The Third Attack in the Maze
When Sir Clinton came down from his room Wendover noticed that he had
mastered his vexation. During lunch, both of them avoided the
Whistlefield case by tacit consent; but the Squire was relieved to see
that his friend’s face showed less anxiety in its expression than had
been obvious at the breakfast table. Sir Clinton usually had complete
control of his features and showed no more than he wished the world to
see; and Wendover guessed that behind the mask the Chief Constable was
still too sensitive to make the affair at Whistlefield a safe subject
of conversation.
When lunch was over Sir Clinton smoked a cigarette for a minute or two
in silence. Then he turned to his host.
“You might lend me your car, Squire. I ought to go down to the police
station this afternoon and get some reports from the man in charge. It
isn’t worth your while to come with me. They’ll only be formal
affairs, I suspect; and if there’s anything striking, I’ll tell you
about it when I get back.”
Wendover consented. His tact suggested that Sir Clinton would probably
prefer to be alone until the first edge of his irritation had worn
off.
When the Chief Constable returned, however, he had little news of
importance.
“There’s no sign of the burglars so far,” he admitted. “I rang up the
police from Whistlefield in the morning and put them on the alert; but
they’ve picked up nothing that looks like the shadow of a clue. One
could hardly expect it. Thanks to friend Ernest’s lethargic habits, a
burglar could have got to the Midlands before my men even knew of the
Whistlefield affair.”
“I suppose they’ve done all they can?”
“For a local lot handling a thing of this sort, they’ve really done
very well. They’ve made inquiries at all the railway stations in the
neighbourhood and drawn blank. No suspicious person can be traced
there. They’ve done their best in the matter of motors, too; but that,
of course, was rather a wash-out. One can’t expect them to keep tally
of every car that might pass along the road. And they’ve had a regular
hunt through the Whistlefield gardens to find out how the burglary was
done. But there again they struck a blank end.”
“Footmarks on the flower-bed?” inquired Wendover.
“One or two beautifully rectangular impressions—that’s all. The fellow
evidently tied bits of cardboard under his shoes. One hasn’t even an
idea of the size of his foot. And of course friend Ernest had been
stamping about all over the bed in his efforts to remove the ladder
with least trouble to himself. He didn’t exaggerate when he said he
was nervous. It seems he just gave the thing a push and let it fall
anyhow—smashed some flowers to bits in the collapse. If the burglars
were still in the room above the row must have put them on the alert
at once.”
“You think they may have got away into the house and been hidden there
while Stenness and Co. were breaking into the room?”
“Well, you can lock a door from either side, can’t you?”
Wendover reflected for a moment.
“It’s a pity Stenness didn’t think of searching the house when they
found no one in the room.”
“Much too late by that time, Squire. No hunted burglar would wait on
the premises a second longer than he could help. He’d be off
downstairs at once and get out of the ground floor windows on the
opposite side of the house.”
“But then he’d leave an unlatched window behind him.”
“So he may have done. No one can swear that all the windows were made
fast yesterday evening. They’re a careless lot up at Whistlefield.”
Wendover’s mind fastened upon the thing which seemed to him of most
importance.
“What did the burglar want? What was he after, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton’s face became inscrutable, though Wendover could not help
seeing irony in his reply.
“‘What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, though puzzling questions are not beyond all
conjecture,’” he quoted. “Sir Thomas Browne knew what he was talking
about. What thing the burglar sought, though puzzling is not beyond
conjecture, Squire. The field’s open, if you wish to enter for the
competition.”
Wendover accepted the irony as a proof that Sir Clinton had got over
his fit of annoyance completely.
“Well, then, I conjecture that the burglar was in Hackleton’s pay—like
the murderer—and that he was hunting for more of Neville Shandon’s
notes for the case. Look how everything was turned upside down. Look
at the fact that the money was left intact. That wasn’t what one
expects from a normal burglar.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sir Clinton agreed. “But I’m not going to be drawn.
