ON Monday the day was a clear day of bright, hard, frosty sunshine. But with evening, there came, with that frequent paradox of English climate, a drop in temperature. As early as four o’clock the mists began to gather again. By five, all Holmdale was shrouded in a fleecy blanket of white fog. By six o’clock, even in the brilliantly lighted patch before The Market, it was difficult for a man to see more than ten yards ahead of him: by seven o’clock it was impossible; he could not see more than five.
At a quarter past seven at the junction of Collingwood Road with Market Road, Blaine, walking at a pace inconsistent with the visibility, ran into a living organism as solid as himself.
‘Uh!’ Blaine grunted; then reached out a hand to grope, but even as he reached out his hand, another hand clutched its shoulder.
Detective Officers Frank Blaine and George Curtis recognised each other. They smiled; then laughed softly.
‘I thought,’ said Blaine, ‘that you were the Butcher.’
Curtis laughed. They fell into step. They proceeded down Collingwood Road and turned, crossing the road until they were on the grass plot facing the northerly façade of The Market. The fog was very thick here; so thick that barely could a man see his own hand at arm’s length. They halted.
‘About here, was it?’ said Curtis.
‘Anywhere’s along this side,’ said Blaine. He craned his head forward between his square shoulders and stared at the blurry blobs of light which were the lamps before The Market. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘We’d better then’—Curtis coughed as the fog tickled his lungs—‘stay put. That right?’
‘May as well … Yes, when you bumped your damn great hulking carcase into mine I thought you were the “Butcher.” I was just goin’ to tell you that anything you might say …’
Through the fog Curtis peered curiously at his companion. ‘You don’t mean,’ he said, ‘that you think this is a reel Butcher stunt we’re on?’
There was sudden movement beside him as Blaine turned sharply round. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about? Real Butcher stunt? What d’you mean? Of course it is …’
‘’Tisn’t!’ Curtis, although with enough sense of duty to keep his ears alert, was yet delighted that for the first time for many months he was ahead of his colleague. He said:
‘Mean to say A. P. hasn’t told you?’
Blaine grew annoyed. ‘Told me what?’ He tells me as much …’ He broke off coughing. The fog had got down his throat.
‘He doesn’t then!’ Curtis was pleasantly triumphant. ‘’Course he would’ve done in time. But he hasn’t had time.’
Through the fog, brushing aside its white billows with black bulk, Curtis moved closer. His ham-like hand closed its sausage-like fingers upon Blaine’s arm. He whispered into Blaine’s ear:
‘That Butcher letter—that last one, the one that come yesterday—that’s a fake, boy!’
‘Get out!’ said Blaine.
‘’Tis then!’
‘Get out!’ said Blaine again, his tone incredulous. ‘Why, I was in the Station just after A. P.’d left and Jeffson shewed it to me. I’ve seen too many of those “Butcher” letters not to know one when I see it.’
Curtis’s fingers dropped the arm; began to tap upon Blaine’s shoulder. ‘That letter, I tell you,’ he said, ‘was written by Foxy Maxwell. I was there while he did it yesterday. If I’d seen you since I’d ’ve told you. So’d A. P., only he hasn’t had a minute.
‘Well, I’ll be …’ Blaine said what he would be. And, when he had recovered from the first shock of astonishment, asked almost querulously:
‘But w’y, w’y?’
‘My boy,’ said Curtis, ‘A. P.’s good. You and me know that. But this is the best he’s ever done. It’s pyschological.’
‘It’s what?’ said Blaine. ‘You mean psychological.’
‘You know very well,’ said Curtis angrily, ‘what I mean. Anyway it’s that. What A. P. reckons—he told me all about it last night—is this. We’ve got these what he calls possibles down to four: the old parson, Monty Flushing, Miss Finch of the Clarion and—and’—here Curtis dropped his voice still lower—‘you know who!’
‘You mean Jeffson?’ Blaine’s voice was the ghostliest of whispers.
