1:  Some Person or Persons Unknown

This tale is one which could have been told before now: in other words, the events which I shall relate took place before some others which I have already set down. For this I am sorry, for order means much to me: but, as this book will show, I could not have told the truth while someone whom I shall mention was yet alive.

The first I knew of the business was when I was a guest at White Ladies – that was Jonathan Mansel’s beautiful Hampshire home. George Hanbury and I were resting after our labours, by which I mean doing little but put up our feet: but Mansel took next to no rest, although God knows he had laboured as hard as we, and had, as well, directed our enterprise. Indeed, he divided his time between White Ladies and Town, taking the road to London before we were out of bed and only returning in time to dress for dinner and, as he used to put it, to save his face as a host. And then at table one evening, after the cloth had been drawn, he bade us fill up our glasses and listen to what he said.

So far as I can, I will set down his very words.

“Ten days ago we three were in Austria.” He glanced at his watch. “Very nearly ten days ago we were driving from Villach to Salzburg as hard as ever we could. Take your minds back to that drive. You two were in the back of the Rolls, and Carson was driving, and I was in front with him. Rowley and Bell were behind, in the second car. So much you know, but no more: for you were asleep. That’s why you don’t know what happened…some fifteen miles from Villach…very nearly ten days ago.

“I must have been dozing, myself, for the first thing I remember was that Carson was slowing right down. That woke me up all right, for, as you know, we hadn’t an instant to lose. At once I saw what he’d seen – a man’s body, lying in the midst of the way. He stopped ten paces away, and I left the car.

“Well, the man was dead. The body was cold, but not stiff: he might have been dead for three hours. A nice-looking, fair-haired man, with a slight moustache; age, about thirty-five. He looked – and his clothes looked – English.

“Before I did anything else, I looked for the cause of death. Up to then I’d assumed that he had been killed by a car. I found a heavy fracture at the base of his skull: so far as I saw, that was all, and neither his face nor his hands were so much as grazed. This showed me that my assumption was almost certainly wrong, and it was, I think, at that moment that I realized that I had assumed what I had been meant to assume. In short, the man had been murdered, and a clumsy attempt had been made to cover this up. I say ‘clumsy,’ because it was clumsy. The road, as you know, was not tarred, and, as soon as I looked for them, I found the marks left by the body which had been dragged from a wood.

“The next thing to do was to find out who the man was. The pockets seemed to be empty, but I opened the coat to make sure. The first thing I saw was the tailor’s tab or label, protruding and half-unstitched. Well, that told me quite a lot. It told me the tailor’s name and the name of the murdered man. But it told me more than that. Savile Row has its faults, but bad stitching is not among them; in all my life I’ve never had a button come off. And when they stitch their label into the inside of an inside breast-pocket, they stitch it with all their might. And so I knew at once that some stitches of that label had been cut and the label itself displaced. Why was this done? Because the murderer wished to ensure that the body would be identified. Unfamiliar with English ways, the Austrian police might have missed the tailor’s label, stitched into place. And so he had cut some stitches and pulled it out. In fact, he lost his labour, for I cut the rest of the stitches and took the label away…

“Looking again, I found his note-case still there. This was empty except for a photograph – a small snap-shot of an English country house. I took the case and I took the photograph, too.

“Well, as you know, we were very hard pressed for time, and, since the poor fellow was dead, we couldn’t help him by stepping into the ring. So Carson and I, between us, lifted his body and laid it down in the ditch. This was narrow and deep and lined very thick with ferns, and it would have made a beautiful grave; but of course we had no time to cover him up. Then we re-entered the Rolls and put her along. You two never woke up; but Bell and Rowley were out and were standing by.” Out of his note-case he took a rectangular slip. “There’s the tab or label I took from the dead man’s coat. When you’ve had a look at that, I’ll go on to Scene II.”

Printed upon the tab were the tailor’s name and address – Tendon & Co., Savile Row: and written in ink upon it was their customer’s name – Major J D Bowshot. There was also the date on which the coat had been made, as well as some reference number, clearly of no account.

When I had looked at the label, I passed it across to George: he gave it back to Mansel, who put it away in his case. Then he continued quietly.

