“Sit down, Mr. Bathurst,” said Chief Inspector MacMorran. Anthony took what was his favourite seat in the Inspector’s room at the ‘Yard’—on the corner of MacMorran’s table. Anthony smoked a cigarette and swung his legs.
“I have something to tell you,” said the Inspector, “something of the greatest importance.”
“Re the Donovan affair?”
“Yes.”
“In relation to the missing Bath boxer, Mike Jago?”
“Yes.”
“Dead?”
MacMorran nodded gravely. “Dead. The news has just come through. Getting a little too hot, isn’t it?”
“Where—this time?”
“Same territory. Lancing. Or near Lancing, to be exact.”
“On the beach?”
“Ay. The same technique all over again. Face in ribbons. Chest, shoulders and ears tom and cut in the same way. Hands and wrists untouched.” MacMorran leant over to him. “What was the name of that bird you were telling Lilley and me about down at Littlehampton? I’ve forgotten it.”
“The Pteranodon. But I thought from your remarks that you were the confirmed sceptic?”
“So I was,” growled MacMorran, “and still am.”
“Good old Andrew,” murmured Anthony, “unswervin’ devotion to a cause. Any details through yet from Lancing?”
“No,” returned the Inspector, “beyond what I’ve already told you. We heard those about an hour ago. From Sussex. They got through to us first of all and then were getting through to the police at Bath.”
Anthony clasped his hands across one knee. “Pity we don’t know all. At this stage I could bear to hear all the details. Might feel more certain of my ground, if I did.”
MacMorran stared at him wonderingly. “What are you thinking of . . . particularly?”
Anthony unclasped his hands and rubbed his cheek contemplatively. “Footprints . . . shall we say . . . on the sands of Time? Not altogether unlikely, I should think. What do you think about it yourself, Andrew?”
MacMorran scratched on his blotting pad with a pen. “The same. I adore consistency.”
“Bailey, Donovan and now Jago,” said Mr. Bathurst almost to himself. “And all killed the same way. What’s the answer to it, Andrew? Is there one? Have you got one for me?”
MacMorran shook his head gloomily. “Can’t think of anything. My mind’s a blank.”
“Fighting youth,” said Anthony, still half meditative, “all of ’em as fit as fiddles. Grand specimens. The rich red wine of youth was there all right. Poured out as waste. Why? Motive Andrew, motive, What is it? Where is it?”
“Search me. Don’t get it at all. Sorry I can’t help you—but that’s how it is.”
Anthony went on from there. “If the idea were to remove Donovan from the point of view of the Blood scrap with which he was concerned, how on earth does that idea team up with the elimination of Bailey and now Jago? And Bailey came first—remember!”
“Went first,” corrected MacMorran.
Anthony ignored the sinister amendment. “Why the three, Andrew? What have they got in common—these three—beyond the fact that they’re ‘scrappers’ in the first flight?”
“To get to the bottom of this problem,” responded MacMorran, “we shall have to do what they were taught to do. Box clever.”
But Anthony still pursued his own line of thought. “And think of this, Andrew—all about the same age. All about the same height. All about the same weight. What else can you tell me, Andrew?”
MacMorran made no reply.
“Huh! So you won’t talk—eh, Andrew? What do I do, then, if you won’t talk?”
“That’s easy. Wait for somebody else to talk. One voice is as good as another. Sometimes better.”
“Who else is going to talk? Whom we can feel certain about.”
MacMorran shrugged his shoulders. “The Sussex Police authorities for one. I’m expecting them to come through any moment now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
MacMorran grinned. For the first time during the encounter. “Why didn’t I? If I had told you you’d have known as much as I do.”
Anthony grinned back at him. “Or even more, Andrew. It’s possible. Have you thought of that?”
“I’ve thought of everything and I fear that I’m no nearer the truth than when I started.”
MacMorran relapsed again into gloomy pessimism.
Anthony, from his seat on the table, leant over towards him.
“Look here—if you think—”
The telephone rang before he could complete his sentence. MacMorran rather ungraciously removed the receiver. “MacMorran speaking . . .” He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Anthony. “From Lancing,” he murmured. “More information coming through . . . hallo . . . yes?”
Anthony waited patiently for the news. He could obtain no sound clue from MacMorran’s interjections as to what was being said at the other end of the line. MacMorran, however, was frowning and Anthony knew what that sign portended.
“I’m much obliged,” Anthony heard him say eventually, “and you may rely on our complete co-operation at this end.” MacMorran replaced the receiver.
“Well,” said Anthony, “out with it.”
