The Man With the Psychic Eye
Tim Thornton, the proprietor of the Riverside Service Station, was what is commonly called “a character”. He had personality, a naturally funny face, “the gift of the gab”, and plenty of time to air his original views on things and people. It was a habit of his to assert that he was rushed off his feet and then stay talking to an acquaintance for the best part of an hour. The older inhabitants of the scattered cottages and bungalows round about the toll-bridge looked upon the Service Station as a kind of debating club. With time to kill they drifted up the road to the garage, sat about on oil drums, lit their little blackened pipes under large notices which prohibited smoking, spat to left and to right, and gossiped with Tim Thornton. In this manner Thornton knew pretty well everything which was said, thought, and done in the locality.
The rumour that John Rother had been in the habit of garaging his car at Thornton’s drew the old men like a magnet. The proprietor was hard put to it, enlarging and decorating on his contacts with the murdered man, for he had an inborn sense of the dramatic and sensational.
“You take it from me, Ned, the moment I set eyes on the chap I said to myself, ‘There walks a man with death in his pocket.’ A doomed look he had—a terrible fear in his glance. Fair gave me the jim-jams when I talked with him. Mark you—he looked ’ealthy. To an ordinary chap like you, Ned, he would have seemed just like Tom, Dick, or ’Arry. But I’ve got what they call a psychic eye. Fact, Ned—when I looks hard at a thing—same as I might look at you now—I see right into it. It’s just a natural gift. Nothing to boast about. Like a natural capacity for drinking beer.
“Well, when this poor fellow stepped out of his car the first time I saw him, something in me went click. My cylinders missed a couple of strokes as you might say. You see, my psychic eye had got going with a jerk and I knew that I was face to face with a chap ’oo’s number was already chalked up on the celestial slate. Course, being a man of tack, I didn’t let ’im see that I knew. ‘Garridge for the week-end, sir?’ I ses. ‘That’s O.K. with me. Just shove ’er’—meaning his Hillman—‘over in that corner.’ But as he turned and walked away from the garridge I said to myself, ‘That chap’s got a stick of dynamite tucked in his trousis—his bucket’s been placed ready for ’im to kick.’ But just an ordinary-looking chap like you, Ned—not the sort of cove you’d look at twice—that is, unless, like me, you’ve got a psychic eye.”
It was natural that after a week of this sort of thing other people should have recognized John Rother wandering about the district. Everybody discussed him. Old newspapers were dragged out of coal-sheds and the case re-examined from a more personal angle. The good folk who lived about the toll-bridge began to adopt a proprietary air toward the murdered man. Tim Thornton’s stock soared to unimaginable heights.
It was into this highly charged atmosphere that Meredith descended one Monday morning toward the end of August. Although himself in mufti, Hawkins was in uniform, and the sight of the little shining police car drawn up by the Riverside petrol-pumps caused a major sensation. And when Meredith retired with Tim Thornton into the latter’s adjacent bungalow, Jake Ferris, who had been passing the time of the day at the garage, tip-tapped up the road and spread the news abroad. By midday the whole hamlet knew that the police were investigating in the district. Small boys and girls, released from school, stole twenty minutes from their luncheon hour to congregate outside Tim’s bungalow and stare with hungry eyes at Hawkins in the police car.
Inside the bungalow Meredith was wrestling with a witness who knew, not too little, but too much. Tim Thornton recognized that his chance had come at last and he was prepared to spread himself. This conversation might in time pass into the annals of criminal history.
“There are two points on which I want you to be dead sure,” Meredith was saying. “First that it was John Rother and second that the car was Rother’s Hillman. If you’re hazy on either of these points, then quite honestly, Mr. Thornton, you can’t be of any help to us. Well?”
“Well.” Tim Thornton took a big, big breath. “Well, you see, it was like this—one Saturday afternoon just as I was going to grease a back axle of the butcher’s van, a shortish, red-faced—”
“What date was this?”
Thornton tailed off, stared at Meredith in surprise and made ready to continue his interrupted narrative. He was unused to interruption.
“Well, as I was saying a shortish, red-faced—”
“But I must have some idea of the date,” persisted Meredith. “Was it last year, last month, yesterday, or when?”
Thornton eyed the Superintendent with a sly grin.
“It couldn’t have been yesterday now, could it? He’s been dead over a month.” Thornton winked. “You police chaps and your tricks. Trying to catch me out like that.”
“All I want is some idea of the date when you first saw this man,” demanded Meredith impatiently.
“About eighteen months ago, I reckon. Let’s see now, I had the ’flu that February and this would be about a month later. Toward the end of that March it would be when I first saw ’im.”
“Good. Well?”
“Well—now where the jiminy was I? All these interruptions put me off my stroke. Oh, I reckerlect—in comes a shortish, red-faced man in a Hillman car. And the moment I set eyes on ’im something inside me went click. You wouldn’t believe what it was, so I’ll tell you, Sergeant. It was my psychic eye sort of getting into its stride. I ought to have explained at the starting-post that I’av a psychic eye. I can sort of see through things same as an X-ray sees through flesh and—”
“Now suppose, before we go any further, you give me a more concise idea of this man’s appearance. How old was he, for example?”
