The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction
Peter Daventry glanced at the clock on Paddington platform. He saw
with undisguised relief that he was a good quarter of an hour to the
good. “Curse this beastly wrist-watch,” he muttered to himself—“it
gets worse every day—fairly put the wind up me that time.” He walked
to the platform indicator—digested the information thereon applicable
to the 6:55—“Didcot, Wantage Rd., Assynton”—and drifted over to the
appropriate platform. Arrived there, he scanned the horizon for
Anthony Bathurst. The platform was pretty crowded and he could not see
the man he wanted. It was unlike Bathurst to arrive at 6:45 for 6:55.
He argued that it was a sheer waste of very valuable minutes. Daventry
commenced his second tour up the platform when a voice at his shoulder
jolted his equilibrium and suddenly brought him to a standstill.
“Good evening, Mr. Daventry.” Detective-Inspector Goodall smiled
genially and extended what looked like an amicable hand. “Going to try
the Berkshire air?”
Peter gasped feebly but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp
the extended hand—mechanically it must be admitted. Goodall clasped it
warmly, but Peter could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Y—es. I’m going down to Assynton.” Then his indignation mastered his
surprise and his resentment. “But why the devil are you trailing _me_,
Inspector—for it’s pretty evident you _are_ trailing me,” he concluded
with asperity.
“Not on your life, Mr. Daventry,” replied Goodall—the picture of
unruffled imperturbability. “You mustn’t get jumpy like that—or I
shall begin to suspect you after all.” He smiled again.
“Well then, it’s a wonderful coincidence to meet you here,” remarked
Peter ruefully.
“Not so wonderful—if you think for a moment.” Peter’s face cleared
magically.
“Ass that I am,” he declared. “You’re bound for the same destination,
of course.”
“Now we’re talking,” said Goodall. “The local people down at Assynton
have asked ‘the Yard’ to take a look at things down there—just at the
very moment, too, when we at ‘the Yard’ were trying to piece the two
murders together, somehow! I’m going down. But what about you, Mr.
Daventry?”
“I’m representing my firm—Mr. Stewart’s son has asked me to run down.”
“How about a nice compartment, then, with a couple of corner seats?
This train isn’t a ‘corridor,’ worse luck.”
“Well—as a matter of fact”—temporized Peter—“I’m waiting for
somebody!”
Goodall instantly became all interest. “Really? I had no idea—you wish
to be alone?”
Peter denied the idea strenuously—feeling all the time that he was
heading straight for the Valley of Suspicion again. “Not at all. Only
too pleased to travel with you, Inspector. I’m sure my friend will
be——”
“Delighted,” said Anthony Bathurst. “Introduce me, Daventry, will
you?”
Peter accepted the invitation gladly. He was downright pleased that
Bathurst had turned up when he did. This fellow Goodall seemed to know
a jolly sight more about a chap than was thoroughly comfortable. He
was curious to see how Anthony Bathurst would be affected by
Detective-Inspector Goodall. He made the introduction.
“I am honored,” remarked Bathurst. “Scotland Yard must consider the
Assynton Lodge murder as extremely ‘difficult’ for it to engage the
attention of Inspector Goodall.”
He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the
compliment.
“You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to
Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.”
“On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of
the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit
business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a
tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.”
Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out
of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant
beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they
approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the
wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and
water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold
radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote
in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the
country decorated so beautifully.
“Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during
the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a
soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!”
Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he
questioned.
Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at
young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I
think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort
of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly.
But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is
to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid
side.
“I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from
the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed
otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.”
Goodall’s face again registered surprise. “You seem remarkably well
informed, Mr. Bathurst——”
Anthony raised an explanatory hand. “Mr. Daventry has posted me pretty
soundly, thank you. He interviewed me this afternoon. I understand the
main facts of the case are these.” He gave a brief but explicit resumé
of the affair as it had been presented to him. “That’s about all, I
fancy, Inspector?” He looked at Goodall for corroboration.
Now Goodall could have supplemented Bathurst’s information with one or
two additional facts, which was precisely what Mr. Bathurst intended
should happen. But the Inspector was not yet quite certain of his
bearings and Mr. Bathurst’s exposition of the facts had been
sufficiently masterly to prompt him to refrain. He gave Bathurst a
confirmatory nod and said nothing.