“When we arrived in England, the position was this – that a Major J D Bowshot had been murdered by some person or persons unknown: that whoever committed the crime had attempted to disguise it as an accident: that whoever committed the crime had also attempted to ensure that the body would be identified. It is this second attempt which is so enlightening. You see, it shows – to my mind beyond all doubt – that, unless Bowshot’s death can be proved, whoever committed the crime will be no better off.

“Well, I couldn’t let things slide. I had made it my affair by taking that label away – to say nothing of my failure to inform the Austrian police. And blood, shed like that, cries out… But it was obvious that I must go very carefully, if for no other reason, because I had no desire to play into the murderer’s hands.

“Once for all, let me make that point clear. If I had not interfered, the body would have been found and in due course Bowshot’s people would have been informed of his death. That is what his murderer wanted and what he is waiting for. As the days go by, but no obituary notice appears in The Times, the murderer will grow suspicious. By now he probably realizes that someone has interfered. And if, as I believe, the proof that Bowshot is dead means much to him, he will institute furtive inquiries, in the hope of relighting the fuse which I put out. So that, if I start in too, there will be two people both making furtive inquiries about the same man. Well, that’s the way to get a common denominator – which would be fatal, for common denominators talk. To conclude my digression, let me say this – when I talk of the murderer, I do not necessarily mean the fellow who struck the blow: I mean the person or persons who arranged for the blow to be struck.

“Well, now as to the action I’ve taken…

“In a sense, I’d a flying start, for Tendon’s my own tailor: I’ve been there for twenty years. So I looked in to choose some clothes and to pass the time of day. To cut a long story short, in the course of conversation poor Bowshot’s name cropped up, and before I left Savile Row, I knew quite a bit about him and where he lived. He was a bachelor, lived at the Manor House, Beehive – that’s in the Mendip Hills: very quiet bloke, cared for nothing but hunting and shooting, often summered abroad…

“Well, then I went down to Mendip.

“I found a fine, old house and a charming place: not too much ground – just right. Seventeenth-century building, in perfect state, five minutes’ walk from the village, under the lee of a hill. It was, of course, the house of the photograph. I drove to the door and asked if Bowshot was in. An old-fashioned butler told me that he was away. I liked the look of the man. And his demeanour was cheerful, which showed that he had no reason to think that all was not well. I said the usual things – that it was of no consequence, that finding myself in the neighbourhood, I’d remembered I’d promised Bowshot to look him up, that I hadn’t a card, but that, if he said ‘Major Wilson,’ Bowshot would know who it was. Now the time was half-past four and the weather was very hot, and so it was natural enough that, representing his master, the butler should beg me to enter and take some refreshment before I went on my way. After some decent hesitation, I said I would. I asked for a glass of cold water and said that I’d very much like to put through a telephone-call. I didn’t want to, really. But I wanted to have a look at poor Bowshot’s telephone-book – the list of numbers that he most frequently used. It was, of course, a bow at a venture, for he might not have kept such a list. But most people do. Well, he was no exception. He’d a list of London numbers – names of subscribers and all. I copied it down whilst I was speaking to Harrods – in Wilson’s name, of course – about a second-hand car. I only hope they enjoyed the call more than I did: but that is beside the point. Against the butler’s will, I paid for the call; then I bade him good-bye and made my way home.

“There were nineteen names and numbers. All but seven were those of tradesmen or clubs. Of the seven I washed out four: they were those of a bank, a well-known dentist, a doctor of Harley Street and a firm of bookmakers. The three that were left were these – Orion, Worsted and Co., and Shade.

“Of Worsted and Co. I knew something. They are a firm of solicitors and used to be very sound. But they are not what they were – or what they appear to be. In fact the firm consists of Messrs Biretta and Cain. And they are extremely hot. They’ve still a lot of good clients whom Worsteds’ forbears won. I quite expect that Bowshot was one of these. People are funny like that. They’ll look damned hard at their rice, if their grocer sells his business to somebody else; but they take their solicitors for granted – I never know why. So much for Worsted and Co.

“Of Orion, I’ve found this out. He runs an East End hostel in Bedlam Row. And he moves about a bit, in his efforts to raise the money to carry the hostel on.

“Shade was a private inquiry agent. I say ‘was,’ because he is dead. He used to be at the Yard and I just remember his name. He died three weeks ago, by falling in front of a train on the Underground.

“That is all we have to go on.