“No chicken.”
“Quite, but that means he might be anything from forty to a hundred. You must try and be more precise, Mr. Thornton.”
“O.K., Sergeant. I should say he was about forty, then.”
“Shortish, you say, and red-faced. Any other peculiarity?”
“Yes—’is eyes. He had a terrible look of fear in ’is eyes. ‘Tim Thornton,’ I ses to myself, ‘this here chap carries a stick of dynamite in ’is trousis.’ Meaning, of course—”
“Look here,” rapped out Meredith sharply, though inwardly tickled by the man’s flow of speech, “you must keep to the plain facts. How was he usually dressed?”
“Plus fives, as I called ’em, on account of their extra bagginess round the knees. Sort of sporting outfit—brownish usually. Though once or twice I seem to remember he wore flannel trousis.”
“That’s the kind of information I’m after,” beamed Meredith with approval. “How did he speak?”
“Nice enough. None of this haw-haw stuff, but he was a gentleman right enough, if that’s what you mean.”
Meredith pulled a packet of photographs out of his pocket and spread them out on the hearthrug at his feet.
“Do you recognize the chap among those?”
Thornton quizzed the collection for a moment and then selected one of the photos.
“That’s ’im,” he announced triumphantly. “You can see what I mean about his eyes. A sort of doomed look as if he already ’eard the ’arps tuning up for his reception. Course my psychic eye took that in as quick as—”
“Well, that’s John Rother right enough,” broke in Meredith. “That’s the first point settled. Now you told Mr. Clark that you recognized the car by two brass-headed nuts. How are you so sure that it was the same Hillman?”
“Because I put those nuts on myself one week-end. The battery-clamps on that particular make are usually secured with black nuts, see? I didn’t happen to have any handy—so I fixed him up with a couple of makeshifts. His own had worked loose and one of ’em had dropped off.”
“I see. How often did Mr. Rother garage his car here?”
“Pretty near every week-end during the summer months. In the winter not so regular. Sometimes he didn’t turn up for a month or more.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Shall I ever forget it, Sergeant! I tell you the psychic flux—that’s a technical expression which you wouldn’t properly understand—the psychic flux was strong on me that afternoon. It wrung my withers to see the poor chap so cheerful and innocent of the doom which ’ung over his head. I could see death staring out of his eyes. It was all I could do to preserve my usual tack and hold back from tipping him the wink. You see, when a chap’s ticketed like no amount of warning can turn aside what’s coming to ’im. Terrible thought, isn’t it? How would you feel, for instance, if I saw death in your eyes and prophesied that, soon or late, you’d be stretched out in a car-smash? Ghastly, eh?”
“I should take to a bicycle,” laughed Meredith.
“Maybe—but you can’t cheat fate. I tell you it isn’t all beer and skittles having a psychic eye. I felt sorry for that chap. I did straight, Sergeant.”
“Which brings us back,” said Meredith firmly, “to the question I asked. When did you last see John Rother?”
“Let’s see now—it was about a fortnight after I’d had a touch of asthma. That would make it early July. I reckon the last time he garridged his car here was the second week-end in July.”
“Was he always alone?”
“Always. Never had a bird with ’im. He didn’t look that sort anyhow.”
“When he left the garage where did he go?”
“Now that’s a funny point,” began Thornton, taking another big, big breath. “I used to wonder that myself. You see, he used to take a little suit-case out of the car and walk off up the road in the direction of the toll-bridge. There I lost sight of him, because he used to turn to the right along the river-bank and make off up the Steyning road. Now, a lot of the old chaps round here, having nothing to do, come up to the garridge and stand about gossiping. Makes a chap wild when he’s rushed off his feet as I am. But I learnt a thing or two from these old wind-bags. ‘This here John Rother,’ I ses a couple of days ago to Jake Ferris, ‘where do you think he stayed over the week-ends? Major Codd’s?’ ‘Not on your life,’ ses Jake, ‘I seen him come regular by my cottage a Saturday afternoon and I live beyond the Major’s gate,’ ses Jake. Well, what with talking to one and another, it seemed that Rother walked a tidy way up the Steyning road and then disappeared. Just seemed to melt away. Funny, eh? Sort of sunk into the ground like a drop of water on a hot day.”
For the first time since the interview had opened Meredith was really interested. He felt that little glow of increasing satisfaction which normally accompanied the garnering in of unanticipated clues. Here was something definitely unusual and, therefore, of importance.
“You’re sure he hadn’t just slipped into one of the cottages?”
“Dead sure. Jake’s is the last cottage up that road until you come to the outlyings of Bramber.”
“Bramber?”
