When the Cat’s Away
“Goodall,” murmured Anthony, “I shall never be able to forget entirely
the look on your face this afternoon when I asked you to fall in with
my arrangements. It was an education on its own—really in some ways I
regard it as sufficient reward in itself for the trouble I have taken
over the matter. Have another slice of this cold lamb. You too,
Daventry!”
The two people addressed pushed their plates towards him, the
Inspector grinning somewhat feebly.
“It might even have been a better education for you had you felt
disposed to tell me a bit more—even now you haven’t put me wise to all
that’s going on—thanks, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Well, Inspector, you do know more than I do,” grumbled Peter. “If
anybody’s got a real legitimate ‘grouse’ it’s little Peter—that’s
enough—thanks—I haven’t got an appetite like the Inspector here.”
Anthony drained the contents of his tankard and surveyed his two
companions with an almost fatherly air of condescension and regard.
“You must allow me to stage-manage the show in the way I think best.
Really—I could charge you both with downright ingratitude! I procure a
topping car for you—if you prefer the word ‘procure’ to borrow—I drive
you out into some most charming country—and I carefully select an inn
that provides you with delicious cold lamb, admirable new potatoes,
delightful green peas, singularly delectable mint-sauce, excellent
Cheddar—all washed down with cooling draughts of the wine of the
country. In exchange for all this—you censure me for what you both
appear to consider excessive reticence.”
Goodall looked intently at him. “‘Borrow,’ did you say? Now I thought
I’d seen that car before—now I know where it was—that’s Colonel
Leach-Fletcher’s ‘Bentley’ we’ve been joy-riding in!” He slapped his
hand on his thigh.
“Quite right, Inspector,” exclaimed Anthony. “I thought you would spot
its identity when I invited you to get in and be seated!”
“Wasn’t thinking of it then—I was wondering where you were taking us
to and what was the big idea!”
Daventry handed round the cigarettes. “Why were you so anxious to get
off the main road?” he queried.
“‘Journeys end in lovers meeting,’” quoth Mr. Bathurst—“I didn’t want
to meet people—two in particular.” He looked at his watch. “It’s
half-past eight, Goodall,” he announced; “I asked Stewart to be here
at nine.”
“Stewart?” questioned the Inspector.
“Yes—he’s coming back, according to my intentions, with the three of
us to Assynton Lodge—and we’re going via ‘Neuve Chapelle’—Colonel
Leach-Fletcher’s house is the Rockinge side of Assynton—that’s why
we’re going round that way. It will be safer!” Goodall nodded an
assent. “Of course,” continued Anthony—“it’s just on the cards that we
shall draw a complete blank—but as I said before, I don’t think so.
Impatience is a tyrannical taskmaster—ask any woman! Come into the
smoke-room!” They made themselves comfortable. “I calculate that it
will be dark about a quarter-past ten—we have three-quarters of an
hour’s journey from here by car—let alone the walk from the Colonel’s.
We should leave here, to be on the safe side, directly Stewart comes.”
“You think it’s certain that nothing will happen before dark?” asked
Goodall.
“I don’t think any attempt will be made,” answered Anthony, “_before
midnight_! They will wait until it’s really dark—still we mustn’t give
any chances away. Now, Daventry—I want to talk to you! That screen you
saw at the Hanover Galleries! If my memory isn’t faulty, it was
covered with the words, ‘Jesus Christ, God and Saviour,’ in beads. Am
I right?” Peter nodded.
“That’s right,” he admitted cheerfully; “I can see it now.
Brightly-colored beads they were—under a kind of glass covering.”
“Was the word ‘and’ shown in full—with its full complement of
letters—that is?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this! In the present day, ‘and’ is often expressed by a kind of
hieroglyphic—you know what I mean—I don’t quite know how old the
practice is—but counting ‘and’ as one—if it had been shown like
that—there would have been just twenty-two letters in the
inscription—see what I’m getting at?”
Peter shook his head. “That theory goes ‘phut,’ old man,” he declared,
“‘and’ was depicted in full—the three letters, a—n—d.”
“Thank you,” replied Anthony somewhat surprisingly cheerfully. “I’m
rather glad, as a matter of fact, to hear you say that—it rather
strengthens my belief in my other theory.” Goodall looked up at the
clock anxiously.
“Mr. Stewart should be here, Mr. Bathurst—I don’t want to stay in here
too long, you know. I shall be getting uneasy.”
“Neither do I. Let’s go and have a look outside!”
They scanned the white stretch of road that wound its serpentine-like
way through the green of the countryside. For the moment their eyes
saw nothing—then Anthony spoke to his companions. “Our man—I fancy!”
He pointed in the reverse direction to that in which they had been
looking.
“Traveling pretty fast, too,” muttered Goodall.
“He’s a trifle late—that’s why,” replied Anthony. In a few moments the
big car spun into the inn-yard with Charles Stewart at the wheel. His
face seemed set and anxious.
“Sorry if I’m a bit behind time, Bathurst,” he apologized, “I
miscalculated the distance this place was away—I hope it hasn’t
inconvenienced you at all.”
