part0017

CEDRIC CLARK , proprietor of Clark’s Filling Station at Findon, had a business friend coming to see him that morning. He was hoping to sell John Rother’s Hillman. Since Meredith had last examined the car, the windscreen and dash-board had been repaired, the blood-stains carefully erased, and the bodywork entirely repainted. Clark had followed the report of the inquest in the evening paper of the day before and, in keeping with the rest of the locality, had been shocked by the findings of the jury. William’s death, moreover, had placed him in a quandary with regard to the sale of the car. He would now have to make a visit to Chalklands and get Mrs. Rother’s authority to go ahead with the sale. Thornton was coming over to see him at eleven, so Clark hopped on to his motor-cycle and ran out to Chalklands directly after breakfast. He did not actually see Janet Rother—the housekeeper explained that she was still in bed resting—so he sent a message and in return received permission to go ahead with the sale of the car.

At eleven o’clock Tim Thornton rattled up in his weather-beaten service-car and stopped with a plaintive screech of brakes just beyond the petrol-pumps.

“That’s a blooming good advert for you—that car is, and no mistake,” said Clark. “Economizing on oil, eh?”

Thornton, a big-boned, lazy-looking fellow with sandy hair and a ginger moustache, climbed slowly out of his car and stood staring at the premises known as Clark’s Filling Station.

“Excuse me. Can you tell me if there is a garage anywhere near here? I understood that a damn’ fool called Clark was running a place in this one-horse village.”

“You need a garage,” retorted Clark pointedly, nodding at the relic and slapping Thornton on the back. “Come inside, m’lad, and we’ll see what we can do for you. We’ve a wreckage van at your disposal. Care to borrow it?”

“Grrrr!” growled Thornton as he followed his friend into the poky hole which went by the grandiloquent title of office. “Well, how’s business?”

“Oh, so-so. Can’t complain. How are you doing out your way?”

“Not too bad. Had a bit of bother in this district, haven’t you?” he went on after lighting a cigarette. “See from last night’s paper that they brought in a verdict of murder on that Rother chap.”

“Yeah,” agreed Clark. “Funny business that. First this spot of bother under Cissbury—now it seems that William Rother has copped it in the neck too. Sort of family curse, eh?”

“That Hillman handy?”

“Round the back, Tim. Want to see it now?”

“Well, I’ve got to be back by twelve to interview a customer.”

“Then we’d better snap into it, ole man. You’ll need all the time you can get if you’re going back on that barrel-organ outside. I bet the thirty limit has never worried her , eh? ”

“We do at least keep our pumps painted,” countered Thornton as he followed the proprietor through a maze of cars to where the Hillman was parked in a far corner of the main garage. “Hullo—is this the little wonder?”

“That’s her. Good as new—only done six thousand—freshly painted—new windscreen—good tyres and——”

“—licensed up to the end of the quarter,” went on Thornton with a mocking grin. “Go on. You can cut the cackle. That sort of snappy sales-talk won’t get any change out of me. You lift the bonnet and I’ll soon tell you if she’s the car for my customer. I promised him a snip and I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Not like some chaps.”

“There you are then,” said Clark, raising the bonnet and holding an inspection-lamp over the engine. “Take a squint at that. Nothing wrong with her guts, ole man.”

Just as Thornton was about to bend over the engine, however, he suddenly let out an exclamation of surprise and stepped back, the better to examine the car.

“Here—half a mo’—I’ve seen this car before. Light green, wasn’t she, before you painted her this filthy colour?”

“That’s it. How’d’ you recognize it?”

“See those two brass-headed nuts on the battery clamps? Fixed ’em myself when the owner garaged with me one week-end.”

“When was this?”

“Can’t say for sure. About a couple of months back, I dare say. But the chap’s been garaging regularly with me over week-ends for the past eighteen months or more. Funny, eh?”

“What was he like to look at?”

“Stocky, well-built sort of chap. Red-faced. Loud-voiced. Typical farmer, I reckon. Name of Reed, he said.”

“Reed?” Clark’s voice was quite shrill with excitement. “That wasn’t Reed. That was Rother. Betcher life it was! That was John Rother—the chap that was murdered under Cissbury here. Haven’t you ever seen his photo in the newspapers?”

