The Polo Ground Mystery Page 6

  “That ought to settle once and for all whether there was more than one pistol used in this shooting.”

  At this juncture the attention of both men was arrested by the emergence from the stable-yard gate of Sergeant Goss himself. The sergeant was carrying under his arm a brown paper parcel, and on seeing his chief he hurried his pace almost to a run. He was unmistakably excited, which was a most unusual emotional state for Sergeant Lawrence Goss.

  “Well, sergeant, got our man wrapped up in that parcel?” asked the inspector.

  “Tidy bit of him, I think, sir,” replied the sergeant^ as he untied the parcel and displayed to view a well-worn but recently cleaned suit of clothes.

  “What the devil!” exclaimed the inspector with a puzzled frown as he glanced at the garments. “Where on earth did you find this packet?”

  “Burton, the head gardener, found the parcel tucked away under some bushes near the swimming-pool, not fifty yards from the house,” replied the sergeant. “He thought it was a bit rum and might have something to do with our case so he ’anded the lot over to me.”

  “Any tailor’s or cleaners’ marks on them?” asked the inspector.

  “Not a hiota, sir,” replied Goss, gravely aspirate.

  “May I have a look at them, inspector?” asked Vereker eagerly.

  “Certainly, Mr. Vereker; though I can’t for the life of me see what they’ve got to do with our case at the moment.”

  Taking the suit, which consisted of trousers, waistcoat, and jacket, from the sergeant, Vereker examined them very carefully, turning over the garments one by one.

  “This waistcoat interests me particularly,” he exclaimed at length, as he held the garment close to his face and sniffed at it suspiciously. Then handing the suit back to the sergeant, he added, “Reach-me-downs, recently cleaned. They still smell of benzine or petrol. You have a little line of inquiry there, inspector. I hope you’ll be generous enough to let me know what you discover. I can’t waste my time hunting up old do’ shops and cleaners.”

  “I’ll play fair, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector, and glancing at his watch remarked, “I think I’ll get back to Nuthill police station. Any other news, sergeant?”

  “There was a ’phone message from headquarters for you, sir. I took it. Sir William Macpherson reports that he is almost certain that the bullet extracted from Mr. Harmadale was not fired from the Colt pistol found in the dead gentleman’s ’and.”

  “Good. So you see, Mr. Vereker, we can safely take it that Armadale was murdered and didn’t commit suicide. The cartridge case you found just now ought to confirm, and then for the weapon itself! By the way, Goss, did you mark the spot here on the polo ground with a sharpened stake?”

  “No, sir. I marked it temporary with my ’andkerchief and a pair of ’andcuffs,” replied the sergeant.

  At this information Vereker was obliged to laugh.

  “I think we can say right away that those holes were made before the murder was committed, Heather. Otherwise the cartridge case wouldn’t have found such a neat little hiding-place.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” remarked the inspector, “but it’s a nice point. I’ll make a sleuth of you yet, Mr. Vereker. Now I think I’ll get back to Nuthill.”

  “I feel I ought to nose round for a bit, Heather,” said Vereker, as the inspector and sergeant turned to go. “I’ve a notion that there ought to be another shell somewhere. I’m working on your statement that you think there were three shots fired. Don’t stop too long at the ‘Silver Pear Tree.’ You’ve got a big day’s work in front of you to-morrow.”

