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"Death on May Morning" is a vintage British murder mystery set in Oxford.
During the traditional May Day carol-singing atop Magdalen College Tower, Juan da Valgas, the son of a South American dictator, is fatally shot in front of journalist Philip Hardman.
Hardman, a gossip columnist turned amateur sleuth, teams up with the gruff Chief Inspector Osborne to unravel the mystery. Their uneasy partnership drives the investigation through Oxford's cloistered academic world....
UNDER the first crashing peal of the bells the tower roof trembled beneath the feet of the twenty or thirty people who still stood there. Philip Hardman yawned. In spite of the recent stabilisation of dawn at half-past six, he was regretting the courtesy of the friend who had provided the ticket for the May morning carol-singing on Magdalen Tower. Of the ceremony, as a popular paragraphist to one of the brighter morning papers, he had written on some half-dozen occasions, once at least perpetuating the "error" of Holman Hunt regarding the rose-wreaths of the choir-boys. Now, half asleep though he was, he noted the fact that they did not wear them. He was inclined to think it would have been an improvement if they had.
"'I strongly object to the dawn,'" he quoted.
Devenish, the undergraduate whose youthful zeal had been responsible for his early rising, looked round at him.
"What's that?" he inquired.
"A gem from one of your few Oxford poets," Hardman told him patiently. "Herbert."
"Outside my period—Herbert and Vaughan and that lot." Devenish, who was reading English Literature was inclined to be obsessed by his subject. "You see, I'm omitting—"
"The twentieth century? Not the mystic, but the marriage reformer." Devenish looked at him blankly. "Oh, never mind. How long does this show go on?"
The stonework of the tower was already assuming a perceptible rocking movement under the united swing and crashing of the bells. Hardman glanced over the prospect of house-roofs and pinnacles up the High Street; then over the botanical gardens towards the Thames. The morning at least had nothing to do with his discontent. There was still the least nip in the air, but, though the sun was still low, an almost cloudless day promised a beginning of May beyond the ordinary. It was not the morning, he decided; it was the night before. The group on the top of the tower was diminishing; and a steady stream filtered towards the low door in the turret which led to the perils of the staircase. He repeated his question.
"How long do we stop here?" he asked. "I suppose we've seen all there is? Nothing more will happen—"
As if to give him the lie, something like a breath of wind fanned his cheek. From behind him came a slight thud; then a curious, strangled gasp. Even as he turned, the red-haired young man who had been standing on the other side of him crumpled and fell.
"What—?"
In a moment he was on his knees beside the limp figure in the angle of the battlements. Devenish joined him. The few remaining occupants of the tower had turned curiously and were pressing towards them,
"What's up? Fainted?"
But Hardman did not immediately answer his friend's question. He was staring incredulously at the spreading patch of dark red which stained the copper-coloured hair right on the crown of the head.
"My God!" he murmured unbelievingly.
"Better pick him up," Devenish suggested. "I know about that, if it's fainting. Did first-aid once. The face is pale, so you raise his legs—"
A buzz of questions sounded behind them. Even while he still stared Hardman caught an interrogation from behind, and the answer. "It's da Valgas—you know. South American." He jumped to his feet.
"He's not fainted," he announced briefly. "He's shot!"
"What? But how could he be?" Devenish asked stupidly. "Why—?"
"He is!" Hardman snapped. "Doctor... police..."
Before Devenish had had time to take in the astounding fact, Hardman was pushing his way through the group which had surrounded them. A babel of exclamations as he reached the stair-head and dived into the darkness made him aware that the onlookers had at last realised what had happened.
The staircase was agony. Four times, at the risk of his neck, and theirs, he pushed rudely past others who were also descending. The windings of the turret seemed interminable. Almost at the bottom he found his way blocked again, this time by someone who, optimistically, was attempting to come up in the face of the descending stream.
"Quick! Let me pass—" Hardman demanded. Then, even in the half-light, he noticed something about the young man confronting him. The coincidence was incredible. His head showed exactly the same coppery sheen as that of the man who lay dead above.
"What—?"
Hardman interrupted the question, dismissing in his mind the strangeness of the coincidence.
"Let me pass!" he repeated. "There's a man dead or dying—on top—"
Startled, the other squeezed to one side. In another minute or two Hardman had gained the open air and was racing for the lodge.
"Quick! Doctor and police!" he commanded the porter who peered out through the window. "A man's been shot! On the top of the tower. Murder, perhaps!"
Momentarily the porter had been startled; then he permitted himself the slightest possible smile. Hardman's appearance had about it something of the undergraduate look; and years of experience had made him acquainted with young Oxford's occasional love of hoaxing.
"Yes, sir," he said with perfect politeness; but he remained unmoved. "I see, sir."
"Damn you!" Hardman exploded. "The man's dying! Get a move on! He's shot, I tell you—!"
His violence seemed to be convincing. The porter's mouth opened for a second in a comical expression.
"Shot, sir!" he faltered. "But—"
"Get the doctor—and police. Get help somehow—"
"I'd better ring the President—"
"Ring the devil if you like—but get a doctor! Oh, hell!"
Even as the porter snatched at the instrument Hardman had turned and was out of the lodge. He had made a step or two to return towards the tower when he stopped. He had done all that was immediately demanded, from the point of view of the man who had been shot. The porter had been stirred to action, and other people could certainly look after the victim, dead or alive, better than he could. He had just remembered that, if the writer of a gossip column could deserve the name, he was a journalist.
Someone else was already running towards him from the tower. In a short time there would be the police—all sorts of questions and any amount of delay. He cast one longing glance through the glass of the lodge to the telephone where the porter was now speaking, rapidly and excitably. He could not use that. There must be other telephones in the college close at hand; but he was acquainted with Oxford's habit of shunning unpleasant publicity. Probably he would not be allowed to use them either. On the other hand, there was certainly a kiosk in the Plain, just the other side of the bridge. He turned again and plunged out into the High Street.
He had pictured it as merely a fifty-yards dash. But he had forgotten May morning. Almost on the threshold he collided with someone and apologised hastily. An exasperating mass of humanity seemed to pack the pavement and roadway alike. He was vaguely aware that some of them glanced at him curiously as he pushed his way through. An open patch in the crowd ended in a thick group which seemed impenetrable, but slowly they made way. He was in no mood to be stopped. Suddenly he came upon a clear space. Regardless of two lines of white-clad Morris dancers twirling and jumping in its midst he dashed across it, and into the opposite side of the circle. The other side the crowds were less. It did not take him long to clear the bridge. The kiosk, he remembered, was just by the Iffley Road. Only slightly hindered by a few stragglers, he made a final dash. With a sigh of relief he let the door bang to behind him.
After he had given the number, he waited for what seemed an interminable time. He found his lips moving over the opening sentences of the story.
"Juan da Valgas, nineteen-year-old son of General da Valgas, the South American reformer—"
As luck would have it, it was not long since he had written two long paragraphs about General da Valgas and his son who had become an Oxford undergraduate. He recalled most of the details. That would save trouble at the office. A languid female voice at the other end of the line said: "Morning Mercury. Who is that, please?" He woke up quickly.
"Hardman speaking." The voice at the other end said something or other. "Hardman, I told you... H for—for hang, A for apple, R for rotten, D for dreadful—"
"Oh, Hardman!" the voice at the other end assented.
"Yes. Give me the news editor."
More mysterious noises heralded the male voice which finally answered.
"Yes?"
"Hardman speaking... Look here, I've a story for you—a news story... Is that Jerrold speaking?"
"No, White."
"All right. Listen. Juan da Valgas, only son of the General, you know, the Confederation man—"
"I know. Well?"
"He was shot on the top of Magdalen Tower five or ten minutes ago—"
"What?"
"Shot. Killed. They damn nearly got me. I felt the wind of the bullet. I was standing next to him—"
"And we've missed any morning edition!" He heard White groan. "Well—you're there. I suppose we'll have to send someone at once... Got a story?"
"Yes."
"Right. I'll put you through... I say, I know it's out of your line, but for God's sake stick to it. Get on to the local correspondent. Ring at once if anything happens... And if you have any of those darned gossip bits handy..."
There was a succession of clicks and a pause. Another voice answered.
"Yes. Ready..."
"Hardman speaking... Message begins: 'Juan da Valgas, nineteen-year-old son of General da Valgas, the Liberator and great South American reformer, collapsed and died instantly when he was shot during the May morning celebrations on Magdalen College tower early to-day. Mystery surrounds the tragedy. Foul play is suspected. The singing of the carols had just ended; in the belfry below, the bells were crashing out..."
Ten minutes later, Hardman left the door of the booth with a lighter heart. It was actually his first attempt at sensational crime reporting—and the Mercury had certainly been the first to have the story. Then something occurred to him. He entered the box again and, after consulting the telephone book, rang exchange.
"Hurry—doctor immediately! Police!" he said excitedly. "Someone at Magdalen has been shot. May be dead. Yes, Magdalen College. Quickly."
A slightly excited voice murmured assent. He replaced the receiver.
WITH his immediate responsibility off his mind, Hardman returned at a more leisurely pace towards the college. The crowd was thinning; the Morris dancers had already left for their next stopping-place in Radcliffe Square, and most of the people were actually moving in his own direction. Only actually at the college gate he found a more or less solid mass collected. Eventually he contrived to gain the front ranks. Then he saw something which he had scarcely expected. The college gate was shut, and outside it stood a uniformed constable.
Hardman advanced towards the doorway confidently. The policeman barred his way as he was about to open it.
"Sorry, sir," he said firmly. "No one allowed in, just yet. There's been an accident."
"I know. Man shot on the tower. I was standing next to him—told the porter, in fact... I imagine you'll want me?"
The constable looked at him with ill-disguised suspicion. "Then you went out, sir?" he demanded. "After telling the porter, you went out? And you come back ten minutes afterwards. Why was that, sir?"
"I told the porter, but the idiot didn't seem to believe me. I thought the man was dying, so I went off to telephone on my own account. Had a job with the crowd."
Hardman had no immediate intention of revealing his occupation. No doubt he would have to do so, sooner or later; but he was far from sure how the police would take it. The constable hesitated.
"My name's Hardman. If Mr. Devenish is inside, he'll tell you that I was standing between him and da Valgas. The bullet whistled past my ear—"
Evidently convinced, the constable knocked twice at the door and, as it opened, conferred through the slit with someone inside. Apparently the conference was in Hardman's favour.
"If you'll go in, sir..." He stood aside for Hardman to pass, at the same time interposing himself between the open door and the crowd.
Inside there was a little group, comprising a sergeant of police, the porter, and a worried-looking man whom Hardman guessed to be a don of some sort. The sergeant glanced at him comprehensively.
"Yes, sir?" he said. "You were on the tower, you say? You were a witness?..."
"Ask him," Hardman nodded towards the porter. "I told him. He wouldn't believe me. As I thought the man might be dying, I ran out to telephone myself... You can easily confirm that. But the crowds hindered me..."
The sergeant looked towards the porter, who nodded in confirmation.
"Your name's Hardman, sir?" the sergeant asked. "You're a member of the university?"
"No. A visitor. Came up for the ceremony—but I scarcely expected a murder—"
"A murder, sir?" The sergeant's attempt at innocent surprise was a poor one. "You knew the gentleman, sir?"
"I knew of him. I heard the name on the tower, when he fell."
The sergeant seemed to make up his mind. "You'd better come this way, sir," he said. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until someone comes..."
He escorted Hardman across the quadrangle towards a little group of people who stood at the farther end near the entrance to the cloisters. Devenish came forward to greet him.
"Hullo! Wondered where on earth you'd got to. Terrible business, isn't it?"
"Went to telephone—" Hardman began. The sergeant interrupted him.
"You know this gentleman, sir?" he asked Devenish. "You can give me his name?"
"Why, of course. It's Hardman. He was standing right beside me when—when it happened. He was just next to—"
"Thank you, sir," the sergeant cut in briskly, and turned to Hardman. "If you'll just wait here, sir..."
He turned back towards the lodge. Not without surprise, Hardman noticed that yet another constable appeared to be standing guard over the miscellaneous group of witnesses.
"My word, there's a hell of a lot of police, isn't there?" he asked. "They must be pretty smart—"
"I gather that the porter didn't only telephone. He sent out college servants to find policemen. These were on duty, to regulate the crowds, you know... I expect the others will be here soon."
"The sooner the better. Then we can have breakfast," Hardman rejoined; but his eyes and ears were devoted to the crowd about him. He noticed the red-haired young man whom he had encountered on the staircase. "Who's that?" he asked. "I seem to know him."
Devenish glanced in the direction which he indicated. "No idea," he admitted. "Looks like an American."
Hardman glanced across at the subject of the conversation. There was nothing he could see which indicated a transatlantic origin. And he remembered the single word the other had spoken on the staircase. There had been no trace of accent.
"Just why does he look American?" he asked curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. There's something about them..." Devenish looked again and hesitated. "Well, perhaps he isn't."
Hardman made up his mind. Without another word he moved across to where the other stood and confronted him, smiling apologetically.
"Hope I wasn't rude," he said. "I passed you on the stairs just now, didn't I? It was pretty urgent—"
"That's all right." Again the voice seemed to disprove Devenish's conjecture regarding his nationality. "Of course, I didn't realise..."
"Awful business, isn't it?" Hardman pursued as the other paused. "You know, I was standing right beside him. The bullet missed me by inches—about six inches. Whoever fired that shot will be feeling pretty sick—if he's heard where it landed."
"Think so?" The other glanced at him keenly. "You think it was an accident? Someone just blazed away with a gun, and hit him?"
"What else should it have been?"
"Only—it was da Valgas—"
"He's some kind of relation to some South American president, isn't he?" Hardman asked innocently as the other broke off. "You mean revolutionaries or something?"
"Oh, I don't know... You were right beside him? What happened?"
"Felt the wind of the bullet, heard him gasp and looked round just as he collapsed. It was right in the head."
"It's a scoop for the newspapers, anyhow. Wish I'd been on that tower. Just my luck. As it happened, I overslept...
Hardman sensed something more than mere ghoulish curiosity. He put out a feeler.
"You're not an undergraduate here?"
"Oh, yes. Reading Modern Languages."
"I see. I'm a visitor myself." Hardman felt a little at a loss. He could not quite place the man to whom he was speaking. Certainly there was a difference between him and other undergraduates of his acquaintance. He decided that one point at least was the matter of age. "So you think it's murder?" he asked. "I'd be interested to know why. Look here, my name's Hardman. Breakfast with me at the Clarendon as soon as they've done with us, and we'll exchange stories."
"My name's Van Weiman." He hesitated, and seemed to be studying Hardman. "No. Sorry I can't. Not just now... But I'd like to talk some time. Look me up at my digs in Holywell—or I'll ring you—"
"Right. Whichever you like..."
"It certainly is a story," Van Weiman said, not without regret. "Wonder how long before they finish with us here? Guess we'll be lucky if we get breakfast, anyhow. Why, in the States..."
"It's a fine story, but it misses the editions," Hardman said as the other paused. Van Weiman looked at him curiously again, then frowned a little.
"Delighted to see you some time," he said with a sort of conventional insincerity. "Excuse me."
He turned away, and moving to the opposite side of the group, spoke to another man who was obviously an undergraduate. Hardman saw him produce his cigarette-case. The other man hastily obliged with a match. Hardman's smile was enigmatic as he rejoined Devenish.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Worse still..."
The sergeant was returning towards them, this time accompanied by an inspector.
"If you'd come this way, please..." he invited.
It was to a lecture-room in the new quadrangle that he led them. As they sat down, rather incongruously, at the benches, he closed the door, and for a time they were left alone. At first there was silence. Then a subdued buzz of conversation broke out. Hardman listened. On his left a slightly hysterical undergraduate was trying to show how little a small thing like murder mattered to him. On his right an elderly gentleman who seemed to have made a personal grievance of the matter was castigating undergraduates in general, clearly under the impression that the death was the result of incredible carelessness or a bad joke. Then, from behind, he caught something more interesting.
"I was looking that way two seconds before!" an excited feminine voice said. "He was just leaning over the parapet, looking down—"
"Yes, dear. You mustn't talk about it. The police will deal with everything..."
The door opened and the inspector stood on the threshold. His eyes travelled over the benches and met Hardman's. He beckoned. Hardman rose obediently.
Apparently a tutor's sitting-room had been chosen as the place of interrogation. The inspector indicated a chair. In the background a plain-clothes detective was ready with a notebook.
"Now, sir," the inspector began. "I'd like a statement. The sergeant says you were standing next to the dead man?"
"That's right." Hardman proceeded with an account of what had happened, omitting only his trunk call to the newspaper.
"You thought it was murder, sir?" the inspector asked.
"Well, only on general grounds. If it had been anyone else—"
"You knew the dead man?"
"No. I'd never set eyes on him in my life. Only, just as I was bolting for the steps, I heard someone mention his name... After all, he's the kind of person who's likely to be murdered, isn't he?"
The inspector ignored the question. "You didn't try to help him at all?" he asked.
"Obviously he was dead. A wound just there—"
"You're a doctor?"
"Oh, no. Well, perhaps I just jumped to the conclusion." Hardman felt on dangerous ground. "Anyway, I thought the sooner the police and a doctor came the better—"
"Yes, sir. We got your call from the telephone exchange—after the porter had rung us."
"He didn't seem to believe me," Hardman explained. "I thought I'd better do something myself."
The inspector considered. "If you don't mind, sir, I'd just like you to come up the tower and explain exactly how things were."
"Of course," Hardman assented. "You've no idea where the shot came from?"
Again the inspector did not answer. Instead, he opened the door and motioned Hardman through. Hardman held his peace, until they had mounted the staircase and again stood on the leads. He looked round curiously.
Da Valgas's body had not been moved. It lay not quite in the position where he had last seen it, but very nearly. Another policeman seemed to be standing guard over the staircase door; a professional-looking man, whom Hardman supposed to be a doctor, was scribbling in a pocket-book.
"Finished, doctor?" the inspector asked.
"Yes. Death was instantaneous. The bullet—"
To Hardman's disappointment, the inspector interrupted him.
"If you wouldn't mind waiting, doctor," he said with a warning glance at Hardman, "we shan't be a minute..."
The doctor nodded. Hardman moved forward a little, and looked again over the roofs and spires visible to the right-hand side of the tower. His eye noted the dome of the Radcliffe Camera, the spire of St. Mary's, the twin towers of All Souls' College. But with too many of the buildings he felt at sea. He was deploring his lack of accurate knowledge of Oxford when the inspector spoke.
"And now, sir," he suggested. "If you'd show where you were standing..."
Hardman faithfully re-enacted the scene, pressed for details at intervals. At last the inspector seemed satisfied.
"You're staying in Oxford, sir?" he asked. "The inquest—"
"Oh, yes. I shall be at the Clarendon Hotel for at least a week. I suppose it will all be settled by then?"
The inspector was non-committal. He ushered Hardman down the stairs, and gave him his dismissal. More than a little impatient, Hardman watched him re-enter the new quadrangle and waited. It seemed an interminable time before Devenish emerged, having evidently just undergone examination. He hurried forward as he caught sight of Hardman.
"Your third degree finished, too?" he asked. "I felt I was going to be hung! What's the programme?"
"Breakfast, for Heaven's sake!" With the excitement temporarily over, Hardman felt a distinct sinking feeling, combining unpleasantly with the effects of early rising. Not without difficulty they pushed their way through the loiterers whom the police were trying to move on, evading, thanks to Hardman's instinct, two obvious reporters. It was not until they had dealt faithfully with coffee, bacon and kidneys that either felt greatly moved to conversation.
"Was it murder?" Devenish asked suddenly. "I mean... Quite likely some ass let off a gun..."
Hardman extended his cigarette-case, and lit up before replying.
"On the whole," he said, "I'm inclined to think it was—"
The advent of the waiter interrupted him.
"Mr. Hardman, sir?" he asked. "Telephone call from London, sir..."
Hardman sighed with resignation, but rose obediently. Not without qualms he gained the box and put the receiver to his ear.
"Yes," he said. "Hardman speaking... Who's that?"
"Jerrold. Look here, I've just been looking through that report of yours. The point is, you'd better hang on. I can only spare Henwick at the moment. He's conscientious, but not worth a damn—"
"But look here, I'm not a crime reporter—"
"Time you began. Let's have any developments soon. Right. Good-bye."
The line was dead. Hardman was thoughtful as he rejoined his friend.
"What's up?" Devenish asked. "Bad news?"
"Yes—more or less. I've just been appointed 'our special representative' and I've only the dimmest ideas what to do..."
He paused for a moment, frowning a little and puffing at his cigarette.
"You see," he said after a pause, "I haven't the experience of a crime reporter. And I've not either the experience or the authority of the police. There's nothing for it but the fiction-detective stuff—who breaks all the rules by which crimes are actually solved, but emerges victorious through sheer genius."
"Then you haven't a hope," Devenish commented cruelly.
"I don't know." Hardman smiled. "I've never tried. But, at the moment, I've one live idea which—if it worked—might show the police something. It's not quite worked out yet. If we could go somewhere quiet, I'd like to talk it over."
"Come to my digs," Devenish suggested.
"Yes. And I'd like to call at a bookshop on the way... I think that there's really something in it."
CHIEF INSPECTOR OSBORNE looked fixedly out of the window of the empty compartment as the express swept past the beautiful upper reaches of the Thames near Goring and Streatley; but he was not admiring the scenery. From the first it had been inevitable that the tragedy on Magdalen Tower should become the business of the Criminal Investigation Department; for General da Valgas in the past few years had come nearer to achieving international importance as a diplomatist than any other South American. In the sending of his only son to Oxford there had been something of an international gesture; in his death there was at least a possibility of international calamity. Osborne turned from the window to the detective who sat in the opposite corner.
"Accident, or murder?" he asked suddenly. "Which do you favour, Vincent?"
His subordinate hesitated; but Osborne, in any case, was not expecting an answer. He was merely trying to clarify his own ideas by talking.
"Let's take the accident idea first," he continued after only a brief pause. "Against that, there's the improbability of its being young da Valgas who suffered. Out of all the three or four thousand undergraduates, why did the bullet have to hit him? The trouble is that it might have done... If you let off a rifle at random in Westminster, the odds would be, perhaps, that it wouldn't hit anyone at all; after that, the bullet wouldn't make any distinctions between a match-seller and the Prime Minister."
"No one has come forward to admit firing the shot," Vincent suggested. "If it was accidental—"
"Well—a person might, or he mightn't... Until the newspapers come out, or someone tells him, he mightn't even have heard what had happened. Someone may have come forward by the time we get there. But against it again is the fact that it's unlikely anyone would be letting off service rifles at seven o'clock in the morning—"
"They might in Oxford," Vincent said a little sourly.
"But not only has no one come forward to admit firing the shot. No one seems to have heard the shot. That again is against any accident theory. As to where the shot came from, we may know more when we hear the expert's report. We should at any rate be able to decide the distance from which it was fired. We already know the direction—approximately. That is to say, we know that it must have come from one quarter of the complete circle. And that particular quarter takes us right over Oxford. The one place where a man might have been playing about with a gun seems to be the University Parks—which wouldn't be open."
"There's no saying," Vincent said gloomily. "Some young fool might have blazed away from his bedroom window at a cat on the roof-top. You never know."
"As you say. We can't rule out accident, but it has certain elements of improbability. Well then, let's consider murder. The danger about that is that, simply because it's da Valgas, it's the thing we want to believe. It's natural for da Valgas to get assassinated. If it had been any other undergraduate—or one of the choir-boys—we'd have been inclined to think it was accident. There are objections to that too. If you want to murder a man, why choose such an awkward time and so public a place? Why use a rifle—which, for purposes of assassination has been shown over and over again to be one of the least effective weapons possible? Why not get him quietly at close quarters—"
"He's guarded," Vincent suggested.
"In a manner of speaking. There is a detective who tries to keep track of his movements—but I shouldn't like to be in his shoes. To act as watchdog to any young man, and not to be seen, especially in a place like Oxford, is almost hopeless—especially if the young man shows no disposition to co-operate. And, in this case, da Valgas had actually slipped his detective. He'd done it often enough before. Surely the murderer could have found a less difficult way, and a more secret time."
"That's actually in favour of assassination," Vincent suggested. "If you're killing a chap as a grand gesture or a warning, you don't want to keep it quiet. You want it to be as public and extraordinary as possible. And, in fact, some assassins have been known to throw away their own lives when they needn't have done, just for martyrdom."
"In any case, we're assuming too much. Supposing da Valgas was murdered. It might not have been from political motives at all; it might have been by accident, or on account of his own private sins—"
"By accident?" Vincent broke in.
"I mean that someone may have shot at the people on the tower; but we're not really entitled to assume that the bullet hit the right person. Again, because it's da Valgas, we're inclined to do so. But the intended victim might have been any of those three or four persons standing at that end of the tower. Or perhaps the murderer didn't care who it was."
"If that's the case, it's going to be the deuce of a job," Vincent grunted. "These maniac killings generally are. It's all very well to say you needn't prove motive in a court of law—but if you can't prove motive, and the man's been careful, you often can't prove anything a jury would believe... You don't think that one of them has run amok, just killing for the thrill of it?"
"That has happened. As a matter of fact, I don't share your sinister views regarding Oxford undergraduates. But, in a given collection of young men numbering three or four thousand, it's always possible that one or two might be unbalanced. The worst of it is that just as this method of killing suggests political assassination, and the desire for display, it also suggests a mad sort of exhibitionism. It's the way a madman might want to kill someone—"
Vincent made an obscure kind of noise which was suggestive of suppressed disapproval. Then he grinned. "And, anyway, you seem to assume that your madman must be an undergraduate!" he said.
"And I'm not entitled to... If da Valgas was killed on his father's account, the probability seems to be that the killer wasn't an undergraduate. Even if da Valgas was killed because of his own personal crimes or virtues, it's still quite possible that the murderer wasn't a member of the university—"
"And, if the murderer didn't hit the right man, and you're going through this rigmarole with all of them, our job will be to find out who isn't the murderer!" Vincent rejoined with a trace of sarcasm. "In that case, I'd sooner the Oxford police had stuck to the job."
"They've been very active—along lines which may be useful. They've checked up on most aliens registered in the city—and there are plenty. They've gone through the university lists of foreign students from that part of the world—which, fortunately, isn't an unduly long one. And they've also started to investigate so far as possible the people who have the necessary qualifications to be murderers."
"Qualifications?"
"If the murderer hit the right man, he must have been a pretty good shot with a rifle. That's one point. And the fact that he used a rifle at all is significant. This isn't the immediate post-war Oxford. Most of the undergraduates have scarcely seen a rifle, except in a school O.T.C. But one must admit that there are others ."
Vincent did not comment on the remark and Osborne explained it voluntarily.
"One thinks of Oxford as made up of young men straight from school," he said. "So it is, in the main. But there's no real reason why one shouldn't go up as an undergraduate to Oxford after fifty years wasted in a life of crime. There are older undergraduates, married undergraduates, undergraduates who don't conform to the general idea at all. And there are practically all nationalities. There's no saying who might or might not be an undergraduate."
Perhaps Osborne's exposition was too much for Vincent; perhaps he agreed too heartily with the mixed characters of undergraduates.
"If it's a maniac killer," he said, "won't he have another shot?"
"He might. That's the devil of it. If the killing of da Valgas was the real intention, then everyone else in the university is safe. If the murderer's a madman—" He broke off, and made a grimace of despair. "Then—"
"Then anyone may be killed?"
"Not quite. Nearly all homicidal lunatics kill one distinct class. So the dead man may have been killed because he was an undergraduate—or because he was South American—or because he had red hair, or sugar in his tea, or parted his hair in the middle—"
Vincent grinned. "If we're to safeguard all the people who have anything in common with da Valgas, we've got our work cut out!" he said.
"Yes." The chief inspector was not amused. "That might really be our trouble—if the murderer is mad. I don't mind saying I almost hope the crime is political."
"And you seem to have ruled out the dons!" Vincent rejoined. "Now, I'd have thought some of them were mad enough!"
"I wish we could rule them out. As a matter of fact, we can't. Given several hundred men ranging between the late twenties and the seventies, devoted—or, at any rate, getting their living from—intellectual pursuits, the possibility of a nervous breakdown can't be ruled out. The difficulty is at Oxford nothing can be ruled out. Taking dons, undergraduates, college servants and townsmen, Oxford provides as queer a mixture of humanity as you could wish to find..."
His voice trailed away thoughtfully. Vincent puffed at his pipe in silence. His brain, and his education, were more limited than his superior's. On the other hand, he had a bulldog tenacity in following up the things which he understood.
"So far as I can see," he said laboriously, "you mean anyone may have done this murder. That is, if it's not political, we can throw up the sponge, judging by what we know at present regarding any class who could have committed the murder. And the moral of that is—" He leant forward, and emphasised the point with his outstretched pipe. "We've got to deal, not with all this—this psychological stuff, but with something more material. Where was the shot fired from? Who could have fired it—and hit? Where did the gun come from? If we find that—those, I mean, we find the murderer. And then we can find his motive."
Osborne nodded. The train was slowing down. He lowered the window and looked out as the platform came into view. "They've met us," he said. "If that's not a policeman, I'm an Eskimo!"
Apparently he himself had been no less identifiable. The carriage door was not half opened before the man who, in spite of his plain clothes, Osborne had guessed to belong to the constabulary had hurried up to meet them.
"Chief Inspector Osborne?" he asked. "I was to ask you, sir, to come straight to the station. We've made an arrest!"
"Made an arrest?" Osborne's eyebrows rose. "For what? And why did you bother us?"
"For murder, sir. One of the South American gang... It was only a few minutes ago we got him. That's why the superintendent's not here—"
Osborne touched his arm and pointed up the platform. A purposeful little group of half a dozen persons was hurrying towards them.
"The gentlemen of the Press!" he said. "Good Lord deliver us! Is there a back way out?"
IN Devenish's sitting-room, Hardman had spread the plan on the table. With a pair of compasses, using Magdalen Tower as his centre, he drew a series of circles at regular intervals, and studied the result frowningly for a minute or two before looking up.
"Now, we know roughly the direction from which the bullet came," he said. "Because it only just missed my ear. Judging by where da Valgas was standing, we can be fairly certain that the shot was fired by someone in an area something like this."
He drew two lines on the paper at an angle of about sixty degrees. Devenish looked dubious.
"Perhaps. But, even if you're right, that seems to include about half Oxford north of the High Street. And we don't know how far the bullet had travelled."
"Probably the police will know, though they may not tell us. It is possible to judge fairly accurately by the shape of the wound, and the depth a bullet penetrates. Now, I'm not exactly an expert on those things myself, but it seemed to me to be a fairly small, regular wound, which should mean that it wasn't very far. However, we'll have to guess. We can start by ruling out the area immediately at the foot of the tower, because, unless da Valgas was trying to break his neck, he could hardly lean far enough over to give a good view from the bottom. I think we can say pretty certainly that the bullet came from the other side of Long Wall Street. That limits it in one direction... Did you ever fire a rifle?"
"Not since I was at school." Devenish spoke as though the two years which had elapsed were an immense period. "We did range practice in the O.T.C."
"And hundreds of other undergraduates must have done the same. But what sort of practice would you have made at a moving target the size of a man's head even at five hundred yards?"
"I shouldn't think he need worry!" Devenish admitted. "Not if I only fired one shot. But I was never much good."
"Neither was I. Still, it shows that either the murderer was somewhere fairly close, or else that he was a fair shot. He was probably a good shot, in fact, or he wouldn't have chosen that way at all, but still, he'd presumably come as near as possible. And that gives us—"
Devenish looked at the plan. "Nothing," he said simply.
"On the contrary, I believe it may give us the answer if we take a little trouble. I wish I could go up Magdalen Tower again; but I suppose that's hopeless. Can we get up any of the others?"
"There's the Radcliffe Camera," Devenish said, "but you can't get right up—only to the gallery round the dome. There's St. Mary's spire. There's the Sheldonian—"
"And, of the lot, which do you think gives the best view—for our purpose?"
Devenish considered.
"I should think the Sheldonian would be as good as anywhere—" he began.
"Right. Let's go there..."
"Half a minute. I'll get my cap and gown..."
Hardman stared. "Why on earth—?" he asked. "I didn't suggest calling on the vice-chancellor!"
"Respect to the building, I suppose!" Devenish grinned. "And, besides, it saves us threepence apiece... You see, we aren't members of the university for nothing—but they like us to produce the evidence."
Hardman merely raised his eyebrows as he followed his friend, completely equipped, out into the street. Duly passed by the custodian by virtue of the cap and gown, they ascended the stairs to the large, low room above the hall.
"This might be the very place," Hardman murmured, and Devenish stared. "It's not used for anything very much, is it? It would be easy enough for anyone to stow away—or to hide anything here?"
"I suppose it would," Devenish assented. "It used to be used by the Clarendon Press. Now, I don't think it's used by anyone very much... But the Sheldonian wouldn't be open at the time da Valgas was killed. If anyone was here, he'd been here all night."
"And why not?"
"Well, if he was, it wasn't an undergraduate. They're too keen on our morals to let anyone stay out all night without a damn good reason. If he were in college, the porter or the staircase servant would notice; if he were in digs his landlady would be on the look out. I don't say it isn't possible to be out all night if you're an undergraduate, but I do say that you'll have to be clever. And it's not often done."
"That's interesting... Up here?" Hardman ascended the final staircase to the little cage on top, looking particularly out of the east and south-eastern windows. But he seemed dissatisfied. "It might have been here, of course," he said after a pause. "But I don't know—"
"Why on earth should it be?" Devenish demanded.
"Well, it just struck me that if you're going to shoot a man on a tower, the best thing is to be on a tower yourself. You get a better view, and it's easier firing at something on one's own eye-level... If this tower wasn't open, there are others."
Devenish looked round grimly over the sea of battlements and pinnacles surrounding them.
"There are!" he said grimly. "And if we're going to climb all of them simply on spec, we've got a nice morning before us. Besides, what are we looking for?"
"That's just it. I don't know. But he might have left some trace. He might even have left the gun, because it would be much easier to take it home unobserved at night—"
"And all these places are shut at night. You might try strolling past an Oxford porter carrying a rifle some time!"
"But he did it somehow—if my idea's right. And it's got to be, because at the moment it's just a lonely little orphan in my mind... We'll look round here first. Then we'll have time to tackle a few others before lunch."
But a careful search revealed nothing. An hour later, Devenish at least was wishing that Hardman's orphan idea had died still-born. They had ascended the Radcliffe Camera, and St. Mary's spire, in each case drawing a blank. Hardman himself was beginning to feel desperate, and could think of no more exciting course than of seeking some light on the crime from the dead man's friends in the university. Devenish received the suggestion with marked coldness.
"Not before lunch?" he asked in a tone of despair. "Besides, you don't know who they were."
"But one could find out—by asking enough questions. He's pretty well known... Anyway, there's one man who's worth looking up. That chap—what's his name? Van Weiman. You know, I've an idea there's something funny about him. I didn't quite understand his attitude when I was talking. He might know something. We'll try."
Devenish followed reluctantly. Consultation of the "List of Resident Members" at a college lodge revealed their quarry's address. As they walked along Broad Street in silence it occurred to Hardman that Van Weiman had seemed perfectly ready for him to call up to a certain point in their conversation, and had even admitted living in Holywell. Then he had shut up, and without actually revoking his invitation had at least not made it very cordial.
A flurried-looking servant, evidently just engaged on the final preparations for lunch, received his question reproachfully.
"Second floor front, sir, is Mr. Van Weiman's sitting-room." She jerked her hand towards the staircase. "Gentlemen always walk in and up, sir."
"Is Mr. Van Weiman in?"
"I don't know, sir. I've not just seen him." She cast a desperate glance behind her suggestion of an entire luncheon going to ruin. "If you wouldn't mind walking up, sir—"
"I'd be a gentleman? Right." He waited until the girl had vanished before he turned to Devenish. "Pretty casual way of doing things, isn't it? Anyone might walk up—who wasn't a gentleman—and pinch anything."
"Oh, I don't know. It's not uncommon. Of course, there are a few petty thefts now and then. Of course, there's been rather an outbreak just now... Of course, if you wanted to see a man, he had to live at the top of the house!"
Van Weiman's door was open, and there was no sign of its occupant. Hardman only glanced in, before trying the adjoining door, which revealed a bedroom, equally empty. He returned to the sitting-room.
"Oxford lodgings have a character of their own, haven't they?" He looked round thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, it's the character of the landlady. What we want is something to tell us about Van Weiman."
"There's plenty here." Devenish cast a more discerning eye over the scattered belongings. "He's reading Modern Languages. He's a commoner—"
"Meaning that he's no gentleman?"
"Ass. Meaning he's not got a degree or a scholarship. He's a member of the French Club, the German Club and the Spanish Club—there are their fixture cards. Doesn't seem keen on sport..."
"All of which is illuminating up to a point—and the Spanish Club business might be significant. It would provide a meeting-place with da Valgas. Yes. But I'd like something a bit more personal..."
He stepped over to the bookcase. It was well filled, partly with what he guessed to be the textbooks of the School of Modern Languages. They scarcely interested him. His hand went to some older volumes on the top shelf, and he extracted one to glance at the fly-leaf.
"H. Van Weiman, Minnesota," he read aloud.
"I'd have sworn he wasn't from the Middle West," Devenish objected. "There's hardly ever any mistaking their accent."
Hardman tried again, twice unsuccessfully.
"Ah, this is better," he said. "H. Van Weiman, Boston. And the date's earlier. That's his place of origin. Boston Americans almost speak English."
Replacing the books, he stood for a moment dissatisfied. Then his eye lit on the small bureau in a recess by the window. He crossed the room and tried the lid. It was unopened, and he let it down.
"I say, we can't do that!" Devenish protested. "It's hardly playing the game to search the private belongings of a man you don't know—"
"It is—in detection," Hardman answered unscrupulously. "If you get a good chance... What's in the pigeon-holes?"
But there proved to be very little except a couple of receipted bills, a few stray papers which were obviously of purely academic interest. Disappointed, he bent down and scrutinised the blotting-pad. It had not been much used, and here and there a few words seemed to be legible. Hardman removed the sheet and held it to the mirror, Devenish watching with mingled feelings of horror and interest.
"Seems to be just private correspondence," Hardman announced regretfully. "Nothing in it... 'Taken a powder'—had a pain in his tummy, I expect. 'Strawberry'—"
"That would be what caused the pain." Devenish was forgetting his scruples. "There's a bit there that looks like 'Lorelei'—I suppose that's the German poem? And something about a bath."
