The Polo Ground Mystery Read online

  Chapter Three

  Half-way between Vesey Manor and the little, old-fashioned market town of Nuthill there stands a country inn called the “Silver Pear Tree.” Somewhere in one of those interesting volumes published by the Surrey Archaeological Society on the history of that charming county there is a pleasing story about how this country inn acquired its fantastic name, but Vereker was too delighted with the name to trouble about its history. History, even when it falls back on legend for lack of fact, is inclined to be prosaic, and somehow Vereker was in a mood to accept the “Silver Pear Tree” as too good for investigation. He had been shown his room and ordered tea, which was to be served in what was called “Ye Olde Coffye Roome.” He was obliged to smile on seeing this title freshly painted on the glass panel of the door of that apartment. For a few moments he was lost in amused reverie, and then quietly opened the door and entered. To his surprise, he found “ye coffye roome” occupied. In the most comfortable chair, by an open window, through which drifted the warm, flower-scented air of the August afternoon, lounged a bulky figure. On his entry, the figure moved, two powerful arms shot out and were stretched in lazy ecstasy; a pair of large grey eyes under heavy, bushy eyebrows slowly opened and were questioningly turned on him. With an agility amazing in so cumbrous a bulk, the figure sprang instantly to its feet.

  “God bless my soul, Mr. Vereker!” came the exclamation.

  “And my soul, too, Inspector Heather!” returned Vereker, with genuine pleasure.

  “No need to ask you what brings you down here,” remarked the inspector.

  “Beauty, inspector, beauty! I sometimes come down into the country in search of it. Doesn’t my old friend, Ralph—I mean Emerson, of course—say ‘we ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its ends; which stands related to all things; which is—’”

  “Good beer,” interrupted the inspector hastily.

  “Agreed. To quit fooling, I’m down here on this Armadale affair.”

  “Not a job for amateurs, Mr. Vereker.”

  “Why call in the Yard, then? I have here in my pocket-book a cutting from the Daily Express. It is wholesomely informative. Let me read it to you. ‘Six murders have been committed during the first nine months of this year and the six murderers are still at large. Scotland Yard detectives were concerned in four of these cases.’”

  “Sounds as if we committed them,” interrupted the inspector testily.

  “‘Nine murders took place last year and are marked in the police records as “undiscovered,”’” continued Vereker relentlessly. “‘Scotland Yard inquired into seven of those crimes. A plain fact must be stated—Scotland Yard, the most highly organized police department in the world, has lost the habit of catching murderers.’”

  “Catching murderers is an art, not a habit, Mr. Vereker, with all due respect to the Daily Express correspondent.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, inspector. But what are you going to do about it?”

  “Catch ’em in future if we can. In the art of criminal investigation, just as in your job—if you can call it a job—of painting, there’s a power of luck. Only you can burn your duds while ours are put on record for critical Press correspondents to chuckle over,” replied the inspector, with a show of warmth.

  “Neatly expressed, inspector, but only partially true. The critical Press correspondents generally manage to chuckle even over our successes. We have that disadvantage. But let’s get to the Armadale case. You’ve been over the ground and got the general hang of things. I know only what I’ve gathered from the news—fragmentary, uncertain, inconclusive stuff—poor foundations to build on. Of course it was a murder and not suicide.”

  “Oh!” said the inspector, looking up with his slow, inquisitive glance. “How did you tumble to that?”

  “Just a guess,” replied Vereker lazily, “an idle guess. I don’t think a man would commit suicide by shooting himself in the stomach. There were two bullet wounds: one in the head and one in the abdomen, I believe?”

  “That’s true, and the guess is quite a good one, but only a guess. If a man’s determined to do himself in there’s no saying how he’ll do it if his mind is sufficiently worked up. A man has committed suicide by beating his head almost to a pulp with a hammer; another by driving a chisel several times into his skull. At first glance these actual cases looked like particularly brutal murders, and yet they were proved without any doubt to have been suicides.”

  “Amazing! What do you think about it yourself, Heather?”

