The Polo Ground Mystery Page 16

  “I’m not the least bit ashamed of it, either. I don’t want to be a hero to any smelly rabble,” said Houseley.

  “Love is the devil’s own advocate to the lover, but his pleadings don’t sound so irresistible in a court of law,” remarked Vereker quietly.

  “Unfortunately there’s something in what you say,” replied Houseley reflectively, and in a more amiable mood. “But, to get to business, what exactly do you want to know?”

  “On Wednesday evening you returned to town after rather an unfortunate contretemps near Wild Duck Wood,” commenced Vereker relentlessly.

  “Who the devil told you that? Can Angela have been so damnably foolish?” exclaimed Houseley, with unconcealed alarm.

  “You needn’t blame Mrs. Armadale for being indiscreet. We knew all about the reason for your sudden return to town, Mr. Houseley, not long after we commenced our investigations. To put it very bluntly, you, a guest, were making love to your host’s wife. He had caught you in an unguarded moment kissing her. You must have felt most uncomfortable and, I should say, rather small. I presume there were explanations and that you decided it was politic to return to town at once.”

  Mr. Stanley Houseley looked up at Vereker with a sense of growing uneasiness. At that moment the meticulous care of police methods and their comprehensive range gave him the sensation of being helplessly at the mercy of the law.

  “I returned to town immediately after that unfortunate contretemps, as you choose to call it,” he said sullenly.

  “Shortly after two o’clock your car, a Rover Meteor, was seen by a Nuthill mechanic, who was returning home from Godstone, not very far from the entrance gates to this house,” continued Vereker.

  “That’s so. I was there.”

  “I imagine you returned to town after your brief interview with Mrs. Armadale.”

  “How do you know Angela was there?” asked Houseley, with another start of surprise.

  “She was seen talking to you. Everybody in this district knows Mrs. Armadale, I should say. When she left you to return to the house, you motored back to town by Godstone, Catherham, and Purley?”

  “Yes, I took that road.”

  “The distance from here is, say, twenty-five miles, roughly. At what time did you arrive in town?”

  At this question all Mr. Houseley’s truculence returned. Turning sharply to Vereker, he said brusquely:

  “I don’t feel disposed to discuss that matter at the moment. If it’s necessary for me to answer such a question later, say in a court of law, I’m prepared to do so. It’s very easy to be tripped up by some clever counsel browbeating you on the subject of times. I’m not going to make inadvertent slips in such an important matter. Men have been hanged before now through trifling discrepancies in their statements of times.”

  “Of course you’re not compelled to answer any questions put by me, Mr. Houseley. In this matter, I’m only doing all I can to help Mr. Ralli and Mrs. Armadale.”

  “I’m rather dubious of the nature of the help you offer. It’s an old detective confidence trick. I’m not such a damned fool as I look.”

  “Possibly not,” remarked Vereker, smiling at the doubtful nature of the compliment. “In any case you’d be home in an hour unless you had a breakdown.”

  “Why not admit that the police know all about it? You probably know from a garage proprietor in Purley that I left my car there to be overhauled.”

  “Well, Mr. Houseley, you must admit that the police are not such fools as they look.”

  “They’re just too damned clever by half. This bally country is police-ridden. In another ten years it’ll be as bad as Germany,” remarked Houseley bitterly.

  “That’s more than likely, considering the unchecked increase of crimes of violence,” said Vereker in a friendlier tone, and asked, “Did you know Mr. Armadale well?”

  “I knew him less than I liked him—an atrocious bounder always! He couldn’t even die like a gentleman.”

  “He was a very keen sportsman, I believe,” suggested Vereker mischievously.

  “A what, did you say? Sportsman? Great Scott! He didn’t know the difference between a horse’s withers and its gaskins, and for a long time thought a horse’s frog was a euphemism for something unmentionable. At a meet he would coffee-house till the last minute, during a draw he’d chatter like a magpie, and he was the best man at overriding hounds I’ve ever met! Have you seen his mare, Proserpine?”

  “No,” said Vereker, pleased that he had turned the conversation into a congenial channel.