Go on with your conjecturing, Squire; and if that fails you might take
to surmising or speculating as a change of occupation. Thinking
exercises the brain, so you won’t really lose in the end.”
“You’re an exasperating beast at times, Clinton,” Wendover affirmed,
without a trace of irritation.
“If that’s the first result of thinking, I don’t think I’d take it up
as a hobby,” Sir Clinton responded cheerfully. “It might lead to
peevishness among the neighbours.”
He walked over to the window, possibly to conceal his expression,
before communicating his next piece of information.
“I had time to drop in on your friend Ardsley, too, on my way home.”
Wendover rose to the bait at once.
“Oh, indeed! I hope he showed you his best specimens; a pithed frog,
perhaps, or a mangled dog? It’s no good lifting these eyebrows of
yours, Clinton. I don’t like the fellow.”
“One could almost guess it from the way you talk. But bear in mind,
Squire, that even the meanest of God’s creatures may have its uses.
I’ve got a use for Ardsley,” he added carelessly, “so don’t go making
things too unpleasant if you come across him any time.”
Wendover gave a half-suppressed growl.
“One rubs up against a lot of queer fish when one begins mixing with
the police, it seems,” he complained, half in fun and half in earnest.
Before Sir Clinton could reply, the bell of the telephone rang
sharply.
“Bet you nine to four that’s Whistlefield ringing up,” the Chief
Constable offered. “Here, I’ll go myself.”
He left the room and Wendover waited uneasily for the result of the
conversation. It took a minute or two and he knew from this that it
must be something relating to Whistlefield, for Sir Clinton had no
friends in the neighbourhood. When the Chief Constable returned,
Wendover looked up with a certain foreboding. News from Whistlefield
of late had never been encouraging; and he feared that something more
might have happened.
“Did you take that bet?” inquired Sir Clinton. “If so, you owe me a
note or two. It was Whistlefield at the other end of the line, just as
I expected. If this goes on, we may as well tell the Exchange to leave
their plug in our hole permanently and save bother to all hands.”
“What’s happened now?” demanded Wendover anxiously.
“An attempted murder this time. Your friend Ernest rang up to tell me
about it. They’ve tried to get him next; but he fled like a lamb from
the slaughter and seems to have saved his bacon. But he’s in a
pitiable state,” Sir Clinton went on, a tingle of contempt coming into
his tone. “Quite blue with funk, I should judge. He nearly wept into
the mouthpiece, and I could hear him gasping for breath at the other
end of the wire. Quite a shock to his nerves, it appears. We’ll have
to go across and comfort him. Come along.”
“You don’t seem much worried over his troubles,” Wendover commented.
“I’ve no great use for a cowardly little beast. You should have heard
him on the ’phone, Wendover. Sounded like one of those things they
used to run in the Grand Guignol.”
“Even the meanest of God’s creatures may have its uses,” Wendover
quoted, sarcastically.
Sir Clinton’s temporary cheerfulness seemed to have passed away.
“That’s a true word spoken in jest, no doubt. You’re perhaps right
after all. We may find a use for even friend Ernest before we’re done.
But on the face of it, it doesn’t look probable, does it?”
When they reached Whistlefield they were shown at once into the study
where they found Ernest in a state of nervous collapse. A syphon and a
decanter stood on a tray at his elbow; and the moving surface of the
whisky showed that he had just finished pouring out a drink. As they
came in, he poured some more liquor into his empty tumbler.
“I think I’d leave it at that, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton suggested,
coolly. “We’d better not run any risk of your memory getting
confused.”
Ernest took his hand away from the tumbler obediently. Wendover could
see that he was trembling, and he seemed to be in a condition
bordering on panic.
“Now, let’s have the story as briefly as possible, if you please,” Sir
Clinton requested.
Ernest looked helplessly round the room for a moment.
“I can hardly believe I’m safe,” he explained. “I’ve had such a time,
such a time. Dreadful!”
“Yes, tell us about it.”
