Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 22

  Armadale looked slightly flustered by this tribute to his perspicacity. He glanced suspiciously at the Chief Constable, but Sir Clinton’s face betrayed no ironical intention.

  “He may be pulling my leg again,” the Inspector reflected, “but at least it’s decent of him to go out of his way to say that. It’s true enough, but not exactly in the way that they’ll understand it.”

  “Marden had a very complete story to tell us. He’d come to the door of the museum with a parcel which Foss had sent him to post. He’d found the address was incomplete and came back to get Foss to finish it. He stayed outside the door and he heard a quarrel between Maurice and Foss, ending in a struggle. When he burst into the room, Maurice was disappearing at the other end and Foss was dead on the floor. Then Marden slipped on the parquet, fell against a show-case, cut his hand, and tied it up in his handkerchief. Then he gave the alarm.

  “The parcel with the incomplete address was the first thing that interested me. We opened it and we found in it a cheap wrist-watch in perfect condition, apparently. The Inspector tried it for finger-prints. There weren’t any of any sort, either on the watch or the box in which it was enclosed. That seemed a bit rum to us both.

  “The only thing that seemed to fit the case was this. Suppose Marden wanted to keep an eye on Foss. This parcel would give him the excuse of bursting in on his employer at any moment. Assume that Marden himself had made up the parcel and that Foss had nothing to do with it. It was wrapped up in paper on which the address was written. You know how one writes on a parcel—not the least like one’s normal handwriting if the paper is crumpled a bit in the wrapping-up. That would make a bit of rough forgery of Foss’s writing fairly easy. Further, if by any chance the parcel fell into the hands of the police—as actually happened—there was nothing inside to show that Foss hadn’t wrapped it up himself. Nobody else’s finger-marks were on it at all. It had been wrapped up with gloved hands. And the contents were innocent enough: only a watch being sent to a watch-maker to be regulated, perhaps. If it had been a letter, then to carry the thing through properly they’d have had to forge Foss’s writing all the way through, in order to make it look genuine if it happened to be opened.

  “But if that theory were adopted, a lot followed from it. First and foremost, it meant that Marden was the boss and his nominal employer was an underling in the gang, who would have to back up any story that Marden liked to tell. Secondly, it pointed to the fact that Marden didn’t trust Foss much. He wanted an excuse to get at Foss at any moment—which is hardly in the power of a simple valet. When he thought Foss needed watching, all he had to do was to trot up with his little parcel, just to let Foss see that he was under observation. Thirdly, this dodge was worked at a crucial stage in the game—when the replicas were being exchanged for the Leonardo medallions. Doesn’t that suggest that Marden didn’t trust Foss very much? It looks as if Marden was none too sure that he’d get a square deal from Foss once the real medallions had changed hands. Am I right in my guesses, Inspector?”

  “They didn’t trust Foss to play straight, sir. Brackley was quite open about that.”

  “And it was Brackley’s idea? The parcel, I mean. It looks as if it came from his mint.”

  “He said so, sir. Foss knew nothing about it, of course. It was a surprise for him. They knew he’d have to pretend he knew all about it when Marden brought it to him.”

  “That finishes the parcel,” Sir Clinton continued. “But it had suggested one or two things, as you see. The most important thing, from my point of view, was that this gang was not exactly a band of brothers. Two of them suspected the third. Possibly the split was even more extensive.

  “The next thing was the valet’s story. According to him, Maurice stabbed Foss, after a quarrel which Marden couldn’t overhear clearly. Unfortunately for that tale, the blow that killed Foss was a powerful one. What Marden didn’t know was that Maurice had sprained his wrist that morning. I doubt if a sprained wrist could have achieved that stab. There was no proof, of course; but it seemed just a little doubtful. Then Marden said that from the door he couldn’t catch the words of the quarrel, although the voices were angry in tone. I tried the experiment myself later; and it’s perfectly easy to overhear what’s said in the museum from the position Marden said he was in. So that was a deliberate lie. On that basis, one could eliminate most of Marden’s tale as being under suspicion.

