The Counsellor Page 20

  “It was,” the inspector confirmed, after a moment’s reflection. “Are you connecting the two?”

  “There was a circus, wasn’t there? And a lot of sideshows?” pursued The Counsellor, omitting to answer the question. “Vans, and caravans, and all that sort of thing?”

  “That’s so,” said Pagnell. “I think I see what you’re driving at, sir. One could hide a girl in one of these vans and whisk her off without anybody knowing. There’s perhaps something in that.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed The Counsellor. “Worth looking into? Well, I want to get in touch with a man who might have seen something. You mentioned something about an old plane that somebody brought over to give the citizenry a chance of growing air-minded at five bob a hop. What was the fellow’s name?”

  “That’s an idea!” ejaculated Pagnell with some enthusiasm. “Now I never thought of that. Of course, being up in the air, he’d be able to see a lot that people on the ground might not notice. Some of these vans were parked off by themselves, away from the shows, and a girl might have been hustled into one of them without the crowd guessing anything out of the common was going on. The steam organ of the roundabout made enough row to drown any small disturbance. But from the air, a man might notice it. . . .”

  “And think the girl was drunk, eh? So he’d never mention it except by chance, afterwards. Now where’s this fellow to be found? What’s his name?”

  “On his hand-bills, he’s The Great Foscari,” explained the inspector. “Real name: Nat Rabbit. As to where he’s to be found, that’s not difficult, sir. As it happens, he’s sparking one of the girls in the village, and he comes here whenever he’s not doing his show at some fair or other. He’s in the village to-day; I saw him in the street this morning. I’ll just come along with you. . . .”

  “No, you won’t,” said The Counsellor with so much firmness that the inspector glanced at him in surprise. “Unofficial interviews first, Inspector, if you please. Then you can go along with the thumb screws if you like. If you butt in at the start, he may think you’re after him for something and shut up. And if he does, you’ve no power to make him unlock his jaw. Let me try my hand first of all. What’s his address?”

  Pagnell was quick enough to see the soundness of The Counsellor’s reasoning, and he gave way with as much good grace as he could.

  “I see your point, sir. But of course it’s understood that you tell me anything you find out? Otherwise. . . .”

  “I never let a friend down,” retorted The Counsellor with some asperity. “You’ll hear all there is to hear. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Oh, well, in that case. . . . He’s lodging with old Mrs. Trout in Malkin Lane. It’s the third turn on the right, as you go out of the station door, sir. The cottage is on the right-hand side as you go down the lane; and it’s got a little wooden porch, so you can’t mistake it.”

  At Mrs. Trout’s, The Counsellor had a further stroke of luck, as he found Ned Rabbit in the cottage. Rabbit proved to be a tight-lipped man with eyes set just a shade too closely together; and The Counsellor’s knowledge of humanity suggested that any information would probably have to be paid for. Mr. Rabbit looked the sort of person who would give nothing for nothing, and be glad to do so.

  “I’m told you were giving a flying exhibition at Little Salten about a fortnight ago,” The Counsellor began.

  Ned Rabbit nodded curtly without opening his mouth, but his eyes searched The Counsellor’s features suspiciously.

  “Remember anything about the passengers you took up?” queried The Counsellor.

  Rabbit pondered over this before replying, as if he suspected some hidden trap.

  “I might, if I was pushed,” he admitted, while his face asked, as plainly as print, the subsidiary question: “What is there in it for me?”

  “Could you write down a list of them for the afternoon of Thursday?”

  “I might, if it was made worth my while.”

  “Call it a quid,” said The Counsellor, producing a note.

  “Not enough,” objected Rabbit.

  “Quite enough,” said The Counsellor firmly. He had no intention of acting as a gold-mine to Mr. Rabbit. “You charge a bob a minute for your flights. That’s twenty minutes worth in front of you. Get started, or the deal’s off.”

  Rabbit’s shrewd glance at The Counsellor’s face evidently convinced him that he was running a risk of losing the money.

  “All right,” he agreed. “Wait till I think of the names.”

  The Counsellor put a notebook and pencil on the table.

  “Your list will be checked up,” he said, casually, and was amused to see Rabbit’s face fall a little.