"All very helpful, I suppose. I said I wanted personal details. He takes baths, eats strawberries, and gets a pain... But it wasn't just what I wanted."
Nevertheless, he pocketed the sheet instead of replacing it. The action evoked a mild protest from Devenish.
"He might spot that it had gone. I mean, it would be pretty rotten if the servant told him—"
"He'd think the servant did it. Not that it needed doing, but it's a curious fact that landladies and their staffs can't resist tidying papers which ought not to be tidied. In fact, it's a common feminine trait—"
He broke off, and to Devenish's horror pulled open the centre drawer.
"Look here, Hardman—"
"This is more like it—" he began; then something made him look round. "Oh!"
Framed in the doorway a girl stood looking at them with manifest surprise and disapproval. Even in the shock of the moment it occurred to Hardman that she was decidedly pretty. The curious square cap with which the university has seen fit to adorn the heads of women students only partly hid the luxuriant brown hair, and a pair of blue eyes were sparkling indignantly as they met his. One shapely hand, supporting a sheaf of papers and notebooks appeared from beneath the folds of her academic gown.
Devenish was scarlet with confusion, but Hardman put a better face on it.
"I'm afraid Mr. Van Weiman's out," he smiled. "You startled us—"
"So I see." The tone of the rejoinder was cutting. "Perhaps you would explain exactly why you were rummaging among Mr. Van Weiman's private papers? Or perhaps it wasn't papers you wanted?"
"It was—paper!" Hardman lied gallantly. "You see, I particularly wanted to see Mr. Van Weiman as soon as possible. I wished to leave a note asking him to ring me up—"
"A message to the landlady might have proved more effective? And you'd just started your search for paper?"
Her disengaged hand pointed accusingly to the pile which stood on the open bureau. Hardman laughed.
"Envelopes, I meant, of course," he said. "It's rather a private matter... I didn't want the landlady to read it."
The girl glanced from one to the other of them. Perhaps it was the sweet innocence of Devenish, and the presence of his cap and gown which convinced her more than Hardman's lying. She evidently hesitated.
"I don't mind telling you," Hardman confided, "that it's about that business this morning—"
"The murder?" Her interest was manifest; then she frowned. "You're not police—"
"Good heavens, no! Only, I was on the tower. That's how I came to meet Mr. Van Weiman."
"But he wasn't there in time—"
"Not to be on the tower. But I nearly knocked him downstairs running for assistance. He seemed to be interested..."
He seemed at last to have persuaded her. She smiled, and relaxed her attitude of guardianship over the door.
"I'm sorry. But it does look queer. And, as a matter of fact, Wallis—I mean Mr. Van Weiman—did think someone had been at his drawers a few days ago—"
"I've an alibi!" Hardman laughed. "I was in London until yesterday evening. It was a natural mistake—or I suppose it was." He made a grimace. "I must have a disadvantageous face. The servant implied that I was no gentleman, and you—"
"Oh, not really!" This time the smile was almost a laugh, and revealed her charming white teeth. "I myself just slipped up—which, technically, I imagine, I shouldn't have done—"
"Oxford is the last home of the chaperon—or isn't it? I thought that even here they were a dying race—"
"The regulations don't think so—nor the landladies. That's why I crept up on you." She glanced at the clock. "I must fly! I've got to lunch with the dean—" Curiosity asserted itself belatedly. "You were really there when—when it happened?"
"The bullet nearly hit me. If you'd like to hear the ghastly details, I could tell you as we go..."
She took his assumption that they were going together calmly; then suspicion showed again in her face.
"And you've not written your note," she accused.
Mentally Hardman damned the note; but, under the circumstances, he felt compelled to write it. She waited until he had started to scribble; then smiled at Devenish.
"I really must hurry," she apologised. "Goodbye!"
Before Hardman had glanced up from his writing, she had vanished with a swish of her gown. Devenish heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
"Good Lord, I thought we were done for!" He spoke for the first time since the girl's dramatic appearance. "It would have looked pretty low down if we'd been caught—"
"We were. But my golden tongue charmed her... Nice girl—and too good for Van Weiman. But mysterious— Hullo! Talk of the devil—"
His ear had caught the sound of ascending footsteps. "It'll be Van Weiman."
But the footsteps suddenly stopped. There was a brief pause before they began to descend. Hardman i hurried across the room and peered out. He had only a glimpse of the top of a descending head; but the colour of the hair was enough. It was certainly not Van Weiman. The footsteps had reached the bottom. The idea of pursuit came to him too late. He looked at Devenish with a little frown.
"D'you think we scared him?" he asked.
CHIEF INSPECTOR OSBORNE was not feeling particularly happy. The arrest of an unpleasant-looking foreigner rejoicing in the name of d'Estremada might have been a regrettable necessity under the circumstances; but he would have been glad at least to postpone it.
"You don't think he's our man, sir?" Vincent asked when they were alone together for a few minutes. "There's something queer—"
"He may or may not be. I've no idea. But, you see, there's no real evidence. The man was bolting. He's a South American known to be employed by opponents of da Valgas—or alleged to be. We've no trace of a weapon—or evidence that he could use one. We can't prove opportunity. He says he was in bed and asleep at that time, and the hotel porter's evidence rather confirms it. We do know that he'd been following young da Valgas about. That's the one ray of light. But if he's not guilty—or we can't prove a bit more— Good Lord."
"The weapon may be found, sir," Vincent suggested. "And he's an unusual-looking customer. If he had managed to creep out of the hotel without being seen, it's quite possible someone spotted him on the way to—"
"Where? That's just it. We don't know where. And unless we have a bit of luck and someone comes forward who's seen or heard something it's going to be a job finding out. But I've an idea— Yes?"
"From the chief constable, sir." One of the local detectives was extending him a note. He tore the flap hastily.
"D'Estremada wants to amplify his statement," he said. "Come along."
The South American was looking pale but resolute when they entered the room where he was sitting. Almost before the chief inspector had seated himself opposite to him he burst out indignantly.
"I protest against this outrage—this disgraceful and damaging error—"
"Your protest has already been noted," Osborne interrupted him wearily; for the protest had previously run on for half an hour. "It will be dealt with in the proper quarters and at the proper time... I understood that you wished to make a statement. You understand that this is entirely voluntary; that everything you say may be taken down and used as evidence if you are brought to trial?"
He nodded towards the table where the shorthand-writer sat. D'Estremada glanced in the same direction with a hint of nervousness. He cleared his throat.
"I understand. I wish to speak."
"Yes?"
D'Estremada thought for a moment. It is regarding the presence of myself in Oxford and my actions during the past fortnight," he said slowly. "I will explain. That I have been watching the son of that rogue and tyrant da Valgas, I admit. But my design was not murderous. It was not criminal. I admit too that I am by conviction opposed to da Valgas, and employed by his opponents. But our aim was merely to discredit him—through his son."
"Could you explain that a little more fully?" Osborne invited. "You wished to discredit him. How?"
"The fictitious purity of da Valgas's life, his integrity—or that with which he is credited—have been one source of his power. His son, if he succumbs to temptation no less than his father, lacks discretion. Young, fresh to the pleasures of your lovely city, we believed he might commit—well, at least some trifling indiscretion of which we might make use—"
"I see. Your idea was to spy upon him, and blackguard him if you could get anything you could twist to your purpose?"
"It might appear so to you. But in our view, the end justified it. The peoples should know the truth."
"And just how did you propose to disseminate the truth?"
"How?" D'Estremada spread out his hands in an eloquent gesture. "In a thousand ways. Rumour flies fast. The Press—"
"I see." Osborne had an uncomfortable feeling that the man might be telling the truth. "Have you anything further to say?"
"I have already said that I did not quit my hotel. I have defied you to show that I had a weapon. How would it be possible for me to have got to the place from which the shot was fired—"
"You know where the shot was fired from?" Osborne asked with his blandest air.
"How should I tell?" The South American seemed to blench a little at the question. "The shot, of course, was fired from somewhere—some place in the city. It did not come from the air—"
The superintendent, sitting beside Osborne, made a quick movement, and the chief inspector glanced round at him for a moment before returning to the prisoner.
"That is all, then, that you wish to say?"
"That is all. Except that I wish to protest—"
"Your protest has been noted," Osborne repeated wearily. "You may sign the statement if you wish when a copy has been made. That is all."
As d'Estremada was conducted away, Osborne looked at the superintendent. "What was it?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact, we had a sort of suspicion that the bullet came from the air," was the reply. "You see, the position of the wound might be due to the fact that he was bending his head at the time—or it might mean that the shot came from above. There was actually an aeroplane. We got the pilot and the only passenger—a Press photographer taking the ceremony. But, of course, there wasn't a thing against them. Not an atom of evidence. But there it was."
"And that's queer, too. But perhaps it isn't. Oxford is a place one sees so many photographs of. There's no harm in keeping an eye on them. I don't like the Press buzzing round me, I admit—" He sighed. "I suppose we'll have to make a statement... Anything out yet?"
The chief constable reached over and handed him a copy of the local evening paper fresh from the press. The news of the murder covered the bulk of the first page, and Osborne read it frowningly. Then he laughed.
"They know nearly as much as we do!" he said. "Except for d'Estremada... I see they don't entirely discount the theory that an undergraduate might have done it by accident."
"We checked up all the guns of the O.T.C. for a start. None of them had been fired that day. Of course, an undergraduate might get hold of a rifle somehow, but it really would be hard. They're absolutely forbidden by the authorities. And why didn't anyone hear the shot? There must have been a silencer."
"If it's murder, I suppose that the motive was political?"
"We haven't found any other yet. Da Valgas seems to have been pretty popular all round."
"It might be a sensation killing—just for the thrill? Or by a maniac?"
"Yes. I don't mind saying that we're making discreet inquiries about that, too. You see, the colleges and the university between them can keep a pretty fatherly eye upon the undergraduates, and if one of them had been a bit queer the staircase servants or landladies might have noticed it."
"It might be a servant—or a don. We mustn't think that there are maniacs only among the undergraduates."
"No. But there's one fact that might point to it. This is the summer term when the final examinations are held. Those of them who do work—and they're a much larger proportion now—have probably been putting on a spurt even in the vacation. And occasionally one will crock up completely."
"Where would they get the gun?" Vincent interposed.
"Where is the gun?" Osborne sighed. "If we could find it, we'd have a much better chance of finding who owned it... But that's hopeless—or seems to be. Another point is, how was it carried?"
"At night, perhaps, under a coat..."
Osborne was thoughtful. "I was wondering," he said after a pause, "what sort of receptacles a rifle would go into and look natural for an undergraduate to carry? Say, a cricket bag—or even a 'cello-case. I'm not sure that that's not an idea."
"Only," the chief constable observed with some sarcasm, "if we're going to suspect all undergraduates who play cricket, we're going to have a busy time."
"We look like having that anyway... Has it struck you that there may be more? If it's a maniac—"
"Of course, the street patrols will be warned to be on the look out for anyone suspicious. But there's not a great deal of hope... Does anything else occur to you?"
"Nothing, at the moment—except, of course, to try and spot possible places from the top of the tower. But you're doing that. You see, looking at this photograph..."
He reached for the evening paper again, and turned to the picture page.
"It's not taken from quite the right angle. But it does show fairly clearly that if da Valgas was standing there— What—?"
He broke off with a sudden exclamation, gripping the paper fiercely as he peered down at it. Then he jumped to his feet.
"It's possible!" he said. "It might be— Could you get hold of the photographer who took this? And prints?"
IN a corner of the hotel lounge Henwick was gloomily drinking beer as he listened to Hardman's account of his morning's activities. He himself had no enthusiasm for them.
"You'll probably get pinched," he said sadly. "And besides, I'm not sure it's our job to solve murder mysteries. Of course, it's got to be solved so that we can use the accounts of the trial... But most of the work can be done better by the police. How many times does a newspaper ever find a murderer? If it did, dare it publish it?"
Hardman bit savagely at his pipe. He found Henwick's conversation depressing, and the worst of it was that too much of it was true. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed impossible for Van Weiman to have anything to do with the murder. He told himself that his suspicions were ridiculous; and yet in his mind he clung persistently to the idea that Van Weiman must be connected with the case somehow.
Henwick broke the silence. "There may be something in that tower idea," he conceded. "It really might be worth looking— Though I don't expect the man would be ass enough to leave the gun there."
"Why not?" Hardman countered. "If he'd taken proper precautions to avoid having it traced to him, wouldn't it be safer to leave it than risk carrying it away in broad daylight? Besides, there might be something."
Henwick grunted. Then he leaned forward impressively. "Have you ever thought," he said, "that the murderer might have been trying to get you?"
Hardman stared at him; then burst into laughter.
"Why on earth should anyone shoot me?" he asked. "I won't say I've not an enemy in the world—most of us have. But no one knew I was going to be there but Devenish. Or I shouldn't think anyone did. I didn't specially broadcast it. Doubt if even the office knew I was coming to Oxford. And how could they get all ready to murder me on the top of Magdalen Tower? It wouldn't be possible."
"Devenish might have told someone."
"It's true that he'd have to apply in advance for tickets, but he'd not necessarily say whom he was taking. No, Henwick. It won't wash."
"All this is theorising," Henwick confessed, "but—perhaps owing to the beer—another thing strikes me. You're very interested in this American chap. Are you sure that it's not a sort of unconscious memory?"
The more he thought about it, the less sure Hardman felt. After all, there had been something reminiscent about Van Weiman, something... It eluded him completely.
"Anyhow, we've just proved that he couldn't have done it," he said impatiently.
"Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps it wasn't him you remembered, but someone like him—say a brother?"
"Damn it, I'm not sure I did remember him!" Hardman exploded.
"He was coming up the stairs—when everything was over. Why was that? If an accomplice fired the shot, mightn't he have come to note the results?"
"This is absurd—" Hardman began.
Henwick burst into a roar of laughter. "Well, you see how far one can get if you try fancy theories!" he said. "And all the time probably d'Estremada did it... Which reminds me, Osborne said that he'd issue a statement this afternoon. Coming?"
"No. You can collect that as well as I could with you. If I'm on a wild-goose chase, I'll chase them good and plenty... So long."
Hardman's first move was to go in search of Devenish, who had been out to lunch. He felt the need of someone cheerful and not too discouraging. But luck was against him. An obliging porter provided the information that Mr. Devenish would be found in the Holywell Music Rooms, and thither he went, only to find that the other had left. He was in a savage temper with the world in general as he plunged out into the street again, almost colliding with someone.
"Sorry—" he began.
"Why, it's Mr. Hardman, isn't it? Have you found any more ghastly details about the crime?"
There was amusement in her voice, but also something of an edge.
"Not yet." He tried to smile, but succeeded poorly. "But I'm still trying."
She looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "I thought music had charms, Mr. Hardman," she said. "It doesn't seem to have agreed with you!"
"The fact is, I'm feeling thoroughly depressed and fed up," he admitted.
"The sleuth on the trail—or rather off it?"
"You know, then?"
"Your name, Mr. Hardman, is more famous than you think. Wallis—Mr. Van Weiman—spotted you as a journalist this morning. Then I seemed to remember something... Yes, I've sometimes admired your column—but I don't know that I admire your methods."
Hardman flushed. "I know I ought not to have done it," he confessed, "but something about Van Weiman made me curious. And, anyhow, I didn't find anything! You came too soon."
"I don't see what you hoped to find. After all, he's nothing to do with da Valgas. He couldn't have killed him."
"No, he couldn't," Hardman agreed. "Look here, I'm prepared to grovel to any extent—apologise to Van Weiman if you like."
"As a matter of fact, he didn't mind so much as I did. He was a journalist himself in America for a year or two, after he'd taken his degree. Their methods are even less scrupulous than—"
"Than mine." Hardman swallowed the pill; then smiled. "I'll go and apologise at once," he said, "if you'll walk with me,"
She fell into step beside him. But for a time there was silence.
"Lovely place, Oxford," he said at last.
"Beautiful," she agreed. "So old world!"
It was too obvious that she was laughing at him. He laughed himself.
"I have surrendered," he complained. "This is cruelty to a prisoner of war... Would you like to hear my one great thought about the murder? I think the shot was fired from a tower. From one to another, so to speak. And I wasted half the morning climbing steps in hopes of finding the weapon."
"Or some cigar ash? How exciting!"
"Not so exciting as you'd think. All I got was some fine views of Oxford and a sore heel."
"You've finished?"
"Most of the ones they'll let you go up. No, not New College. We were just going there when—"
"You thought of something else," she finished kindly. "But surely that's the best and nearest—even to the supposed criminal's digs... As a matter of fact, I doubt if any of the men in that house are any good to you. In the rooms downstairs there are two frightfully athletic people, who love climbing the Martyr's Memorial and so on. Then there's a little man called Smithers who wouldn't hurt a fly. He's reading theology. And that's all. Except Wallis..."
She broke off to smile at a man who was just crossing towards them.
"Why, Mr. Revel," she greeted him, "I've not seen you for ages. You've not been working?"
Revel smiled, flashed a look at Hardman and hitched his gown on his arm before he answered.
"Not exactly working—"
"I thought you must have been—to get your B.A. gown so quickly. After only two terms..."
For some reason Hardman felt that Revel did not take very kindly to the conversation; but he glanced down at the trailing folds of black cloth over his arm and smiled politely.
"Oh, I just borrowed this," he said. "Got to take some friends up the Sheldonian..."
"Mr. Hardman's been doing that all morning... Oh, you don't know each other, I suppose. He's a famous journalist, come down to solve our latest crime."
Revel grinned, and Hardman resented the grin. The girl at his side certainly possessed the power to annoy him.
"I hope he succeeds," Revel answered. "Can't have crime waves in Oxford... If you'll excuse me, I must dash off and meet those people."
There was silence for a time after he left them. Then a sudden thought struck Hardman.
"Why, speaking of names," he said in astonishment, "I don't know yours yet?"
"Mary Douglas."
She made a slight grimace. "You know, I think one ought to be able to change names. Mary is much too meek, somehow. I always feel the reaction will ruin my life."
They were directly opposite Van Weiman's digs, but the girl, looking up, made no attempt to cross the street.
"It's no good; he's out. He always puts the blind like that to save people climbing the stairs... And you mustn't be exposed to temptation again, Mr. Hardman."
Hardman frowned. "He's a great friend of yours, isn't he?" he demanded.
"Moderately. Actually, he's a sort of a cousin." She glanced at Hardman's expression and smiled. "On one side he's American, of course. He lived there all his life until he came to Oxford. What do we do now?"
"Tea?" Hardman suggested, not unhopefully.
"No. You can't neglect your duties yet just for tea. Besides, you've not shown me yet how it's done... I'm afraid that it will have to be New College Tower. Only I never remember whether it's open to the public or if I have to go and vamp the bursar or someone. He's my uncle. Come on this way."
It was not required that she should trouble anyone but the head porter, who benevolently conducted them through the doorway into the cloisters beyond the main quadrangle before leaving them to their own devices.
"This," Mary Douglas remarked with decision, "is the perfect spot. You could hide an arsenal in here."
It seemed a long time, from the point of view of Hardman's aching feet, before they reached the leads, and stood looking over the low stone parapet to regain their breath.
"You see, it would be the perfect place." She was charmingly flushed with the climb, but less out of breath than Hardman. "If the murderer didn't use it, he ought to have done."
She looked across at the pinnacles of Magdalen and the light died from her eyes. She shivered a little.
"It's rather—horrible," she said slowly. "I don't think I like it. I feel... I feel... What is it?"
Hardman had stooped towards something shining on the ground at his feet. It was a brass cartridge-case, and it had been fired. As he did so they heard the sound of quick footsteps on the staircase below. Next minute they were looking into the astonished face of Chief Inspector Osborne.
OSBORNE looked at them grimly for a minute or two.
"Well, Mr. Hardman," he said forbiddingly, "doing a little investigation on your own account?"
Hardman smiled placatingly.
"This is Miss Douglas, chief inspector," he introduced. "She wanted me to see the view from the top of the tower." Then, with the feeling that he was saying something that would never be believed, besides laying the blame on the girl, he followed with a burst of candour. "The fact is, this was almost the last tower in this part of Oxford I haven't been up to-day. If it's any consolation to you, I've paid for it." He looked down ruefully at his feet. "But, you see, I had the idea—"
Osborne decided to smile, though the effort was rather a wintry one. His eyes sought the shining brass at Hardman's feet.
"You haven't touched it?" he asked anxiously.
"No, I was—"
"You were just going to? If you must do detective work, Mr. Hardman, please remember that nothing should be touched or moved unnecessarily without completing investigations as far as possible... You've not seen the rifle?"
"No. We looked." Mary Douglas had recovered her spirits. "Really, I looked everywhere, chief inspector!"
"Oh." This time Osborne actually did groan. "Then, if that's the case, you'd better both leave samples of your fingerprints—which I expect you've done already. Really, Miss Douglas, I do hope you've not disturbed things too much."
"Fingerprints?" Hardman inquired. "You wouldn't get any on this rough stone, would you?"
"There are places in the tower where one might have had hopes," Osborne rejoined. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting down..."
But Hardman paused curiously at the top of the steps. "How did you get here?" he asked. "If the police have been bounding about as I've done, it's funny our trails haven't crossed."
This time Osborne's smile was more cheerful. "You've got one story, Mr. Hardman—but I think you lost a better one!" he said. "Now, please..."
Both of them were a little silent as they descended the tower. They were more than half-way down before Hardman recalled the claims of duty.
"Oh Lord!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?"
"Well, I had invited you to tea—but I've got to telephone this stuff. Will you wait or—"
"Better not." She smiled. "This is probably your busy day, Mr. Hardman! I might starve completely..."
Both the cloister gates and the main gates were guarded by the police, for the news of something happening had gone abroad, and the Press at least had not failed to gather that the chief inspector's hurried progress to New College probably had some significance. Among the gathering crowd he caught sight of Henwick, standing a little mournfully eyeing the policeman as though he would have liked to remove him bodily, but his face brightened as Hardman emerged. Mary Douglas made a smiling gesture of dismissal, but Hardman paused to whisper:
"Don't give it away!"
She nodded assent. "Good-bye, Mr. Hardman. I enjoyed—some of it."
Henwick almost dragged Hardman away until they were out of earshot.
"Got it," he demanded.
"Got most of it," Hardman assented, and told what had happened. Henwick frowned at the detective's remark about the possibility of a better story having been missed.
"That means he might give it to the others," he said sadly. "I'll have to stay here... But look here, there's another angle that you might tackle when you've 'phoned. You know the hotel where d'Estremada stayed? Well, there are some houses right behind. The windows overlook part of the hotel. I've heard a vague rumour at about sixth hand that someone in one of those houses saw the accused man in bed at about quarter to seven. It might even be an alibi. That's all I know. Got it?"
In the next hour or so Hardman had plenty of reason to thank Heaven his normal job was not reporting. With a choice of several houses, he naturally chose the right one last; when he had made a very small child who guarded the doorway understand whom he wanted, he found the old woman both deaf and obstinate; but it was a fact that the room overlooked the hotel. It was several minutes before she could be made to understand his status, describing her symptoms with alarming clarity in the evident belief that he belonged to the medical profession.
"Reporter!" he bellowed. "Newspaper reporter!"
"Never touch it," she answered firmly. "Give me stout!"
Hardman felt desperate. But the sight of a newspaper open on the bed beside her gave him inspiration. Very clearly he wrote down the purpose of his visit.
"Ay, I saw him," she said with enthusiasm. "Foreign gentleman who stopped in that room right opposite. Police arrested him. Shot a man, they do say. Serve him right."
The last sequence of sentences was obscure, but Hardman let it pass.
"You saw him in the bedroom—in the morning?" he shouted.
"In bed! Not that I'm one for looking into other people's bedrooms. Window was open and sun shining on him. Saw him clear. Just his beard and whiskers—outside the blankets!"
This last was evidently intended for a joke, and Hardman laughed obediently.
"What time?" he demanded.
But here there was difficulty. It had been "a few minutes" before her married daughter brought her cup of tea, and the time of this function varied by a quarter of an hour each side of seven. Reckoning all the possible margins of error, it was anything between half-past six and half-past seven. Eventually Hardman gave it up, checked the fact of d'Estremada's residence there, from an unwilling hotel manager, and returned to find Henwick already installed in the only comfortable corner available. Henwick grinned as he listened.
"I've something, too," he said. "You don't know why the inspector got so hot on your heels? No. Well, he had luck. One of those aerial photographs taken just before seven showed a man on New College Tower."
"Good Lord!" Hardman's eyebrows rose.
"Mind you, it was smart of him to spot it. He only saw it in the newspaper, and it wasn't more than a blob. But the print was clear enough."
"A man?"
"Presumably; but it's not certain."
"If he was there about a quarter to seven," Hardman mused, "that almost cuts out d'Estremada. Almost—but not quite."
"Incidentally, you'd better tell the chief inspector. It'll be an olive branch, and he's treated us well over this."
Hardman rose obediently and sought the telephone. It was some time before Osborne answered rather irritably. He had, in fact, been dragged away from a meal. But he listened eagerly.
"You couldn't get the time clearer?" he demanded.
"No." Hardman smiled to himself. "That was the best I could do."
"Maybe we can improve on it. Thanks a lot. We'll go to it."
Hardman was smiling when he returned to Henwick. "As an olive branch for a hungry man," he said a little obscurely, "do you think talking to that old girl will work? I reckon it revenge!"
Henwick grinned and picked up the newspaper, and looking at the clock, Hardman suddenly recalled that he ought to have dined with Devenish an hour before. When he eventually ran his host to earth, it was to find him a little disconsolate at being left out of great events, and even inclined to be reproachful.
"Been doing a bit on my own," he said after he had heard Hardman's story. "Just thought it worth while asking a bit about some of Van Weiman's friends, and himself. I thought I could do it more casually than you could. First of all, the man himself. He's older than the average, took a good degree at an American university, knocked about for a bit in journalism, and must have had money or made money, because he came over here. He's well off, quite popular, and doesn't stick quite so much to the American clique as some do. Not a bad speaker in an American way, you know, and writes some quite hot stuff. That's about all, I think... Oh, he's not engaged."
The last remark sounded innocent enough, but Hardman frowned a little.
"Any others?" he asked.
"Well, there are two chaps called Grant and Jameson. They live on the bottom floor of his house. Great hefty chaps. One plays for the Greyhounds; the other is strong on the O.T.C." Hardman's eyebrows rose a little. "There's not much more I can tell you about them. Grant's musical, though it seems an odd combination. Both a bit rackety in a mild way, like fooling about and climbing college buildings."
He paused for a bit. "I expect you know more about Miss Douglas than I do. Popular sort of girl. Great on dramatic societies, debates and so on. Seems to know a lot of people."
"D'you hear anything of a man called Revel?"
"Not much. He's one of the American crowd. Certainly not a great friend. Pretty quiet sort of man."
"I'd be glad to hear any more that you find out. I don't know why, because there's precious little to connect them with the murder. It's a sort of hunch." He paused for a moment. "Wouldn't it be a grand story if it were an undergraduate gang?"
"Do you think it is a gang?"
"No," Hardman admitted sadly. "It's a great pity. You see, it would work out so nicely. Van Weiman as gangster in chief, Grant and Jameson to do the climbing and shooting, Revel—for whatever he does, and—"
"Smithers to say prayers over the bodies," Devenish laughed. "I hardly think so. Anyway, don't you think we're on the wrong tack? Shouldn't it be da Valgas's friends we're asking about?"
"I suppose it should." Hardman glanced at the clock and yawned. "Think I'll be going now. Care to stroll along or not?"
"I ought to work," Devenish decided. "I've a tutorial to-morrow. And besides, at this hour, I'd have to climb out!"
Hardman's thoughts were not on the murder as he walked down the High Street. It was late enough for the cars to be thinning; the promise of the morning had been fulfilled, and queer stone shapes rose against a placid grey sky. Comparatively unfamiliar as he was with the city, he chose a lane at random as Magdalen Tower rose before him. Just at that moment he did not want the murder. The lane ended in a cul-de-sac, hedged with those iron spikes with which a rigorous university is compelled to restrain her protégés. He knew where he was then. Before him must be the meadows and the river. Tentatively he raised himself in a corner which seemed to promise sufficient foothold, and though barbed wire had been used as an additional hindrance, managed to pull himself over without worse damage than a scratched hand, and striking to the left, reached the river.
The path wound along tortuously, over-arched with trees, and occasionally enclosed by the riverside bushes, giving only glimpses of mildly shining water. In the shadows it was as black as ink, and, having barked his knee on a seat placed there for the convenience of the public, he took advantage of it to rest. He must have sat there for ten minutes or so, rather drinking in the slight sounds about than thinking over the events of the day. Then from up the path in the direction he himself had come from, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Mere curiosity as to identity of the other trespasser made him sit still. But whoever was coming seemed to have some other purpose than a gentle evening stroll. The steps were hurried, even anxious. Quite suddenly a shadow moved out of the darkness, came a few paces towards him and advanced cautiously towards the river-bank.
Hardman waited. The unknown seemed to be fumbling with some large piece of loose black material. And at the same time Hardman felt a growing desire to sneeze. The stranger seemed to get the cloth loose; there was a splash. Right on the heels of it Hardman sneezed.
The stranger whirled round to face him and hesitated for a second. Even as he sneezed the second time, Hardman made out something coming towards him. He raised a hand defensively. Then there was a great flash of light and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
HARDMAN came to himself with a racking headache, but with the cool sensation of the dewy grass against his forehead. For some time he could not think what had happened. Then he remembered with a feeling of amazement the mysterious stranger and the equally mysterious attack made upon him. He felt frankly bewildered. Then the truth flashed upon him, and he sat up with a groan. His assailant could have been no one but the murderer.
With difficulty he raised himself to his knees; then lurched with a desperate effort to his feet. Everything was swimming round him. He could not even determine by which way he had come. Of the tracks across the meadows he had the dimmest recollection, but lights were visible through the trees at what seemed an enormous distance in front of him. He stumbled in their direction, after a minute or two striking a track which led in the right direction.
Then followed what seemed an interminable walk of absolute misery. At the back of his mind there was always the thought of the spiked railings which had to be climbed. In his confusion of mind he had forgotten completely the buildings of Christ Church which fronted the meadow. He realised afterwards that he must have walked right past them, so blindly were his eyes fixed on the lights of St. Aldate's which showed ahead. He reached it with a sigh of relief.
There were gates and railings there as well, but immediately beyond them was the street. Three young men, obviously undergraduates, were coming down the road, walking with happy abandon in the centre of the roadway. The middle one, guided, if not positively upheld by his companions, was a young colossus. All were slightly drunk, but he seemed the drunkest of the three. Clutching the railings, Hardman called to them.
"Here! Here! Help! I'm hurt!"
The line wheeled unsteadily and came to a stop facing him. For a moment they merely looked at him incredulously. Then the big man, freeing an arm, waved an admonitory finger at him.
"Old boy," he said, "you're drunk. Naughty."
"Look here," Hardman appealed desperately to the least intoxicated-looking. "I'm hurt. You've got to get me out of here, somehow. Call a policeman, get the porter or something. I'm due to faint."
"No," the big man decided carefully, "you're not, old man. You're drunk, that's what you are. Tight, blind, boiled, in-inebriated. Can't call a policeman. Don't want one. For I'm twenty-one to-day, twenty-one to-day."
"Then for Lord's sake behave like it," Hardman answered with a weak kind of anger. "I've been attacked... The murderer—get me out!"
"The murderer! Whoops! Who cares for the naughty old murderer!" But the thought seemed to have a stimulating effect upon the big man. "Coming over!" he shouted suddenly, and suited the action to the word, with a speed and recklessness which he could never have achieved while sober. Almost before Hardman knew what was happening he felt himself lifted like a sack with a strength which was positively incredible. Something seemed to snap in his brain with the jerk of his being lifted. He never knew how the big man managed to get him over the spikes without impaling one or both of them. He came to himself on the pavement to the sound of the big man's voice.
"He is drunk, I tell you," he was saying. "Feel responsible for him. Can't call a police. Can't call doctors. Can't call anything. Must take him home. Where d'you live, old boy?"
"Clarendon," Hardman answered with difficulty.
"No, old boy. That's not where you live. That's where you've been—"
"For God's sake—" Hardman protested feebly, but one of the other two called out suddenly.
"Look out. The bullers!"
Hardman was just capable of realising that two tough-looking men in bowler hats had suddenly appeared round a corner. Before the gowned and banded figure of the attended proctor had followed them the three had scattered in full flight.
The upholders of the law for once showed poor judgment. One chased the large man, as being the nearest. But the large man was certainly the faster drunk or sober. The other made a dive for Hardman, as obviously the drunkest of the party. He felt himself helped firmly to his feet.
"The proctor would like to speak to you, sir," his captor told him with grave dignity.
"I—I'd like to speak to the proctor," Hardman answered a little light-headedly, thereby confirming the bulldog's suspicions. A minute later a grave voice sounded in his ear.
"Come, sir! I must request you for your name and college."
"Haven't got one," Hardman stammered. "Can't you see? I'm hurt. The murderer— Look—my head. Police!"
An exclamation of astonishment was the last thing Hardman remembered for a while. His head sank forward on the shoulder of the university policeman, to the complete displacement of that officer's bowler hat.
"Hardman! Hardman!"
He came to himself with the sensation of a familiar voice in his ears. Someone was bathing his head with cold water. Then he recognised the voice as Osborne's. He opened his eyes.
"Hardman! What happened? The murderer—"
The chief inspector's urgency roused him. He struggled up weakly, supported by an arm behind him.
"Climbed over—for a walk," Hardman answered weakly. "Sat down by the river. Someone came along—didn't see me. Threw something into the river. Then I sneezed... He hit me. I don't— I don't— Three young fools helped me over—"
"They got away," he heard someone say mournfully in the middle distance. "All three!"
Osborne was not inclined to bother about the escaped offenders. He held a glass to Hardman's lips.
"Here," he commanded. "Drink this... When was it? Who? Where?"
"Couldn't see him. Right the other side of the meadows. There's a seat by the river... I don't know the time. I'd left Devenish at quarter to eleven."
Osborne glanced at his watch. "It's one now," he said hopelessly, and as if to confirm his statement they heard a single stroke from the bell in the tower above their heads. Hardman realised where he was. It must be Christ Church lodge. "He threw something in. What?"
"Couldn't see... Could show you the place—I think. In a minute."
In the next few minutes while Hardman lay back quietly Osborne was giving what he knew perfectly well to be a grand exhibition of misplaced energy. It was quite hopeless. Unless Hardman's attacker were indeed mad, or liked sleeping in the meadows, he must long since have taken flight. All the same, hastily mobilised police were patrolling the borders and even solemnly beating the open expanses of grass and searching the avenues and other possible hiding-places. Osborne stood looking at the lights flashing through the darkness; then he shrugged his shoulders. It had to be done; but the number of policemen he had been able to gather at such notice was altogether insufficient to search so large a place adequately at night.
Hardman sat up, and Osborne turned to him eagerly.
"Feeling better?" he asked. "Well enough to walk?"
"Well enough, with some help. But it's right the other side, along the Cherwell somewhere."
"We'll carry you, if necessary." Osborne signed to a couple of policemen, and together they raised Hardman to his feet. He was feeling distinctly better, and only needed a little support from the two men who helped him. "Tell me a bit more about it, will you?" Osborne asked as they set off.
Hardman related in detail what had happened. Osborne frowned into the darkness as he listened.
"Then we're not even sure it was the murderer?" he asked. "You saw him throw something into the river; your sneeze alarmed him, and he attacked you. But you didn't see him; he didn't say anything; we've no real grounds for believing— Oh, I suppose the probabilities are that it was, but it might have been anyone doing something he didn't want found out. A burglar—" A sudden thought struck him. "You said there was a splash. How big a splash? It couldn't have been—not another?"
"No. Besides, the parcel or whatever it was was too small... It seemed to be wrapped in a large black cloth—but, of course, it was so dark that almost anything would look black."
"Cloth, you say."
"Well, not paper. It didn't rustle when he unwrapped it."
"I've asked police patrols to look out for anyone carrying parcels, but they don't remember anyone... I think our only chance is to fish it up... Here's the path. Now which way?"
"This way, I think. There was a seat—"
"There are seats all along here, sir," one of the policemen supplied. "But we can try them all, if necessary... There's one thing, though, I don't understand, sir, if I may say so."
"What's that?"
"Well, why did he choose the Cherwell, with the Thames only a few yards farther on. If he were hiding something, he'd want the deeper river."
"It sounds likely... He might have been in a hurry."
"Besides"—a voice from behind made Hardman realise that the proctor was accompanying them—"if this is the bit of river, it's a good place for hiding anything. I've punted over it. There's from one to two feet of soft mud at the bottom, and if anything once sank in—"
"If it was the murderer," Osborne said dubiously, "the natural thing for it to be would be the rifle. Somehow he'd recovered it from a hiding-place which wasn't too safe, and he was going to dispose of it finally."
"I hardly think so," Hardman objected. "Of course, one couldn't see much, but one could distinguish a little. I've a vague impression that it was too short... This looks like the place."
They stopped. Hardman stood looking about him. He went over to the seat.
"Yes. This is the place... You can see the impression in the dew where I sat down—and that's one of my footmarks, I think... Then the man who attacked me would be over there."
He pointed and they moved over to the river-bank. Suddenly one of the constables who had been flashing his torch down on to the grass stooped with an exclamation. His hand was stretched out when Osborne stopped him.
"Don't touch it!"
Flashing his own light on to the object which the constable had discovered, he saw what it was—a length of rubber tubing about a foot long, of the kind which is used for hose-pipes.
"Not much hope of prints on that. Too rough."
All the same, he lifted it very gingerly with his handkerchief, holding it near the middle. "Loaded," he said. "It's really a life-preserver. The end's been filled with shot."
"Isn't that rather professional, if it's a member of the university?" the proctor suggested hopefully. "I mean, I'm not an expert in crime, but I've read a good many detective novels—"
"So, perhaps, had the murderer. Still, it's a point. This business does smack of the professional rather than some amateur... But, you know, up to date the evidence is rather against its being a member of the university, except the obvious familiarity with the place and customs."
"But the newspapers are talking of mad undergraduates, experimental killings and so on," the proctor answered aggrievedly. "You know—"
"Newspapers always like something exciting... But we're wasting time. We'll search... One of you had better go for drags. We'll start to-night, though I doubt if we'll finish. I think it's a job that needs daylight... If you could point out the direction in which he seemed to throw, Hardman, it would help."
