent corroboration to Picton’s evidence about finding the radiator hot when I sent him to the garage.”

  “Useful enough,” commented Standish.

  “Next morning, bright and early, Pagnell dropped in on Albury at his place in Grendon St. Giles and asked a few questions. Albury had his tale pat. Someone had rung him up on the ’phone while he was talking to me the night before. The sad news was that a fire had broken out in his lodgings in the village, and would he please go along at once. What he could have done in the matter, I don’t know. But by his tale, he had some valuable chemicals at his digs., and off he bolted at once to rescue his lares and penates, without bothering to let me know. He got down to the village and it didn’t take him long to learn that the ’phone call had been a hoax. There was no fire in sight when he got to his digs. Seeing that, or rather not seeing that, he didn’t bother to go in, nor did he bother to ask any questions. He remembered that he’d left me in the air, waiting for him. So he came back and found I’d just left; and he learned about my fit.

  “Pagnell asked him if anyone had seen him in the village. He didn’t think so. He’d just walked to the corner of his street, looked along at his digs., seen no sign of any fire, and tumbled to it that he’d been hoaxed. So he says. Pagnell asked who would want to hoax him, whereupon he said something about doing some business with me which it might pay somebody to interrupt. Pagnell checked up the times, and Albury’s story might have been true, assuming that he’d walked both ways. Apparently he doesn’t use a car to get from his digs. to Longstoke House and back. There’s a bus service that suits him. But of course there wasn’t a bus handy to take him that night. It was the wrong time. So he tramped it, by his account. He could hardly have borrowed Whitgift’s car, considering the terms they were on.”

  “So, as far as that goes, he may never have left the Longstoke House grounds?” queried Standish.

  “So far as that goes,” agreed The Counsellor.

  “So any of the gang may have been responsible for trying to do you in?”

  “So far as I can see, yes.”

  “What are you going to do next?” demanded Sandra. “You can’t let that sort of thing go on. So long as you leave that offer of yours standing, there’s a motive for getting rid of you, Mark. You must write at once and withdraw it. At once. Then they’ll have no reason for doing any more against you. Dictate it now, and I’ll see it goes off by the next post. Or will you wire?”

  A glance at The Counsellor showed her that she was wasting her breath. That obstinate lower jaw had come forward, and both she and Standish knew the symptom only too well.

  “Withdraw it?” asked The Counsellor contemptuously. “And let them play Old Harry with Helen Treverton’s affairs? If that’s your idea of knight-errantry, Tennyson could have learned a lot from you, Sandra. I’m not worrying about my own safety.”

  He took his hand from his jacket pocket and put a wicked-looking automatic on the table. Among other curious accomplishments, accurate pistol-shooting was one of The Counsellor’s attainments.

  “No,” he went on, in an anxious tone, “I can look after myself. But I am damnably worried about that girl. She’s probably dead by this time; they don’t seem to stick at much. But there’s an off-chance that she’s still above ground and we’ve got to act on that basis. And no one seems to have the foggiest notion what’s become of her. Our friend Querrin has been combing that place on the chance of a clue, but so far he’s picked up nothing. But she’s got to be found, if she’s alive; and quick, too, though I’m not a bit hopeful. They’re an ingenious crew. . . .”

  He broke off and pondered for a full minute.

  “How the devil did they get her away at the start? That’s what beats me.”

  “Stopped her car and held her up,” suggested Standish.

  The Counsellor shook his head impatiently.

  “Would any girl, alone in a car, stop for anyone? After all these hold-ups on the road? Not if she’d any sense.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t, myself,” Sandra admitted.

  “They may have faked an accident,” suggested Standish. “Poor injured man in the ditch and frantic friend yelling for help.”

  “May be,” conceded The Counsellor. “But it might not have come off. And my impression of these people is that they’d want to make a sure thing of it with no chance of any hitch. Your idea doesn’t allow for the probability that she wouldn’t waste time in stopping but would drive straight on, hell-for-leather, to fetch assistance as soon as she could.”

  “Well, that’s all a minor issue,” Standish pointed out. “Question is, what do you propose to do now?”

  “I’ve settled that already,” declared The Counsellor rather unexpectedly. “‘That which hath wings shall tell the matter.’ Ecclesiastes wrote that.”

  “Did he so?” retorted Standish. “Then I wish he’d taken pains to be a bit clearer. It means nothing to me.”

  “Candour for candour,” said The Counsellor. “And seeing it’s only you, Wolf, I don’t mind admitting I’ve been kicking myself for a fool because I didn’t think of it sooner. Homer nods at times, and even I myself have my dull moments. But not so dull as yours, when you set about it. You have me there.”

  “It sounds like English,” said Standish in mock perplexity. “Shakespeare used those very words, every one of ’em. But they made sense when he used them. When you use them, Mark, they sound just like an unnecessary noise. Try ’em in a different order, or something, will you?”

  “Carpe diem. See Horace,” replied The Counsellor, rather obscurely. “‘Now’s the time and now’s the hour’ for me to revisit Grendon St. Giles. Friends will please accept this, the only, intimation.”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t make jokes like that, Mark,” protested Sandra uneasily. “They don’t sound nice. I don’t like to think of you going back to that place after what happened to you yesterday. Why can’t you leave it to the police?”

  The Counsellor shook his head firmly, picked up his pistol from the desk and replaced it in his pocket.

  Chapter Fifteen

  That Which Hath Wings

  THOUGH The Counsellor had made a show of confidence in his new idea when speaking to Sandra and Standish, he frankly admitted in his own mind that it was a long shot and might well miss the target completely. Still, anything was worth trying, he reflected as he drove down to Grendon St. Giles. Before leaving London, he had rung up Pagnell to say that he was coming; and the inspector was there to greet him when he reached the police station.

  “I hope you’re none the worse for that business yesterday, sir,” he began. “You look all right.”

  “Quite O.K.,” The Counsellor confirmed. “Now look here, Inspector. Considering my sufferings and all that, I think I’m entitled to take a hand in the game on your side. If we pool our information, we’re likely to get ahead quicker
than by operating independently. And, whether you take me in or not, I’m out to get square with whoever played that trick on me last night. It’s only human nature. Is there any way of giving me some legal status? Special constable, or something of the sort?”

  Pagnell rubbed the side of his nose with a doubtful air.

  “A bit difficult, sir. Being an inspector, I could make a requisition to have you appointed under the Special Constables Order of 1923. But the actual appointment lies with two of our local Justices of the Peace. And if I got them persuaded about it, then notice of the thing has to go to the Secretary of State and the Lord Lieutenant of the County. It would be difficult. . . .”

  “Not worth the bother, eh? I quite agree. All I wanted was the advantage of an official status if I have to question people. I’ll just have to rely on my charm of manner to wile news out of ’em. But I suppose that if I fail, I can drop you a hint and then you can apply the official thumbscrews to the patient.”

  “Well, I think it would be better, so, sir,” Pagnell confirmed, not without grasping the fact that this placed him in a much stronger position vis-à-vis his volunteer colleague. “Besides, it’ll perhaps be handy to have you nosing out things unofficially in some cases.”

  “Obviously,” agreed The Counsellor, rather too heartily for the inspector’s taste. “Well, let’s begin immediately. You remember telling me a while ago that there was some sort of a Fair held in Byward’s Field, close to Little Salten village? That Fair was running on the day Miss Treverton disappeared, wasn’t it?”