  Rabbit picked up the pencil and, with intervals for thought, produced a list of half-a-dozen names.

  “That’s all the lot I can think of,” he said when he had finished. “I took up more than that, but I didn’t know their names. These ones come from this place, so I knew them by headmark.”

  “Very good,” said The Counsellor, taking back his notebook.

  He reflected that Rabbit was apparently playing fair; and if more names were required, Radio Ardennes would probably elicit a further list if necessary.

  “You’re an experienced flier?” he went on. “That means you can look about while you’re up. Did you notice anything that struck you while you were in the air that afternoon?”

  “A bargain’s a bargain,” Rabbit pointed out with an avaricious grin. “You’ve had your quid’s worth. If you want more, you’ve got to pay more. Call it another quid, mister, and we won’t quarrel.”

  The Counsellor took out his notecase again and extracted a second note. He reflected that so long as Rabbit imagined he was getting the best of the deal, he would probably give honest information.

  “There you are,” he said. “Now did you notice anything that struck you?”

  “Sweet damn all,” retorted Rabbit, with a cackling laugh. “That’s six-and-eightpence a word, mister. Any more at the same rate?”

  The Counsellor took his defeat with a smile.

  “Oh, then, you’re no further use to me,” he said, picking up his hat. “I thought you might have been able to confirm something; but since you can’t, you can’t. My time’s valuable, like yours. Ta-ta.”

  “Here, hold on a mo’,” cried Rabbit, seeing his gold mine petering out. “Not so fast, you. Gimme some notion of what you’re after, and perhaps we’ll get to something. Make it another quid and I’ll do what I can for you.”

  The Counsellor smiled bleakly, having now got his man into the position towards which he had been manœuvring.

  “I trusted you to start with; now you trust me,” he explained. “Payment by results is the new scheme. Or else . . . nothing doing.”

  Rabbit took fright at the inflexibility of The Counsellor’s attitude.

  “Oh, all right, all right,” he assured Brand. “I see your point, mister, and I’m sure I can trust you to be straight over it. What is it you’re wanting to know?”

  “You could see over the fair-ground from the air?”

  “Except what was just below me.”

  “Notice anything in the way of horse-play going on at any time? Anybody being hustled, or anything of that sort?”

  “I did see a copper taking a drunk man off the field, once. Is that it?”

  “What time was that?

  “Search me! I saw it, that’s all I can remember.”

  “You could see the road between here and Little Salten, could you?”

  Rabbit nodded, his little eyes fixed on The Counsellor’s face as if trying to read there what information was required.

  “And the village here? And the grounds of Grendon Manor?”

  “Nothing much in the village; I wasn’t high enough. Nor in the Manor grounds, ’cause of the trees in them. I saw the Manor, of course.”

  “And the roads? Anything you remember on them? Much traffic on account of the Fair?”

  “No, not over much. Peop
le with cars don’t go to that kind of show, mister.”

  “And you noticed nothing on the roads? You must be damned unobservant,” commented The Counsellor, as though he himself already knew something.

  That little flick put Rabbit on his mettle, since he saw the chance of further largesse receding.

  “Hold on, mister, hold on!” he protested. “Gimme time to think. I’m trying to do the right thing by you. Lemme see, now.”

  He pondered for a few moments, evidently determined to dig out from his memory something which would justify a further claim. Then his face brightened.

  “Yes, now you jog me up, I do remember one thing,” he resumed. Once I saw a car coming along the road towards me, a . . . lemme think . . . yes, a browny car with the sunshine roof open. No good asking me the make. Looking down on it from up there I couldn’t see the shape of the bonnet. But it was browny-red or reddish-brown; reddish-brown comes nearest to it.”

  “Thrilling,” said The Counsellor, contemptuously. “That will come to about twopence, for value received.”