But here Hardman was at fault. It was obviously going to be a question of dragging for some yards in each direction. And a quick search of the neighbourhood revealed nothing helpful. Hardman, who had not yet recovered his strength, left them to it, and sitting on the seat, sank into something like a daze. He most earnestly wanted his bed. With a rush of horror it occurred to him that he ought to be telephoning to his newspaper. The one comforting thought was that Henwick was probably out by now, though the police patrol would almost certainly be preventing the Press from entering the meadows—at least by authorised means. He was roused by an exclamation from one of the policemen.
Osborne hurried over to him. "What is it?"
He stood looking uncomprehendingly at the long strip of black cloth, perhaps a couple of inches wide, which had contrived to entangle itself round the branch of a tree. It had not been torn, except at one end. All the other edges were neatly hemmed.
The proctor had a struggle with his feelings. He knew that Hardman was a newspaper reporter, and he was jealous of the reputation of the university.
"I know," he said after a momentary hesitation. "It's a piece of a commoner's gown."
AT breakfast next morning Hardman had to listen with ill-concealed impatience to the exposition of Henwick of the dangers attending reporters who got mixed up with policemen.
"There you are, you see," he concluded a lengthy argument, "last night was a case in point. You've got a corking story—an important clue is discovered, and you're only allowed to tell about half of it, and can't even let out what the clue was. That's what comes of being with the police. You couldn't even get through with your story."
"Look here," Hardman snapped at last, "if it were worth while saying anything to a fool who argues at breakfast-time with a man with a sore head, I'd tell you a few things. It seems to me damned hard luck that the only time yesterday I wasn't looking for the murderer I should find him. And if you think it's part of my theory to get knocked on the head with a blackjack, you can—"
The arrival of the chief inspector cut short an argument which threatened to become heated. Simultaneously four men nearby rose from their seats and converged upon them. Osborne waved them back.
"I've nothing fresh yet, gentlemen," he protested. "I've told you I'll see you all again at eleven o'clock. I simply want Mr. Hardman's help for a little while."
"We'll all help!" one of the reporters suggested. "You can't let him in and leave us out."
"Mr. Hardman is a witness," Osborne said patiently. "Come on, Hardman. I've a car outside."
As they started down the crowded street Hardman looked inquiringly at the inspector.
"Not a thing," Osborne answered. "That is, we've found plenty of things—but nothing that a murderer would be likely to throw into the river. That mud's as sticky as the deuce."
"I was wondering—about that gown, if it was a bit of a gown—"
"It was. Look!" Osborne pointed to a group of young men just emerging from a lecture. "One of those little ones—with the two tails floating from the shoulders." He paused. "Vincent did suggest," he said with melancholy humour, "that we might examine all the commoners' gowns, looking for a torn one. On the whole, from what I've seen, it would be more suspicious if we found a whole one. They seem to like going round in disused dusters."
"Freshmen do, I believe." Hardman recollected something Devenish had said. "They think it disguises their essential freshness... And they buy them second-hand."
"I've already traced what shop the gown was bought from," Osborne remarked. "Apparently there are minor distinctions in gowns. The proprietor of the shop heard me with great patience. He pointed out that he'd no way of saying if it was one, two, or three years old, and that in any case it had probably been a cash transaction. I could have the names of a few thousand people, past and present, who had bought gowns if I liked—"
"And?" Hardman asked with a smile.
"I thanked him very much," Osborne said simply. "In any case, the fact of that being there doesn't prove it was an undergraduate."
"For an undergraduate to put on academic dress to throw the rifle he'd murdered someone with into the river seems to me to show a mind beautifully attuned to the niceties of etiquette," Hardman murmured after a pause. "Of university customs I know very little—"
"Don't fool about it, for Heaven's sake!" Osborne snapped irritably. "This business is getting on my nerves... I've been wondering if by any chance it wasn't worn by the person. Could it have been the cloth or whatever it was the rifle was wrapped in?"
"My impression is that it couldn't," Hardman answered after a moment's thought. "One of those little things wouldn't be nearly large enough. By the way, can you trace the weapon at all?"
"It's a very untraceable type," Osborne frowned. "You see, so many people buy rubber tubing. It may not even have been his own rubber tubing. He might have pinched a bit of someone's hose. And the lead shot is as bad." The car drew to a stop and he flung the door open. "Here we are."
This time they had driven, not to the St. Aldate's gate, but to that which Hardman had climbed the previous night to obtain entrance. It was only a short walk to the spot where he had been attacked. Osborne only spoke once.
"By the way, how's your head?"
"Damn' sore—but better." Hardman touched it gingerly. "It must be as bony as I'm sometimes inclined to think it is."
Osborne was impolite enough not to express dissent. A few steps farther brought them to the spot where several indescribably muddy policemen were working with ropes and dredges in a stream which their operations had rendered something of the colour of mulligatawny soup. On the bank a varied and odoriferous collection of objects had been placed in a line, most of them obviously the relics of picnics. From a punt in the middle of the stream the superintendent was superintending operations.
"It couldn't have been a bottle which was thrown in, could it?" The chief inspector indicated the splendid collection which their efforts had succeeded in recovering. "I'm thinking of setting up in the old-clothes business—"
"Not nearly heavy enough. It must have been something about the weight of a rifle. And, after all, there's only my impression that it wasn't long enough. Part of it might have been hidden—"
"Hullo!" the superintendent hailed from the punt, having evidently just become aware of their presence. "No luck yet!"
"That's why I've brought Mr. Hardman to help us... Now, we'll do what they do in books—reconstruct the crime. Sit where you were sitting, please."
"If you've got that life-preserver," Hardman said with mock nervousness, "don't let your dramatic instinct carry you away!"
The inspector paid no attention to his attempt at humour. He had retreated some way up the path.
"I'm hurrying towards you," he said as he approached. "Whereabouts do I stop?"
"There," Hardman said positively, indicating a space between the trees. "I couldn't have seen you so well anywhere else. You see, you were silhouetted against the river."
"Good." Osborne pointed to a piece of white tape tied to a tree beside him. "And that's where we found the piece of gown. My idea is that it got caught round there when he turned, and pulled right off when he ran for you. That's why he didn't notice it... You see, the tubing was a yard or two higher up. He may have thrown it there—or he may have bolted, shoving it into his pocket, and it dropped out. Now, I stand here, say—it's bad luck the ground just here was hard, or we might have seen where he really did stand—and I swing a rifle like this—" He made the motion of flinging something held in both hands. "No, I'm hanged if I do. It would hit the tree."
He shifted his ground to one side, and tried again. Even from where Hardman sat it was evident that there was still not room.
"He might have pitched it forwards without swinging," Osborne frowned, "but he'd want to throw it as far as possible. On the whole, it looks as though your impression was right. In any case, he's got to get through that gap. So it would be along a line like this."
He stretched out his arm in a diagonal direction from where he stood. The superintendent, who had been watching his proceedings, shifted the punt a little and called to the policemen who were working the drags. Osborne returned to the seat and sat down. He produced a pipe and smoked in silence.
"By the way," Hardman said after a pause, "what about that alibi—for d'Estremada?"
Osborne grinned. "I haven't thanked you for sending me there yet, have I? And I'm not going to. It was one of the most tedious hours of my life. She's a quaint old dame... Well, it's absolutely inconclusive from a legal point of view. She'd be a rotten witness in a court of law for the defence, and the prosecution would make hay of her. But I'm morally convinced, for my own part, that she did see him, and that she saw him at a time which makes it quite impossible for him to have got dressed, walked, run, or driven to New College, let himself into the cloisters without being seen, and got back in time. Because he was certainly called by the hotel servants not long afterwards. In fact, we're certain enough to have released him, and are now engaged in praying that he doesn't bring an action for unlawful arrest, assault and battery, illegal detention and everything else."
"Will he?"
"No." Osborne smiled. "His reputation won't stand it. He might get away with the action—but he'd certainly be deported very soon as an undesirable alien. And, I gather, he has reasons for not wishing to return to his native land. At the moment it's a case of live and let live. In his case, live or die. Da Valgas wouldn't be inclined to be merciful at the moment, poor beggar."
You've other suspects, of course?"
Osborne raised his eyebrows; then he smiled.
"That's a leading question to put to a policeman," he said, "especially when put by a newspaper reporter!"
"Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"If I may rely on your discretion, and speak under the seal of the confessional..." He looked at Hardman, who nodded. "Well, I'll tell you, just because I'm tired of looking clever when newspaper men bother me, and saying that the police have a clue. There's not a single damn isolated man, woman or child we've traced in the neighbourhood up to date who seems to have any reasonable motive for potting Juan da Valgas. Not one. Oh, I know people say that motives don't matter. But in a long-range crime like this, what else, in the absence of clues, can give you a start? That's the beauty of this particular method of killing. Short of anyone noticing him do it, in New College, he's got plenty of time to get away."
"The college porter would spot him."
"On nine days out of ten—no, on nearly every day in the academic year except May morning... I've learnt that undergraduates aren't normally allowed out without permission before chapel. The exception is May Day. Moreover, there are two other explanations. He might have been a member of the college, and simply have to go back to his room; or he might have had the sense to stow himself away in some unobtrusive spot until things got busier—say, when lectures started."
"I wonder no one saw him from the tower?"
"He was lucky there. No one seems to have been looking in that direction during the two or three minutes he took to fire. But, you see, if anyone had seen him, he'd still have had time to get away with luck. Look what would happen. Da Valgas drops down dead. There's a minute or so of confusion—people trying to bring him round and so on. The murderer knows exactly what he's going to do. When the shot's fired, he bolts. He's got about a minute's start already. He can certainly be down the tower before anyone can get down Magdalen Tower. There'll be more confusion below. Like you, whoever tackles the porter will have to convince him it's the truth. Then, if the porter does the sensible thing, he'll ring up the New College porter at once. There won't be such long delay there—but there will be delay. The murderer, if he's lucky and everyone behaves according to the book, has still got time to get out of the cloisters."
Hardman tried to form a picture of the college quadrangle.
"Wouldn't the porter see him? Even if he didn't go through the lodge?"
"If the porter was looking in that direction, and if he left by the door—yes. But it would be possible for an active man to leave the cloisters by an unofficial route. Or, if the porter did see him, he needn't have seen his face. You see, with even moderate luck he could get away."
Hardman pondered on the chief inspector's explanation, and took out and lit a cigarette before he spoke.
"You know, a friend of mine put forward a suggestion which I laughed at at the time—that the murderer was really shooting at me."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. I write a chatty sort of column. It's more than likely I tread on people's toes at times."
Osborne brooded over the matter carefully, and shook his head. "No, I doubt it. People don't get shot in this country because they're journalists," he sighed; then smiled maliciously. "And if you think I'm going to read up the back numbers of your rag to see who might shoot you, I'll resign first! But, in the last resort, that's what we might have to do. Assume that the murderer was a bad shot, and look into the past lives of everyone on the tower to see who might have been killed. It sounds a terrible job, but not much worse than the normal life of a detective. There's that explanation. And there's the one that the murderer didn't care whom he killed—that he was doing it for fun, or because he objected to May morning. That's worse than ever."
There was silence again, while both men stared through the trees towards the river.
"But you have some clues," Hardman said at last. "The bullet and cartridge-case. The piece of gown—"
"The first two of common make. Might have been obtained anywhere... Hundreds of gowns are sold annually; they're very much alike, and change hands unofficially in a dozen ways. If we were to find a man wearing that gown, and could fit the piece to it—which we couldn't—it probably wouldn't be the murderer. That is, if he's twigged the fact that he's lost it. The worst of Oxford undergraduates is that they're so damn casual in some things— Hullo! They've got something."
He hurried towards the bank, with Hardman close behind him. In the river, the policemen were evidently trying to drag something from the grip of the mud.
"What is it?" Osborne shouted.
"Probably only another log," the superintendent growled. "Feels like it."
The onlookers waited impatiently. Then the drags caught. Something was coming to the surface. Eager hands gripped it as it emerged.
"It is a log, curse it!" Osborne grumbled. "No, by George, it's not. It's a rifle—or part of one—"
"It's a whole one; but it seems to be broken at the stock," Hardman said. "I wonder—"
But Osborne did not wait to listen. He was hurrying to the place where the punt was being driven ashore.
OSBORNE drove Hardman back as far as the police station, this time extracting a promise of secrecy only regarding details of the weapon—which, in any case, he had not got. He telephoned from the Carfax kiosk, unwilling to meet his fellow reporters until the news had gone through. Jerrold received it ungratefully.
"What did you want to get knocked out for?" he asked. "If you'd grabbed him, that would have been the real stuff... By the way, how's your head?"
"All right, thanks—"
"Knew it would be... As it was, we had to wait for Henwick to come through with just the same stuff as everyone else was using. It wasn't even known that it was our special correspondent who was wounded until about two o'clock... We're first with this?"
"Yes. By a little bit."
"That's not so bad... If you can't catch the murderer, you might get yourself knocked on the head again. It's better than nothing. Good-bye!"
Hardman grinned as he hung up the receiver, being familiar with the news editor's peculiar sense of humour. Eleven o'clock was just striking. The other gentlemen of the Press should be storming the police station. He turned up towards the hotel, wondering what to do next. The problem was solved for him. Almost on the steps of the hotel he met Mary Douglas, this time accompanied by two other women undergraduates. She smiled at him, and with curious glances her two companions faded away.
"There's a parcel for you. I left it with the porter," was her greeting.
"Oh," Hardman said a little blankly. "Anything important?"
"Frightfully. You'd better go and see. I'll wait—for exactly one minute. Then we might have coffee."
He dashed into the hotel; snatched a parcel from the hands of the porter, who was just on the point of conveying it to the office and hurried out again, even in his haste conscious of a strange semi-softness about it's contents. The girl was still there. She laughed when he emerged.
"What is it?" he asked.
"If you opened it..."
Hardman pulled at a corner of the bag and peered in.
"Grapes?" he asked in amazement.
She laughed again at his expression. "I didn't come here this morning to admire the workings of a great detective's brain, but to send a little solace to the bedside of a sufferer," she said with mock demureness. "You know, 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease' and so on. I was being a ministering angel."
Hardman laughed. "Bad luck," he said. "And, since I've obtained them under false pretences, what do I do with them now?"
"You might eat them."
"Unfortunately, they happen to be—" he checked himself. "I should love to."
"They happen to be what you hate most? Don't sacrifice yourself for my sake."
"I might wear them next to my heart."
"They'd spoil your suit. Or I might eat them. But one mustn't take back a gift... Isn't there anyone else who'd like them?"
Hardman grinned. "Osborne!" he said. "He was feeling pretty sick this morning—and I don't think he's more than convalescent yet... We'll stop at the post office."
This business had duly been dealt with and they had found a café before the main subject of conversation came up.
"I was quite worried when I read the papers. Then you come walking up the street as though nothing had happened... It was quite disappointing. Oh, I forgot to ask? How is your head?"
"Everybody," Hardman said pathetically, "when asking that question says 'By the way' or 'I forgot.' And I know the reply when I say it's as well as can be expected. They say 'Of course' or 'I thought so.' How do I look? Pale?"
"Normal, I'm afraid. And you really met the murderer?"
"I have wounds to show for it. Don't say I should have caught him. That's another thing I can't bear."
"You'd better tell me about it."
She listened attentively as he described it, drawing a deep breath as he finished. Hardman hoped that it might be a sigh of relief for his escape, but her words belied it.
"How splendid! It's exactly like the films."
"No. I should have caught him, on the films, after a desperate struggle. And we had no heroine—at least, not on hand."
"The college authorities wouldn't have allowed it. As a matter of fact, we're liable to be progged now."
"I understand English; not Oxford."
"Have a charming gentleman sweep up to us and ask our names and colleges—with a view to a fine. I should think they'd even rusticate me for associating with a reporter who has recently been in intimate contact with a desperate criminal... Oh, that means send me away for a time."
"They wouldn't have the heart," Hardman said gravely. "Or at least, I—"
Her question interrupted him. "What are you doing next?"
"Frankly, I've not the faintest idea. Explore every avenue—when I find one. What would you do?"
"I couldn't venture to instruct an expert. You found the cartridge; you found the weapon; you found the murderer once, in a way."
"If I'm going to find him again that way, I'll buy a helmet. But, seriously, I've not the faintest idea what to do. You see, I had a sort of inspiration that Van Weiman ought to be connected with it somehow. And, if I could have connected him with it, there were all kinds of beautifully suspicious things about the people associated with him. Only I can't find any possible connexion, unless he's mad." He stopped and looked across apologetically. "I'm fearfully sorry. I forgot he was your cousin—"
She laughed. "I was almost afraid that, in that dreamy, detached voice, you were going to adduce me as evidence of insanity in the family!"
"I didn't mean it."
"Never mind. You may take it from me that he's not mad. And he's the last person in the world to do any experimental killings or any of that nonsense those stupid newspapers have been talking about— Oh, I'm sorry!"
"We'd better take apologies for granted. We're quits... I was wondering..."
"What?"
"The fact is, it's too ridiculous for words; but you see, being an amateur at this business, I have to try the romantic method. Could your cousin somehow, as a journalist, have acquired some secret connected with the da Valgas business— No. That wouldn't work. Then he'd have been the victim."
"Really, you're too cold-blooded for anything." This time it seemed to him she was genuinely angry for a moment; then she smiled. "Naturally, you have to be impartial. Only, it takes some getting used to... Whatever grounds have you for thinking that?"
"None. It's all imagination." Hardman paused for a moment. The subject he wished to introduce was a delicate one, but he took the plunge. "But I remember you said when you found me—waiting for him—"
"Delicately put. That's the journalistic gift. Well?"
"You said his rooms had been burgled—"
"Oh, no. Nothing like that. But he thought that someone had been there one day, because his papers were disturbed, and he thought a letter had been opened. An important letter."
"What about?"
"You'd better ask him. You know, I'm not my cousin's keeper. I suppose journalism gets you into the habit of asking questions like this?"
"I'm sorry... The worst of it is, another was trembling on the tip of my tongue—" She smiled permission, and he went on: "When was that?"
"What day?" She wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. "You know, time passes so easily here in the summer term—if you haven't got schools—that one tends to forget... Yes, it was Thursday—because I remember meeting him in the afternoon on the way to Parsons' Pleasure. He was coming away—"
Hardman made a pitiful grimace. "What is Parsons' Pleasure?"
"Sun-bathing, apparently. It's one of the swimming places. He'd been for a swim, and he was fearfully excited about something, just as he is when he's got some—journalistic scoop? I'm afraid my journalese is as bad as your Oxford—"
"Yes?"
She was talking on almost absently. "The funny thing was that whatever he'd found out, he must have found it there—or perhaps he just thought of it there. That's more likely." She paused. "He didn't even stop to talk, but just dashed on. He cut Holbourn dead. He spoke to me afterwards and was very upset. He was quite sensitive. But I expect the bathe cured him."
"You'll excuse me," Hardman smiled, "but I don't quite gather the course of events. It's often the same, I've noticed, when women tell stories about anything—"
"Oh!" She was a little taken aback; then seemed to be put on her mettle. "Perhaps it's just that men are so dense at understanding. Listen... On Thursday I was proceeding in the direction of the University Parks, at three post meridiem. At or in the neighbourhood of Mansfield College, I met, or encountered, Wallis Van Weiman, my cousin, a native of Boston. He said it was fine but cool, and the English were an effeminate race—or words to that effect. He'd had to go bathing alone. At that time he was in a normal state. At or about a quarter to four, I again met my cousin. I was proceeding in the direction of Holywell, coming away from the University Parks. He was proceeding in the direction of Parks Road, away from Parsons' Pleasure. He appeared to be in an excited state. He nodded and continued to proceed, at a fast pace. At a distance of twenty yards from the meeting-place he passed Mr. Holbourn, who was walking in the direction of Parsons' Pleasure. He did not recognise him. Mr. Holbourn—who's one of the most charmingly sensitive darlings I ever made blush—was pained. He asked if he'd offended Wallis. I replied in the negative. He proceeded in the direction of Parsons' Pleasure. Presumably he bathed. Of that you cannot expect me to have personal knowledge. I proceeded down Mansfield Road. End message."
Hardman had been listening attentively, with a gravity which evidently surprised her. She burst out laughing.
"There! I'm sure you understood that. All of it that wasn't journalese was police-court English!"
"It was marvellous!" Hardman smiled belatedly, and, rather too soon, returned to the charge.
"What could anyone find out at Parsons' Pleasure? You've been there?"
For a second or two he thought that he had seriously annoyed her. She seemed to be struggling with some deep emotion.
"But—but what's the matter?"
"You—you'd better ask Mr. Devenish," she said a little tremulously. "He seems a nice young man."
Hardman could only stare at her in bewilderment. With a mighty effort she regained her composure.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this. You must have an hypnotic eye. Anyway, that will be all for to-day, thank you."
"You know, I think I'd better see your cousin and ask him—" Hardman said, and for the first time blundered seriously.
"You mustn't! You couldn't talk about this without letting him know I'd told you. He'd be furious. He hates to have his private affairs discussed. I shouldn't have done it. You won't ask him, will you? Promise me!"
Hardman hesitated. "It might be important—" he began.
"It isn't. Just because he had a good idea while he was bathing—" She looked at him appealingly, and then her face hardened. "If you do, I—I'll never speak to you again. And, Mr. Hardman, I mean that!"
There was a genuine struggle in Hardman's mind. Really, he told himself, there was not the slightest reason to connect Van Weiman with da Valgas's death. It had all been due to a silly piece of imagination. His eyes met the girl's and he succumbed.
"I promise!" he said, but she did not immediately show signs of relaxing her expression.
"And you'll give up this stupid business of spying on him?"
"Yes." Once one promise had been made, the second was easier. She smiled immediately, at first with real gratitude, then mockingly.
"This is like the films. 'Young journalist gives up all, betrays profession for woman he loves'—"
She stopped. Hardman had suddenly coloured furiously. She felt a slow tide of red flooding her own cheeks, and in spite of herself her eyes fell.
"Seriously, I'm very grateful, Mr. Hardman," she said, paused for a moment, and went on in her normal voice. "And now, sir, having imperilled my university career by wasting half a morning with you, duty calls me. I must attend a lecture. Heaven attend your detecting!"
"I may see you again?" Hardman insisted.
Her eyebrows went up; she laughed. "Judging by the experience of the past day, about three times per diem! I shall be getting talked about."
"Lunch to-morrow?"
"Yes. But chaperoned. I cannot appear in public places like this. Bring Mr. Devenish—he needs brightening up. Good-bye."
She was moving towards the door. Hardman was accompanying her hastily when a waitress interrupted with the bill. By the time he had escaped she was gone.
He stood uncertainly on the pavement for a moment or two. Then one of the many problems in the conversation into which research was not barred occurred to him. He went in search of Devenish for a solution, and found him with all the usual difficulty a stranger experiences in looking for a given undergraduate.
Almost at once he sought an answer to his question.
"Look here," he said, "what's there wrong with Parsons' Pleasure?"
"Too many darned old bores monopolising the space," Devenish answered. "With figures which—"
"I don't mean that. It's like this. I was talking to—to a girl, a woman undergraduate, I mean—and the subject came up. I asked her if she'd ever been there, and she seemed fearfully upset, or amused, or something. What's wrong?"
Devenish almost blushed. As Mary Douglas had said, he was a nice young man.
"Well, you see," he began and stopped. "Well, it's a men's bathing-place. They don't wear costumes."
Hardman's face fell. "Good Lord!" he murmured. "Let's go and have a drink."
IF the regulations of the university had permitted it, there is not the least doubt that Smithers would have changed his rooms. Not that they were uncomfortable; the cooking was good; for the locality they were comparatively reasonable. But Smithers had not been there three weeks before, had he not been bound for a year by a cast-iron agreement stamped and approved by the delegacy of lodgings, he would have packed his bags and sought refuge in some remote suburb.
He had counted himself lucky, on finding them, to have rooms on the first floor, remote enough from the street and, though his subject was theology, not so near to heaven as to make the ascent wearisome. But it was exactly their position which was at fault, combined, it must be admitted, with the dispositions of his fellow lodgers. Oxford, enforcing a strict curfew, with deadly penalties for those who go out after midnight, almost by habit takes precautions about ground-floor windows. No fear of burglars, but a desire to prevent the young from escaping causes the innumerable barred lattices, sometimes extending to the second floor.
Unfortunately for Smithers, they did not in the case of his own rooms. Beneath his window a sloping roof offered a means of ascent not impossible to an active man. Being a bedroom window, it looked, not over the public thoroughfare of Holywell, where police or proctors might lurk, but over a back garden from which access was obtainable, though by devious routes and some trespassing, to reach comparatively secluded streets.
Probably the delegacy of lodgings and proctors, inspecting the house, thought the climb too difficult; possibly they were too engrossed with the drains. The landlady had never dreamed of its existence. She faithfully complied with the regulations, bolted and locked her doors at the appropriate times and, as it were, tucked her charges in bed. But the loophole remained, and Smithers's misfortune was that it was in his bedroom. Also, that it was used not infrequently.
Grant and Jameson were chiefly to blame. Being of naturally active dispositions and bodies, a morning spent yawning at such lectures as could not well be cut, an afternoon at Rugby or cross-country running, and an occasional evening on the river failed to satisfy their energies. Recently they had acquired a taste for such Alpine climbing as Oxford affords, and since the sport is frowned upon by the authorities, it is necessarily practised at night. It was the ambition of both to climb the Martyrs' Memorial and adorn it appropriately, and they were training for it diligently. Smithers's window came in handy. But even Van Weiman had not been blameless. On two or three occasions, visiting compatriots, poker had lured him to hours not approved by the statutes. Smithers's had come in handy then for him, as for the others.
The business roused Smithers to a sort of weak fury. Being a law-abiding man, it worried him that he might be called to account for permitting it. Being studious, he hated such interruptions as six-foot men falling over his washstand; and being a light sleeper, he woke up every time. He had twice protested mildly without effect. The night after Hardman's adventure he was keyed up to drastic action.
He had been working late, conscious of an examination only a few weeks ahead for which he was probably better prepared than ninety per cent of members of the university, but which filled him with terror. His tutor, watching him like a boxer's trainer, urged moderation, and fully intended to send him away for a week before the fatal event; but Smithers worked on. Three o'clock had already struck that night and he was still struggling with a many-syllabled volume on the doctrine of the Fall.
Then it happened. He heard a gentle creak, which he identified as the sound made by his bedroom door when any of the three of them happened to be feeling cautious. Three soft footsteps sounded in the passage outside; then the old woodwork of the stairs creaked treacherously.
Ordinarily, Smithers would not have minded so mild a visitation. He would have continued with the doctrine of the Fall and let it pass; all the more so since, as the offender was evidently coming in, no further interruption might be feared. But his nerves were on edge, and he was desperate. He did not exactly spring to his feet; because the low arm-chair on which he was sitting was ill adapted for it, even without the volume and notebooks on his knees. But he thrust the hindrances aside with amazing carelessness, got up quickly, and wrenched the door open.
There was nothing to see. He remembered the creaking of the stairs. Of course, whoever had entered had gone up or down, but which he did not know. For a moment he hesitated, half of a mind to go back to his chair and leave matters as they stood. Then with a sudden rush of rage he made for the staircase, positively running down two at a time. A light showed under the sitting-room shared by the two principal offenders. Without knocking, he seized the handle and flung it open.
Jameson, who had been standing by the fireplace cleaning a pipe preparatory to lighting up, looked up with a start. Then he recognised his violent visitor and smiled a little pityingly.
"Hullo, Smithy!" he said. "What's up?"
But for half a minute Smithers stood in the middle of the room inarticulate, livid and trembling with fury. When his voice came, it was a kind of screeching shout.
"I won't have it! I won't have it! I've warned you!"
Jameson looked at him in honest amazement. There was something comical about the contrast between the emotion and the normal nature of the man. He could not help it. He burst out laughing.
The laughter was the last straw to Smithers. He dashed at Jameson with his clenched fists, with something as nearly like a roar as his lungs were capable of producing.
"Here, what the devil—?" Jameson put up his hands to ward off the onslaught. He gripped one of his assailant's wrists in a huge hand. "Stop it, you little fool!"
Smithers was quite silent now. For a few seconds he still struggled; then as if exhausted he went limp. Jameson incautiously released his grip, and stood back with an expression of utter bewilderment. In a flash Smithers had stooped for the poker. As he stood up, his eyes were murderous.
Jameson was a student of ju-jitsu. It was suddenly borne upon him that things were really serious. There was something very like madness in Smithers's eyes. He acted promptly, dodged the blow, and Smithers went down with something like fourteen stone on top of him. The poker crashed into the fender.
"Look here, Smithers, what's the matter?"
The smaller man's strength was astonishing. Jameson dimly realised that something was radically wrong; he had no intention of hurting his opponent. For a few minutes it was all he could do to hold him. At last the outburst was exhausted; he lay still, glaring up from the floor.
"Let's have this out sensibly, Smithers," Jameson pleaded. "I don't see how I've annoyed you. If you'll tell me what's the matter—"
"My window! My window! You came in—just now! I heard—"
"Don't be a damned ass!" Jameson broke in. Even a man of mild temper could be excused impatience at an unprovoked attack and an unfounded accusation. He felt annoyed; but still something about Smithers in his present state appalled him. "I didn't come in through your window. If you must know, I've got a damned tutorial to-morrow and look like getting hell at it. The work's on the table—"
"You—or Grant—or Van Weiman! It was one of you. I won't have it. I'll stop it, somehow!"
"Now, Smithers," Jameson reasoned, "if we'd known you felt as badly as this about it, we wouldn't have done it."
"I can't sleep! I can't work—"
"It would be a darned sight better if you didn't. You're a mass of nerves, and if you don't look out, you'll have a cropper."
"But I must—pass—my—examination—" The words came with a dreadful kind of determination which seemed to be drawn from the depths of exhaustion. "Whatever I do—I—must—"
"Wish I was as certain of scraping a third in the Pass School as you are of getting a first... You're going to pass, you know. You can do it on your head..." Jameson, unconsciously, was trying a system of suggestion, a subject of which he had scarcely heard. But at the last words he paused, conscious of a mental reservation... "if you don't go off it." But Smithers was calmer, and Jameson noted the effect of his treatment. "Why, we all know you're a sure first. What does that old—your tutor say?"
"He—he says I am," Smithers said miserably, "but that's just to keep my spirits—"
"If a tutor hands you a bouquet, take it and be grateful. Mine never does... As I say, you're an absolute cert."
Smithers was normal again. Jameson got up and released him, then helped him to his feet.
"There, that's better," he said. "Now, sit down, and tell me all about it."
It was a more or less normal Smithers who blurted out a rambling, incoherent story about work, windows, his dreams and inability to sleep; the absolute necessity for passing the exam; what his father would think— Jameson heard it all with sympathy.
"Now you're all right," he said when the flow of words began to cease. "What you want is a—a good stiff whisky and soda and go to bed—"
"But my work—"
"You won't be fit for work if you don't," Jameson reasoned. "Better waste an hour or two to-night than all to-morrow." He was pouring out the drink as he spoke. "Here, take this. Drink it all. You've got to sleep to-night."
Smithers obeyed. He took a great gulp, coughed and blinked; put the glass resolutely back to his lips and finished it. He looked a little dazedly at Jameson.
"Now you get right to bed..." Jameson urged. "I'll help you upstairs."
He did so, thanking Heaven that the landlady was slightly deaf and slept at the back of the house. Smithers allowed himself to be ushered into the bedroom without protest. Expecting almost immediate effects from the whisky, Jameson dispensed with the formality of undressing him, contenting himself with removing coat, collar and shoes. His patient lay down meekly, and Jameson, with a sigh of relief, returned downstairs.
For himself, in the improbable event of his suffering from overwork, Jameson's remedy might have proved effective. On Smithers its effect was curious. In his normal mind, it would have sent him to sleep in ten minutes. As it was, it seemed to give him a temporary confidence and energy. Jameson's door had hardly closed behind him before he was off the bed, returning to the sitting-room.
He seated himself in the chair, and by force of habit took up his book; but he did not read. He sat brooding vaguely on his grievance. Jameson had said something about telling Grant when he came in. Then Grant must be out. Perhaps Van Weiman too. He would wait for them. He would show them. Then, through senses already dulled, he heard the opening of the bedroom door.
This time he was cunning. He slipped quickly across the room, opened his own door noiselessly and crept along the passage. The bedroom door was open. So was the bedroom window. He crossed the room and looked out. Someone was just dropping from the roof below. The figure was too slight for Grant or Jameson. It must be Van Weiman. He laughed noiselessly. He would wait for them. They did not know what he was capable of. He would wait in the bedroom; then he could not miss them. He laid himself down on the bed, with his eyes fixed on the window. Two stars which were visible seemed to be dancing oddly. He fell asleep.
It was more than Jameson could do. Even though he decided that his tutor's wrath was better than a continuance of any attempt at work, he could not sleep. It seemed a long time later that he heard the door of Grant's room open. He got up and went across to it, blinking in the light.
"Look here, Grant—" he began. "Why, what's the matter?"
Grant's eyes followed the direction of his stare. "What?" he asked. "Oh, that?"
"There's blood on your hands. Anything happened. You hurt?"
"No. But we had a nasty time. A fellow got stuck; the stones were rotten and we were fifty feet or so up from the street. He came a bit of a cropper in the end—hit some spikes. It shook me, rather. Think I shall give up this silly game."
"That's good. In fact, that's what I came about. To-night Smithers came down in an awful state. Actually attacked me—tried to hit me with the poker. He was darned nearly mad. Says our going through got on his nerves... As a matter of fact, he's heading for a real breakdown. I told him it shouldn't happen again, gave him a whisky and put him to bed."
"He attacked you?" Grant asked incredulously.
"First with his fists, then with a poker. I tell you, he nearly scared me. He looked as though he'd like to murder me... You didn't notice him as you came through?"
"No. Suppose he was asleep. I wasn't thinking... But, look here, Jameson, if he's as bad as that, we can't let it go. He might really murder someone—or kill himself. You'd better see his tutor or something. That's the best thing. Then he can make him see a doctor."
"Yes. I suppose I should. I never thought... Anyway, we'll get to bed. Why, it's getting light!"
"I need a drink first. Looks as though you do, too."
The dawn was breaking as they went into the sitting-room. It was scarcely necessary to turn on the electric light. They emptied their glasses without a word. Then Jameson's eyes happened to focus on the headlines of one of the morning papers scattered on the couch. He looked up with startled eyes.
"'Maniac Murderer!'" he read aloud. "You don't think—"
"Don't be an ass. Poor old Smithers never fired a gun in his life. He couldn't pull off that job."
"I suppose not. Good-night."
As the light grew stronger, both were sleeping soundly. Upstairs, Smithers sat up in bed, with the feeling that something was wrong. He looked round the room. Everything was as usual. He put up his hand towards his face. It stopped half-way. With a half-choked gurgle he rolled to the ground.
THE elderly man-of-all-work who assisted in the work of Van Weiman's lodging-house had once been a college servant. He knew, in consequence, the eccentricities of undergraduates; he could judge their dispositions almost to a fraction. His abiding ambition each morning was to get all his charges duly seated at the breakfast-table by half-past eight. Like most ambitions, it fell short of realisation, for a variety of reasons. Generally Van Weiman got out of bed immediately; on rare occasions he would prove obstinate, and then neither pleading nor the aggravation of reiterated knockings could move him. Smithers, even if he had had the heart, would scarcely have dared not to obey the first insistent "Quarter-past seven, sir." Grant and Jameson were variable. Frequently, particularly when in training, they would get up and go round the Parks; but as they generally returned late, this was a doubtful blessing. At other times they would call him rude names and finally give way; occasionally he would see indications which made him leave them alone.
He shook his head at the three glasses on the sitting-room table and measured the whisky in the bottle with an expert eye. In all probability all would go well. He revised the opinion almost instantly at the sight of Jameson's face.
"Quarter-past seven, sir," he said.
Jameson half raised himself in the bed, put his hand to his eyes and yawned.
"Oh, good Lord!" he said, and fell back.
"Not feeling well, sir?" He shook his head reprovingly. "You shouldn't, sir, you really shouldn't. Parties are all very well, but the 'Varsity will need you next season."
"If I'm here next season," Jameson said gloomily. "No, I wasn't celebrating. I was working and—I had a bad night."
"Getting up for breakfast now, sir?"
"No. Oh, yes. Got to... Give me that tea."
Grant was obdurate. He looked, if anything, more dissipated than Jameson, and the servant felt dubious about Jameson's explanation. At Smithers's door he himself hesitated, after peeping into the sitting-room. He himself had recently been worried about Smithers. In the coffee-pot and cup there were the signs of another late sitting. He listened outside the bedroom, came to the conclusion that its occupant was still asleep and with a sigh decided to leave him. At Van Weiman's his luck was equally out. The door was locked—a sure sign that the American would not even listen to him. He descended the stairs sadly.
Jameson's dressing-gowned form met him at the foot.
"How's Mr. Smithers?"
"Mr. Smithers, sir?" The question surprised him. Jameson had never before taken much trouble about this particular inmate of the house. "Well, sir, it looked as if he'd sat up late reading, so I let him sleep on."
"Good idea. He's been overdoing it."
"Yes, sir. I've been worried about Mr. Smithers. He's a hard-working gentleman, sir."
Jameson nodded, but he did not move out of the way.
"I suppose he is all right?" he asked hesitantly. "He's really sleeping—"
"Why, sir—?" The servant was startled.
"Only he looked so bad last night... Couldn't you just peep in and see he's all right? You needn't wake him."
The two flights of stairs in the house needed climbing more times a day than the ex-scout liked; but on the one hand he himself knew the signs of overwork; on the other, Jameson's unusual solicitude impressed him. He disappeared up the staircase, leaving Jameson waiting at the bottom. The door opened. Then Jameson heard his voice, shaken with horror.
"Mr. Jameson! Sir! Oh, Lord above us!"
Shouting "Grant!" Jameson was up the stairs at a bound. The white-faced servant met him at the top.
"He—he's lying on the floor, sir—and—and there's blood—"
"By God, he's done it!" Jameson dashed into the room. "Get a doctor—-quick!"
Smithers lay in a crumpled heap by the foot of the bed. There were spots of blood on the front of the shirt where Jameson had opened the waistcoat the night before; more blood on the right hand. But the first glimpse of the face gave hope. He knelt down. With a flood of relief he heard a faint but detectable breathing; the hands were warm. Raising him in his arms, he laid him on the bed. Grant appeared in the door, blinking. He started forward with an exclamation.
