The Polo Ground Mystery (18 page)

“The world's a bit too big and the human heart a bit too small,” remarked Vereker thoughtfully. “Was Braby a man who might try to get his own back through an agent?”

“I don't think so. But there are others in the money scrum who might want to kick his shins. Then there's the lunatic who does delightfully unexpected things— Mary Smith's brother for choice,” said Degerdon bitterly.

“Ah, yes,” said Vereker, with an ironic smile, “but we've got a happy retreat for such people as Mary Smith's brother at Broadmoor, if by any chance they escape the gallows. Our ethics are a bit tricky, and all we can hope is that Progress is not, as Baudelaire put it, an invention of the Belgians!”

At the “Silver Pear Tree” the two men parted, and Degerdon continued his way along the Nuthill road. On entering the inn Vereker retired to his room and jotted down, as was his custom, all the particulars of his day's work on the case. On going once more over the ground and reconstructing his conversation with Ralph Degerdon, he was assailed by a peculiar sense of uneasiness. That uneasiness arose from his inability to draw satisfactory inferences from two of the most significant portions of that conversation. When Degerdon had remarked that he had heard Sutton moving about in his room during the early hours of Thursday morning, Vereker had seized upon the weakness of the statement like a hawk flashing on its prey. Seeing that Fanshaugh's and Winter's rooms separated his from Sutton's, how had Degerdon come to the conclusion that it was Sutton he had heard? His reply had been a frank avowal that he had formed his judgment in the light of subsequent events and not at the moment. If true, the explanation was simple; but, if concocted extemporarily, it showed an amazing readiness of mind. Again, when Vereker had probed him discreetly about the presence of a youth resembling him in Wild Duck Wood that morning, he had promptly asked, “What was he wearing?” Was it again the simple directness of innocence or the perspicacity of a man wide awake to the value of the information that the answer might supply? Vereker, suddenly alive to possibilities, had lied. It was necessary to allay suspicion in order to assure the possible reappearance of that Norfolk jacket and cap. Lastly, there was Degerdon's almost supererogatory information that he had not risen till ten. Vereker was acutely aware of the psychological significance of unnecessary statement given with an air of conversational diffuseness. It was a common resort of the liar or deceiver. Degerdon was indirectly stating that he was in bed at the hour when Vereker was hinting that he was in Wild Duck Wood. This indirectness, too, to hide the fact that he was conscious of being suspected. The exasperating factor in this instance was that the statement was artless enough to be true. If the statement were untrue, Degerdon had momentarily forgotten that its falseness might easily be detected by a tactful questioning of Captain Fanshaugh. The oversight seemed too glaring to be associated with the preparedness of a resourceful man. And at that moment Vereker exclaimed:

“Algernon, you're a clumsy fool! There's a possibility, a decided possibility—”

But his soliloquy was cut short by a loud knock on his door and the entrance of Inspector Heather.

“Well, Heather, found the Colt automatic pistol?” asked Vereker when the officer had taken a seat.

“Not a trace, but I haven't given up hope, Mr. Vereker. I've some good news. On having another good look at that suit of clothes which Burton found, Goss noticed a cleaners' mark which he had skipped on the first kit inspection. Poor old Goss! We call him ‘Speedy' at the Yard. He lived up to his name on this occasion, but I've a notion God helped him. Tracking down the shop where a suit has been cleaned and by whom it was left for that purpose is about as dull and long a job as it is important. Sometimes it is as hopeless as trying to find out where a box of matches was bought. ‘Speedy' put his fist on the right egg almost before he was sure what we wanted him to do. He explained his good luck by ascribing it to a species of inspiration which he persists in calling a ‘hinkling.' However, we've got the name of the gent who left that suit to be cleaned. It's Raoul Vernet. He was at an address in Woburn Square a fortnight ago, but has since vanished. I dare say he's back on the Continent now, and probably with Mrs. Armadale's necklace in his pocket.”

“So you've added a third suspect to your dessert of Portwine and Peach,” remarked Vereker.

“I'm beginning to think that the murder of Mr. Armadale has nothing to do with the burglary,” said the inspector thoughtfully.