  “What really happened in the museum? Maurice is gone, Foss is dead, Marden won’t tell. One has just to reconstruct the thing as plausibly as one can. My impression—it’s only conjecture—is this. Marden was listening at the door and he could see some parts of the room, since the door was ajar. Foss had succeeded in substituting one replica for a real medallion. To get Maurice’s eye off him, he asked to see the Muramasa sword. Maurice went to get it, leaving Foss at his rubbing—visible to Maurice all the time. Foss made the exchange of the second replica at that moment. Maurice came back with the Muramasa sword—and of course in doing that, he put his fingerprints on the handle in drawing the blade from the sheath. Marden, at the door, saw him do this and made a note of it. Just as Maurice came back to Foss, he was suddenly taken ill. He had the third real medallion in one hand; and as he passed Foss he picked up the two replicas—which he believed to be the other two real medallions. He went to the safe and hurriedly put on a shelf the two replicas; but the other medallion, in his other hand, he forgot all about. He shut the safe and staggered into the secret passage.”

  Inspector Armadale looked frankly incredulous.

  “Do people take ill all of a sudden like that?” he demanded. “Why should he want to rush off all at once?”

  Sir Clinton swung round on him.

  “Ever suffered from rheumatism, Inspector? Or neuralgia? Or toothache?”

  “No,” the Inspector replied with all the pride of perfect health. “I’ve never had rheumatism and I’ve never had a tooth go wrong in my life.”

  “No wonder you can’t understand, then,” Sir Clinton retorted. “Wait till you have neuralgia in the fifth nerve, Inspector. Then, if you don’t know yourself that you’re unfit for human society, your friends will tell you, soon enough. If you get a bad attack, it’s maddening—nothing less. Men have suicided on account of it often enough,” he added, with a meaning glance at Armadale.

  A light broke in on the Inspector’s mind.

  “So that was it? No wonder I couldn’t put two and two together!” he reflected to himself; but he made no audible comment.

  “Now we come to a mere leap in the dark,” Sir Clinton continued. “I believe that as soon as Maurice was out of the way, Marden went into the museum and demanded the medallions from Foss.”

  He put down his cigarette and leaned back in his chair. When he spoke again, a faint tinge of pity seemed to come into his voice.

  “Foss was a poor little creature, hardly better than a rabbit in the big jungle of crime. And the other two were something quite different: carnivores, beasts of prey. They’d picked him out simply on account of his one miserable talent: his little trick of legerdemain. He was only a tool, poor beggar, and he knew it. I expect that when he saw what sort of company he’d fallen into, he was terrified. That would account for the pistol he carried.

  “His only chance of a fair deal from them lay in the fact that he had the real medallions in his possession; and he meant to hold on to them. And when Marden demanded them, Foss revolted. It must have been like the revolt of a rabbit against a stoat. He hadn’t a chance. He pulled out his pistol, I expect; and when that appeared, Marden saw red.

  “But Marden, even in a fury, was a person with a very keen mind. Perhaps he’d thought the thing over beforehand. He was evidently one of these subhuman creatures with no respect for human life—the things they label Apaches in Paris. When the pistol came out he was ready for it. Foss, I’m sure, brandished the thing in an amateurish fashion—he wasn’t a gunman of any sort. Probably he imagined that the mere sight of the thing would bri
ng Marden to heel.

  “Marden had his handkerchief out at once. Probably he had it ready in his hand. He picked up the Muramasa sword, leaving no finger-marks of his own on it through the handkerchief. And . . . that was the end of Foss.”

  Sir Clinton leaned over, selected a fresh cigarette with a certain fastidiousness, and lighted it before going on with his tale.

  “That was the end of his feeble little attempt to get the better of his confederates. The money in his pocket-book didn’t give him the escape he’d hoped for. All his precautions to leave no clues to his real identity played straight into the hands of Marden and Brackley.