"Grant, he's done it—as you said. Poor devil. He's not dead—"
"But he's bleeding... Where's he wounded? We might stop it. He'll die before the doctor comes—"
Jameson opened the shirt-front and made a careful exploration. It was a minute or so before he looked up with a puzzled expression.
"There isn't a wound," he said. "At least—"
Grant glanced round the room. He bent down and peered under the bed.
"There's not a weapon," he said.
There was a dead silence. Jameson cleared his throat.
"It couldn't be—not suicide, but the other—"
"Why the hell doesn't that fool hurry with the doctor?" Grant broke out with unexpected savageness. "If he's not wounded, he's senseless."
"Should we try water—?" Jameson asked, glancing up from where Smithers lay. He jumped back a full pace, and his hand pointed upwards. "My God! Look!"
Grant's eyes followed to where he pointed. He drew his breath sharply. Right over the centre of the bed, startling against the white plaster, was a great red stain.
"That—that's how he got it!" Grant whispered.
"It—it's Van—!"
Pushing past his friend, Jameson dashed for the stairs. In a few seconds he was pulling at the handle of the locked door.
"Van! Van Weiman! Van—"
Grant had joined him. He threw his weight against the door; but it had been constructed with a view to possible assaults. It was clearly hopeless. He looked round blankly.
"Where's that fool gone?" Grant broke out. "There must be a key—" He broke off, looked at the closed door again, then stretched out his hand towards the stairs. "What—" His voice was hardly more than a whisper. "What are we going to say?"
"About—"
"Smithers—going out. Everything."
Jameson looked his amazement. "There's nothing for it but to tell everything—" he began and broke off. "Listen!"
"The window! Van Weiman! Grant! I'm waiting—"
The queer, high-pitched voice came from below. Grant shivered.
"We're doing no good here. Come on!"
Jameson hurried down, but at the open door he paused. The words were now coming in a perfect stream, apparently mostly connected with theology. He had to force himself to enter.
Smithers lay where they had left him, but his eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, though perhaps they saw nothing. His face was flushed now. His lips moved without pause.
They stood there, not knowing what to do. Then the delirious voice quietened, though the eyes still stared.
Jameson looked from Smithers to the stain on the ceiling and shuddered.
"We—we did this," he said.
"No!" Grant burst out desperately. "It would have happened. He was working himself to death. Something had to go—"
"But perhaps not this way— We'll have to tell everything."
"We—I can't!" Grant's eyes were wild. "You know what it would mean. They'd be bound to send us down—"
"If we don't, he will, when he comes round."
"But supposing—"
He stopped. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. They hurried out.
"Van Weiman!" Jameson called to the servant who followed the frightened landlady and a doctor. "There's blood—coming through. He—he doesn't answer—"
As the landlady screamed, the doctor turned just in time to save her from falling.
"Be quiet!" he snapped. "What's happened? Get a grip on yourself and speak sensibly."
Jameson moistened his lips. "Smithers is mad—or delirious," he said. "We think Van Weiman's been murdered. His door's locked. He doesn't answer."
The doctor assumed charge. "You," he pointed to Jameson, "get the police. You come with me." He turned to the servant. "Is there a key to what's his name's room?"
"Yes—yes, sir."
"Take the lady downstairs and find it." He jerked his head towards Grant. "Come in!"
Grant followed reluctantly. The doctor merely glanced at the blood on the ceiling, pursing his lips into a whistle; then busied himself with the unconscious man. Smithers was not talking now. Grant stood staring out of the window.
"Water! Wet a towel!"
He had no more than obeyed orders when another command came.
"Ring the ambulance. Quickly."
Jameson was in the hall telephoning. At the head of the stairs Grant hesitated. The room where Smithers lay seemed to fascinate him. He was afraid every moment that the dreadful, delirious voice would start again. Jameson had replaced the receiver. He called down to him.
"And an ambulance!"
As Jameson nodded he returned to the room. Temporarily the doctor seemed to have finished with Smithers. He was looking up towards the bloodstained ceiling.
"Not much I can do up there," he said grimly, almost to himself; then, to Grant: "You found him?"
"Not actually. The servant found him—then Jameson. I came when they called."
"He was lying here?"
"On the floor beside the bed. My friend put him there."
"You're lodging here?"
"Yes. I and my friend share rooms below."
"Hear anything in the night? Anything unusual happen?"
Grant moistened his lips. "No," he said with an effort.
"Ah." The syllable might have meant anything. The doctor indicated Smithers. "You knew him? Noticed anything wrong with him lately?"
"He was overworking. His tutor had warned him, I think."
"When did you last see him?"
"Not since before tea." Grant breathed more freely. "I was out until just before ten."
"When did you go to bed?"
"Quite late. I don't know—"
Jameson had rejoined them as he spoke. Grant cast an agonised glance at him.
"I suppose you, like your friend, heard nothing in the night?"
Jameson swallowed hard. He could not look at Grant.
"Nothing," he said.
"You've noticed he was queer? When did you last see him?"
Jameson hesitated. "As a matter of fact, it was quite late to-night. He came down to the sitting-room when I was working. He started to abuse me; then attacked me. I had to hold him until he was quiet. I brought him up to bed."
"He was quiet when you left him?"
"Yes. I'd given him whisky."
The doctor grunted, and looked from one to the other.
"There's been nothing wrong before?"
"No," Grant answered. "But he's been overworking—"
"So you said." He glanced sharply at Grant. "You've hurt your hand."
"Have I?" Grant glanced at it. "No. I expect I must have got it when we lifted him—the blood, I mean."
"Your cheek is scratched." The doctor looked at Jameson, who explored an unshaven face.
"That must have been when we struggled—"
"Where's that servant?" He went to the door and shouted: "Hurry! Bring that key!"
The answer came only faintly. "She's fainted again."
"Never mind. Come up!"
They heard the servant hurrying along the passage. As he began to ascend the stairs the doctor turned and spoke into the room.
"You'd better come with me," he said. "The man can watch him."
He took the key which a trembling hand held out to him, and motioned to the door.
"You wait there," he said. "Call me if anything happens."
He hurried up the stairs while the ex-scout was still hesitating on the threshold. Following a pace or two behind, Grant ventured to whisper:
"I couldn't help it. I couldn't—"
Perhaps the doctor had abnormally sharp ears. He glanced round at them. Then he was at the top.
"Which door? This?"
Jameson nodded. If Smithers's madness, temporary or permanent, was terrible, he dreaded still more what he expected to see inside the room ahead. The latch clicked, and the door yielded. They entered the room.
The doctor's guess had been right. There was no doubt of Van Weiman's death. His throat was literally slit from ear to ear, and the head, sagging over the side of the bed, had a great red patch beneath it.
"Thought so." The doctor spoke almost to himself. "Aorta severed. Couldn't be living with all that blood. Wait there."
He bent down over the bed and busied himself examining the wound and, apparently, taking the temperature.
"Death about three o'clock," he mumbled. Jameson started to speak, and stopped. Heavy footsteps and the sound of voices came to them. "That will be the police. Call them up."
PARTLY to avoid Henwick, Hardman was breakfasting unusually early. In addition, he was filled with a firm determination to put in a good day's work, though at the moment he had not the slightest idea how to set about it. The afternoon and evening after meeting the girl had merely been wasted. There seemed to be no immediate line which he could follow up. It might or might not have been a consolation to him that Osborne and the police had scarcely spent their time more profitably.
He had dealt faithfully with Post Toasties and fish, and no inspiration had come. He was waiting for bacon and eggs when the excited entry of the under porter into the almost deserted dining-room made him glance up. He saw the under porter speak to the chief waiter, who assumed an expression of amazement; then of incredulity. The bringer of tidings nodded his head, and evidently amplified his statement. The head waiter pursed his lips as if to whistle; then glanced across at Hardman. As the door closed behind the porter, he made his way over to Hardman's table.
"Another horrible murder, sir!" he confided. "Young gentleman who did it has gone mad."
"Where? Who was it? When?"
Hardman was on his feet as he spoke.
"Holywell, sir. Don't know the number. The murdered man, I believe, was an American gentleman with a foreign name—"
"Good God!" For an instant Hardman was taken aback. "Not—not—" He broke off.
"I thought you'd like to know, sir."
"Thank Heaven you did... I'll see you later. I say, tell Mr. Henwick, will you?"
Hardman's car was still garaged. He debated for a moment whether it would be quicker to extricate it or not, and then set off at a run towards the Broad Street cab rank. He reached it breathless, but managed to stammer out directions. Evidently the taxi-man had also heard the news.
"You've heard, sir?" he asked. "The ambulance passed a few minutes ago. They've taken him to hospital."
"Him?"
"The mad gentleman, sir. Him that did the killing."
"Did you hear the name?"
"Smith or Smithson or something, I think."
Hardman's eyebrows rose. "Right. Thanks. Let's go."
Police were keeping back the crowd round the doorway, but Hardman's luck was in. Just as he had paid off his taxi, he saw the car which the chief inspector used passing. He signalled, and ran up.
"Not now, for God's sake!" Osborne was worried. "I'll see you later—"
"I've information," Hardman answered. "About this."
"How the devil—? You always have. What is it?"
Hardman glanced round at the onlookers. Osborne nodded with resignation.
"All right. Come in. But you'll have to let me censor you a bit, if you do. I'll be in a row about this yet."
He led Hardman upstairs and opened the door of a sitting-room.
"Now," he said, "spit it out—if you do know anything."
Hardman looked about him. "Smithers's room," he said.
"Been here before?" There was surprise in the chief inspector's voice.
"Not in here. I went to Van Weiman's room on the morning of the murder."
"Then you've been keeping something back? If you'd told us—"
"I've not. You had statements from both of us. You knew as much as I did. As a matter of fact, I've been, as I thought, wasting time on Van Weiman ever since. But it was just a hunch. I somehow couldn't understand the coincidence of two people with red hair like that being there at the time. So I thought I'd look up Van Weiman."
"If you work on those lines, you'll have something to do... But never mind that. What do you know?"
He listened frowningly while Hardman related his discoveries in detail, and at the end was silent for a little while.
"Frankly, I don't see where it gets us," he said at last. "I can't make it out at all. What you've found out is that about a week ago Van Weiman was excited about some idea he got while bathing—probably for a newspaper article; that that evening he complained that someone had been in his rooms, and had opened a letter—and incidentally, he didn't report it either to the police or his landlady; that he was coming up Magdalen Tower as you were coming down, and seemed to be interested in da Valgas. As to that last point, who wouldn't be? But where does it get us?"
"I don't quite see myself," Hardman said, a little crestfallen. "Only, I suppose any curious happenings connected with him just before death may be significant."
"That's so. Or they may be additional complications. What you've said doesn't link up with Smithers; it doesn't explain how the other two are behaving—I'll tell you about that; I can't quite see the connexion with da Valgas."
"It's just possible that the letter or article which Van Weiman sent off had some bearing on the South American situation; that it really is the connecting link."
"Yes. But unless someone sends a reply, or comes forward, it's going to be hard to find where it went or what it contained. And unless he told someone, we can't guess the brilliant idea he had in his bath. How could we?"
"He seems to have been pretty secretive about any of his journalistic work," Hardman said, and it's a sound rule, too."
"Just so. Well, I'm obliged to you for telling me... I'll let you in on this, though I'll possibly get hauled over the coals for it. There are good reasons against encouraging outside help as a general rule, especially from the Press—"
"You should meet Henwick," Hardman murmured. "He holds the same views—from our side!"
"Now, the situation here is this. Smithers, overworking for a long time, has been going to pieces. It may be that he went to pieces and committed both murders; or it may be that waking up and finding the blood on his clothes just settled matters. In favour of the former, there's Jameson's evidence. Smithers, he says, threatened to kill him. Against it—" He paused and looked at Hardman.
"The method of the first crime. Madness wouldn't make Smithers a first-class shot; it wouldn't give him a rifle; I doubt if it would make him plan a crime like that."
"It wouldn't give him that rifle. It's a real killer's weapon, a sort of long-range substitute for the sawn-off shotgun, as good as an ordinary rifle, and easier to conceal. And there's another thing. The way Van Weiman was killed was highly professional. It's not so easy to cut a man's throat as it sounds. This man had practised."
Hardman rubbed his bruised head thoughtfully. "There wasn't anything so amateurish about my little affair, either," he said.
"Exactly. So, we're faced with one or more killers who know how to kill—"
"By the way, I've just remembered. One of those two, either Jameson or Grant, is in the O.T.C. and a good shot."
"That's interesting... Oh, about them. Luckily it was the police doctor they got. He questioned them a bit while they were waiting. The manner of each of them was distinctly curious; it's very doubtful if their stories tally. I'm going to put them through it. Now, we'd better get busy."
"Any theory of the crime?" Hardman murmured.
Osborne snorted contemptuously.
"For newspaper purposes, you can say we're looking for a maniac killer with a prejudice against red-haired men. All red-heads are warned to be on their guard—"
"You don't mean that?"
"It can't do any harm. You see, it might be true, though it's not what I think myself. Or make it Americans if you like, and stir up the Rhodes Scholars."
"Yet another theory—" Hardman began, but Osborne broke in.
"Keep it. I want to see Jameson and Grant." He hesitated. "You can stay—not that you ought to, but in this case you're lucky. You won't use it. Jameson came first. As Osborne touched a bell, a plain-clothes detective ushered him in, and seating himself unobtrusively in a corner, produced a notebook and pencil. The chief inspector motioned his victim to a chair.
"Now, Mr. Jameson," he said persuasively, "I believe you've already made a statement of sorts. But I'd just like you to go over it again, giving as many details as you can."
Jameson glanced at the shorthand-writer.
"Oughtn't I to be warned or something?" he asked with a slight smile. "I might incriminate myself—"
"There's no question of a charge yet," Osborne snapped a little impatiently, "but you can consider yourself warned, sir, if you like... Now, we'll go back a little. How long have you known Mr. Smithers?"
"The best part of a year. Since we all came out of college to live here."
"And Mr. Van Weiman?"
"The same. Mr. Grant I've known ever since we came up—nearly three years ago."
"You were on friendly terms with them?"
"With Mr. Van Weiman, certainly. With Smithers..." He hesitated. "We were too different to be friendly. He disapproved of me; I thought him a bit of an ass. But we got along."
"Before last night, you had no disagreements?"
"No quarrels, He'd protested once or twice when—"
"When—?"
"When we made a noise."
"We—that includes?"
"All three of us. You see, the position was very much the same with all of us."
Osborne thought for a moment. "What was your view of Mr. Van Weiman?"
"I liked him. Most people did. He was clever, and a good chap as well—though, like most Americans, he'd seen a bit more of the world. They come here older—"
"Yes. And Mr. Smithers?"
"He's a type I couldn't ever understand. A brilliant scholar—I've been told. But I've no taste for theology. And I can't understand a man stewing over books all the time."
"I see. Now, last night—what happened?"
"I hadn't seen Smithers or Van Weiman since lunch. I was out to tea; but I came back early and missed college dinner because I wanted to work." Perhaps he noted a faintly perceptible movement of Osborne's eyebrows, and guessed that the inspector had noted this desire as unusual. "You see," he explained, "it's pretty serious with me just now. If I don't do a bit better than I've been doing, it's pretty certain I'll be rusticated, if not sent down. So I'm making a bit of an effort. I particularly want to be up next year—"
"To get your degree?"
"Well, no," Jameson admitted. "I was hoping for a Blue!"
Osborne suppressed a smile. "Yes," he assented. "You came home early to work."
"Well—I worked. I stopped for a bit about nine o'clock to eat some sandwiches, and made some coffee at about two. Otherwise I stuck to it pretty solidly—though it was heavy going."
"What time did Mr. Grant come in?"
Jameson's hesitation was palpable. "I—I don't know. I don't think I noticed."
"But you share a sitting-room. He didn't come into the sitting-room, then?"
"No. He couldn't have done," Jameson admitted. "But he might have gone straight to bed," he added. "If he—wasn't well."
"I see. That would be before ten o'clock?"
"The door's locked then."
"Yes. When did Mr. Smithers come down?"
"At just on three o'clock. I'd heard the clock strike and was thinking of giving up. He came in in a fury and accused me of—of making a noise outside his door. I laughed. I'd not been near it. He attacked me, first with his fists, and then with the poker. It was a silly business. He'd no chance—" Osborne smiled as he looked over the large athletic figure before him. "But he was dotty. I got him round at last, and he babbled a lot about not sleeping, and failing his exams, and so on. I gave him some whisky and put him to bed—as—as we found him. I tried to work a bit longer, but gave it up and went to bed. It was pretty late before I got to sleep. But I heard nothing more."
"You didn't see Mr. Grant at all that night?"
"Why—yes. I thought I'd better mention—about noises. The poor devil was so upset."
"So?"
"I—I went—and woke him up—and told him."
"In his bedroom?"
Jameson was plainly uncomfortable. "Yes," he said. "We came here for a drink. Then we both went to bed. This morning, the servant called me—I called Grant—and, well, you know!"
Osborne waited for a moment, apparently reading over some notes on the table before him. Jameson was on tenterhooks.
"Thank you, Mr. Jameson," Osborne said. "That's all—for the moment."
The young man's relief was palpable. Osborne pressed the bell again as he went out.
"A poor liar!" he murmured. "And a darned bad yarn—"
Grant's entrance interrupted him. Hardman had liked Jameson; with his large muscles, good nature, and comparative lack of brain. He was less favourably impressed by the new arrival. Grant was, intellectually, a cleverer type, but he seemed to lack something of Jameson's sturdiness of character, though scarcely less heavily built. He sat down.
"You've made a statement, Mr. Grant." Osborne glanced at another sheet of paper. "There are just one or two points. When did you come in last night?"
"Not long before ten."
"And then?"
"Well—I went to bed."
"Did you go into the sitting-room?"
"I—I don't think so. I hardly remember."
"Now, surely, sir," Osborne said suavely. "It was only last night—"
"No. I didn't."
Osborne said nothing more for a moment. He looked at the other pad of notes.
"I see," he said very dryly. "And then?"
"Well, I was tired. I went to sleep."
"Your room's next door to this. You heard no sound of a struggle?"
"No. I should have come in."
"But you saw Mr. Jameson later that night?"
"Why—yes. I woke up—pretty early. I came in here for a drink. He was still up. He told me about it. I advised him to see Smithers's tutor. We went to bed. This morning—"
Osborne raised a hand. "Thank you, Mr. Grant. That is—more than sufficient, for the present."
Grant rose to his feet, hesitated, and went towards the door. Osborne looked at Hardman grimly as he disappeared.
"Which," he asked, "is the worse liar?"
"It's all lies from beginning to end," Hardman decided. "But I thought Jameson might be lying to shield Grant. Grant—well, he's really afraid of something."
"Yes. That's what I thought myself. Now, what had he been doing, do you think? Had he deliberately been provoking Smithers? Had he been out of the house that night, and come in—through Smithers's window—"
"Smithers's window?"
"Yes. There are signs it was used pretty regularly. I don't know by which of them. Probably not Smithers. If he was out, what was he doing?"
"Why shouldn't Jameson have been out?"
"Jameson knew his movements, except in relation to Grant. He'd have chosen a more plausible excuse than work... I think that's all for the moment. Here—" He handed over some typewritten sheets. "That's the Press stuff. I shall see them in half an hour. If you depart from it much, would you ask me?"
Hardman nodded reluctantly and rose to go. He stopped at the door.
"The window?" he asked. "An outside murderer?"
"Don't say it was used regularly, please. Hint it was possible."
After Hardman had gone, Osborne lit his pipe and settled himself down to a pile of various reports. He had been scowling over them for about half an hour when a knock sounded at the door. The plain-clothes man entered.
"Mr. Jameson and Mr. Grant would like to see you, sir."
Osborne nodded. The two young men entered, both evidently more than a little scared. Jameson constituted himself spokesman.
"We didn't exactly say everything just now, sir," he said bluntly. "We'd—like to tell the truth."
"Sit down," said Osborne. "Well?"
THE report which Hardman had sent off, though much censored by Osborne, had won even the grudging approval of Henwick; but he was not feeling happy as he retraced his steps to the hotel. Absurdly, he felt himself responsible for the death of Van Weiman; and at the same time he felt full of pity for the girl. He was to have lunched with her; that was now obviously impossible, but he could not simply abandon her. After some thought, not without trepidation, he rang up her college. A woman's voice answered him.
"Miss Douglas?" The voice at the other end of the line hardened. "Who is speaking, please?"
"Philip Hardman. She was to have lunched with me."
"Hold the line, please. I'll inquire."
It seemed a long time afterwards that a familiar voice came to him.
"Mr.—Mr. Hardman. Is that you?"
"Yes. I wondered—I suppose you'd hardly care to lunch now? Of course, I'd love you to, but—"
"No." The negative was final. "I couldn't do that. But—" She broke off and there was a brief silence. "I'd like to talk to someone," she said almost fiercely. "I've got to say— It was my fault!"
"It wasn't!" Hardman denied stoutly. "As a matter of fact, I can tell you in confidence that Osborne is inclined to discount the theory of the letter's having had anything to do with it. I believe he's after someone else altogether—even if it wasn't Smithers. But could I meet you?"
There was a pause. "After lunch," she said at last. "At about half-past two. Should we say the Parks gate?"
Misgivings about the chivalry of his own colleagues assailed Hardman. It was quite possible that the Press was on the look out for one of the few close relatives available of the murdered man. She must not be bothered.
"Better let me bring my car," he suggested. "You might be bothered. Isn't there a back way out? I'll be there at two-thirty, if you can manage it."
She was evidently thinking it over. "Yes," she said at last. "That would be best... Don't worry. I'm quite all right. Only sorry, and feeling rather a fool!"
"You mustn't—" he began.
"Two-thirty, at the back gate. Good-bye."
Almost before he had had time to answer the receiver was replaced; but he left the telephone box with a lighter heart. Then, right opposite to him in the lobby of the hotel, he noticed someone standing with his back towards him. There seemed something curiously familiar about the head with its short black hair, but he could not place it. As he advanced, the man turned and recognition came. It was Revel.
The recognition was mutual. Revel advanced towards him.
"I don't know if you remember me," he said. "I met you with Mar—with Miss Douglas the other day. My name's Revel."
"Of course." In spite of himself Hardman failed to make the words sound very cordial. "Yesterday—in Holywell," he added, in the hope of making them sound better.
"Yes. I took the liberty of looking you up. You see, I saw you go into the house with the chief inspector this morning. You seem to be in with the police. I'd like you to advise me."
"By all means. Better not talk here." Hardman looked round. One side of the lounge was deserted, and he led the way towards it. "You'll drink?" he asked as they sat down.
"Sherry, please."
Hardman motioned to the waiter. Not until they had sipped their drinks did Revel broach the subject again.
"It's a terrible business," he said. "I'm not thinking of Van Weiman so much—I hardly knew him—though that's bad enough. There's Mary Douglas. She's bound to feel it... I 'phoned her to-day, but they couldn't put me through. Wouldn't is probably more accurate. Perhaps you don't know these women's colleges."
Hardman nodded; but he felt a slight, if unreasonable, elation. At their last meeting he had been laughed at in Revel's presence. Now, the girl would speak to him, but not to Revel.
"The newspaper theory seems to be that he was murdered by that man who went mad," Revel said after a pause.
"Yes, that's the theory," Hardman agreed.
"But you don't believe it," Revel rejoined quickly. "I don't believe the police do, either."
Hardman had made up his mind to say as little and hear as much as possible. "Well, it's much too soon to say yet, I think," he said. "It's possible that Smithers might have killed Van Weiman; it's not likely he killed da Valgas. And it looks as though the two go together."
"Yes. That is puzzling. You were attacked yourself, I think?"
"Under dramatic circumstances." Hardman smiled. "But I was lucky—or else he wasn't trying to kill me."
"And you'd no idea who attacked you?"
"Not the slightest."
"Well, you can scarcely imagine it was Smithers, poor little beast." There was almost as much contempt as sympathy in his tone. I think it was someone a bit more dangerous—though not much farther away."
He stopped, playing with his sherry glass and frowning at the table. There was a considerable silence.
"You were going to tell me something," Hardman said at last.
"It's difficult. One doesn't like telling tales... And it may have nothing to do with it at all. On the other hand, it may."
He stopped again. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind and this time Hardman left him to it. He looked up abruptly.
"You know Grant?" he asked.
"I saw him this morning."
"What did you make of him? Oh, I suppose he's a good enough fellow in some ways, but there's one side of his nature that doesn't appeal to me. He—he's rather a womaniser."
"I imagine he's not alone in that," Hardman answered. He could have understood the objection coming from Devenish, but the man beside him seemed to be made on very different lines. The explanation flashed upon him. At some time, perhaps, Grant had made advances of some sort to Mary Douglas. Revel was jealous, and he himself was conscious of an answering spark. But he only laughed. "But he'll get over that—if he doesn't get into a mess first."
"Still, there are limits." Revel frowned at his glass. "And Van Weiman thought so. I happen to know that he interfered."
Hardman leaned forward. "You're sure?"
"Should I say so in a matter like this if I wasn't?" Revel rejoined irritably. "As a matter of fact, Grant told me himself!"
"Told you?"
"Yes. It's hardly complimentary, but I suppose he thought I was a kindred spirit. He told me the whole story—when he was a bit tight one evening. Quite a decent girl in East Oxford, engaged to a working man. He seemed to turn her head. I don't know just what Van Weiman did. Threatened to report it, perhaps. At least, it seemed to work. Grant was choked off. The girl is married now, I think."
Hardman felt a little dubious. "You don't know her name?"
For answer, Revel felt in his pocket and produced a slip of paper. He handed it over.
"I found it out some time ago, and wrote it down," he said. "I don't know where she lives, now she's married."
"You found it out?" Hardman asked. "Why?"
"That's my business." Revel looked at him forbiddingly, but Hardman made a guess at the answer. "That's it, if it's any use. Of course, I don't know whether Grant could have done it or not. But he had the motive."
"Thought that they were all friends? Wouldn't Jameson know?"
"Would you tell Jameson a thing like that? No, I'm inclined to think some of Grant's little Alpine climbing expeditions had a different interpretation than Jameson gave them."
Hardman nodded. If what Revel said was true, it would certainly provide a motive of sorts. Perhaps, actually, Van Weiman had threatened Grant again. But there was still the murder of da Valgas to be accounted for. Then in a flash it came to him. He half rose to his feet in his eagerness; then seated himself again.
"You didn't know Van Weiman well?"
"Only spoke to him once in my life. I've seen him about, of course. But we moved in rather different circles. He was too much the popular American to suit me."
"Aren't you American yourself?" Hardman asked.
"How did you know?" Revel's eyebrows rose. In fact, if he had not been told, Hardman would not have guessed. "In a manner of speaking," Revel smiled, "you may say that I am. But I am not particularly attached to the country. Indeed, I never wish to see it again."
"You didn't know da Valgas?"
"He's rather above my head. I don't say that social distinctions necessarily count all that in Oxford, but—well, when it comes to sons of reigning kings and presidents—" He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders in an expressive way which was certainly not English. Only occasionally, Hardman seemed to detect more in a gesture than in language that he was of a different country; but that country did not seem to be America. "If you're trying to connect me with da Valgas's murder," he continued jokingly, "I defy anyone to find a reason why I should murder him."
"No," Hardman answered more slowly than might have seemed necessary. "I'm sure there was no reason... But about this story of Grant. How did he take Van Weiman's interference?"
"At the time, very badly. He was really violent against him. But then it all seemed to die down. So, after all, there may be nothing in it—unless something happened to bring it up again."
He stretched out his hand for his glass and finished his sherry.
"Well," he said, "that's what I thought I'd better tell someone. And the question is what I ought to do, knowing that. I suppose, strictly speaking, I should go to the police. But it's a business which doesn't much appeal to me—too much like informing. And I can't confirm most of it. So I thought that if I told you—"
"I could confirm it and tell them instead? Well, perhaps." Hardman frowned. "But I suppose you would come forward if the worst came to the worst?"
"Of course. But I'm far from eager." Revel glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, I've done what I meant to do. You'll tackle it?"
"Yes. I shall certainly look into things in the light of what you've told me."
"Then I've satisfied my conscience—for the moment. And I'd arranged to meet someone—"
Hardman was very thoughtful as he took leave of his visitor. Failing any other confidant, he went in search of Henwick, whom he eventually ran to earth in the snack bar, making up for a ruined breakfast. He lured him away to a secluded corner, and told him the latest development. Henwick listened and ate at the same time without comment. As Hardman finished, he grinned.
"You've landed yourself a sweet job," he said. "I don't expect you know just how lovely it is. You've got the girl's former name and address. Well and good. But who do you think you are going to get the story from? Not the girl, of course. She will be only too eager not to have an old scandal raked up. And not her parents. And, obviously, not Grant. Then who? It'll be a question of digging out little bits by degrees and then tackling one of them with the complete story. Oh, it's a grand job—and you'll be lucky if you don't get a punch on the nose in the process of doing it!"
"I hadn't thought of it like that," Hardman admitted.
"But that's how it is. And when all is said and done, its value from a newspaper point of view is not so good."
"Not so good?" Hardman asked. "Why, it supplies an obvious motive—"
"It's still not so good... Supposing you find a good reason why someone should have committed a crime—and print it! If the man isn't guilty, he'll probably get you for libel; if he is, you may get ticked off—at the least—for prejudicing the case."
"That hadn't occurred to me, I must say," Hardman admitted.
"Perhaps not. But you see, we can't very well say 'The most likely man to have committed this murder is So-and-so, because he had a good reason.' It's always better for us to stick to comparatively material things. Now, if you could find out where that gun came from—or where the knife is and who owned it—or what happened to the door key—"
"Then, you'd do nothing about it?"
"I should have listened to Revel, and then sent him to Osborne—or rung up Osborne myself. Probably that's the easiest."
"There are reasons why I don't want to do that," Hardman said slowly. "And I think they're good ones, but I'm not going to tell you what they are just yet. I suppose there's nothing for it but for me to try and find out the truth myself."
Henwick sighed. "And I shall probably find myself short of a colleague very soon," he said. "Unless your head's as tough as it seems to be... If you insist on its being done, let me do it. Perhaps I can worm it out of someone without beating of drums or flourish of trumpets. If not, take my advice and leave it alone—or go to the police."
"That's really good of you," said Hardman gratefully. "I know that I'm a fool at a lot of this work, and I probably should make a mess of it... Knowing your views on reporters doing police work—"
"Oh, that's all right. You seem to be so well in with Osborne, and so damn lucky that we can pretty well rely on having a bit more than anyone else—and something interesting if there is anything. If you think you can employ your time more usefully—"
"But you're doing everything—"
"So much the better. As you're only an amateur at this business, it doesn't matter what Jerrold thinks of you; the brighter I show myself the better. Only, for Heaven's sake try and scare up a nice little story for to-night."
"I'll do my best... Well, thanks awfully."
After Henwick had gone, Hardman sat for some time trying to sort out the various ideas in his mind. Quite apart from the revelation about Grant, his conversation with Revel had given him a sudden illumination which removed many of the difficulties, and altered the whole position of affairs. He took out his pencil and felt for his notebook with a view to jotting down a few odd facts. It was not there. He remembered it had been left in his bedroom. But his fingers encountered a piece of paper and he drew it out. It was the blotting-paper he had taken from Van Weiman's desk.
THE chief inspector listened patiently to a revised version, mostly contributed by Jameson, of what had actually happened on the night of Van Weiman's death. Even then, it seemed to him, it was Jameson who was insisting on the full truth being told, and Grant who tried to gloss over certain awkward aspects. But Jameson's native honesty declined to lend itself to a deception; and Grant had discovered, by talking to Jameson, that the deception was doomed to failure.
"I see," Osborne said as they finished, "and, of course, you didn't say all this before because, in the first place, the university authorities would be bound to take action about the persistent going out at night—"
"It wasn't exactly persistent," Jameson intervened. "We probably went out three or four times a term—"
"And you?" Osborne looked at Grant.
"Oh, I suppose about the same."
"And just that sent Smithers off his head? Unless, of course, Van Weiman had been going out regularly. However, we shall probably have Smithers's evidence on that—eventually."
"Then he'll recover?" Jameson asked eagerly.
"In all probability. A breakdown of that kind needn't be permanent."
There was a slight pause. "In any case," Jameson said slowly, "I doubt if Smithers knew a lot of the time. Unless one had the bad luck to fall over the washstand, or something—as I did once—he didn't wake up until the door closed. It was beastly noisy."
"You agree?" Osborne looked at Grant.
"Yes, I suppose so. But, as you say, you'll have his evidence on that."
Osborne played with his pencil. "Well," he said after a judicial pause, "I need hardly say that you've done wisely in telling me this—instead of that very badly constructed tissue of lies which I heard before."
Jameson flushed. Grant showed no sign, but his eyes were fixed on the chief inspector's face.
"That," Osborne continued cruelly, "was obvious nonsense wherever one tested it. I could have caught you out in a dozen other ways."
"On the whole, what you've told me rings true." He paused again. "But Mr. Grant can help us out in one or two ways."
"I could?" Grant seemed rather taken aback. "But how?"
"Why, so far as Mr. Jameson's revised story is concerned," Osborne said slowly, "until Mr. Smithers recovers, we have to take it mainly on trust. He appears to have seen no one before Mr. Smithers came down at three o'clock; and then no one until you came in—at a very much later hour, so far as he was concerned—"
"I don't understand you." Grant had whitened a little.
"It's obvious. Someone coming in was the cause of Smithers going downstairs at all—unless he imagined it. It wasn't you?"
"It certainly wasn't," Grant said emphatically.
"I just thought that you might have come in then and, say, have gone straight to your bedroom," said Osborne suavely. "You're sure you didn't?"
"If you mean—" Grant burst out, and stopped.
"I mean nothing. You're sure it wasn't you? Good. Then it may have been Mr. Van Weiman."
"Van Weiman told me he'd be in all evening," Jameson objected.
"He may have changed his mind... However, that was one point. The other is that, while Mr. Jameson's story can only be corroborated by you and Mr. Smithers, your own can be confirmed by the people you were with. Or did you do your tower-climbing by yourself?"
Grant did not answer at once. Jameson plunged in.
"Why, of course he didn't," he plunged. "Who would, in the ordinary way? It takes a party to make that sort of thing fun. Besides, you remember you told me that someone had fallen, when I asked about the blood on your hands—"
Grant gave a quick look at him which was not entirely benevolent.
"The doctor also noted the blood," Osborne intervened. "I imagine that you were too tired to wash it off... However, that is, at the moment, a detail. The crux of the matter is, can you give me the names of the people who were with you, who might bear out your story?"
"If you mean that you don't believe me—" Grant said angrily.
"You haven't given me any special reason why I should. Still, this is a simple matter. It's obviously a policeman's duty to obtain corroborative evidence whenever possible. Can you tell me who you were with? And who was injured?"
Grant stared at the floor. "No," he said at last. "I can't."
"But, why not?" Osborne asked softly. "If it's any mistaken sense of loyalty, or fear of getting someone into trouble, I'll promise you that the names shall not be revealed to the university authorities except in a last resort. And even then, I will do my best to persuade them to take no action."
Grant remained silent.
"Presumably you knew who they were," Osborne continued. "Presumably they knew who you were—"
Grant interrupted. "No," he said. "I didn't know them, Never seen them before. Couldn't tell their faces... You see, it was like this. I'd decided to go out for a little climb by myself, as Jameson wouldn't come—"
"You'd done that before?" Osborne asked.
"Why, of course he had!" Jameson answered while Grant still hesitated. "He was far more keen on it than I was, weren't you, Grant?"
"Yes, I'd done it before." Grant ignored Jameson.
"Well, we'll let that pass. You were explaining, I think, why you didn't know the people you were climbing with."
Grant moistened his lips. "As Jameson says, I was keener on it than he was. Perhaps you can't understand it, but there's a fascination about doing something dangerous and forbidden, especially in a place like this, where they look after us as though we were a lot of bally school-kids... After all, lots of men at our age are married and supporting wives and families, but they tuck us up—" He pulled himself up abruptly. "Climbing about the buildings is forbidden—that was one of its attractions. If the authorities treat us like children, they must expect us to behave like children."
"I see," Osborne said sympathetically. He had been listening with interest, with his eyes on Grant's face. "Though, actually, climbing about other people's property isn't really encouraged even for unquestionable adults outside the precincts of Oxford. If, for example, I saw a centenarian climbing Westminster Tower, I should most certainly pinch him—if he wasn't too high up. All the same, I see your point of view. Forbidden fruit, eh?"
"Partly," Grant assented. "But there's a fascination, too, simply because it's dangerous and difficult..."
He stopped. Osborne waited for him to go on, but he did not.
"We're wandering from the point," Osborne said at last. "You were explaining, I think, just how it happened that you didn't know who was with you."
"Yes. I'm keen on climbing. I don't care whether I do it alone, or with other people. I set out that night to climb the wall of Exeter College hall—"
"Could one climb a bare face like that?"
"Oh yes. It's been done. But, as a matter of fact, as I was dodging across by the Sheldonian, I saw someone on the wall there—"
"I should say that the Oxford Preservation Trust was absolutely necessary," Osborne murmured expressionlessly. "Yes."
"There were two of them. One was all right, but the other had got into a sort of half-and-half position, and couldn't get up or down—"
"Of course," Jameson said helpfully. "Just as it was that night the term before last."
"I suppose that kind of thing often happens," Osborne said innocently. "What was the result in this case?"
"I and the other man managed to help him most of the way down. Then he slipped. He ripped his hand on the spiked railings and it bled a good deal, but it wasn't serious—"
"Just a minute. I'd like it quite clear. Which railings are there near enough to the Sheldonian for him to fall on?"
"It—it wasn't the Sheldonian," Grant said. "It was the—the Old Ashmolean Museum."
"Of course. That's near there, isn't it? Next door, in fact. What happened then?"
"All that took a good deal of time—and then we had to tie his hand up. And he was a bit faint, so we had to wait longer still. Then his friend helped him home, and I came back here."
"And, of course, it was getting light then," Osborne said. "But it wouldn't be the natural route to take, would it? Past the Sheldonian?"
"No. I thought I saw someone moving the other way. You see, as we're not supposed to be out after midnight, you've always got to be ready to dodge policemen or progs—"
"It must be grand training for a criminal career." The chief inspector's smile robbed the words of offence. "However, what you've told me simplifies things enormously, Mr. Grant. We've only got to advertise for these two men, say, through the medium of a little paragraph in the Press, and I've no doubt that they'll come forward."