“Now if I was to change my tactics and set inquiries afoot, I’m very sure they’d bear fruit. But my instinct advises me not to. Put yourself in the murderer’s place. He desired and arranged that his victim’s corpse should be found. That has not come to pass. He is, therefore, on the alert, because he knows that someone has put a spoke in his wheel. That is a danger signal. And so his eyes are skinned and his ears are pricked, to catch any sign of movement by anyone else. But that condition won’t last. When he finds that no one is moving, he’ll move himself. And my instinct says ‘Wait upon him.’

“What, then, have we actually got?

“First, that Bowshot was known to Biretta and Cain, who are – disreputable. Secondly, that he was in touch with a private detective – lately, in touch. Shade’s number was the last on his list. Thirdly, that three weeks ago that detective happened to die a violent death. Fourthly, that ten days ago Bowshot himself was killed, and his body so left that it must be identified. Little enough, I admit: but here is one thing more. I turned up the inquest on Shade. The principal witness was a man who was standing on the platform beside him and saw the whole thing. He said that he tried to save Shade, but hadn’t a chance. He also swore that Shade was a stranger to him. But the name of that witness was Orion – James Belper Orion, of Bedlam Row.”

Now from what Mansel said it was clear that he meant, if he could, to find out the men who killed Bowshot and bring them to book. I cannot remember declaring that I would come in with him nor that George Hanbury did so. Maybe we did. But in fact it went without saying, for we were ripe for action of any kind. Having lately concluded a matter of life and death, we had not yet settled down and were finding the days empty, and normal, peaceful pursuits of slight account. But I very well remember that there and then we made such plans as we could and we had the servants in and told them what was afoot. (I have mentioned the three by name a page or two back. Carson was Mansel’s servant – a very good man. Bell was my servant, and Rowley was Hanbury’s. All three had been with us throughout our late adventure from first to last, and I think that they felt, as we did, that running into danger was better than sitting still.) And then we went to bed, proposing to move the next day, for, thanks to our recent exploit, we were already equipped for any rough and tumble with desperate men. We were fit. We could work together, we could drive a car without lights and could stand up to any strain. We had arms and knew how to use them, and Mansel himself had taught us the virtue of discipline. And so, as luck would have it, we were all ready to move. And that was just as well, “for,” said Mansel, “if we are to do any good, we must move at once. Poor Bowshot’s servants knew nothing three days ago, but any moment now the news of his disappearance will be announced. And that will open the door to the sheep and the goats.”

 

It was less than four days later, to be precise, on the fifteenth day of July, that George and Bell and I drove up to a village inn. Perhaps I should have said ‘down,’ for the hamlet was sunk in a valley between two very high hills, some twenty-two miles from Villach and well off the beaten track. It was a pretty place, which progress had left alone. Fine, upstanding timber lapped it about, and a swift, clear stream of water sang through its midst. Its name was Latchet – less Austrian than English, it seemed to me; and it boasted a score of dwellings, not counting its inn. These were pleasant to see, for they were plainly ancient, yet spick and span as pride or affection could make them, and, indeed, the whole place was as clean as any English village that I ever saw. It being the dinner-hour, there was not a soul to be seen, but without the forge, I remember, two magnificent bullocks were waiting, no doubt to be shod; they were neither yoked nor tethered, but stood there very quietly, swishing their tails and blinking their patient eyes. Across the stream hung two bridges of fine, grey stone, and, by the side of one, a cobbled ramp had been made, so that beasts could go down and drink. The inn was a good-looking house, standing back from the road; on either side of its door were a bench and a massive table of grey, old oak, and I know I was glad to accept this invitation, throw out my clutch and bring the Lowland to rest. (This car we had bought for our journey – or rather, Mansel had bought it on our behalf. It was not new, but had been carefully used for two or three months, and it did much more than its duty for many a day. And since Mansel, of course, had his Rolls, we were very well served.)

Now, unless the murdered man had been carried away by car from the district to which he belonged, it was clear that he must have been staying not far from where he had lain on the Salzburg Road; and Mansel had asked George and me to go on ahead of him and do our best to discover the inn or, maybe, the farm-house at which he had lodged. We were to ask no questions, but only to use our eyes and to play the rôle of tourists, fishing and enjoying the country and caring not where we went.

In the last three hours we had visited several villages all within a few miles of where, as near as we could make it, Mansel had found the body a fortnight ago; but Latchet was the first one which showed any promise at all, for the inns of most of the others were very rough, and few, I think, could have offered a decent bed. But Latchet’s inn stood far above any of these, and, indeed, as soon as we saw it, we made up our minds we were home.