“At any rate,” proceeded Anthony—“we are fortunate in one respect—that
is to say from the standpoint of investigation. With regard to the
first murder we do know the motive.”
“The first murder?” queried Goodall. “Which of the two was that—I
should be pleased to know?”
Anthony smiled. “I was not referring to the order in which the two men
were murdered—although I appreciate your point. At the moment I don’t
know when Stewart was killed. All I know is that he was found dead
this morning. By the term ‘the first murder’ I meant the murder
of Mason, the night-watchman. It was the first of which I heard.
It was the first of which you heard. It happened in London, where
we live. Cigarette, Inspector? You, Daventry?” They accepted his
invitation—Goodall a little nettled. He had provoked an encounter and
chosen his weapons, but had not been brilliantly successful. But he
had the sense to accept what Anthony had said.
“Quite right, Mr. Bathurst. I just wanted to make sure. I rather
believe in making sure, you know—I tested _your_ alibi, by the way,
Mr. Daventry, this afternoon.”
Peter grinned. “Well—and how was it? I’ll guarantee you couldn’t shake
it.”
“I’m not going to arrest you—sit still!” He leaned over to Bathurst
with his elbows on his knees.
“You reckon then we know the motive for the Hanover Galleries job?”
“Well, it’s pretty plain, I should say. Possession of the Stuart
antiques—robbery! Which makes it a clean-cut case! This end we aren’t
so well off.” He looked at Goodall with that humorous twist to his
mouth that his friends knew so well. When they saw it they knew that
things were running pretty smoothly. “To know the motive of any crime
gives you a flying start, Inspector.” He tossed his cigarette end
through the window.
Goodall scratched his chin, reflectively. “That’s all very well, as
far as it goes. Robbery—you say, for possession of the Stuart
antiques. Worth what? I’m not an expert—but for the sake of argument
we’ll put it at a matter of hundreds. And we sha’n’t be so very far
out, at that! Now, Mr. Bathurst, what was there so peculiarly
attractive about these antiques—or about one of them—to spell Mason’s
murder?” He leaned forward still further in his seat and his voice cut
across the compartment quietly insistent and definitely certain. “To
kill Laurence Stewart? To send you—and you—and me, to Assynton, on a
summer evening—_wondering_! Eh, Mr. Bathurst—tell me that!” His eyes
blazed with a mingled excitement and determination, as he watched his
_vis-à-vis_. Bathurst rubbed his hands, appreciatively!
“Excellent, Inspector, excellent. That’s a question that I should very
much like to be able to answer.”
“Which of the antiques, Mr. Bathurst? Which one? And not a clue that
you can call a clue as to where they’ve gone—except a sneezing woman,”
he remarked semi-humorously.
“Tell me,” said Anthony, “I’m interested.” He listened carefully
while Goodall—despite his opposite intention when the journey
started—related the trenchant evidence of Edward Druce—night-watchman.
“So they were at the Hanover Galleries at midnight, were they? That’s
important! That gives us a definite time-anchor.” He spoke to Goodall
with decision. “I think with you, Inspector Goodall, that the two
cases are connected without a doubt. But it’s a mistake to theorize
without data—let’s wait till we pick up the threads a bit this end. As
you say—which one of the three antiques were they after? It’s as bad
as ‘finding the lady’—with Mary, Queen of Scots, as the lady.”
He grinned at Daventry, who had been following the interchange of
ideas with the keenest possible attention. Suddenly Peter slapped his
thigh with excitement.
“By Jove!” he cried, “Mary, Queen of Scots—that reminds me—what an
idiot I’ve been not to tell you before.”
Then he paused with a hint of apology. “So much has happened since,
that it has been driven completely out of my mind.”
“You become more interesting hourly, Daventry,” remarked Anthony. “Out
with it, whatever it is—before you forget it again.” Peter waved the
sarcasm aside.
“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’
people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual
phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’”—he
grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read
several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat
contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of
discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the
purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that
I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at
the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a
mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott,
by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one
things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face
was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I
noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was
comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed
to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an
ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no
help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to
old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I
did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all
the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and
some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of
Scots.’” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his
companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly
cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him
that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental
activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap
at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a
sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet
and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He
shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I
said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me,
gentlemen.”