Grant opened his lips to speak, but did not. Osborne looked from one to the other.
"That's all, I imagine, isn't it?" he asked. "I'm glad you came to me."
Jameson, at least, was looking greatly relieved as they went out. Osborne was not sure that Grant was equally care-free. He went in search of Vincent, and on the way encountered the superintendent.
"Oh, by the way, I think it would be a good idea if we had Mr. Grant followed," he said. "He told me a story—in all senses of the word; not to say that he told me the tale. I don't mean he's the murderer, but there's something wrong. Listen."
The superintendent frowned a little as Osborne finished his recapitulation of Grant's exploits.
"I don't see anything essentially improbable," he said. "Undergraduates do things like that—out of devilment."
"Yes. But, observe!" Osborne emphasised the points with his finger. "Jameson and I both had to help him out. Or rather, Jameson succeeded in giving the game away most of the time! With the best of intentions. Grant might have stuck to it that he'd been climbing alone. But he'd already told Jameson he wasn't, and Jameson blurted it out, so Grant had to find someone to climb with. Only, of course, he couldn't give names, because we should have gone and asked them."
"You mean that he invented it?"
"I do! So I asked him if he didn't know whom he was with. He said he didn't, and proceeded to give a comparatively circumstantial account of why that came about. At this point, I think, he did what would have been a wise thing—but for Jameson. He simply transferred something which had happened two terms ago to last night. He was much less likely to make errors. But Jameson, hoping to corroborate, produced that incident. Grant must have felt like murdering him; because the odds against that happening twice must be enormous... I very much doubt his time-table; I doubt even more that he should prefer to go the Sheldonian way, where there's about twice as much danger of being seen. And the idea of advertising for the men didn't appeal in the least."
"We could do that, anyway."
"We could. It will keep the Press amused. But I'd bet you a month's pay they won't come forward. Because, like Mrs. Harris, there ain't no such persons."
He paused for a moment to search for his pipe.
"One other thing struck me about that little interview," he said thoughtfully. "Grant is the kind of person who ought never to go to the university at all. He's a real instinct for being completely grown up, instead of in a stage of extended adolescence. He'd have done better to be pushed out to earn his living at fifteen, when his desire for adventure would either have had scope or have died a natural death. And, in some ways, it's just that type of mind we're looking for."
"You really think—"
"There are plenty of suspicious circumstances. If Grant can't be in bed, where he ought to have been, it's far better that he should have been out of the house altogether—at any risk. That is, assuming that he's guilty. Suppose that it really was he whom Smithers heard come in. Where was he all the time before Jameson saw him? Was he upstairs murdering Van Weiman? And was that where the blood on his hands came from?"
"It looks pretty black."
"It does... On the other hand, if it wasn't Grant who came in then, was it a murderer from outside—or are we to suppose Smithers staged the whole thing—to clear himself. Those are a few little questions. Summed up, it comes to this. Grant has the kind of nature which might have made him do the murder on Magdalen Tower—the desire to do something forbidden and difficult. Also, I'd take my oath he's ruthless and cold-blooded enough. Unlike most undergraduates, he could, and did, get out of his lodgings as he wished; so he could have knocked out Hardman. And, when it comes to Van Weiman's death, he can't prove that he hadn't the opportunity; he has lied on every possible point; he'd blood on his hands—"
"But the motive?"
"Mightn't Van Weiman have seen something in connexion with the Magdalen Tower murder which made his removal necessary? I don't say that that was it, but it's a plausible explanation... And now, if you'll excuse me, there are one or two other things I'd like to look into."
He made his way to the small garden at the back of the house where Vincent and a squad of other detectives were engaged in searching every possible inch of space where even the smallest object could be concealed. Vincent hurried towards him.
"We've found the key, sir," he said. "It was lying just as though it had been pitched out of the window, among the Michaelmas daisy plants there—It didn't look as though there'd been any attempt to hide it."
"Why should there be? If he'd had any sense, he'd have left it, say, in Smithers's room. He only locked the door to gain time in case of such accidents as one of the other men paying a midnight call. It was sensible to leave it where it would look as if it had been thrown out of the window. And, in fact, it may have been."
"There are no tracks," Vincent said gloomily. "Everyone seems to have kept to the flagged path."
"But that, in itself, might be evidence of a sort—"
A cry from one of the constables at the far end of the garden near the wall interrupted him. He was pointing to a small hole which had been scooped in the surface of one of the flower-beds.
"I thought that plant looked a bit sick, sir," he said triumphantly. "So I just took it up—"
Osborne nodded approval. Bending down, he gingerly drew from soft earth a long, thin knife, and held it out for inspection.
"What do you make of that, Vincent?" he asked.
"Almost certainly the weapon, sir," Vincent responded. "It's a foreign make, I should say. Italian probably."
"Yes." Osborne looked at it thoughtfully. "Italian. Or Spanish."
The Blotting-Pad
IT seemed incredible to Hardman that, even in the excitement of the past two days, he could so completely have forgotten the existence of the paper. But at the time when he had purloined it, he had considered it of very little importance, and afterwards, between the promise exacted from him by Mary Douglas and the practical certainty that Van Weiman could not have murdered da Valgas, he had virtually put it out of his mind as being of no real value for the solution of the problem. Now, looking at it in the light of the knowledge which he had since acquired, he found a very different significance in it. It was at least possible that the death of the American had some connection with the opened letter; and it was possible, though not very probable, that the blotting-paper in his hand might give some clues to what that letter had contained.
He spread it out carefully on the table and looked at it. The reversal of the writing complicated matters, and this time he had no mirror available, but he stuck to his task faithfully. There were any number of small pieces of letters and minor blots which an expert might or might not be able to interpret; but apart from those which he had at first distinguished he could find no complete words. The search was made more difficult by the fact that several sheets had evidently been blotted in succession, and here and there it was impossible to disentangle the superimpositions, even where the stains might otherwise have been legible. Finding another scrap of paper in his pocket, he set himself to scribble down, in some kind of order, everything which he could distinguish. After half an hour's work he sat back and frowned at the result.
"Group I. Two lines only, at a different angle from any of the rest. Query, part of the envelope's address? '... sing... ota.'
"Group II. Seems to be the most obscured, and consequently perhaps page one. 'zing... uck... Lorelei... taken a powder... overed... Eur...'
"Group III. ? Next page. '... urs... sons... bath... strawberry... igh.'
"Group IV. ? Last page. 'noth... all... so... able... you. W. Van W..."
He studied the nonsense which had resulted attentively, but without much enlightenment. It was the first group which at last revealed a part of its secret. Almost certainly, from its placing on the sheet, it had been the address, and as he looked at it he remembered the inscriptions in the books belonging to Van Weiman which he had examined when he paid his unauthorised visit. The letters "ota" presumably ended the place name "Minnesota"; the group above concluding the man's name.
So far, so good. But it was not unlikely that Van Weiman should be writing to Minnesota; in all probability an innocuous letter to his family. In the next group, "zing... uck" were easy. They must almost certainly stand for "amazing luck." Then came "Lorelei"—and what was more natural than that a student of languages should refer to a poem by Heine? He gave up "overed"; there were too many possibilities which might make sense. But "Eur," unless Van Weiman had gone classical, could scarcely refer to anything but Europe or Eurasian.
He could do little to improve either of the last two groups; he guessed at either "high" or "thigh" for the last word of the former, and at "nothing at all" in the latter; but beyond that he could not go. He wrote out the result in full, but it was not encouraging.
He was far from enlightened when he finally put the paper away. With his hand still in his pocket he hesitated. It might, at least, be an important piece of evidence leading towards the unravelling of the mysterious deaths, and one which perhaps handwriting and other experts might be able to understand to a greater extent than he himself had done. It was not the desire to outshine the police, and Osborne in particular, which made him doubtful about handing it over immediately; it was rather the thought of Mary Douglas, and what action she would wish. He compromised with his conscience by assuring himself that he could at least wait until after their meeting that afternoon. Lacking a confidant of some sort, he went in search of Devenish, and eventually ran him to earth at the Union. He listened with a sort of horrified eagerness to what Hardman had to tell him, which was some way from being the whole of the truth.
"Terrible, isn't it?" he commented. "Poor Smithers!"
"It may not be as bad as you think," Hardman consoled him. "You see, even though there's some evidence against Smithers so far as killing Van Weiman goes, it's hard to imagine that he should have killed da Valgas. Probably he couldn't shoot to save his life—"
"Oh, but he could!" Devenish broke out, and the next second seemed to regret it. "At least, I have heard so. It may be untrue."
"Smithers can shoot?" There was some incredulity in Hardman's voice.
"Well, I heard so." Devenish looked uncomfortable. "One does hear things, you know. It was a chap who was at school with him. Smithers was in an O.T.C. there and got his musketry badge... Not that that means he can shoot well—"
"But perhaps well enough?" Hardman asked. "Still, I don't think he could have got a rifle—and why on earth should he do it?"
"If he was mad—" Devenish began, and stopped. "It's probably all talk. But everyone seems convinced that he did. He's been so queer lately. Besides, who else could it have been?"
"There are other suspects," Hardman said cautiously, and decided to take the plunge. "This is in confidence. But do you know anything about Grant?"
"Now, he really can shoot!" Devenish said almost eagerly. "You know, after what you said, I've been making inquiries in a quiet way about all the people who might be connected with it, and Grant is certainly one of the best shots in the university."
"Your sympathies don't seem nearly so much enlisted on his behalf?" Hardman suggested.
"Well, everyone says that Smithers is a nice little fellow, though, of course, a bit too good and hard-working; but no real harm in him—"
"But Grant? They don't say that about him?"
"A lot of people like Grant very much. He's distinctly popular with a certain class." Devenish was clearly evading the issue, and Hardman pressed him.
"Not with you?"
"You can't go by gossip. I've seen nothing wrong with him personally."
Devenish was evidently determined not to go any farther, and Hardman let the subject drop. His friend lacked the proper ruthlessness of a detective or a journalist; his conduct and his ideas were hopelessly handicapped by the thought of what one ought to do, and the desire to see things as they should be.
"You've heard nothing more about Van Weiman?" he asked.
"Nothing much. Oh, there was a chap called Holbourn. He seems to have thought that Van Weiman had been acting strangely before he was killed—"
"Holbourn?" Hardman suddenly remembered where he had heard the name. "What had he got to say?"
"Oh, simply that he'd met Van Weiman, with whom he'd always been on quite friendly terms, and that Van Weiman had simply refused to recognise him for no reason whatever. Or rather, he said he thought Van Weiman was so agitated that he never even noticed him. Mind you, he's the only one I've heard say anything of the kind. And he's a funny chap, the sort of man who might make a mountain out of a molehill in a matter like that."
Hardman glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to one.
"It's pretty near lunch-time," he said, "but I wonder if we could possibly find Holbourn? What he says may be pretty important?"
"What he says may be? But he only said that Van Weiman cut him—and that was probably an accident."
"I'd like to see him, all the same."
"Well, just as you like. As a matter of fact, it's quite a good time to find people, unless they're going out to lunch or something. One of the difficulties in this place is finding anyone you don't know very well. He may always be in so many different places, and by the time you've got there he's left it."
Hardman had already had some opportunity of finding that out for himself. He agreed heartily.
"Lunch with me, afterwards?" he suggested. "Sorry the invitation comes so late—"
"No. I've got one of those awful don lunches, where everyone is trying so fearfully hard to be at their ease that no one could possibly be... In fact, I'll just about have time to take you to Holbourn's and then I'll have to fly." He sighed. "Of course, they do it with the best of intentions, but—"
"You don't seem to have much use for dons?" Hardman smiled.
"Oh, but I have. I think they're really a very good and conscientious body of men, but—no, I'm not keen on their company, though there are exceptions. They make one feel so frightfully childish and so fearfully old at the same time."
"If we're getting to paradox—"
"It's not really. It's like one's old schoolmasters. When you meet most of them, you can't help feeling that they still regard you as someone who throws inkballs or cuts prep. And, on the other hand, I believe their own mental growth is stunted."
Devenish spoke with the earnestness of twenty-two; and in spite of himself Hardman smiled.
"Out of the mouths of babes—" he said unkindly.
"You're no Methuselah yourself."
"I know. And it often strikes me as being very, very funny that some thousands of people probably take the rot I write for gospel... Let's find Holbourn."
Their luck was in. But the first glimpse of Holbourn and his rooms staggered Hardman slightly, less owing to any unfamiliarity than because they so strongly resembled the more ineffective units of Chelsea or Kensington. For Holbourn was one of those unfortunates for whom the last embers of Oxford aestheticism possess a fatal fascination, though neither their talents nor their impudence fit them for it. His dress was beautifully aesthetic; but it had the appearance of having been put on him as though he was a dummy. His manner reminded Hardman of those unfortunate souls who are so uncertain of themselves and their beliefs that, in the hands of the unscrupulous, they are prepared to box the compass to any extent for fear of not doing the right thing.
He looked hard both at Devenish and at Hardman when the latter was introduced to him. The journalist smiled grimly to himself, knowing by experience what the look meant. Had he come as a mere reporter from some comparatively humble paper, Holbourn might have tried to be patronising; but since he came with Devenish, and belonged to the staff of a London daily, he appeared too heavy metal.
"A journalist? How frightfully amusing!" he said enthusiastically. "You know—Mr.—Mr. Hardman, I've thought once or twice of doing something of the kind. I should think you get a lot of fun out of it."
"We do," Hardman assured him, and something in the words seemed to make Holbourn take fright. He sheered off.
"I think these murders are awfully exciting," he said. "I've always wanted to know about murders. Somehow, this adds a note of reality to Oxford, doesn't it?"
"I hadn't thought of it that way," Hardman admitted. "Van Weiman was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"
Perhaps Holbourn sensed a rebuke which the journalist had certainly never intended to be obvious; for the other's manner changed again.
"Yes. It was dreadful, wasn't it... That is to say, I knew him pretty well, of course, though he was an American."
Hardman restrained himself. "That was what I was going to ask you about. I believe you met him the other day, and he didn't recognise you?"
"Did I?" Holbourn, who had been citing the incident as a proof of Van Weiman's mental instability for the past two or three hours, affected to recall it with difficulty. "Oh, yes. Though, of course, I scarcely thought about it at the time. Only, now, it does seem a little strange."
"What exactly happened?"
Holbourn had already taken fright, Hardman realised, and cursed himself for not treating so difficult a subject more flatteringly. Faced by the journalist's over-abrupt question, it had suddenly occurred to Holbourn that, after all, nothing had really happened at all which anyone would deign to take notice of.
He smiled.
"Oh, just what you said, you know. It wasn't anything."
"But it may be vitally important," he said seriously. "I shouldn't wonder if the whole case hinged on it. You see, anything bearing on Van Weiman's state of mind—"
"Yes. Naturally." Holbourn changed ground again, and warmed to his subject. "It struck me at the time— Well, you see, I was coming down South Parks Road, and I met Van Weiman. I passed within a yard or two of him, and I raised my hand like this." He gave a languid imitation of a Fascist salute. "But he didn't notice at all. There was a kind of light in his eyes, and his lips were moving as though he was talking to himself. He passed right on."
"You noticed nothing else?" Hardman asked.
"Well, there was one thing which struck me as queer. Going down to the Rollers, I met another man—"
"Who was that?"
"Oh, I didn't know him. It was his face. There was something so violent, so emotional, that it impressed itself on my mind. Coming after Van Weiman's strange behaviour, somehow it seemed to create an atmosphere."
"What was the man like? Can you describe him?"
But the impression which the face had left on Holbourn's mind was lamentably vague. He stumbled on for several sentences, and Hardman gathered no more than the stranger had two eyes, a nose and a mouth.
"Dark or fair? Tall or short?" Hardman asked desperately.
But these points similarly had escaped Holbourn's notice. He was prepared to tell Hardman any amount about the man's emotional atmosphere, but nothing whatever of the mere body which contained it. Devenish was growing restless, and Hardman gave it up.
"Well, you might see him again," he said. "And if you did, perhaps you'd recognise him. If you should, would you let me know immediately? A minute's delay might mean everything."
"Of course." Holbourn was patently flattered. "I've a good memory for faces really—"
"And, for your own safety, don't tell anyone," Hardman warned him, and leaving him a little aghast, hurried after Devenish.
"Poisonous little reptile in some ways, isn't he?" his friend commented.
"Oh, I don't know. More deserving of sympathy than blame. 'Tout comprendre—'" He shrugged his shoulders. "By the way, is that a fair sample of Oxford aesthete?"
"Not by a million. The people who're called aesthetes include some of the cleverest men in the university. With him, it's affectation. It makes you want to bite him. He's the kind that gets debagged. They can't carry it off."
"As a matter of fact, I'd cheerfully do either to him myself at the moment," Hardman confessed rather bitterly. "Do you realise that fool is the one man who's seen the murderer—and he's forgotten all about him?"
AFTERWARDS, Hardman wished that he had invited even Holbourn to lunch. Henwick was still lost in the wilds of East Oxford, and he was sufficiently affected by the prospect of the meeting not to wish to dwell upon it unduly in his mind. As it was, he ate apathetically by himself, and only afterwards, discussing, or trying to avoid discussing, the murders with three other reporters who had somehow materialised, did he recover something of his self-possession.
As he drove the car towards the meeting-place, he was wondering how the girl would take it. In his brief telephone conversation she had seemed self-reproachful, and at the same time a little defiant. When the car drew up at the meeting-place punctually on the stroke of half-past two, he had more or less marshalled arguments to exonerate her completely.
He had half expected to find her waiting, but he was disappointed. Quarter of an hour and half an hour seemed to drag past, and there was still no sign of her. It was five minutes past three before she hurried from the gate. Her face was flushed, and he was sure that she had been crying, but she smiled when she saw him.
"I'm fearfully late," she apologised, "but I couldn't help it. I've just been having some third degree—with Inspector Osborne!"
"Osborne?" It had not occurred to Hardman that the chief inspector would take the obvious course of going to the fountain-head, and he felt unreasonably annoyed about it. "What on earth did he want to know from you?"
"I'm not quite clear," she smiled, but her lips trembled a little. "So far as I could make out, only my life history and everything I've learnt during it." She saw Hardman's frown and hastened to correct the impression which she had made. "He was really very sweet," she added, "and quite considerate. But it's rather an ordeal being questioned by policemen, and one can't tell what he's thinking from his face."
"You told him everything?"
"Every possible thing that I could think of. Though, as a matter of fact, he seemed to know most of it already. Was that you?"
"I'm afraid it was. You see, Osborne's sure to find things out sooner or later, and it's much better to tell him... But we can't talk here. Could I drive you out somewhere? I expect there are lots of nice places round—though I don't know them."
"That would be lovely." Both of them had taken refuge in conventionality. "Yes, there are heaps of places—Blenheim, the Cotswolds—ever so many." She hesitated. "And yet, do you know, I believe that I'd rather go on the river?"
Hardman made a grimace. "That's where you catch me out," he said. "I was watching them. The airy, fairy grace of the good punter is a thing I never acquired—and the monkey-pole, fish-tail style is so undignified. Besides, you'd spoil your frock!"
She managed to laugh.
"Of course, if you'd care to risk your life with me in a canoe," he suggested, "that's a different matter. I think I can do that moderately—enough not to disgrace myself... By the way, can you swim?"
"Enough to save your life, if that's what you mean!" she rejoined. "I think a canoe would be very nice. The upper river is nicest. Down below at this time of year there are too many learners banging into one."
"Do they have to carry an L?" he asked.
"They don't need to. It's patently obvious. I should think the best thing to do is to go up to Summertown. I'll direct you."
Hardman started his engine; but before he let in the clutch he looked round him nervously. She noticed it.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he evaded; then saw that evasion was worse than returning to a painful subject. "Well, the fact is that some of my colleagues have been kind enough to pay me a certain amount of attention just lately," he said. "I don't blame them, seeing that I seem to be a kind of storm centre. But I could quite easily dispense with them this afternoon. See anything like a news-hawk dodging round the corners?"
"There!"
Hardman turned quickly; but the street seemed empty except for a scrubby-looking gentleman with the air of a bookie's tout who had presumably recently suffered expulsion under the licensing hours, and was waiting for reopening.
"I don't think..." Hardman began, and then realised that she had been laughing at him. "I am insulted," he said. "I am pained and hurt."
"'Ah, wad some power the giftie gie us—'" she quoted.
"That's making it worse. You've no idea how I drive when I'm annoyed."
A breathless few minutes gave her a sample which made her gasp. They shot into the Banbury road, and tore along it at a reckless speed.
"Take care—you're in a built-up area," she warned him. "And they're rather hot on this bit."
"If the police are worth their salt," Hardman said, "they will be otherwise engaged... Besides, there's method in my madness. Do you think that there's very much chance of anyone having followed us?"
"Very little."
"In that case, we have leisure to obey the law again. Where is the river?"
Both of them were silent until the car drew up outside the Summertown hotel.
He had parked the car and they were going down the path to the river when a thought struck him. He turned to her a little apologetically.
"Would you mind waiting just a moment?" he said.
"I'd just like to go back—"
"Why?"
"Just an additional precaution. I shan't be a minute. But if we are being followed, we can either go a bit farther and lead the gentleman a wild-goose chase, or we can knock his block off."
She smiled, but there was a trace of strain in her face. Hardman hurried back. But he met no one. He was standing hidden by the gate when a car came up the road towards the hotel. He frowned. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was one which he had seen standing in the road where he had waited for the girl's arrival. It might have been mere fancy, and, in fact, it seemed as though it was, for the car did not stop, but continued straight past. It might have been accident that he could not distinguish the driver's face owing to the large soft felt hat and the angle at which he was holding his head.
He was scowling a little as he rejoined the girl. She noticed it.
"There was someone?" she asked.
"No. Not exactly. Only I just fancied that I recognised a car which was waiting when I was. Where does the road go straight on from here?"
"Nowhere. Only to the Council Houses. Oh, one can get through to the Northern by-pass, I think."
"Let's hope he's done it. It's probably imagination. We'll go on."
Hardman might have been justified in his pessimism regarding his punting, but his modesty about canoeing had no foundation. He helped her into the middle place, himself taking the bow, and the boatman who, after the manner of his kind, always looked anxiously at strangers taking canoes in the summer term, nodded approval as they set off. He hated novices in canoes. Sometimes they got drowned; sometimes not. They always lost the paddles and wet the cushions.
For some distance she was content to lie back listening to the swish of the water against the thin woodwork, and feeling the surge and rise of the light craft at each stroke. When they first set out, she had tried to help with the spare paddle, but only a few strokes were needed to show that her efforts were more of a hindrance than a help. Hardman himself put out his best. In the physical satisfaction of the rhythmic paddling, he felt himself getting rid of any amount of mental cobwebs. His eyes were on the river ahead sufficiently for purposes of steering. Most of the rest of the time they were looking at the slim white neck with the fringe of golden hair peeping beneath the hat.
They were well up towards Water Eaton before she turned.
"Aren't you hot in your coat?" she asked.
"A little," he admitted. "But it's a matter of principle. This shirt I am wearing, though a masterpiece of the outfitter's art, is striped. I am also wearing braces. I could not dream of revealing either to the public gaze when canoeing."
"Vanity," she answered. "Besides, there's no public."
"There is you," he pointed out, "besides, consider the cows. They have enough to endure here in the summer term, I should imagine, without my making things worse."
She looked obediently over the wide, low stretch of meadows yellow with buttercups; but the effect was the opposite of what he had intended. She turned with a serious face.
"Would you pull in to the bank?" she asked. "We've got to talk, and I can't with you sitting up there."
Without speaking he gave a sweep of the paddle which took the canoe towards the side, guiding it deftly to a spot half sheltered by overhanging hawthorns and stopping almost without a shock. Mooring the canoe, he deserted his higher position and seated himself in the bows, facing her.
"That was rather well done, don't you think?" he said. "Though my natural modesty forbids me to say so, I'm no slouch at this game—"
"Don't! Please!" There was appeal in her voice and the strained, horrified expression had come back into her eyes. "It's no use putting it off, though I know you meant well. And I am better, just for sitting here..."
She paused. Hardman was at a loss for what he should say to comfort her. There was a note of desperation in her voice as she continued.
"I really killed my cousin. It was my fault. If I had let you go to him—if I had let you go on with what you were doing—"
"Miss Douglas." Hardman's voice was very quiet and gentle, but he spoke firmly. "I was afraid over the telephone that you felt like this. You mustn't. You've nothing to accuse yourself of, unless it was a desire to protect your cousin. I can understand how you felt—"
"It was beastly!" she flamed out suddenly. "All that spying and prying into his affairs and other people's. I don't know how you can do it. It's hateful!"
The sudden change of front rather took Hardman aback.
"As a matter of fact, I don't generally," he said. "Though if writing a gossip column is any better, I'm not sure... But in this case..."
He broke off. The girl was staring blind-eyed across the stream towards the sun-lit fields.
"In this case," she said in a level voice. "You might as well say it. In this case, if you'd been allowed to do as you wanted, my cousin would still be living... That's the truth, isn't it?"
"No!" Hardman denied strenuously. "Look here—"
"You wanted to go and see my cousin. I stopped you. You wanted to go on looking into his affairs. I made you promise that you wouldn't. I couldn't help it. I expect that I should do it again. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone doing that, and least of all you..." She stopped. Hardman said nothing, judging that the best thing she could do was to talk. "When I met you in Holywell," she continued after a while, "I thought of it as a joke. There was something thrilling in the idea of the chase. It wasn't until we were standing on top of the tower that I realised. That was where the murderer had stood; right over the roofs, on the top of that lovely building, a man had suddenly died, a young man, just like... After that, I couldn't think of it as being fun any more. It isn't a matter for ordinary people. I suppose the police have to. I don't envy them. And, if they catch him—think of it!" She looked up abruptly, and there was a strange light in her eyes. "The trial, the crowds, and at last..."
She covered her face in her hands. It was almost a relief to Hardman when he saw her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. He let her cry for quite a long time. At last she looked up, defiant through her tears. Hardman reached out towards her handbag and extracted a handkerchief. She took it automatically, dabbed her face, and then, looking at it, smiled wryly.
"So that's all this comes to!" she said. "I'm allowed to talk all I like, work myself up into a state, have a good cry—and then you give me a handkerchief to dry my face!"
"As for crying," Hardman said seriously, "I've sometimes wished I could. I'm sure it's a relief. Men would be all the better for doing it... But I'd like you to listen to me. Will you—please? Without interrupting, or being hurt."
He leant forward as he spoke, and naturally and comfortingly took her hand. Neither of them seemed to notice it. She nodded, looking into his eyes steadily.
"As for hunting down a murderer," he began, a little bluntly, "you admit the police must. But the police are our representatives. It doesn't matter if they do it or if we do it, the responsibility is ours. A policeman, a judge, or a hang—" He stopped himself. "A policeman or a judge may bring a criminal to justice. They do it on our behalf, and it is our duty to help them. In the present instance, I think that I can fairly claim that I have. Am I wrong for having done so?"
She shook her head. "Not to catch a murderer," she said, "but for sensation, for publicity..." She shivered a little. "Isn't it a little terrible to you that a lot of nasty-minded sensation-hunters should read about it at breakfast-time, chat about it in buses—oh—"
"Frankly, it isn't," he interrupted. "Mostly they're not nasty-minded. In any case, I should take refuge in my sincere belief that it is in the interests of the public that all news should have a chance of being printed. I'm convinced that, if you once start too rigorous a selection, in the interests of morality or anything else, the last state is worse than the first."
She was silent, if unconvinced.
"Now, about your cousin," he continued. "You blame yourself for dissuading me. You needn't. It wouldn't have made the least difference... You see, there was no positive evidence connecting him. It was just an idea, and I was as near as possible to giving it up anyhow. Otherwise..."
There was a curious expression in her eyes as she supplied the ending of his sentence. "Otherwise you wouldn't have let me persuade you?" she asked.
"I don't know," Hardman evaded. "How can one tell? But let's suppose that I had gone on. I should have gone to see your cousin. Do you think he would have told me, a fellow journalist, about whatever little scoop he was trying to bring off? Why, even that first morning when I said something that suggested I was one his whole manner changed. Do you think so?"
"No," she said almost inaudibly. "I know he wouldn't. But he might have been warned."
"The other murder would have been a warning, if one could have been given." Hardman brooded for a moment, and burst out with unexpected violence. "The worst of it is that if one person is responsible for your cousin's death it's me. I saw the truth about da Valgas's death—twenty-four hours too late."
There was a long pause. She did not ask him the question which flashed into her mind. Somehow she was afraid of the answer. At last, when she broke the silence, she had reverted to a former subject.
"I think," she said with averted eyes, "what hurt me most was when I realised the way you had drawn me on, played with me, made me tell you things... That hurt me."
Hardman winced. "I suppose so," he said. "I didn't mean to—"
"But you did... I thought about that a good deal afterwards."
Occasionally to nearly every man comes a loathing of his trade. Hardman was strongly conscious of it at that moment.
"I meant no harm," he said a little desperately. "It happened almost without my knowing it. I did no harm... Mary! Do you really feel like that—about me?"
He leant towards her. She met his eyes, and her own had suddenly grown tender.
"No," she said simply. "I don't. I think I never—"
Somewhere on the bank above them a branch cracked. In the instant Hardman sat erect, with a jerk which almost upset the canoe. His face had suddenly grown pale. Gripping the tree boughs to maintain his balance, he managed to stand erect, looking over the fields.
"Someone was there," he said almost to himself. "A man... He's running... Wait!"
The last word was spoken to the girl as he began to pull himself up the bank.
THE momentary hesitation and the time occupied in getting from a fragile canoe on to the bank above had given the stranger a considerable lead. But Hardman was a good runner. As he set off, the other was just disappearing into a line of willows which obstructed any further view in that direction. He had only a glimpse of a running figure already too far off to make identification possible. He sprinted his hardest for the trees, and his effort was partially rewarded. He was still some distance from the man, but he had certainly gained before a second hedge again hid him from view.
But when he reached this there was a disappointment. The hedges beyond were too close. There was no sign of the man he was pursuing and, what was worse, no indication of what direction he had taken. He could only dash across the field blindly, to meet with equally poor success when he was at last able to look through the next barrier. This field was larger, and unless the stranger had considerably increased his speed, it was plain that he could never have entered it at all.
In that case he must have diverged to right or left when the small field gave him his opportunity. The sad thing was that Hardman had no means of saying which; besides, by now the man must be more than a half a mile away. Breathless and more than a little exhausted by his effort, for he had put out the best that was in him, he began to retrace his steps.
A sudden fear made his heart jump. His pace quickened, and he broke into a run. The unknown eavesdropper had certainly circled in one direction or another. Suppose that he had made the full circle, and returned to the canoe. As he ran, Hardman cursed himself for not thinking that perhaps, after all, that might have been the man's object in breaking the twig. He might have guessed that Hardman would run off in blind pursuit, and that he would have a sufficient start to make a detour after having lost him. He felt sick with anxiety as well as fatigue as he approached the river-bank.
"Mary! Mary!"
He had made no particular note of the trees to which the canoe was tied. From the bank it was hard to have any certain knowledge of the spot, and if the girl had continued to sit in the canoe it was easy enough to miss both. As he searched along the bank, calling at intervals, he tried to take comfort from the fact; then the essential improbability of it struck him like a blow. Who, under the circumstances, would be likely to stay there sitting quietly as though nothing was happening? Of course, she would have been on the look out; probably on the bank. He called out more desperately.
"Mary! Miss Douglas! Mary!"
But there was no reply. He had paused to listen when he saw something that made his blood run suddenly cold. In the middle of the stream, coming gently towards him with the current, was the canoe.
It eddied from side to side, sometimes in one direction and sometimes in another, as though in some mocking sort of dance. In its wake, some distance behind, an errant paddle wandered more soberly. But it was obviously empty. A cold fear came over him; then he took a grip upon himself and tried to think.
He had evidently been searching too far down; for the canoe could not have travelled upstream. It must have been at the top end of the field that they had moored. He began to run along the bank, looking at each bush in the hope of identifying the spot, and dreading every moment what the next step might reveal. For if their watcher had been the murderer, Hardman knew enough to be convinced that he was utterly desperate and ruthless. The girl might, in any case, be suspected of knowing enough to be dangerous. That she should have been with him might have been her death-warrant.
All of a sudden he stopped. This was certainly the place. He could see where the bank was scarred by his hasty scramble up, and the marks of the canoe's bow on the soft mud below. But there was nothing else, good or bad; no sign of a struggle, no trace of the girl whom he had left there. His eyes sought the river fearfully. Then with a great wave of relief he heard a call from upstream. It was the girl's voice.
"Hullo! Hullo!"
She was just struggling through the hedge at the top end of the field. He darted towards her just as she managed to push through. She was a little breathless, but perfectly calm. She made a little grimace of disappointment as he came up to her.
"You didn't get him," she said. "I know, because he came back. And I didn't get him, either, and we've lost the canoe—"
"You didn't get him?" The perspiration started on Hardman's forehead. "You don't mean to say that you—"
"Naturally I tried to get a good view of him. But he was much too quick for me. The last I saw of him he was running towards the Banbury road." She evidently noticed his agitation for the first time. "Why, what's the matter?"
"You—you chased him," Hardman said weakly. "Did he see you?"
"I don't expect he did. You see, I was still in the canoe when he came back into sight, with just my head over the bank. But when I saw him, I gave a sort of kick, and—I don't think you could have moored the canoe well, because it broke loose—I got on the bank—"
"My God!" Hardman put his hands to his eyes. "Don't—don't you realise... That was probably the murderer!"
"The murderer?" She gazed at him wide-eyed; then she paled. "You mean—"
"I mean that I shouldn't be surprised if we were both in danger. If he's followed us like this..." He broke off as a new thought came to him. "Why, what an ass I am!" he said with a rather forced laugh. "It's probably one of those damned reporters!"
"Why, of course!" her face lightened; then she smiled. "But 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest!'" she quoted.
Hardman could have shouted with relief. Then a memory of his fears surged over him, and he paled again. "My God! When I saw that canoe, and realised that he'd probably come back—"
"Were you worried—Philip?"
"Mary!"
The next moment she was in his arms, and his lips sought hers.
"Mary! I want you! Will you, will you—"
But she neither resisted nor responded, standing there passively. Then after a moment she gently moved her head back.
"Philip. Not—not now. With all this— I don't know."
For a second longer he held her, staring into her eyes hungrily, but what he read there he could not understand. His arms dropped and he released her.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Philip." Her eyes met his frankly and she smiled. "I do like you. Otherwise—otherwise should I be here? And, when I was in trouble, it was you I wanted more than anyone—people I'd known for years... It's just that I don't know."
Hardman had no reply to make. He could only stand looking at her. Then, with one of her quick changes of mood, she smiled as if nothing had happened.
"We're forgetting the canoe!" she said. "Where it is by now, goodness knows!"
"Hang the canoe!" Hardman felt a sudden unreasonable optimism. "It's bound to go downstream, and it can't get farther than the Rollers. I'll 'phone the boatman or something. We can walk back across the fields, and I'll get the car, and we'll drive—we'll drive somewhere—"
She smiled, but she shook her head. "No. It's time I got back. We'll go another time."
The promise made Hardman accept the verdict in silence. "Then, I suppose we go this way," he said reluctantly. "Unless we make straight for the Banbury road and catch a bus or 'phone for a car—"
"Let's walk." She led the way along the riverbank, with the buttercups swishing against their shoes as they went. It was quite a long time before she spoke. "Are you sure—sure that that was another reporter?" she asked.
Hardman himself had been pondering on the same question among other matters. He was tempted for a single second to give a hearty assent; then he thought better of it.
"No, I'm not," he admitted. "But if it's humanly possible I'll find out. And—and if it was, I'll break his neck!"
She smiled. "Would that be quite grateful—Philip?"
"That remains to be seen." Hardman's lips set a little grimly; then he grinned. "In one event, I'll break his neck; in the other I'll invite him to—"
"But if it wasn't?"
"I'm not taking the risk, anyhow. As soon as I get back, I'm going right to Osborne to tell him about it and to ask him to see that you're taken care of—"
"No. You mustn't! Please—"
"We'll see about it," Hardman half assented; but his mind was made up. "By the way, there's another matter I was going to ask you about... You remember when you found us in your cousin's room?"
He flushed as he spoke. She nodded.
"Well, I had found something. I took this sheet off his blotter."
He extracted the blotting-paper and his own reconstructions from his pocket as he spoke and passed them to her.
"You see," he explained. "It seems to me that in all probability this might show some pieces of the letter which your cousin wrote—that day you saw him coming from Parsons' Pleasure." He saw a slight smile on her lips. "Oh yes, Devenish explained my error. If this was the reign of Queen Victoria, I imagine you'd have fainted... It doesn't give one very much to go on, and it's quite likely not that letter at all."
"But it's more probable than you think it is," she replied quickly, frowning over the sheets. "You see, he'd never write a letter unless he'd positively got to. And then he generally wrote in the Union, because he said you might as well get something for your money, even if it was only notepaper." She paused for a second and hurried on. "But it's all very obscure. I don't see what all this could possibly mean."
"Nor do I, unfortunately. I was hoping you might be able to tell me, say, who he was likely to write to in Minnesota."
"I've no idea. Most of his people were dead—and the rest, I think, still live in Boston. But he had dozens of friends—college and journalist friends mostly. They did more writing than he did."
"So you can't help at all?" Hardman was disappointed. He had hoped that, with her knowledge of her cousin's affairs, some little light might be cast on the farrago of nonsense which the paper contained. "Perhaps you'd like that copy? It might convey something to you later."
She accepted it in silence, and only afterwards it occurred to Hardman that he was perhaps again allowing enthusiasm to make him ruthless.
"I say, I hope you don't think... If you'd rather not—"
"I think"—she spoke deliberately, but with conviction—"I think that now I am as anxious for my cousin's murderer to be caught as you are."
They did not speak again until they reached the car, nor, except for an isolated sentence or two, until they drew up at the college gates.
"To-morrow?" Hardman asked simply.
"Yes. I'll let you know. Good-bye, Philip."
Back at the hotel he found Henwick fuming with impatience, and asking his whereabouts from everyone in sight. From the fact that his colleague's features were intact, Hardman was half inclined to believe that he must have failed; but his first words proved otherwise.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "I've been looking everywhere. I've got the whole dope."