As we left the car—

“Not a shadow of doubt,” said George, with his eyes on the house. “And very nice, too. You order the beer; I want to think out our approach. Why the hell can’t we talk German?”

There he did himself less than justice, for he could, what is called, ‘get along.’ And I knew odd words and phrases, but that was all. Still, to converse in German was wholly beyond our power. Which was embarrassing; for, if there was to be nothing for us to see, only by idle conversation could we find out whether Bowshot had stayed at some house.

George took his seat on a table, and I walked into the inn. Bell had stayed with the car and was wiping the windscreen clean of the endless dust.

I was half way down the flagged hall, when I heard a voice speaking English – and stood very still.

“I don’t see what more we can do. He disappeared on the first and today’s the fifteenth. Hopeless of course. When did they first report it?”

Another voice spoke in German, and a woman’s voice made reply.

Then–

“She says on the eighth – a week ago today.”

“Ask her again why she didn’t report it before.”

The question was put and answered.

“She says she didn’t want to make trouble – that if Bowshot had come back, he would have been very angry to find they had made a fuss.”

There was a pause. Then—

“She says that he carried a note-case. Can she say whether there was anything in that note-case besides money? Visiting-cards, for instance. She must have seen him use it time and again.”

When the interpretation was done—

“She says he had a photograph in it, but she doesn’t think anything else.”

“How does she know that?”

“One day he took out the photograph and showed it to her. He said it was a picture of his home. And she said how lovely it was, and he laughed and said he’d give her the photograph to keep, when he went away.”

There was another silence, broken by the sobs of the woman – no doubt, the hostess.

“Tell her not to cry. It may only be a case of loss of memory.”

The translation was made, and the sobbing began to subside.

“How much does she consider that he owes her?”

“Seven pounds fifteen.”

“Well, tell her this. If she wants to see her money, she’d better do as I say.”

The interpreter spoke again, and the woman replied.

“She will obey implicitly.”

“We’re going to pack his things and to leave his bags here. I shall take his passport and cheque-book. If he should come back or communicate with her in any way, she is to wire us immediately. Better write down the address – just British Consulate, Salzburg. Oh, and if any letters should come, she must send them to me at once.”

The translation was being made, when I heard the scrape of a chair.

At once I slipped out of the house, made a sign to George and ran for the car. Bell, on the watch, saw us coming and opened the doors.

As I took my seat—

“I want to know if we’re seen. Keep your eyes on the inn.”

Forty seconds later we had left Latchet behind. And had seen no one.

“Anyone see us, Bell?”

“I don’t think so, sir. If they did, they never showed up.”

“Inform me,” said George. “And I want a damned good reason for being done out of my beer.”

“Here it is,” said I, and told him my tale.

When I had done—

“Good enough,” said George. He sighed. “It’s always the way. I sit still and flog my wits, and you walk into the grocer’s and pick up the figs. And now what?”

“Salzburg and Mansel,” said I, “as quick as ever we can. He may be there tonight. If he is…”

“Go on,” said George. “Go on. I’m beginning to see.”

“Well, the special idea is for us to prevent an announcement that Bowshot has disappeared. The very best way to do that is to give people reason to think that he is alive and well. Supposing tomorrow morning the hostess at Latchet goes into Bowshot’s room – to find his luggage gone and, left on the table, seven pounds fifteen and the photograph of his house?”

“I hand it to you,” said George. “I think I should make it ten pounds, but the photograph is the thing. That will be proof positive. For only Bowshot knew that he had said she should have it before he went away. Oh, very good indeed. An’ then she wires to the Consul, an’ he marks his file ‘No action’ and that is that.” He slewed himself round in his seat. “You’re growing quite cunning, Bill. It must be being so much with Mansel and me.”

 

How burglars feel, I cannot pretend to say, but I know that I felt ashamed of the work that we did – not that, but the following night. The thing was too easy. Latchet slept like the dead, and the door of the inn was not locked. The whole business took six minutes from first to last. Mansel and I went in, while Bell stood on guard by the doorway and George remained with the car. The dead man’s luggage was piled in a first-floor room – a trunk, two suitcases, a rug and a fishing-rod. I set the trunk on my shoulder and picked up a case, and Mansel brought down the rest. On the table we left an envelope, containing the photograph and ten pounds in Austrian notes. And then we were all four gone, like the thieves we were.