  “Like you, I’ve guessed it’s murder. But it’s too early in the day to say much more. For instance, suppose Mr. Armadale wished it to be thought that he had been murdered. There have been hidden reasons for such a trick on several previous occasions. It might be done to avoid trouble over insurance money; to incriminate some innocent person in a mad spirit of revenge.”

  “Quite so, but there’s something fishy about those two wounds—one in the abdomen, the other in the right temple. It was in the right temple, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s correct, and Mr. Armadale was gripping his Colt .45 automatic pistol in his left hand. What’s the bright amateur deduction from that, Mr. Vereker?” asked the inspector, with his heavy, good-natured face breaking into a smile.

  “I thought that would be the first, dull, official question, inspector. I guess it puzzled you immensely. I thrashed it out with myself this morning while I was hunting for my back collar-stud. As you’ve got a flying start of me, I must ask you a few questions. In the first place, was Mr. Sutton’s left thumb on the trigger?”

  “No, there was neither digit nor thumb within the trigger guard.”

  “Digit is luscious, inspector! You ought to be on the Daily Report. We’ll leave digits out of the question. If Armadale had pulled the trigger of his automatic with his left thumb, it would have been as easy to shoot himself in the right temple with his left hand as with his right.”

  “That’s sound enough, especially if he had turned his head for the purpose,” agreed the inspector.

  “I’m glad you follow me so easily, Heather. But the vital question is—what was Mr. Armadale doing with his right hand?”

  “I wasn’t there to see,” replied the inspector dryly.

  “You’re dodging, Heather; it’s not fair. Where was the dead man’s right hand when you saw the body?”

  “Lying limply at his side.”

  “It was covered with blood, I’ll wager.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, my bright amateur deduction is that when Mr. Armadale was shot in the abdomen the bullet entered on the right side. He promptly slipped his Colt into his left hand and thrust his right hand over the abdominal wound in his agony.”

  “Mr. Armadale was ambidextrous as far as I can gather, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector quietly. “You’re correct about the right side of the abdomen. We’ll say he shot with his right hand. I think you’ve described what happened if he was murdered.”

  “You’re still flirting with the idea of suicide, I see.”

  “I never draw hasty conclusions nowadays.”

  “What does Sir William Macpherson, ‘the famous pathologist who is also an expert on gunshot wounds,’ say?”

  “He’s non-committal so far.”

  “Has he extracted the bullets?”

  “Well, the bullet which penetrated the right abdomen carried with it into the intestines a trousers button. This obstruction turned the bullet broadside on, and after making a shocking wound it was stopped by the top of the left hip bone, ‘near the left iliac crest,’ as Sir William put it. The bullet that entered the skull passed clean through and hasn’t been found, but from the clean-cut entrance hole it was evidently fired from the same calibre weapon as the first.”

  “And what was the calibre of that weapon?” asked Vereker expectantly.

  “The bullet was fired from a .45 automatic,” replied the inspector, unable to restrain a
shade of dramatic intensity.

  “Well I’m damned!” muttered Vereker, as he thoughtfully stroked his chin with the fingers and thumb of his left hand. “That’s a very singular discovery— almost a coincidence. I suppose you’ll examine that bullet microscopically and be able to say whether it was fired from the Colt found in Mr. Armadale’s left hand, won’t you?”

  “The bullet has been badly marked by its impact with the button, but if our luck’s in we’ll know very soon. It’s always very difficult to answer such a question definitely. In the meantime, I’m working on the idea that it wasn’t fired from Mr. Armadale’s weapon. Colt .45 automatics are a very widely bought and used type of pistol. There are thousands of them in this country and tens of thousands in America. There may be automatics of other makes which take exactly similar ammunition.”

  “These technicalities put years on me, inspector, but I follow your argument. About those cartridge cases which are so neatly ejected by such a weapon, the Evening Bulletin states that only one cartridge case has been found, though two shots were fired.”

  “Perfectly true, but I’m going to have another very thorough search. We must find the other shell or shells: they may furnish very vital evidence.”