CHIEF INSPECTOR OSBORNE had had a trying afternoon. It had occurred to him that it would certainly be useful to have such inside information as the various tutors and dons of his suspects and victims could provide, and with that end in view he had set out solemnly to wade through a long list of senior members of the university ranging from doctors to junior Fellows. The results had been depressing. His experiences with undergraduates in the past two days had not soured him half so much as his tour among the dons. After three hours' work he had divided them into four classes; those who were out, those who knew nothing about their charges other than their academic qualifications, those who, if they knew, were unintelligible, and those who knew, but were reluctant to say anything which might injure the reputation of Oxford.
He had started with the junior proctor who had come to the rescue of Hardman, and had found him mildly distressed at the bad impression events seemed to be making on the public, with the sheets of all the morning newspapers scattered about him.
"You mustn't think, Mr. Osborne, that this is really representative of life in the university," he assured the chief inspector gravely. "This is an incident, an unpleasant incident. But it's effects will pass. It is abnormal."
"I'd imagined it might be," Osborne assured him with gravity. "Otherwise," he added to himself, "we'd have to keep a flying squad of G-men permanently stationed here!"
"There is surprisingly little genuine lawlessness among the junior members of the university—or, for that matter, the seniors," he added hastily, as though fearing Osborne might suspect Oxford colleges were staffed by gangsters. "A little high spirits, a little harmless breaking of regulations—"
"What I was really trying to get at," Osborne interrupted, "was about this Alpine-climbing business. It really happens?"
"Why, yes. There are outbreaks of it from time to time. There have been for generations. Why, I remember..." He stopped. "Of course, it's a great nuisance, and often a considerable expense. The stonework is easily damaged—"
"Is that the reason for all this scaffolding there is about?" Osborne asked innocently. The junior proctor appealed to him. "Then it must be very widespread?"
"Oh, good heavens, no! Most of that is due to normal dilapidations. It is on quite a small scale."
"And they can really climb a sheer wall like, say, that of Exeter hall? I'd like to see them at it."
"So should I," the proctor said grimly. "Yes. It's been done. But, inspector, are you sure that you're right in thinking that this is the work of a member of the university?"
"I'm not sure of anything," Osborne admitted, "but both the victims are."
"I mean," the proctor explained, "you seem to me to be concentrating upon the university aspect, rather than, say, the international aspect. I understand that the South American who had been arrested has been released—"
"Yes," Osborne answered. "Apart from the fact that he'd a moderately good alibi, we couldn't trace any weapon or opportunity."
"But need he have done it himself? Might he not have been the organiser, and have had an accomplice——"
"Say, among the college servants?" Osborne suggested.
"Impossible! No, some outside accomplice who actually fired the fatal shot? In that case, I imagine, he would be as guilty as the actual murderer? I seem to remember a legal maxim 'Qui facit per alium, facit per se'—I don't know if your Latin's equal to it, inspector—"
"Oh yes." Osborne rose wearily. "'The man who has anything to do with garlic does for himself.'" Before the proctor could recover he had said "Good afternoon" and had gone.
His round of the tutors bore little fruit. From Smithers's he gathered that all of it might have been avoided had Smithers played cricket and held less heretical views about transubstantiation; from Van Weiman's that the scholarship bequest of the late Cecil Rhodes had been mistaken, and that Americans were undesirable. Jameson's called him an idle young devil, but one of the finest fellows in the world; Grant's that he had a brain if he would use it.
He had formed an entirely unjust opinion of dons in general by the time the afternoon ended; and his irritation was increased rather than otherwise when Vincent, meeting him almost on the threshold of the station, partially justified the proctor's view.
"A man's come forward, sir," he announced. "He wants to know if there's a reward for information in connexion with the Magdalen murder. He seems to have been a sort of accomplice of d'Estremada's, and wants to give him away—if it's worth his while."
"D'Estremada?" Osborne's eyebrows rose. "'Qui facit per alium, facit per se.' Know what that means, Vincent?"
"No, sir."
"'The man who does anything through an agent does it himself...' Now, I wonder if that's what he did? We'd better see him." He sighed. "You'd better learn a little Latin before you come here again, Vincent. They do half their business in it here."
Vincent looked his incredulity.
"The non-financial side," Osborne explained. "Well. Let's see this lad."
The superintendent had already reduced the would-be informer to a healthy state of mind when they entered. Instead of demanding Ģ50 down and the rest on conviction, he was now anxious to tell whatever he could, and take anything that came. For Willie, as he was affectionately known, was a familiar friend of the police, and in such differences of opinion as had marred the acquaintance and secured him State maintenance, had learnt a respect for them which was not reciprocated.
"Now, Willie," the superintendent prompted. "This is Chief Inspector Osborne. Will you tell him all about it?"
Willie looked at Osborne appealingly. "I don't want to get into no trouble, sir," he said. "I ain't committed no murders. I wouldn't commit no murders. 'Tisn't my way. If I'd known as there was going to be a murder, I wouldn't have touched his half-quid, so help me."
"That's understood," the superintendent intervened. "No one questions your character, Willie. Get on."
"Well, sir, the foreign gentleman with the name, he heard of me through a friend, and knew I'd had misfortunes. So he says: 'Look here, I'm a journalist, and I'm watching a fellow here. But I can't be everywhere all the time,' he says, 'so I'd like for you to keep an eye on him when I give the word. Just you let me know what he does, and particularly if he goes out with a bit of stuff or takes one over the eight. Then there'll be another half-quid,' he says. Them was his very words."
"I'd no idea d'Estremada had so fine a colloquial knowledge of English," Osborne murmured dreamily. "Yes?"
"Well, I done it, particularly watching for larks—"
"And were there any?"
"No, sir. Leastways, if there was, he was too smart for me. But I goes to Mr.—the foreign gentleman's hotel as I was told, and hears he's got a gentleman with him, and I'd better wait. So I waits, but the door was open and I heard a bit. 'That's settled, then,' my gentleman says. 'We'll make it the first. And for the Lord's sake make a clean job. We don't want no bungling. I've been here long enough,' he says, 'and precious little to show for it. This has got to settle him. Who've you got?' And the other man—leastways, he was a gentleman, as I seen when he come out—he says something or other, and my gentleman says: 'She'll do! Right!' and then the gentleman comes out and I goes and draws my half-quid. And that's all, sir, honest to God."
Osborne considered. "'She'll do'?" he said. "You're sure he said that?"
"Maybe it was 'He'll do,' sir," Willie said accommodatingly.
"But you don't know. And you said the other first... You saw the gentleman? What was he like?"
"Very gentleman-looking, sir. Bowler hat and all."
"Clean-shaven?"
"He'd a little moustache, sir. Like what the officers wears."
"Dark or fair?"
"Sort of half and half, sir."
As Hardman had groaned at Holbourn's powers of observation a little earlier, so Osborne had now cause to groan over Willie's. Ten minutes' questioning revealed little more. Unexpectedly, some light came at the end.
"But I know his hotel, sir, where he stayed," Willie said, unexpectedly, and not without hesitation. "You see, sir, happening to pass him in the street later, sir, I just wondered about him, so I followed him careful like—"
"If you'd not been careful you'd have been pinched, Willie," the superintendent said genially. "I suppose you thought it might come in useful, eh?"
"Where was it?" Osborne asked.
"The Dark Blue, sir."
"Vincent," Osborne called to his subordinate. "Go there and check up, will you... How long ago will that be, Willie?"
"Couple of weeks, sir, I'd say."
"Right, Vincent... All right, Willie. If there's anything in this, we'll see you get it. And keep your mouth shut."
As the informer departed, the superintendent looked at Osborne inquiringly.
"What d'you make of it?"
"Dirty work on the part of d'Estremada certainly. Oh, yes. I believed him. Dirty work. And if it weren't for one word, it might be a darned nuisance. As it is..." He frowned. "Well, maybe it's more of a nuisance than ever... You see, I could find a couple at least who might have murdered Van Weiman; but we've no one yet to polish off da Valgas. And when we find a man who could do one, it's remotely improbable that he should do the other."
"Perhaps they really were separate efforts."
"Perhaps. I don't believe it, but I don't deny it might be so. We shall see soon, I expect— Yes? What is it?"
"Mr. Hardman and Mr. Henwick ask to see you, sir. Said it was important."
"Good Lord!" Osborne groaned. "Is there more trouble? That man's an absolute stormy petrel. He might almost be in league with the criminal—or criminals—the way they shove stuff into his hands. And nearly always it doesn't fit in with anything else. Well. Send him in."
But he received Hardman and his colleague cordially, having a great belief that brains were good, and hard work was good, but that the best thing was to be loved by the gods. They seated themselves comfortably and lit up.
"Well?" Osborne asked. "What is it?"
"In the first place, it's a confession. There's this." He produced the sheet from Van Weiman's pad and explained how he came to acquire it. "And it's not that I'm holding out on you," he concluded. "It's simply that I forgot all about the damn thing."
Osborne studied it, with the transcript, in silence for a bit. "Well," he said, "I hope the experts can make a bit more of it. At the moment it reads like a futurist poem to me. You think it has some significance?"
"I can only say that it may. It might be that letter Miss Douglas spoke of. She thinks it probably is, because he generally wrote in the Union."
"You showed it to her?"
"This afternoon. I—happened to meet her. That is, we went on the river. And there's something I want to tell you about that," he hurried on, conscious that he had coloured slightly and not unaware of a gleam of cynical amusement in the chief inspector's eye. "We were followed."
Osborne listened to him attentively. "I don't know," he admitted at last. "I shouldn't wonder if what you first thought was right—that a few of your friends thought it would be a good idea to keep an eye on you. On the whole, I can't blame them. If they're where you are, the odds are they're in the centre of things. On the other hand..." He frowned. "There have been enough murders in this case," he said gloomily. "We don't want any more. I shall certainly watch Miss Douglas, whether she likes it or not. But we'll try to do it so that she doesn't know it's happening. And then, of course..." He stopped. "You didn't see the man?" he asked.
"Only at a distance. By the time I came in view each time he was just diving through the hedge. I had two glimpses—a long way off."
"Couldn't you form any idea? How was he dressed?"
"Grey flannel trousers and brown coat, I believe."
"He would be. There are only about a thousand people in this city dressed like that—or perhaps it's two thousand. Tall or short?"
"Medium height. Rather a slim, wiry build. And a pretty good athlete. Better than I was."
"Then he must have been good," Osborne grinned. "And did he correspond to any of your journalist friends?"
"Not specially. There are one or two who it might have been."
"Supposing it was someone connected with the murderer, what motive would he have in following you?"
"I suspect that he might have one of two—or both of them. The first, if the murder was committed on account of that letter which Van Weiman wrote, is pretty plain. If he knew them well, he'd know that Van Weiman would confide in his cousin, if in anyone. He presumably knows that I'm interested in the case, and if he saw the two of us together, he might very well follow to overhear what exactly we know. After all, that must be very important to him at the present moment."
"In that case, the question is, what did he hear?" Osborne asked seriously.
"I—I don't quite remember. Miss Douglas was naturally a little overwrought by the whole business. I was trying to make her see things in a proper light."
"I see," said Osborne expressionlessly. "But the other reason?"
"Well, if the letter wasn't the reason for Van Weiman's death, it's just possible that jealousy was. I mean, Miss Douglas saw a good deal of her cousin. If anyone was fond of her, he might remove a possible rival."
"I don't get your second reason at all," Osborne admitted. "Have we, up to date, got the slightest grounds for supposing that anyone had the motive of jealousy for Miss Douglas? I'm merely interested."
Hardman searched his mind in vain. Somewhere, he was sure, there had been some reason for suspecting jealousy; but for the moment he could not remember it. He saw the twinkle in Osborne's eye, reddened and felt a fool. Then he remembered.
"There is one thing that suggests it," he said. "There's a man called Revel who knows Miss Douglas. He came to me and told me a story against Grant. I'm pretty certain he dug it out because he was jealous of Grant, though he hadn't any cause, of course."
"Your idea is that Grant, Van Weiman, and Revel—among others, were in love with Miss Douglas?" Osborne pursued ruthlessly. "Just why?"
"Well, they all saw a good deal of her..." Hardman said lamely. He felt that he was plunging deeper and deeper into the mire, and that the inspector was watching with malicious amusement.
"'To see her is to love her' stuff? Well. Perhaps. But that's a new theory—with at least one new suspect. And I expect, on the same grounds, one could find more. And I don't see what on earth that had to do with the death of da Valgas. He wasn't a victim, too?"
Hardman opened his lips to reply; but he felt too angry. He closed them again without speaking. Unintentionally, Osborne had underrated the susceptibilities of a young man in love; and in this case the loss was his.
Sublimely unaware of the fury raging in Hardman's breast, he turned to Henwick.
"Well, Mr. Henwick, you had something to say, I think?"
HENWICK cleared his throat, and looked at Hardman; but Hardman was frowning furiously at the fire, and he got no help from him.
"It's really Hardman's idea entirely," he said, and again looked fruitlessly at his colleague before continuing. "It appears that Mr. Revel came to him, and, for some reason or another, disclosed something which he had found out about Grant."
Osborne had just gathered that he had seriously offended Hardman. "Yes," he said. "I can quite believe that jealousy was the most probable motive... What was it?"
"Roughly, that Grant had been carrying on with a girl in East Oxford, and that Van Weiman had interfered; that Grant had taken it very badly, but appeared to have forgotten it; that the girl was now married, and the whole business, apparently, was over. I found it wasn't."
Henwick had made the announcement quite simply and without any intention of dramatic effect; but it managed to rouse both his hearers. Hardman sat up, looking at him. Osborne leant forward.
"Ah," he said. "Just how did you discover that?"
"There's a technique," Henwick said modestly, but exasperatingly. "It's nothing, really. Given any woman in any district, she's got an enemy. Supposing anything is said about her moral character, it's no use going to her, or to the family, or any friends. They'll all send you away with a flea in your ear. You've got to find that enemy, pump her, and then, since she's almost certainly exaggerating, check up on her story until you've weeded out the lies. That's the method I used."
He paused for comment. None came immediately, but at last Osborne managed to say encouragingly: "Yes?"
"I take it that this lad Revel was, for some reason or other, an enemy. So I was prepared to find about fifty per cent of his story false. It wasn't. With some trouble, I found just the woman I wanted, an abominable old gossip with a grudge against the mother. I'd provided myself with a photograph of Grant—from a college group. She identified him at once, as an undergraduate who had been running round after the daughter, though the daughter was already engaged. I gather that the daughter was really attracted to Grant, and perhaps Grant to the daughter—though I can't think why, because if ever there was a piece to steer clear of, she's it. I don't envy her husband. He'll need to keep a horsewhip on tap, and pack a pretty hefty punch."
Osborne blinked a little, as though trying to take in the mixture of facts and worldly experience.
"It was true, then?" he said.
"Absolutely true. Oh, I'm not going by that old beldame. I got more or less the same story from several sources. Grant was hanging round this girl; she was fairly gone on him, and then it all stopped... Now, here's the point. Everyone agrees that things began to settle down just after a red-haired man had been a bit active in the neighbourhood."
"Van Weiman?" Osborne asked.
"Perhaps. Naturally, I'd taken the precaution of getting a photo of him; but I'd also taken along a photo of da Valgas. The identifications worked out about fifty-fifty. Some plumped for da Valgas and some for Van Weiman; but they all agreed it was a red-haired man... Incidentally, what the hell is da Valgas doing with red hair, if he's a South American? I thought that they were a sort of Spanish-Indian mixture?"
"There's also a mixture of Irish filibusters in some families," Hardman supplied. "Actually, the da Valgas family has some of that in it. It crops up every other generation or so. The General's hair is black."
"It's a grand thing to have a gossip writer on tap—sometimes," Henwick said. "Well, all that was months ago. Of course, Grant might have harboured a grudge, but you'd have expected him to do something about it long before. The girl duly married a man who works at the bus place, and it all seemed to be over. They went to live at Headington. So I went to live at Headington, too—that is, I went there and tried to find the girl's pet enemy."
Hardman suddenly realised that a part at least of Henwick's researches must have been in the local pubs. It accounted for the comparative brightness of style.
"I'd more trouble there. A young married woman has scarcely had time to make a good tough enemy; but she excites comment. It wasn't long before I began to hear she was no better than she ought to be, and that, her husband being on night work, she'd been having visits from a young man late at night. I can't swear the young man was Grant; because it was dark, and most of them hadn't seen him properly. But I've one witness who picked him out of the photo. And, by all accounts, he came late, and has been along in the past week. That's roughly all. I didn't tackle parents, husband or wife, because I don't want my eyes blacked, nor yet my face scratched. Still, there it is."
Osborne was thoughtful as Henwick finished, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.
"You mean that Van Weiman stopped him the first time," he said, "but that he started again—and perhaps Van Weiman found out and threatened him—"
"I mean nothing of the kind," Henwick said doggedly. "Those are the facts. You can interpret them as you like. Only don't forget that when you're saying Van Weiman, I said Van Weiman or da Valgas."
Hardman seemed to recover from his sulks. "There is a certain facial resemblance," he said, "besides the red hair. I noticed it myself. In a photograph or at a distance a lot of people would mistake one for the other."
"Which only complicates things," Osborne said mournfully. "By itself, this would give a perfectly good motive for the murder of Van Weiman—and Grant's actions on the night in question are, to say the least, open to suspicion. And now, this morning, I've just had perfectly good evidence regarding da Valgas's assassination, involving d'Estremada. And the two don't fit in the least."
Hardman raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He was still annoyed with the chief inspector, and had no intention of revealing his hand at that moment. Henwick had pricked up his ears when Osborne spoke of "evidence."
"What's that?" he asked. "Something new?"
"It's not settled yet," Osborne evaded. "I've got men looking into it now... Was there anything else, Hardman?"
"At the moment, no," Hardman answered, and Osborne shot a quick look at him. He was perfectly certain that the journalist had something up his sleeve, but in view of all the material with which he had just been supplied he could scarcely grumble. He sighed. Hardman rose to his feet. "We won't hinder you," he said. "Coming, Henwick?"
But Henwick, having got the scent of a piece of news, had no intention of letting it go so easily.
"Couldn't you tell us just a bit more, inspector?" he persuaded. "It's new evidence—against d'Estremada?"
"Can't say at the moment. Sorry." Osborne had assumed the poker face with which he generally received the questions of the gentlemen of the Press. "I'll let you know as soon as I can."
Henwick made a mental note that it was against d'Estremada, and made up his mind himself to pursue a few further inquiries into that gentleman's movements. Another point occurred to him. The chance of bearding the chief inspector was too good to be missed.
"Have you traced where the gun came from?" he asked.
Osborne hesitated. "You may say that the origin of the gun has been traced, but that we have not yet any information into whose hands it passed."
"And the knife? Or was it a razor? The weapon that killed Van Weiman?"
"That has been discovered. It is apparently of foreign origin."
"Spanish?" Henwick shot the question eagerly.
"Perhaps Italian."
"I see. Italian or Spanish. No marks?"
"None." This time Osborne had certainly had enough. "I'm afraid there's nothing more I can tell you... Mr. Henwick, I've given you some information. Can I rely on your discretion regarding the information you gave me?"
"Certainly, inspector. Good afternoon."
Henwick was smiling as they went out. He had had no immediate intention of using his East Oxford researches, in any case, except in a very vague and obscure way, and even then they would have been risky.
"You told them an awful lot," the superintendent growled as the door closed behind them. "Why on earth—?"
"Not, really, so much as they told me." Osborne took out his pipe and began to fill it gloomily. "And, I suspect, not nearly so much as that young devil Hardman could tell me."
"You mean he's suppressing evidence?"
"No. I doubt if it's evidence at all. I think that he's on to some good idea, and just because I annoyed him about that girl he's not saying anything." He sighed. "In view of all the stuff he's given us, we can't quarrel with him."
"About that girl business—d'you think there was anything in the idea of its being the murderer?"
"I don't know. First explanation, the vulgar one of a peeping Tom, spying on a loving couple on the river... By the way, I wonder if they are a loving couple? I'll swear Hardman's keen on her—"
"I don't see that it matters much," the superintendent interrupted. "What else?"
"Second explanation, that one of Hardman's colleagues, seeing Hardman get off with the murdered man's nearest relation, even went to the length of spying on a lady... And, personally, I'm inclined to think that's the best explanation. I hope so. Third explanation, that the murderer somehow sees danger in the association between those two. And, if that's so, I don't mind saying I think they're both in danger."
"You think that there will be more murders?"
"I'm terrified out of my life that there may be. You see, as long as it was just da Valgas, that was all right. It looked like a straightforward case of political assassination, and though, barring d'Estremada, we couldn't find the assassin, it didn't seem to hold any sinister possibilities. But then we have Van Weiman killed, and things begin to look bad. Because it opens up too many prospects. It might mean that here's a homicidal maniac abroad—"
"Smithers?"
"I don't know about Smithers." Osborne frowned. "He seems incredible as a murderer at all. But the trouble with maniacs is that they often behave in ways completely alien from their normal life, and show different qualities: Sane, Smithers is a timid, quiet little soul, without the initiative even to think of a murder. Insane, who knows? If you get a man as quiet and studious as Smithers, there must have been a terrible lot bottling up inside him."
"The one consolation is that we have got Smithers under control. So if it's a maniac, it's to be hoped that it is him."
"Yes. Well, another explanation of Van Weiman's murder would be that he had found out something connected with the first murder, and that is where the danger comes in to Hardman and the girl; because he's evidently prepared to kill anyone to avoid hanging."
"There's another yet—that the two crimes are really entirely separate—as you suggested just now."
"Yes. I don't like it, but it's possible. And there's yet another—or rather a variation of that one; in the sense that the first murder set the example for the second. The method, of course, is different. But murders and suicides often run in waves, as though a man said: 'Murder, eh! Good idea. Just what I ought to do about So-and-so!' or 'Suicide! That reminds me. Where's that gas oven.' It sounds silly, but it happens. The second murder might be a consequence of the first only in that sense—and that's where either Smithers or Grant might be murderers. They might just be reminded of the idea; or they might calculate on one murderer being blamed for both."
The superintendent made no comment. When he spoke, it was on an entirely different line.
"We have rather neglected the South American business," he said. "After all, it is the obvious motive for da Valgas's death."
"In view of the fact that we rounded up all the South Americans in Oxford, and a lot in London, inquired for miles around at hotels and so on; made special inquiries regarding possible secret societies, and arrested d'Estremada, I don't think we can be said to have neglected it. The trouble is that whatever we have done in the South American line we've come up against a dead end. That is, until now. This may lead to something. And I hope to Heaven it does!"
"After all, in a sense, the da Valgas murder is the more important. It has international significance."
"You don't have to tell me that. It's bad enough when the Home Office starts to sit up and stick pins into the Commissioner, but when the Foreign Office joins in, it's hell. Hardly a minute of the day passes but I'm reminded by one or the other that the affair is of international importance, and why the dickens don't I do something. Why—" He broke off as his assistant entered. "Hullo, Vincent! Any luck?"
The detective was carrying a book under his arm. He laid it on the table and opened it at a place marked with a slip of paper. His finger indicated a name. Osborne leant forward and read it aloud.
"'K. G. Rathley, Lewes, Sussex.' That him?"
"Practically a certainty, sir. The description, so far as we had one, is the same. Besides, d'Estremada called on him once—"
"He did?"
"Yes. I took along a photograph in case, and they hadn't the least doubt. That's our man... But that's not all. Notice the writing, sir?"
Osborne studied the line again, without getting any inspiration.
"Nothing special," he said.
"Maybe you're not so familiar as I am with it, sir. It's Gentleman Gerald's."
"What?"
"I'd swear to it. It's not so long since I tried to get him in that other case—the shares swindle. We'd plenty of specimens of his writing in that."
Osborne looked at it in bewilderment. "I don't doubt you're right," he said, "though, of course, we'll verify through headquarters... But I don't understand it. It's out of his line—murder, I mean. What did they make of him at the hotel?"
"A perfect gentleman, sir..." His line was a retired military man, and he seems to have made a hit all round. And, from what I can gather, nothing's missing and no guests swindled, so he must have been on his best behaviour. That looks bad!"
"If you wouldn't mind explaining..." the superintendent pleaded.
"Gentleman Gerald's line is confidence trick, share swindles, blackmail, anything which lends itself to being pulled off by a man of plausible address and good appearance... What he's doing in this galley, I don't know... But we soon will. 'Phone headquarters to pull him in, Vincent. He'll talk."
"And d'Estremada?" the superintendent asked longingly.
"We'll hear what Gerald says first." Osborne smiled. "We've arrested d'Estremada once. We don't want to make any mistake. Only we'll watch—"
A knock at the door interrupted him. The sergeant on duty entered.
"The post office report that this cable from U.S.A. was received to-day for Mr. Van Weiman, sir," he said.
Osborne took the envelope. His face brightened. "Right, sergeant."
He waited until the sergeant had gone before he slit the flap. The superintendent was at his shoulder. They read it together.
"O.K. strawberry. Cable full arrest. Lance, Minnesota."
The superintendent looked up in bewilderment.
"What on earth—?" he asked.
Light dawned on Osborne. "It's the answer to Van Weiman's letter," he said. "But I'd say 'What the hell...?'"
HENWICK seemed particularly pleased with himself when Hardman met him again after tea.
"I've put one over old Osborne!" he said happily. "He wouldn't tell us about the rifle, would he? Well, I'd lay a dollar to a million I know where it came from."
Hardman only looked his interest. He himself was feeling distinctly depressed, and, in spite of their disagreement, he was not specially keen on stealing a march on the chief inspector.
"Good Lord, you might look excited!" Henwick complained. "D'you remember a paragraph in the papers a few days ago about a school up North being broken into, and a rifle being stolen? Supposed to be some madman of Communist leanings—from the slogans he left on the blackboards?"
"No, I don't think I do," Hardman admitted. "But it's interesting—from another point of view."
"Well, I did. I rang through to the office, and got them to look it up, and it seemed O.K. So I tackled Osborne, and he couldn't deny it. The rifle and the ammunition came from the armoury of the school O.T.C.!"
"The O.T.C. seems to be handy in these murders," Hardman smiled. "I suppose it's the one place where a young man may have learnt how to use a rifle. But the idea is not a bad one. Most of these day schools wouldn't be hard for a real crook to break into, and you'd have a gun which couldn't be traced to you. Of course, he'd have to do the collapsible stuff himself, and the O.T.C. would hardly run to silencers... But that was certainly pretty bright, Henwick. It may be really important."
He did not gratify his colleague's curiosity, but instead sought out Devenish, whom he found dressing for dinner.
"Got my father coming up," he explained. "Dining out... What was it?"
"What I wanted to know is this. Except in special circumstances, like that place in Holywell, could an undergraduate manage to leave Oxford for a night?"
"He could, if he got leave—what they call an exeat. If not, and he spent a whole night away, he'd almost certainly be spotted either by his landlady or his scout. Why?"
"Just an idea of mine, and there's maybe nothing in it. No, I won't keep you. Thanks very much."
He had a feeling that things were progressing as he made his way back to the hotel. In the lounge he found the chief inspector waiting for him. Osborne rose to his feet and smiled as he came in.
"I'm a penitent in a white sheet, and I bring a peace offering!" he said. "Come and have some dinner? That'll show that you've forgiven me—and besides, there's a lot I want to talk about."
"I'd love to," Hardman answered, smiling. "If only to evade my hard-working colleague. He gets a bit tiresome..."
"All the same, he put one over on me. Did he tell you?"
"Yes. About the rifle."
"Actually, it didn't matter. I could have given that out if I'd thought. However, it's maybe better from his point of view that I didn't. The others may miss it... But there's one thing about that that's rather interesting. Van Weiman wrote his letter on the Thursday, didn't he? Well, the school was burgled on Thursday night."
"There are several other things that are interesting, too. In the first place, a man couldn't drive from Oxford there and back and pretend he'd been in all night, could he? I mean, he couldn't manage it and the burglary between, say, ten and six?"
"Should think it was impossible."
"Well, then he would have to get a night's leave of absence from his tutor and college head. It might be interesting to know who did that—particularly among the suspects."
"I'll know everyone who did it by to-morrow." Osborne pulled out a pencil and made a note. "And the next, please?"
"An undergraduate has to have permission to have a car; he has to keep it in a special garage; and can only use it within restricted hours. It might be worth finding out whose car was missing. And, I might say, undergraduates can't hire cars to drive themselves."
"That's another point, certainly... I'll look into both those. And in the meantime, let's have dinner. D'you like the full-course show, or the grill-room?"
That night at least, Hardman's choice was the grillroom, and after steak and chips, helped out by mushrooms and a tankard of beer, he felt that the past was completely dead, so far as Osborne was concerned. And during the meal the chief inspector studiously avoided any discussion of the murders. Instead, he produced amusing episodes from a varied career, which Hardman could sometimes equal. Only with the coffee did he reveal what was at least in part the object of his invitation.
"This isn't entirely penitence," he said. "It's partly that I'd like to talk things over with someone who can offer constructive criticism and suggestions—"
"Thank you."
"Not at all. And to unburden my mind. You've no idea how people fuss you in a case like this. They seem to think you don't want to solve the damned business, and will do it better if they worry your head off. What I'd like to do if you could bear it is to go through the list of suspects as I see them. You can tell me if there's anything wrong."
"You flatter me. But go ahead."
"First, in the da Valgas murder. It's a curious thing to me, but actually we have no suspects, except d'Estremada, Gentleman Gerald, and an unknown accomplice, male or female... Oh, I forgot, you don't know about the last two. Gentleman Gerald was overheard plotting with d'Estremada for some kind of dirty work on the first of the month—and he's a well-known crook."
"That ought to satisfy you."
"It doesn't. D'Estremada confessed to having some kind of dirty game intended to discredit young da Valgas. For a business like that he couldn't have chosen a better man than Gerald. His speciality is blackmail; but the idea of his doing a murder, or arranging one, is absurd. We've still got to hear what he's got to say, but, at a guess, the intention was to entrap da Valgas into some compromising situation, so that d'Estremada could make capital out of it."
"And you've no one else?"
"No one essentially connected with the first murder. After the second murder, one may say that Grant is a good shot; or that Smithers could use a rifle; and so on. But there's no evidence whatsoever against them so far as da Valgas is concerned."
"Which," Hardman commented, "may be significant. But go on."
"We'll take the second murder. First and most obvious suspect is Smithers, who is off his head, has practically declared his intention of revenging himself, who has the opportunity better than anyone. But he's far from satisfactory. One's inclined to think that that outbreak of violence against Jameson was the first occasion on which he lost his grip; so he probably didn't murder da Valgas. I can't imagine his cutting Van Weiman's throat even when mad. And we'd no evidence that he had the knife. It will be interesting to hear his account of things if he comes round. We may know then."
"Incidentally, if the man who followed us was the murderer, it couldn't have been Smithers, who is shut up."
"That's true. Then, take Grant. Grant, if what Henwick says is correct, had a motive. He had the opportunity. He was most unsatisfactory as a witness; has lied once, and I suspect is still lying. He had blood on his hands, which, almost certainly, he did not get in the way he said. There's a good case for arresting him. And yet—?"
"You don't think he fills the bill?"
"No. For one thing, before I go so far, I'd like to be able to prove that he had the weapon, or could have got it easily, or would have known how to use it like that, if he had it. And, finally, neither Smithers nor Grant, so far as we can see, appear to have had anything to do with that urgent letter to Minnesota."
"I thought you didn't pay much attention to that?"
"I'm not sure that I did. But this came to-day."
He handed over the cable form. Hardman read it and smiled ruefully.
"And that's hardly more helpful than the traces on the blotting-pad. Of course, you can trace this?"
"We're trying to. It shouldn't take long to find who sent it, and then he can tell us all he knows. The question then will be, how much did Van Weiman tell him? He was asking for information. I'm not sure he'd give much away... But the last few words do seem to indicate a criminal, and one known in the United States. That certainly doesn't fit our suspects. I've got the police now going through lists of Van Weiman's friends and acquaintances, but even that seems to get us nowhere, or hasn't done yet."
Hardman frowned over the cable. "It looks to me," he said slowly, "as though one ought to look for the person referred to rather among the criminal classes than in the university. Evidently it's for something done before either of these murders that he's to be arrested. I think you said something yourself about the good technique of all the crimes, indicating previous experience. You'd hardly expect that among undergraduates."
"No. Except that undergraduates really are a mixed lot. There might be a retired Bill Sikes who'd felt the urge for education, and had been coached through his entrance exams. Why not?"
"Why not a tutor?" Hardman grinned. "Even the vice-chancellor—"
"You're getting frivolous. But the point is..."
"Excuse me a moment." Hardman had seen a familiar face in the doorway, and he got up just in time to intercept Holbourn as he was on the point of turning away.
"My dear chap," Holbourn greeted him with an attempt at enthusiasm. "I never thought that I should see you—"
"You've kept that little matter in mind?" Hardman asked. "Any luck?"
"No." Holbourn looked round nervously. "But do you think we ought to talk about it here. You said it was dangerous—"
"Of course. And, don't forget, it may be. But ring me or look me up the minute you see him—if you do."
Holbourn gave a sickly smile which was evidently meant to signify assent, and Hardman returned to the table from which Osborne had been watching with interest.
"Another suspect?" he asked. "He didn't look a bold bad villain."
"No. As a matter of fact, he's a man who's just looking out for me to see if he can pick things up. He's not too keen on the job, either, but it has a sort of ghastly fascination."
Osborne was thoughtful. "Really, you know, that's a good idea," he approved. "I mean, if the murderer is an undergraduate, undergraduates would be more likely to hear of what had been going on than anyone else; they'd know the background, so to speak... Have you a large corps of assistants?"
"Up to date I know Revel, Devenish, that chap, Miss Douglas— I really think that's the lot. But Devenish is the chief of staff, so to speak. Every now and again he brings me titbits or gives me information on points of etiquette—"
"Not Miss Douglas?"
This time, perhaps owing to the soothing influence of the meal, Hardman took it in good part. He grinned; then sobered suddenly.
"By the way," he asked, "did you put someone on watch?"
"I did. I even braved the wrath of the dean of her college by asking if I could put a policeman in the garden. I can't help feeling that she'll be quite safe in college. If I were the murderer, I'd face anyone rather than the dean."
"But there is someone there?"
"Yes. There's to be a four-hourly relief, as a matter of fact, and if the murderer gets in—well, I'll retire." He looked at Hardman curiously. "You seriously think there's danger?"
"Seriously, I do. I mean, I should think the same if it were anyone else..." He coloured a little. "You see, it's not what she does know, so far as I can make out. It's what the murderer may think she knows."
"In that case," Osborne said slowly, and glanced at the clock, "I've a feeling that we'd better just pay a little tour of inspection. You see, I'm not so sure that anyone at the station takes it very seriously... Certainly you're not popular with at least three policemen... Will you come? It's only a few minutes' walk."
But almost on the threshold he changed his mind. "On the whole, I think I'd better just look round at the station first," he said. "I don't expect there'll be anything, but—"
"Have you a telepathic warning of evil?" Hardman smiled.
"No. But I didn't tell them where I was going—and one never knows what may crop up. If you don't want to be disturbed, it's always best not to let them know where to find you!"
"Do you know," Hardman confessed as they walked down the street, "I myself am almost beginning to believe in thought-transference?"
"Thought-reading really would be handy for a detective. Think of all trouble it would save—"
"No, but seriously, in the present case... You had some grounds for searching New College tower; but I'd only got a very general theory that it's easier to shoot straight than upwards. When I look at all the places that shot might have been fired from, it does seem extraordinary luck that I should strike the place, even at the fourth attempt."
"It was," Osborne said simply.
"Then there was the way Van Weiman attracted me right from the start—when, really, there was no reason to be excited about Van Weiman, and one or two other smaller things. I could almost believe that because I tackled this affair with no reasonable method, no experience, and a vacant mind—"
"Exactly," Osborne approved.
"That I did pick up some impressions which I shouldn't otherwise have done."
Osborne glanced at him curiously. "There are people who regard it as proved," he said cautiously. "But everyone agrees that it acts in an irregular and awkward kind of way and that there's no controlling it properly. Otherwise I'd like you to apply your talent to the murderer's mind. But... What's this?"
They were approaching the police station. A worried-looking sergeant was standing on the steps looking out, as if expecting someone.
"It almost looks as though I had the gift myself," he added, quickening his pace. "Or else it's the effect of being with you—the man for whom things happen... What is it, sergeant?"
"I'd sent to look for you, sir," The sergeant was evidently relieved. "Mr. Smithers has come round, and wants to talk. The doctors didn't want it, but he was so insistent that they had to let him. The superintendent's there. Your car's ready—"
Osborne was already opening the door of it. "Jump in," he said. "I wonder if he'll confess?"
THE superintendent's arrival at the hospital had only just preceded their own, and they found him being admonished by a stern-looking doctor whose mind was clearly absolutely made up.
"You can't question him on any account," he was saying. "You mustn't worry him in any way. All you can do is to listen to what he's got to say, calm him down and clear out again... I don't mind saying that your coming at all is a risk; but it looks as though he'll get no peace until you do, and I suppose it suits you better this way. But you must be guided by me."
At the door they had to wait, while the doctor entered. They could hear Smithers's voice, tremulous but insistent. Then the doctor returned.
"Two of you keep out of sight—at the head of the bed," he said. "Which will do the talking?"
The superintendent nodded to Osborne.
"Right," the doctor assented. "Come in."
Smithers was sitting up in bed. He was ghastly pale, with dark rings under his eyes, and his features worked nervously at intervals, but he was evidently comparatively sane. As he caught sight of Osborne he leant forward eagerly.
"You—you're the police?" he said tremulously. "I want to confess—to tell everything. I must tell you—"
"Sure you're well enough?" Osborne seated himself calmly in the single chair by the bedside. "There's no need to upset yourself, you know—"
"But there is. You don't understand... I don't know myself—what happened. I've got to know. If I tell you all—all that I remember, perhaps you can explain. I'd rather have done it than not know!"
"Very well," Osborne assented. "But we know a certain amount. Mr. Jameson told us you came down—"
"Did he tell you I tried to kill him? I did. I couldn't help myself. The poker was there... I'm going to tell you everything as far as I can. I was reading—it was getting very late, but my examination is so near, and I can't sleep until late now... I heard the boards creak and my door open; then steps on the stairs. Something seemed to snap inside me... I'd always hated their using my window. It's wrong. And, lately, it's been used so often. I'd wake in the night, not knowing whether it had been used or not... I never believed before in demoniac possession. Now, I think I do... Something entered into me—"
"You went downstairs?" Osborne prompted gently.