  “Marden’s immediate problem, once he’d come out of his fury, was difficult enough. I suspect that his first move was to search Foss and get the medallions out of his pockets. Then he was faced with the blood on his hands and on his handkerchief. He had his plan made almost in a moment. He went across, deliberately slipped—he was an artist in detail, evidently—smashed against the glass of one of the cases, cut his hand, and then he felt fairly secure. He wrapped up the wounds in his handkerchief—and there was the case complete to account for any stray blood anywhere on his clothes. He tried the safe, for fear Maurice was lurking inside; and then he gave the alarm.”

  Sir Clinton glanced inquiringly at the Inspector, but Armadale shook his head.

  “Brackley had nothing to say about all that, sir. Marden gave him no details.”

  “It’s mostly guess-work,” Sir Clinton warned his audience. “All that one can say for it is that it fits the facts fairly well.”

  “And is that brute in the house now?” Una Rainhill demanded. “I shan’t go to sleep if he is.”

  “Two constables were detached to arrest him,” Sir Clinton assured her. “He’s not on the premises, you may count on that.”

  Inspector Armadale’s face took on a wooden expression, the result of suppressing a sardonic smile.

  “Well, he does manage to tell the truth and convey a wrong impression with it,” he commented inwardly.

  “Now consider the state of affairs after the Foss murder,” Sir Clinton went on. “Marden and Brackley were in a pretty pickle, it seems to me. They had three medallions which Marden had got when he rifled Foss’s body. But they didn’t know what they’d got. They weren’t in the secret of the dots on the replicas. For all they knew—knew for certain, I mean—Foss might have bungled the affair and the things they had might be merely replicas. If so, they were no good. I can’t tell the difference between a medallion and an electrotype myself; but I believe an expert can tell you whether a thing’s been struck with a die or merely plated from a mould. These two scoundrels, I take it, weren’t experts. They couldn’t tell which brand of article they had in their hands.

  “There was only one thing to be done. They’d have to get the whole six things into their hands, and then they’d be sure of having the three medallions. So they fell back on their original scheme of plain burglary. That, I’m sure, had been their first plan. They’d sent their American confederate to see the safe a long while ago; and no doubt he’d reported that it was an old pattern. Hence the otophone, by means of which they could pick the combination lock. The otophone was still on the premises: I’d left it for them. But they were up against one thing.

  “I’d put a guard night and day on the museum. That blocked any attempt at burglary unless they were prepared to take the tremendous risk of manhandling the guard. If the door had merely been locked, I don’t think it would have given them much trouble. I’m pretty sure there’s a very good outfit of burglar’s tools mixed up with the tool-kit of the car, where it would attract no attention. But the guard was a difficulty in the way.”

  Without making it obvious to the others, Sir Clinton made it clear to Armadale that the next part of his story was meant specially for the Inspector.

  “I’ve given you the view I held of the case at that point. I felt fairly certain I was right. But if I’d been asked to put that case before a jury, I certainly would have backed out. It was mostly surmise: accurate enough, perhaps, but with far too little support. A jury—quite rightly—wants facts and not theories. Could one even convince them that the vanishing trick had been carried through as I believed it had? It would have been a bit of a gamble. And I don’t believe in that sort of gamble. I wanted the thing proved up to the hilt. And the best way to do that was to catch them actually at work.

  “There seemed to me just one weak point in the armour. I counted on a split between the two remaining confederates, if I could only get a wedge in somehow. I guessed, rightly or wrongly, that the Foss murder would strike the chauffeur as a blunder, and that there might be the makings of friction there. The chauffeur’s watching the museum under cover of the fake repair to the hood suggested that he mistrusted the others. I suspected that Marden might have stuck to the stuff he’d taken off Foss’s body. If Brackley hadn’t got his share of that swag, he’d be in a weak position. I gambled on that: everything to gain and nothing much to lose. I had the chauffeur up for examination again; and when I gave him an opening, he deliberately gave his friend away by letting me know he’d seen Marden and Foss together just before the murder. And when he did that, I blurted out to Inspector Armadale that the guards on the terrace and the museum door were to be discontinued. Brackley went off with those two bits of exclusive information. He didn’t tell them to Marden. He saw his way to make the balance even between himself and his confederate. If he kept his news to himself, he could burgle the museum safe; get the remainder of the six medallions; and then he’d be sure of getting his share of the profits. Neither of them could do without the other in that case.

