Chapter Nineteen

Mr. Murgatroyd In Different Mood

Mrs. Fotheringay had let the room to Murgatroyd and told Danny Bond that she had often been worried because he was seldom in at night. She had talked about Murgatroyd frequently. She hadn’t liked him, but as far as Danny knew had known nothing against him.

“Well,” said Rollison, sitting next to Grice in a police car, “we should soon be pretty close to the end of it, Bill.”

“I hope King keeps his eyes on Murgatroyd,” said Grice. “If Murgatroyd gets wind of what we’ve discovered, I wouldn’t like to answer for what will happen.”

“You told King to be careful, didn’t you?”

“Murgatroyd knows all the local policemen, and I was fool enough not to leave a man or two down there to help him,” said Grice. He looked at the speedometer needle, which was quivering on the seventy mark. The clock on the dashboard had stopped, and he asked: “What’s the time?”

“Half-past five.”

“And we’re not at Basingstoke yet,” said Grice.

They swept along the Basingstoke By-pass ten minutes later, and should cover the eighteen miles to Winchester in twenty-five minutes at most. Behind Rollison and Grice were two C.I.D. officers.

They reached Winchester just before six o’clock, went up the steep hill, and then along the narrow streets to the police-station. On the way, they had to pass Murgatroyd’s shop. Rollison thought he caught a glimpse of Murgatroyd at the window. When they reached the station, King greeted them with a smile.

“No trouble?” Grice asked.

“None at all. He hasn’t left the shop since you telephoned. I must say it shook me. I knew he was a sharp business man, but I didn’t think he was involved in crime. Took you in too, Mr. Rollison, didn’t he?”

“Hook, line, and sinker,” admitted Rollison.

“Why waste time?”

“I’m ready to raid the shop as soon as you like,” said King, “but I don’t think Murgatroyd will play the fool. He’ll know that the game’s up, and let himself be taken without any trouble.”

“Then he’ll act out of character with all that’s gone before,” said Grice.

Rollison winked at King, who hurried out for more men. Grice tapped impatiently on the table, while Rollison thought ruefully on how completely Murgatroyd had deceived him. Only the faintest suspicions that the man might have known more than he professed had entered his head, and they had been completely dispersed in London. King’s acceptance of the antique dealer as a reputable citizen was only a partial excuse for it. He had known that the centre was in the cathedral town, and had accepted too easily Murgatroyd’s glib explanation of his interest in the grandfather clock.

A man burst into the hall of the police-station in a state of such alarm that Grice swung round towards him. The man gasped at the sergeant on duty: “Where’s Mr. King? Murgatroyd’s just skipped out the back way. I couldn’t follow him, my tyre’s flat!”

“Come on!” roared Grice. He grabbed the man’s arm, dragging him towards the door. “What road did he take?”

“Romsey.”

They bundled into Grice’s car. Rollison squeezed in with the two plainclothes men at the back. Soon they were racing out of the town towards Romsey, and towards the Bramley Poultry Farm. Rollison was on the alert for a glimpse of the powerful American car which Murgatroyd owned.

The man next to Grice exclaimed: “There he is!”

They swept over the crest of the hill leading to the bungalow. Outside, close to the gate, was Murgatroyd’s car, but there was no sign of the antique dealer. The car was in such a position that they could not turn into the drive gates. Rollison thought that Grice was going to try, but at the last moment Grice trod on the brakes. His car squealed as it came to a standstill.

Rollison jumped out first. Grice caught his coat in the door, and wrenched it free. Rollison was already half-way up the drive, his automatic in hand.

There was no sign of Murgatroyd, no voices, nothing to suggest that the bungalow was occupied – except the open front door. Rollison would not have been surprised had shooting come from one of the windows, but there was nothing of the kind. He stood in the hall, with the others streaming along the drive, and called: “Alec! Alec!”

There was no answer.

He had looked in four of the six rooms before Grice and the others came in. In a few seconds they realised that the bungalow was deserted. They went through the kitchen and spilled out into the back garden.

At one of the long poultry sheds fowls were squawking, and standing outside, most of them looking towards the door of the shed. Suddenly there came a thud, and part of the wooden wall bulged outwards. Rollison jumped over the box hedge and ran towards the door.

Murgatroyd was on the floor against the wall, with his chin on his chest and one eye already swollen, a cut in his cheek, and his coat torn. Alec was leaning against the opposite wall, gasping for breath, and holding a broom like a club. He raised it as Rollison ducked to enter the shed, and then, recognising him, lowered it. He was too breathless to speak. On the floor between the two men was a heavy Service revolver, and not far from Alec’s side there was a hole in the wood, which had splintered. Murgatroyd was breathing wheezily, and had his hands folded across his stomach.

“Enjoying yourselves?” asked Rollison, and then Grice came in. “There’s our genial northcountryman, Bill. It looks as if Alec had got him served up for us.”

“Be careful!” gasped Alec. “He’s dangerous!”

“Not any more,” said Rollison. “Did you poke him in the stomach?”

“I tried to knock his head off!”

Others came in and pulled Murgatroyd to his feet.

“Take him out,” said Grice, grimly.

Murgatroyd was gaping like a fish, and he made no attempt to resist. He had to squeeze through the doorway, one man pulling him and the other pushing.

“Take him into the bungalow,” Grice called, and looked at Alec Stewart. “What happened here?”

“I’ll tell you—in a minute,” gasped Alec. “Can’t get—my breath.” He looked at the gun. “Thought he’d—got me.”