  Chapter Five

  On Inspector Heather’s departure, Vereker glanced at his watch, and finding he had still two hours of daylight before him decided to explore what he called the “physical geography” of the case. Leaving the north end of the polo ground, he skirted the western wall of the manor grounds and came into the meadows forming the valley between the house and the gently swelling wooded hills to the north. In front of him, across those meadows, Hanging Covert loomed hazily through the golden sun-dust, and to the right frowned Beech Wood, in which he could now clearly discern the western gable of Collyer’s cottage. At the eastern end of this valley and closing it lay the dark mass of Wild Duck Wood. After a careful survey of this scenery, he wandered towards Wild Duck Wood, with the intention of making a circuit of the meadows which lay like an emerald arena in this natural amphitheatre. As he walked leisurely through the lush grass, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, his mind was turning over in a series of permutations the matter of those two reports heard by Collyer, the keeper, and Basil Ralli. If Armadale’s assailant had fired two shots and the murdered man had fired one, the conflicting evidence of the reports heard was mysterious. The only satisfactory deduction that he could make at the moment was that only two shots had been fired, and that both had been fired from Armadale’s own pistol. The second empty cartridge case which he had found and which Heather had taken for examination would clear up this puzzle. Sir William Macpherson’s report upon the bullet which he had extracted ran contrary to this supposition, but even Sir William had been guarded in his statement, and it was notoriously difficult to be certain on such a point. The number of live cartridges left in Armadale’s pistol also conflicted with his theory, unless there had been one in the barrel in addition to the usual seven in the magazine. He also had a recollection that some of these magazine clips in automatic pistols were fairly elastic. If his theory were correct, the question at once rose—how did the burglar obtain possession of Mr. Armadale’s pistol? It was obvious that he might have wrested it from him in a struggle, but Vereker was instinctively chary of accepting the obvious in criminal investigation. If the shell which Heather had taken with him for examination proved to have been fired from a weapon other than that found loosely gripped in the dead man’s hand—and such a question might be finally answered by micro-photography—his assumption at once fell to pieces. The supposition that the burglar had obtained possession of Sutton Armadale’s pistol prior to his robbery opened up an engaging problem for solution. It simply bristled with possibilities and blew a cloud of suspicion over the staff of servants and the guests in the house. It was going to be a thoroughly intriguing and intricate piece of work, and at the very thought Vereker’s eyes shone with excitement.

  In his preoccupation, he had sauntered at an easy pace along the north wall enclosing the main grounds of the house. His head was bent, his eyes scanning the grass through which he brushed and noting the gradual accumulation of buttercup pollen in the creases of his shoes. Suddenly he looked up, to discover a few paces in front of him the back view of a man dressed in a light tweed suit and grey felt hat. His head was thrust forward and downward, so that only the back half of the curved rim of his hat was visible, and on his shoulders could be seen the rosy finger-tips of two slim feminine hands. There followed the sound of an ecstatic kiss, the tweed suit drew itself erect, raised a hat with easy, theatrical grace, and next moment the recipient of the kiss turned and fled across the meadow towards Wild Duck Wood. Vereker stood rooted to the ground in embarrassment, but his eye did not fail to notice the beauty and symmetry of that fast-receding figure. Never had he seen a woman run with such delightful freedom. Most men, he thought, would be willing to play Hippomenes to such an engaging Atalanta. Then her lover, who had stood entranced watching her, seemed suddenly to become aware of an intruding presence, for he turned sharply round and confronted Vereker. The latter, in spite of an effort at detachment and the assumption of a clumsy air of not having witnessed the recent delicate expression of human passion, looked painfully gauche. He expected to see a similar manifestation of discomposure on the stranger’s face, but to his surprise that singularly handsome countenance, after an almost imperceptible frown, made a strong but not quite successful effort to avoid a broad grin.

  “A sense of humour!” thought Vereker, and was about to pass unconcernedly on his way when the stranger accosted him
with the question:

  “I suppose you know you’re trespassing, sir?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Vereker, in whom the word trespass always raised a sudden and furious combativeness, “but it’s a confirmed vice of mine. I’m always willing to pay for any damage I may do, and don’t mind being prosecuted in the least. Unless I’m greatly annoying other people, I take it as a right to wander across my own country—shall I be lyrical and say, ‘England, my England, England my own!’?”

  “Monopolize it by all means,” said the stranger reflectively and without any show of annoyance. “Personally I raise no objections to your claims; but, as a murder was committed on the adjacent polo ground yesterday morning, the police are rather anxious that no unauthorized persons should be allowed about the place.”

  “I understand,” replied Vereker, considerably mollified. “I came up here in company with my friend, Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard, as a sort of unofficial helper. I’m also a representative of the Daily Report.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to be said,” interrupted the stranger quickly, and after a steady scrutiny of Vereker’s face, asked, “Is your name Algernon Vereker, by any chance?”

