part0021

BACK in Lewes, Meredith at once inquired whether the Chief Constable could see him. On receiving an affirmative reply he went along the corridor from his own office, rapped on Major Forest’s door and went in. The Chief was standing at the window, staring out with his hands clasped behind his back. It was a typical attitude of his when worried or in a black mood.

“Well?” he snapped, without turning round.

“Meredith, sir—I want to have a word with you about the Rother cases.”

“All right. Take a cigarette and sit down. I’ve wanted to see you. Not satisfied, you know. Things don’t seem to be moving. Half a mind to get in the Yard, Meredith. Sorry, but there it is.”

Meredith suddenly felt angry and depressed. Why, dammit, he was doing all that a man could to hasten along results! It was unfair of the Old Man to drag in the Yard to polish off a case that he himself had slaved on for nearly six weeks. But that was often the case—a County chap did all the spade-work and then, just when a glimmer of daylight appeared, the Yard came in and reaped the benefit.

Swallowing down his annoyance, Meredith said politely:

“Sorry you think that’s necessary, sir. Particularly as my investigation’s on the move again.”

“But is it, Meredith? Is it? That car was found on July 21st. It’s now August 27th. It’s certainly time something moved. That Horsham case didn’t do us any good, you know. You weren’t in on that—granted. But this is a newspaper affair. I’ve got to have results. If you can’t get ’em for me, then I’ve got to turn to the Yard—see?”

“I quite understand, sir. But with this new evidence——”

“Well, let’s hear it,” barked the Chief, plumping himself down into his desk-chair. “I may be able to stave off the evil moment—come on.”

With a careful choice of words Meredith set out, point by point, his final theory about the doings of the Cloaked Man. He stressed the importance of the evidence discovered in Brook Cottage and showed how plausible was the idea that the Cloaked Man, in the disguise of Jeremy Reed, had used the cottage as a hide-out until he had committed the second murder. As he proceeded the worried look on Major Forest’s features gradually relaxed, until finally he began to nod and throw in little exclamations of agreement and approval.

“Quite. ... Quite so. ... I see that. ... Yes, of course. ... Let’s see now—how long was it between the two murders?”

“Just on three weeks, sir. William Rother was discovered dead on August 10th.”

“And you suggest that this unknown man hid away in Brook Cottage for three weeks without being discovered. What about food?”

“Well, Rother apparently had an arrangement with Fortnum and Mason’s about that. I presume that their deliveries were continued. ”

“A point to find out, Meredith.”

“There’s another thing—what about that sale notice?”

“How do you mean?”

“If there was a board up somebody must have got in touch with the agents about the sale of the cottage. Couldn’t have been Rother. He was dead. See what I mean?”

“By Jove, sir! I hadn’t thought of that. This chap must have visited the agents.”

“Yes—or left the job to Janet Rother.”

“A bit difficult for them to convince the agents that they had the proper authority, surely, sir?”

“Same point went through my mind. It’s up to you to find out how they did it.”

“Pretty obvious, too, that the agents were not approached until somewhere near August 10th.”

“I don’t quite——”

“Simple. Our man wouldn’t be such a fool as to run the risk of prospective clients wanting to see over the place while he was using it as a hide-out. I reckon he must have got in touch with the agents on the 9th or thereabouts.”

“I’ll follow that up as well, sir.”

“Right. I suggest your line of inquiry should be to find out if anybody noticed whether Brook Cottage was occupied during those three weeks. Interview those agents. Find out about the food deliveries. It depends on what sort of report you put in, Meredith, whether I’m justified in keeping out the Yard. Up to you. Understand?”

“Quite, sir. You agree that this is an advance?”

“Certainly—provided it’s in the right direction. You know as well as I do that it’s only too easy to advance down a side-track. We want main-road progress. I don’t want to dishearten you, Meredith—but it’s only fair to let you know what’s in my mind.”

Still feeling a little sore, though somewhat relieved by the Chief’s promise to hold off from any immediate action, Meredith went back to Arundel Road for lunch. He had warned Hawkins to have the car ready for him at two o’clock.

Over lunch Tony observed to his father:

“See that bird over at Storrington got a lagging for whizzing those sparklers out of old Rushington’s peter, Dad.”

