Out Of The Past (9 page)

It was Colonel Anthony from Ralston who gave the alarm. For seven months in the year irrespective of weather he went down at what his wife called a horrible hour to take his morning dip. Ralston being next to Cliff Edge and served by the same path to the beach, his way across the shingle led him quite close to the Hardwicks’ hut. He at once perceived that there was something wrong. The door, which should have been shut, stood wide, and from it protruded a man’s foot and ankle. There was a stiffness, there was something about the angle of that jutting foot, which halted Colonel Anthony. He took a couple of steps to the right, and saw a dead man lying just inside the hut. He lay on his face. There was a wound in his back, and there was no doubt about his being dead. There had been a lot of blood, but it was dry now. There was no sign of a weapon.

Colonel Anthony gave a sharp exclamation, turned on his heel, and made his way back up the cliff path at a very creditable pace. At a quarter past seven James Hardwick was being informed that Inspector Colt would like a word with him—“if you please, sir.” James said, “All right, Beeston,” pulled on a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt, and went down.

Inspector Colt was waiting for him in the gloomy study to which it had been Uncle Octavius’ wont to retire when he felt disposed for a nap. It contained a number of monumental chairs covered in rubbed black leather and a very large sofa, but the Inspector had remained upon his feet—a tall man with sandy hair and a face like a horse. He extended a sizable hand with a key on the palm and said,

“Good-morning, sir. May I ask if this is the key of your beach hut?”

James looked at it.

“Well, it might be. But I don’t know how you came by it. We always lock up when we come in, and it ought to be on the hall table. I’ll just have a look.”

“You won’t find it there,” said Inspector Colt. “When the police were rung up to say there was a dead body in the hut—”

James had turned towards the door. He turned back.

“A dead what!”

“A dead body,” said Inspector Colt. Neither his face nor his voice had changed. He continued without any perceptible break. “Proceeding to the spot, we discovered the door of the beach hut standing open, and the body of a man lying just inside. The key was on the floor beside him. I should like to know whether you can throw any light upon its being there.”

James said sharply, “Who was the man?”

“Colonel Anthony identifies him as Mr. Alan Field.”

“Field? Good God—we’ve got his stepmother staying in the house! He was here only last night!”

“So Colonel Anthony informed us.”

James reflected that since the neighbours always knew everything, it was as well not to be outdone in the way of offering information to the police. He said in a suitable tone of distress,

“This will be a most terrible shock to Mrs. Field. She is very fond of him.”

“You are connected?”

“Mrs. Field is my wife’s aunt. Field has been abroad for the last three years—I believe in South America. He turned up quite unexpectedly the evening before last. I myself was away. I only returned last night—at seven o’clock, to be precise. We have a number of guests in the house. They were having drinks in the drawing-room. Field was there, but went away soon afterwards. It looks as if he must have had the key of the hut. He may even have been the one who locked it— I don’t know.”

There was more on these lines. Inspector Colt took down the names of the guests—Colonel and Mrs. Trevor, Lady Castleton, Mrs. Field, Mrs. Maybury.

“Did they all know Mr. Field?”

“I should think so.”

“You are not sure, Major Hardwick?”

James smiled faintly.

“Well, no. You see, I didn’t. As I told you, I only got here last night, and up till then I had only met Field once or twice.”

Colt said in his expressionless voice,

“But Mrs. Hardwick was once engaged to him.”

“Oh, yes—they were more or less brought up together. But it didn’t come to anything. It was before I met her.”

“Was there any disagreement, any quarrel, when he was here last night?”

“Oh, no—nothing like that. Just a social gathering. It broke up almost at once.”

“May I ask why?”

“It was after seven. Everyone had been out in the sun, and I was just off a journey—we all wanted to wash and change. Field was staying at Miss Anning’s—they dine at half past seven. It was like that.”

“There was no quarrel?”

“Of course not.”

He went upstairs.

Carmona was brushing her hair. He shut the door behind him, went over to her, and took the brush out of her hand.

