THE CONUNDRUM OF THE GOLF LINKS
I have wondered sometimes whether I have ever really liked Christopher
Quarles; at times I have certainly resented his treatment, and had he
been requested to make out a list of his friends, quite possibly my
name would not have figured in the list unless Zena had written it out
for him. Some remark of the professor's had annoyed me at this time,
and I had studiously kept away from Chelsea for some days, when one
morning I received a telegram:
"If nothing better to do, join us here for a few
days.--Quarles, Marine Hotel, Lingham."
I did not even know they were out of town, for Zena and I never wrote
to each other, and I had a strong suspicion the invitation meant that
the professor wanted my help in some case in which he was interested.
Still, there would be leisure hours, and I had visions of pleasant
rambles with Zena. If I could manage it, some of them should be when
the moon traced a pale gold path across the sleeping waters. I may say
at once that some moonlight walks were accomplished, though fewer than
I could have wished, and that, although there was no business behind
the professor's invitation, my visit to Lingham resulted in the
solution of a mystery which had begun some months before and had
baffled all inquiry ever since.
Lingham, as everybody knows, is a great yachting center, and as I
journeyed down to the East Coast I wondered if yachting interested
Quarles, and, if not, why he had chosen Lingham for a holiday.
The professor was a man of surprises. I have seen him looking so old
that a walk to the end of the short street in Chelsea might reasonably
be expected to try his capacity for exercise; and, again, I have seen
him look almost young; indeed, in these reminiscences I have shown
that at times he did not seem to know what fatigue meant. When he met
me in the vestibule of the Marine Hotel he looked no more than
middle-aged, and as physically fit as a man could be. He was dressed
in loose tweeds, and wore a pair of heavy boots which, even to look
at, almost made one feel tired.
"Welcome, my dear fellow!" he said. "But why bring such infernal
weather with you? It began to blow at the very time you must have been
leaving town, and has been increasing ever since. It has put a stop to
all racing."
"I didn't know you took an interest in yachting."
"I don't. Golf, Wigan! At golf I am an enthusiast. There's a good
sporting course here, that's why I came to Lingham. You've brought
your clubs, I see."
"Chance. You did not say anything about golf in your wire."
"Why should I? Useless waste of money. I remembered your telling me
once that you never went for your holiday without taking your clubs.
We shall have grand sport."
He laughed quite boisterously, and a man who was passing through the
hall looked at me and smiled. I recollected that smile afterward, but
took little notice of it just then, because Zena was coming down the
stairs.
Before dinner that evening it blew a gale, and from windows
overlooking the deserted parade we watched a sullen, angry sea
pounding the sandy shore and hissing into long lines of foam, which
the wind caught up and carried viciously inland.
"Isn't that a sail--a yacht?" said Zena suddenly, pointing out to sea,
over which darkness was gathering like a pall.
It was, and those on board of her must be having a bad time, not to
say a perilous one. She was certainly not built for such weather as
this, but she must be a stout little craft to stand it as she did, and
they were no fools who had the handling of her.
"Blown right out of her course, I should think," said Quarles. "The
yachts shelter in the creek to the south yonder. I should not wonder
if that boat hopes to make the creek which lies on the other side of
the golf course."
"She's more likely to come ashore," said a man standing behind us, and
he spoke with the air of an expert in such matters. "There's no
anchorage in that creek, and, besides, a bar of mud lies right across
the mouth of it."
As the curved line of the sea front presently hid the yacht from our
view the gong sounded for dinner--a very welcome sound, and I, for
one, thought no more about the yacht that night.
Before morning the gale had subsided, but the day was sullen and
cloudy, threatening rain, and we did not attempt golf until after
lunch.
It was an eighteen-hole course, and might be reckoned sporting, but it
was not ideal. There was too much loose sand, and a great quantity of
that rank grass which flourishes on sand dunes. It said much for the
management that the greens were as good as they were.
