Striding Folly (7 page)

    He remembered only too well. The dream, and the double castle moving to crush him. He watched the superintendent feeling in his pocket and suddenly knew that name of the terror that had flickered in and out of the black wood.

    The superintendent set down the white rook that had lain by the corpse at the Folly. Colour, height and weight matched with the rook on the board.

    ‘Staunton men,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘all of a pattern.’

    But the superintendent, with his back to the french window, was watching Mr Mellilow’s grey face.

    ‘He must have put it in his pocket,’ said Mr Mellilow. ‘He cleared the pieces away at the end of the game.’

    ‘But he couldn’t have taken it up to Striding Folly,’ said the superintendent, ‘nor he couldn’t have done the murder, by your own account.’

    ‘Is it possible that you carried it up to the Folly yourself,’ asked the Chief Constable, ‘and dropped it there when you found the body?’

    ‘The gentleman has said that he saw this man Moses put it away,’ said the superintendent.

    They were watching him now, all of them. Mr Mellilow clasped his head in his hands. His forehead was drenched. ‘Something must break soon,’ he thought.

    Like a thunderclap there came a blow on the window; the superintendent leapt nearly out of his skin.

    ‘Lord, my lord!’ he complained, opening the window and letting a gust of fresh air into the room, ‘How you startled me!’

    Mr Mellilow gaped. Who was this? His brain wasn’t working properly. That friend of the Chief Constable’s, of course, who had disappeared somehow during the conversation. Like the bridge in his dream. Disappeared. Gone out of the picture.

    ‘Absorbin’ game, detectin’,’ said the Chief Constable’s friend. ‘Very much like chess. People come creepin’ right up on to the verandah and you never even notice them. In broad daylight, too. Tell me, Mr Mellilow – what made you go up last night to the Folly?’

    Mr Mellilow hesitated. This was the point in his story that he had made no attempt to explain. Mr Moses had sounded unlikely enough; a dream about goloshes would sound more unlikely still.

    ‘Come now,’ said the Chief Constable’s friend, polishing his monocle on his handkerchief and replacing it with an exaggerated lifting of the eyebrows. ‘What was it? Woman, woman, lovely woman? Meet me by moonlight and all that kind of thing?’

    ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Mellilow, indignantly. ‘I wanted a breath of fresh—’ He stopped, uncertainly. There was something in the other man’s childish-foolish face that urged him to speak the reckless truth. ‘I had a dream,’ he said.

    The superintendent shuffled his feet, and the Chief Constable crossed one leg awkwardly over the other.

    ‘Warned of God in a dream,’ said the man with the monocle, unexpectedly. ‘What did you dream of?’ He followed Mr Mellilow’s glance at the board. ‘Chess?’

    ‘Of two moving castles,’ said Mr Mellilow, ‘and the dead body of a black crow.’

    ‘A pretty piece of fused and inverted symbolism,’ said the other. ‘The dead body of a black crow become a dead man with a white rook.’

    ‘But that came afterwards,’ said the Chief Constable.

    ‘So did the end-game with the two rooks,’ said Mr Mellilow.

    ‘Our friend’s memory works both ways,’ said the man with the monocle, ‘like the White Queen’s. She, by the way, could believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast. So can I. Pharaoh tell your dream.’

    ‘Time’s getting on, Wimsey,’ said the Chief Constable.

    ‘Let time pass,’ retorted the other, ‘for, as a great chess-player observed, it helps more than reasoning.’

    ‘What player was that?’ demanded Mr Mellilow.

    ‘A lady,’ said Wimsey, ‘who played with living men and mated kings, popes and emperors.’

    ‘Oh,’ said Mr Mellilow. ‘Well—’ he told his tale from the beginning, making no secret of his grudge against Creech and his nightmare fancy of the striding electric pylons. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that was what gave me the dream.’ And he went on to his story of the goloshes, the bridge, the moving towers and death on the stairs at the Folly.

    ‘A damned lucky dream for you,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I see now why they chose you. Look! it is all clear as daylight. If you had had no dream – if the murderer had been able to come back later and replace your goloshes – if someone else had found the body in the morning with the chess-rook beside it and your tracks leading back and home again, that might have been mate in one move. There are two men to look for, Superintendent. One of them belongs to Creech’s household, for he knew that Creech came every Wednesday through the wicket-gate to play chess with you; and he knew that Creech’s chessmen and yours were twin sets. The other was a stranger – probably the man whom Creech half-expected to call upon him. One lay in wait for Creech and strangled him near the wicket gate as he arrived; fetched your goloshes from the verandah and carried the body down to the Folly. And the other came here in disguise to hold you in play and give you an alibi that no one could believe. The one man is strong in his hands and strong in the back – a sturdy, stocky man with feet no bigger than yours. The other is a big man, with noticeable eyes and probably clean-shaven, and he plays brilliant chess. Look among Creech’s enemies for those two men and ask them where they were between eight o’clock and ten-thirty last night.’

    ‘Why didn’t the strangler bring back the goloshes?’ asked the Chief Constable.

    ‘Ah!’ said Wimsey; ‘that was where the plan went wrong. I think he waited up at the Folly to see the light go out in the cottage. He thought it would be too great a risk to come up twice on to the verandah while Mr Mellilow was there.’

    ‘Do you mean,’ asked Mr Mellilow, ‘that he was there,
in
the Folly, watching me, when I was groping up those black stairs?’

