Anthony Lotherington Bathurst dined with Godfrey Slade, Star Merrilees, ‘Fingo’ Bradshaw, and Chief Inspector Andrew MacMorran. At a table suitably secluded, and specially selected by no less a person than Murillo himself. Anthony called his favourite Benito to his side and made arrangements with regard to the wine. Star sipped a cocktail and ‘Fingo’ Bradshaw ate olives with steady determination. Godfrey Slade said little. After a time Anthony spoke.
“I asked you all to come—because I felt you should all be here,” He paused.
“I am grateful,” said Slade, “there’s a lot to explain.”
The waiter brought oysters. “Shall I, then, proceed?” enquired Anthony. The others nodded their acceptance of his proposal.
“I suppose,” went on Anthony, “that many people, sitting in judgment would call the guilty man a sadist. I would go farther than that. His sadism was allied with madness. Madness that had been handed down to him from a previous generation. You, Slade, probably know more of your ancestor, the late Sir Hugo Slade, than I do. See to Miss Merrilees’s wine, will you please—I’ve ordered Liebfraumilch with the sole meunière.” Anthony lifted his own glass. “I will tell you how the truth gradually came to me. Do you remember the three letters, Inspector, that were received by Sir Cloudesley, Lambert, and Whitfield?”
“Ay,” returned MacMorran. “Verra well.”
“It struck me that one man might very well have posted the letters that bore the Maidenhead and the Windsor postmarks. The third envelope, with the Basingstoke postmark, might have contained a perfectly innocent letter, sent to Sir Cloudesley and then have been used again, by him, to hold his ‘warning.’ I think that idea was my first real starting-point. From there, I cast my mind back. To the occasion of my first meeting with him. He was talking about his great-grandfather, Sir Hugo Slade, and he attributed this remark to that gentleman. ‘Put your money on a horse, on a dog or on a—’ and he stopped abruptly before naming what the third substantive was to have been. I wondered at the time what it was he had been about to say but it got pushed out of my mind. Until recently—when I had occasion to recall it.”
The waiter brought roast chicken. Anthony waited for a few moments. Then he resumed his story.
“I happened to be reading a copy of the Sporting Life one day. Not by accident. By design. That estimable paper published special obituary notices of Bailey, Donovan, and Jago. You know the idea—with details of their respective careers. I suddenly noticed that they had all three men been born in the wild month of March.”
Bradshaw made a quick movement. “Exactly, ‘Fingo’,” said Anthony easily, “that was the main reason why you were chosen as my bait. I knew that I should have to tell you at some time or the other.”
Bradshaw grinned appreciatively. Anthony went on. “As I read my sporting paper, my thoughts went back a hundred years and more, and I tried to picture the early editions of the Sporting Life and to wonder what its columns must have looked like, as compared with the present day. Its boxing articles . . . its racing accounts . . . those old prints of racehorses galloping with two legs spread out in front and two behind . . . what other sports there were . . . and then, gentlemen, and dear, kind lady, I thought of ‘cock-fighting.’ And I knew from some strange instinct at work in my brain, that the word which Sir Cloudesley had refrained from using, deliberately refrained, mark you, was the word ‘cock’.”
MacMorran leant forward with ill-concealed excitement. “Bonny work, man! I’ve puzzled my brains for days as to how you got on to it.”
“Thank you, Andrew. It all began to fit, too. The ‘claw-marks’ for instance! I had always insisted to the Inspector here, that the claw-marks on the sand at the various places were much too large to have been made by any known bird. Then I had what I think I may, in all honesty describe as a real out-of-the-top-drawer brain-wave. A memory came floating towards me out of the past. Something I had read at some time in my history. It concerned those boys who had all been born in March. I ’phoned a pal of mine who, I knew, was more or less an authority on the subject.”
Anthony held up his story once again while Benito brought the savoury. Then he took a slip of paper from his pocket-book.
“This is an extract from an old book which Meldrum—that’s the bloke’s name—read to me over the ’phone. ‘In the opinion of the best Cock-Masters, a right hen of the game, from a dung-hill cock, will breed the finest cocks from the increase of the moon in February to the increase of the same in March . . . she will hatch those chickens commonly after one-and-twenty days.’ Far-fetched? My dear people, Sir Cloudesley’s mind had gone . . . and when I tell you that Sir Hugo Slade bred the finest fighting cocks of his day in the South of England and that his mains took place in that domed hall on his estate where you and I, Andrew, and Bradshaw here, spent some little time the other day, you will realize the truth of things.”