  “Well, Armadale fancied himself at times as a judge of horseflesh. He bought Proserpine. All I can say is, see her and die in agony. I’m sure a well-bred pack would turn up their noses at her as meat.”

  “Still, you must admit he was a first-class shot,” continued Vereker complacently.

  “Who told you that? My hat! But I mustn’t let myself go. De mortuis—”

  “I thought it was generally admitted that there were few finer shots with an automatic pistol,” suggested Vereker.

  “Sorry. I took you up wrong,” said Houseley. “That’s quite possible. It’s a crook’s weapon.”

  “Have you ever handled one, Mr. Houseley? I don’t know much about them.”

  “Oh, well, yes, I’ve done quite a lot of shooting with automatics. Some years ago we used to frequent a shooting-range between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus. I forget the name of the street, but it was quite handy to our club. For a time it was quite the rage among the younger members to challenge one another to shoot for a fiver. I used to win quite a lot of money at it. Just a lark to pass the time, you know. You can’t dignify pistol practice with the name of sport.”

  “Do you think it possible that Mr. Armadale committed suicide?” asked Vereker suddenly.

  “I’ve thought that from the very first,” said Houseley, with conviction. “I don’t think I’m letting out a secret to you when I tell you that Angela was going to divorce him. He knew it would hold up his scandalous behaviour with this unspeakable little Belgian cabaret girl, or whatever she likes to call herself, to the public eye, and he simply refused to take the fence.”

  “You were always very friendly with him?”

  “I put up with him for Angela’s sake. We were polite rather than cordial—until Wednesday evening. Then I gave him a bit of my mind, and I didn’t mince matters, I can assure you.”

  “You’re a friend of Captain Fanshaugh’s, I believe?”

  “Oh, yes, ‘Fruity’ and I have always got on well together. He’s a white man—fine horseman, good shot, good polo player, and a gentleman. I like him very much, though he’s inclined to measure everything with a ‘jobbing’ spear, if you know what I mean.”

  “You don’t like Miss Cazas?”

  “I can’t stand her. Thinks herself the deuce of a success, mark you. Fanshaugh told me that she made them all laugh till they cried mimicking me on Wednesday night. Guttersnipe kind of humour I call it. She often mimics her mother walking to raise a laugh. Could low-bred vulgarity go further? She’s pretty enough in a common kind of way, but has a price ticket tied to her charms. Young Winter introduced her into the Armadale circle. He’s only a youngster and may be forgiven for running riot before having had blood. Angela didn’t object, for subtle reasons of her own, but Armadale’s choice of friends was notorious. He had a predilection for anyone who looked as if he had come up a drain-pipe.”

  For some moments both men were silent, and then Angela Armadale stepped out on to the solarium, accompanied by Ralli.

  “Stanley, it’s nearly twelve o’clock. I think we ought to get a move on,” she said. “I’m quite ready, so come and start up your car.”

  “Right-o, dear,” replied Houseley, and rose from his chair.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the departure of Houseley and Mrs. Armadale, Ralli took Vereker by the arm and led him into the drawing-room.

  “Well, what do you think of old ‘Hell-for-leather’?” he asked
.

  “I haven’t quite made up my mind. Opinionated, with a turn for rudeness at unexpected moments. Not too subtle at first glance, but possesses a lot of native cunning. Thinks a sporting vocabulary sets ‘the guinea stamp,’ and certainly eats too much. Plenty of pluck and determination and very single-minded. A supporter of Church, State, and the Distilling Industry!”

  “He annoys me,” said Ralli, “with his confounded assurance on every subject under the sun. Dawn of intelligence with finality in words. Did he start on the worn-out topic of motor-cars being used as covert hacks?”

  “No. I led him fairly well along the line I wished until I mentioned sport, and then I let him have his head.”

  “I bet he bolted! Poor Angela, I wonder how she’ll get on with him. He’s so glossily polite, and women only love politeness as they do chocolates—to be eaten with the latest from Mudie’s; if it interferes with the passional life, it’s an impertinent irrelevancy. Still, Stanley’s not a bad sort on the whole. Let’s forget him. I’ve some information that may be of use to you.”

