Standing in the darkness of his own room, Larry examined an automatic pistol carefully and his personal appearance even more carefully without finding anything wrong with either. The automatic pistol was in perfect working order and his clothing betrayed no trace of white. White showed up in the darkness, and he had taken the precaution of wearing a black sweater and dark trousers. Black plimsolls and gloves encased his feet and hands respectively.
With a final glance round he slipped out into the corridor, and closing the door, descended quietly to the hall. Now that he had something definite to do, an odd, calculating coolness had settled on him. He was at his best when he was playing his own hand in the darkness, and when he chose to move at night the only sounds were those made by other people.
Crossing the hall he paused outside Ian’s study to listen to the mysterious little creaks peculiar to an old house and also to discover if any one of them owed an existence to human presence. Satisfied, he gently pushed the door ajar and slipped into the room.
Inside he paused for a moment, and then made his way unerringly across the darkened room to the desk. He found the ruler, and within a few seconds the two halves came apart in his hands.
Inserting his fingers in one of the hollowed out pieces he instantly found what he wanted. At least he found a folded sheet of paper, but even in the darkness his sensitive fingers detected something unfamiliar in the texture. Apart from which the hollow contained only one piece of paper, and that was considerably larger than the slip that he himself possessed.
Before examining it more thoroughly, he felt in the other half of the ruler, but as he had expected, it was empty. It did something to heighten an already half-formed suspicion, and taking a torch from his pocket, he turned his back to the window and pressed down the switch.
One glance was sufficient to confirm the diagnosis of his fingers. The sheet of paper he held was square and white, and containing not the apparently irrelevant letters that he had expected, but a clear message.
It read, “Why search tomorrow for something that can be found today by the Poacher?”
The paper fluttered in his hand as he looked down at it. The mocking note was like a blow in the face, but even in his rage he remained cool enough to recognize that the elusive legend that men called “The Poacher” was becoming definitely more real.
He made a swift calculation. It was only a few hours ago that he had seen Ian place two slips—the genuine and the spurious—in that ruler, and yet the Poacher had rifled it first.
From being a shadow the man was gradually resolving into something more tangible, but as yet he had revealed little but his hand. Until now it had been merely a matching of wits between them, but from this time onward it would be a fight, and sooner or later he would drag his opponent into the open.
The paper fluttered in his hand again, and turning to ascertain the cause he saw the portieres swaying. At a loss to account for the breeze he took a half-step forward before he realized that the windows were open. He reached the wall beside them in one silent bound and crouched there, the revolver in his hand leveled at the bulging portieres.
His hand was already raised to tear the plush hangings aside when he heard something that startled him—a faint groan. At the same moment the curtains were displaced by a stronger gust of wind, and a gleam of white close to the floor caught his eye.
It was a cuff, and from it protruded a hand.
Silently he pulled the portieres back and looked down into the face of the prostrate Ian.
His host lay sprawled out on the lawn, and even as Larry watched, Ian’s eyes opened. The first thing they saw was the other’s half-raised pistol, and for a moment the two men stared at each other. Then Ian levered himself up on his elbows and his lips twisted in a smile.
“For a C.I.D. man you’re damned original, Kaye,” he said thickly.
Larry pocketed his automatic.
“If you mean that I flattened you out, you’re wrong,” he retorted softly. “I seldom stun people—the effect is too impermanent.”
Ian rose to his feet and gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. Hindered by his throbbing head he tried to piece events together, and succeeded imperfectly.
“What brought you down?” he asked.
“I might put the same question!”
“And get a saner answer. There was some one in this room. I didn’t see who—I only felt him.”
Larry permitted himself a faint smile. “I warned you. Some day, Ian, you’ll learn to take a tip.”
Just too late he crumpled the paper he held. Ian had seen it a second earlier. He reached out a hand, and Larry, acting on impulse, allowed him to take the Poacher’s message.
Ian read it through slowly and then pocketed it.
“Where was that?” he asked.
“On your desk.”
Ian had known the answer before he put the question. He walked across to his desk, and switching on a small reading lamp, stared at the two halves of the ruler.
“Close those windows, will you, Kaye?” he said. “I’m getting the feeling that the Poacher is altogether too close.”
The look that accompanied the words caused Larry some secret amusement, but he closed the windows without comment.
“I suppose it’s no good searching the place,” Ian said weakly. “This fellow comes and goes as he likes.”
“Does he go?” asked Larry. “I wonder what the impeccable Crale is doing?”
So did Ian, but the thought was overborne by the sudden fit of nausea that made him sway. Larry stepped forward hastily, and catching the other’s arm, steadied him.