And about the time, I suppose, at which the British Consul received his telegram, the cloak-room at Salzburg station accepted the stolen goods. But Mansel lodged the receipt at a Salzburg Bank – under sealed cover and marked ‘For Safe Custody.’

Here I should say that not until then did I learn that, while George and I were waiting for him at Salzburg, Mansel, Carson and Rowley were doing a dreadful duty some hundred odd miles away.

“It was always clear,” said Mansel, “that it had to be done. In the first place, the dead deserve burial. In the second place, so long as it lay unburied, the body might well have been found, and, rightly or wrongly, it is our present aim to deny to those who killed Bowshot all evidence of his death. As things stand, we’ve done more than that, for we have convinced the Consul that Bowshot is still alive. And so his disappearance will not be announced. That will perplex the murderers: they will not know what to think: but they will be forced to the conclusion that for some reason or other the body has not been found. What action they’ll take, I don’t know. But if, as I think, they are anxious that Bowshot should be known to be dead, they may pursue the matter. Putting myself in their place, if there was a lot at stake, I should have a stab. I may be entirely wrong, but I think I’m right. I can’t get over that label’s being pulled out. Why pull it out, if they only wanted Bowshot out of the way? They didn’t only want that. They wanted more. They wanted proof that Major John Bowshot was dead. And it must be provoking for them, when they know he is dead, to think that they’re losing their labour because the Austrian police don’t know their job. So very provoking that they may feel compelled to come back. I mean, that’s what I should do…”

 

It was two days after our raid that we took up our quarters at Goschen – a decent farm, some fourteen miles from Latchet and twelve from the fatal spot on the Salzburg–Villach road. This was very much better than any inn, for the house was agreeably placed and as private as we could wish. Though few would have guessed it, it was in fact served by two drives, the lesser of which ran out of the stable-yard: from there it passed through woods for a quarter of a mile, before slipping into a byroad which led to a hamlet called Talc. And here were crossroads. But the principal drive ran out of the Villach road. We, therefore, had a ‘back door,’ the approach to which was well masked; so that, if we took ordinary care, to keep a watch on our movements would be very hard. Then, again, there was a very fair trout stream, five minutes’ stroll from the house. But, best of all, the people were used to the English and had received them as guests before the Great War. It is, I think, common knowledge that during those four lean years their country was ranged against us largely against its will, and these poor peasants were not only plainly thankful to see some English again, but clearly most anxious to prove the goodwill which they felt. This was, of course, of great value; for our goings out and our comings in were pretty sure to be most irregular.

Still, fortunate as we were, it was no good sitting still and wondering what was toward. If things were going to happen, they were going to happen at Latchet or close to the Salzburg road. So within six hours of our settling down at the farm, Mansel took George and myself to show us as much as he knew. And Bell went with us.

Before leaving, we studied the map. This showed that, as the crow flies, Latchet lay less than three miles from where Mansel had found the body in the midst of the way.

“There may be a path,” said Mansel, “but that is for us to find out. By road, as you see, it’s nearly eleven miles; and it is not clear that Bowshot had the use of a car. You heard no mention of one. Now I said, if you remember, that his body had been dragged from the woods. That was going too far. I can only swear it was dragged from the side of the road. So he may have been brought there by car. But I don’t think he was. If I am to speculate, I think he was on his way to or from Latchet, when he was done in. A path would bear out that suggestion. Assume that he was in the habit of taking this walk. The murderer finds that out and lies in wait close to the road. The rest is too easy.

“Now we’re going to leave the car about a mile and a quarter from the spot where the body lay. This, for two reasons. First, we are out to observe – not to be observed; secondly, at that distance, there’s a very convenient place in which to bestow the car.

“Tonight I shall show you round. Then we shall make for Latchet, of course on foot; and if there is a path, we should strike it at once. But, path or no, we must find the way there and back – and find it so well that we shall know it again. All this we must do in silence and without any light. Don’t think I’m being foolish, because I’m not. I just don’t want to be murdered, as Bowshot was. And in a show like this, you can shove your shirt on the man who sees, or even hears, the other man first.”