“Unless the bold seaman, Portwine, has got in touch with a gang of Continental crooks,” suggested Vereker.

“There is that possibility. We shall begin to get a better view of things once we've tracked down these two mysterious people—or rather three, if we count Mr. Gastinne Renette.”

“One more point, Heather, before I forget it. When you next see Mrs. Armadale's maid, will you find out from her whether her mistress had occasion to wear a fur coat, probably sable, on Wednesday night or more likely very early on Thursday morning? She will doubtless remember having put the coat away.”

“She tidied a fur coat away all right,” replied the inspector. “In the course of my chat with the little minx, I found out that Mrs. Armadale had slipped on her old sable coat over her bathing costume when going to and returning from the swimming-pool.”

“H'm!” muttered Vereker reflectively. “I've taken a sudden objection to the number of sable coats in England during a period of financial depression. Every clue in this case seems about as tenuous as gossamer.”

“Never mind, Mr. Vereker, get your fingers and toes into it and hang on,” encouraged the inspector, and with a broad smile added, “I shouldn't worry much about facts. Double up on the psychology stunt. It's so juicy!”

“That's just where you rule-of-thumb men in the C.I.D. fall short, Heather,” chaffed Vereker. “You're all right with the Bill Sykes type of criminal. You'll catch him once in a while if he makes a bloomer at his job. But, now that man has practically conquered the world and even sport begins to be tame, the field of crime lies open to daring and original spirits. Your misfortune is that they've got brains and mean to use them. It's about time I read that
Daily Express
cutting to you again.”

Vereker's hand went in search of his pocket-book, but before he could extract it Heather had risen and with a cheery good night had vanished.

The next day being Sunday, Vereker rose rather later than usual, and pondered over his programme for the day as he sat in his dressing-gown leisurely smoking after breakfast. The morning was brilliantly fine, and he had a resurgence of that spirit to paint which even in the midst of his most exciting preoccupations with criminal investigation would occasionally exercise a Circean enchantment over him. He had hardly dressed, however, when a servant from Vesey Manor brought him a note from Basil Ralli asking him to come up at once if possible. Mrs. Armadale and Mr. Houseley had arrived very early by car, and the former had expressed a wish to see him before they left at noon. It was an opportunity that couldn't be missed, and at once Vereker dismissed all thoughts of painting from his mind and set out for the manor with a growing sense of excitement. On his arrival he was shown up to the solarium, where he found Ralli, Mrs. Armadale, and Houseley sitting at ease and chatting with undisguised cheerfulness. Mrs. Armadale was, as he had expected, typically English. Tall, beautifully proportioned, with fair hair almost bleached by exposure to sun and wind and contrasting with her tanned complexion, she proved that the feminine product of our country life could vie in beauty with the womanhood of any race on earth. Her wide-set, bluish-grey eyes met Vereker's with a frankness and composure that were completely disarming. The whole face seemed alight with a new-born zest in life which lent it a girlishness that belied even her thirty years. Vereker at once noticed that she had assumed no trace of mourning in her dress as a sop to public opinion, and even in these reasonable days it seemed to reveal a dash of courageous individuality. Stanley Houseley, on the other hand, was not what anyone would at first glance call a handsome man. The face was prognathous, and a large brown moustache seemed too obtrusive an adornment in its broad expanse. His eyes were shrewd and observant, but with a cold and somewhat aloof glance. In stature he was tall, and his broad shoulders were set in a curious stiffness of carriage which lent him an air of stateliness which bordered on pompousness.

No sooner had Vereker seated himself after the preliminaries of introduction than Ralli rose, as if by prearrangement, and said:

“Come along, Houseley, I know you're simply dying to look round the stables.”

“Ah, yes, that would be rather jolly,” replied Houseley mechanically, and rose.

When the two men had left the solarium, Mrs. Armadale drew her chair closer to Vereker's and at once broached the subject that was uppermost in her mind.

“Basil was telling me this morning at breakfast that you're an old friend of his and were helping in an unofficial way to solve the mystery of my husband's death.”

