“The Red Cote”
Sergeant Andrews was a shrewd man and ambitious. He had been rather
offended when the Reckavile case had been taken out of his hands, and
was not particularly pleased when he heard that an official as young
as Fletcher had been sent down by Scotland Yard, but he showed nothing
of this in his manner when he addressed him.
“I am pleased to meet you,” he said, “Brown told me you were working
down here, and of course I was informed by the Yard that you were
coming. How are you getting on?”
“It is difficult to say at present, I have a mass of information that
must be sorted out, for it seems to be a complicated affair; but you
wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I suppose you have heard of the disappearance of the bank
manager, Summers, of Tunbridge Wells?”
“Just what I have read, that’s all, he was last seen at Portham
Junction, wasn’t he?”
“That is as far as the official report goes, but I have further
information.” Andrews took the other by the arm, and glanced round to
see that no one was listening.
“He has been seen here in Bungalow Town,” he added.
Fletcher gave a start. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“There is no doubt of it; there is a bungalow called _The Red Cote_
which has somehow got a sinister reputation in the village—I do not
know why—and we have been keeping our eye on it for some days. It is
apparently unoccupied, but every night the rooms are lighted up. I had
a special man to watch it, as in a place like this with so many empty
bungalows in the winter, there is a great chance for burglars. For
three nights running two men have been seen lurking round the place,
and my man swears one of them is the missing bank manager.”
“And the other?”
“Ah, that is more difficult to say, and if we knew that we might find
out a lot of things. The nights were dark, and they evidently tried to
avoid observation, but we have our suspicions. Now for the past three
days no trace has been seen of Summers, and the other man has been
seen alone, so it looks bad.”
While they had been talking, Andrews had lead the way along the beach
to the bungalow which had been the subject of conversation. It was
innocent enough to look at, consisting of two railway coaches set
parallel to each other with a lounge between, and was furnished with
violet basket chairs and sofa, and a green carpet. The door was locked
but as there were no curtains or blinds, it was possible to see the
whole interior.
“What do you make of it?” asked Andrews.
“There’s nothing remarkable about it that I can see, and I really
don’t know why you attach so much importance to seeing two strangers
about at night time.”
“Have a look at the back,” said Andrews with a smile.
Fletcher did so, and returned to the other. “Well,” he said “there’s
just a little kitchen.”
Andrews assumed an air of mystery.
“You see this sitting room, what do you make its length by guessing?”
Fletcher put his eye to the window. “About twelve feet, I should say,”
he said.
“Right, and the kitchen at the back I make about five feet in depth.
Very well, that makes roughly seventeen feet in all, but these railway
coaches are thirty-five feet in length, and the question is, what is
in between?”
Fletcher became interested. “By Jove, I believe you have got hold of
something,” he said. “We’d better have a look.”
Andrews demurred. “We can’t get in without committing a burglary,” he
said.
“Oh nonsense,” said Fletcher, “there’s no one about, here goes,” and
with a quick movement he swung himself up to the roof, and crawled
along the top; in a few moments he was back again, dusting his knees.
“You are right, Andrews,” he said “there is something funny here,
there’s a glass window lighting a central room, but it is whitened all
over, to make it impossible to see inside. I wonder if our friend is
merely an amateur photographer, and we are making fools of ourselves,
or whether it has some other meaning.”
“I thought as you are down here, you would like to know, and I suggest
that we two watch to-night, and see what happens, there’s nothing like
doing a thing one’s self, and it’s just possible this may lead you to
the solution of your problem as well.”
Fletcher was all attention. “There may be something in what you say,
it’s worth trying anyhow. I’ll meet you at ten o’clock. I have had to
leave the _Black Horse_, and am trying to get a room at what they call
the Club, it’s nearer to the scene of action.”
“Very good,” said Andrews. “At ten o’clock.”
Fletcher made his way in a thoughtful mood to the Seftons’ bungalow.
He wanted to see Sefton, and it must be admitted he also felt
strangely drawn to the girl of the train.
Ena let him in herself, and a tall man rose to his feet, and was
introduced to him.
“Mr. Halley,” said the girl. “This is Mr. Fletcher about whom I told
you.”
The two men shook hands with a curious feeling of antagonism, for
which Fletcher was unable to account.
“I am sorry my brother is out,” said Ena. “Mr. Halley has been very
kind in putting our wireless set right, and it has made a great
difference to us in the evenings, as there are no amusements in the
village.”
“You are living in Portham, Mr. Halley?” asked Fletcher.
“My health has not been good,” replied the other in a frigid tone,
which Ena was quick to notice was very different from his normal
voice. “And I find the air of this place does me good.”
“And have you been here long?” asked Fletcher with a disregard for
courtesy.
“A few weeks only,” replied the other.
Fletcher was puzzled, for there was a haunting suggestion in his mind
that he had met Halley before, though he could not recollect where or
when he had done so. He could not continue to ask questions of a
stranger he had just met, but made a mental note for further inquiry.
“I hope you have succeeded in getting a suitable bungalow, Mr.
Fletcher,” said Ena.
“Not yet, Miss Sefton, but I have my eye on one called _The Red Cote_
which seems to be empty. Do you know it?”
“Only by sight,” she replied, but Fletcher had been watching Halley out
of the corner of his eye, and saw him give a slight start at the name.
Somehow he felt in the way, as though he were not quite welcome, and
the thought vexed him; he was annoyed to find Halley so much at home,
and turning to him he said, “Are you coming my way by any chance?”
“That depends on where you are going to,” answered Halley with a
frigid smile.
“I was just going to the Club to see whether I could get a room for a
day or two; it will be more comfortable than the _Black Horse_.”
“Oh you’ve been staying there, have you? How did you like our friend
Southgate?” There was a shade of raillery in the tone which annoyed
Fletcher, and he replied with more heat than he intended. “Is he a
friend of yours? In my opinion he is a confounded ruffian.”
“Quite possibly,” said Halley unruffled. “I expect if he had lived
some time ago he would have been a smuggler or a pirate.”
“And now he’s very likely a thief,” said Fletcher unguardedly.
“How jolly! Like the Pirates of Penzance, you remember. . . . ‘Let’s
vary Piracy with a little Burglary’.”
Fletcher saw he must keep his temper, and said stiffly:
“I am afraid I have never seen that play. Well, I must get along, Miss
Sefton,” and took his departure.
“You don’t seem to like Mr. Fletcher?” said Ena when he had gone.
“I neither like or dislike him,” replied Halley. “He strikes me as an
inquisitive busybody, that’s all.”
“Look there,” said Halley pointing out of the window “who’s that with
him now?”
Ena looked and saw Fletcher and her brother walking slowly towards the
Club deep in conversation.