“After dinner, I thought I’d go down and have a look at the Maze,”
Ernest continued. “I hadn’t been there, you know, since the affair
happened; and I thought I might as well go down and look round the
place. I wish I’d never had the idea. Such a time I’ve had.”
His eyeglasses slipped askew on his nose and he laboriously set them
right before continuing.
“Damn these things! I must get a new pair. They’re always dropping
off.”
“Yes?” Sir Clinton repeated, patiently. All his levity had vanished,
Wendover noticed, now that he had come to real business.
“After lunch I thought I’d go down to the Maze; but it seemed a lot of
trouble, going all that distance; and I very nearly gave up the idea.
I wish I had. But then I thought of the push-bike I keep in the
garage. It would be easy enough to pedal down on it. So I got it out
and went off by the road that leads to the East Gate.”
He put out his hand tentatively towards the tumbler, but drew it back
again at the sight of Sir Clinton’s frown. He looked like an overgrown
baby caught in the act of mischief.
“Yes?” Sir Clinton repeated once more.
“I went into the Maze, you know, never thinking that anything could
possibly happen there. I never dreamed of anything happening, you
understand? And I walked through it to Helen’s Bower—the place where
my brother Roger was murdered, you remember? And when I got there I
sat down. I’d come a good way, you see. And I felt that I’d like to
sit down.”
“Did you see anyone in or near the Maze up to that moment?” asked Sir
Clinton.
Ernest pondered for a moment or two. His trepidation, far from
brightening him, seemed to have made him look duller than ever.
“No,” he said, hesitatingly at last, “I can’t say I did. I don’t
remember seeing anyone.”
“And then?”
“Where was I? Oh, yes, I sat down. It was rather hot; and I thought
I’d like a seat. I meant to sit there and smoke a cigar before looking
round the Maze. I sat there for a while, I don’t quite know how long.
Some time, at least. And then I may have fallen into a doze. The sun
was very hot, even when I was in the shade of the hedge, you
understand? It makes you sleepy. I suppose I dozed off. Perhaps I was
asleep for quite a while.”
“You can’t give me anything more exact than that, can you, Mr.
Shandon?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. It was quite a while, though, I feel pretty
sure of that.”
He put out his hand towards the tumbler again.
“I really think I’d get on better if I had another drink.”
Sir Clinton looked at him with unconcealed distaste. Then he picked up
the tumbler himself.
“Two fingers then.”
He went across to the window and poured away the surplus from Ernest’s
generously filled glass.
“Now, come along, Mr. Shandon. The sooner we get your story the sooner
I can get to work. You must pull yourself together.”
Ernest Shandon drank off his whiskey neat and then gave a sigh of
relief.
“I feel better now. I’ve really had a terrible time! Where was I? Oh,
yes, I woke up.”
“Thrilling!” said Sir Clinton, brutally. “And what next?”
Wendover could not help seeing that Sir Clinton’s temper was wearing
thin under the strain of listening to this outpouring of rambling
narrative. And this time there was no Stenness who could be turned on
to complete the tale. They were dependent entirely on the
terror-stricken creature before them.
“I woke up,” Ernest repeated, staring at them with wide-opened eyes as
though chronicling some vast convulsion of Nature. “And just after I
woke up I seemed to hear steps somewhere near me. I wasn’t very wide
awake, you understand? and I sat listening for a moment or two—or it
may have been for a little longer than that,” he added with an evident
effort at exactitude. “And I thought to myself it might be young
Torrance or Stenness. It couldn’t have been the girls, you see?
because they had taken the car and gone off to do some shopping in
Ambledown. I know that, because they said they were going there and I
wondered why they didn’t go to Stanningleigh, which is nearer. But I
suppose they wanted to go to some special shop in Ambledown. There are
better shops in Ambledown . . .”
A glimpse of the expression on Sir Clinton’s face brought him suddenly
back to his direct narrative.