“What happened then?” cut in Goodall.
“Nothing much,” answered Peter—“the waiters rushed to repair the
damage—that was all.”
“H’m,” commented the Inspector. “I know Lironi, the proprietor of the
‘Violette,’ pretty well. If I think it important enough I could see
him—he might know something about them—they might be fairly regular
customers of his. It depends on what I strike down here in Berkshire.”
He looked across at Bathurst, who was sitting with his head sunk on
one shoulder. Suddenly the latter sat up.
“What did the woman do, Daventry—anything noticeable?”
“Well, there again—it’s hard to say, definitely. But in my opinion she
was pretty savage about the incident. She certainly tried to joke it
off to the waiters, but I’m fairly confident she chewed the merchant’s
ear off a bit—looked to me like it,” he affirmed.
Bathurst nodded. “I thought perhaps the truest indication of the value
of the incident might be supplied by the conduct of the woman.” He
spoke to Inspector Goodall. “Sherlock Holmes has laid it down,
Inspector, that in moments of sudden alarm and anxiety, a single woman
rushes for her jewel case—a married woman for her baby. This incident
throws a further light on the question. It may be added now that the
married woman on occasion gives her husband wordy castigation—as the
present-day ‘argot’ would put it—she ‘ticks him off’!” He smiled.
“Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know that this particular pair represented husband and wife,
Mr. Bathurst,” protested Goodall.
“I wouldn’t bank on the marriage certificate, myself, Inspector,”
returned Anthony. “But there is just this to be said for what Daventry
has told us. A woman crops up in two of our little scenes. There’s a
woman in this incident and there’s the woman whose thirst for
information took her to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ at the identical
moment when Mason and Druce, the two night-watchmen, were changing
shifts.” He thought for a moment or two. “It’s certainly a point to be
considered,” he concluded.
“There aren’t many ‘crooks’ that haven’t a woman in tow, nowadays,”
declared Goodall. “The equality of the sexes has become very
far-reaching. Still it’s deuced smart work for the same gang to have
pulled off both these jobs—I can’t quite take that in myself—not yet.”
“Who’s in charge of the case down here?” queried Anthony. “Anybody
you’ve run against before?”
Goodall shook his head. “A Sergeant Clegg was called to Assynton Lodge
this morning—he’s the local man—he’s at Assynton. They ’phoned to ‘the
Yard’ this afternoon—felt the case was a nasty one—likely to prove too
big for friend Clegg. When the news reached me I told our people of
Mr. Linnell’s information which seemed to link up the two cases, and
it was decided then and there that I should come down.” He rubbed his
cheek with his forefinger. “About twenty-four hours late,” he murmured
as a kind of afterthought. “The scent cold—another man—possibly with
an assistant or two—done his best to destroy most of the things that
might help one—talk about ‘locking the door behind the stolen
steed’—can you beat it?”
“Not too helpful, I admit, Inspector,” argued Anthony. “Still, even
now there may be something to pick up—you never know—there’s always
the ‘human element’ to be considered in every case.”
“All murderers don’t make glaring mistakes, Mr. Bathurst, don’t you
run away with that idea—if they did—Scotland Yard would have precious
few failures to record. Take my advice—don’t you go relying on the
human element for mistakes—_always_.” He took his hat from the rack
and put it on his head. “I fancy we’re running into Assynton.” He
looked at his watch. “A little matter of four minutes late!”
Anthony uncoiled his length from the seat. “I didn’t mean that,
Inspector! By the ‘human element’ I meant the people in the case—the
circle round the dead man—the people we shall encounter—there’s always
the factor of their personal psychologies. Do you follow me?”
Goodall grunted as the train drew up. Darkness was beginning to
suggest itself. A heavy figure emerged from the recesses of the
booking office and presented itself to them—semi-important, yet at the
same time—semi-apologetic.
“Detective-Inspector Goodall?” he inquired.
“That’s me,” replied Goodall. “And you?” He peered forward at the man
that had met him.
“Sergeant Clegg, Inspector.” He saluted. “And downright glad to see
you.”
“Thank you,” said Inspector Goodall.