  At once Vereker grew alert.

  “I’m glad you’re taking an interest in the game. What’s the news?” he asked.

  Ralli pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and, picking out one of them, held it up for Vereker’s inspection.

  “You see that key? It’s a key which Sutton always kept on this bunch, and used for letting himself in and out by the door near the gun-room. After you’d gone yesterday, I happened to be passing that door and suddenly decided to enter the house by it. You can imagine my surprise when I found the key was no longer on the bunch.”

  “Was it there when you took charge of the bunch?”

  “It couldn’t have been; the bunch hasn’t been out of my hands since I took charge of it.”

  “How did it return?”

  “Dunkerley brought it to me this morning. One of the housemaids had picked it up when cleaning out Captain Fanshaugh’s room the other day.”

  “Whereabouts in the room was it?”

  “Under the bed.”

  “That’s certainly remarkable, Ralli! Perhaps Fanshaugh borrowed the key from Sutton for some purpose or other.”

  “Most improbable. But, if he had, why didn’t he return it to me?”

  “Let me have the key,” said Vereker, “and don’t say a word to anyone about it on any account. It may mean nothing at all, and it may mean the devil of a lot. Is there only one other key to that door?”

  “Yes, and Dunkerley has it. I asked him about it when he returned this one.”

  Taking the key from Ralli and slipping it on his own key-ring, Vereker rose and took his leave. He was eager to see Inspector Heather, and hoped to catch him before he left the “Silver Pear Tree” on his day’s work. On his arrival at the inn, however, the detective was out. Inquiry elicited that he had set out after an early breakfast and had not yet returned. He was expected back to lunch at one. There was nothing to do but wait, and Vereker went up to his room, where he poured himself out a whisky and soda and settled himself in an easy-chair. His mind was full of his morning’s experiences, and his thoughts at once reverted to his interview with Mrs. Armadale. Her shining beauty disposed his susceptible nature in her favour, but there were one or two facts that had emerged from their conversation which were an interesting disclosure. That she could be coldly calculating to attain her ends was revealed by her allowing to go unchecked a friendliness between Sutton Armadale and Miss Edmée Cazas until it had ripened into a guilty liaison. Her attitude to a strict rectitude of conduct even in an unhappy marriage had been shown by her seeking divorce as the only escape from the spiritual disgust attendant on such a union. She was without doubt free from any mercenary taint and seemed to possess a warm and generous heart. Yet there was at the core of her nature something frozen, some gelid area which had never thawed under the glorious flame of a natural passion. Even of the man who had married her, she had admitted that the fascination he exercised was tempered by the peculiarity that his “nose grew hair.” She was one of those who look at the theatrical scenery of life too closely.

  From Angela Armadale, Vereker’s thoughts moved by a natural transition to Stanley Houseley. He was a type, and not an uncommon type, whose opinions are formed for him by his “set.” These opinions solidify into unshakable convictions in early manhood and obviate the pain of further thinking. The set has a code of behaviour which is inviolate and, after all criticism, offers a workable philosophy of life for minds that find abstractions intolerable. And the best of them, thought Vereker, cannot be bettered anywhere.

  The arrival of Inspector Heather cut short his reverie. The police officer was all bustle and cheerfulness, which was a sure indication that he had struck an exciting trail.

  “There’s a sprightliness in the step, Heather,” said Vereker, on seeing him, “a movement from the fantastic toe to the more fantastic buttock which tells me that things are going well. I know the meaning of that choreographic grace, and the fluttering of your moustache drives me to extempore poetical composition:

  ‘And that cornuted hair you call moustache,

  Which hides your mouth—or is it just a gash?

  When coy cooks say it gives your kissing savour,

  You, foolish, think they’re working up a ‘pash’

  For you or for constabulary cash,

  When all the time it’s for a beery flavour!

  Help yourself to a Scotch, and report.”

  “Nothing definite, Mr. Vereker, but a general advance. We’ve got on the track of Mr. Jonathan Portwine, and I shall run up to London first thing tomorrow and listen to what he has got to say for himself. There’s the inquest in the afternoon, which will simply be adjourned, but which I must attend. Peach has returned from his quest for a job, and his general demeanour shows he’s in a very ugly mood. We’re hot on the footsteps of Mr. Raoul Vernet. The yeast begins to work!”