“Listen, darling! Inspector Colt is downstairs from the local police. Alan Field is dead. I’m not asking you whether you knew that already—I’m not asking anything at all. I’m telling you what you will now be expected to know. Colonel Anthony found our beach hut open. Alan was just inside on the floor. The key was lying beside him. He had been stabbed in the back—no, as you were—we don’t know anything about that! He had been stabbed. Now this is what I’ve said.” He told her briefly. And then, “They know you were engaged to him before I met you. They’ll want to see everyone in the house. Colt is very hot on finding out whether there was any quarrel. I said no, of course not. Now you’ll have to go and tell Esther. I’m sorry, but it’s your job. Then there are the others. Use your judgment. Tell them not to say too much. Stick to answering questions, and if it’s any way possible, stick to the truth. Lies have a way of doubling back and tripping you up. And now hurry! I’ll go down and tell him you’re not dressed, but you’ll be as quick as you can.”

At half past eight that evening Inspector Abbott stood at the door of the Annings’ house and asked for Miss Silver. It was the French girl Marie who opened the door to him. In spite of the heat which had only just begun to drop out of the day she looked trim. Her eyelashes flicked up provocatively and then fell again to lie demurely upon the smooth skin of her cheek. Frank reflected that she probably knew most of the answers to most of the questions, and considered that it might be worth his while to find out what she knew about Alan Field. But he must see Miss Silver first.

He was invited into what had been the drawing-room of the house. Two elderly ladies were playing double patience at a table by the window. A third was reading a thriller in the sofa corner. Miss Maud Silver, in an olive-green dress adorned by her favourite brooch in the shape of a rose carved from bog-oak with an Irish pearl at its heart, sat knitting at the farther end of the room. There was a fluff of pale pink wool in her lap, and she was engaged in conversation with a massive woman who was expressing very definite views about the government.

The eyes of all these ladies turned towards the unexpected guest. It may be said that they approved him. Miss Silver did more. Gathering up her knitting, she rose and went to meet him.

“My dear Frank—how extremely pleasant! I had really no idea that I was to expect you today.”

This, and an affectionate greeting, took them as far as the hall, where he dropped his voice to say,

“Will you come out with me—or is there anywhere we can talk?”

Miss Silver considered.

“Just a moment. I will ask Miss Anning,” she said, and crossed to the office door.

Frank saw it open, heard the murmur of voices, and was aware of Miss Darsie Anning coming out. He had an instant and strong impression of—well, what was it? It hit him as if a stone had been flung. He ought to know what it was, but he didn’t. You wouldn’t, after all, know just what kind of a stone had hit you.

He was being introduced—“Inspector Abbott.” And Miss Silver was saying, “Miss Anning is kind enough to let us use her office.”

Darsie Anning’s dark eyes rested for a moment on his face. No one would ever have guessed how gay and bright they used to be. She said in reply to a murmur of thanks, “I was just on my way to sit with my mother. The room is quite at your service,” and went away from them up the stairs, a rather stiffly upright figure in her dark brown linen dress.

Frank thought, “What a house! A French maid from a farce— chorus of old ladies—and Miss Anning who should have had a part in quite a different play.” He was frowning as they went into the office and shut the door.

As soon as they were seated he said,

“Something is the matter there. What is it?”

Miss Silver arranged her wool.

“With Miss Anning? She has a difficult, harassing life. Her mother is an invalid—”

He said, “No, it’s not that. Why don’t you want to tell me?”

She gave him a small grave smile.

“Perhaps because I do not want you to make too much of it. I am sorry for Miss Anning, but if I do not tell you, someone else will. I believe there was once, if not an engagement, an understanding between her and Mr. Field. His tragic death would naturally be a shock, especially as he had been staying in the house.”

Frank nodded.

“I see. You know, I come into this from rather an odd angle. I’ll tell you about that presently. When the Chief told me the murdered man was staying at this address, it really did seem too good to be true, because I had had your picture-postcard only a day or two before. Perhaps I had better not tell you what he said when I came back with the information that you were staying here too.”

Miss Silver assumed an expression of reproof. She held Chief Inspector Lamb in high esteem, and preferred to forget the occasions on which she had been obliged to consider his manner to be lacking in some of the finer shades.

Frank made haste to purge his offence.

“Well, you know, he does feel that you crop up. Somewhere under all that solid worth there is a lurking vein of superstition, and he has the feeling that you might for all he knows crop up on a broomstick.”

Miss Silver was not placated.

“You sometimes talk great nonsense, Frank,” she said.