"Yes. I taxed Jameson with it. That was when I tried to kill him. But he was fearfully nice about it. He said he'd stop them, and tell Grant when he came in. He gave me some whisky and took me up to bed. Only, I don't know why, I didn't stay there. Almost as soon as he'd gone I went back to the sitting-room. I couldn't read. I sat there thinking, planning things. Then I heard the noises again. I got to the bedroom window just in time to see Van Weiman getting out—"
"Van Weiman?" The chief inspector could not check the interruption. "You're sure?"
In the background the doctor frowned and shook his head warningly.
"Absolutely sure. Of course, it was too dark to see his face. Then, I thought, he was outside, and Grant was outside. They'd be coming in. I'd wait in the darkness. I'd show them..." He broke off. There was a flush on his face. The nurse stepped forward holding a tumbler, but he waved it away impatiently. When he spoke again his utterance was broken and indistinct. "I don't know! The stars danced... Perhaps it was a dream. I'd killed someone. I was a murderer—the murderer. I don't know who I'd killed... Then I found myself in bed. There was blood on my hands! Blood—blood—"
"Listen," Osborne said imperatively. "You didn't kill Van Weiman. I can tell you that certainly, now. The medical evidence shows that he died soon after three. It must have been four at least before you left Jameson's rooms. By the time you fell asleep and dreamed, it must have been half-past four at least. You dreamed. You couldn't have killed Van Weiman."
"You mean—" Smithers faltered.
"I mean you didn't murder Van Weiman. And no one else was murdered, so you didn't murder anyone. The blood had dripped through the ceiling. All that happened was that you were overwrought, and you dreamed. You're perfectly innocent."
"But the murder—on the tower..." Smithers swayed weakly. "How do we know that—that it wasn't I who..." He looked at Osborne appealingly. "Can't you see that if this had happened once it might have happened before? Without my realising? I've had so many dreams—terrible dreams—"
"No amount of dreaming could enable you to commit that particular crime. When it happened, you were in bed and asleep. You've committed no crime—done no murder. You've got to believe that. And you've got to keep quiet—"
Smithers's face had relaxed while the chief inspector spoke. He almost smiled.
"I—I couldn't—have—done it!" he said very slowly. "Then—I can—sit for my exam..."
He fell backwards limply on the pillow. The doctor thrust forward, and bent over him. Then he nodded with satisfaction.
"Only sleeping," he said, and motioned with his head towards the door. It closed behind them, and he turned to Osborne. "I congratulate you, inspector," he said. "It was what he wanted... Was it true, by any chance?"
"Oddly enough, I believe it was!" Osborne rejoined. "Thank you, doctor. Good-night."
Outside in the street the first few drops of a rainstorm were beginning to fall. They stood in the porch, buttoning their coats before making for the cars.
"You did mean it?" the superintendent asked.
"Yes. I don't believe the surgeon would make an error to that extent. Thinking it over, I don't see how Smithers could possibly have done the second murder."
"But the first?"
"That wasn't done in one single outburst of insanity. That had been planned. If there was any sign that Smithers had a kind of fixed idea that would operate over a long period of time, I might believe it. But he had to steal the rifle, prepare it, take it to the tower, arrange some way of getting into the tower, and finally, shoot accurately and get away again. A man who is mentally sick in the way he is couldn't do it. I'm pretty certain now that one suspect is wiped off. I wouldn't have believed him if he'd confessed."
The superintendent digested this. "By the way, it was queer about Van Weiman's going out, wasn't it?" he asked. "And it couldn't have been long before the murder... But which of them was it who came in when he first heard the sounds."
"It wasn't one of them," Osborne said slowly. "It wasn't Van Weiman who went out. It was the murderer."
"Good God!"
"Just after three, when Smithers was talking to Jameson, the murderer, whoever he is, was killing Van Weiman... Incidentally the whole affair must have been rather a shock to him; for I've no doubt he heard something of the struggle between Jameson and Smithers. I think he waited for things to quieten down. Of course, he had to go out through Smithers's room. There's no other way. Thank Heaven Smithers wasn't there!"
"Then—it wasn't Grant?"
Osborne did not reply at once. "This morning, I thought so," he said. "Then the story Mr. Henwick discovered came along. One would have thought that that would confirm my suspicions, but as a matter of fact, it worked the other way. It made me think that perhaps Grant had done something that night which he didn't like to own up to—but not necessarily the murder. Now, the Alpine-climbing business is nothing. The university might fine you, or send you down, or make you pay damages; but there's no real stigma attached to it in the minds of most men and women... In this other business, there might well be, for the people whom Grant cared about. You see?"
"But—" the superintendent began, and stopped.
"To-morrow," Osborne went on, "I shall see Grant again, tell him all we know, and how we can find out more, and ask him for the truth. I shall go to him expecting that he'll clear himself. Because, if he was at the house the previous night, isn't it quite possible he was there that night. And mayn't, say, the husband have a squashed nose or a broken lip to account for the blood?"
"But, in that case, who's left?" the superintendent burst out. "We're farther away than ever. First d'Estremada, then Grant, then Smithers... There's no one left!"
"We'll see." Osborne passed a hand across his eyes a little wearily. "Let's get along, shall we?"
Hardman had listened in silence to the conversation. Now he spoke.
"But you said you were going to the college," he reminded. "Just to see how things were. In case the man on duty didn't treat it seriously—"
"Oh, Lord!" Osborne groaned. "Right. We'll go... Are you coming, superintendent?"
The superintendent only grunted disapprovingly.
"I'm going home to bed," he said. "It's damn nonsense, and it's pretty hard on the men who have to be out on a night like this for nothing... Good night, Osborne! Good night, Mr. Hardman!"
There was deep resignation in Osborne's manner as he took the wheel and started the car into what was now a driving blizzard of rain.
"You know, I rather agree with the superintendent," he confessed. "If I'd not been a kind-hearted man, I'd never have put a man on at all—and now, being kind-hearted to one man is making me hard-hearted to three! Poor devils, they'll certainly have a night of it—"
"There's only one man?" Hardman asked. "At once, I mean? But how can they hope to keep an eye on a place that size?"
"They don't. Their business is purely to keep an eye on Miss Douglas's staircase. And besides, these women's colleges are so naturally like fortresses that there aren't many places where even the most active man, such as our friend Jameson, could possibly get in. The only way into this one is near the back entrance. Happily, that's also in sight of Miss Douglas's staircase. It's providential."
He stopped the car some little distance before they reached their destination, running it into a side street. He caught Hardman's eye and explained.
"I'm not quite sure if this is a sort of disciplinary visit to teach the constables that they must do what they're told, no matter how damn silly it is," he explained, "or if we're on the trail of a desperate murderer. In either case we needn't advertise our presence more than we have to. And if you get wet, you've only yourself to blame."
Walking up the deserted street, with the rain driving in his face, Hardman himself was more than half inclined to think they had come on a fool's errand. They reached the long wall bounding the college garden.
"Where is your man?" Hardman asked. For no reason at all he found himself whispering. "I don't see him?"
"I thought I told you that he was inside," Osborne answered impatiently. He was fumbling in his pocket for a key, and the operation had released a stream of cold water down his neck. "Oh, damn! Here it is—"
He was still moving towards the small wicket gate when from inside the wall they heard a gruff shout, followed almost immediately by a scream of pain.
"Oo—oh!"
"What the devil...?" Osborne was searching for the keyhole desperately, but the blinding drops, and perhaps his very eagerness, made it difficult to find. "Ah—"
"There he is!"
Even as Osborne had found the keyhole and turned the key, Hardman saw a dark figure poise itself for a moment on the top of the wall higher up the street, then jump. For a few seconds the unknown was staggered by the shock of the nine-foot drop; the next instant he was on his feet and racing away from them.
Head down against the wind, Hardman dashed after him. He had a quick glimpse in the yellow light of a gas lamp; then the darkness swallowed his quarry again. Heavy footsteps behind him told him that Osborne was following, and making a pace one would scarcely have expected. Another glimpse of the man in the lamplight. Hardman had the impression that he swerved, and at the side turning the other side of the lamp slackened speed: then stopped as the chief inspector joined him. They stood there together. The sound of the stranger's footsteps had ceased.
"Where is he?" Hardman whispered. "Which way?"
"There!"
Osborne pointed. Already well down the side street a dark shadow flashed across one of the pools of light cast by the lamps. But its speed was incredible. He had started after it with a feeling of bewilderment and hopelessness when Osborne's shout recalled him.
"Come back! You can't race a bicycle!"
It was only then that Hardman understood. The intruder, with greater forethought than themselves, had arranged a comparatively rapid and unobtrusive means of escape. Osborne was still standing there when he retraced his steps.
"The car?" Hardman asked.
"No, curse it!" Osborne said. "I didn't reverse. The man would be half a mile away before we got it going. And we'd have no idea where he's gone. No, the telephone! Back to the college, and find out what's happened—I'll use this box here and follow."
In the college buildings lights were flashing up as the alarm spread. As he opened the wicket, he saw more lights on the lawn, occasionally throwing into silhouette the dark group which surrounded them. He hurried forward. A figure detached itself and flashed a torch on him.
"Superintendent?" a female voice said sternly. "You—"
"No!" Hardman disclaimed the honour, and the responsibility, hastily. Something about the voice told him that this was the dean of whom Osborne had spoken; something in the poise of the black shadow which represented her told him that she was one of those rare persons who can be magnificent even in a dressing-gown. "I'm with Chief Inspector Osborne," he explained. "He's coming immediately."
"Your man's been hurt," the voice informed him. "Or else he's had a fit. He's not regained consciousness yet."
"No one—no one else is hurt?" Hardman was seized with a sudden anxiety. "Miss Douglas—she's all right?"
Perhaps something in his tone aroused suspicions. The shadow behind the flashlight seemed to study him, and the voice which came was very dry.
"You're Mr. Hardman?"
It was almost an accusation. Hardman confessed.
"Yes. But Miss Douglas—"
"I have already sent to inquire... Mary!"
"She's all right, miss, but she was startled. Miss Worthman's with her."
"That's right... What was it?"
"We saw a man climbing over the wall," Hardman explained. "He got away."
"H'm." If a lady grunts, the dean grunted. "Here's the inspector."
"I telephoned, but there's not a hope..." Osborne began, and seemed to realise in what presence he stood. "Oh. Good evening."
"Your man—" the dean began, but apparently the efforts of the rescue party had proved successful. The tall, dishevelled figure of the constable was extricating himself from the group. He came towards them.
"Don't know how it happened, sir," he said with a distinctly crestfallen air. "I saw someone, and I grabbed him and called out. And then he grabbed me. The pain, I never felt anything like it. I had to drop him, and then I must have conked out."
"He got away." Osborne made no reproaches. "Nothing broken?"
"No, sir. The queer thing is I feel all right now."
"Good. We'll just make sure there's no one hurt—"
"I'll call the roll," the dean decided. "But I think not."
It was half an hour before they had finally satisfied themselves that no damage of any kind had been done. Leaving additional police, in the obviously vain hope of a return visit, Osborne left the college to try and resume its slumbers.
"That," he said, "was a fiasco. But if we hadn't had a man there it might have been worse than that. I think I'm beginning to believe in your intuition. Let's get home."
INQUIRY at the college next morning revealed on the one hand that Mary had suffered no harm as the result of the night alarm; but on the other that there was little, if any, chance of her escaping from the protective clutches of the dean before at least the afternoon. Both relieved and disconsolate, Hardman sought out Devenish, who was easily persuaded to abandon a whole morning's programme of lectures. He listened with astonishment to an account of the night's activities.
"But, when all is said and done, why should the murderer bother about Mary Douglas?" he asked. "She doesn't know anything about the murder, or the murderer."
"No, but perhaps he thinks she does... You see, I believe that Van Weiman's killing was a murder for self-protection, and fear is one of the most terrible motives one could have. He removed Van Weiman because he was afraid of what Van Weiman could tell the police about him; now he's afraid that some of that knowledge at least has been passed on to Mary."
"That won't wash. If she'd been going to pass it on, it would have been passed on long ago. What would be the sense of killing her now?"
"I don't know," Hardman admitted. "Maybe it's something she doesn't know she knows."
"Perhaps he believes that she had a copy of the letter Van Weiman sent off?"
"Perhaps. Let's try and work out what happened. I, as the murderer, know that you are about to send off, or have sent off, a letter which may result in my hanging. The contents of the letter, whatever they were, were not sufficient to cause me to destroy it immediately. I seem to have allowed it to be posted, but then to have concentrated on removing Van Weiman before an answer came. In other words, the danger lies not in the letter by itself, because whatever it contains can only be associated with me through Van Weiman—or, I am inclined to think, through Mary Douglas to a less degree."
Devenish nodded. "It needn't be the truth, but it does fit in," he admitted. "What next?"
"Above all things, I think, I should like to know as far as possible just what Van Weiman was doing. How could I keep an eye on him?"
"As a matter of fact, if he was in his sitting-room, that would be the easiest thing in the world, assuming that you had an acquaintance in the right part of the New College new buildings. They actually overlook all those Holywell houses. You'd station yourself in that room, and just wait."
"But suppose he hadn't the necessary acquaintance—and you must admit the odds are against it—"
Devenish thought. "Use one of the staircases. If any scout looks curious, ask whether Mr. So-and-so, whom you've previously ascertained to be out, is coming in to dinner."
"It's sheer conjecture," Hardman said dubiously. "But worth trying. We could, at any rate, run along to New College and see."
There was no doubt that the necessary staircase was available in approximately the correct spot; but any attempt to see into Van Weiman's room was thwarted by the net curtains.
"That wouldn't apply at night, if he hadn't drawn the blind and had the light on," Devenish suggested. "And after all, I imagine it's the evening after the letter was written that he's interested in, just to see what Van Weiman did next. But what did Van Weiman do—and how does it concern Miss Douglas?"
"Wait a bit. Mary met her cousin in the afternoon, coming away from Parsons' Pleasure. He has the letter, and presumably leaves it on the table; someone comes in and tampers with it, probably reading it; he comes back and finds it. We'll put that at about six o'clock. But he must have seen Mary some time afterwards that evening, and the most likely time is before dinner."
"Why must he?"
"Because she told me he had mentioned it to her the same day—"
A scout who had been watching Hardman a little suspiciously from over the iron railings, decided to make a tentative inquiry. He descended the short flight of stairs.
"Were you looking for anyone, sir? The college is closed—"
Devenish turned, and as luck would have it, recognised an old acquaintance.
"Why, hullo, Bill! You've changed your staircase."
"Yes, sir. And I'm afraid it's for the worse. The stairs here are wicked... I didn't know the gentleman was with you, sir."
"The fact is, Bill, we're just looking for the murderer. We've a strong suspicion he may have contemplated his victim from this very staircase. Seen anyone suspicious? Say, a week ago?"
The servant's face reflected his astonishment; but he considered the matter.
"I wouldn't say it was the murderer, sir. But there was a gentleman waiting a long time on the staircase, just about where you are, sir. That would be Thursday. We're taking more careful note of people these days, because of the pilfering—"
"Can you describe him?" Hardman asked eagerly.
"Well, sir, I don't know that I could. He'd got his back to me most of the time. A lightly built man—not thin, if you know what I mean, but wiry. He was dark—"
"When did he stand here? What time?"
"Well, he was here when I came on at five, sir. Then I think he must have gone away again, but he'd come back later. Altogether he must have been here an hour."
"You'd never seen him before?"
"No, sir. Nor since. You don't really think it might have been—"
"We do, actually. If you should see him again, give me a ring—or Mr. Hardman at the Clarendon."
They descended the stairs, and regained the street. Hardman was thoughtful.
"That was another lucky shot," he said. "That's two people we've got on the look out for him; though I'd back the servant before Holbourn. Still, one or the other may stop him some time. The next thing, strictly speaking, would be to find out whether Mary actually did see him, and, if so, if anything happened which would appear as though he was passing on the information to her. As it is, we can't do that, because they won't get her to the 'phone. So the question is, what next?"
"If the man's an undergraduate," Devenish suggested, "it might be a good idea to tabulate what we know must have been his movements. You see, undergraduates are very strictly supervised on many points. Therefore, if you found your man, and he'd followed the programme, it would be a strong link against him. And you could probably prove it."
"Well, let's see. He bathed at Parsons' Pleasure on Thursday afternoon; so he was out then. He was also out between the hours of five and seven. He then—"
"Probably went into college. Because he'd decided on the murder and had to get an exeat from his tutor on some excuse."
"He sets off almost immediately to do his little burglary act—by train or car?"
"We could look up the trains. But I should think myself he'd choose a car. If he couldn't get one in Oxford, and if he doesn't possess one, he'd get to some place like Danbury and hire one there."
"He arrives back next morning, complete with rifle, which he hides somewhere—not in his rooms. Perhaps not in the city at all, because he's going to do some improvement work on it. We'll assume he already has the silencer. For the next few days we know nothing about him—"
"Except that he may have acquired or made a key to fit the doors to the tower. He could get an impression all right."
"Then we come to the morning of the first murder. At what time does he go to the tower?"
"If he can get out of his digs, some time in the small hours, and wait there. Because when it's light, he might be seen. No, it would be better, actually, to go in the night before, but his landlady would notice. Of course, there are landladies who, liking to go to bed early, let undergraduates have keys, but they're rare, and they take a big risk. However, perhaps he had one. In the morning it would be all right. She'd think he'd gone to the May Morning celebrations—"
"Quite correctly!" Hardman smiled grimly. "He does his shooting, leaves as quickly as possible—taking the gun? No. I think he'd leave it, perhaps to remove it at some safer time. But he does remove it, and conceals it somehow so that no one notices."
"He's out again that night, when he knocks you on the head," Devenish supplied. "Yet again when he does for Van Weiman—and again to-night. He's quite a night-bird."
"Well, if we ever find out who he is, we should be able to pin it on to him."
"But, I say, aren't you assuming rather a lot? I mean, I can see that that letter of Van Weiman's might account for his death; but I don't see why da Valgas should be killed at all."
"Neither does Osborne." Hardman smiled. "Neither do I!"
"And you say it was a Spanish knife that killed Van Weiman?"
"That, I'm inclined to think, was a fine touch on the part of the murderer. He knows that, following da Valgas's death the mind of the police will be set on things Spanish and South American. So he gives them a Spanish knife to amuse themselves with. He must have known that they'd search the garden and find it. And, I suspect, it creates a nice little false trail."
They had reached the doors of the hotel. "Come in," Hardman invited. "I'd just like you to have a look at my copy of the blotting-paper impression again. I've a feeling we might be able to make some kind of reconstruction, with the help of the cablegram and such knowledge as we've acquired since. Here it is—my copy, I mean. Osborne has the original."
He spread it on the table, and they both pored over it. For some minutes there was silence. Devenish looked up suddenly.
"It was Thursday, wasn't it, that Van Weiman went to Parsons' Pleasure to bathe?"
Hardman nodded.
"Then that has got something to do with it. Look at 'urs... sons... bath.' That's obvious, I should say."
"I'd bet any money that you're right about that. But that doesn't bring us much nearer to 'strawberry... igh.' That's the bit that gets me: because the 'strawberry' part comes in the wire. It seems to have been what he was getting at, and what the other man thought was most important to have confirmed."
"But what about 'Lorelei'? I'm hanged if I see what that song has to do with it. Could it be a code?"
"'Ich weiss nicht was—'" Devenish began, but Hardman raised a protesting hand.
"I'd rather have Greek any day. That's your department. Does it convey anything to you? Has it a moral or anything?"
"The only moral I can see is that you may easily go on the rocks by listening to a beautiful lady. But that scarcely seems to apply—to his case."
"Then there's—" Hardman broke off as the waiter approached.
"Telephone call for you, sir. Gentleman named Holbourn, who says it's urgent!"
Hardman raced for the box with a speed which must have convinced the man that the description had not been inaccurate. He snatched at the receiver.
"Well?" he asked. "Hardman speaking!"
"Hardman, I've seen him! I've seen him!" Holbourn was evidently overflowing with his tidings. "I could never forget that face—"
"Where? How long ago?"
"Well, you see, I was on the Summertown bus. We were just running up St. Giles, and all at once I saw him. He was riding a bicycle down towards Carfax. Well, of course, I hardly knew what to do. It wasn't any good my getting off and running after him, and the bus wouldn't have stopped. So I decided I'd telephone. But somehow I missed the St. Margaret's Road kiosk, and I couldn't think what to do—"
"Where are you now, then?"
"Summertown!"
"What, you went right up there before you telephoned! He might be miles away by now."
"Yes. I'm afraid he probably is." There was a pause. "But, Hardman, I noticed something!"
"What?"
"He was wearing a gown. He's a member of the university! Isn't that amazing?"
"Nothing else? Surely you can at least describe him, now?"
"Well, I think he was dark, and fairly slim—" Holbourn's descriptive powers apparently gave out. "But, I say, Hardman!"
"Well?"
"Do you think he knows I'm after him? Because, if he did, mightn't he—"
"He'd never know you were after him in a million years," Hardman said bitterly, and replaced the receiver. He felt angry and disappointed. It was no use, half an hour afterwards, going out to look for one cyclist in a city where they are numbered in thousands. Holbourn had thrown away what might have been a good chance. If he had telephoned from the end of St. Giles, they might have been able to get a view of the cyclist.
He returned to find Devenish turning over the pages of a paper-backed thriller which someone had left on the table near them. But there was something feverish in his search which scarcely accorded with the type of work which he was reading. It was more as though he was consulting a reference book for some fact which he was very eager to know. All at once, he stopped, and put his finger triumphantly on a phrase half-way down the page.
"Look! There you are. 'Decided to take a powder on the gang.' You know, I'd an idea that I'd met the phrase somewhere, and that it didn't mean what it said. Of course, it means—"
Hardman covered his face with his hands. "Don't tell me," he begged. "To think I could miss that. Of course, it's American slang, or used to be, for when a member of a gang quits it. I think it was the strawberry that put me off." A sudden light broke upon him. "And, good heavens! It's not 'Lorelei'! It's 'Lorelli'! The gangster!"
BY a less inspired, but perhaps more efficient procedure, Osborne himself was in the process of acquiring the same information. On receipt of the cable, he had merely cabled back to the Minnesota police, asking that "Lance" should be discovered, and that the substance of Van Weiman's letter should be cabled back to him. He had expected a reply for some hours, but had been informed that delay had arisen in the actual locating of "Lansing," who was out of town somewhere in the wilder parts of the State.
"Which might explain why he saw no report of Van Weiman's death," Osborne commented as he handed the sheet across to the superintendent. "I'd been wondering about that. This would have been news even in the Middle West."
The superintendent nodded. "There's a gentleman waiting to see you," he said with a smile. "He was so eager to see you that he didn't even try to make the mountain come to Mohammed; he ran right down."
"Gentleman Gerald?"
"Yes."
"I'll polish him off now. Then we can look up d'Estremada. Between the lies told by the two of them we ought to get the truth."
Gentleman Gerald's manner was palpably nervous as he was ushered into the presence. He had had dealings with Osborne before, and had never liked them. But what appalled him most was the murder charge which might lie in the background. Pure swindling, or, for that matter, impure swindling, was one thing. Killing people was something you got hung for, and Gerald had no wish to hang.
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise, Gerald," Osborne greeted him genially. "Won't you sit down?"
"Good morning, Mr. Osborne." Gerald did not at once obey the invitation. "As soon as I received your request, Mr. Osborne, I hastened down at once—"
"Which was just as well, Gerald. It saved us all trouble. But you must be tired. Sit down, won't you?"
Gerald obeyed gingerly. It was not the first time he had obeyed similar invitations, nor the first police station in which he had sat down, but custom had not inured him to it. He disliked it more each time.
"Now, Gerald," Osborne began. "About the Magdalen murder. You're acquainted with Seņor d'Estremada, I think?
"Hardly acquainted, Mr. Osborne, sir. A friend just introduced us."
"The Heaven preserve you from your friends. So you were hardly acquainted with the seņor, but you came right down to Oxford to meet him. If it wasn't friendship, Gerald, what was it? Business?"
"In a way you might say so, Mr. Osborne," Gerald admitted, "but not my regular business. I was just obliging a friend. There was nothing wrong. You can't do a thing to me, inspector, and I tell you—"
"I suppose there was nothing really wrong about these two murders we've had here, eh? It's all a matter of point of view. Am I to understand that you'd rather not tell me your business, Gerald?"
"You—you're mistaken, sir. That's what I came here for... You see, sir. I'm trying to go straight—"
Osborne and Vincent both smiled, and Gerald abandoned the virtuous innocent rôle.
"Anyway, I couldn't see there was a pinch in it. I can't now, so I tell you straight, inspector. It was like this. The seņor had a friend here, a young boy, a South American like himself—he's the son of some big nob out there—"
"Yes. I've heard of da Valgas."
"The seņor says to me: 'He's a nice boy, and I don't want him to get into mischief, but young men will be young men. If we could find some really nice girl, Major Rathley, and introduce him, it might keep him in hand a bit. With your large acquaintance, Major, I hoped you might know someone suitable.' And I wanted to oblige my friend, so I said: 'Seņor, I can find you any kind of a girl'—meaning a nice girl, of course—and it was settled that I should, and bring her down, and that I was to be her uncle—"
"The last nice girl you found, Gerald, was for a gentleman from New South Wales, and she turned out to be your wife, and it cost him Ģ50. When did you marry that girl, Gerald? I'd have had you for that but he wouldn't prosecute or give evidence. Was that the idea this time?"
"No, sir. Nothing like it. The seņor was most particular about that. 'No blackmail, now,' he said, 'not until I give the word, anyhow.' And I said, 'Seņor, if you wanted that done, you'd have to find someone else.'"
"And I suppose he laughed. You mean that all this was done out of friendship? That you were constituting yourself a sort of unpaid social agency—with a view to matrimony, and so on? Is that what you're asking me to believe?"
"Well, it was understood I should have my expenses paid—"
Osborne sighed and looked patient. A question was shaping on his lips.
"A hundred down—two hundred if he fell for her!" Gerald abandoned the rôle of benefactor. "But, you see, it all fell through. I never had a cent, not even railway fares. The very day I was to bring her up—"
"Yes. So, on the line of 'Who does it benefit?' you're right out of it, Gerald. You didn't. You lost. The murderer ought to have been more considerate."
"Look here, Mr. Osborne. I've done nothing wrong—"
"I don't know. It all depends what view a magistrate took of your bringing a girl down here. Personally, of course, I know any girl you brought down would be tough enough to look after herself, but—"
"Anyway, I've told you the whole truth, Mr. Osborne."
"Yes. I believe you have—with minor frills which don't matter, because a child could see through them... I'll just see what your friend has to say about it, if you wouldn't mind waiting."
"I'm not pinched?"
"Not yet, certainly. Be good, and you will be happy."
Seņor d'Estremada arrived in some trepidation. Osborne plunged right into the midst of things.
"I've evidence, seņor, that the following conversation took place between you and a gentleman described as Major Rathley a few days before the murder."
D'Estremada's face whitened as the report was read.
"But—but—it had nothing to do with that—"
"Perhaps you'd explain?"
"You see, it was like this, inspector. A friend of mine knows a girl who was anxious to meet this young man da Valgas. Of course, holding the views I do, I was opposed to it, but I gave way at last—"
"You didn't give Gerald his hundred pounds?"
"Why, of course, the murder made everything off. There was nothing to be done."
That was how Osborne himself was feeling. Almost certainly these particular conspirators were not concerned with the murder, and much as he disliked all of them, he failed to see exactly what could be done about it. It was only possible to administer a caution to Gerald, and try to pretend that in letting them off he was doing them a great favour.
"You see, they've done nothing that we can prove," he said sadly to the superintendent. "There wasn't any question of blackmail just yet—only blackening characters. There wasn't any immoral-purposes stuff. A marriage would have suited their book to perfection—"
"Mr. Grant has been waiting for you for about twenty minutes," the superintendent mentioned.
"I meant him to wait. It'll produce either a flaring rage in which he'll give anything away, or else a sufficiently subdued frame of mind for him to be handled properly. I don't care which it is."
"Actually, he looks scared. D'you think you've got him?"
"I think I'm absolutely going to acquit him," said Osborne, and left him speechless. Only as the door closed, he heard a sort of wailing cry: "But there'll be no one."
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Grant," he said, "but it's your own fault, for wasting a busy man's time by lying to him. I've got to ask you for yet a third version of your movements the night Van Weiman was murdered. If you take my advice, you'll make it a true one."
Grant was as white as death; he stared at Osborne with agonised eyes, but speech seemed impossible.
"I might tell you," Osborne said, "if it will be any help, that we know all about that East Oxford business."
Grant looked up miserably. "Then, what do you want me to tell you?" he demanded. "There's nothing else."
Osborne frowned. Apparently there was something which they had not yet fathomed. "It looks as though when I said we knew all about it I was exaggerating," he admitted. "For while what we've heard might give you a reason for killing Van Weiman, it doesn't give us any grounds for believing you couldn't. You mean that you were there the night he died?"
Grant nodded. "It can all be tested, the whole nasty business," he said wearily. "Unless—" His eyes grew wide with sudden horror. "Unless—perhaps they won't speak for me!"
"You'd better tell me about it."
"I gather you know that Van Weiman interfered once before. Well, I was angry at the time; but afterwards I was glad. Then I met her again, after she'd married. Some women don't settle down to marriage. She didn't—"
"I don't expect you helped her much," Osborne said dryly.
"Probably I didn't. Well, for the past week I'd been seeing her pretty regularly. Her husband worked late at nights, and I'd go there then. It sounds caddish, but I was simply infatuated with her... I suppose the neighbours talked. He seems to have stayed at home that night—especially for me. She didn't make any attempt to warn me. I believe she enjoyed it, and wanted to see which would win. I'm no chicken, but he had me every way. He's a great brute of a man—"
"And I expect he'll need to be."
"I think he will. You know, I've been thinking since what a fool she'd have made of me if I had married her... There was a fight. I got home one good blow on his nose—that's how the blood came on my hands. He landed me a beauty on the solar plexus, and in the fall I knocked my head." He raised his hair at one side to display the bruise. "I was an hour or so coming round. They did everything possible. I think they were scared of a manslaughter case. But she was merely contemptuous. I came home as soon as I could walk, but it took a long time. I was so all in that I never even noticed whether Smithers was in his room or not. And then Jameson tackled me. Of course, he knew nothing about it. He wasn't the sort of person you'd tell a thing like that. Besides, it was all over and done with. So I lied to him—as I lied to you next morning."
"Yes," Osborne said, "and if you'll take my advice, you won't try lying any more. And now, I wonder what happens? I shall have to check up on your story—"
Grant's face was strained. "They—they may not back me up," he said. "After all, he's no special reason to like me—"
"But he may have some respect for the truth. Now, look here, Mr. Grant, you've got into a silly mess. You've come near to being charged with murder; you may have ruined your career here, which probably means afterwards as well. If you do get out of it, for God's sake show a little more sense in future. I'll do my best—but I can't promise anything. That's all."
Half an hour later, Osborne had extracted from a taciturn and reluctant husband, who more than answered Grant's description, sufficient details to verify the young man's story. Portions of the fight at least had been witnessed by neighbours, and there could be no doubt that, if the police surgeon's estimate of the time of death was accurate, Grant was definitely out of it. He returned to the superintendent with this information, and found his colleague wrapped in gloom.
"You've proved d'Estremada and Gentleman Gerald didn't do it; you've proved Grant and Smithers didn't do it," he complained. "But who is there left? We're rather worse off than we were when we started."
"Worse off than we thought we were," Osborne admitted, "because then we thought that we'd several suspects, and that almost certainly one of them would have done it. But actually, we're better off, because we've cleared all this rubbish out of the way, and can see matters clearly."
"Which, no doubt, is a great consolation. But what, exactly, do we do? What possible line of approach have we left? Or do we just wait for another murder?"
"I don't say it couldn't be done that way," Osborne answered calmly. "Say, Miss Douglas or Hardman, both of whom are on the list for treatment next, unless I'm very much mistaken. That's why I'm having them both watched—"
"Both?"
"Yes. I didn't tell Hardman, because he'd almost certainly have kicked against the idea, but he's got a guardian angel, too. And if the murderer does have a shot, we should get him without casualties."
"You're surely not waiting for him to do that?"
"No. I'm waiting—"
A knock at the door interrupted him. A constable entered and handed an envelope to Osborne. He glanced at it.
"Speak of angels—" he said. "Unless I'm much mistaken, I was waiting for just this."
He ripped the envelope and extracted the forms which it contained. Moving forward, the superintendent read over his shoulder:
"Weiman's letter inquired strawberry birthmark on thigh, identifying gunman Lorelli who escaped, believed Europe, three years ago. Wanted here murders, robberies, etc. Dangerous. Aged about twenty-eight, five foot ten, slim build, dark, brown eyes—"
"That's it?" The superintendent looked up in amazement. "Good God! A gangster in Oxford!"
"In Oxford," Osborne assented. "Or that's what it looks like. Van Weiman, who'd been a journalist in America, must have spotted him, and, not being sure, he wrote back home asking for information. But Lorelli seems to have spotted Van Weiman, and knew that he'd written. So he decided to remove him—"
"But da Valgas?"
Osborne shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
"And if Lorelli was behind all this," the superintendent asked, "who is he? Where is he? How do we find him?"
"Those few points," Osborne said gravely, "are now, I think, nearly all I need to complete my case."
HARDMAN'S first impulse had been to ring up Osborne immediately and tell him of the discovery which they had made. But he was tempted. He had the feeling that he was on the very verge of a complete solution, and while it would be something to be able to tell the chief inspector what the motive of the crime had been, it would be more to present him with the criminal. A little resentment for the detective's raillery the day before still lingered, and made him wish to rub it in as much as he could. After Devenish had taken his leave, he found himself still in doubt. Then his decision was postponed.
"Mr. Hardman?" One of the under-porters came to the table where he was sitting. "Telephone call for you, sir. A Miss Douglas."
"Miss Douglas!" Hardman was on his feet and dashing towards the box almost before the words had left the porter's mouth. He snatched at the receiver.
"Mary! Is that you? You're all right?"
"All right, but getting very irritated!" She was trying to speak lightly, but it was not hard to discern the strain which she was feeling. "Philip, I can't stand this much longer. Everyone seems to think I'm Exhibit A, or something. I admit I was scared last night, but so was everyone. Now the dean always seems to be fussing over me as though she was afraid I might collapse at any moment. And, as if that weren't enough, I've seen glimpses of Osborne's watch-dog—trying hard not to be seen. I can't bear it, this—this spying and watching. I won't!"
Hardman was momentarily nonplussed. "Really, I think there is some danger," he said. "Last night shows that. It really is necessary—"
"I don't care if it's necessary or not. I've got to get away from it, or I shall go mad... Philip, I must see you. Will you take me out?"
"Now? For lunch?" Hardman's heart jumped at the prospect. "I'll be round—
"Wait! Not now... Because I couldn't give them the slip, and I don't want to lunch with the dean and half the city police force sitting all round us... No, I thought this afternoon. If you could bring your car—"
"Of course. What time?"
"I should think two o'clock would be the best time. The policeman will probably be sleeping off his lunch... That man last night—he wasn't hurt?"
"Hurt—but not injured. Someone practised a particularly painful bit of ju-jitsu on him, and got away while he was recovering from the effects. We nearly had him. You heard about that?"
"Yes. But there's ever so much more I want to hear about."
"And there's a lot I want to talk to you about... You remember that blotting-paper stuff—the copy I showed you?"
"Of course. I was looking at it to-day."
"I believe I've got part of it. 'Taken a powder' is gangster slang for—"
"I know! I'm a film fan myself—but I never thought."
"And it isn't Lorelei—it's Lorelli!"
He heard her gasp. "The gunman!"
"Yes. Your cousin must have found out about him somehow, and wrote to verify some details—"
"Why!" It seemed as if a sudden light had broken on her. "He's talked to me about that. Lorelli had a birthmark on his thigh, and he was left-handed. Of course, strawberry refers to that?"
"Yes. I didn't know that... I've not told the police yet. I want to get him myself. And I'm not far off, I think—"
"Tell me about it this afternoon—if you've not got him! At two o'clock. Of course, if you're just in the act of putting your hand on his shoulder and saying 'I arrest you in the name of—'"
"'The Morning Mercury'!" Hardman laughed. "I'll put it off and come anyway."
"No. Seriously, if anything should happen, couldn't you send someone? Devenish, say. Because I must get out. And going by my experiences this last few days, a journalist's wife—"
"Ought always to have two strings to her bow? I'm not sure that I approve of that sentiment, Mary. I've dozens of things I want to say to you, but I can't do it over the telephone—"
"This afternoon—perhaps. I don't know. You mustn't hurry me—"
"Two o'clock, then—at the back gate. And if I can't come, I'll send! Only I don't like substitutes, if you do!"
"Well, perhaps I'd rather have the genuine article!" He heard her laugh. "And now, good-bye!"
The veiled grin of a page boy as he left the box made him aware that he had forgotten to close the door, but he was feeling too cheerful to resent the disrespectful attitude of boyhood towards a sentiment from which it is inevitably doomed to suffer. He seemed to be walking on air as he retraced his steps towards the lounge. To his surprise, he discovered that he had a visitor. Revel rose from a chair in the entrance hall and stepped forward to greet him. He plunged into the business which had brought him without preliminaries.
"About Grant," he said. "I've heard a bit more—"
"That?" Hardman came down to earth. "Oh. Well, actually, we went into the business yesterday. All that you said was right. I think Osborne's seeing Grant to-day."
Revel frowned a little. "Do they think he's guilty?"
"I don't know. You see, it only gives him a possible motive."
Revel extended the evening paper which he carried in his hand. "You've seen this? Last night's affair—"
"Oh, yes. I was there, in fact."
"Miss Douglas?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice. "She's all right?"
"I've just been speaking to her. She wasn't hurt."
"Well, I suppose she's guarded," Revel said. "At least, I gathered from this account in the paper—"
"Oh yes. Day and night, I think—by the police, and the college... I don't think there's any danger."
"But I don't see what reason..." Revel broke out irritably. "Why should anyone try to hurt her?"
"I suppose the murderer thinks she knows something."
"But that's absurd." Revel waited as if for some comment. "Well, then, I think that's all. I'll let you know if I hear anything."
