The Last Attack in the Maze
When Ardsley and the Chief Constable entered the other room they found
Wendover with Ernest Shandon and Arthur. In the stress of his emotion,
Ernest seemed to have flown to his usual comforter, for he had a
decanter and a syphon at his elbow. Arthur Hawkhurst seemed to be
endeavouring to restrain his feelings to the best of his ability; but
it was obvious at a glance that his nerves were all on edge.
“Miss Forrest isn’t here?” Sir Clinton inquired, though the question
was needless.
“No,” Ernest hastened to explain. “She’s not here. I think she must be
somewhere else—upstairs in her own room, perhaps, or else somewhere
about the house. Or she may have gone out with Torrance. He’s gone for
a walk. Quite possibly she went out with him. Very thoughtful of them
to leave us to our grief, very thoughtful. I don’t know how we’ll get
over this; I really don’t know. Sylvia was so useful about the
place—made things run so smoothly, you know. We’ll miss her terribly.”
He drank some of his whisky and soda.
“Where’s Stenness?” demanded Arthur, as though to show that he had
himself under control.
“He’s busy,” Sir Clinton explained.
“He’s lucky to have something to be busy with,” Arthur commented. “I
wish I’d something to do to take my mind off this business just now.”
Ernest drank some more whisky and soda thoughtfully, then put his hand
into his pocket and seemed to feel for something.
“I’ve lost my cigar-case,” he announced disconsolately. “Really,
everything seems to be going wrong together, these last few days.”
Wendover opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as he caught
Sir Clinton’s frown and remembered the Chief Constable’s caution to
him about the case.
“Lost your case?” Sir Clinton inquired. “That’s a nuisance.”
Ernest was still feeling vaguely in his pocket as though he expected
to unearth the cigar-case in some remote corner.
“It’s been missing for a day or two,” he complained. “I can’t think
what’s become of it. I’ve hunted through all my other suits, and it
isn’t there. And I’ve searched all over the house, too; and yet I
can’t find it. I suppose I’ll have to buy another. And that’s such a
nuisance, you know. One gets accustomed to the thing one uses. A new
one won’t feel the same for long enough.”
“You can’t remember where you put it down last, I suppose?” Sir
Clinton asked. “It’s always a good plan to go back to the time you can
remember using it last. If I’m not mistaken, you had it with you in
the Maze when you were attacked. You told me you took out a cigar
then. Does that suggest anything? You may be able to pick up the
thread now and remember using it again after that.”
Ernest Shandon’s face lighted up with a certain dull satisfaction.
“No. Now I remember quite well. You’ve reminded me of it. Isn’t it
funny how one can forget a thing and then, if one gets a jog to one’s
memory, the whole thing comes back again? I often find that, quite
often.”
“So you know where it is now? Well, that’s always a relief.”
Ernest’s face fell again.
“Yes, I remember where I dropped it. But I can’t get it to-night,
that’s the worst of it. I dropped it in the Maze when I was shot at. I
was sitting there in Helen’s Bower, and when I jumped up the thing
fell off my knee. It must be lying there yet. I’d forgotten all about
it. Those cigars won’t be much good now,” he ended, regretfully.
“Why not go and get it?” Wendover asked, with a tinge of malice. He
had not forgiven Ernest for his pusillanimous display on the night
that Sylvia was shot.
Ernest looked round at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. He took off his
glasses, polished them carefully, replaced them on his nose, and
continued his staring examination of Wendover.
“Well, really,” he managed to say at last, “that’s a very strange
suggestion, Wendover, very strange. Do you imagine that I’d go out in
the dark, down to the Maze, and hunt about for my case? Why, it would
be foolhardy, positively tempting Providence, to do that. This
murderer fellow may be lurking outside the house-door, for all we can
tell; and you calmly propose that I should walk straight out and put
myself in his way! Well, really . . .”
He turned to the decanter at his side and poured out a fresh stiff
glass.
Arthur Hawkhurst had listened to his uncle’s exhibition of caution
with unconcealed contempt; and he now broke in with all the brutality
of youth.
“Cold feet, eh?”
Ernest seemed to resent the imputation with a certain dull animosity.
“It seems to me only commonsense, Arthur. Why should I run any risks?