Anthony got into the car and sat next to him. “We were getting a bit
worried about you—that was all. I’ll travel back with you!
Daventry—you drive the Inspector in the Colonel’s car. Make straight
for ‘Neuve Chapelle’!”
The two cars swung out on to the road—Peter in the “Bentley” leading.
“I should like to get back to the Colonel’s by ten to ten at the
latest,” exclaimed Anthony. “Can we do it?”
“Easy,” said Stewart. “I’ll let her out when we get on to the Rockinge
road—it’s bound to be pretty clear there—it always is.”
“What about O’Connor, Bathurst?” he continued. “Did you see him all
right as you desired?”
“Yes—thanks! I’ve arranged all that I wanted.” He paused and looked at
his companion. “I’m rather afraid that events have crowded upon us
very quickly, Mr. Stewart, and that coming so soon after this morning
they may have proved a severe strain upon you—but there is this much
to be said, I hope to clear up the whole business within the next few
hours.”
Stewart nodded. “It will be a great relief—perhaps in time I may
school myself to forget it all . . . except that wretched will,
though . . . that’s likely to be a permanent obstacle.”
“Nine-fifty-two,” he announced eventually as they drew up outside
Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s. “Not bad going that.”
The Colonel was not in, the maid-servant informed them. He had gone
out after ten on foot and had not yet returned. Mr. Bathurst thanked
her, and in the circumstances would put the “Bentley” into the garage
if she would see that it was unlocked for him! Peter ran it in as
smoothly and in as businesslike a manner as possible.
“Yours too, Mr. Stewart,” instructed Anthony. “You’re leaving it here
to-night—you know—and completing the rest of the journey with us on
foot!”
Stewart looked a little bewildered, but by this time had become quite
prepared to obey Mr. Bathurst’s orders without asking too many
questions.
“If we walk smartly,” declared Goodall, “we ought to be there by a
quarter to eleven, and that’s quite late enough in my opinion. . . .
Step it out, gentlemen, until I give the word to stop you.”
The four were quickly into their stride—Peter Daventry wondering where
it was all going to end. He put his hand in the pocket of his coat and
felt the butt of his revolver. He was prepared, at any rate, should it
turn out to be a “rough house.” Old Bathurst evidently thought it
might by his references to the revolver. He jerked at Anthony’s
sleeve. “That’s the second mile-stone since we started—another quarter
of an hour or so ought to bring us pretty close to the Lodge.”
Anthony nodded, and for the next ten minutes or thereabouts the little
party walked in silence. Suddenly Goodall, who was leading, stopped,
and turning in his tracks, approached the others. “We’re just on
there,” he whispered, “and we must all keep very quiet. Is there
anything more you want seen to, Mr. Bathurst?”
“How many men have you posted round the house, Goodall?” asked
Anthony.
“Half a dozen. Every point is well watched—I’ve seen to that!”
“Better make sure they’re there before we do anything,” suggested
Anthony.
“Wait, then,” snapped Goodall. He was soon back. “All O. K.,” he
declared very quietly.
“What I propose, then, is this—we four will keep well away from the
entrance that leads to the front of the house on the Assynton side.
We’ll climb the garden wall at the back—we shall come to it first,
approaching from this direction, and once inside the grounds we’ll
take cover—somewhere near the rock garden say. We oughtn’t to stand
much chance of being spotted round there.” He looked up at the sky.
“The moon’s in our favor!” Goodall appeared to be considering the plan
very carefully. “Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I don’t think we can
do very much better than that. I’ll go and have another word with
Sergeant Clegg and wait for you under the shadow of the wall.” He was
as good as his word, and shortly afterwards the four figures dropped
silently from the wall and stealthily made their way nearer to the
house. Not a glimmer of light showed, and the dim foreboding that the
night was destined to produce nothing sensational smote Anthony for a
brief moment. Then his reason reasserted itself and he shook off the
idea of failure.
“Deuced peculiar way of entering my own garden,” muttered Charles
Stewart.
Goodall put his fingers to his lips. “Silence—everybody—please—not a
syllable—gentlemen.”
Suddenly a figure flitted out from behind a bush. Peter quivered with
excitement. Anthony caught it by the arm. “That you, Patrick?” he
whispered softly.
Goodall turned round again angrily, but Anthony held up his finger
with a gesture that betokened silence.
“Ay, sir, it’s Patrick O’Connor. I fixed that little job for you—and
father’s up near the window—as you told him, sir. Nothing’s happened
yet, sir—I’ve watched since the time you mentioned.” Anthony expressed
approval. “Fall in with us, Patrick—and as quietly as you know how.”
Two or three minutes later came another order from the Inspector. “Now
sort yourselves out—and keep within half a dozen yards of one
another—and nobody’s to move forward after taking up position unless
ordered by me or Mr. Bathurst here.” As he spoke a light suddenly
flashed and lit up one of the rooms. Peter started as he saw it.
“Which room’s that?” he queried of Anthony in a whisper.