It was a remark she had often had occasion to make before, and as a rule it was accompanied by an indulgent smile. This being notably absent, he perceived that he had better make a diversion.

“I do, don’t I? And we’re in the middle of a serious business. I apologize. Let me tell you about José Cardozo—or, as the Chief endearingly calls him, ‘Hosy.’ ”

Miss Silver was knitting after the continental fashion, her hands low, her eyes fixed intelligently upon Frank Abbott.

“And who is José Cardozo?”

Frank gave a short laugh.

“Well, for the past three weeks he might have been described as a thorn in the Chief’s flesh—wished on him with a letter of introduction and wanting to know what has happened to his brother.”

“There is a brother?”

“There was. Or maybe there still is. That is one of the snags. Name of Felipe. José says Felipe was coming over here from South America. He might have come by sea, or he might have come by air. He might have come under his own name, or he might not. He was on very important business of a private and family nature, and he carried a valuable document. Here we run into another of the snags. There is no evidence to show that Felipe ever set foot in this country. The nearest you can get to it is that José says he met a man about a fortnight ago who says he saw Felipe in London a week before that in the company of a fair, good-looking Englishman. He didn’t speak to them, and he has now returned to South America, so it doesn’t get one very much farther.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“A fair, good-looking Englishman?”

“According to José‘s friend as reported by José. But let me come a little more up to date. The first I heard of any of it was day before yesterday morning when the Chief sent for me. Got a good piece off his chest about letters of introduction in general and ‘Hosy’ and his letter of introduction in particular. It seems Cardozo had been in again, and this time he said he had found his brother.”

“He had found him?”

“He had identified a body picked up out of the river— dead about three weeks. The post mortem showed a blow on the back of the head. Might have been the reason why he fell into the river—might have been acquired accidentally after falling in. Actual cause of death drowning. José swore it was his brother, and that he had been murdered. The Chief told me to go down and look into it. Well, I went, and I saw José. He was in a very excited state and quite sure that his brother had been bumped off for the sake of what he carried. He said it was a very important family document, and that there was a great deal of money involved. Pressed to suggest what use a family document would be to the stray dockside murderer, he became very grand opera and let off as good a piece of recitative as I have heard, all on the lines of ‘A stray murderer? When have I said so! Is it a stranger who follows Felipe to rob him, or is it the serpent he has nourished in his bosom?’ Naturally, it is the serpent—the one that he has taken into his confidence, and who has now repaid him by robbery and murder. Finishing up with a torrent of fancy invective. When I enquired who he supposed the serpent to be, he threw up his hands and said it wasn’t a case of supposing, and he had always distrusted him. Felipe had a simple, open nature. He loved the serpent like a brother, and where he loved he trusted. But José had detected the serpent’s perfidy. He had warned Felipe, and they had quarrelled. All this in Rio, where José had been a little while before on business. Now it was quite clear to him that his brother had been murdered by the perfidious ingrate, and so forth, and so on. When I could get a word in edgeways I asked for the serpent’s name, and—I suppose you can guess it.”

Miss Silver looked across her pink wool and said,

“Alan Field.”

“Was that really a guess, or do you know something?”

Miss Silver said sedately,

“I am acquainted with Mr. Field’s stepmother. She is the widow of Penderel Field, the artist, and she is a very nice woman. She mentioned to me that her stepson had been associated on a horse ranch with a Mr. Cardozo.”

“I see. Of course you are right as usual. Alan Field was the name which José produced. Well, so far so good. Only of course there was no evidence to speak of. There were no papers—certainly no valuable family document. José identified the body, suggested Field as the murderer, and said his friend’s description of a fair, good-looking Englishman would apply.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“Alan Field was very fair. He was also outstandingly handsome.”

Frank nodded.

“Yes. Now, all that belongs to yesterday. Let us come to today. There are two remarkable developments. First of all, the murder of Alan Field. The Yard got early information about that, because he came down from London and they wanted anything we could give them about where he was staying and what his contacts had been. I went off to see Cardozo, and found he had been round to the local police bright and early this morning and had told them there was something he ought to have mentioned. His brother Felipe Cardozo had had a bad accident when he was a boy and had broken his right leg in two places. He said it had passed out of his mind, but came back in the watches of the night, and he thought he ought to let them know, because if bones had been broken, would not the post mortem make that clear? Perhaps he had been a little hasty in identifying the body.”