Curtis coughed. ‘Blast this fog!’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right! Well, that’s something, isn’t it? We started with five or six thousand and we’ve got down to four. There’s not many men at the Yard that would’ve done that in the time. In fact, no one would except A. P. …’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Blaine was impatient. ‘But what about the letter? What’s the idea?’
‘Can’t you see?’ Curtis was all bland superiority. ‘A. P. knew this letter’d be seen by all of ’em except Rockwall—and he’ll get to hear of it. Now, any one of those four’s the “Butcher,” isn’t it?’
‘Not,’ said Blaine the cautious, ‘is. May be!’
‘Well, I say is,’ said Curtis. ‘But I’ll take your point. One of those four’s most likely to be the ‘Butcher’ isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Blaine.
‘And all of those four’ve heard about this new Butcher letter, and mostly seen it. Well, the one that is the “Butcher,” what does he think? … Mind you, Blainey, this Butcher is a lunatic, don’t forget that! It’s like what A. P. was saying to me last night. He’s a loony in one patch like. Well, he gets to hear that some other fellah has been writing Butcher letters and bragging Butcher brags … Got it?’
‘You mean,’ said Blaine in an eager whisper, ‘that he’ll be—well, sort of puzzled and jealous all at the same time?’
Curtis was approving. ‘They’re almost A. P.’s own words. And as I said to A. P. when he told me about the scheme’—Curtis was very important—‘That’s good, I said, “Good!” You’ve given the place, you’ve given the date, you’ve given the time and you’ve done the letter so that even if the “Butcher” sees it himself he won’t know that he didn’t write it. D’you see it now?’
‘You mean,’ said Blaine slowly, still in a tense whisper which was so deadened by the fog that it reached Curtis’s ear as a wraith of a sound. ‘You mean that A. P.’s expecting this fake letter to draw the real Butcher, because he’ll want to go out and see what all this really is?’
‘Exactly,’ said Curtis. ‘Mind you, boy, A. P. hasn’t told you, so you’d better not know. You and me aren’t hardly even supposed to talk.’
‘I know that,’ said Blaine. ‘A. P.’s drummed it into me enough. I s’ppose it’s because of this Jeffson possibility.’
Curtis nodded. ‘May be, but I think A. P. ’d’ve made the same principle even if Jeffson hadn’t come into it. By God, boy, s’ppose it is Jeffson!’
‘My old mother,’ said Blaine, ‘used to say to me “You never know!” And she was right. The more I live and the more I get about, the more I know I never do know.’
‘Bloody clever of A. P. whichever way you look at it! Jeffson told me there was the hell of a row between him and the C. C. when he suddenly said, the other day, that he wanted the curfew business after all. And here it’s been on for three nights voluntary and it’s taken on—well, you can see for yourself how it’s taken!’
Blaine coughed. ‘Ah! Fog’s helped it though.’
‘Never mind,’ Curtis said, ‘what’s helped it! It’s worked. And because it’s worked A. P.’s scheme looks like coming off! There’s no one out, but there may be. And if anyone comes along the road mentioned in this fake letter—specially if it’s one of the four—well, there you are! We’ll know, metamphorically speakin’, who the “Butcher” is, and that’s a good thing to know!’
‘I should say,’ said Blaine in a hearty whisper, ‘it damn-well was!’
‘Mind you,’ said Curtis, ‘except for knowin’, A. P.’s not sure that he’ll be any better off for this stunt even if it does work …’
Blaine interrupted. ‘You know,’ he grumbled, ‘you’re like a book of crossword puzzles or something tonight. What’re you talkin’ about now?’
‘He,’ said Curtis sententiously, ‘that has ears to ’ear, let him hear! A. P. says that although he may find out tonight he may not be able to do anything. You see, Blainey, this Butcher’s clever sort of a devil and although he may come down he won’t come down without a proper excuse. A. P. said to me last night, he said: “You see, Curtis, when he does come—if he does come—he’ll have some boiling good reason, but that won’t worry me. I daresay,” he said to me, Blainey, just like that, “I daresay, in a manner of speaking, we shan’t be any better off. But we shall, really, because we’ll know …”’
Curtis’s flow was cut short by a fit of coughing. The fog was thicker. It no longer swirled round them in now thickening, now thinning eddies, but pressed close about them like a malign and impalpable suffocation.