Meredith eyed his son with obvious distaste.

“Good heavens—where did you pick that up?”

“Just read a book, Dad—jolly good yarn—it had all the thieves’ lingo in it. To whizz means to steal, you know.”

“Really?” said Meredith dryly, with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Yes—and a peter’s a safe.”

“So what you’re really trying to tell me,” said Meredith, admirably controlling his inward amusement, “is that Slippery Sid has got a stretch of penal servitude for stealing Lord Rushington’s diamonds from the safe—is that it?”

“It was all in today’s edition of the Courier . Care to see it, Dad?”

Meredith chuckled and shook his head.

“George Hanson cleared up that job, Tony, and since he’s done it we’ve heard nothing else but that case up at headquarters. So you can darn’ well spare me the newspaper report, see?”

It was Tony’s turn to grin and look wise.

“You haven’t arrested the chap that murdered William Rother yet, have you, Dad?”

“You know I haven’t,” growled Meredith. “I wish you wouldn’t talk shop at meal-times. Eat up your greens!”

“Well, I only asked ,” was Tony’s plaintive explanation. “You see, Slippery Sid did his job on August the tenth. ”

“And what of that?”

“That was the night that William Rother was murdered, wasn’t it?”

“During the early hours of the tenth—yes,” admitted Meredith.

“Well, you see, Dad, Sid lived in Worthing, so the newspapers said, and he worked that stunt over at Storrington with a bicycle. Chances were that he went through Washington—he couldn’t really go any other way, could he? Chances are he may have seen or heard something. Might be able to give you a clue, Dad.”

Meredith looked at Tony sternly and slowly shook his head as if censuring his consuming interest in crime.

“If you knew as much about your job as you do about mine you’d be a first-class Bond Street photographer in a couple of years.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Tony. “But it was a darn good idea of mine, wasn’t it?”

“That’s just the trouble, m’lad—it’s a first-class idea. Worthy of your father in fact. And what’s more, Tony, I’m going to follow it up. Sid may be just the witness I was looking for. And now he’s jugged he’ll speak all right. Probably hope to get a bit off his sentence. Quite smart of you, Tony.”

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, Dad. Green’s have got a new five-valve, super-het wireless on display. I wondered if you’d like to——”

“Yes,” said Meredith as he got up and filled his pipe. “And you can go on wondering.” He glanced at the clock. “Good heavens, look at the time! I must be off!”

Hastily kissing his wife he walked briskly to the station where Hawkins was already waiting with the car.

“Bramber first and then on to Brighton.”

Back once more in Bramber, for the second time that day, Meredith’s run of good luck continued. Accompanied by the local constable, Fletcher, he interviewed all sorts of diverse, unprofitable Bramberites, until finally they ran up against Tom Biggins, the portly landlord of the “Loaded Wain”. Tom was as round as a barrel, as talkative as a parrot, and as pessimistic as an astronomer in a thick fog. But, as Meredith soon learnt, he had good cause for his pessimism. Tom was a chronic sufferer from insomnia. He had tried everything from counting sheep to a hop-pillow, but all of no avail. Finally in despair he had taken to walking around the countryside during the small hours in the hope of getting a little sleep before it was time to get up and breakfast. And Tom, when questioned by the Superintendent, had noticed more than one odd thing about Brook Cottage.

“Yes—’bout the end o’ July it would be—I was walking up White’s Lane making a bit of a round of it—see? And jigger me if I didn’t see smoke coming out o’ the cottage chimney. Struck me queer like seeing as it was as stuffy a night as we’ve had this year. But o’ course I knew the ole chap was a bit off his rocker so I didn’t think much more to it. Any idea as what ’ee was up to, Sooper?”

“Burning something, I expect—where there’s smoke there’s fire, you know.” He was thinking of that charred catalogue and wondering. “Can you fix the date a trifle more closely, Mr. Biggins?”

“Easy. I marked that particular night down in my diary as being the hottest so far this year. Half a jiffy—I’ll fetch it outa my other suit.”

In a short time Tom Biggins returned with the open diary in his podgy hand.

“Yes—here we are. Last night o’ July. Thought I’d made a note of it. Can’t sleep a wink on them stuffy nights. ’Orrible.”

