The Polo Ground Mystery (26 page)

“It's simply marvellous, Mr. Vereker,” came the reply, with a sigh such as a child utters after listening to an absorbing tale, “but, of course, it's sheer fudge from beginning to end. Why didn't they go further and construct a theory which would make me out a murderer as well as a thief?” 

“Perhaps they were exhausted by their first effort, or possibly they wanted to keep the two crimes strictly apart. Their ways are always a bit inscrutable. They've got another charming theory on the murder, purely hypothetical stuff, but I really haven't got the time to tell you about it just now. But before leaving I should like to give you a little friendly advice, Miss Cazas.”

“I always like friendly advice, Mr. Vereker. I know I shall do right by completely disregarding it.”

“The occasion may prove an exception. You're thinking of returning to Belgium?”

“That was my intention. In fact, my things are being packed for the journey.”

“Then hasten your departure. It may save you a lot of pain and annoyance.”

“Are they going to arrest me, Mr. Vereker?” asked Miss Cazas, with the first real show of fear in her remarkable eyes.

“No, I don't think they've got as far as that, because the story I've told you is my own fabrication, and I haven't breathed a word of it to a soul up to the present.”

“Suppose for a moment it was true, what is your reason for sparing me, Mr. Vereker?”

“For one reason, I always admire a clever and daring, if foolish, woman; but the real reason—well, I can't disclose it at the moment. Perhaps at some future date—”

“How generous of you, Mr. Vereker, but I'm not in the least bit alarmed! I shall tell my maid as soon as you've gone to unpack my things. I'm dining out with a friend to-night, and as I take hours to dress, I must commence at once.”

Miss Cazas extended her hand to Vereker.

“You can take it from me that it's not the hand of a thief,” she said, with a ravishing smile.

“I accept your word, Miss Cazas,” replied Vereker, taking the proffered hand and bowing courteously, “but—but—No, I won't be so ungallant as to finish the sentence. Good evening!”

On leaving Francis Street, Vereker telephoned to Ricardo.

“I'm not returning to Fenton Street to-night, Ricky. I've further business down at Vesey Manor.”

“How did you get on with Edmée?” asked Ricardo. “Did she liquefy under your scorching interrogation?”

“Ricky, she beat me to a frazzle! I drove her step by step into a corner and was about to give her the
coup de grâce
when in a flash my rapier was out of my hand, and I was disarmed and helpless!”

“Of course she resorted to tears. Edmée is the most accomplished weeper I know, and her eyes after the warm shower are like dew-wet violets instead of the usual poached eggs,” commented Ricardo.

“No, I must give my adversary her due. I was confident, but she was assurance incarnate. I thought I was invincible when I was just a child in her hands. She defeated me without any appeal to tears. Cold, sure, deadly mentality—a fine example of ‘l'audace et toujours l'audace!'”

“Possibly she started with an unfair advantage,” remarked Ricardo consolingly.

“No, I won't crab her victory. To use a military metaphor, she brought up reserves that I hadn't suspected. She never even employed them directly. I at once detected the threat and beat a strategic retreat to avoid an absolutely crushing defeat. A born artist, she refrained from pressing her advantage, and thereby saved a needless and distressing carnage on both sides. We saluted each other gracefully and parted.”

“Is there anything more I can do to help?” asked Ricardo, with something that sounded to Vereker like sardonic laughter.

“No, not at present. Send in your account when convenient.”

“I won't charge for my services on this occasion, Algernon. It would be like a doctor sending in a bill for a bungled operation on your wife—if you had one. I'm still at your service. So-long!”