‘Getting cold,’ Blaine growled, ‘let’s walk.’
They walked up and down, up and down, two large looming shapes in the white darkness. Every now and then they stopped to listen; then resumed their walk. The warmth came back to their feet and, in some degree, to their bodies, but the fog did not lift. It got into their eyes and made them smart; it got into their noses and made them feel as if they were breathing harsh wool; it got down their lungs until they coughed; they had to strangle their coughs for fear of noise.
Every now and then Blaine would ask Curtis, or Curtis would ask Blaine: ‘What’s the time?’
And this went on until with the last asking, Blaine said: ‘Nine-fifteen. I wonder …’
‘S’sh!’ said Curtis and gripped his arm with iron fingers.
They stood motionless. Not a sound came to them. Blaine shifted uneasily, but Curtis’s fingers tightened their clamp; held him quiet.
‘Listen!’ said Curtis.
Suddenly, at first muffled by the deadening curtain of fog until they were only the phantoms of sound, but gradually growing until they were living and human and recognisable, there came the sound of rapid, crisp footsteps.
Blaine started forward.
‘Wait!’ Curtis whispered. ‘A. P.’s there. Over the other side. Wait!
They waited. As the footsteps seemed to draw abreast of them, beating their way into the extra whiteness which shewed where The Market’s lamps were placed, they heard other footsteps, coming, on an instant, out of nothing; footsteps which their trained ears recognised.
The first lot of footsteps ceased abruptly. The second ceased also …
‘Come on!’ said Blaine and went.
They guided themselves off the grass and on to the road and crossed the road by that lightening in the fog where it was thinned by the glow of The Market’s lamps. As they drew near, they heard Pike’s voice. They drew nearer, going cautiously and on tiptoe. The voices they could hear now that they were closer were cast in pleasant enough tones. But they knew. They were closer now, and not only their ears but their eyes told them that one of the figures was Arnold Pike. But they were looking at the other …
They halted. Blaine stood, turning his head sharply to hiss into Curtis’s right ear:
‘Well, I’m … May God strike me dead!’
At half-past eleven that night, Curtis and Blaine sat, each upon the edge of his chair, in Miss Marable’s lounge. Pike, his back to the crackling fire, surveyed them. He said, looking at Blaine:
‘So Curtis put you wise, did he?’
Blaine nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Pike spoke again. He said: looking at Curtis this time:
‘You saw!’
Curtis grunted affirmation. He looked at his chief with some anxiety. Pike’s face seemed longer and leaner and the lines of his frown seemed as if they had been cut into his forehead with a graver’s chisel.
It was Blaine who broke the silence.
‘What’s going to happen, sir?’ he said. ‘What can we do now that we do know?’
Pike shrugged; a gesture angry and bitter and more than a little helpless. For the second time during this case, he used an oath. ‘I’m damned,’ he said, ‘if I know! I hope I shall tomorrow. I’m going to sleep on this, or to bed on it. You two get off now and carry on with your ordinary duties, saying nothing to anyone tomorrow. If I’m not here, it means I’m up in town. Good-night, now!’
They rose and went out into the fog, two heavy men who yet moved with a silence oddly at variance with their action.
Pike was left staring at Miss Marable’s fire. Presently, he dropped into a chair, put his elbows on his knees and chin into his cupped hands …
Upon the next day Pike did go to London. In Holmdale, Curtis and Blaine, carrying on with stolid faces their entirely unnecessary and most arduous duties, awaited him.
They did not see him until half-past six upon that evening which was the evening of Tuesday, the 17th December. And when they did see him it was to receive news which flabbergasted them.