I’ve been attacked once; and since they didn’t succeed in damaging me
then, they’ll obviously be waiting for another chance. I think it
would be a stupid move to put myself in the way, a very stupid move
indeed. And I think most sensible people would agree with me. If you
don’t, and if you want something to do, you might go down to the Maze
and get me my cigar-case yourself. That would be better than sitting
there, sneering at your elders.”
He assumed the air of one who had just administered a well-merited
rebuke; but his dignity was slightly diminished by the necessity of
putting his glasses straight. Arthur seemed to take his uncle’s
protest as a taunt.
“Think I’m in a funk, too? I’ll go and get your case if you like.”
Ernest appeared to be horrified at the suggestion.
“I couldn’t think of it!” he exclaimed, almost with animation. “Why,
anything might happen out in the dark there. You’re not to go, Arthur.
I forbid it.”
Arthur’s lips shut tight for a moment as he looked at his uncle.
“It doesn’t matter a damn to me whether you forbid it or not. I’ve
offered to go; and I’m not going to draw back now and let people think
I was only bragging. Besides, how do you know anyone’s after me?
They’re after you all right; they’ve attacked you already. But that’s
no reason why they should worry about me, is it? I guess you’re the
one they’ve marked down, uncle.”
“Oh, indeed, do you think so?” said Ernest, uncomfortably. “I don’t
think that’s a very nice thing to say, Arthur. It’s one of these
things that may have too much truth in them to be altogether a joke,
you know. I wish you wouldn’t say them. I don’t like them, I really
don’t. And I don’t want you to go out of the house to-night. Suppose
anything were to happen to you!”
He paused for a moment, then added as a final argument:
“We’ve got trouble enough on our hands just now.”
Sir Clinton was watching Arthur keenly; and the boy turned round in
time to catch the expression on the Chief Constable’s face.
“You think I was just bragging? All right, you’ll see. I’ll take one
of the cars down to the Maze and I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. To Wendover’s
surprise, Sir Clinton made no attempt to detain him. Ernest’s face
showed marked annoyance. Evidently he could not help seeing that his
super-caution had been brought into the limelight once again.
“I think that’s a silly trick,” he complained. “What’s the good of
running unnecessary risks? I can get along without my cigar-case till
to-morrow. And here he goes off, posing to himself as a young
hero—while really, you know, he’s only a foolhardy young ass. But he
was always like that. I wish Sylvia had been here; she could manage
him. I never seemed to have any influence with him, somehow.”
Ardsley, obviously bored, rose and left the room. Sir Clinton took the
opportunity of changing the subject.
“While your nephew’s away, Mr. Shandon, I think I’d better take the
opportunity of giving you some information. You remember telling me
something about a cheque and a missing counterfoil?”
“Yes,” Ernest admitted, apparently not averse to the fresh subject. “I
thought I ought to tell you about that! It may not have been
important; but I thought you ought to have all the information about
everything, even if it didn’t seem to be anything very vital, you
understand? One never knows how one thing may hinge on to another, if
you see what I mean? And it certainly seemed a strange thing to
me—very rum.”
“I’ve looked into the matter,” Sir Clinton went on, “and I think I’ve
succeeded in doing what’s probably the most important thing from your
point of view. I’ve recovered a few thousand pounds, which somebody
might have got away with. You’ll find it in your safe to-night. It
will be in notes. You’d better take the numbers of them. I haven’t had
time to do that; and it might be as well to know them.”
Ernest’s eyes lighted up when he heard the result of Sir Clinton’s
work; but the brief illumination died and was followed by a depressed
expression.
“Does this mean there’ll be a prosecution; and I’ll have to give
evidence? That’ll be a troublesome business.”
Sir Clinton reassured him with a gesture.
“Well, perhaps we’d better not start crossing bridges till we come to
them. Let’s leave the matter for the present. It’s not for me to
advise you whether to force on a case or not. I’ll even refrain from
mentioning the name of the man who took the money.”
“Oh, I’ve a pretty good notion of that,” Ernest protested, with a
certain air of low cunning which sat ill on his dull features. “I may
not be very clever, you know; but I can put two and two together all
right.”
“Then we’ll leave it at that,” said Sir Clinton, and his tone closed
the discussion on that point.