  “I thought as much. And what vital evidence has the first one furnished which you’re discreetly hiding from me?” asked Vereker.

  “I had a ’phone message this afternoon from our expert micro-photographer to say that that cartridge case was fired by the pistol found in Sutton Armadale’s hand.”

  “They discovered that from the firing-pin impression on the cap?”

  “Exactly. So it’s clear that Armadale had one shot at his assailant.”

  “Clear? Clear? What do you mean, Heather? You’re at your old game of throwing dust in my eyes. Pure jealousy, of course. If Armadale was shot twice by the burglar and himself took one shot at the burglar, that would make three shots. Collyer, the keeper, heard only two reports; Mr. Basil Ralli, who was much nearer the scene of murder, heard only two reports. Three shots into two reports won’t go. Even Euclid would call it absurd.”

  “I always thought Euclid himself absurd, Mr. Vereker. What else can you make of it? I have an idea that there were three shots. People who hear reports in the night don’t think of the number till they’re asked about them afterwards. Have you ever waked up and suddenly become aware that a clock was striking?”

  “Too often. I’d like to blow up the church behind my flat in Fenton Street. Its clock even strikes the quarters.”

  “Well, at night if you wake by chance you’re almost sure to wonder what the time is, and if a clock is striking you promptly begin to count the chimes. But you consciously do that for a definite purpose. If, however, you hear a dog bark or a cock crow you don’t bother about the number of barks or crows.”

  “I’d bother all right, inspector, but I wouldn’t count them. I’d curse instead. Last time I counted clock chimes at night I made six. You can imagine my delight when I found it was only midnight. I’d missed the first six in my sleep.”

  “Just what I was coming to. Both Collyer and Ralli were probably wakened by the first report and only actually heard the last two. I’m pretty certain there were three shots and that two cartridge cases are still missing.”

  “That’s possible, but I won’t take it for granted. At what distance do you think the shots were fired, inspector?”

  “It would be very difficult to say, but at a fairly close range, in my opinion. The difficulty is this. Modern smokeless powder doesn’t blacken the skin, and if the shot is fired more than a foot away doesn’t mark it at all. The wound in Mr. Armadale’s forehead seems to have been inflicted at very close range. Again, no matter how close the pistol muzzle is held to clothing there won’t be any signs of scorching with modern powder.”

  “I see I’m going to have an easier job than you this time, inspector,” replied Vereker thoughtfully.

  “How do you make that out?”

  “I rely chiefly on psychology, while you base your investigations on facts. I find out why the crime was committed and thence by whom, while you always try to discover how the crime was committed and thence by whom. By the way, what clothes was Armadale wearing when they discovered his body?”

  “Evening dress with dinner jacket, boiled shirt, and patent-leather shoes.”

  “That’s interesting. Had he been to bed?”

  “Oh, yes. He’d been to bed all right. The state of his bed-clothes and bed confirms that. His pyjamas were lying on the floor as if he’d flung them off in a great hurry when he dressed himself.”

  “This is all very strange, Heather. You say he had put on his patent-leather shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his socks?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t trouble to put on his collar and tie, I suppose?”

  “No. Instead of his collar and tie he had wound a large, black silk muffler round his neck and tucked the long ends into his waistcoat. He had also turned up the collar of his dinner jacket.”

  “Most peculiar, don’t you think?” asked Vereker pointedly, as he flung the inspector a furtive glance.

  “You didn’t expect him to take the trouble to put on his collar and tie to chase a burglar, did you?” asked the inspector, staring up at the ceiling and quilling his moustache thoughtfully.

  “What more reasonable, Heather? You can imagine the shock a burglar would get when he found the master of the house at four or five in the morning all dressed up to receive him—dinner jacket, black tie, collar, stiff shirt. What about his monocle?”

  “Strange you should joke about a monocle, Mr. Vereker. Mr. Armadale always wore a monocle, and it was dangling from his neck by a silk cord when he was found lying on the polo ground.”