“No time to read ’em, m’lad. I get all my news over the wireless. So that was John Rother, was it? Well, I be blowed. Never struck me that I’d ever met the chap when they broadcast an S O S about him. Funny ’im giving a false name like that, eh?”

“Fishy—if you ask me,” agreed Clark. “Darn’ fishy. I reckon Superintendent Meredith ought to know about this. Straight I do. He’d do well to come over and see you, Tim.”

“Bit of third degree, what? Though I don’t see that I can help him much. He’s the fellow investigating these murders, isn’t he?”

“You never know,” said Clark meaningly. “These police chaps pick up all sorts of odd bits of evidence, then they piece ’em together, and before you know where you are some poor bastard’s booked for the long drop. Anyway, what about the car?”

“Just turn her over,” said Thornton. “I guess she’ll suit all right. She was running sweet enough when I last saw her.”

Ten minutes later the deal had been concluded, and after a “quick one” in the pub up the street Thornton mounted his thunderous barouche and rattled off through the village.

Clark returned to his office and took up the ’phone. In a few minutes he was through to Meredith.

“Just caught me in time, Mr. Clark. I’m coming over to Chalklands this morning. What’s the trouble?”

Clark explained about his talk with Thornton. Meredith was interested at once.

“Look here, I’ll drop in on my way. Then you can give me details.”

Although Meredith did not expect to get much from this new data he was in no position to ignore even the flimsiest of clues. In an investigation one thing led to another, and quite often, in the long run, to the wanted man. He was still perplexed with regard to the part that the Cloaked Man had played in the crimes, though he was now inclined to think that his was the major rôle. These week-ends which Rother had spent, according to Barnet, at Brighton may have first brought him in contact with the man who was destined to murder him. Yes, most decidedly, this new thread of evidence would have to be followed up.

Clark was standing by the petrol-pumps, having a smoke, when the police car drew up. The two men at once retired to the little office. There Clark handed on all the information he had received from Thornton, embellishing the bare details with ornamental theories and opinions of his own. Meredith, however, soon sorted the wheat from the chaff.

“Where is this place of Thornton’s?”

“You know the Arundel-Brighton road which runs through Sompting and Lancing?” Meredith nodded. “Well, just beyond the toll-bridge which crosses the River Adur there’s a cross-roads.”

“I know the spot. Near there, is it?”

“About a couple of hundred yards on the Brighton side of the cross-roads—yes. Newish place—a bit flashy in its decoration to my mind. But old Thornton’s like that. He likes to make a splash.”

“I see—thanks. I’ll run out there and have a word with your friend as soon as I can. Decent of you to ring me up.”

“Oh, that’s O.K. I know how you chaps work. Nothing more you want to know?”

Meredith shook his head and, anxious to get on his way to the farmhouse, jumped into the car and told Hawkins to step on it. The little blue-black police car shot off up the road like a bullet from a rifle. Inside ten minutes it was parked in front of the long white verandah .

Kate Abingworth answered the Superintendent’s ring, and on asking for Janet Rother he was shown into the drawing-room.

“Mrs. Rother said that she didn’t want to be disturbed like, but I’m sure she’ll see you, surr. She’s lying down in her room.”

Whilst the housekeeper was absent Meredith mentally rehearsed his method of attack. He realized now that a good old-fashioned dose of third degree was absolutely necessary if he were to drag the truth from the girl. All along she had been keeping something back. There seemed little doubt now that she had placed the portions of John Rother’s body on the kiln. It looked, too, as if she must have written that faked confession. If the Cloaked Man were implicated in the crimes, then Janet Rother was the one person who could give him a line on his identity. She must be made to speak. He would have to put the fear of the devil into her and frighten her into a true statement of the facts.

Kate Abingworth came in. Meredith looked up. She was alone.

“Mrs. Rother not dressed?” he rapped out.

“Oh dear, surr,” agitated the housekeeper, “I can’t get no answer. I knocked and knocked but couldn’t get no reply. Her door’s locked, moreover. I called out for her to open it but she——”

“When did you last go up to Mrs. Rother?”

“About nine, surr, when the garridge chap called. I spoke to her through the door.”

“You didn’t see her?”

“Take up her breakfast?”

“She didn’t have no breakfast, surr. She told me last night particular not to disturb her this marning, though when the garridge chap come—— ”

“I see.” Meredith felt suddenly keyed-up. “Take me up to her room, will you?”