  “Ah, but hold on a bit, hold on a bit,” protested Rabbit, seeing The Counsellor’s hand stretch out to pick up his hat. “That’s not it all, mister. This car stopped and a girl got out of it. I remember it now. She got out and went to lift the bonnet. Something had gone wrong with the works. She hadn’t barely begun to fiddle, when she stopped. Then she put down the bonnet again and looked up and down the road. Just then along came one of old Radnor’s buses which had been behind the car a bit. You can’t mistake them, painted mustard and black like a wasp. The girl stepped out and signalled the bus to pull up. And then I had to turn and go back to the Fair ground as my passenger’s five bob’s-worth was up. So that was all I saw.”

  He glanced swiftly at The Counsellor, attempting to discover how much interest his tale had roused.

  “That’s nothing very exciting,” commented The Counsellor, hiding his acute interest completely. “And, even if it were, how do I know you’re not making this up? Where exactly did this car stop? Are you ready for that?”

  “I’m not making it up,” protested Rabbit, eagerly. “I’ll tell you just where it happened exactly. There’s a hayfield on the south side of the road there, and that car stopped almost dead in line with the hedge on the Little Salten side of the field. You know where the road goes off to Witton Underhill, mister? Well, that hayfield’s a bit nearer Grendon Manor and before you come to the road that leads off on the far side to join the Great North Road. I could take you to it, the very spot.”

  “You needn’t bother,” said The Counsellor, dampingly. “Did you see anything else? I mean something worth talking about?”

  Rabbit scratched his head despairingly, trying to recollect any further items of information.

  “There was some sort of a party going on at that house Fairlawns, now I remember,” he said at last. “Playing tennis in the garden, a lot of them. Seven or eight cars standing in the drive.”

  “What time did you see that?” demanded The Counsellor, with a show of eagerness.

  Rabbit shook his head despondently.

  “Any time in the afternoon. I can’t remember exactly when I was looking at them.”

  “See anything that struck you particularly,” demanded The Counsellor.

  “No, nothing much, except one couple hugging behind a bit of hedge. But that might happen to anyone,” he admitted glumly.

  “You didn’t recognise them?”

  “Not me.”

  The Counsellor fingered his notecase.

  “That’s worth not more than ten bob,” he said judicially.

  “Make it a quid, mister. Times are hard.”

  “It’s charity at that, but here you are.”

  “What d’you expect to get out of all that?” demanded Rabbit, as he stowed the note in his vest-pocket.

  “My charge is a quid per question answered,” said The Counsellor. “How many would you like to ask?”

  “None at that rate,” said Rabbit hastily. “I can stifle my curiosity.”

  “Then we’re finished? Very good. Bye-bye.”

  The Counsellor strolled back to the police station, deep in thought, with his eyes on the ground. Pagnell was waiting for him.

  “Got anything fresh, sir?” he inquired.

  “I think so,” returned The Counsellor, and he proceeded to keep his promise to the inspector by retailing the gist of what he had heard from Rabbit.

  “Now,” he concluded,” if you’ve got half an hour to spare, Inspector, come along with me and give me a hand in hunting for something.”

  Picton was waiting with the car outside the police station. The Counsellor invited Pagnell to get in.

  “Take the Little Salten road,” he instructed the chauffeur, “and slow down as soon as you pass that A.A. signpost: ‘To Witton Underhill.’ It’s about five miles on.”

  “What are you going to hunt for, sir?” inquired Pagnell as the car started. “I suppose you’re banking on it being Miss Treverton’s car that Rabbit saw stopping by the roadside that afternoon. But that’s a fortnight back, and more. Any tracks or things of that sort will have gone, long ago.”

  “I’m not bothering about tracks,” explained The Counsellor. “I’m looking for something more substantial. This is it, Inspector. I don’t know if I told you about it before, but when I found that car EZ 1113 dumped in Lochar Moss, I examined the petrol gauge. It showed the tank bung-full. But when we examined the tank itself, it was half empty. My acute brain at once inferred that the gauge was out of action—jammed at the point where it indicated a full tank. That little fact I pigeon-holed, because it seemed a bit queer. See it now?”

  “I can’t say I do, yet, sir,” Pagnell confessed.

