The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

him, was to say that some one, some enemy likely, was coming on to see him. Perhaps it was a friend's warning. No post gets in at that time. I take it it was sent by hand, though I haven't been able to find out yet. Perhaps it was written by the man himself. At any rate, let's say that Scarlett expects him some evening soon, which is why he makes no move to put up any visitors, and, as I've learnt from Maud, Miss Charteris's maid, was exceedingly annoyed that Lady Maxwell was asked down by his niece for over the week-end. I think he expected some one. And those marks on the flagging rather suggest that he made his arrangements accordingly."

      "Big man, I suppose, the colonel?" O'Connor asked.

      "Fair. Bit overweighted, but quite powerful in an emergency. Now as to the unknown himself, the murderer or another victim, I can't see yet which he stands for. He lies down on the bed. Apparently till a certain time, or till a signal is given."

      "Ah ha! That shot!" breathed O'Connor.

      "Seems so. Still, that lying down is odd. As far as time goes, he could have been the murderer all right. But in that case—" Pointer gave a short impatient movement to his head, like a horse tossing his bit.

      "The bits of cord you found pointed to binding," O'Connor said thoughtfully, "probably to gagging also. Was the man gagged immediately he stepped out of the summer house, was he bound, nearly got free from his bonds and fought on a losing battle, unable to call for help?"

      "I doubt if any gagged man could have put up such fight. Besides, if he could have struggled like that, he could have loosened the gag. And then, what about the lateral break of so many of the plants. You asked why the girl was moved." Pointer drove on in silence for minute. "Well, there's only one easy guess, so doubtless it's the wrong one. But one might think that the murderer was seen by the man in the summer house. Knew that he had been seen. Moved the body of that poor child to the sandpit just in case—and carried off the man."

      "How?" asked O'Connor.

      "He was driven off in Thornton's large car."

      "By Thornton?"

      "Ah, if I knew that! But I don't, yet. All I know so far is that the man was taken away in that car of his bound, and presumably gagged."

      "And how does the pencil come in?"

      Pointer told him where he had found it. "I think it dropped from some medical man's pocket as he stooped to lift out the man, on his arrival."

      "That's why you set your myrmidons on to investigating last night's arrivals at all the hospitals and nursing homes of London before we left?"

      Pointer nodded.

      "Why not try mortuaries?" O'Connor asked.

      Pointer only shook his head.

      "Unless he were already dead," mused the Irishman, "that cord looks as though the man was not to be killed outright. Why? Pity? Hardly. Something which he knew, and was to be made to tell?"

      "Ah," Pointer nodded, "now you're making for the same place as I am. Something, possibly, for which he's to be nursed back to life in secret. And that's as far as I've got yet. And here's as far as you get, Jim. An up-train's due in ten minutes. So long." And Pointer unceremoniously dropped his friend, at Medchester railway station.

      It was midnight when he slipped out of Red Gates and up to the big house again. He expected to find work enough there to last him till morning.

      At first sight it would seem likely that Rose Charteris's murder was some act of mad jealousy. But the reason might be much more obscure. The motive might not have spent itself with her violent death. On the contrary, it might still be existing, still operating.

      He set to work on Colonel Scarlett's study. He had looked through Rose's papers earlier in the day. They had given, him no clue to her death. But they had brought out one strange fact. There was not, one scrap of her father's writing among them. Pointer found the same odd circumstance duplicated here. Yet Professor Charteris had been gone from the place some ten days now. From a Sphere, however, lying on an under-shelf of a wicket table in the hall, he shook out a registered envelope addressed to Miss Charteris in the same intricate hand which had marked some of the professor's books in the library with his name and comments.

      The envelope, a long linen one, bore an Italian stamp, and the postmark Bolzano, Italy. The date was that of last Monday. On the back, in accordance with foreign regulations for registration, was the name of the sender A. Charteris, Hotel Laurin, Bolzano, Alto Adige. It had been sealed with red wax, and was empty, save for some dots, which proved to be black sealing-wax under his glass.

      Apparently that envelope was the only communication from the professor that Stillwater contained.

      That meant something.

      Pointer was about to return to the study when he hear a slight clink on the gravel outside.

      Some one was trying the windows. Now Pointer had left one ajar in case of need. He slipped behind a leather draught-curtain and watched.

      Cautiously the window was opened, and a slim figure entered. Another followed.

      "What do we do first?" whispered a voice nervously.

      "Stub our toes," came in an aggrieved snap. "Flash the torch, Co., for a minute."

      "Seems all right," the holder of the torch said again "I'll venture to turn on the light."

      Pointer saw the first man move to the mantel-piece. "There's none here now," he said in a disappointed voice.

      "Let me look, Bond." The other strode across. "There may be some in a drawer, but I'll reconnoitre before we start a hunt."

      And Cockburn, with an acumen which Pointer grudged him, very sensibly decided to begin his investigations with the thick curtain on its leather rings.

      Pointer immediately stepped out, an antiquated Colt in his wobbly hand.

      "Not another step, either of you! I'm a peaceable man, I am, but not another step, if you please!"

      Pointer's accents were those of a nervous man screwing himself up by sheer resolution.

      "What in the name of—here! Dash it all! Leave that bell alone, whoever you are!" Bond called in a ringing whisper.

      "I'm a peaceable man," quavered the voice, "but I intend to do my duty. Now, not a move from either of you, or I'll fire all six balls off at once."

      "Good God!" Bond gave a half-amused, half angry snort, "are you the village constable making a night of it?"

      "Never you mind who I am! I'm a respectable man, as I can prove."

      A second time a reddened finger made for the bell, push, and just missed it.

      "Take your hand away from that dashed bell!" Bond fairly hissed. "Look here! We're friends of the people in this house, but who are you?"

      "I'm doing a bit of work for Mr. Thornton of Red Gates cottage," Brown jerked his head towards the library behind him, "but what I want to know, is—"

      "Look here, Bond. Let's walk across to Thornton's cottage. If he vouches for us, will that content you?" Cockburn turned towards the blinking figure facing him. That worthy evidently considered the proposition from every point of view.

      "Well, I'm sure I don't want to overstep my place. Seeing you two come in like that... but, of course, if Mr. Thornton O.K.'s you I've nothing more to say. But take hands, please, and walk straight in front of me. I'm a peaceable man, I am, but—"

      "Oh, shut up!" Bond's patience snapped. "And for Heaven's sake don't let off those six bullets the first time you trip."

      At Red Gates Mr. Brown made them precede him to the back of the house, where a light shone reflected on the hedge of holly. Mr. Thornton sat at his writing-table, but he seemed to be paying more attention to Scotch whisky than Persian art, for the moment.

      "Look here, Thornton," Bond called in softly through the open window, "do you mind asking your blood-thirsty friend behind us not to shoot us at sight, as he's inclined