Chapter 23

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IN another second she was on the pavement and walking quickly to the unattended Bentley.

"It is Peter's!"

In the light of the street lamp Bourke saw that the car---an all-weather two-seater---was splashed with mud. To supplement his search he took a little flash-lamp from his pocket and sent the beam under the hood. On the floor lay a strap; he picked this up and examined it; then he began walking round the car. The dicky seat was half open.

"That is Peter's all right," he said, and, going back to the garden gate, pushed.

The door yielded to his pressure and he found himself on a gravel path that ran between two high clumps of rosemary bushes. After a while he came out and joined the girl.

"I don't understand this." His voice was troubled. "Of course, Peter may have been a constant visitor here without telling anybody. He might have chosen this way of going in. But it's rather remarkable---wait here."

He returned to the garden, and with the aid of his lamp began to find his way to what was possibly a private entrance. No dogs barked, to his relief; he caught a glimpse of the house: it was in darkness except for one square of light, which he presumed represented the unshaded French windows of a lower room.

He reached the lawn and was turning back when he heard a deep groan and spun round, the circle of his light roving left and right. And then he saw a hand, the gloved palm outstretched, and, pulling aside a clump of flowers that hid its owner, he saw a man lying on his back.

It was Peter!

Bourke whistled softly, and, stooping, dragged the unconscious figure to a sitting position. He had set his lamp down that he might have his hands free, and he was reaching for this when, with a gasp of amazement, he saw that it was focused on something that, experienced man as he was, made him jump. It was an automatic pistol, and about the muzzle was clipped a curious dull blob of metal, which he recognised as the new German silencer.

He took the pistol up, smelt at its muzzle, and, pressing home the safety catch, thrust the weapon into his pocket. He was a man of extraordinary strength, and with scarcely an effort pulled Peter to his feet and carried him, his feet dragging on the gravel, to the doorway. And then he remembered the chauffeur.

"Is there anything wrong?" asked Jane breathlessly, as she came running towards him.

"Can you drive the Bentley?" asked Bourke in a low voice, and when she had answered in the affirmative: "Send the Rolls round to the front of the house and tell the chauffeur to wait."

It was only then that she saw the limp figure that he had propped against the open door.

"O God! Is that Peter?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Do as I tell you," hissed the detective.

He drew the inanimate figure farther into the shadow. A chance pedestrian, a patrolling policeman---anything might bring his plan to ruin. He himself was taking a risk, but taking it with his eyes open, in the faith that he was doing the right thing.

He heard the car move away, and then Jane came back.

"Stand out of the way," he cautioned.

Lifting Peter on his shoulder, he walked quickly across the pavement and heaved him into the deep, low seat of the car.

"Get in the other side and drive back to Carlton House Terrace." He gave his orders rapidly. "He may have recovered by then. He's moving now. Get him into the flat and wait for my return."

She wanted to ask him a hundred things, but was wise enough to defer her questions until later. Shaking as she was from head to foot, she set her teeth and, getting into the driver's seat, put her foot upon the starter; Bourke watched the tail light till it had disappeared round the corner on to the main road.

He took the pistol out of his pocket again and sniffed at the muzzle, and his big face was set in a humourless grin as he pulled the door to and went at his leisure to the front of the house, stopping only to feel the radiator of Peter's car---it was, as he expected, still warm.

First he must interview the chauffeur. If he, too, had recognised Peter's car, there was going to be trouble; but apparently he had neither noticed its appearance nor had he heard Jane's reference. It was not surprising, remembering it was a night of gusty wind and she had spoken in a low voice.

"Mrs. Clifton has gone back to town by taxi: she's not feeling very well." (Fortunately they had passed a taxi rank just before they had turned into the side road.) "You'll wait for me here."

Bourke walked up the asphalted path to the dark front door and rang. He rang three times before a maid opened the door of the dark hall.

"Is that Mr. Clifton?" she asked. "The master is expecting you, sir. I'm sorry the gas isn't lit, but the master doesn't like lights in the hall."

Evidently she had never seen "Mr. Clifton," for she accepted the detective's assurance. Despite the economical Radlow's objection to lighting, she kindled a small flame in a huge hanging lamp, and led the way down a small passage to what was evidently the back of the house.

"The master said he was not to be disturbed till you came," she whispered.

Evidently the old man was a bit of a terror in that house.

"All right," said Bourke. "I'll announce myself."

He opened the door, and as he did so there was a rush of air. The back window was open then.

"Wait here."

A gas chandelier overhung the desk, and the white globes gave a steadiness to the light, in spite of the draught. In the very centre of the room, beneath the chandelier, was a big, old-fashioned partner's desk, and over this, his head upon the blotting pad, one arm hanging helplessly by his chair, sprawled the figure of a man.