  “In actual practice, Brackley went a stage farther than I’d anticipated. He schemed to get Marden’s loot as well as the stuff from the safe. I needn’t go into that side-issue.”

  Again Inspector Armadale suppressed his amusement at the way in which Sir Clinton chose to present the truth.

  “The rest of the tale’s short enough,” Sir Clinton went on. “Brackley determined to burgle the safe. If pursued, he decided, he’d repeat the vanishing trick on the terrace; for I’d convinced him, apparently, that the modus operandi of it was still unknown to us. Probably he went up there and satisfied himself that no one came near, after the patrol was taken off. He got himself up for the part: whitened his face; put on white tights; covered himself with Marden’s waterproof as a disguise and to conceal his fancy dress; put on a big black mask to hide the paint on his face, lest he should give the show away if an interruption came. And so he walked straight into the trap I’d laid for him.

  “We saw the whole show from start to finish. I even let Cecil and Mr Clifton into the business, so that we’d have some evidence apart from police witnesses. We saw the whole show from start to finish.”

  Sir Clinton broke off his story and glanced at his watch.

  “We’ve kept Inspector Armadale up to a most unconscionable hour,” he said, apologetically. “We really mustn’t detain him till sunrise. Before you go, Inspector, you might tell us if my solution fits the confession you got out of Brackley—in the later stages, I mean.”

  Inspector Armadale saw his dismissal and rose to his feet.

  “There’s really nothing in the confession that doesn’t tally, sir. Differences in detail, of course; but you were right in the main outlines of the affair.”

  Sir Clinton showed a faint satisfaction.

  “Well, it’s satisfactory enough to hear that. By the way, Inspector, you’d better take my car. It’s in the avenue still. Send a man up with it, please, when you’ve done with it. There’s no need for you to walk after a night like this.”

  Armadale thanked him; declined Cecil’s offer of another whisky-and-soda; and took his departure. When he had gone, Cecil threw a glance of inquiry at the Chief Constable.

  “Do you feel inclined to tell us what you made of my doings? I noticed that you didn’t drag them out in front of the Inspector.”

  Sir Cli
nton acquiesced in the suggestion.

  “I think that’s fairly plain sailing; but correct me if I go wrong. When you heard of Maurice’s disappearance, you saw that something was very far amiss. You had a fair idea where he might be, but you didn’t want to advertise the Ravensthorpe secrets. So you came back one night and went down there. I don’t know whether you were surprised or not when you found him; but in any case, you decided that there was no good giving the newspapers a titbit about secret passages. So you took him out into the glade by the other entrance to the tunnel; and then you came up to Ravensthorpe as though you’d come by the first train. The Inspector tripped you over that point, but it didn’t matter much. He doesn’t love you, though, I suspect. I’d no desire to make matters worse by interfering between you; for you seemed able to look after yourself. Wasn’t that the state of affairs?”

  “There or thereabouts,” Cecil admitted. “It seemed the best thing to do, in the circumstances.”

  Sir Clinton showed obvious distaste for discussing the matter further. He turned to the girls.

  “It’s high time you children were in bed. Dawn’s well up in the sky. You’ve had all the excitement you need, for the present; and a good sleep seems indicated.”

  He gave a faint imitation of a stifled yawn.

  “That sets me off,” said Una Rainhill, frankly. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. Come along, Joan. It’s quite bright outside and I’m not afraid to go to bed now.”

  Joan rubbed her eyes.

  “This sort of thing takes more out of one than twenty dances,” she admitted. “The beginning of the night was a bit too exciting for everyday use. How does one say ‘Good-night’ in proper form when the sun’s over the horizon? I give it up.”

  With a gesture of farewell, she made her way to the door, followed by Una. When they had disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil Chacewater.