“Ever noticed a light in the place?” demanded Meredith, delighted with the new facts he was garnering in .

Tom rubbed his chin and said slowly: “Well, I have and then again I haven’t. Not what you might call a proper light, I haven’t. Just a glimmer in an upper room once or twice—same as if a chap was trying to shield a bit o’ candle from the road. Blinds down too. But once or twice I saw just a crack of candlelight round the edge o’ the blind—see?”

“Any idea of the dates?”

“Luck’s out, Sooper. Couldn’t say at all for sure.”

“No—not so recent neither. There hasn’t been a sign o’ life in the place since about the first week o’ August. I reckon I noticed the light somewheres around the end o’ last month and the beginning of this.”

“Excellent,” beamed Meredith. “That’s just what I was after. The exact dates don’t really matter. Tell me—did you ever see another chap visiting old Jeremy Reed’s place in the small hours any time before the middle of July?”

“Can’t say I did. You see, Sooper, I didn’t start this walking out o’ nights until the middle o’ last month. Doctor chap told me it might do me good. But it don’t. Not a bit. Makes me feel more tired—that’s all.”

“Ever seen parcels or crates taken into the cottage at any time during the day?”

“Never that way then,” said Tom curtly. “Business.”

“Nothing else you’ve noticed, Mr. Biggins, that might be of interest to me?”

Again Tom rubbed his multitudinous chins.

“Yes—I have,” he wheezed, lowering his voice as he considered appropriate for the delivery of unusual and surprising news. “One night about the end o’ the first week in August I saw a chap wheel a bicycle out o’ the cottage gate, mount it and make off in the direction o’ Steyning.”

“A bicycle!” exclaimed Meredith eagerly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the date, Mr. Biggins. I’ll wring your neck if you have! You must fix it. It’s vitally important. Strikes me you’ve got just the sort of evidence that I’ve been praying for. Well?”

“It was the ninth,” said Tom slowly. “A Friday, I remember. Day of Jerry Hancock’s sale up at Beech Farm. Or more rightly,” he hastened to correct himself, “the tenth. Church clock had struck midnight, you see, just before this chap walks out.”

“Did he see you?”

“Not him. It was a darkish night and I was standing back under the hedge just going to light my pipe.”

“Did you see him? That’s more important.”

“Well, as luck would have it—I did. You see, when the chap gets out in the road ’ee gives a quick look round, strikes a match and lights his oil-lamp. Then the darn’ thing smokes and ’ee leans down in the rays to have a look-see. Course the lamp was pointing away from me so I got a good look at him.”

“Well?” rapped out Meredith, on tenterhooks.

“Shortish, middle-aged chap with a scrub of a blackish beard. Dressed like a commercial he was—dark coat and starched collar with a black tie, if you take me? Wore a hard hat, which struck me as funny seeing as he was riding a bike. Ar—and there was another thing as I noticed—his left wrist was kind o’ bandaged up and looked stiff like. He didn’t get up into the saddle none too easy neither.”

“Wasn’t wearing dark glasses by any chance, was he?”

“What, in the middle o’ the night—not likely!” And Tom Biggins allowed his usually drawn and doleful countenance the comfort of a broad wink.

“You say he made off in the direction of Steyning?”

“Yes—I saw him pedal down to the end o’ White’s Lane and turn left up the village street.”

“You’ve never seen the man about before—in the bar here or up the village? ”

“Never—a complete stranger to these parts I swear.”

Meredith glanced up at the clock which hung in the bar.

“Look here, Mr. Biggins—we’re just going to shut our eyes to the law. Although it’s out of hours you’re going to have a drink on me and I’m going to join you. What do you say, Fletcher?”

“Mild and bitter, sir,” was the constable’s prompt reply.

Over their illicit drinks Meredith put his final question to Tom Biggins.

“On the night of July 20th—a Saturday, Mr. Biggins—we rather suspect that a man came down off the downs near Steyning and made for Brook Cottage. We have an idea that he might have been disguised as Jeremy Reed. You didn’t by any chance see this man yourself or know anybody who did?”

Tom Biggins set down his tankard and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. For a few seconds he pondered the question.