On leaving the telephone box, Vereker made his way down to Charing Cross Station, and caught a train for Nuthill. As he sat in the corner of his carriage there was a look of quiet determination in his eyes and a wry smile on his lips. His interview with Miss Cazas had not yielded the results he had expected, and with swift intuition he had guessed the reason why. His mood was combative, and he had decided to give battle on the other issue of murder in another quarter at the first opportunity. He would return to the “Silver Pear Tree,” discuss the situation with Inspector Heather, and then drop in at Jodhpur to see Captain Rickaby Fanshaugh. On his way to Charing Cross Station, he had called at a bookshop in St. Martin's Lane and bought a copy of Byron's poetical works. As the train drew out of the station, he turned to Canto 4, Stanza 41, of “Don Juan” and read it. The stanza was merely a typical Byronic soliloquy in the poet's description of the melodramatic meeting between Don Juan and Haidee's father, Lambro, when the latter drew his pistol and was about to stop “this Canto and Don Juan's breath.” It seemed to have little connection with the murder of Sutton Armadale, except that it touched on the subject of pistol shooting and was perhaps an index to the character of the financier's literary taste. After some consideration, Vereker came to the conclusion that the words written by Sutton Armadale on his blotting-pad had probably been scribbled there for some purpose completely irrelevant to the issue of the murder. Closing the book, he thrust it into his pocket and gave the matter no further thought.

On arriving at the “Silver Pear Tree,” he found that Inspector Heather had left an hour previously, and it was uncertain when he would return. This was disappointing, because Vereker was eager to see the inspector and give him a full account of the result of his further work on the case. Surrendering philosophically to the inevitable, he ordered his dinner, ate it listlessly, and retired to his room to wash and change. He would call at Fanshaugh's bungalow at about nine. Even if the Fanshaughs dined as late as eight this would allow a reasonable interval after the meal. Having about half an hour on hand and being in an unsettled state of mind, Vereker thought he would pass the time in reading. Casting about for a book, he suddenly remembered the two small volumes which he had found in a drawer of Sutton Armadale's writing-table. They were Walter Winans's
The Modern Pistol and How to Shoot It
, and the same author's
Automatic Pistol Shooting
. He picked up the former of these and settled down in a chair. As he glanced through the volume, his eye suddenly caught the words, “‘Don Juan,' Canto 4, Stanza 41,” and at once all his faculties became alert. The words occurred in the author's chapter on the subject of
duelling
, and in a flash their whole significance became clear to him. Could it be possible that Sutton Armadale had met his death in a duel? The question was unavoidable, and as he swiftly reviewed all the curious incidents that had come to his knowledge in his painstaking inquiry the idea of a duel fitted into the fabric like the keystone to an arch. He had remarked to Ricardo that the spirit of Byronism had died in Russia years ago, but did it not survive in an emasculated form even in these less romantic days? As for duelling in England, he remembered that a British Code of Duelling had been published during the Duke of Wellington's time, and had been approved by the Duke and others; that among English army officers this method of settling private differences had been favoured and resorted to until fairly recent times, and was mentioned in an Army Act of 1879. Glancing at the author's text, he found complete instructions for the carrying out of a duel, even to the distance apart at which the contestants must stand. That distance was twenty-six yards, one foot, two inches—the very distance between the two small holes he had examined on the polo ground. The points at which the combatants had stood facing one another, pistol butts touching their thighs and waiting for the critical “Attention! Feu! Un, deux, trois!” must have been marked by the first things to hand, namely, the two shooting-sticks which he had subsequently found in the gun-room. At once his mind reverted to the round leather surveyor's tape-measure lying on Sutton's writing-table, and its presence there, which at the moment had appeared singular, now became clear. Once more he referred to Mr. Winans's text, and as he read with strained absorption he came upon the words, “M. Gastinne Renette of Paris generally supplies the pistols, but in an out-of-the-way place where you do not know the gunmaker and do not trust your opponent or his seconds, it is advisable to instruct your seconds to be very careful what gunmaker is chosen, and if they are the least bit dubious to insist on M. Gastinne Renette being telegraphed to, asking him to send a representative with pistols.”

“Well, I'm damned!” exclaimed Vereker. “So M. Gastinne Renette's connection, or rather want of it, with this affair is explained at last!”

Reading the paragraph again, he was assailed by the curiously dispassionate style of the author; its cold practicality savoured almost of the technical calm of an instructor telling a pupil where to buy a lawn-tennis racquet. It was a vivid disclosure of the author's settled conviction as to the moral rectitude of such an arbitrament.