He followed the housekeeper along the corridor, up a broad, winding staircase to a second, narrower corridor on the second story. At the first white door on the left Mrs. Abingworth stopped.

“This it?” The housekeeper nodded. Meredith rapped sharply on the door and called out to ask if Mrs. Rother were inside. He listened. No answer. He banged hard with his fist and called out a second time. Still no answer.

“Oh dear, surr! Oh dear me, surr!” fluttered Mrs. Abingworth, already on the verge of tears. “What can it mean? I hope as nothing——”

“We must break in the door,” cut in Meredith. “Stand back a moment, and for heaven’s sake don’t get flustered.”

Exerting all his strength, Meredith put his shoulder to one of the upper panels. He was unable to move it.

“Got a coal-hammer downstairs? You have? Then trot down and fetch it. I’ll get my man from the car.”

Returning with Hawkins, just as Kate Abingworth came breathlessly up the stairs portering a large coal-hammer, Meredith snatched it from her, swung it back and brought it down with a crash on the panel above the lock. There was a rending of splintered woodwork and half the panel caved in, leaving a large gap through which the whole of the room was visible. Wasting no time on conjecture Meredith stuck in his head and took a quick look round. The room was empty!

“Maybe she’s hung herself in that cupboard, sir!” exclaimed Hawkins. “Like that old gal we found out at——”

“Shut up, you fool!” snapped Meredith with a warning glance in Kate Abingworth’s direction. “If you want to help, act, not think.”

He followed up this sensible piece of advice with a practical example, stretching down his hand inside the door to turn the key in the lock. Then he received a shock. There was no key!

“Good God!” Meredith ejaculated. “This door’s been locked on the outside. She’s taken the key with her. Here, take this hammer and break the lock. I want to get into that room and quick!”

But once inside the room Meredith’s belief that the girl had flitted received substantiating evidence. The bed and floor were littered with odd garments, shoes, tissue paper, and discarded coat-hangers. It was obvious, at a glance, that only a few hours before Janet Rother had been up in that room feverishly packing. And the reason for that? Meredith smiled to himself. Here was undeniable evidence of that clever young lady’s guilt.

As he and Hawkins were making a thorough search of the room, Meredith was thinking: “Well—what the devil am I to do now? I don’t reckon we’ve got enough evidence against that young woman to demand a warrant for her arrest. Dead sure the Chief would be against it. No—it looks as if we’ve got to trace her whereabouts and then keep her in sight until we do know enough to arrest her.”

Already his mind was busy at the job of working out a plan of campaign. General inquiries in the vicinity to find out if anybody had seen her leaving that morning. A ’phone-call to the Yard for them to interview those London solicitors. A description of the missing girl to be included in Police Orders . A watch on the ports to see if she left the country.

He could not for the life of him bring himself to believe that she had just slipped off to visit friends. One doesn’t pack in secret and leave the house without a word of farewell or any indication of one’s destination, unless one is desirous of doing a vanishing act. No—Janet Rother hadn’t just left for a week’s stay with the Littlehampton aunt!

“Anything of interest, Hawkins? ”

Meredith turned to Kate Abingworth who, for the last five minutes, had been “Oh dear-ing” all over the room and generally putting herself on the one spot where she was not wanted.

“I’d like you to keep quiet about this for the moment. Understand? I’ll let Mr. Barnet know what has happened and put him in charge of the arrangements up here. Mind you,” he added reassuringly, “there’s probably a perfectly simple explanation for Mrs. Rother’s departure. Don’t forget that she was overwrought after all she’d been through during these last few days. So, for heaven’s sake, don’t upset yourself, Mrs. Abingworth. Ten to one we’ll have your mistress back in this house, safe and sound, within twelve hours. Unless, of course, she’s just slipped off on a visit.”

But Kate Abingworth refused to be comforted.

“It’s no good, surr. You can’t fool an old woman such as I. I knows that we shall never see Mrs. Rother again. There’s a Hand on this family. You mark what I’m saying—a Hand of Evil. Its shadow has fallen athwart this house as sure as my name’s Kate Abingworth. First Mister John, then Mister Willum, and now——”

“Look here,” broke in Meredith with a filial smile, “suppose you pop downstairs and make us a cup of tea, eh? You could do that, couldn’t you? And mind,” he added, “no more worrying or I’ll take you off to the station. Get that?”

