The Growing List
While Inspector Wetherby was obtaining his information in his own particular manner, Richard passed through varying emotions.
Smale’s news, incoherent though it was when first delivered in the road, had filled him with despair. All that his muddled mind could seize on was the fact that someone had been drowned near by, and since Smale could give no description of the someone—not even, apparently, the gender—the fear that it might be Sylvia bit into his soul. Later, at the police station, the fear had turned into desperate impatience, and the desperate impatience had, in its turn, changed to a revulsion of relief that for a few minutes weakened him even more than his rough handling; for the insistent questions of Inspector Wetherby had elicited details which rendered impossible the theory that the drowned person was Sylvia.
The car had passed Smale’s cottage at about five. It was not till well after five that Sylvia had been kidnapped. Whether the kidnappers had been in the car or not, the kidnapping had occurred after Smale had made his gruesome discovery. Yes, Inspector Wetherby, for all the impatience he had evoked, had brought out that vital point. Like many another before him, Richard Temperley had not been entirely just to the police force!
Wetherby, in fact, in spite of a certain leisureliness born of false alarms, proved himself well on the job once he had got his teeth into it. He recognised that the two stories he had just listened to might not have any connection with each other, although there was a strong probability that they did; and if they were not connected, then each story would have to be covered by prompt action. Before setting off to investigate Smale’s gruesome find, therefore, he passed on the descriptions of the wanted men to his subordinates, and told them to get busy on trying to pick up the trails.
Then, with a sergeant, a police surgeon, and the three men who had routed him too early out of bed, he drove towards the grassy embankment known locally as the First Pullover.
It was a short journey. During the first half, no one spoke. Then the police surgeon, who had learned to accept life and death as a matter of course, and wasn’t particularly affected by either, grew a little bored, and asked the inspector if his aunt had written to him yet.
“Had a letter yesterday,” replied the inspector.
“Bought that parrot?” inquired the surgeon.
“No, they wanted a pound too much,” answered the inspector.
“Well, personally, I can’t stand the things,” observed the surgeon. “No tact. Had one once that said ‘God save the King,’ while I was filling in my income-tax form.”
Aunts! Parrots! Income-tax forms! While Sylvia Wynne was being spirited away into the unknown…
“Hardly a motoring-road,” remarked the surgeon.
“Curly as a pig’s tail,” replied the inspector.
“Shouldn’t care to live at this spot. Too far from neighbours.”
“Well, you could always drop in on Smale here,” grunted the inspector, dryly. “We’re just passing his cottage.” Smale grinned sheepishly. No one had called on him for a year.
The road grew lonelier and narrower. It began to give up being a road. Suddenly the inspector gave a sharp exclamation. “There’s the car!” he cried.
The sight of it translated theories into facts. Parrots and pigs’ tails were forgotten as his own car slowed down and he jumped out.
He examined the car quickly, eyed the ground in the vicinity, and then raised his eyes to the grassy embankment. “Up there, eh?” he inquired, jerking his head towards Smale.
“Ay, and I’m not goin’!” muttered Smale.
“Nonsense, of course you’re going!” retorted the inspector. And, to save an argument, added, “There’s half-a-crown for you at the end of it.”
They climbed on to the ridge. They bore to the right. They passed the first farm buildings on their left. They came to another—a low shed, with a corrugated iron roof. This was also on their left, and it presented its back to them, but the front could be reached by a small path that ran downwards round the end of it.
Ignoring this path and continuing on, they came to a tangle of hedge and a fence. Now, ahead, was a gate.
“There!” whispered Smale, pointing to the fence.
The inspector turned, and walked to the fence. But Richard got there first. He looked down, over the fence, and another face looked up at him.
“Beyond our help,” remarked the inspector, at his side.
“Yes—poor fellow!” muttered Richard.
“Recognise him?”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“Not one of the men who attacked you, then?”
“We were attacked after this happened.”
“Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. According to the times we’ve been told. But, so far, all these times are circumstantial, if you get me? Stories told at the police station don’t always tally with those told in the witness box.…There goes the doctor…down to have a look at him.…Hallo, what’s the matter?”
An exclamation had come from behind him. Ted Diggs shoved his head forward.
“Gawd!” he cried. “But—I know ’im!” He stared stupidly, while the inspector swung round.
“What—you know him?” exclaimed Wetherby.
“Yes—or I’m dippy!” gasped Diggs. “That’s Albert Bowes, that is—another taxi-driver at Bristol!”
Once again Inspector Wetherby proved he was no fool. He recognised genuine amazement when he came across it, and he had never come across more genuine amazement than that depicted on Diggs’s face. Unless, perhaps, it was the amazement on Richard’s face.
“What! You know that man, Diggs?” cried Richard. “And he comes from Bristol?”
Diggs nodded. It was all he could do. His mouth was open, and he had forgotten to close it.
Wetherby watched him quietly. Sometimes it is more instructive to watch than to talk. He watched two men stare at each other; and, refusing to bank on his first impression, searched their faces for traces of acting. Suppose—just for the sake of argument—two men had drowned a third man, and had adopted the subtle device of going straight to the police station with some story that would suggest an alibi, and at the same time lay the blame upon other mythical folk invented for the purpose? Then it would be up to them to do a bit of play-acting, wouldn’t it? They’d pretend this and they’d pretend that…
Yes, but this wasn’t pretence. There wasn’t any play-acting here. It was the genuine open-mouthed article. And, that being so, it was of no use wasting time over impossibilities. “You don’t know how he came here?” he barked to Diggs.
“Eh?” jerked Diggs.
“You don’t know how that fellow came here?”
“’Ow ’e—? Why, ’e was in Bristol yesterday mornin’!” spluttered Diggs. “I know, ’cos I seen ’im.”
“Well, you were in Bristol yesterday morning,” retorted Wetherby, “and you’re here now. So, you see, it can be done.”
“Eh?”
“If you can pick up a fare, so could he.”
“Yes, but—to the same place? To Boston?”
“Why not? If a kidnapping game was on? Well, anyhow, you’ve identified him. Could you identify his car?”
“’Corse I could.”
“I see. Of course you could! Yet it occurs to me that perhaps you didn’t!”
“Eh?”
“That stranded car we passed just before we came up here. Mightn’t that be his car?”
“Well—I’m—! Yes—it was like it,” muttered Diggs. “But—nacherly—seein’ it then, and not ’avin’ ’im in my mind—”
“Yes, naturally, naturally. Tell me, sir,” went on the inspector, turning now to Richard, “have you any theory to offer?”
“Absolutely none,” answered Richard.
“Quite sure, sir?”
“Quite. Unless—”
“Ah! Unless? Let’s have the ‘unless.’’’
“Unless we were followed, inspector? No, I give it up. This car got here first—”
“But you might have been overtaken and passed,” interposed Wetherby, “by some one who had got on to your destination…Hallo!” he broke off. “The doctor seems to be getting excited down there. I must go down and see what the trouble is!”
He clambered down to the water’s edge, where the doctor and the sergeant were staring at the sodden body of Albert Bowes. It lay now on the bank to which it had been drawn. “Not drowned, eh?” inquired the inspector, shrewdly.
“No,” answered the police surgeon, with a grimace. “Look at this. Shot!”
Inspector Wetherby looked. If he experienced any surprise, he refused to show it. Surprise is not good form in the police force. It makes you lose your grip.
“Well, I wasn’t betting on suicide,” he observed, after a pause. “Or an accident.”
“But were you betting on this?” inquired the doctor, and opened his hand.
A little crimson letter lay in the doctor’s palm. Now, despite himself, the inspector’s eyes gleamed.
“By George!” he muttered tensely. “Another Z murder!”