    ‘He may have been,’ said Wimsey. ‘But probably, when he saw you coming up the slope, he knew that things had gone wrong and fled away in the opposite direction, to the high road that runs behind the Folly. Mr Moses, of course, went, as he came, by the road that passes Mr Mellilow’s door, removing his disguise in the nearest convenient place.’

    ‘That’s all very well, my lord,’ said the superintendent, ‘but where’s the proof of it?’

    ‘Everywhere,’ said Wimsey. ‘Go and look at the tracks again. There’s one set going outwards in goloshes, deep and short, made when the body was carried down. One, made later, in walking shoes, which is Mr Mellilow’s track going outwards towards the Folly. And the third is Mr Mellilow again, coming back, the track of a man running very fast. Two out and only one in. Where is the man who went out and never came back?’

    ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, doggedly. ‘But suppose Mr Mellilow made that second lot of tracks himself to put us off the scent, like? I’m not saying he did, mind you, but why couldn’t he have?’

    ‘Because,’ said Wimsey, ‘he had no time. The in-and-out tracks left by the shoes were made
after
the body was carried down. There is no other bridge for three miles on either side, and the river runs waist-deep. It can’t be forded; so it must be crossed by the bridge. But at half-past ten, Mr Mellilow was in the Feathers, on
this
side of the river, ringing up the police. It couldn’t be done, Super, unless he had wings. The bridge is there to prove it; for the bridge was crossed three times only.’

    ‘The bridge,’ said Mr Mellilow, with a great sigh. ‘I knew in my dream there was something important about that. I knew I was safe if only I could get to the bridge.’

The Haunted Policeman

A LORD PETER WIMSEY STORY

‘Good god!’ said his lordship. ‘Did I do that?’

    ‘All the evidence points that way,’ replied his wife.

    ‘Then I can only say that I never knew so convincing a body of evidence produce such an inadequate result.’

    The nurse appeared to take this reflection personally. She said in a tone of rebuke:

    ‘He’s a
beautiful
boy.’

    ‘H’m,’ said Peter. He adjusted his eyeglass more carefully. ‘Well, you’re the expert witness. Hand him over.’

    The nurse did so, with a dubious air. She was relieved to see that this disconcerting parent handled the child competently; as, in a man who was an experienced uncle, was not, after all, so very surprising. Lord Peter sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

    ‘Do you feel it’s up to standard?’ he inquired with some anxiety. ‘Of course,
your
workmanship’s always sound – but you never know with these collaborate efforts.’

    ‘I think it’ll do,’ said Harriet, drowsily.

    ‘Good.’ He turned abruptly to the nurse. ‘All right; we’ll keep it. Take it and put it away and tell ’em to invoice it to me. It’s a very interesting addition to you, Harriet; but it would have been a hell of a rotten substitute.’ His voice wavered a little, for the last twenty-four hours had been trying ones, and he had had the fright of his life.

    The doctor, who had been doing something in the other room, entered in time to catch the last words.

    ‘There was never any likelihood of that, you goop,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Now, you’ve seen all there is to be seen, and you’d better run away and play.’ He led his charge firmly to the door. ‘Go to bed,’ he advised him in kindly accents; ‘you look all in.’

    ‘I’m all right,’ said Peter. ‘I haven’t been doing anything. And look here—’ He stabbed a belligerent finger in the direction of the adjoining room. ‘Tell those nurses of yours, if I want to pick my son up, I’ll pick him up. If his mother wants to kiss him, she can damn well kiss him. I’ll have none of your infernal hygiene in
my
house.’

    ‘Very well,’ said the doctor, ‘just as you like. Anything for a quiet life. I rather believe in a few healthy germs myself. Builds up resistance. No, thanks, I won’t have a drink. I’ve got to go on to another one, and an alcoholic breath impairs confidence.’

    ‘Another one?’ said Peter, aghast.

    ‘One of my hospital mothers. You’re not the only fish in the sea by a long chalk. One born every minute.’

    ‘God! what a hell of a world.’ They passed down the great curved stair. In the hall a sleepy footman clung, yawning, to his post of duty.

    ‘All right, William,’ said Peter. ‘Buzz off now; I’ll lock up.’ He let the doctor out. ‘Good-night – and thanks very much, old man. I’m sorry I swore at you.’

    ‘They mostly do,’ replied the doctor philosophically. ‘Well, bung-ho, Flim. I’ll look in again later, just to earn my fee, but I shan’t be wanted. You’ve married into a good tough family, and I congratulate you.’

    The car, spluttering and protesting a little after its long wait in the cold, drove off, leaving Peter alone on the doorstep. Now that it was all over and he could go to bed, he felt extraordinarily wakeful. He would have liked to go to a party. He leaned back against the wrought-iron railings and lit a cigarette, staring vaguely into the lamp-lit dusk of the square. It was thus that he saw the policeman.

    The blue-uniformed figure came up from the direction of South Audley Street. He too was smoking and he walked, not with the firm tramp of a constable on his beat, but with the hesitating step of a man who has lost his bearings. When he came in sight, he had pushed back his helmet and was rubbing his head in a puzzled manner. Official habit made him look sharply at the bare-headed gentleman in evening dress, abandoned on a doorstep at three in the morning, but since the gentleman appeared to be sober and bore no signs of being about to commit a felony, he averted his gaze and prepared to pass on.