  “Then go back to when Miss Treverton started out from Longstoke House that afternoon she disappeared. She gets into the car and switches on. The gauge shows that the tank’s full, if she bothers to look at it. If she doesn’t look at it, she must have had a pretty good idea that she’d enough petrol on board to take her to Fairlawns anyhow. But before she got more than four miles, the car stopped. Teste The Great Foscari, alias Nat Rabbit, who saw it stop and noticed the girl getting out. She opened the bonnet and probably looked at the carburettor. It was, I’m prepared to bet, bone dry.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Pagnell. “I think I see it, sir. You mean that somebody jammed her gauge and siphoned off all the petrol from her tank, just leaving enough to get her a mile or two along the road?”

  “That’s it, more or less,” The Counsellor admitted. “Now you see, Inspector, that covers one possible snag in the kidnapping business. It made dead sure that she couldn’t escape by jamming down her accelerator and driving away, as she would normally have done if anyone tried to hold her up. That was a point that puzzled me at first in the whole business.”

  “Still, I don’t see what you’re expecting to find, sir, after all this time.”

  “Try again, then. The car EZ 1113 didn’t stay by the roadside that afternoon. The next we hear of it is at St. Neot’s. It took in eight gallons of petrol at St. Neot’s, which means that its tank must have been pretty low when it got there. It’s just a bit over fifty miles from this stopping-place to St. Neot’s—say two gallons of petrol, roughly. Therefore, after the car EZ 1113 stopped on the road here with a bone-dry tank, somebody must have put in more petrol. And the amount put in must have been a couple of gallons, which is one tin. There’s no word in the later history of EZ 1113 about that empty petrol tin. Therefore—though it’s a long shot—I’m inclined to think that it was chucked away behind the hedge after the tank was replenished from it.”

  “I guess you may be right,” admitted the inspector. “She had no tin in the car when she started, and since they were trying to pretend that she had gone off with Querrin, they wouldn’t want to drag an unexplained tin about with them in case someone mentioned it. It seems sound. And so it’s this tin you’re going to look for?”

  �
��Yes. And as it might be an important bit of evidence, I’ve brought you along to find it or see it found. Well, there’s the A.A. signpost. Now we slow down and look for a hayfield on the left. It ought to be close by. . . . There it is. . . . A bit further on, Picton. . . . Pull up!”

  The car halted at the spot which Rabbit had described to The Counsellor, and all three got out.

  “If Rabbit’s description was all right—and it seems to have been—then that tin—if it exists—should be in behind one of these hedges,” said The Counsellor. “There’s not much cover on the hayfield side,” he commented, after glancing over the low hedge, “so we’ll try the other side of the road first.”

  It was Inspector Pagnell who eventually unearthed the empty tin in the middle of a thicket of nettles; and when he did so, he regarded The Counsellor with enhanced respect.

  “That was a good shot of yours, sir,” he confessed. “I never imagined there was any tin—except in your imagination. But here it is, sure enough, and quite empty, too.”

  He gave it a rap with his knuckles to confirm this.

  “And now, sir, what’s your idea of the next move?” he demanded, swinging the tin by its handle.

  “I forget the name of the man,” said The Counsellor. “Who is it that owns a fleet of buses about here? They’re painted like wasps.”

  “That’ll be Radnor’s buses,” said the inspector.

  “Radnor! That’s the man. The name slipped my memory for the moment,” The Counsellor confessed. “Well, I don’t think we can do better than look him up, if he’s to be found handy. Where does he hang out, Inspector?”

  “In Stoke Alderbrook, his headquarters are, sir. That’s about fifteen miles back on the road, past Grendon St. Giles.”

  “Well, we’ll pay him a state visit now. Hop aboard, Inspector. Don’t forget the exhibit. This time you can come along and give an air of respectability to the proceedings. But you’d better let me do the questioning.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Royal Defiance Express Service

  WHEN they reached Stoke Alderbrook, Pagnell directed Picton down the side street in which Radnor’s premises were situated. The establishment was larger than The Counsellor had expected. Along the façade of the garage ran a large inscription: THE ROYAL DEFIANCE EXPRESS SERVICE; and, in smaller lettering: H. Radnor, Proprietor. The proprietor, it seemed, was on the premises; and the inspector’s official status gained them immediate admittance to his office. H. Radnor proved to be a quiet, keen-faced man who regarded them rather distrustfully as they entered.