Thrusting the book into his pocket, Vereker began to probe the less evident contingencies to which his discovery had given rise. The first point was the question of duelling pistols. If a duel had taken place, the weapons used had been Colt automatics of .45 calibre, fully loaded with magazines of seven cartridges. This was altogether contrary to any code of duelling, but suggested a combat
à outrance
arranged on the spur of the moment and carried out with the only weapons to hand. But one startlingly significant fact combated this supposition of a hastily arranged fight. Why had Sutton Armadale scrawled the name of a famous Parisian gunmaker, renowned for duelling pistols, on his writing-pad? The intention of seeking this method of composing difficulties must have been in his mind long before Wednesday night or Thursday morning. The whole matter had evidently been pondered on carefully. He had even taken the precaution to make himself a deadly marksman with a pistol, and skill with this fire-arm is not acquired in a few days. Premeditation on Sutton's part was clearly apparent. Then the question of time fitted in admirably with the supposition of a duel, for these contests were nearly always held at dawn, and Sutton Armadale had met his death about that hour. Having reviewed these facts rapidly, Vereker came to the vital question of Sutton Armadale's opponent. Fanshaugh, being a soldier, would be the likeliest man to accept a challenge to duel, but Fanshaugh, as far as Vereker knew, had no quarrel with Sutton sufficiently bitter to warrant the matter being put to such a deadly settlement. Degerdon's differences with the financier were of the sort to invite such combat, and the fact that in a pistol duel years would be no disadvantage to the older antagonist might have been a deciding factor in the choice of this method of wiping out scores. Aubrey Winter, Vereker dismissed as an unlikely man, with the reservation that he might not be an impossible man. Sutton might have taunted him into an anger violent enough to rouse even his sluggish temperament. Ralli, in spite of his amiability, had that subtlety of mind and disposition which forbade the drawing of conclusions about him. These were the four men resident in the house on that fateful morning, and the clue of the side door near the gun-room pointed clearly in their direction. Whichever of them had gone out with Armadale to the polo ground had, after the combat, returned by that door and used Sutton's key for the purpose of letting himself in. The fact that the key had been detached from Sutton's bunch, its subsequent discovery in Fanshaugh's room, and his cunning method of causing it to vanish once more clearly indicated Fanshaugh. Lastly, there was Stanley Houseley. Nearly every factor in the case declared him to be the most likely man of all to settle a quarrel with Sutton by duelling. He was in love with Sutton's wife; he had been discovered by Sutton kissing Angela on Wednesday afternoon; he was a good pistol shot; his return to the neighbourhood of Vesey Manor at two o'clock in the morning, and the fact that he had not reached his own home again till eight were weighty evidence. His mentality lent colour to the view that he would consider a duel an honourable and gentlemanly way of settling a difference, especially where a woman was the cause of the dispute. His very nickname, “Hell-for-leather,” hinted at an impetuosity and violence of temperament favourable to such a conclusion. Against this supposition stood the clue of the side door near the gun-room. There was no evidence to suggest that Houseley had re-entered the manor after his departure on Wednesday evening. For some minutes Vereker wrestled with this refractory point, and then with a violent start jumped from his chair.

“Eureka!” he exclaimed, for he had suddenly remembered that in a duel there must be seconds. Seconds in this instance had probably been dispensed with, but in that case some sort of director would be essential, and who could have been a more suitable claimant for such a post than Captain Rickaby Fanshaugh? He was a soldier; he was probably acquainted with the etiquette of duelling; he was a staunch friend of both men and a man of disinterested and scrupulously honourable nature. Seizing hat and stick, Vereker hurriedly left the “Silver Pear Tree” and was soon well on his way to Captain Fanshaugh's bungalow.

Fanshaugh was delighted to see him, and when Vereker remembered the incident of the key he wondered how much of the cordiality was forced. Miss Fanshaugh had retired for the night, partly owing to a headache and partly to an extraordinary persuasion that hours which suited larks also suited human beings. This was opportune from Vereker's point of view. His interview with “Fruity” was going to be of a direct and confidential nature. Seated in the Fanshaughs' drawing-room, the wall decoration of which declared a passion for photographic groups of polo teams and of the officers of his own regiment at different times, Vereker came straight to the point.