I had just played two holes with the professor before I remembered the
man who had smiled in the hall of the hotel yesterday. Certainly
Quarles was an enthusiast. In all the etiquette of the game he was
perfect, but as a player he was the very last word. He persisted in
driving with a full swing, usually with comic effect; he was provided
with a very full complement of clubs, and was precise in always using
the right one; but he seemed physically incapable of keeping his eye
on the ball, and constantly hit out, as if he were playing cricket;
yet the bigger ass he made of himself the greater seemed his
enjoyment. He never lost his temper. Other men would have emptied
themselves of the dregs of their vocabulary; Quarles only smiled,
cheerfully explaining how he had come to top a ball, or why he had
taken half a dozen shots to get out of a bunker. No wonder the man in
the hotel had laughed.
There was one particularly difficult hole. The bogey was six. It
required a good drive to get over a ridge of high ground; beyond was a
brassey shot, then an iron, and a mashie on to the green. To the left
lay a creek, a narrow water course between mud. My drive did not reach
the ridge, on the top of which was a direction post; and the professor
pulled his ball, which landed perilously near the mud. It took him
three shots to come up with me, and when at last we mounted the ridge
we saw there was a man on the distant green, which lay in a hollow
surrounded by bunkers, behind which was the bank of the curving creek.
"Fore!" shouted Quarles.
I almost laughed. It was certain the man would have ample time to get
off the green before the professor arrived there. Quarles waited for a
moment, but the man ahead took no notice, possibly had not heard him.
The professor took a fall swing with his brassey, and, for a wonder,
the ball went as straight and true as any golfer could desire.
"Ah! I am getting into form, Wigan," he exclaimed. "What is that fool
doing yonder? Fore!"
This time the man looked round and waved to us to come on, which we
did slowly, for Quarles's form was speedily out again.
The man on the green was a curiosity. Thirty-five or thereabouts, I
judged him to be; a thin man, but wiry, with a stiff figure and an
immobile face, which looked as if he had never been guilty of showing
an emotion. His eyes were beady, and fixed you; his mouth gave the
impression of being so seldom used for speech that it had become
partially atrophied. His costume, perhaps meant to be sporting, missed
the mark--looked as if he had borrowed the various articles from
different friends; and he was practicing putting with a thin-faced
mashie, very rusty in the head, and dilapidated in the shaft.
He stood aside and watched Quarles miss two short puts.
"Difficult," he remarked. "I'm practicing it."
Quarles looked at the speaker, then at the mashie.
"With that?"
"Why not?" asked the man.
"Why?" asked Quarles.
"If I can do it with this I can do it with anything," was the answer.
"That's true," said the professor, making for the next tee. There was
no arguing with a man of this type.
The tee was on the top of the creek bank.
"I was right," said Quarles. "Look, Wigan, they did make for this
haven last night."
It was almost low water. The bank on the golf course side was steep,
varying in height, but comparatively low near the tee, and an
irregular line of piles stuck up out of the mud below, the tops of
half a dozen of them rising higher than the bank. On the other side of
the creek the shore sloped up gradually from a wide stretch of mud.
In the narrow waterway was a yacht, about eighteen tons, I judged.
That she was the same we had seen laboring in the gale last night I
could not say, but certainly she was much weather-marked and looked
forlorn. She had not had a coat of paint recently, the brasswork on
her was green with neglect, and her ropes and sails looked old and
badly cared for. Yet her lines were dainty, and, straining at her
hawser, she reminded me of a disappointed woman fretting to free
herself from an undesirable position.
A yacht is always so sentient a thing, and seems so full of conscious
life.
Quarles appeared to understand my momentary preoccupation.
"Don't take any notice of her," he said. "We're out for golf. I always
manage a good drive from this tee."
This time was an exception, at any rate, and, in fact, for the
remainder of the round he played worse than before, if that were
possible. But he was perfectly satisfied with himself, and talked
nothing but golf as we walked back, until we were close to the hotel,
when he stopped suddenly.
"Queer chap, that, on the green."
"Very."
"Do you think he came from the yacht?"
"I was wondering whether he hadn't escaped from an asylum," I
answered.
"I wonder what he was doing on the green," Quarles went on. "I saw no
one else playing this afternoon, so he had the green to himself,
except for the little time we disturbed him. When I first saw him it
didn't seem to me that he was practicing putting, and I thought he
watched us rather curiously."
"A theory, professor?" I asked with a smile.