“Little village this side of Steyning,” explained Thornton. “Got a bit of a castle there and a museum of natural freaks—ducks with three legs, lambs with two tails, a calf with a couple of heads and so on. Oddities.”
“Ah—I recall the place now. Perhaps Rother just walked on until he came to the village. When you say he disappeared—what do you mean exactly?”
“Well, there’s a bus service plying atween Brighton and Steyning. Most of us fellows here know the chaps what work the route, see? So Jake asks out of curiosity, ‘Ever see a chap with a suit-case walking to Bramber ’bout three o’clock most Saturday afternoons?’ Bill ses, ‘No, not as I remembers, and I’ve a pretty good memory too for what I see on the road.’ He was certain that he never picked up a fare answering to Rother’s description. I tell you, Sergeant, he just sort of evaporated.”
“Could he have taken a boat up the river?”
“Impossible. There’s not so much as a ship’s dinghy moored on that stretch of the Adur. You can take my word for that.”
“Look here,” said Meredith pleasantly, “I suppose you wouldn’t care to come along in my car and show me a few of the landmarks?”
“Sure I will,” boomed Thornton heartily. “I’m up to my eyes in work, but it won’t run away if I leave it. I’ll just get my ’at and tell the lad that I’m popping up the street for a spell. Join you out by the pumps.”
A couple of minutes later Hawkins had swung the car round in the road and started for the toll-bridge. There he turned sharp right as directed and droned along a fairly wide road which ran parallel to the left bank of the river.* At first there were a few cottages bordering the right of the road, with an occasional larger house set back in its own grounds and approached by a drive. Half a mile ahead, however, the last habitation had been left behind and the road pursued its lonely course along the foot of gently rising downland.
Thornton jerked a thumb at the highest of the grassy hummocks.
“Thundersbarrow ’Ill,” he announced.
Meredith nodded and ordered Hawkins to draw in to the side of the road. They were then about a quarter of a mile from Jake Ferris’ cottage.
“According to you, Mr. Thornton, he must have performed his disappearing trick somewhere about here, eh?”
“You’ve said it, Sergeant. You can just see the roof of Jake’s cottage back there round the bend.”
Meredith stepped out of the car and made a long and careful survey of the locale. On his right, bare as a bone, the downs offered not the slightest suggestion of cover. There were one or two scattered farmhouses and barns higher up, but a man approaching them would have been conspicuous for miles. On his left a steep, wooded embankment sloped to the river, which Meredith could see gleaming through the overhanging branches of willow and alder. Thick undergrowth rioted beneath the taller bushes and trees, forming a perfect retreat for anybody who did not wish to be seen from the road. It seemed pretty obvious to Meredith that if Rother had suddenly vanished then he must have vanished in this particular direction. But what was the point? Even if this brambly undergrowth lined the river-bank as far as Bramber, it would have taken Rother hours to have covered the distance, the more so since he was portering a suit-case. Quite apart from the fact that anybody could have noticed him from the road if they had heard the sound of his advance through the dry branches and twigs underfoot.
On the other hand, it was equally certain that he had not spent his week-ends sitting under the bushes by the river. Why had he come to that remote spot? How had he disappeared? Were these strange week-ends connected with the motive for his subsequent murder? Had some blackmailer got his talons into him? Had he been murdered because, driven to desperation, his blackmailer had threatened exposure?
“I should like to meet this chap Ferris and anybody else that you think could give me any information,” Meredith said to Thornton. “Will you show me around?”
“Sure,” said Thornton.
But Jake Ferris and the other cottage dwellers along the roadside could do little to solve the mystery. Ferris upheld that he had often noticed Rother passing his windows on a Saturday afternoon. He had also seen him returning about nine o’clock on a Sunday night on his way to Thornton’s garage. Thornton declared that Rother usually called in for his car between nine and ten on Sunday evening. Yes—he always carried that suit-case. On one occasion Ferris had watched him walking up the road toward Bramber. The man had turned once or twice and looked back over his shoulder, as if suspicious of the fact that he was being watched. Ferris had eventually lost sight of him round a bend in the road. Other cottagers corroborated Jake’s evidence. But that was all. Meredith was disappointed.
“What’s the name of the bus service which covers this route?” he asked Thornton as they drove back to the garage.
“South Downland,” replied Thornton.
“Headquarters?”
“Station Road, Brighton.”
“Thanks, Mr. Thornton. Very kind of you to waste so much of your valuable time. I’m hoping your information may lead us somewhere.”
“Justice,” orated Tim Thornton. “That’s all I want. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. They’re my sentiments in a nutshell. You can’t go against fate, but you can level things up with, what might be called, Fate’s Travelling Representative. The moment I saw that poor devil come into my garage something inside me went click. To an ordinary chap it’s difficult to explain—but, as I said before, I’ve got a psychic—”
But Meredith was already waving an arm of farewell from a hundred yards up the road.
“Left at the toll-bridge,” he ordered Hawkins. “I want to go to Brighton.”