“You didn’t seem to be doing too badly,” Rollison observed.

Alec raised a hand, leaned the broom against the wall, and limped towards the door. The others went out first, and walked among the Leghorns and the Sussex Whites.

Murgatroyd was already in one of the front rooms.

Alec drank a glass of water, brushed his hands over his hair, and moved to the table. There was a patch of red at the waist of Alec’s khaki shorts, and Rollison noticed it for the first time.

“You’d better let us have a look at that,” Grice said, and Rollison went forward quickly.

“It’s only a graze, I can hardly feel it.”

Alec made no protest, however, as Rollison unfastened his belt and pulled up his shirt. The bullet had just cut the skin; it had bled freely, but seemed to have stopped. “It’s all right, I tell you,” insisted Alec. But Rollison wetted a towel and began to clean the graze, while the younger man began to explain: “I was cleaning out the shed when Murgatroyd appeared in the doorway. If he hadn’t jammed his gun in his pocket I wouldn’t have stood an earthly.” He looked bewilderedly at Rollison. “What the devil came over him? I had just time to jump to one side, and the bullet missed—well, nearly missed. I had a bucket in my hand and slung it at him, and that gave me time to get the broom and knock the gun out of his hand. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in all my life as I was to see you!”

“Thank Grice for moving fast,” said Rollison.

“What did he say?” asked Grice.

“Absolutely nothing! I saw him pulling the gun out of his pocket. He must have gone round to every shed, looking for me. I thought I heard a car earlier,” he added, “but I didn’t take much notice. What’s Murgatroyd run amok for?”

“Being party to a murder or murders,” said Rollison. “It’s a pity that you don’t know what’s been happening in London. Danny Bond has been released, and the man who actually committed the murders has been arrested. So have some of his associates. We discovered that Murgatroyd was involved, and Grice could not get here soon enough.”

Alec said: “So you’ve got your men.”

“Most of them,” said Grice.

Alec stared at him. “Now what’s on your mind? If you think that I know anything about this, you’re mistaken.”

“Yet Murgatroyd came to kill you,” said Grice. “It must have been because of something you know.”

“It couldn’t have been.”

“I’ll have to ask you to come into Winchester for questioning,” said Grice. “We—”

“I’ve got to look after the farm!”

“That will have to wait,” said Grice.

“I’m damned if it will,” said Alec, angrily. “I’ve a lot to do before dark. Murgatroyd’s your man—ask him why he came. If you must drag me into Winchester for something I know nothing about, make it after dark, when I’ve locked all the sheds up.” When Grice did not answer, he went on: “I daren’t leave the place untended, I can’t be sure whether there will be another raid on the fowls. I lost another twenty last night, someone locked a cat up in with some of my Leghorns.”

“After dark is reasonable, surely,” Rollison said, finishing his firstaid work.

“It’s too late,” said Grice, “I’m going to get this thing finished now, once and for all. I’ll leave two men here to make sure that nothing happens to your chickens.”

“A fat lot of use they’ll be,” said Alec. “Two policemen were supposed to be watching the place last night, weren’t they?” Grice made no comment. “Oh, well, if I must come I suppose I must, but I’ll have to change.” He walked towards the door, and Grice raised no objection, while he and Rollison heard fresh voices outside. Two of King’s policemen who had been keeping watch from a distance had arrived, both of them sheepish. Grice was in a mood when he spared no one, and the men were red-faced when he had finished with them. Then he looked at Rollison, who was smiling, and snapped: “What’s so funny?”

“You in this mood,” said Rollison. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“If you had your way, you’d leave Stewart here, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I think he’s had trouble enough, and I’m going to make one more effort to find out what he’s supposed to know. May I?”

Grice said: “Oh, I suppose so.”

“Thanks.” Rollison went to the door of Alec’s room; it was ajar. He went inside and found Alec stepping carefully into a pair of flannel trousers; he had already changed his shirt, and was wearing a tie. He frowned up at Rollison, who closed the door.

“You’re all wasting your time and mine,” growled Alec.

“You’re too prejudiced,” said Rollison, “but that’s not surprising. Murgatroyd wouldn’t come here to kill you for no reason at all. You were nearly murdered once before. You take it too calmly, and the police are naturally suspicious.”

“They’d suspect my fowls—they don’t know any better than to call them chickens!”

“Not all the world knows that a chicken is a fowl until it gets to the table. However, we are now wasting time in earnest. Alec, I’m inclined to believe you when you say that you know nothing, but I think you suspect a lot, and that it’s playing old Harry with your nerves.” He took out an envelope, and opened it deliberately.

He extracted the photograph of Mrs. Fotheringay, and held it towards the poultry farmer.

Alec glanced at it, then up at Rollison, and his eyes were blazing. All the colour faded from his cheeks. He would not look at the photograph again, and Rollison said: “That is Mrs. Fotheringay, the woman with whom Danny Bond was lodging.”

Alec drew in a sharp breath.

“You’ve been unfortunate in your parents, Alec, haven’t you? You said your mother was dead, but this is her.” He stared into the man’s unhappy eyes, and went on softly: “You’ll have to face it now. You knew that she was your mother, and suspected her of being a criminal. That was why Danny Bond came to see you, wasn’t it, to tell you what he’d learned about her. Danny is a better friend than you think. He hasn’t uttered a word to make us think that she was involved, even when things looked very black for him. Did Sheila know?”