 

That night there was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars were luminous. Mansel drove slowly, so that we could study the way, and half an hour went by before he stole off the road and up a track into the woods. After about a furlong a second track crossed the first, and here it was very easy to turn the Rolls. This Mansel did forthwith, so that, when she stopped, she was facing the way we had come.

Mansel turned in his seat and spoke very low.

“I told you this place was convenient, and so it is. You saw that second track. Well, that leads back to the road; and it actually meets the road a short two hundred yards beyond where the body lay. So that is the way we’ll go.” Here he left the car and we followed him out. “Single file, if you please, and watch your step.”

After about six minutes we came to the end of the track and the Salzburg road. All was very still, and, there being no wind at all, the silence of the woods all about us was that of death. The trees met over the track, which was therefore as dark as pitch; but the Salzburg road was lit by the stars above.

Mansel stood listening a moment. Then he made a gesture for us to come up with him.

“Before we go any further, I want us to wait for a car. I want you to see for yourselves, first, how its headlights show up the sides of the road, and, secondly, how very short is the warning of its approach. From either direction. This particular reach of road is about six hundred yards long. But at either end of this reach, there’s a hell of a bend. The woods being very thick, unless your ears are pricked, you cannot hear a car coming until it rounds one of those bends; and, if it’s moving, you’ve got to be quick and careful if you don’t want to be seen. I don’t mean, seen by the occupants of the car; I mean, seen by someone who might be glad of the sight.”

As the words left his mouth, I heard a sudden snarl, and Mansel dropped. Instinctively, we all did the same. An instant later, the road upon which we had been looking was bright as day… And then some car swept by, and the darkness came back.

As we got to our feet—

“You see,” breathed Mansel. “These woods don’t give you a chance. Still, it’s not quite as bad as that, if you use your ears. I mean, you’d have heard it before, if you hadn’t been listening to me. And now we’ll cross the road – one at a time, of course. Over the ditch and into the bracken beyond. Then turn right and go on till you see a culvert ahead. If another car comes, there’s the bracken. But keep your eyes on its beam: it might reveal something that you hadn’t known was there.”

We had all four crossed the road, before another car passed. This time, crouched in the bracken, I marked how its lights illumined the sides of the way. Had a man been standing there, I must have seen him. I saw the stone parapets of the culvert, one hundred and fifty yards off. There we came up with Mansel, who once again spoke very low.

“Thirty yards on from this culvert is where the body lay. If a path to Latchet exists, it won’t be far from here. I’m going to see if there is one: I shan’t be long.”

As he moved away—

“Let us pray,” said George. “Let us pray very hard indeed. Mansel’s in the mood to move mountains – an exercise denied to weaker vessels like me. I’ve already fouled three roots and walked into two trees. And that in two hundred yards. And Latchet is three miles off. At this rate, therefore, if we don’t discover a path, my face will want lifting before the night is out. So let us pray all we know that a path exists.”

Be sure I agreed with him.

Whilst we were waiting, another two cars fled by. And then a lorry came pounding, defiling the sweet of the night with its sound and its smell. As the last of its rumble faded, Mansel appeared.

“Yes, there’s a path,” he said. I heard George sigh with relief. “And if you’re as thankful as I am, that’s saying a lot. I can’t swear it goes to Latchet; but if it doesn’t, I shall be much surprised. Anyway, come along. It’s not very far.”

Mansel did well, I think, to find that path by night, without any torch. Even by day one could have missed it, for, where it met the ditch, there was no break in the bracken and what depression there was was of no account. But once you were on it, to keep to it was easy enough; and the four of us made good progress for more than a mile.

Then we met with a check, for the forest came to an end and we entered a sloping meadow, in which not even Mansel could find the track of men’s feet. For a moment, he stood very still. Then I saw him lift his head, as a man who is straining his ears. And then I heard the whisper of water…

At the foot of the sloping meadow was flowing a decent stream; and, walking along its bank, we came to the little foot-bridge which we had been sure must be there. We climbed another meadow and entered the woods again. Here the path was as clear as it had been before, and soon more than one path joined it, to make it still more distinct. All this time we were rising, and, when at last we had surmounted some crest, we heard at once the song of the sturdy water which George and I had looked on three days before. That Latchet lay below us, there could be no doubt.

To make certain, we went on down; to find that the path ran into the place between walls, quite close to the inn.

It was now three hours since we had climbed out of the Rolls, and I was expecting that we should retrace our steps. But Mansel thought otherwise.