“No,” he said at length, “I never set eyes on the chap myself, neither that night nor at any other time. But come to think of it—there’s been gossip in the bar about that ole josser. Lot o’ speculation as to ’oo he really might be and so on. ’Mongst other things I recall Bert Wimble, our carrier here, saying as he saw the ole chap walking up the village street in the middle o’ the night. Couldn’t rightly say when this was—you’d better see Bert yourself, Sooper, and get him to tell you.”

“I will,” said Meredith promptly. “He sounds promising. Can you let me have his address?”

Biggins gave the address, and the three officials left the “Loaded Wain” more than satisfied with the result of the cross-questioning. Meredith was in a particularly optimistic mood, for at every point he was seeing his latest theory substantiated by solid evidence. There was no doubt in his mind that the fellow on the bike was the Cloaked Man, or that he was setting off on that particular evening for a little job of work which was to be done on the top of the Chalklands pit. Biggins had given, moreover, the first real description of the Cloaked Man as he actually was. The beard, of course, might have been specially grown during his three weeks’ concealment in the cottage, and the clothes meant nothing when the man had plenty of opportunity for changing his attire a dozen times over. But his height and age were useful and so was that bandaged wrist. He was hoping that Bert Wimble might have noticed this same singular feature about the man he had seen that night in the village street.

The carrier, as luck would have it, was just stabling his horse after his usual Friday journey into Worthing. He was an elderly man with long grey moustaches, intensely blue eyes, and a thin, aquiline nose which lent his kindly features an aristocratic air. His voice, too, was quiet and well modulated. Meredith saw at a glance that he had in Bert Wimble a reliable, level-headed, and intelligent witness.

Yes, explained Wimble, he had noticed that queer old fellow from Brook Cottage late one night about the middle of July. He was walking up the main Bramber Street coming from the direction of Steyning. He was wearing knee-breeches and a Norfolk jacket. The thing which struck him most, however, was the fact that the old man was wearing dark glasses. It seemed a curious thing to do in the dark. The time must have been just after midnight, as Wimble had had a removing job which had taken him over to Ashington after his usual carrier’s round. He had not stabled his horse, at any rate, until just on one o’clock. The date? Well, he could easily fix that by a reference to his books. The removal job would certainly have been entered up by his wife. Wimble thereupon consulted a well-thumbed memorandum book and announced, to Meredith’s delight, that the date was July 20th .

“Tell me, Mr. Wimble, did you notice anything in this man’s appearance which might have suggested an injury of some sort?”

“Ay, surr—I did. His left wrist was a-bandaged up. As I came up ahind him in my van the lights picked out that white bandage as clear as could be. What’s more the old chap was a-carrying a suit-case. Queer, I thought, to be arriving for a week-end after midnight like that. Made me ponder where he had come from.”

“A suit-case?” Meredith felt the old familiar thrill course through his veins which was always his when unsolicited clues tumbled into his lap. “You’re sure about that?”

“I be sartin about it,” upheld Wimble stoutly.

“A suit-case,” thought Meredith. “Just what I ought to have anticipated. He had to take his Jeremy Reed disguise up on to that hill and he needed something to put his own clothes in when he changed after committing the murder. By Jove, if I’m not on the right track this time—what the Old Man called the main road—I’ll eat my hat!”

Meredith went on with his cross-examination of the carrier, but nothing further came to light. If large crates or parcels had arrived from London for Brook Cottage then Wimble knew nothing about them. The railway people had their own delivery van. They might be able to help.

Five minutes later they were able to help. On several occasions they had carted large crates to Brook Cottage. The goods had been sent out by Fortnum & Mason. No, they had not made contact with the owner of the cottage, though they had heard he was a bit of a queer card. Deliveries had been made during the week, when Mr. Reed was absent, and instructions had been sent that the crates were to be left in the back-yard. All goods had been sent from the London firm carriage paid. The letter? Unfortunately it had been destroyed. It had been typed, bore the address of Brook Cottage and was signed J. Reed. On searching through their books the railway clerk assured Meredith that the last delivery had been made on July 18th. On this occasion two large crates had been sent by Fortnum & Mason.

“So much for the food problem,” thought Meredith. “Now for the house agents.”