  “But, as a foreigner resident here, isn’t Vernet registered?” asked Vereker.

  “He’s a bird of passage like many Continental criminals. They manage to land in England by a day excursion, get lost, and return to the Continent in the same way at a later date.”

  “Where did you find Portwine?”

  “In Limehouse. In a boarding-house ‘where sailor men reside and where are men from all the ports from Mississip to Clyde,’ as Mr. Kipling puts it, or in words to that effect.”

  “Heather, I feel sure you’ll spend your retirement writing verse—instead of reminiscences. Sonnets from Scotland Yard, eh?”

  “I think ‘Heather Honey’ would be more poetical,” replied the inspector, with ludicrous gravity, “but we’re anticipating. Any news from your front?”

  “Wait a minute. Have you traced that automatic?”

  “The answer’s in the negative, but I’ve an idea we’ll lay hands on it yet.”

  “More anticipating! Have you found out who Gastinne Renette is?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vereker, a very famous gunsmith in Paris!” replied the inspector, and burst into hearty laughter. “I’m sure Mr. Gastinne Renette is not the man we want.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Vereker, with disappointment. “Never mind, it’s only another refractory piece that didn’t fit into the picture puzzle. I must pin my faith to Raoul Vernet as a suitable alternative. He’s known to the Sûreté, I suppose?”

  “They’ve an idea who the gentleman is. He’s not French but a Belgian, and hails from Louvain. We shall probably hear more of him later. He was a jeweller’s assistant who turned crook, and is an expert on pearls!”

  “That looks promising, Heather,” said Vereker, with enthusiasm.

  “In connection with Portwine it’s a good line, because Vernet is very friendly with seamen of many nationalities. He’s a ‘man of infinite resource and sagacity,’ as some one has said.”

  “Your pal Kipling again, Heather, if I’m not mistaken. Still, I’m going to complicate matters now. Did you get the number of t
hat Rover Meteor, which you located on the Nuthill road on Thursday morning?”

  “Yes. That car is still in a garage in Purley and belongs to Mr. Stanley Houseley. I shall call on him for a little explanation.”

  “It’s not in a garage in Purley now, Heather. It turned up at Vesey Manor with its owner and Mrs. Armadale this morning. I’ve seen them both.”

  “And had polite conversation. What fruit?”

  “He was on the Nuthill road at two o’clock on Thursday morning for the purpose of an elopement with his lady-love. I should like to elope with her myself, but let that pass. The lady changed her plans at the last minute because she had to interview her solicitor next morning about divorce proceedings against her husband.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Heather. “That’s news, if you like.”

  “One moment, inspector. Mr. Houseley said goodbye and went back to town.”

  “What time did he get back?” asked Heather.

  “Eight o’clock—six hours to cover twenty-five miles. There’s something about that which requires explanation. I tried to get one from Mr. Houseley, but he suddenly grew truculent, though he indirectly admitted he’d had a breakdown.”

  “Of course the breakdown may have been faked. On the other hand, he may be telling the truth, especially if he’s one of those owner-drivers who boast they’re born motorists and drive by instinct.”

  “Another point, Heather. This Mr. Houseley knows a good deal about automatic pistols, and in his younger days was, as he admits himself, a very fair shot!”

  “The devil he was! But no, Mr. Vereker, I can’t feel that you’re on the right track.”

  “On the contrary, I’m certain I’m somewhere near it. By a process of elimination, I hope I shall get there. Again, there’s the clue of that side door of the manor, near the gun-room, which Frederick is positive he bolted securely on Wednesday night. An incident has happened in connection with the key of that door which is mysterious, to say the least of it. When Mr. Ralli looked for that key on his bunch yesterday, he found to his surprise that it wasn’t there, and he’s convinced it hasn’t been on the bunch since that bunch came into his charge. It was found on Thursday, the day of the murder, under the bed in the room which Captain Fanshaugh occupied on Wednesday night.”