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Armadale, I'm down here as a representative of the
Daily Report
,” corrected Vereker. “This again isn't strictly true, because I don't represent them in any capacity. The editor's a very old friend of mine and, knowing I'm intensely interested in the investigation of crime, especially murder, he kindly despatches me as a sort of reporter ‘without portfolio' to carry out my own plans. It's very useful in a way, because the Press is allowed privileges that would be denied a purely private individual.”

“But Basil says you're quite famous as an amateur detective,” interrupted Mrs. Armadale.

“It's very good of him to boost me so strenuously. I've had some experience in the business, but I'm an artist by profession and not at all famous in either line.”

“You're very modest about yourself, and it makes me feel we shall be good friends. But to come to the point. My husband's death has put me in a very terrible position, and I naturally want the dreadful mystery surrounding it cleared up as quickly as possible. Basil told me he trusted you implicitly and took the responsibility of letting you know all the family secrets. I was frightfully annoyed at first, but I see now that it was absolutely essential if you were to have a free hand. Naturally, I don't want the whole wretched business broadcasted, and in this, perhaps, you can help me. If there's anything you want to know, you must ask me frankly. I will be perfectly candid even if it's painful— which it's sure to be.”

“I'm afraid I shan't spare you, Mrs. Armadale,” said Vereker firmly. “It's rather embarrassing to be taken so readily into confidence, but whatever happens I can't allow myself to be influenced by graciousness. It wouldn't do in this job. This may seem infernally rude, but I haven't sought this interview. Now you know my attitude, the remedy is in your own hands. Do you wish it to continue?”

For a moment a bright flush suffused Mrs. Armadale's cheek and a pugnacious light flamed in her eyes. Then, as if shaking herself free of some unpleasant mental encumbrance, she turned quickly to Vereker.

“I hope you're not prejudiced against me,” she said.

“Certainly not. An open mind is frequently as distasteful to anyone suffering from a sense of injustice. I simply want you to understand my point of view.”

“I understand it quite clearly now, Mr. Vereker. So please commence.”

“Good. If I'm to help you, my services may be something like a dentist's. You must screw up your courage. I've no spiritual anaesthetic I can administer beforehand. In the first place, were you in love with Sutton Armadale when he married you?”

“To start with, that's what we call in the hunting field a ‘bullfinch' with a slippery take-off. Let me pull myself together and take it at a canter.”

For some moments Angela Armadale was silent, her brow knit, her eyes fixed on the blue distance into which the rolling country faded southwards.

“It's so difficult to explain,” she began hesitatingly. “I was twenty-eight at the time and really ought to have known exactly where I was. They say a woman's desperate at twenty-nine, but that wasn't the case with me. I had had innumerable proposals of marriage, but my outlook was perhaps too exacting. I'm afraid my views on men had been too much influenced by my reading. Instead of treating the novelist as a showman I'd treated him as a high priest. Even to-day when they allow themselves to be realistic about love, they grow stupidly romantic about intellect. There was ‘Ugly' Norton, who was so handsome. He wrote infantile verses to me sprinkled with ‘dear heart,' but his conversation was limited by the four walls of a stable. He was a frightful bore. ‘Tushey' Vaughan, though otherwise lovable, drank too much and was secretly very religious. I nicknamed him ‘Gin and Jesus.' He heard of it and never spoke to me again. Jim Cresswell was very jolly, but sprayed saliva when he used to tell me I was ‘weally the pwettiest gel' he knew. Lawrie Beresford was ardent enough to be in love with me and at the same time keep some drab in town ‘on principles of hygiene.' I didn't care for those principles. Stanley Houseley's a dear, but when he first kissed me I felt as if I'd been flung into impenetrable bush. So you see I was always a bit difficult to please. Then I met Sutton. He was considerably older than I, but I was very fascinated in spite of the fact that his nose grew hair. He was so wealthy and overpoweringly persistent. I surrendered. The rest of the story you know.”

“Are you in love with Mr. Houseley now?”

“Yes, but I'm afraid I shall never be passionately in love with any man. I have spasms of ardour which are always cooled by squirts of chilly criticism. I can't help it. Cupid fitted me with a martingale.”