"No, no; just wonder. By the way, don't say anything to that expert
who was so certain that the yacht couldn't get into the creek. He
mightn't like to know he was mistaken."
After dinner that evening Zena and I went out. There was no moon;
indeed, it was not very pleasant weather, but it was a pleasant walk,
and entirely to my satisfaction.
When we returned I found Quarles in a corner of the smoking room
leaning back in an armchair with his eyes closed. He looked up
suddenly as I approached him.
"Cold out?" he asked.
"Nothing to speak of."
"Feel inclined to go a little way with me now?"
"Certainly."
"Good! Say in a quarter of an hour's time. I shall get out of this
dress and put on some warmer clothes. I should advise you to do the
same."
I took his advice, and I was not surprised when he turned to me as
soon as we had left the hotel and said:
"That yacht, Wigan; we'll go and have a look at her."
"It's too dark to see her."
"She may show a light," he chuckled. "Anyway, we will go and have a
look."
We started along the front in the direction of the golf course, but at
the end of the parade, instead of turning inland as I expected, to
cross the course to the creek, Quarles led the way on to the sands.
Here was a favorite bathing place, and there were many small tents
nestling under the sandhills, looking a little the worse for last
night's gale. At this hour the spot was quite deserted.
"Getting toward high water," said the professor, "and a smooth sea
to-night. Can you row, Wigan?"
"An oarsman would probably say I couldn't," I answered.
"There's a stout little boat hereabouts--takes swimmers out for a dive
into deep water. We'll borrow it, and see what you can do."
Always there was something in Quarles's way of going to work which had
the effect of giving one a thrill, of stringing up the nerves, and
making one eager to know all that was in his mind. You were satisfied
there was something more to learn, and felt it would be worth
learning. I asked no questions now as I helped to push a good-sized
dinghy into the water. Oars were in it, and a coil of rope.
"Anyone might go off with it," said Quarles. "I noticed the other day
that the boatman did not trouble to take the oars out. I suppose he
believes in the honesty of Lingham."
If I am no great stylist, I am not deficient in muscle, and, with the
set of the tide to help me, we were not long in making the mouth of
the creek.
"The yacht is some way up, Wigan, and maybe there are sharp ears on
her. Tie your handkerchief round that rowlock, and I'll tie mine round
this. You must pull gently and make no noise. The tide is still
running in, and will carry us up. By the way, when you're on holiday
do you still keep your hip pocket filled?"
"Yes, when I go on expeditions of this sort."
"Good! Keep under the bank as much as possible, and don't stick on the
mud."
I did little more than keep the boat straight, was careful not to make
any noise, and in the shadow of the bank we were not very likely to be
seen. A heavy, leaden sky made the night dark, and there was a sullen
rush in the water.
"Steady!" whispered Quarles.
We were abreast of the first of the piles which I had noticed in the
morning. Now it was standing out of water instead of mud.
"She shows no light," said Quarles. "We'll get alongside."
With the incoming tide the yacht had swung around, and was straining
at the hawser which held her, the water slapping at her bows with
fretful insistency. Quarles held on to her, bringing us with a slight
bump against her side. Keen ears would have heard the contact, but no
voice challenged.
We had come up on the side of the yacht which was nearest the golf
course.
"There's no boat fastened to her, Wigan," said Quarles. "Probably
there is no one on board. Let's go round to the other side."
There we found the steps used for boarding her.
"If there's anyone here, Wigan, we're two landlubbers who've got
benighted and have a bad attack of nerves," whispered Quarles. "Hitch
one end of that coil of rope to the painter, so that when we fasten
our boat to the stays on the other side of the yacht she'll float far
astern. When they return they are almost certain to come up on this
side to the steps, so will not be likely either to see the rope or our
boat in the dark."
I fastened the rope to the painter as Quarles suggested, and climbed
on to the yacht after him. Then I let the tide carry our boat astern,
and, crossing the deck, tied the other end of the rope securely to the
stays on the other side.