Hardman found himself smiling as the revolving door closed behind his visitor. The pretext, he thought, was obvious. Revel had not wanted to tell him about Grant so much as to hear about Mary Douglas, and he could sympathise with the feeling. He glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to one, hardly long enough to do anything useful before lunch, but just long enough to need filling somehow. Settling himself down in the lounge, he was just trying to put his ideas into some kind of order when he was again interrupted.
"Telephone call, sir. Chief Inspector Osborne would like to speak to you."
But it was not Osborne who answered when he lifted the receiver.
"I'm speaking for the chief inspector, sir," an official voice informed him. "Is that Mr. Hardman?"
"Speaking. Yes?"
"There's a new development, sir. I was to ask you to go at once to the towpath just beyond the Rollers. You know it, sir? The lower side?"
"I can find my way there. What is it?"
"I wasn't told, sir. I was to ask you to go at once."
"Right. I'll be there."
Hardman felt distinctly curious as he got out his car and started up the Cornmarket. He remembered the bit of path which was his destination. It lay between two branches of the river, and he guessed that in all probability it was the river which would be the object of their attention. But what had Osborne found there? It occurred to him all at once that it was only just below Parsons' Pleasure. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But he was still without any clue to what it could be when he drew his car up at the end of the path leading to the river. There was another car there already; he guessed, the car which had brought Osborne and the police. But there was no sign of them as he went down the track leading to the Cherwell.
He began to feel a little puzzled. There was a wooden bridge at the end of the path, and crossing it he could command an uninterrupted view of a fair part of the towpath; but there was still no sign of the police. He had expected to see dragging operations, or something of the kind; but so far as his view extended the path was empty. Presumably whatever had made Osborne send for him was lower down. He began to walk along the path.
"Ssssssst!"
Something whizzed past his ear. Almost before he had heard the little "plop" that accompanied it, he felt a searing pain as the second bullet struck him high up in the left shoulder. The impact whirled him round. He staggered and fell sideways into the stream.
Even in the shock of his sudden immersion and of the wound, the truth flashed into his mind. He had been shot. Probably the murderer was waiting. The water was deep enough to cover him and muddy with the recent rains. As he rose and sank again, he forced himself under water, pushing in towards the bank. His lungs seemed to be bursting. Soon he would have to come to the top. He edged a little farther into the bank and waited until he could hold out no longer. He raised his head to the surface and took a deep breath.
He had half expected a final shot. But nothing happened. From the direction from which the shot had come, he judged that the murderer must be on his own side of the stream. In that case, the towpath probably concealed him. But at any moment the firer might be expected to come along and make sure. He dived again and waited. The water was deadly cold. He felt a growing faintness from his wound. As he came up a second time, it was with the feeling that it was as well to die one way as another. He gripped the bank and pulled himself up.
There seemed to be no one in sight. Then, right at the edge of the field on the opposite side of the first stream which he had crossed, he saw a running figure. In a moment it had reached the hedge and vanished.
Danger was evidently past. His assailant was in full flight, evidently in the belief that he had been successful. He raised himself wearily on to the bank. The wound in his shoulder pained him, and he could feel a warm trickle in curious contrast to the icy touch of his clothes. Opening his shirt, he explored gently with his fingers. They were dyed red as he brought them away. Somehow he must stop the bleeding. Wringing out his dripping handkerchief, he padded it over the wound, and holding it in position, began to make his way up the path.
Perhaps because it was lunch-time, and raining slightly, there seemed to be no one about. As he reached the end of the path leading to the road, he was wondering whether or not he could drive his car. But that point was settled for him. Not only his car, but the other which had been standing there, had vanished. Feeling that he had already had as much as he could stand, he staggered towards the lodge of the Parks. A minute later he was trying to make an amazed keeper understand the immediate necessity for sending for Inspector Osborne.
Once the keeper understood, he proved distinctly helpful. As a St. John Ambulance enthusiast, he seemed even glad to have a genuine subject to practise upon. Removing Hardman's sopping coat and shirt, he bandaged him professionally, and the journalist was sitting up in dry clothes sipping coffee when the chief inspector finally arrived.
"Good God! I heard you were killed!" was his greeting. "The man I had following you has just come through on the 'phone. Said you were hit twice, and dropped into the river like a log, and that you didn't come up again—"
"Actually, I was hit once. I stayed under water for a bit—in case the murderer made sure. If I'd known your man was there—"
"I didn't tell you. I was pretty sure you'd object. But he came in useful. By the way, he borrowed your car—"
"He didn't get the man?"
"No. And the car was found abandoned. Probably stolen. We've lost track of him—temporarily... But, of course, he ought to have come back to see about you—"
"I was trying hard to convey the impression I was dead. And if I was he couldn't do much... That 'phone call was a fake, I suppose?"
"'Phone call?"
"Had a message purporting to come from you to go there. Of course, he knew I'd do it, got there first and plugged me... Well, I'll get back to the hotel, I think. This is nothing, is it?"
"Nothing much, sir." The park-keeper had been following the conversation with interest. "I think the bullet missed everything important."
"You didn't see the man, I suppose?"
"Not a glimpse. I saw a man running across the fields for a moment, but I rather think that that was my shadow going in pursuit. It leaves us just where we were."
Osborne frowned. "Any special reason why anyone should kill you?" he asked. "You didn't do anything this morning?"
"Nothing much. I was in the hotel most of the time... Oh. Well, I solved a part of that blotting pad stuff. It's not Lorelei, but Lorelli—"
"You got that?" Osborne asked in surprise. "Why, I've just had it by cable... Who knew about it?"
"Why—only Devenish, I should think. And Miss Douglas. I rang her up."
"Devenish?" Osborne said thoughtfully. "You've known him a long time?"
"Not very. A couple of years. I met him accidentally in London..." All at once he saw the bearing of Osborne's questions. "But, good Lord, that's absurd!"
"Are you sure it is?"
"Of course. Besides, you forget he was on the tower with me when da Valgas died."
"Da Valgas?" Osborne repeated. "I've been wondering if the two really are linked up. He could have done the rest—"
"But they are linked up. Obviously. And I know why da Valgas was killed—"
The telephone bell rang sharply. The park-keeper lifted the receiver and then handed it to Osborne.
"For you, sir. The police station."
"That you, Osborne?" It was the superintendent's voice.
"Yes. What's up now?"
"We've an undergraduate here. Fellow called Holbourn. Had a message for Mr. Hardman, and refuses to give it to anyone else. Says it's urgent... I've not told him Hardman's dead."
"He's not. He's here. I'll put him on—and you put your man on. After all, you can listen in!"
Osborne extended the receiver and explained. "Man called Holbourn wants you. Seems to have gone to the station in search. He'll be on now."
Holbourn's voice was squeaky with excitement as he spoke.
"Is that you, Hardman? Hardman, I've seen him! I was with Devenish at the time—but I didn't tell him, in view of what you said. I 'phoned for you, but you were out. I went to the police, thinking they'd know— It wasn't ten minutes ago."
"Where?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, he was in a car in the Woodstock Road. He'd just stopped for petrol. There was a girl with him—"
"A girl?" Hardman stiffened. "Who?"
"A—a Miss Douglas, Devenish said—"
"My God!" Hardman swayed, and the receiver dropped from his hand. Osborne caught it, and it was he who received the final words.
"And, oh, I say, Hardman! Devenish said the man's name was Revel!"
LONG before lunch-time the constant supervision to which she found herself subjected had become intolerable to Mary Douglas. By himself, the detective who so carefully effaced himself might have been endured; but it seemed to her that, anxious for the reputation of the college, the entire staff of the senior common-room took turns to be in her neighbourhood, and there seemed to be, even in the attitude of her friends, an air of veiled curiosity and almost suspicion.
Her call to Hardman had been in the nature of an S O S when she had at last felt the strain unendurable. The mere prospect of release cheered her; and that very fact aided her evasion. For the dean, in her heart, was far less afraid of a stray murderer than of some outburst comparable to Smithers's which might result in scandal, and the improved spirits of her charge made her unconsciously relax a vigilance which she fondly hoped had not been noted.
Mary had finished lunch, and was on the way to her room, noting as she went the whereabouts of the detective and other possible watchers, when the porter hurried up to her.
"There's a message for you, miss," he said, "from Mr. Hardman. He just rang up and said: 'Make it a quarter to, and we'll be in at the death.' I asked him about it, miss, but he wouldn't explain. He said you'd know."
"Thanks, James. That's quite all right."
As the porter took his leave, she glanced at her watch. There was only five minutes before she had to go, and she had to plan quickly. She had located the detective in a staircase the other side of the quad, sufficiently near the gate to intercept her if he wished. But would he intercept her? The more she thought it over, the more she became convinced that he held a watching brief only, and had no instructions to exercise any control over her actions. In any case, if she were to be close to the gate and wait until she heard the car draw up, she only needed a minute or two; and in that time neither dons, detectives nor anyone else should be able to stop her.
Instead of going to her room, she captured the girl who lived in the room immediately below her.
"Janet," she said, "I want you to walk round the quad with me, just aimlessly... I'm going out, and I don't want any fuss."
"But why shouldn't you?"
"Perhaps you've not noticed, but I have. The dean and the others know that that business last night was on my account. They're watching me all the time... I don't say that they could stop me going out, but there'd be a lot of bother, and I can't stand it. There's a car coming at quarter to two."
"You're not running away?" Janet, who had a simple, obedient nature, was a little appalled at the thought.
"Of course not." Mary laughed. "I'm simply tired of this, and I'm going out for a drive with—with someone."
"Your journalist friend? Mr.—Mr. Hardman?"
Mary blushed, and felt ridiculous. "Yes," she said irritably. "And I suppose that must be frightfully interesting to the whole college. Sometimes I hate women..."
They were nearing the end of the quadrangle. She could see no signs that her various self-appointed guardians suspected. Almost opposite the gate, she heard a car approach and draw up outside. She turned to Janet.
"I'm going," she said briefly. "Now you'll see if it's nonsense about my being watched or not."
Almost before she had finished speaking she made a dive for the gate. The reaction was immediate. From the doorway of one of the nearby staircases a large man who would have been recognisable anywhere as a policeman in plain clothes dashed out into the open, stood for a moment as if doubtful, and started after her. From the other end of the quadrangle the dean, who had been talking to a couple of undergraduates, began to hurry purposefully after her quarry.
But Mary was outside. She had almost jumped into the seat of the waiting car before she noticed the driver.
"Right, Philip... Oh! It's Mr. Revel!"
"Hardman sent me. Jump in. I'll explain."
Revel glanced towards the gate. "Here come your watch-dogs. I'll explain later."
Her hesitation had only been momentary. Then she remembered her arrangement with Hardman, got into the seat and closed the door. The car started just as the detective reached the roadway and stood looking helplessly after them.
Revel swung the car round a corner and turned towards the Woodstock Road before he spoke.
"Hardman couldn't come," he said. "I understood that you'd some kind of an understanding that he should send someone else if he couldn't get himself."
"He—he's not hurt?"
Revel smiled. "He's just as he should be," he said. "But there have been developments—rather startling ones, I gather. I believe they're hoping for an arrest... He asked me to take you up towards the Trout Inn. He'll be waiting for us on the towing-path up there."
"But why?"
Her companion shrugged his shoulders. "I've not the faintest idea," he said. "It's been puzzling me to know what could be happening up there... My own view is that the murderer isn't an undergraduate, as everyone seems to think, but that he's been stopping at one of the outlying villages, like Binsey, or on a farm. I expect they've run him to earth."
"Perhaps that is it," she assented doubtfully. "But didn't Philip—Mr. Hardman say—?"
Revel smiled again, rather a tight-lipped smile. "Philip?" he said in a curious voice. "In three days!"
She coloured, and was on the point of an angry retort when he spoke again.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But it's a natural sentiment, you know—when one finds oneself being cut out. I suppose jealousy is one of the most ancient of the emotions."
"But—Mr. Revel!" She was frankly astonished. "I don't see... I'd no idea that—"
"That I was fond of you? Well, I was... That's all over now. Things are different. So I'm taking you—to Hardman!"
Before she could reply, he had pulled the car to a halt beside a petrol pump.
"I'll just fill her up," he said. "They ought to have done it at the garage. I told them..."
As Revel leant out of the window to give instructions, she automatically looked at the petrol indicator. It registered more than three gallons, sufficient, she would have thought, for any journey which they were likely to be making. Another thought flashed into her mind. She had never heard that Revel possessed a car, and it was certainly not Hardman's. Before she had time to think about it, two familiar figures on the far side of the pavement attracted her attention. She recognised Devenish and Holbourn, and waved to them.
"Who was that?" Revel turned just too late. "You knew them?"
"Devenish and Holbourn. Devenish is a friend of Phil—Mr. Hardman's."
He made no comment, but he was frowning a little as they started again. More for the sake of breaking the silence than for anything else, Mary voiced the thought which had come to her while they were stopped.
"I didn't know you had a car."
"Well, I suppose I haven't—officially. Still, in an emergency of this kind, perhaps even a proctor could be lenient."
"You really think they'll catch him?"
"I'm doubtful." He smiled. "I should say myself that he still had more than a fifty-fifty chance. In fact, my own view is that he'll get away. They're not used to criminals of his kind in this country. Probably if they do get to the stage of arresting him, they'll send a couple of unarmed bobbies; and then..." He broke off, and laughed grimly.
"And then?" she asked with a slight shiver of dread.
"Then I think there'll be two vacancies in the Oxford police force!"
"He—he's dangerous?"
"He's always been accounted so in America... As a matter of fact, I happen to know something about his history. He's a curious case—Sicilian mother and an Anglo-French father. I suppose it's the Sicilian coming out that made him a gangster."
"But why?"
"Oh, a lot of the best gunmen were Sicilians. They invented the handshake murder, you know—one man shakes hands with the victim so that he can't draw his gun; the other pots him."
"It—it's horrible." She was silent for a moment. "Of course, you are American yourself, aren't you?"
"In a manner of speaking, I am. But this is where we turn—where we ought to turn..."
Instead of doing so, he halted the car abruptly, just short of the cross-roads. He looked at her, and the intensity of the expression which burned in his eyes frightened her.
"Mary," he said, and his voice seemed to shake a little, "don't go to Hardman. Don't bother about the murderer. Come with me. Let's drive right off—I've arranged everything. I can look after you. We could be married this afternoon..."
For a moment she could only stare at him in bewilderment. "But—but this is absurd!" she said at last. "It—it's impossible—"
"I love you. I want you to come with me. I don't care about anything else... Or do you love him?"
There was sufficient answer in her face. He looked away for a moment; and when he turned his face towards her again it was as unruffled and smiling as it had ever been.
"That's that, then," he said, though there was a hard note in his voice. "No, I don't think you need get out and walk home—the conventional refuge, I believe, of ladies who are insulted. I'll drive you to Hardman."
"I—I wasn't insulted," she managed to say. "Only—I'm sorry. I couldn't have done it—even without Mr. Hardman—"
"That's one sin less for him to account for in heaven!" There seemed to be a sort of wild gaiety about him as he restarted the car. "Of course, I knew it was impossible, really," he said. "I ought never to have spoken. And perhaps it's all for the best."
There was a harder note in his voice, but she was relieved that he seemed to have taken the refusal so easily. She changed the subject hastily.
"Philip told you that the murderer was a gangster, then?"
"Yes. I thought you knew."
"Only since just before lunch. Apparently they managed to make out from the blotting-pad a part of a letter my cousin had written. It had the name 'Lorelli' among other things..." She stopped. "You said you knew about him. Tell me."
"There's very little to tell. I suppose he was a man with some ability who failed to fit himself into the pattern of civilisation. An outstanding criminal has always some ability—have you ever thought of the amount of sheer organisation behind the great bootlegging gangs? It was enough to make a successful legitimate business... But about Lorelli. He took his degree at the university. He wasn't so much led astray by bad companions—he went to look for them..." He paused for a moment. "There was something in his nature, I believe, that liked danger, that liked violence—and with it a cold-bloodedness which made him abolish ruthlessly anyone who stood in his way."
"But—but that's horrible."
"Perhaps. The gangs then had become really efficient. One tends to think of the gunman as a poor creature loaded up with drugs to killing pitch. In the latter stages, that wasn't so. To be a good gunman, you had to be at the highest stage of physical and mental efficiency, and you had to have nerve. Lorelli fitted the part perfectly, for some years. Then, perhaps his nerve failed. Perhaps he simply had a sudden change of nature of the kind which had converted him from a clever and even brilliant university graduate to a killer. He left the gangs. He disappeared."
"He came—to England? To Oxford?"
"Presumably. Your cousin must have found him out—and he paid the penalty. Hardman—" He broke off and frowned. "Well, that's all. In America he might stand a chance before the courts, but the gangs would get him. In England, if he comes up for trial, he'll hang. It's a pleasant choice."
"I remember something else my cousin said about him," she said after a considerable silence. "He was left-handed."
"He was left-handed in the gunman period. I don't think that was so in the university period. As I say, the different phases of his life represented a complete switch-over."
Mary did not answer. She was conscious of a growing horror of the man beside her, an increasing but incredible suspicion. They had passed the Trout Inn, and just the other side of the bridge he pulled up, feeling for his cigarette-case.
"You'll smoke?" he asked, extending it.
She shook her head. She was conscious chiefly of an overwhelming desire to get away. She had all she could do to prevent herself opening the door of the car and running. Revel helped himself, felt for his matches and struck one... As he did so, realisation flashed upon her. She screamed. He had used his left hand.
"Help! Hel—!"
Before the second word had left her lips, Revel's hand was over her mouth. In his grip she was absolutely powerless. She struggled feebly for a moment and lay still, staring up at him with eyes full of terror. Revel looked down at her, and his face was utterly expressionless. Even the eyes seemed to be cold and dead.
"A pity," he said in a normal voice. "I'd just decided it wasn't necessary..."
Unhurriedly he shifted his grip. She felt his fingers on her throat. All the strength seemed to have gone out of her body. She could not resist. She felt the grip begin to tighten: then it suddenly relaxed. He turned abruptly, and she heard the hum of an approaching car. Revel waited, staring up the road until the car came into sight. The first glimpse of it seemed to spur him to sudden action. She felt herself gripped by a pair of incredibly strong arms and flung over his shoulder like a sack. The next instant he was out of the car and running over the grass.
She was dimly aware that the other car had come to a halt almost beside Revel's. People were jumping out. She heard a voice which she recognised as Osborne's.
"Revel! Lorelli! Stop... We'll fire!"
Revel laughed mirthlessly. Even with his burden he was making a surprisingly good pace. A bullet whistled past her, and she heard the shot. Osborne was shouting angrily:
"Don't shoot! For God's sake don't shoot! You'll hit the girl—"
Then she lost consciousness.
IN the shelter of the bridge just above the lock Osborne was explaining the situation to the chief constable, and trying to work out a plan of campaign. Hardman stood by impatiently. His face was pale, and he stood tensed like a man who is just prepared for a fight.
"He got inside the wall there," Osborne explained. "We couldn't shoot, because of the girl. Only two of us had guns, but he didn't know that. Otherwise he might have fought it out. But he expects a policeman to have a gun. He's cornered with the girl. But we can't get him."
"A sudden rush—" the chief constable suggested.
"Would be certain to succeed—with the men we've got now? Yes. I quite agree. But we'd lose more than I care to think of in the process. There's the wall to climb—and he's a damned good shot. He's in shelter, and we couldn't be. I bet he'd get half a dozen... He's in some sort of a barn place there. If we got there, we'd have to force the door."
The chief constable reflected. "We've every available man here," he said, "and all the guns we could muster... Ought we to call out the troops?"
"Sidney Street stuff?" Osborne grinned. "No. There are plenty of us to deal with him—if we could get there. But we've had two wounded, just for showing their noses round the corner... At the moment we're just trying to make him waste his ammunition. He can't have an unlimited supply, and when it's done..." He made a gesture. "But he's cunning. We can't persuade him to waste many shots—and we don't want him not to waste them. Of course, we could starve him out—"
"There's the girl," the chief constable objected.
"Yes. But it won't come to that. When it gets a bit darker, we'll try creeping up."
"In all probability, he'll try to get away himself."
"I'm not sure. I think he knows that he's cornered and hasn't a hope. He's just making a fight for it—doing as much damage as he can before he goes under. That's why it's so bad. As likely as not—the girl..."
He stopped, remembering the presence of Hardman. But the journalist scarcely seemed to have heard him. He was staring towards the walled enclosure. As he looked a scrap of white which seemed to be a handkerchief was waved from the window of the shed.
"D'you see that? Flag of truce!" Osborne raised his glasses and studied it. "Yes. Wonder if he's giving in?"
He felt in his own pocket, and producing what looked like a dirty, crumpled piece of rag, eyed it dubiously. It was bloodstained from his attentions to one of the wounded constables.
"Hope it passes as white!" he said with a smile and made to leave their shelter. The chief constable stopped him.
"You're not going? He—you're probably the person he wants most. You can't trust him—"
"I think so... Besides, I can't very well send anyone else. We'll have to see."
Waving the handkerchief, he advanced over the meadow. The white flag had disappeared. The whole place might have been deserted, though he knew that besides Revel and the girl inside there were at least thirty police hidden in various points of vantage. He caught a glimpse of two of them in the river-bed as he went. Perhaps Osborne was brave, but he was certainly not fearless. All the way he had an uncomfortable feeling that his next step might be his last. He found himself going more slowly, and quickened his pace. A few yards from the little stone building he heard a command.
"Stop there!"
Revel must be looking at him from some kind of a loop-hole in the wall, for the window remained blank. But he was sure that he was covered.
"It's Inspector Osborne, isn't it?" Revel's voice came again. "You've come to discuss terms?"
"I've come to see if you're going to surrender. You know there's not a hope, Revel. We're bound to get you."
"You'd say that there was some hope if I surrendered?"
"You'd have a fair trial."
"That's my objection." The gunman laughed. "Now, if you could promise me a corrupt judge and a packed jury...!"
"I suppose you didn't bring me here to be funny."
"No. I'll offer terms. My car, and half an hour's start—and I'll leave Miss Douglas here—alive."
Osborne's lips tightened. "You know I can't do it," he said. "Not even for Miss Douglas. You're trapped, and I can't let you out of the trap. It would do you no good. We'd get you anyway."
"Then why not accept? It would suit me. I've made my arrangements—"
"I can't. You know that perfectly well."
"Then Miss Douglas—"
Osborne's fists clenched. "Revel, Lorelli—whatever your damned name is—if you hurt that girl, you'll be lucky to hang! There are limits even to what an English crowd will stand—"
"Lynch law? You know, Osborne, you'd go to any lengths to prevent that. Well, I've just this to say. I'm fighting it out here—rather than in court. You'd better stick to guns. If gas is used, Miss Douglas dies at the first smell of it... And we want water."
"You'll have to want."
"There's the girl... She's wounded slightly and feverish."
"You're suddenly tender-hearted, aren't you," Osborne sneered. Then a terrible suspicion crossed his mind. "We've no guarantee you've not murdered her already," he grated.
"You shall have."
There was silence for a moment. Then Osborne fancied that he caught the sound of voices. His eyes were fixed on the window.
"Ready, inspector?" came Revel's voice. "Now."
Just for a moment, Mary Douglas's head and shoulders appeared in the opening. She was deathly pale, and there was utter terror in her eyes. A handkerchief had been knotted round her mouth as an improvised gag, and her hands seemed to be tied behind her. Then she disappeared.
"You see, inspector, she's safe—so far. Better try and keep her so. I want the water, at least. Otherwise... I won't kill her, but—"
"You—you devil!" Osborne involuntarily took a step forward. "You daren't—you couldn't—"
"Think of my record, inspector. No doubt you've had a copy by now? That's all. You've three minutes to get out of range. Run for it!"
Nearly thirty seconds of that time Osborne wasted, standing there in a blind, impotent rage. Then his common sense reasserted itself. It would do no earthly good for him to get shot. He turned and ran for cover; but he had not reached the bridge before something whistled past his head. He was pale and breathless when he rejoined the chief constable.
"Offered terms," he said. "Let him go and he'd leave the girl."
"You refused?"
"Yes. Then he said, if we use gas, he'll kill her first. And he wants water. Otherwise, he threatens—"
"He daren't do it."
"Daren't he?" rejoined Osborne grimly. "There's nothing worse coming to him than hanging—whatever he does. And think of what he's done already."
There was a pause. Hardman had evidently heard every word of the conversation, but he still said nothing. Osborne shot a glance at him, and decided to give him a little comfort.
"The girl's all right so far," he said. "He made her show herself at the window."
"We saw something... As a matter of fact, I'd already sent for tear gas and smoke bombs. You mean we can't use them?"
"I think he'll do what he says."
"But we can't just wait... He asked for water?"
Osborne only nodded.
"We'll give it him. But we'll have an attack ready to launch just as soon as the man gets back. He might be off his guard—"
Osborne frowned. "It's throwing lives away. Wait till it's dark."
"I'm afraid I must order one. We can't wait here like this."
Osborne did not argue. Although he had up to that time been in actual control of operations, the chief constable was his superior officer. If he insisted, the chief inspector was powerless. He heard the chief constable giving his orders gloomily.
"I'm leading this. You stop here, inspector." The chief constable turned to him. "You'll be needed in case—"
"But, sir—" Osborne protested.
"You'll stop here."
There was a long interval of inaction. Time was needed to get in touch with the police on the far side of the enclosure, so as to make the attack concerted from all sides. Osborne found Hardman's eyes fixed upon him, and felt moved to offer encouragement.
"It'll be all right," he said gruffly. "If they'd wait till dark—"
"You don't think that this can succeed?" Hardman's voice was perfectly calm, but his eyes were burning.
"I don't see how it can... He'll pick them off like rabbits. It isn't as if they could all come on at once. Some have got to climb the wall— And if they get there they can't get in."
A whistle sounded. Then two shots in quick succession. They were evidently the signal. From the shelter of the river-bank, half a dozen policemen started, while from behind there broke out a crackle of fire evidently intended to cover the advance. Almost on the towpath one man seemed to step on nothing as his leg collapsed underneath him. Another fell before the wall was reached. Even when there they could not reach the window easily. One jumped up and caught a hold, falling back next moment in a crumpled heap. Osborne covered his face with his hand. He did not know what was happening on the other side, but he could guess. There, the attack would be delayed by the wall of the enclosure. Lorelli would be able to deal with them afterwards. He heard whistles shrilling even above the sound of shots. He looked up. It was evidently a recall. Of the six men who had started from the side which he could see, three were returning, carrying a fourth. The man who had tried to climb still lay there; the one whose leg was broken had crawled into cover. Either with a sort of magnanimity, or because he had to save ammunition, the gunman forbore to fire. Osborne guessed that it was the latter. He had no faith in Lorelli's good qualities. The attack, no doubt, had achieved something. The gunman must have used at least twenty or thirty shots. But the cost... He turned to where Hardman had been standing.
"I knew it couldn't— Hullo?"
Hardman had vanished. It was a minute before the chief inspector saw him. Evidently, under cover of the last stages of the attack, he had crossed the open space, and was now lying beside the wall, flat on the ground. For a moment, Osborne thought that he must have been hit. Then he saw him crawling forward and breathed again. It occurred to him that as long as Hardman kept at the base of the wall he was out of range. They should, undoubtedly, have had police there, so that the gunman would have had to expose himself in order to fire at them. Another thought struck him.
"Good Lord! He's not even armed! What's he going to do?"
A plain-clothes detective crawled up to him. "The chief constable's wounded, sir," he said. "He asked you to take charge."
"Many casualties?"
"Four dead that we know of. Several wounded. We can't get to them—"
"No one got in?"
"Three got to the door. But it's barricaded. They couldn't burst it in. He seems to have been busy. Made loop-holes all round."
"I'll come."
With a last look at Hardman, who had crawled perceptibly nearer to the window, Osborne hurried off.
Hardman himself, lying in a bed of nettles almost beneath the window, had scarcely known what he intended to do when he set out. Something seemed to have snapped inside him, and he was conscious only of the open window, behind which the girl he loved was in the hands of the gunman. And yet he was cautious. He kept well in to the wall, knowing that Lorelli could never see him unless he looked out of the window to be a target for the weapons of the police. He gained the base of the small stone building and lay there for a moment, studying the wall above him.
The window was some distance up, but the wall was rough enough to give foot- and hand-holds. He had no doubt that he could make the climb; but when once he appeared in the opening, it seemed certain that the gunman would kill him before he could pull himself through. He lay there waiting, praying for something to happen to divert Revel's attention.
As if in answer to his prayer, a crackle of shots sounded on the opposite side of the building. There was a sound of shouting. He heard Lorelli's gun crack three times; then he was on his feet, feeling for a grip in the stonework. It was only a few feet. He was almost level with the window. The next minute he was looking through.
The room the other side was evidently a loft used for storing hay. On a pile of it immediately below lay Mary Douglas, gagged and bound. She was deathly pale. The gunman was firing through a slit in the stonework on the far side, but he seemed to sense Hardman's presence. He whirled on the instant with his gun raised. Then a look of horror spread over his face. He staggered back, and the gun hung loosely.
"You—you—you're dead!" he said in a dreadful voice. "Dead!"
Before the words had left his mouth, Hardman was through the window. He crossed the room almost at a bound.
"No! No! You're dead!"
Revel made no attempt to fire. His eyes were wide with horror. Only when Hardman's fingers gripped his throat he seemed aware that he had to do with flesh and blood. The gun had slipped from his hand, and he was taken unawares. There was the strength of madness in Hardman, and he struggled against it feebly. Then he felt himself being pushed back; his foot caught in the hay, and he crashed against the wall.
Osborne, heading the party of police who finally forced an entry, found them there. He dashed forward, Hardman's fingers were still clutching the gunman's throat, and his mouth grinned horribly. The chief inspector gripped his arm and shook him.
"Hardman! Hardman! Let go!... He's got to hang!"
Hardman raised a dazed face. Then he suddenly seemed to come to himself. His tense muscles relaxed and he let go his hold. He looked up at the inspector like a man who scarcely knows where he is. Osborne pulled him to his feet.
"You may have done the work of an entire police force, but there's no reason why you should do the hangman's, too!" he said with sardonic humour. "Though, personally, I sympathise with the feeling... I think there's someone else who needs your attention."
Hardman followed the gesture of his hand. On the other side of the loft, Mary Douglas, freed of her bonds, was just sitting up, staring around her desperately. With something like a sob he stumbled across the space which separated them. The next moment she was in his arms.
BESIDE the fire in the bar-room of the Trout Inn, Hardman was recovering with the help of a cigarette and a tankard of beer. He felt slightly ashamed of himself. And at the same time he was surprised at the amount of violence the circumstances had called forth from what he knew was normally a mild enough disposition. He looked up as Osborne came in. The detective also carried a tankard. He seated himself opposite.
"It's a bad business," he said after a pause. "There are six of them dead, and it need never have happened... Thank God, they're mostly single men... I don't know how you feel about it, but I never had the slightest disposition to die for my country, if it could well be avoided. Nor yet to make anyone else die. It's a damned waste of good material. And all for one man who must be mad—according to the views of modern civilisation—though he's sane enough to hang, and that's a comfort—"
Hardman looked up at him. "Osborne," he said, "if this is soothing syrup, for God's sake cut it out. I've been wondering. You know that I'd have killed him. What would she think? What was I doing?"
"Soothing syrup?" Osborne smiled. "If you were in your right mind, you'd recognise it as confession—which is good for the soul... As for you, it's easy to say what you were doing. You were being a hero—as you were slightly off your head. And what would Miss Douglas think—because I suppose 'she' refers to that? She'd think you were being a hero, and admire you accordingly... On the whole, I believe women are a good deal more savage than men—"
"They'll hang him?" Hardman interrupted.
"They will. Having about eight different counts to do so in this country. That ought to fix anyone. And he behaves, in the long run, much too sensibly to plead insanity."
"There's a lot I don't understand. How did you manage to get there in time? He was—he was killing her—?"
"He was. I rather gather, with a certain amount of regret which he hadn't displayed in previous cases... That we arrived in time was due to the fact that your friend Devenish has both sense and presence of mind. He knew that Holbourn was on the look out for someone: and it must have been pretty clear that he'd found him. So, while Holbourn was buzzing round after you, Devenish stopped a car and followed. They waited quite a bit by the turning to Wytham, and Devenish telephoned. We took a chance and went the other way to Wytham. Fortunately, Revel didn't go fast. I think he was making up his mind. And he stopped a bit before he—started to take action. That just gave us time."
"Of all people, you know, I never suspected Revel as the murderer... I knew that he was fond of—Miss Douglas. I thought that was behind everything he did."
"What was really behind everything he did was a desire to preserve his own skin... I've heard what Miss Douglas says he told her, and I must confess I believe it. There must have been a sort of dual nature about the man, to allow him to go nicely through an American university and then turn gangster. Similarly, there's been no breath of anything against him in Oxford—until Van Weiman spotted the birthmark in Parsons' Pleasure... That was bad luck. I mean, that he should be in a place where he exposed the birthmark, just at a time when there was someone there who could recognise it."
"Yes. And it was because of that da Valgas died."
Osborne smiled wryly. "It was. But you can scarcely blame us for being puzzled about that. Da Valgas was such a natural person to be murdered—for his own sake. In fact, it was just a miscalculation."
"Da Valgas, in reality, died because he had red hair, and Van Weiman was late," Hardman said. "Revel must have thought he'd worked it out perfectly. I gather that when he read Van Weiman's letter he must have seen the admission ticket for the May morning ceremony and taken steps accordingly. It could hardly enter into his calculations that there would be two people on the tower with hair that shade."
"Actually, there weren't. If there had been, I rather think that Revel, to avoid risks and unpleasantness, would have had a shot at potting both. As it was, he was unlucky... He'd made a key for the tower, by the way. That was why the porter didn't spot him. And his landlady was easy-going and allowed him a latchkey—for which she will most certainly get into trouble."
"One of the curious things is," Hardman said thoughtfully, "I believe we met him when he was actually carrying the rifle away from New College—Miss Douglas and I. He was carrying a B.A. gown—which he'd no right to, but that's the biggest. I suspect the rifle was underneath it."
"Probably. He had bad luck again in having to knock you out—and, of course, so did you. After that, you must have begun to bother him badly, owing to your unreasonable instinct. So it was to you he went with that story about Grant—and actually he was one of the people Grant told about it. I think, too, that he hoped for information about how things were going... To-day, of course, he heard your telephone conversation. You seem to have given away quite a lot. He already suspected Miss Douglas, and had decided to remove her—hence last night's attack. After your telephone talk, he really saw his chance. You were to be shot out by the Rollers. Miss Douglas was to be taken for a ride, and bumped off if necessary. The interesting thing about Revel is that he seems to have been a murderer with absolutely no scruples whatsoever... The worst of it is, I admire him a bit."
"Admire him?" Hardman asked incredulously.
"I suppose it's the savage in me. But he was a fighter—and he preferred to die fighting. But he wasn't to have even that. Mistaking you for your own ghost, he succumbed almost without a struggle. And that was queer, too—that a man who's killed so many people should be bothered by the reappearance of one. I suppose it was against his whole philosophy of life—which seems to have been 'Dead men don't bite.' One dead man returned to bite, and it was too much for him."
There was silence for a time. Osborne took a drink of his beer and sighed.
"It's a highly unsatisfactory case—even apart from the number of police corpses, which weren't my fault," he said. "It's unsatisfactory because, right until the end, I personally never looked like knowing who had done it... You had a few obscure gleams, and I'm more than half inclined to believe that telepathy business. Because even yours were so mixed up. You had right ideas and drew wrong conclusions, or you reached the truth through wrong methods... I'd almost be tempted to believe in a kind of Fate, or Providence, which made you and Revel fight it out together."
He raised his beer and drank it. "Now," he said, "it's simply a matter of tidying up. Perhaps you'd help me in one respect. There's Miss Douglas—"
"Mary— Where is she?"
"Being looked after by the landlord's wife. If there's one point in the whole case in which the murderer was considerate, it was giving us a pub to have a drink in at the end." Abruptly Osborne abandoned his reflective air and became practical. "I think Miss Douglas should go home. Shall I send her here?"
He did not wait for an answer, but had gone almost before Hardman could frame the words. The journalist waited in trepidation. He believed that he knew Mary Douglas. He could not understand how she could ever forgive the exhibition of savagery of which he had been guilty in the matter of Revel. But the first glance at her as she entered, if it did not remove the puzzle, abolished it from his mind. She had been crying, but her eyes as they met his were warm and soft. She seemed to be struggling for words.
"Philip!" she said. "Philip—"
Words were beyond Hardman. He folded her in his arms, and their lips met. It must have been several minutes later before Hardman drew back a little and smiled.
"Am I to take this as an answer?" he asked.
She drew him closer to her. "You—you might have been killed—"
"I was a bit mad, you know," Hardman confessed. "And, as for being killed—so might he." His face hardened; then he looked at her again and smiled. "I've been given the duty of seeing you home," he said. "I don't know how. It's a point Osborne seems to have overlooked. I expect we could get a car—or there's a bus on the Wolvercote road—"
"Let's walk," she suggested. "Along the towpath. If you feel equal to it—"
They went out on to the paved space overlooking the river. Beside them, the rush of the weir filled the air with sound. Over the woods of Wytham, the sunset was a glow of blazing gold. They turned up the path in silence. As they passed Godstowe ruins she averted her face. They had reached a long line of poplars lifting themselves in silhouette against the red sky before either of them spoke.
"You know," Hardman said at last, "when I first came here, I'd half a mind to chuck journalism and try to take a degree—any degree. It was the fascination of the place. It was so peaceful... I admit that it's hardly proved so, but the circumstances have been exceptional. And then, when I'd been here a little, I knew it was hopeless. I think one has to start at about eighteen. Or else—you have the feeling that you're too old—"
"'And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy,'" she quoted. "Yes. I can understand that. I wonder if you can understand this—that almost from the time I saw you I was longing to get away? What appealed to you, I think, was beginning to get on my nerves. I'm not sure that women should go to Oxford."
They walked again for a little while in silence. The glow of the sunset was fading. It was getting difficult to distinguish the path, except for the luminous calm of the river on their left. Mary broke the silence at last.
"There's another quotation," she said, "which I think is apposite—"
Hardman smiled. "'And the sun set, and all the ways grew dark'?" he suggested. "That derives from Devenish. It's a tribute to the academic atmosphere."
"No. That wasn't mine." She clutched his arm a little closer. "Mine's Tennyson—which is low-brow now. Do you know it? 'And deep into the dying day the happy Princess followed him.'"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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