“So I called out: ‘Who’s there?’ just like that, you know. But nobody
replied. So I was wondering who it could be; and I was just going to
call again when suddenly I heard the noise of an air-gun going off;
and something whizzed past me as close as that!”
He indicated a track almost grazing his cheek.
“I jumped up. I didn’t wait to hear any more. I can take the right
decision as quick as most people, I assure you, Sir Clinton. I ran as
fast as I could to the entrance, and then I heard the fellow
re-loading the gun! It was dreadful! My blood didn’t freeze or
anything like that, but I suffered agonies—agonies!”
“Quite so,” said Sir Clinton soothingly. “You were in a blue funk. We
quite understand. An alarming situation. And what happened after
that?”
“I ran out into the Maze. Luckily I’d spotted where the fellow was. He
was at the same loophole that he’d used when he killed Roger. Oh, I
had all my wits about me; I was really very cool, considering the
state of affairs.”
“And then?”
“Then I ran through the Maze as hard as I could. Such a time! Fancy
having the fellow after me with those darts!”
“He followed you, then?”
“It would be what he _would_ do, wouldn’t it?”
“You mean that you didn’t actually hear him?”
“No, I didn’t hear him. I didn’t wait to hear anything. I was so busy
getting out of the Maze. Of course, I know the Maze well, but it’s
difficult to keep your head in a case like that, very difficult. But I
did it,” he ended proudly. “I got away from the fellow. Never as much
as saw him.”
His glasses slipped off again in the excitement of his peroration; and
he adjusted them painfully.
“These things do give one a lot of bother,” he complained. “I expect
it’s the perspiration on my nose, with all that running. I haven’t run
for years.”
“You got out of the Maze safely, then. What next?”
“I got on to my bicycle and rode away as hard as I could. What a
blessing I had that machine there, eh? If I hadn’t, he might have run
me down in the open quite easily. I was quite out of breath.”
“Then?”
“Then I went to the telephone and rang you up at the Grange. I had an
idea you’d be there. If you hadn’t been, I’d have tried the
police-station.”
“Quite right, Mr. Shandon. Now there are one or two points I must have
cleared up. First of all, it seems you met no one either going to the
Maze or coming back from it. Did you shout or call for assistance at
all on your way to the house?”
“I couldn’t,” Ernest admitted, simply. “I hadn’t any breath left to
shout with. You don’t understand what it was like, I assure you.”
“Was there no one about?”
“No,” Ernest answered after a pause. “Arthur had gone off somewhere.
He generally seems to go off by himself, quite often one doesn’t see
him for hours. I don’t know where he was. And Torrance was out of the
road, too. I can’t tell you where he was. Perhaps he’d walked over to
Stanningleigh. Or perhaps he’d gone somewhere else. I haven’t seen him
since lunch-time.”
“And Mr. Stenness?”
To Wendover’s surprise the sound of Stenness’s name seemed to
galvanise Ernest. His terror appeared to increase again, just when it
had seemed to be dying down.
“Stenness!” he repeated. “Oh, Stenness . . .”
He broke off short, as though afraid he had been heard.
“Just a moment,” he muttered, and rose from his chair.
Wendover could see that the man’s knees were trembling. Ernest walked
across to the door, opened it gently, and peered out with a caution
which had in it a touch of the ludicrous.
“Nobody there,” he explained, as he came back again. “You never know.”
“What’s behind this, Mr. Shandon?” Sir Clinton demanded, impatiently.
“If you’ve any information, it’s your duty to give it to me at once.
Have you anything to tell me about Mr. Stenness?”
Ernest made a gesture, appealing piteously for a lowering of Sir
Clinton’s voice.
“You remember,” he continued, almost in a whisper, “that the other
night—I mean last night, the night of the burglary—I was going through
Roger’s papers. I think I told you before that I was doing that,
didn’t I? And amongst his papers I came across his cheque-books and
some stubs. I was looking through these, just to see what things he’d
been spending money on—the firms he’d been dealing with, and so forth,
you understand? And quite by accident, I noticed something funny. The
counterfoil of the last missing cheque had been cut out of the book.