The sky seemed to have become heavier and more leaden; it was too dark
to see anything clearly. There was little wind, yet a subdued and
ghostly note sounded in the yacht's rigging, and the water swirling at
her bows seemed to emphasize her loneliness. So far as I could see,
she was in exactly the same condition as when I had seen her from the
golf course. No one was on deck, and no sound came from below.
"Queer feeling about her, don't you think?" said Quarles. "We're just
deadly afraid of the night and spooks, that's what we are if there is
anyone to question us."
I followed him down into the cabin. At the foot of the companion
Quarles flashed a pocket electric torch. It was only a momentary
flash, then darkness again as he gave a warning little hiss.
Three glasses on the table was all I had seen. I supposed the
professor had seen something more, but I was wrong.
After standing perfectly motionless for a minute or so, he flashed
the light again, and sent the ray round the cabin. The appointments
were faded, the covering of the long, fixed seats on either side of
the table was torn in places. One of these seats had evidently served
as a bunk, for a pillow and folded blanket were lying upon it. All the
paint work was dirty and scratched. Forward, there was a door into the
galley; aft, another door to another cabin.
"A crew of three," said Quarles. "Three glasses, plenty of liquor left
in the bottle in the rack yonder, a pipe and a pouch, and a
conundrum."
He let the light rest on a sheet of paper lying beside the glasses. On
it was written: "S. B. Piles--one with chain--9th link. N. B. Direct.
Mud--high water--90 and 4 feet."
"A conundrum, Wigan. What do you make of it?"
He held out the paper to me, a useless thing to do, since he allowed
the ray from the torch to wander slowly round the cabin again.
"We must look at the pile with the chain," he muttered in a
disconnected way, as though he were thinking of something quite
different.
"And at the ninth link of the chain," I said.
"Yes, at the ninth link. A conundrum, Wigan. A----"
He stopped. His eyes had suddenly become fixed upon some object behind
me. The electric ray fell slanting close by me, and when I turned I
saw that the end of it was under the cushioned seat on one side of the
table. The light fell upon a golf club--a rusty mashie.
"That man on the green was one of the crew, Wigan," said Quarles; and
then when I picked up the club we looked into each other's eyes.
"Did I not say the yacht had a queer feeling about her?" he said in a
whisper.
I knew what he meant. The mashie had something besides rust on it now,
something wet, moist and sticky.
Quarles glanced at the door of the galley as he put the paper on the
table, careful to place it in the exact position in which he had found
it; then he went quickly to the cabin aft.
On either side of a fixed washing cabinet there was a bunk, and in one
of them lay the man we had seen on the green. The wound upon his head
told to what a terrible use the club had been put since he had played
with it that afternoon. He had been fiercely struck from behind, and
then strong fingers had strangled out whatever life remained in him.
He was fully dressed, and there had been little or no struggle. His
would-be sportsmanlike attire was barely disarranged, and even in
death his pose was stiff, and his set face exhibited no emotion.
Quarles lifted up one of his hands and looked at the palm and at the
nails. He let the light rest upon the hand that I might see it. Then
he pointed to a straight mark across the forehead, just below the
hair, and nodded.
We were back in the saloon-cabin again when I touched the professor's
arm, and in an instant the torch was out. I had caught the sound of
splashing oars.
"Put the club back under the seat," said Quarles, and then, with
movements stealthy as a cat's, he led the way to the galley door. We
were in our hiding place not a moment too soon.
Two men came hurriedly down the companion. A match was struck, but
there was not a chink in the boarding through which we could see into
the cabin. It seemed certain they had not discovered our dinghy, and
had no suspicion that they were not alone upon the yacht.
"It's plain enough. There's no other meaning to it." The speaker had a
heavy voice, a gurgle in it, and I judged the heavier tread of the two
was his. "Ninety feet, it says, captain; and we measured that string
to exactly ninety feet."
"Feet might only refer to the four, and not to both figures," was the
answer in a sharp, incisive voice.
"He said it was both."
"And I'm not sure he lied," returned the man addressed as captain.
"The distance was originally paced out no doubt, and pacing out ninety
feet ain't the same as an exact measurement."
"We made allowances," growled the other.
"We'd been wiser to go on looking instead of coming back. You're too
previous, mate."
"You didn't trust him any more'n I did."