“Amazing,” whispered Godfrey Slade.
Anthony went on. “I then endeavoured to visualize how the three men had been killed. MacMorran and I noticed that the cuts and slits were confined, in every instance, to the face, ears, neck, chest, shoulders, and upper part of the body. There were none, in any instance on the hands or wrists! Why? I deduced from this that the hands and wrists had been covered—protected in some way! In what way? The answer was comparatively simple. It was obviously boxing-gloves.”
Star’s eyes shone with approbation. Anthony smiled at her and continued.
“I then began to gasp a little as the enormity of it all came home to me—sorry, Slade. I saw, I thought, the conditions of this modern ‘cock-fight.’ As arranged by the producer! Friend Asater, fitted into the pattern minus a flaw. I pictured Asater, equipped in some cruel manner at which I could only hazard a guess, and like a sharp-heeled cock, lacerating his victim until he was past the power of resistance. Tell them, Andrew, what you found on Asater when you arrested him.”
“The top of the gloves was missing. Instead, strapped to the back of the knuckles, was a sort of comb, fitting tight. The ‘teeth’, firmly slotted, were razor-blades. Some of the gangs, you know, use razor-blades attached to their finger-nails. Our man had gone one better. Or worse!”
Star Merrilees shuddered.
“The claw-marks on the beach and on the floor in the house at Notting Hill were, of course, faked. Obsessed by the cock idea, Sir Cloudesley had had a huge claw fashioned out of wood for this purpose. Bellamy, I have since heard, is a carpenter of parts. I suspect that it was of his manufacture.”
“What was the idea . . . behind it all . . . just blood-lust?” asked Godfrey Slade in a toneless voice.
“I fear so, Slade. He delighted in the sight and sensuality of flowing blood. I fancy that watching an ordinary scrap had become tame for him. He craved for the blood excitement. He met Bailey at Evenino’s—at a dinner of sporting celebrities. Bailey was a fine fellow . . . it came out in some way that he was born in March. Full of ancient cock-fighting lore, Sir Cloudesley seized on the idea. It appealed after the macabre to his particular obsession. He would have his own boxing ‘cock-fights’ just as his ancestor, Sir Hugo had. The venue was already on his estate . . . it merely needed modernizing. So by some means he got hold of Asater and Bellamy. Probably at a low fighting dive in the East End. He frequented such places regularly. Asater had recently arrived from somewhere in the States. They were well paid. Asater—Sir Cloudesley had doubtless seen him fight—was a first-class boxer.”
MacMorran intervened with a question. “Do you imagine Asater and Bellamy fell in with the project when it was first put to them? It seems to me rather—”
“No, Andrew, I don’t. It was in all probability administered by degrees. I incline to the idea that they were committed up to a point . . . and then found it too late to back out in measurable safety. And—as I said previously—the money was good.”
“What I can’t understand,” said Godfrey Slade, “is the Donovan business. Why was Donovan killed . . . seeing he was fighting for my father against Secretan’s man? That all seems so contradictory to me. . . .”
“Your father didn’t mind losing that money in the least,” Anthony sipped his coffee. “Whatever else might happen, Donovan’s death would be bound to divert any suspicion that might be knocking about boxing circles, from him. He, surely, would be the last person on earth to be suspected. He then employed the same technique with regard to Jago and yourself. As a matter of fact, he spoke to me of Jago with terrific enthusiasm. You were abducted by friends of Asater . . . on your father’s orders. You weren’t to be seriously harmed. Kept in cold storage for a day or so and then doped. But you threw a spanner into the machinery when you got your message through to the outside world. He knew this had happened so he sent warnings to the different parts of the gang. That was the reason Chandler and Smith skipped when they did.”
“What was their original intention?” enquired Godfrey Slade.
“To hand you over to Smith, I think. Smith would have driven you somewhere in a car and dumped you there to be picked up by somebody, little the worse for wear.
“Tell me this,” asked Star impulsively. “Why was Godfrey put into those awful woman’s clothes?”
“That’s a poser, rather,” returned Anthony, “that has given me a teasing to find the right answer. I’ll tell you though, what I think. That the instructions for you to be dressed like that came from Sir Cloudesley. Seeing a woman lying on the vital seat almost certainly meant that we should delay our action for a time at least. Had we seen a man’s figure—we should have moved forward immediately. Delayed action on our part suited his book.”
“I think you’re right, Mr. Bathurst,” added Inspector MacMorran.
