The Polo Ground Mystery (27 page)

“I've dropped in, Fanshaugh, to ask you a few questions about this Armadale business. I think you can help me considerably.”

“Only too pleased, Vereker. I don't think I can be of much use to you, but here I am at your service. Walk march!”

“You know I've been making a private investigation of the case?”

“I guessed something of the sort, but I thought it was almost a semi-official one. You've compared notes with the C.I.D. johnny, haven't you?”

“Only up to a certain point. Our methods have led us along widely divergent lines.”

“You'll let him know your results, I suppose?”

“I shall use my discretion on that point. I'm not the least bit interested in the punitive results to any individual concerned in the crime. Immediately a problem's solution is clear to me, I'm done with it as a rule.”

“Stout fellow! I'm with you there. But tell me, what is it you're not clear about?”

“After a devil of a lot of thinking, I've come to the conclusion that Sutton Armadale may not have been murdered at all.”

“You're backing the suicide theory?” asked Fanshaugh.

“No,” replied Vereker, and added in an even voice, “I've discovered that Armadale was killed in a duel.”

“That's damn smart of you, Vereker,” said the soldier, without a trace of surprise. “I hope you don't think I fought him.”

“No. I think I know the man all right, but I'm convinced you took some part in that duel—say, as a director.”

“You're wrong, Vereker. I can emphatically deny that allegation, and I'm not a liar—if I can help it.”

The words were spoken with such quiet sincerity that for some moments Vereker was badly shaken. Could his cherished theory, so carefully worked out, be only a fantastic dream? The thought was humiliating.

“You'll admit that a duel was fought?” he asked bluntly.

“But you say you've discovered that!” exclaimed Fanshaugh, with a hearty guffaw. “The truth is, you're only working on suspicion and trying to bluff me. Am I right?” 

“I'm convinced that a duel was fought,” retaliated Vereker firmly, “and, if you'd care to hear how I came to such a conclusion, I'll be pleased to tell you.”

“Fire away, old chap, it'll be devilish interesting,” said Fanshaugh, settling himself pleasantly in his chair and lighting a Trichinopoly.

Detail by detail, Vereker narrated how he had built up his theory, and while he talked, Fanshaugh's face, which had at first worn an expression of superior reserve, thawed into the warmth of whole-hearted admiration.

“Ripping, Vereker, ripping! As ‘Fuzzy' Waterton used to say, ‘you got the pig out of that jheel' very cleverly. I'll now frankly admit there was a duel!”

“I'm rather disappointed you had nothing to do with the directorship of that duel, Fanshaugh,” continued Vereker calmly. “It's the only way I can explain your little bit of legerdemain with the key of the door near the gun-room.”

Captain Fanshaugh was obliged to laugh heartily at Vereker's thrust.

‘I was appointed director, but I never officiated, Vereker. Before I go into that story, however, may I ask you the name of Sutton's opponent?”

“I've hesitated all along between two men, Degerdon and Houseley, but I'm inclined to think it was your friend ‘Hell-for-leather.'”

“It would be deuced interesting to know how you tumbled to that,” remarked Fanshaugh. 

Vereker, thereupon, gave him a pithy account of how he had arrived at his conclusion.

“The factor that makes me give preference to Houseley,” he said, “is that he's the only man among my suspects who can claim to be a good shot with a pistol. Otherwise I couldn't explain to myself why Sutton, who was a first-class marksman with a pistol, hadn't bagged his man.”

“Luck enters into everything to some degree,” remarked Fanshaugh critically. “Sutton was a deadly shot with an automatic at a target. Targets, on the other hand, don't shoot back, and it takes the hell of a good man to look into another man's pistol and keep his own from wobbling. But I'm going to disappoint you, Vereker, by telling you that your guess is wide of the mark. The man who fought Sutton Armadale was not Stanley Houseley but young Ralph Degerdon.”

“Well, I'm hanged!” exclaimed Vereker. “I fancied that horse at first, but, as often happens, backed the other!”