MacMorran raised his head slowly and looked at him. “The claw print’s there. Close to the body. Two of ’em this time. Between the body and the sea. Just as with Donovan. I don’t like it, Mr. Bathurst. It’s makin’ me shiver—and I don’t mind admittin’ it.”
Anthony’s eyes mocked him. “And if a confirmed sceptic gets cold feet and his knees can be heard knocking together—how can ordinarily credulous mortals face the acid test?”
“This is no time for joking. It’s out of place.”
“Still less for shivering, Andrew. If you’ll allow me to say so.”
Anthony Bathurst walked to the window and looked out across the river. “This third time may prove lucky for us, Andrew. Let’s hope so in case not. Jago’s wife or Jago’s mother may have kept the letter or the envelope of the decoy message. Like Mrs. Donovan did. And that’s more hoping by our side.”
“I’ll make a note of that point and put it to Bath when I hear from them. As you say, we might have the luck on our side for once. It’s time it broke our way. But this ‘bird’ idea of yours, Mr. Bathurst—I can’t help thinking about it. It kind of worries me. If such a thing had happened—as you described to Lilley and me—”
Anthony cut in unmercifully. “How is it that it always carefully selects boxers? Clever bird! Is that your question, Andrew? Because if it is, I’ll admit at once that the same point puzzles me and that I can’t answer it.”
MacMorran saw that Anthony was pulling his leg. “Of course, if you put it like that—” he started.
Anthony broke in on him. “Get a copy of that claw-print, Andrew. From Lancing. We must have a careful look at it. Compare it with the other. And ask for as many details as you can get when you enquire about the letter and the envelope from Bath. I don’t want delay on either of those points. I hate delay at any time and I shall positively writhe under it here.”
“I’ve an idea,” said MacMorran suddenly.
“No!” replied Anthony incredulously.
“Yes,” said Andrew MacMorran—“and I’m serious about it. Listen! Secretan—the man that old Slade’s up against—Marcus Secretan, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Andrew.”
“It would be to his advantage to put ‘Lefty’ Donovan out of mess, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course it would. From a money point of view. But you heard what I just said regarding Bailey and Jago, didn’t you?”
“A blind—very likely. Secretan may be a man that sticks at nothing. Supposing for a moment that he decides on a certain plan of campaign—”
Anthony interrupted him. “Nothing doing, Andrew. I can’t take it. Sorry—but you’re down the wrong street. It’s a cul-de-sac that one!—you’ll never be able to get out of it.”
MacMorran looked annoyed at the interruption.
“We’re up against something much bigger than I think you imagine, Andrew. Something more horribly evil. Something, I fear, which kills for the mere sake of killing. That’s a terrible thing for me to say, I know—but I feel that it’s true. We’ve fought sadists before, you and I . . . . but I don’t think we’ve encountered one of this particular calibre. There’s something very much like a monster in this background and it may be that he will get us before we can get him.”
“If it’s flesh and blood I’m facing, I don’t mind, Mr. Bathurst. I know what to prepare for. What I can’t tackle is . . . er . . .”
“Feathers and claws—eh, Andrew? Is that the idea?” Anthony grinned. MacMorran caught the mood and grinned back at him.
“All right, Mr. Bathurst. Have it your own way. You win.”
Anthony thumped him on the back. “Good for you, Andrew.”
MacMorran at once became severely practical. “What are you going to do?”
Anthony swung his legs. “Don’t quite know. Puzzled. Wait for more from the Jago end, I think. If we’re lucky, it may put us on to something. And then—after that—” he stopped. The Inspector waited for him. He went on. “Well—there’s the fight. If it takes place. Assuming that there’s dirty work about that there scrap—giving you the bare bones of your own theory, Andrew—we may well be on the verge of further developments.”
“When is it due?”
“In a few days’ time. On the twelfth. At the Belfairs Stadium, Not such a terrific time to wait, is it?”
“One of the most remarkable features of the affair,” tangented MacMorran, “as I see it—is the complete disappearance of Bellamy. We’ve had a thorough comb-out for him all over the country and haven’t made a touch anywhere. Not the hint of one. That worries me.”
“On the other hand, I rather like it.”
“What on earth makes you think like that?”
“It fits in with an idea that I have. That Bellamy, my dear friend ‘Banjo’ Bellamy, with whom I have a pressing appointment in the near future, has a hide-out all set where be can flit at any time when it suits his book. It can be found, Andrew, this place where the Bellamy goes to in the winter time. In other words, if he can find the way, so can we.”
“I don’t share your optimism.”
“Never mind, Andrew. Pack it all up for the time being—and come and share some beer.”
MacMorran rose immediately.