“I’m all right,” Ian protested, and switching off the light made his way unsteadily to the door. Larry followed slowly and watched the other’s uncertain progress up the stairs for some moments before he mounted them himself and made for Kaye’s bedroom.
Trying the door softly he pushed it open and peered into the room. After a few moments he switched on his torch, but one glance showed him all that he had expected to see. The room was empty and the bed had not been slept in.
He stepped inside, and closing the door sat down on a chair. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist watch he saw that the time was exactly twenty minutes to two, and composed himself to await the return of the man he knew as Crale. Only now he no longer thought of that gentleman as “Crale.” He spoke the alternative name softly to himself in the darkness.
“The Poacher!”
He had no doubt that “Crale” would return. He had only gained one of the original slips that night. The other was the bogus one that Larry had himself written, and those two would not make sense, as “Crale” would discover. The thought pleased Larry. He stretched out his legs and settled down to wait.
But Superintendent Kaye was in no hurry. Standing beside Brown in the porch of the lodge he looked up the drive to the silent house, partially hidden by the trees.
“To-night we make our killing, Brown,” he said slowly. “Sometime soon Larry will make a move. Probably has.” Brown, rejoicing in his new found freedom, was showing more interest in his superior’s words than he had shown in anything for the past three days.
“Meaning, he’ll try to get Ian’s slip?” he asked.
“Yes, and unless I’m mistaken the Poacher will show his hand. Larry won’t leave Reigate till they meet—neither will the Poacher. We’ve got them both where we want them.”
“The Poacher’s got the third slip, then?”
Superintendent Kaye extinguished his cigarette and eyed his assistant sideways. “Yes,” he said slowly, “the Poacher’s got the other slip.”
He took out his watch.
“Ten to two. I’ve got to get back. Really, respectable butlers were all in bed hours ago.”
“What do I do—spend the night here?” Brown asked. “Your head possesses all the retentive powers and none of the uses of a sieve,” said Kaye patiently. “Why do you think I let you out? You’re going to Reigate to get Keating. Give him this letter—he’ll know what to do.”
Brown took the proffered envelope and looked dubious. “Waking Inspector Keating at two in the morning isn’t a thing I’d do from choice, sir. Besides, anything might happen between now and our return. If I do return. Inspector Keating is uncommonly awkward when his sleep is disturbed.”
“Never mind that, get him. Probably quite a lot will happen while you’re gone, but I’ll handle that. You’d only be in the way. So would Sam. I don’t want an elephant accompanying me on—a rather delicate mission.”
Brown shrugged and stepped into the drive.
“Right. Ill get him,” he said lugubriously, and keeping dose to the shadow of the trees, he moved away in the darkness.
Kaye followed suit a minute later and made his way back towards the house. Letting himself silently into the pantry he walked through the house to the hall and made his way upstairs. On the landing he paused undecided. Something told him that Larry’s bedroom needed a little attention, but there was at least one other room in the house that had a prior claim to his interest.
It was then that he heard the groan. It came from Ian’s room, and as he waited it was repeated.
It told him much and he saw the need for caution. Stripping off his coat and waistcoat he rolled them up and placing them on the floor, hastily unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing neither collar nor tie, and with a swift glance down at himself reflected complacently that his apparel showed all the signs of a recently-awakened and hurriedly-garbed man.
Then he knocked gently on Ian’s door and opened it.
Ian was lying sprawled face down on his bed, his hands clasped round his head. He looked up with a haggard face as Kaye entered.
“Pardon me, sir; I heard you groaning. Are you unwell?”
Ian spoke with an effort.
“Was I making all that row? No—I’m all right—bit of a headache.”
Kaye smiled sympathetically. He had seen the smear of blood behind Ian’s ear.
“You appear to have some blood on the back of your head, sir,” he ventured, and Ian started.
He looked down at his hands and saw blood on one of them—the one that had touched his head. Evidently that blow had done more damage than he had thought.
“Yes,” he said unsteadily. “A scratch—that’s all.”
Kaye’s eyes glittered. Apparently Larry had acted.
“Very well, sir, I trust that you will have recovered by the morning,” he said, and retired. He took the precaution of locking the door on the outside with Brown’s master key.
Ian heard him do it and rose weakly to his feet. For a brief second he fought off the inertia that was paralyzing him, and tugged feebly at the door. “Crale’s” action in locking it supplied him with at least one clue to the tangle that encompassed him. Kaye had been right. “Crale” was the Poacher.
With the thought still fresh in his mind he tugged at the door again, but the stout oak had nothing to fear from a man weakened by concussion of the brain. It resisted him even when he fell heavily against it, unconscious.