“Now the cat's properly out the bag, Vereker, you may as well have the whole yarn. I've warned Degerdon that he must look out for trouble, and he's quite prepared. In the first place, the
casus belli
was Miss Edmée Cazas. Degerdon and she were a bit too intimate for Sutton's liking. The fact of the matter is, they're very much in love with one another. Sutton, you must understand, was absolutely infatuated with the woman and terribly jealous if any other man paid her attentions. To be fair, he had good reason, because Edmée played him up rather shabbily. She used Sutton as a sort of human Aladdin's Lamp. She rubbed him the right way, and the genie with the cash-box appeared. I think Sutton must at last have twigged that Edmée was in love with Degerdon. In any case, he took every opportunity of quietly insulting the lad, and the latter only stood it so long for the woman's sake. Things, however, fairly came to a head on Wednesday night. Over some trifle that occurred in the bathing pavilion Sutton was damned rude to Degerdon, and soon there was a regular scrap, in which all three participated. Vesey Manor was like an ice-house for the remainder of the evening. Early on Thursday morning, about three o'clock, to be precise, Degerdon went down to Edmée's room. He said he couldn't sleep, and as he heard her moving about he went down to have things properly out with her. He loved the girl, and he was determined to have a straight deal. He had begun to suspect from the row earlier in the evening that Edmée's relations with Sutton weren't quite as innocent as she would have liked people to believe, and he had decided to have a clear statement of the situation. While they were politely discussing their troubles, who should walk into the room but Sutton. He had somehow heard their voices and promptly gone down to inquire into the nature of the palaver. Jealous as he was of Degerdon, he put the very worst construction on his presence in Edmée's room at that otherwise unromantic hour. Degerdon put the whole matter very clearly and succinctly to him, but he refused to accept such an innocent explanation. He told Degerdon that he must leave first thing in the morning and never cross the threshold of Vesey Manor again, adding the words, ‘You can do what you like elsewhere, but you're not going to turn my house into a lupanar.' Degerdon replied that if it wasn't for his age, he'd give him the biggest thrashing he ever had in his life for daring to suggest that his presence in Edmée's room had been prompted by anything dishonourable. This was evidently what Sutton wanted, and from his previous baiting of Degerdon it looks as if he had carefully worked up to it. He reminded Degerdon that a gentleman, if he were not an utter coward, could, if he felt insulted, demand satisfaction by challenging to a duel. Degerdon, furious at the implication of cowardice in addition to the previous insult, immediately challenged him. Sutton accepted the challenge, chose automatic pistols, and said he would gladly meet him on the polo ground at dawn, when he hoped to let a little clean daylight, if not decency, into him.”

“Is Degerdon a good shot?” asked Vereker.

“He had never used an automatic in his life, and though he'd had a little practice with a service revolver during the latter part of the war he was certain he had never hit a man except with the butt of it. To resume, after the challenge and its acceptance the two men came up and asked me to act as a kind of director. When I heard that they intended to duel without seconds and to use automatics, I said it couldn't be done; it wasn't the thing at all. But they insisted, and I asked if I might have a referee's whistle to blow half-time. I thought a little cheerful banter might pour oil on troubled waters. At this they both got rather wrathy, and Degerdon asked me to cut out the low comedian stuff and either take on the job or leave it. Naturally, I couldn't officiate at a duel with automatics; I'd just as soon referee a boxing match where biting and kicking were considered stylish, so I gave them both a bit of my mind. Just to encourage them, I also told them that in English law the man who kills another in a duel is counted a murderer, but that if they'd wait and arrange things like gentlemen with seconds and duelling pistols, I'd only be too glad to be present. It was no use. Neither would listen to reason, and each went to his room. At half-past four they set out for the polo ground. I tried to dissuade them once more, but in vain. They went, and after a while I dressed as hurriedly as I could and followed. I was too late. As I was going through the stableyard a shot rang out, and when I reached the polo ground, I saw Sutton had bit the dust and Degerdon had completely vanished. Without worrying about him, I rushed up to Sutton. He had been pinked in the abdomen, and it had made a beastly mess of him. He had thrust the middle finger of his right hand into the hole to try and staunch the blood that was gushing out. I could see from the look of things that he was
in extremis
and suffering annihilating agony. The pain must have been terrible, for though Sutton was as full of pluck as you could make 'em, he began to scream like a badly wounded hare. As I had picked up the automatic which he had dropped on being shot, he caught hold of my legs and begged and prayed me to put him out of his misery. I had once seen a favourite horse of mine in pain; he'd been frightfully injured by a spear when we were out pig-sticking, and there was nothing for it but to destroy the dear old chap. I don't know if you've heard of the best way to destroy an injured horse. You rest the muzzle of your revolver above his eye and shoot for the base of the opposite ear. I'm a duffer at human anatomy, but I thought something like it would be the best plan with my old friend Sutton. His screaming was a bit unnerving, but I screwed up my courage, and kneeling down fired at him from about two feet distance. At the moment I didn't consider consequences; I'm a man who acts first and thinks about things afterwards.”