"Have you a telephone? Of course you have. Where is it?"

"In the hall, sir," said the trembling maid. "Is anything wrong?"

"Yes. Call up the police station; just tell the operator you want the police. Say Superintendent Bourke is here; ask them to send the divisional surgeon and the detective officer in charge."

He closed the door upon her and went slowly towards the desk.

One of the two French windows was wide open; the curtains were blowing in at an angle. He closed the window carefully before he turned his attention to the dead man. The blotting pad was red with blood. So too was the paper beneath the pen held in a stiffened hand.

Bourke stopped and looked, then, going behind the stricken figure, he read the few lines written at the head of the page, which was numbered 7.

. . . I felt in the circumstances that I could not very well deny the wishes of my client. There was at that time no trace of the dreadful malady——

Here the writing ended. Pages 1 to 6 were missing. He looked in the wastepaper basket; that was empty. The rest of Radlow's statement had vanished.

Bourke went out of the room, and, removing the key which was on the inside, he locked the door from without. Three servants were in the hall, talking in excited, fearful tones, and he heard one tremulous voice talking into the phone.

"Could you speak, sir?"

Bourke went to the instrument, and found himself talking with the station sergeant.

"Yes---yes, an ambulance also, please. Yes, undoubtedly it's murder."

He heard the smothered exclamations of horror and signalled the women out of the hall.

"Wait a minute till I get these servants away. Shot dead at close range. I happened to be down here making inquiries about the Longford Manor case. You might make a note of that in your book, sergeant."

He hung up the phone and, descending the narrow stone stairs that led to the basement, asked for the housekeeper. This proved to be the servant who had admitted him.

"He's not dead, sir, is he?" she whispered. "The dear old master . . ."

"Come upstairs," he ordered, but she shrank back.

"I couldn't see him, I couldn't really, sir."

Eventually he persuaded her to light the gas in the drawing-room. She had little to tell him. "The master" had retired to his study after dinner, at ten minutes past eight, with orders that he was in no circumstances to be disturbed. She had taken him his coffee immediately after he had entered the room, and since then she had not heard a sound from the snuggery, as he called it. She remembered all the telephone calls that had come through during the day. Mr. Radlow very seldom received mesages: he had an old-fashioned man's hatred of the phone, and the instrument was only in the house at all because he had a dread of fire and liked to be in touch with the fire station. There had been four calls in the morning—two from tradesmen, one a wrong number, and one from Mr. Radlow's doctor, who was in the habit of visiting the old gentleman twice a week and had telephoned putting off his appointment until the following day.

In the afternoon there had been two calls, one of which Mr. Radlow himself had answered.

"It was Mr. Clifton, sir, but the master was asleep. He always has an hour's nap in the afternoon, and I didn't like to disturb him. When he woke up I told him Mr. Clifton had called, and he said that if he telephoned again I was to tell him. Mr. Clifton telephoned at about half-past five, or it may have been six. Mr. Radlow turned me out of the hall, just as you did when you were telephoning, but I heard him say, as I was going down the stairs: 'I'll make the statement---I don't care whether you like it or not, you young fool!' or something like that, and then he must have changed his mind, for he said: 'Very well, I'll think the matter over, and if I change my mind I will let you know.' It was after I took the coffee in to him that he asked me to call up 'telegrams' and send a message to Mr. Clifton."

She had this slip of paper in her bag downstairs and went to fetch it. It was exactly the message that Jane had received.

"That's how I knew you were coming---oh, but you're not Mr. Clifton, you're a police gentleman."

"Did you hear a sound of any kind?" interrupted Bourke.

The woman hesitated.

"I did think I heard a door slam. In this old house you can hear almost any noise."

"A quick, sharp slam?" he suggested.

It was rather muffled, she thought.

"What time was this?"

Here she gave him explicit information.

"Half an hour before his call." She had heard the clock chime.

The servant had barely finished when a thundering knock came to the door and Bourke went to admit a detective sergeant and two men from the local station. Glancing past them, he saw a policeman in uniform outside the front gate. He recognised the officer as an old assistant of his.

"Come in, Rennie. All right, you needn't wait. What is your name?"

"Mrs. Stodder, sir," faltered the housemaid-housekeeper.

He led Rennie into the chamber of death, and there a few minutes later they were joined by the divisional surgeon.

"I've touched nothing," said Bourke. "The old man was writing a statement which I had come to collect---it concerned the Longford Manor case, and you'll notice that he's on page 7 and the other six pages are missing."