For a time they sat in silence. Wendover could not quite understand
Sir Clinton’s manœuvres. Quite obviously he had given Arthur the last
spur which had driven him into this expedition to the Maze; and
Wendover was inclined to agree with Ernest that it was a foolhardy
business. He waited with some anxiety for the boy’s return.
All at once they heard the sound of hasty footsteps in the hall, and
the door was flung open, and Arthur hurried into the room. Wendover
noticed that, though excited, he was in no panic.
“You were right enough, uncle!” he exclaimed, still standing with the
handle of the door in his hand. “The beggar had a shot at me just at
the entrance to the Maze.”
Ernest nodded his head with an attempt at sapience.
“I told you so,” he said. “I told you so! But of course you wouldn’t
believe me. No, you knew more about it than I did. But you see
now . . .”
“Come along, the lot of you,” Arthur cried. “We’ll nab the beggar this
time. He can’t be far away yet.”
“Sit down!” Sir Clinton ordered calmly. “He’s had any amount of time
to get clear away. We’d never catch him in the dark. I must hear how
it happened, first of all. Now give me every detail you can think of.”
Arthur seemed sobered by the matter-of-fact air of the Chief
Constable. He sat down and began his story without more ado.
“I took out the two-seater from the garage,” he explained, “and
bucketted down to the Maze as quick as I could. It’s a dark night
outside, not even a star showing. I left the headlights on when I
stopped the car; and I left the engine running as well. It wasn’t
going to take me any time to get to Helen’s Bower. I got out, and
crossed over to the entrance to the Maze that’s nearest the road. It
was pretty dark; but I could find my way all right.”
“You heard nobody about?” asked Wendover.
“Nothing but the beat of the engine. Just as I got to the entrance and
was going inside, I heard an air-gun go off quite close to me—no
distance at all, I should say—and I felt something hit me about the
breast-pocket.”
Sir Clinton leaned forward.
“Don’t touch!” he said, pointing to the side of Arthur’s
dinner-jacket. “You hadn’t a coat on, I see?”
Arthur looked down. The feathering of one of the lethal darts was
protruding from his jacket.
“Oh, it stuck, did it?” he said. “I thought it had failed to get
through the cloth. It’s driven into my leather cigar-case, I expect.”
Sir Clinton made a rapid examination and then cautiously withdrew the
dart. Inspection of the cigar-case showed that the point of the
missile had embedded itself in one of the cigars.
“That saved you a nasty prick,” was all the comment the Chief
Constable made. “Let’s hear the rest.”
“I was just going to start after the beggar,” Arthur went on, “when
suddenly there was a yell from the road. When I looked round, there
was old Mrs. Thornton having a fit of hysterics or something over on
the road, right in the beam of the headlights.”
“Who is Mrs. Thornton?” inquired Sir Clinton.
“She’s the wife of the lodge-keeper at the East Gate.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Thorntons,” Wendover hastened to
interject. “I’ve known them for twenty years and a decenter old couple
you couldn’t find anywhere.”
Sir Clinton made a gesture as though brushing aside the interruption.
“And then?” he demanded.
“Well, there she was, screaming her head off,” Arthur continued.
“She’d heard the sound of the air-gun; and of course air-guns aren’t
liked hereabouts nowadays. So she’d just started to yell at once. She
thought it was meant for her, it seems. I hustled her into the car and
drove her home, full tilt. Then when I’d got rid of her, I put up the
hood and side-curtains and came back here again, hell-for-leather. I
guessed that the side-curtains would stop anything, if the beggar had
another try; and I had the throttle about full open as I passed the
Maze, so he hadn’t much of a mark, anyway.”
Wendover’s opinion of Arthur went up considerably during this
narrative. The youngster seemed to have had sense enough to take
precautions, once he was convinced of the reality of the danger. And
there was no doubt about the attack. Wendover had seen the depth to
which the dart had penetrated the cigar-case and its contents. It must
have been fired at very close range indeed.
“H’m!” said Sir Clinton. “Now I think we’ll take your advice and get
down to the Maze.”
Much to the surprise of them all, Ernest got to his feet with the
rest. He evidently saw their expressions, for he seemed rather
shamefaced.