‘Leaving, sir?’ said Blaine, ‘without laying a finger on that …’
Pike nodded. ‘We’re going, tomorrow morning. I’ll see the Chief Constable tonight. I’ll also see you two again tonight.’
Curtis and Blaine looked at him. They were used to moods and varying expressions. They had worked with him now for many years. Until now they had thought that they knew him; but now they found that they did not know him. They could read nothing from the long, blank face which he turned to them.
‘Why can’t we? …’ began Blaine, forgetting position in agitation.
‘Make an arrest!’ said Pike quickly. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’
Blaine nodded, colouring.
‘Because,’ said Pike grimly, ‘you poor dub, there’s nothing to make the arrest on! We may know—we may know until we’re black in the face as a lot of black sheep—we do know, but what have we got? We’ve searched the house, haven’t we? And all the belongings. And we found nothing. Nothing! And then some more nothing. We’ve got no finger-prints, no connecting link at all except in our own mental knowledge … How can we make an arrest? We’d be the laughing stock of the country in about five minutes. They were comic enough over Spring and that lot … Of course we can’t make an arrest. Don’t be silly!’
Blaine hung his head like a chidden schoolboy. He muttered at the ground:
‘No, sir, of course not. I see it.’
‘Well, cut off now,’ said Pike. ‘See you again.’
They cut off.
‘Well,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘in a way I’m very sorry. In a way I can see what he means.’ He tapped the official letter at the foot of which Pike, pretending not to look, could see Lucas’s signature. ‘I mean I can see Scotland Yard’s point of view. And I must say, Superintendent, that after your valuable advice … er … er …’ The Chief Constable got into difficulties here and finished up with a weak ‘and all that. I do feel that my own men can carry on. So perhaps it’s all for the best.’
The Chief Constable rose, extending a podgy hand which trembled. Pike shook it without warmth. He also shook hands, displaying less warmth still, with Davis. He turned and clasped the ham-like fist of Inspector Farrow and gave this a hearty enough shake. He nodded to Jeffson; made a curious little ducking nod to the Chief Constable and was gone.
Outside there waited the blue police Crossley. In it were Curtis and Blaine. Pike took the wheel, and so the only known members of Scotland Yard to have visited Holmdale, left Holmdale.
They circled the town and many saw them go.
That was at noon on Wednesday, the 18th December. By one o’clock all Holmdale knew of their going. There were mutters in Holmdale. There were outcries in Holmdale against the leaving; and also satisfaction in Holmdale on account of the leaving. Holmdale, as always since the beginning of its curse, was divided into many camps.
In the Police Station, the Chief Constable, Farrow at one shoulder and Davis at the other, bent over the letter signed by Egbert Lucas. In the corner Jeffson stood erect, awaiting instructions. The Chief Constable mouthed over to himself the letter’s last paragraph:
… The Commissioner, therefore, desires me to state that he feels it unnecessary that Superintendent Pike and his subordinates should remain any longer in Holmdale. While the Commissioner is willing and anxious to offer all the help he can in the most tragic and unusual circumstances, he is unable, owing to the scarcity of officers and men, to allow Superintendent Pike and his subordinates to remain with you indefinitely. Should any further developments or new turns to the situation arise, he will, of course, be only too glad to give you the benefit of any assistance which the Department might be able to provide. In the meanwhile, he hopes that you will agree to the withdrawal of his men.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
EGBERT LUCAS
‘And that,’ said the Chief Constable pettishly, ‘is that! I can’t say I think much of our Scotland Yard detectives. What’ve they done that we couldn’t have done? Eh? Eh? …’
Farrow grunted. But Davis said:
‘Nothing, sir, and not near as much, if you were to ask me. And I reckon we’ve got this Butcher under and I reckon that it’s our doing.’
The Chief Constable shook his head, but a pleased smile creased his mouth. ‘I don’t know about got him under,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Certainly he didn’t carry out the threat in his last letter and hasn’t.’
‘Nor,’ said Davis confidently, ‘he never will.’
Farrow grunted.