"No; but he had the name right enough," answered the captain, "and the
time--a year last February. I always put that job down to Glider.
Let's get back while the dark lasts."
"Come to think of it, it's strange Glider should have made a confidant
of him," said the other.
"Sized him up, and took his chance for the sake of the missus,"
returned the captain.
"I'm not going back until I've seen whether he's got other papers
about him."
"He chucked his clothes overboard," said the captain.
"He'd keep papers tied round him, maybe. I'll soon find out."
There was a heavy tread, and the opening of the door of the cabin
aft. There was the rending of cloth, and the man swore the whole time,
perhaps to keep up his courage for the horrible task.
"Nothing!" he said, coming back into the saloon-cabin. "Say, captain,
supposing it's all a plant--a trap!"
There was a pause and my hand went to my revolver. If the suggestion
should take root, would they not at once search the galley?
"He'd a mind to get the lot, that was his game," said the captain.
They went on deck, we could hear them stamping about overhead. Then
came an oath, and a quick movement. I thought they were coming down
again, but a moment later there was the soft swish of oars, followed
by silence.
"Carefully!" said Quarles, as I fumbled at the galley door. "One of
them may have remained to shoot us from the top of the companion."
He was wrong, but it was more than probable that such an idea had
occurred to them. They had discovered our dinghy! It had been cut
adrift, and the scoundrels had escaped, leaving us isolated on the
yacht. I snapped out a good round oath.
"Can you swim, Wigan?" asked the professor.
At full tide the creek was wide, and the sullen, rushing water had a
hungry and cruel sound.
"Not well enough to venture here, and in the dark," I said.
"And I cannot swim at all," said Quarles. "We are caught until morning
and low-water. It's cold, and beginning to rain. With all its defects
I prefer the cabin."
He went below and declared that he must get a little sleep. Whether
he did or not, I cannot say; I know that I never felt less inclined to
close my eyes. We had been trapped, that made me mad; and I could not
forget our gruesome companion behind the door of the aft cabin.
There was a glimmer of daylight when Quarles moved.
"This is nearly as good a place to think in as my empty room at
Chelsea, Wigan. What do you make of the mystery?"
"A trio of villains after buried treasure."
"Which they could not find; and two of them are scuttling away to save
their necks."
"So you think the dead man yonder fooled them?"
"No. I think there is some flaw in the conundrum. By the way, why is a
golf course called links?"
"It's a Scotch word for a sandy tract near the sea, isn't it?"
"But to an untutored mind, Wigan, especially if it were not Scotch,
there might be another meaning, one based on number, for instance. As
a chain consists of links, so a golf course, which has eighteen links.
It is a possible view, eh?"
"Perhaps."
"I see they have taken the paper," said Quarles; "but I dare say you
remember the wording. S. B., that means south bank; N. B., north bank.
I have no doubt there is a pile with a chain on it, whether with nine
or ninety links does not matter. It was on the green of the ninth hole
that the man was practicing. For the word "link" substitute "hole,"
and you get a particular pile connected with the ninth hole, which, of
course, has a flag, and so we get a particular direction indicated.
From the high-water line of mud on the north bank we continue this
ascertained direction for ninety feet, and then we dig down four
feet."
"And find nothing," I said.
"Exactly! There is a flaw somewhere, but the treasure is there," said
Quarles. "The rascals who have given us an uncomfortable night
evidently believed that the man they called Glider had told the truth;
more, they had already put the job down to him, you will remember.
Now, how was it Glider gave his secret away to the man in yonder
cabin? Obviously he couldn't come and get the treasure himself."
"A convict," I said, "who gave information to a fellow convict about
to be released."
"I don't think so," said Quarles. "As a convict, these men, who have
been convicts themselves, or will be, would have had sympathy with
him. They hadn't any. They were afraid of him. They felt it was
strange that Glider should have confided in him, and could only find
an explanation by supposing that Glider had sized him up and taken his
chance for the sake of the missus. We may assume, therefore, that
Glider had trusted a man no one would expect him to trust. This
suggests urgency, and I fancy a man, nicknamed Glider, has recently
died in one of His Majesty's prisons--Portland I should guess.