“You see,” continued Anthony, “that Sir Cloudesley was vulnerable from the point of view of suspicion by reason of the fact that his estate was in Sussex. Worthing, Littlehampton, and Lancing . . . coming in quick succession . . . might have made things a bit awkward for him. He reckoned that when you came within the orbit of attack, Slade, that fact alone would be enough to let him out.” Bradshaw nodded. He evidently saw the force of Anthony’s point.
“Those photos,” put in MacMorran, “that were found on the dead men? I’m still a little puzzled about them.”
“I think they can be easily explained,” replied Anthony. “Bailey carried one of his sister. When he died it was taken off him. When Donovan died they found that he too carried a photo of his wife. With fiendish cunning, the Bailey photo was put in the Donovan pocket and when Jago died the Donovan photo was there already for his pocket! Sir Cloudesley argued to himself, no doubt, that the substitutions would be bound to confuse and complicate matters. At least—that’s how I see it.” Anthony took his liqueur. “Well . . . there I was . . . pretty well confident of what had been happening. I told you I ’phoned a pal of mine after I’d drawn inspiration from the columns of the Sporting Life. I wanted from him an introduction to somebody in the boxing world who was a fine specimen and whose birthday fell in the right compartment of the calendar. There I was gloriously lucky. I had produced for me a man I was delighted to meet. You know him. He’s sitting next to me at the moment. I met ‘Fingo’ and I had to dangle him in front of our mad murderer. I felt that a direct contact would invite suspicion. So I held him out to Marcus Secretan. It didn’t take long to get Sir Cloudesley interested. The lust for blood was increasing. ‘Fingo’ knew my plans. I had to outline them to him. He’s a brave man and was willing to take the risk. It came. In the shape of the usual letter.” Anthony turned to Bradshaw. “You tell them the rest, ‘Fingo’.”
Bradshaw flushed. “There isn’t a great deal to tell. I kept an appointment. Asater and Bellamy put me into a car. The Inspector’s men were shadowing me all the time and knew where I was. All the roads were watched. The Inspector knew the car I was in, and its description and number were ’phoned ahead on all the likely routes. He and Mr. Bathurst here and a couple of men from the ‘Yard’ were on my tail all the way down. Don’t call me brave . . . I was in cotton wool, as you might say, all the way through. Except, perhaps, when I saw those wicked razor-blades. Even though Mr. Bathurst had partly warned me—I’ll admit they gave me a nasty turn.”
‘Fingo’ Bradshaw laughed at the reminiscence and drank wine.
“Not far out of London the car picked up the old man. He was waiting for it. He was quite charming to me. In fact I had a hard job to persuade myself of the truth, as Mr. Bathurst had given it to me. The car burnt up the road. Near a village, we knocked a man down and killed him. It was a pure accident. He ran right into us. Luckily the road just there was deserted. Bellamy was driving and at first, old man Slade cursed at him like hell for what he thought must mean delay. Then, suddenly, his mood changed. He shoved his own hat and his coat on the dead man, shoved the body in the car, stuffed some papers in his pocket, laughed like a hyena and told Bellamy to make for the railway line. We made it somewhere and Asater in the darkness dumped the bloke on the line. While he was gone on this errand the old man kept on laughing and muttering to himself ‘that’ll make them think twice about me.’ I guess you’re acquainted with all the rest.”
Bradshaw finished his wine and turned to his Benedictine. “Well,” said Anthony, “we’re very close to the curtain. And I must pay the bill. For this one evening you’re all my guests.” He signalled to the waiter.
MacMorran leant over the table. He passed a slip of paper to Anthony. “Something that may interest you. Came to-day.”
Anthony read: “Stella Molyneux in New York City. Crossed in the spring of last year. Being married next week to young lawyer—Curtis Singleton.” Anthony smiled. “That clears her up. Just as well. Don’t like loose ends.” He looked round the assembled company. “Well, any more questions? Speak now—or for ever hold your peace.”
“Yes.” said Andrew MacMorran, “one from me. Why did Bellamy go to the Belfairs fight done up like Mother Machree?”
“Because, my dear Andrew,” replied Anthony sweetly, “he guessed we should be there and he didn’t want us to recognize him—wen or no wen. We had nothing on Asater but I had on Bellamy, remember.”
Godfrey Slade put his hand on Star’s arm and spoke to Anthony. “Have a drink with me, Bathurst! I shouldn’t like you to think . . .”
Anthony cut him short. “Thanks, Slade. I don’t mind if I do.”
Finis