  “Anthony, to be correct, but I’ve always been known to my friends as Algernon—unabbreviated.”

  “I thought I couldn’t be mistaken. For two or three terms I was your contemporary at Magdalen.”

  “I can’t say I remember you,” replied Vereker.

  “Ah, well, being forgotten is one of the major advantages of mediocrity. I remember you chiefly through a series of wickedly malicious caricatures. They long outlived your going down. You do draw, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid I do. It has been a bally curse from a worldly point of view. The sarcasm of art is never forgotten, and you can’t give it the lie,” replied Vereker, with a laugh. “Still, I’m annoyed at not remembering—”

  “My name’s Ralli, Basil Ralli. I’m a nephew of the Sutton Armadale who—Of course you’ve heard?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “Please don’t condole with me. Polite hypocrisy in another makes me more uncomfortable than it does in myself. My uncle was never very fond of me, and towards him my feelings were no stronger. Some realist has said that a large legacy assuages grief. I had damned little grief to assuage, and my uncle, to my surprise, left me all his fortune and this rather jolly estate to assuage it with. I feel like a child who has suddenly been given the moon.”

  “Then let me congratulate you heartily,” said Vereker.

  “Thanks,” replied Ralli solemnly; “the sentiment fits better with my feelings and the facts. I see you’re naturally not a humbug. But are you staying anywhere in the neighbourhood?”

  “I’ve taken a room at the ‘Silver Pear Tree.’”

  “Oh. I hear it’s a comfortable enough inn, but old inns frighten me. Parasitism even on the comic ad infinitum basis scares me stiff.”

  “You don’t say the place is buggy?” asked Vereker, with sudden alarm.

  “I know nothing about it and wouldn’t like to venture an opinion, but while you’re engaged on this investigation stunt, won’t you accept our hospitality and stay at the manor? My Aunt Angela will be delighted to welcome any friend of mine, and we’re certainly not buggy!”

  “It’s very good of you, Ralli. I shall probably be glad to accept your invitation. In the meantime, I hope you’ll leave it open. I can’t decide on the spur of the moment.”

  “Certainly, Vereker, certainly. Don’t hesitate to come and explore the place if you think it’ll help in your detective business. The sooner you get to the bottom of this appalling mess the better Angela and I shall be pleased.”

  “You’re sure Mrs. Armadale won’t mind?”

  “Absolutely certain. She’s anxious to help all she can.”

  “Splendid! Incidentally I’m rather eager to see your late uncle’s collection of modern French paintings.”

  “You’re welcome. They’re in a gallery by themselves. Angela calls it the ‘Museum of Psychopathy,’ rather aptly, I think. Why not come up and lunch with me to-morrow? I shall be alone. Angela has gone to Sutton Pragnell for a day or two. She’s terribly upset.”

  “Thanks, I’ll turn up. In the meantime, I’ll continue further to trespass on your grounds.”

  “Go anywhere you like. If Collyer catches you in any of the coverts he’ll take you by the scruff of the neck and fling you out. While you’re struggling with him, try and explain that you have my permission. Au revoir. We lunch at one.”

  With these words, Mr. Basil Ralli turned, and opening a wooden door in the north wall passed through and closed the door behind him. Vereker heard him fasten the door by pushing two bolts into their sockets, and then wandered leisurely on his way towards Wild Duck Wood. The contretemps had been so unexpected and his embarrassment at seeing a pretty woman frankly hugged and kissed so acute that for some minutes he could not dismiss the subject from his mind. His embarrassment had risen from the fact that he had felt his presence at the moment something of a boorish intrusion. He figuratively kicked himself for his clumsiness, a clumsiness of inadvertence, and inadvertence was frequently equivalent to faulty manners. Ralli’s smile had saved the situation. He recalled that smile. How pleasantly it had lit up the olive-skinned face, with a flash of perfect teeth and the sparkle of dark humorous eyes. The face was not English; the whole cast of countenance was Mediterranean. Ralli’s mother was Sutton Armadale’s sister, but Basil Ralli must have taken after his father. And, brief as had been their meeting, Vereker had learned the startling news that Sutton Armadale had left his nephew his fortune and estate. This was significant news in itself. He remembered Ricardo’s story of the marital incompatibility of Sutton Armadale and Angela, and wondered whether this had been a stroke of posthumous vindictiveness on the financier’s part. Absorbed in his speculations, he had wandered into the fringe of Wild Duck Wood and was suddenly brought to his senses by the sound of a woman’s voice raised in vehement protest.