“Not sure—watch the house carefully—get away to my right—three yards
will be ample.”
For a long time nothing happened—till just as suddenly as previously a
second room flashed into light. Anthony tiptoed over to Daventry. “One
of the bedrooms now—on the second floor—I really think things are
moving. I’m going forward a bit to have a word with Goodall.”
The Inspector listened sagely and was on the point of making his reply
when Anthony gripped his arm.
“Listen, Goodall, listen. Hear that? A car! It’s driven up to the
house—it’s going up the drive now—can’t you hear it?”
Goodall cocked his head in the darkness—then turned swiftly and
silently.
“Get the men to their places, Mr. Bathurst—we haven’t long to wait
now, I’ll lay any odds.”
Goodall’s instructions were instantly obeyed, and Peter Daventry was
perfectly certain in his own mind that everybody could hear plainly
the sound of his heart beating. But nobody appeared to—nobody turned
on him angrily with an order to stop the noise his heart was making—so
he concluded after a time that the noise wasn’t anything like as bad
as he imagined and that his fears were exaggerated.
Anthony flitted noiselessly across to the Inspector. “Stay here—all of
you—I’m going forward a bit—don’t do anything till I come back and
give you the word.” He slipped away in the darkness. Keeping well in
the shadow, he silently approached the library. A figure suddenly
materialized, peering at him for a brief moment of palpitating
suspense. Suddenly Anthony felt his hand gripped in a grasp that would
have made many a man wince.
“All right, O’Connor,” he whispered, “be careful not to make the
slightest sound—_they’re somewhere in the house_.” The giant flashed
back a smile, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Simultaneously the
library flooded into light! Anthony in the stress of his excitement
dug his fingers into the foundryman’s shoulder. “I’m going right up to
the French doors,” he whispered again, “in a very few minutes from
now—get well back for a moment or two in case they open them and come
out.” They crouched together in the darkest patch they could find. The
few minutes seemed an eternity. O’Connor’s breath came in short sharp
gasps—inactivity fretted him and he found this period of waiting and
suspense well-nigh intolerable. Then his heart went to his mouth as he
saw Anthony go forward, very slowly and silently—on the grass as much
as possible—step by step—and reach the doors of the lighted library.
He saw Bathurst’s body worm to one side, seeking a favorable chink of
vantage—he saw it stiffen to rigid attention as this chink was
apparently gained . . . the rest he had to leave to the flights of his
imagination. Then as he looked he saw Bathurst drop down from his full
height and begin to tiptoe again on his return journey. Anthony
answered his companion’s unspoken question. “Couldn’t be better—stay
here while I go back to get Goodall and the others.” O’Connor could
just see that the speaker’s face was shining with a mixture of
excitement and elation. Goodall heard Anthony’s news with quiet
satisfaction.
“Good,” was all he permitted himself. He collected Peter and Charles
Stewart, sent young O’Connor down to Sergeant Clegg and issued his
final instructions. “Your revolver, Mr. Daventry? Right! You’re
perfectly certain about the doors, Mr. Bathurst, aren’t you?”
“They’ve been attended to, Inspector—be easy on that point.” The four
men crept forward and joined the elder O’Connor. And at last they
reached the point they wanted. Anthony listened for a single tense
moment—then beckoned to Goodall, who stole silently to his side. “Look
through there,” he whispered. Goodall peered into the room. Two men
were standing with their backs to the French doors, but the form of
one of them was vaguely familiar to him. A woman was kneeling on the
floor in front of two objects the exact shape of which her body hid
from the watchers’ sight. Anthony caught at Goodall’s arm and pulled
him away—then he whispered a few words into the Inspector’s ear.
“Good God!” muttered Goodall. Then he made a sign to Peter and the
others, and with a sudden sharp movement of his hands pulled open the
doors. The woman sprang to her feet with a scream that rang in Peter’s
ears as he leveled his revolver. Goodall was at his side, and Peter
could see a second automatic gleaming in the Inspector’s hand. The two
men in the library pivoted round in amazement, and the smaller man’s
hand dropped like lightning to his hip pocket.
“Put your hands up,” roared Goodall, “or, by God, I’ll let daylight
through you.”
Four hands went sullenly up, while the woman sank quivering to the
floor. Goodall walked to the man that was armed and quietly took the
revolver from his hip pocket. “‘Snoop’ Mortimer and Alice Mortimer,”
he said deliberately, “I arrest you on the charge of murdering James
Mason at the Hanover Galleries on the morning of June 9th last.”
Sergeant Clegg came out of the circle of light by the doors and
clicked the handcuffs on the man’s wrists. The woman lay prostrate on
the floor. Goodall administered the usual caution. He then walked to
the elder man who stood grey and ashen by the library table,
completely paralyzed at the dramatic interruption. “I also arrest you,
John Butterworth,” he said, “for the murder of your master, Laurence
P. Stewart, on the night of June 8th!” Butterworth reeled and swayed
like a tree shaken in the wind—then held out his hands mechanically
for the handcuffs—the bracelets from which, for murderers, there is no
escape.