“And had he?”

“That’s the question. I saw the chap who did the post mortem, and he says if Felipe Cardozo broke his leg as described by José, then he isn’t the corpse, and that’s all there is about it. From which I deduce that either José really had been too hasty in the first place, or that having identified the body as his brother’s, he had now some strong reason for wishing he had held his tongue. And the reason which presented itself in rather a forcible manner was the murder of Alan Field.”

Miss Silver continued to knit in a thoughtful manner. She said,

“I see.” And then, “Pray continue.”

He did so.

“To sum up. On Tuesday morning José identifies a body as that of his brother Felipe and more or less accuses Alan Field of having murdered him for the sake of ‘a family document.’ On Wednesday night Alan Field is stabbed in a beach hut at Cliffton-on-Sea. On Thursday morning José goes to the police and says he had forgotten to mention that his brother had a broken leg, and perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in identifying the corpse. Difficult to resist the suspicion that José had had the bright thought that it would be healthier for him if he could disabuse the police of the idea that he had any motive for the stabbing. If the corpse wasn’t his brother, why kill Alan Field? Felipe might still be alive, and an affectionate brother would go on searching for him.”

“It is a possible explanation. But I think you have something more to tell me.”

“Well, I have. Just once in a way, you know, one does have a piece of luck. Do you happen to remember Ernest Pearson?”

Miss Silver thought for a moment.

“A slight stoop—thinning hair—brown eyes—and rather hollow cheeks—”

“A very good portrait. Do you remember where we ran across him?”

“Oh, yes. He was the butler at the Grange in the Porlock Case, which the newspapers would insist on alluding to as the Spotlight Murder. He turned out to be a detective employed by a private agency.”

Frank nodded.

“Yes, Blake’s. Quite reputable people. Pearson used to be in the Force, but was invalided out. He retains an immense respect for it. Well, as I was coming away from the local station I bumped into him. Not the long arm of coincidence this time, because he had heard I was on the case and was waiting for me.”

“You interest me extremely.”

“And I am going to interest you a good deal more. Pearson asked if he might have a word with me, and we walked along together. He said he wasn’t easy in his mind. Chief Inspector Lamb would speak to his character when he was in the Force, and there wasn’t anything anybody could say against him since he retired from it and entered the employment of a private firm—Blake’s being a high-class agency and not one that would lend itself to any funny business. He was very earnest about it all. There was one’s duty to one’s client, and there was one’s duty to the law. Blake’s gave good service, but if it was a case of the duty to the client coming up against the duty to the law, Pearson was of the opinion that the law had it every time, and that you couldn’t be a party to anything of, so to speak, a criminal nature, especially not when it might lead to your being involved in a murder case. And that was where I began to prick up my ears.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“I am not surprised, my dear Frank. What had he to tell you?”

Frank leaned back in his chair and regarded her with pleasure. Part of the bond between them lay in the fact that to talk to her was to be conscious of a quick and sympathetic intelligence which not only followed every point, but so stimulated and clarified his own thought as to render it capable of something just beyond its previous best. He said in his rather lazy, cultured voice,

“Quite a surprising tale. Mr. José Cardozo had employed him through his agency to trace and to shadow a Mr. Alan Field recently arrived from South America after a three years’ absence. Now Blake’s happened to know something about Alan Field. Before he left the country they had been employed by an irate husband on two separate occasions to shadow him with a view to divorce proceedings. No precise evidence was obtained, and the matter was dropped. But Blake’s learned quite a lot about Alan Field—amongst other less reputable things the fact that he had a well-to-do stepmother, and that she had a London flat where he was a constant visitor. Pearson had been employed on the case and he remembered the address. He went there on Wednesday morning, and learned that Alan Field had been there the day before and had gone on to look up his stepmother at Cliffton-on-Sea. Pearson is very good at extracting information from people who wouldn’t dream of handing it out to the ordinary pressman or detective. He describes Mrs. Field’s housekeeper as ‘a very respectable person,’ which is just what he is himself. He reported to José Cardozo. So you see, José knew Alan Field’s whereabouts and Mrs. Field’s address at Cliffton by the early afternoon of Wednesday. He knew them in time to run down there by train or car and stab Alan Field in the beach hut belonging to the house where his stepmother was staying.”