  “Random shot on my part, but quite an unexpected hit. Of course he’d want his monocle if he intended to use his automatic. It was possibly his aiming eye. He ought to have blazed at him instead of aiming. I dare say that confounded monocle was his undoing. The burglar got him first in the stomach and then settled him with a more deliberate shot through the head.”

  “That’s how I figured it out,” said the inspector.

  “But you’re keeping very quiet about one very important item, Heather. Doubtless you think I’ve forgotten all about it. Let me have a look at the burglar’s mask that was found near the rifled safe. I know you’ve got it in your pocket.”

  Unable to suppress a laugh, Inspector Heather drew from his pocket the mask referred to and handed it to Vereker.

  “I don’t think it will tell you much,” he remarked. Vereker drew the mask from the large paper envelope into which the inspector had carefully placed it. For a few seconds he examined it very minutely and then, slipping the elastic over his head, adjusted the mask to his own face.

  “A mask has always intrigued me, Heather,” he said. “Strange that a suppression of so small a portion of the face should effect so complete a disguise. It shows we recognize our friends not by the individual features but by a very intimate combination of all the features. The portrait painter knows that if you get that chord the slightest bit out of harmony the likeness suffers, and yet the human eye is so sensitive that it amazes me—”

  “Bunkum! I know your little dissertations are a pure blind, Mr. Vereker,” interrupted the inspector. “You’ve found something about that mask that interests you much more than the science of disguise. Am I right?”

  “You’re far too smart, Heather. As a matter of fact, I was just asking myself the question, ‘Do burglars wear masks?’ and the question reminded me of a newspaper article which I once read entitled, ‘Have telephone girls It?’”

  “Wearing masks isn’t so common with burglars as it used to be. They’re much more careful nowadays about wearing gloves,” replied the inspector.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Heather,” said Vereker, as he replaced the mask in its envelope and handed it back to the detective. “You�
�re a mine of information—an inexhaustible mine,” he added ironically. “I’m always learning something new from you. Who’d have thought that burglars were careful to wear gloves? Well, well! Why didn’t you add that it was to obviate leaving finger-prints? I suppose you believe in imparting antiquated knowledge in small doses. I promise you I’ll get my own back, so look out, my old friend!”

  At this moment a maid knocked at the coffee-room door and entered with a tea-tray.

  “You’ll join me, Heather?” asked Vereker.

  “Thanks, Mr. Vereker. There’s nothing I like better than a cup of tea after waking up from an afternoon nap.”

  “Blows away the effects of lunch beer, Heather. Afterwards you might conduct me up to the polo ground, and we’ll thoroughly examine the scene of the murder, for I’m now convinced that it was a murder. I dare say there’s a lot you’ve missed that I shall be able to discover. I really must help you to regain some of your lost prestige. I know how they’ll write it up for the Daily Report: ‘Smart piece of detective work by Inspector Heather, who distinguished himself some years ago, etc.,’ and not a word about your old pal, Anthony Vereker.”

  “Never mind, Mr. Vereker. You must put on the injured air of an unrecognized genius and feel terribly superior. Genius is its own reward when you’ve got no virtue to boast of!”

  The inspector indulged in a hearty laugh at his own joke.

  “Nice cos lettuce that, Heather. I can recommend it. There’s one thing that’s troubling me a lot. I suppose you’re quite unable to say how many shots were fired from Mr. Armadale’s pistol by the number of cartridges left in the magazine? Leave out of the discussion for the time being the evidence of the reports that were heard.”

  “That’s always impossible unless you know the number of cartridges that were in the magazine before any were fired. Take this automatic, for example”—here the inspector produced a Colt .45 from his pocket—“the magazine can take any number of cartridges up to seven. They’re simply loaded into the magazine against a spring clip, and the magazine is inserted in the stock of the pistol. The cartridges are released into the barrel, the first one by hand, the remainder automatically as each shot is fired. It’s an ingenious bit of machinery, and quite different in action from the ordinary revolver.”