Captain Fanshaugh was silent for a few moments as he drew his hand reflectively across his bronzed brow.

“I don't exactly know why pain has been sent into this world, but I'll bet for some jolly good reason,” he remarked, as if in soliloquy.

“It can't be meaningless, Fanshaugh,” said Vereker, “or this mystery we call life would seem a pretty futile business.”

“There's something in what you say, but there must be times when it's utterly unnecessary. The whole problem's insoluble. In any case, I only did what I hope some good comrade will do for me if ever I'm in such a godless mess as old Sutton was.”

Vereker sat speechless, overcome by the terrible significance of this dramatic statement, told in the plain, blunt language of a soldier, and at that moment Ralli's evidence about the lapse of time between the shots became clear. Fanshaugh poured himself out a nip of whisky and swallowed it.

“The business was over in shorter time than it takes to tell, and then I saw for the first time the possible consequences of my action. I wasn't overwhelmed because I was determined, if the worst came to the worst, I'd simply tell the truth and ask 'em politely to do their damnedest as far as I was concerned. But mine was only a sort of last act to the drama. There was Degerdon to consider. I might possibly be hanged for my humanity, but he would certainly be strung up for murder. After wiping Sutton's automatic with my handkerchief to remove finger-prints, I thrust it into his left hand—he was left-handed, you know—and looked round for Degerdon. I saw him at last, white as a sheet, peering out of Wild Duck Wood like a scared rabbit. He's young and unfinished and wants a lot of toughening. Picking up the shooting-sticks which they'd used to mark their stances, I legged it for Wild Duck Wood like a good 'un. There was no time to lose. Some time before, I had spotted Collyer in the distance running from his cottage towards Hanging Covert, and knew that those shots would soon rouse other people to a certain amount of curiosity. On my way, I'd been doing a bit of rapid thinking, and at such a moment you burn up a pile of philosophy while you're covering a hundred yards or two. I hadn't reached Degerdon a few minutes before Collyer seemed to appear out of the blue near the north wall of the grounds. He made a beeline for Sutton and began to administer first aid to the old boy. As we now know, Sutton was still alive when his keeper reached him, but I'm certain he was almost unconscious and completely out of misery. The first thing I asked Degerdon was what he had done with his automatic. He could only say he had flung it away in the wood. He then explained how, after having shot Sutton, he hared it for Wild Duck Wood with the intention of bolting home. He had completely lost his head. In the wood he straightened himself out a bit, and hearing a second shot from the polo ground, dashed back to the fringe of the covert to see what had happened. He came to the conclusion that Sutton had put himself out of pain, and then he saw me dashing at top speed towards him. I think pretty rapidly when I'm keyed up, Vereker, though I may not look built for speed in that line. Knowing that we must get back to the manor unseen if possible, I had detached the side-door key from Sutton's bunch, and after using all my English vocabulary and most of my Hindustani on Degerdon to bring him up to scratch, we beat it back like greased wireless waves. We let ourselves in as noiselessly as possible and slipped up to our respective rooms. There I did some more rapid thinking. I could see that the question of suicide would soon be discarded for that of murder. There was that cartridge shell of Degerdon's which would probably give the show away even if neither of us had been seen by Collyer. Its absence bothered the police for a bit until you found it. However, as there was no possibility of making out Sutton's death as suicide, the only alternative was to try and make it an unsolved murder mystery. If the formalities of duelling had been strictly adhered to, we could both have faced the music and taken whatever gruel the law apportioned to us. This was out of the question. A duel without seconds and with fully loaded automatics would have sounded like nothing but a silly and bloody murder. After hasty consideration, I decided it must be an unsolved murder mystery if we could possibly make it one, and when I heard later that a burglary had also taken place at the manor during the early hours of the morning, it seemed to me we were getting all the ruddy luck that was going. But I had all my wits on that second automatic which Degerdon had used. After the house had been roused and every one was on the polo ground, I took Degerdon and a party to beat the woods for a possible assailant. Having spread out the searchers to catch the presumptive murderer, well clear of the spot where Degerdon had flung away his automatic, I accompanied Degerdon to that spot and we hunted high and low for the pistol. We never found it, and though we've made several surreptitious searches alone and together, we haven't laid hands on the blamed thing yet. That's the story of this case, and now you know all the particulars perhaps it would be better to clear the whole darned thing up. Your investigations have pretty well run us down, and I reckon the police will do so sooner or later. It might be wiser for us to forestall them and own up. We may both be hanged for our parts in the show, and at the least we shall get a stiff term of imprisonment.”