“I want,” he said, “to have a look at the coach-house which serves the inn. I want to see what it contains. So William will stay with me, and George and Bell will go back and get the Rolls. Don’t bring her into the village.” He pointed South. “Do you remember crossroads just under a mile that way?”

“Yes,” said George.

“D’you think you can get there all right?”

“Yes.”

“Then pick us up there an hour and a half from now. And then we’ll go home and spend a morning in bed.”

“Every time,” said George.

The next moment, he and Bell were out of our sight. “The thing is this,” said Mansel. “This inn is a magnet. It attracted the British Consul and it attracted us. I think it will attract others. Now I doubt if we can watch it by day – at present, at any rate. And to watch it by night would be futile. But we can check up on its garage. No car tonight; but two tomorrow, for instance. I mean, that would make us think.”

An alley on the left of the inn brought us into a stableyard, and there, on the right, stood a coach-house of a considerable size. It had two mighty doorways, each shut by two leaves of oak which must have been twelve feet high, and I think the place had been built to accept the berlines and coaches of bygone days. We could have opened a door, but we did not like to do this, for fear of making a noise: for one thing, the leaves had dropped and were resting upon the cobbles of which they should have hung clear; for another, their hinges were rusty and might well have lodged a protest which would have waked somebody up. But when we looked for a window, there was none to be seen. Since the coach-house ran all the width of the stable-yard, we could not approach its sides; for the yard itself was walled and the coach-house was really no more than a slice of the yard which had been fronted and roofed.

I glanced at Mansel, who was standing with a hand to his chin.

“How deep,” he said, “how deep would that coach-house be?”

After a moment’s thought—

“Say thirty-five feet.”

“Thereabouts. Say fourteen paces. Let’s measure the depth of the yard.”

This was twenty-six paces dead.

“Forty paces in all,” murmured Mansel, and led the way down the alley. As we came to the road, “And now how far from here to the mouth of the path?”

Together we paced the distance, making it forty-two paces or thereabouts.

“As I dared hope,” said Mansel. “The path runs past the back of the coach-house wall.”

“Now all we want,” said I, “is the length of the alley.”

“Twenty-two paces,” said Mansel. “I took it as we came down.”

I walked up the path behind him, looking up and straining my eyes…

Its height alone assured us that here was the coach-house wall, but, though we could make out the eaves, we could see little else; for here the path was a canyon some four feet wide, and trees which grew in some garden beyond the opposite wall, were stretching over their branches, to hide the stars.

At length—

“There’s something there,” I said; “about twelve feet up. It doesn’t look like a window. It has the look of a shadow; and yet I don’t think it is.”

“Use your torch,” said Mansel. “For one second only, of course.”

It was the edge of a shutter that I had seen. And three feet below was foothold, upon the branch of an oak.

I mounted on Mansel’s shoulders…

One minute later, I had my hands on the wood.

The shutter was not even latched. As I pulled it open, I saw that it hid a window that had no glass and no frame. I leaned well over the sill. Then I stretched down my arm and switched on my torch.

Three vehicles stood in the coach-house, which could have accepted twelve. One was a farmer’s gig, one was an old landau and one was a very old car, with a tiller instead of a wheel and a tonneau as big as a sty.

I switched off my torch, swung the shutter to, found an easy way down and made my report.

Mansel nodded, and led the way back to the road.

Not until we were clear of Latchet did he open his mouth.

“We’ve had a good night,” he said. “Fortune favours the patient as well as the brave. But one thing bothers me, William. It seems pretty certain that Bowshot had no car. And that seems strange to me. You don’t want a car in a city, but Latchet is right off the map.”

“We’re very car-minded,” I said, and Mansel laughed.

“That’s true enough. All the same…”

“You don’t think the car was pinched by the fellows who did him in?”

“Not on your life. They staged a running-down case. If he’d had a car, they’d have staged a smash, instead. No. Bowshot had no car; but I don’t know why.” I saw him shrug his shoulders. “And that’s only a minor query. Except that some person or persons stood to gain by his death, when published, I don’t know anything. And yet I feel there’s a lot behind this case… Well, we shall see – before long. Of that, I’m perfectly sure: ‘for wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together.’”

So we came to the crossroads.

And not very long after that, the Rolls slid out of the shadows and picked us up.