“I think I’ll come along with you,” he said, diffidently. Then, with
an assumption of confidence he added: “I know you’ve all been sneering
at me for taking care of my skin. I’ll just show you that it was
caution and not because I was afraid. I can take the same risks as the
rest of you!”
On reflection, Wendover was hardly so much impressed by this offer.
Obviously, the murderer, having made his attack, would at once set
about getting away from the neighbourhood of the Maze; and by this
time he would probably be far enough away to avoid pursuit. Ernest,
therefore, was risking very little by joining the party.
“Take out the limousine, Arthur,” he suggested. “It’ll hold the lot of
us—and the glass will give us good cover.”
Wendover smiled at the return of Ernest’s caution, though he admitted
that the choice was sound enough. They hurried to the garage and
Arthur drove them down to the Maze.
Once there, Ernest seemed to feel that he had perhaps been
over-courageous.
“Somebody ought to look after the car,” he suggested. “If we leave it
here the fellow may steal up and go off with it, suppose he is lurking
about. And where should we be then? He’d have got clean away and left
us standing. I think I’d better sit in the car while you hunt about,
and then we’ll know. . . .”
At the sight of the open contempt on Sir Clinton’s face, he let his
proposal die away before it was completed, and crawled reluctantly out
of the car with the others. He even made a show of eagerness and led
the way to the Maze entrance.
“You’re off the line a bit, uncle,” Arthur pointed out.
“I can’t see very well in the dark,” Ernest complained. “And this
grass is simply soaked with dew. I’ve got my feet all wet. Such a
nuisance. . . .”
He tripped over something and came heavily to the ground. A heart-felt
oath reached their ears.
“I’m wet all down the front, now,” Ernest wailed. “I fell over some
damned thing or other and I’ve hurt my toe. I hope it hasn’t split the
nail. What _is_ this thing, damn it?”
He seemed to be feeling about in the dark.
“Why! It’s the air-gun!”
Sir Clinton’s flash-lamp suddenly shot out its glare; and in the cone
of illumination they saw the grotesque figure of Ernest kneeling on
the ground with the air-gun clutched in his hand. He rose to his feet
laboriously.
“I’m soaking with that dew. Very heavy it’s been to-night. Wasn’t it a
godsend that I had a spot of whisky just before coming out? That’ll
keep a cold away. I’ll have another one—a whisky hot—when I get back
again.”
Sir Clinton paid no attention to Ernest’s babble. He took the air-gun
gingerly from its discoverer’s hand and held it out to Arthur in the
glare of the flashlamp.
“One of the local armoury, I suppose?”
Arthur examined it for a moment.
“Yes, that’s one of ours.”
The honours of discovery, however, seemed destined to fall to Ernest.
“Here,” he demanded, “turn that light over this way, will you? There’s
something round my foot.”
They could hear him kicking in the obscurity. Sir Clinton swung the
beam round and stooped down.
“It’s a bit of black thread you’ve got tangled up in. Wait a jiffy.”
He freed Ernest from the fibre and began to trace along the thread
with his light. It seemed to be merely the end of a long tentacle
extending out from the entrance to the Maze.
“Ariadne’s clue!” exclaimed Wendover, when he saw the direction in
which the filament lay.
Sir Clinton nodded briefly.
“You people had better get back to the car,” he said. “I don’t want
the ground trampled here. We can look at it in the morning. I’m just
going to follow up this thread. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
Holding his light low, he disappeared into the intricacies of the
Maze, while Wendover shepherded the others back to the car. Once round
a corner or two and well out of sight of the rest, Sir Clinton ceased
to trouble about the thread and made his way direct to one centre of
the Maze. He sought about for a time, evidently fruitlessly; and then
made his way to the other centre. Here his search was more successful.
Among some bushes in the enclosure, he unearthed a suit-case.
“Well, _that_ was a long shot,” he admitted to himself, though with
evident satisfaction. “He’s evidently not too sure that he’s taken me
in with his soft sawder, and he’s provided for contingencies. Let’s
see.”
He opened the suit-case and scrutinised one or two of the garments in
it.
“Complete change of clothes and no marking on so much as a
handkerchief. Quite right!”
He re-closed the suit-case and put it back into the hiding-place in
which he had found it. Then he retraced his steps in the Maze until he
came to the black thread which he proceeded to follow to the end.