A little less tearful and prophetic, the housekeeper went down into the kitchen, where a little later the two men joined her in a cup of tea. When they left the farmhouse for Lychpole, the good-hearted old dame had already regained some of her natural liveliness. The shadow of the Hand seemed to have receded a little.

Aldous Barnet was sitting out in his thatched summer-house, engaged on his latest novel, when Meredith came out to him across the lawn. He was obviously disturbed by the news which Meredith brought, at a complete loss as to why Janet Rother had gone, and quite unable to suggest her destination. He gave Meredith one or two addresses, including that of her solicitors, but he was inclined to agree with the Superintendent that there was something more behind her disappearance than a simple desire for a change of air. He promised to deal with matters up at Chalklands should Janet fail to materialize. Save for the Littlehampton aunt he knew of no relatives, either of the Rothers’ or Janet’s, who could be called upon to help. He suggested that Mrs. Abingworth should be sent to her married sister at Arundel, and the house, for the time being, shut up. Meredith concluded their talk by promising to keep in touch with him as the new investigations proceeded.

Back in Lewes, Meredith spent the rest of the day putting in motion the vast machinery of police routine, a tiring and uninteresting occupation, but an essential one if Janet Rother’s whereabouts were to be discovered. By nightfall only one stimulating piece of information had come in. The Yard officials had interviewed the Rothers’ solicitors and, though they had been reticent over Janet’s affairs, the police had elucidated the following facts: (1) William Rother had left everything unconditionally to his wife; (2) This legacy now included all monies and estates left to William by his brother; (3) Mrs. Rother had instructed them to realize all money invested by her brother-in-law in industrials. This, the solicitors affirmed, could not be done in a moment as there was quite a lot of legal work to be undertaken before Mrs. Rother could benefit by her husband’s will. Her signature would be required for several of the documents and instructions had been left that all correspondence dealing with this matter was to be forwarded, poste restante, to a post office in Kensington High Street. The Yard were taking the precaution of having the post office watched for the next few days in case Janet Rother should turn up. They were not sanguine of results, however, as it would be a simple matter for the girl to send somebody else to collect her letters. They might be able to shadow a confederate to an address—on the other hand they might not. It was not easy in Town.

“About that money she’s withdrawing from the industrials,” asked Meredith over the ’phone, “any idea how her solicitors are handing it over to her?”

“Yes—in pound treasury notes.”

“About ten thousand pounds.”

The voice at the other end of the wire burst into laughter.

“Yes—I know. Struck us as rummy, too. Sounds a bit cumbersome, doesn’t it? But it’s suggestive.”

“Yes. It looks as if your lady friend is anxious to clear out of the country, and pound notes are more difficult to trace than those of larger denominations. She’s got her head screwed on the right way, hasn’t she?”

“Somebody behind her, I reckon,” said Meredith. “She’s only the tool. It’s the brains of the partnership we’re anxious to lay our hands on. You find the girl for us and we ought to be half-way to finding the man.”

“Thanks. That all? Cheerio!”

And the problem of Janet Rother’s whereabouts occupied the whole of the Superintendent’s time for the next week. He was here, there, and everywhere, making inquiries, taking down statements which led nowhere, instigating spurts of local police routine, checking reports, ’phoning, writing, cursing. But of no avail. At the end of the week he had learnt precisely nothing. Janet Rother, like Prospero’s spirit actors, had melted into air, into thin air. He felt depressed, worried, and ready to kick himself.

Evidence, he thought. He had shoals of evidence. Bags of it. Too much evidence. Yet somehow the key-word to the puzzle was still missing. It looked now as if in the long course of his investigations he had failed to register the vital clue. Just one small oversight, perhaps, and the three cases were at a standstill. He was ready to believe now that once the mystery of John Rother’s murder was solved, the second murder and Janet’s disappearance would, ipso facto , be solved as well. The three cases were so closely knit together and the common denominator was—surely?—the Cloaked Man. It was imperative, Meredith decided, to turn back the clock for a couple of months and begin a new phase of his investigation by finding out something about John Rother’s week-ends away from home. He must pay a visit to Tim Thornton.

Was it possible that this slender clue, brought to light by a chance conversation, was the equivalent to the key-word in the cipher? In any case it seemed to be his one remaining hope. If this line of inquiry failed then he might as well get ready to write “Unfinished Case” as a footnote to all his laborious investigations.