I’d never have noticed it if it hadn’t been that I was looking at the
numbers. It was cut away very carefully, very neatly indeed, you know.
But there was the counterfoil for the cheque before it numbered
something like 60072 and the next one in the book was numbered 60074
or some figures like these. There was a missing number in the series.
And there was another funny thing. I happened to look at the last
bundle of returned cheques in Roger’s drawer. He hadn’t destroyed
them, it seems, for some reason or other. I can’t think why, myself.
But there they were. And one of them was missing from the series.”
“There’s nothing mysterious in that,” Wendover objected. “It may have
been a cheque that went abroad, and hasn’t been returned to the bank
yet. Your brother had interests overseas.”
Ernest’s dull eyes brightened slightly in triumph.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Wendover. That’s a mistake. I was curious
about the thing, it seemed to me so funny. So I looked up the
counterfoil of that missing cheque in Roger’s stub; and it was a
cheque for some hundreds and it was made payable to his stockbrokers.
That seemed funnier than ever, didn’t it? A cheque like that would go
right back to the bank with no delay. It would be paid in immediately,
I’m sure it would. Wouldn’t it? Of course, sure to be, you know?”
Sir Clinton had been following this with keen interest.
“And where does Mr. Stenness come in?” he asked. Ernest looked round
the room again as though he feared that Stenness might be concealed
somewhere.
“Well,” he said, reluctantly, “Stenness had access to Roger’s papers.
He could have got at this cheque-book, I’m sure. Roger was a bit
careless, sometimes. I’ve seen his cheque-book lying about on the
table often. I remember I saw it last Tuesday, was it? Or was it
Wednesday? It was in the morning, I know that.”
Sir Clinton’s face showed uncommon interest now.
“And you think . . .?” he prompted.
Ernest poured out another stiff glass of whiskey, this time unchecked
by anyone.
“I can’t say I think anything, really. I shouldn’t like to go so far
as that, you understand. That might be going too far. But I let slip
to you that I’d found something funny amongst the cheques, last night.
I mean I told you this morning what I’d found last night. Or
rather . . .”
“I understand,” said Sir Clinton, rescuing him from his tangle.
“And . . .?”
“And Stenness was there when I mentioned it. He knew I’d found some
hanky-panky.”
Sir Clinton leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment or two.
“I see what’s in your mind, Mr. Shandon,” he said at length. “Well,
that can be put straight easily enough. So long as you were the only
person who knew of this affair, you might be a danger to the fellow
who was responsible for what you call the hanky-panky. It might be
worth his while to put you out of the way—silence you, eh? and cover
the business up.”
Ernest’s starting eyes showed that he had no liking for such plain
discourse.
“Then,” continued Sir Clinton, “the remedy’s simple. Just tell whoever
it is—we needn’t drag in names, need we?—that you’ve mentioned the
matter to me. Then there will be no point in disturbing you further,
you see? You’ll be quite safe, once you’ve done that. Doubly safe, in
fact, for any further attack on you would be a bit too suspicious.
That’s your best course.”
“I never thought of that,” said Ernest, gratefully. “It’s a relief, I
can tell you. Such a relief! And you think there’ll be no chance of
another attack on me?”
“I’d take almost any odds against it,” Sir Clinton reassured him.
“Well, I shall stay inside the house altogether for a week or two, at
any rate,” Ernest decided, his fears returning suddenly. “That ought
to be safe enough.”
He applied himself again to the decanter.
Sir Clinton had one last question to put.
“Where was Stenness while you were down at the Maze?”
Ernest stood with his tumbler arrested on the road to his mouth while
he pondered over the matter.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really can’t say. I left him
here, working at Roger’s papers; and I told him I was going to Helen’s
Bower. But when I came back again he wasn’t here. He’d put the papers
away. I don’t know where he’d gone.”
“Ah, indeed?” said Sir Clinton ruminatively. But he made no further
comment.