“Now we’ll go back to the house,” he proposed, when he rejoined the
others at the car. “That thread led me to the boat-house.”
“So the attack was made from the river?” Wendover asked.
“It’s strange that he didn’t pitch his gun into the water, isn’t it?”
Sir Clinton said. “One might have expected him to get rid of it in the
easiest way.”
“I expect he got a bit of a shock,” Arthur suggested. “He must have
known that he hit me squarely and yet nothing happened. That would be
a bit of a surprise to him, wouldn’t it. Perhaps he got rattled.”
“Lucky for you there wasn’t a second shot,” was Sir Clinton’s comment.
“You could hardly expect your cigar-case to save you twice running.”
When they reached Whistlefield again, they found Ardsley talking to
Torrance, who had returned from his walk. He had been out alone, it
appeared. Vera had gone to her own room when Ardsley had given his
news about Sylvia and had not reappeared again.
Sir Clinton took Ardsley aside for a moment.
“You’ve got a nurse upstairs in that room?”
Ardsley assented.
“One of them’s going to watch all night. There’s a superstition some
people have that one shouldn’t leave a dead person alone. I don’t mind
being superstitious for once, if it’s in a good cause.”
“No one must get into the room, of course.”
“No one shall,” said Ardsley, definitely.
Sir Clinton seemed to be satisfied; and Ardsley left the room. The
Chief Constable had one more private conversation still to carry
through. He took Ernest Shandon into the study and closed the door.
“I can put my hand on the murderer now, Mr. Shandon, so you needn’t be
nervous about that. But I’m rather troubled about one point. This is
going to lead to the devil of a scandal if I arrest him. Are you
anxious for that?”
Ernest seemed staggered by this way of looking at things.
“Well, really, I don’t quite see what you mean. It’s a bit obscure,
isn’t it? I must confess I don’t quite follow you, if you understand
me?”
“I’ll put it this way. I could arrest the fellow to-night. I know
where he is. I’d have no trouble over that. But I think I can make
surer of him if I wait till to-morrow morning. I’ve got to risk his
bolting. I’ve that possibility in view. He might get away. But if he
got away, would you worry much? Think of the scandal it would save—and
it’s going to be a big one. And the trial will be a most laborious
affair, too. What do you think? Shall I arrest him now, or wait till
the morning and risk his getting away?”
Ernest pondered over the problem, but he seemed incapable of giving
any help.
“I really don’t know,” he said. “You’re too deep for me, really. I
can’t make out what you’re driving at.”
Sir Clinton’s face showed disappointment.
“There are some things that a police official can’t put into plain
words, you know. I can’t say outright that I’d be glad to see the
beggar off the premises. Can’t you see what I mean?”
But Ernest shook his head dully; and Sir Clinton gave up the effort.
“Oh, very well,” he said. “The responsibility’s mine in any case. I’ll
wait till to-morrow and chance it. But I can’t say I’ve got much help
from you, Mr. Shandon. When the scandal comes, you needn’t blame me.”
He seemed to consider something for a moment, then he added:
“By the way, I suppose you won’t mind putting me up for the night? I’m
taking all the responsibility I’ve any use for, as it is; and I think
I ought to be able to say I was here to-night.”
Ernest seemed to be rendered completely owlish by this last request;
but he assented willingly enough.
“And Wendover, too, of course,” added Sir Clinton.
He paused for a moment as though in doubt, before speaking again.
“I think I’d better ring up the police-station, if you don’t mind, Mr.
Shandon. I’ll do it now.”
Ernest, with a shameless curiosity, followed him to the instrument and
waited until he got the connection.
“Sir Clinton Driffield speaking. Sergeant, will you be good enough to
buy me another tin of Navy Cut—same as the last you got—first thing
to-morrow morning? I’ve run out of tobacco. Send a man up with it,
will you? Yes, Navy Cut. Thanks.”
Sir Clinton turned away from the instrument and noticed his host
hovering close beside him.
“It’s a handy thing to be a Chief Constable, isn’t it? I’d run out of
tobacco and I won’t have time to go down to the village to-morrow
morning. I shall arrest that fellow first thing after breakfast; and
the formalities may take some time, you know.”