Probably our adventurers sailed from Weymouth. Now, Glider could not
have been in Portland long. A year last February he was free to do the
job with which this expedition is connected, and of which I should
imagine he is not suspected by the police. Probably he was taken for
some other crime soon after he had committed this one. He had no
opportunity to dig up the treasure he had buried, which he certainly
would have done as soon as possible. Yet Glider must have been long
enough in prison to size up the dead man yonder--a work of some time,
I fancy. You noticed his hands. Did they show any evidence of his
having worked as a convict? You saw the mark across the forehead. That
was made by a stiff cap worn constantly until a day or two ago. I
think we shall find there is a warder missing from Portland."
"A warder!"
The idea was startling, yet I could pick no hole in the professor's
argument.
"Even a warder is not free from temptation, and I take it this man was
tempted, and fell. Glider, no doubt, told him of the captain and his
mate. He had worked with them before, probably, and trusted them;
also, he might think they would be a check upon the warder. I
shouldn't be surprised if the warder were the only one of the three
who insisted that the widow should have her share, and so came by his
death. The flaw in the riddle keeps the treasure safe. Perhaps I shall
solve it during the day. By the way, Wigan, it must be getting near
low-water."
It was a beastly morning, persistent rain from a leaden sky. The tide
was out, only a thin strip of water separating the yacht from the mud.
"I fear there will be no golfers on the links to-day to whom we might
signal," said Quarles; "and I could not even swim that."
"I can," I answered.
"It would be better than spending another night here," said the
professor. "Send a boat round for me, and inform the police. I am
afraid the captain and his mate have got too long a start; but don't
leave Lingham until we have had another talk. While I am alone I may
read the riddle."
The ducking I did not mind, and the swim was no more than a few
vigorous strokes, but I had forgotten the mud. As I struggled through
it, squelching, knee-deep, Quarles called to me:
"They must have landed him at high-water yesterday, Wigan, and then
crossed over and taken the direction from him. I thought he was
feeling about with the flag when we first saw him on the green. No
doubt he made some sign to the others across the creek to lie low when
he saw us coming. They marked the place in daylight and went at night
to dig."
I sank at least ten inches deeper into the mud while he was speaking.
He got no answer out of me. I felt like hating my best friend just
then.
After changing my clothes at the hotel, where I accounted for my
condition by a story, original but not true, I told Zena shortly what
had happened, then sent a boat for the professor. I then told the
Lingham police, who wired to the police at Colchester, and I also
telegraphed to Scotland Yard and to Portland Prison.
I did not see Quarles again until the afternoon.
"Have you solved the riddle?" I asked.
"I think so. We'll go to that ninth hole at once. The police are
continuing the excavations begun by our friends. I've had a talk to
the professional at the golf club. They move the position of the holes
on a green from time to time, you know, Wigan; and with the
professional's help I think we shall be able to find out where it was
a year last February. He is a methodical fellow. That will give us a
different direction on the north bank of the creek. It was a natural
oversight on the convict's part. Were I not a golfer I might not have
thought of the solution."
We found the treasure a long way from where the other digging had
been done. It consisted of jewels which, in the early part of the
previous year, had been stolen from Fenton Hall, some two miles
inland. The theft, which had taken place when the house was full of
week-end visitors, had been quickly discovered, and the thief, finding
it impossible to get clear away with his spoil, had buried it on the
desolate bank of the creek, marking the spot by a mental line drawn
through the chained pile and the flag on the golf course. He must have
known the neighborhood, and knew this was the ninth hole, or link as
he called it, or as the warder had written it down. For Quarles was
right, a warder was missing from Portland, and was found dead in that
aft cabin.
The yacht was known at Weymouth, and belonged to a retired seaman, a
Captain Wells, who lived at a little hotel when he was in the town. He
was often away--sometimes in his yacht, sometimes in London--and there
was little doubt that his boat had often been used to take stolen
property across to the Continent. Neither the captain nor his mate
could be traced now, but it was some satisfaction that they had not
secured the jewels.
As I have said, I did manage to get some moonlight walks with Zena,
but not many, for a week after we had recovered the Fenton Hall jewels
I was called back to town to interview Lord Leconbridge.