On inquiry in Brighton Meredith learnt that Stark & West had offices in High Street. He found them without trouble, an imposing modern frontage of concrete, plate-glass, and metal frames painted a pea-green. The interior was luxurious with thick carpets, easy chairs, and deferential, sleek young men who moved soundlessly about their employers’ flourishing business. One of these elegant acolytes approached Meredith and began to drawl at him. Meredith bristled. He loathed drawlers when the drawl was obviously not the outcome of a good education.

“You can cut your sales-talk and all the rest of the soft-soap, understand? I’m a police officer and my time’s limited. I want some information about a place called Brook Cottage in Bramber.”

The young man’s hauteur became suddenly deflated.

“Would you care to see the manager, sir?”

“No—you’ll do for the moment. I want to know two things. First, when and by whom the cottage was bought. Second, when it was put up for sale again. Can you get that information from your records?”

The young man felt certain that he could, and hastened off to lose himself behind a tall ground-glass screen. He was away for the best part of twenty minutes, and when he returned he was not alone.

“I’ve brought Mr. Harris, our manager, to see you, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Harris?”

“I think you’ve come to the wrong agents, officer. We’ve no record of a cottage by that name in Bramber. We certainly have property in that district, as we have in most districts around here, but that particular place has never been through our hands.”

“But good heavens, your board is up outside the place. How do you account for that?”

The manager goggled at him through his horn-rims.

“Our board? Impossible! If it’s being shown then it’s quite without our authority.”

Meredith was perplexed. He hadn’t expected this surprising set-back. He had rather imagined that Rother had bought the place through Stark & West, and that the Cloaked Man, realizing this, had somehow managed to wangle the re-sale through the same firm. Possibly with the help of Janet Rother.

“Any other property for sale in Bramber—I mean on your books?”

The manager retired to consult the records again.

“Yes—a twelve-roomed, detached house near the Vicarage,” he informed Meredith on returning. “But that’s all.”

“Have you had any inquiries here with regard to Brook Cottage?”

“How could we—seeing that we’re not handling the property?”

“All the same,” said Meredith quietly, “I’d like you to find out from your various assistants, Mr. Harris.”

This took another twenty minutes as one or two of the staff were engaged with clients.

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed the astonished Mr. Harris. “But no less than three inquiries were made during the last month. Our clerks were naturally forced to point out that a mistake had been made and that we weren’t dealing with the place. I should have been informed, of course. How on earth do you account for it?”

“I don’t,” smiled Meredith. “Not yet. But I have an idea. I’ll let you know if my suspicions are correct after another visit to Bramber. Can I have your ’phone number? Thanks.”

“We’ll get to know this route soon, sir,” observed Hawkins as the car sped back to the village.

“You keep your sarcastic remarks to yourself, m’lad,” grinned Meredith, who was now in a happy and expansive state of mind. “The most we can do is to thank our lucky stars that we don’t have to foot our own petrol bills!”

Back in Bramber Meredith had no difficulty in finding the house near the Vicarage which was up for sale. No less than five agents’ boards proclaimed the fact over the top of a well-groomed holly hedge. But Stark & West’s board was not among them!

“Hit it first time,” thought Meredith triumphantly. “Just as I imagined. Our man’s got a headpiece on him all right. He wanted to suggest that Brook Cottage was unoccupied, so he did the obvious thing—pulled down the blinds, locked the doors, closed the windows, and shoved up a board to say the place was for sale.”

With his usual thoroughness, however, Meredith took the trouble to enter the grounds of the house and find the exact spot from where the Cloaked Man had uprooted the board. He had no difficulty in finding what he was looking for, and it was in a jubilant mood that he ordered Hawkins to drive him back to Lewes, where he intended to ring up Harris to let him know what had transpired.

A good day’s work. Progress. Main-road progress. The Old Man ought to be pleased that things were working out so well. He had got the movements of the Cloaked Man, after the first murder and before the second, more or less taped. It now remained to follow up Tony’s sensible suggestion and interview Slippery Sid, who was now being detained at the King’s expense behind the walls of Lewes gaol. A long shot perhaps, but if luck continued to sit at his elbow Slippery Sid might prove a valuable witness!