  “I don’t want to see you again, Frank, and I’m not going to. If you persecute me any longer as you’ve been doing lately, I’ll put the matter in the hands of the police. Understand that once and for all! I don’t want to be unkind, but I’ll stand no nonsense!”

  “You’re welcome to your fancy man, but you’ll be sorry and so will he. Mark my words, Trixie, you’ll be sorry for this. So-long.”

  The speakers could not be seen by Vereker, but he knew from the directional sound of their voices that they were screened from his sight by a dense tangle of blackthorn undergrowth. Much to his annoyance, Fate seemed determined to thrust on him the role of eavesdropper. Turning impatiently on his heel, he retraced his steps into the open, and hastening his pace, as if eager to get away from the place, was about to cross the meadow in the direction of Hanging Covert when a woman suddenly stepped out of the wood a few paces in front of him. On seeing him she promptly halted and uttered an exclamation of pained surprise. At once Vereker was aware that she was Basil Ralli’s beautiful companion of half an hour ago. Immediately recovering her self-possession, she approached him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I must warn you that you’re trespassing. My father has strict orders to keep all strangers off the grounds at present.”

  “Thanks for the warning, but it’s all right. I’ve Mr. Ralli’s permission to explore the place. My name’s Vereker. Please tell your father; it will save any further trouble till he gets definite orders from Mr. Ralli. Am I speaking to Miss Collyer?”

  It was a guess on Vereker’s part. The girl spoke with a cultured enunciation not usually associated with a gamekeeper’s daughter, but modern education, he remembered, was swiftly blurring the lingual demarcations of social status, and he had risked the shot. At once the air of inquisitive suspicion that had qualified her glance vanished, and she smiled.

  “I’m Miss Collyer, and I beg your pardon, Mr. Vereker. I didn’t know you
knew Mr. Ralli. I thought you were just another of the crowd of strangers who’ve been over-running the place since Mr. Armadale was shot, yesterday.”

  At this moment a burly figure in breeches and gaiters with a shot-gun under his arm stepped leisurely out of the wood and approached. He came forward with the slow, heavy tread of the countryman, his head turning now to the right and now to the left as his eyes swept across the meadows and piercingly scanned the edges of the surrounding coverts. They were the eyes of a man trained in a natural school of observation. A beautiful cocker bitch followed him close at heel. When a few paces off, he suddenly halted, pressed the lever opening the breech of his gun, extracted the cartridges, and slipped them into his pocket. Then his eyes wandered over Vereker from head to foot.

  “Anything the matter, Trixie?” he asked slowly.

  “No, dad. This gentleman is a Mr. Vereker. Mr. Ralli has given him permission to look over the place. I was just going to send him about his business, thinking he was a stranger, when he explained matters.”

  “Good evening, sir,” said the keeper, addressing Vereker. “We got to be a bit particular since this shootin’ business. Police are very strict about strangers pokin’ round.” Turning to his daughter, he asked, “Worn’t you in the wood a little time back?”

  “Yes, dad,” replied his daughter, her cheeks suddenly flushing.

  “I thought I heard young Frank Peach’s voice,” commented the keeper casually. “Perhaps you was chatting to him?”

  “Yes. I happened to meet him by chance as I was on my way home.”

  “You was going a tidy bit out of your way to get home, Trixie,” remarked her father dryly. “Mebbe you had an appointment?”

  “No, dad; I had no appointment. You know very well I don’t want to see him.”

  “So you say. Then when you see young Peach again, tell him I’ve strict orders not to let him trespass on these grounds. He knows it well enough, but won’t take no telling from me. Perhaps he’ll listen readier to you nor me.”