possession, happily engaged in conducting a knock-out. Having lain low
for an hour in a retired position behind a large piece of statuary, he
emerged, just as the hammer was falling upon the Catullus for a price
representing the tenth part of its value, with an overbid so large,
prompt, and sonorous that the ring gasped with a sense of outrage.
Skrymes--a dealer who had sworn an eternal enmity to Wimsey, on account
of a previous little encounter over a Justinian--pulled himself
together and offered a fifty-pound advance. Wimsey promptly doubled his
bid. Skrymes overbid him fifty again. Wimsey instantly jumped another
hundred, in the tone of a man prepared to go on till Doomsday. Skrymes
scowled and was silent. Somebody raised it fifty more; Wimsey made
it guineas and the hammer fell. Encouraged by this success, Wimsey,
feeling that his hand was in, romped happily into the bidding for the
next lot, a _Hypnerotomachia_ which he already possessed, and for which
he felt no desire whatever. Skrymes, annoyed by his defeat, set his
teeth, determining that, if Wimsey was in the bidding mood, he should
pay through the nose for his rashness. Wimsey, entering into the spirit
of the thing, skied the bidding with enthusiasm. The dealers, knowing
his reputation as a collector, and fancying that there must be some
special excellence about the book that they had failed to observe,
joined in whole-heartedly, and the fun became fast and furious.
Eventually they all dropped out again, leaving Skrymes and Wimsey in
together. At which point Wimsey, observing a note of hesitation in the
dealer's voice, neatly extricated himself and left Mr. Skrymes with the
baby. After this disaster, the ring became sulky and demoralised and
refused to bid at all, and a timid little outsider, suddenly flinging
himself into the arena, became the owner of a fine fourteenth-century
missal at bargain price. Crimson with excitement and surprise, he
paid for his purchase and ran out of the room like a rabbit, hugging
the missal as though he expected to have it snatched from him. Wimsey
thereupon set himself seriously to acquire a few fine early printed
books, and, having accomplished this, retired, covered with laurels and
hatred.
After this delightful and satisfying day, he felt vaguely hurt at
receiving no ecstatic telegram from Macpherson. He refused to imagine
that his deductions had been wrong, and supposed rather that the
rapture of Macpherson was too great to be confined to telegraphic
expression and would come next day by post. However, at eleven next
morning the telegram arrived. It said:
"Just got your wire what does it mean great-uncle stolen last night
burglar escaped please write fully."
Wimsey committed himself to a brief comment in language usually
confined to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-Uncle
Joseph, and, even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacy
was by this time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiously
helpless. He even cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from going
north and dealing with the matter personally.
While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in.
It ran:
"Great-uncle's bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar in
flight contents gone what next."
Wimsey pondered this.
"Of course," he said, "if the thief simply emptied the bottle and put
Great-Uncle in his pocket, we're done. Or if he's simply emptied
Great-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we're done. But
'dropped in flight' sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had gone
overboard lock, stock, and barrel. Why can't the fool of a Scotsman put
a few more details into his wires? It'd only cost him a penny or two. I
suppose I'd better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupation
won't hurt him."
* * * * *
He took a telegraph form from the desk and despatched a further message:
"Was great-uncle in bottle when dropped if so drag river if not
pursue burglar probably Robert Ferguson spare no pains starting for
Scotland to-night hope arrive early to-morrow urgent important put
your back into it will explain."
The night express decanted Lord Peter Wimsey at Dumfries early the
following morning, and a hired car deposited him at the Stone Cottage
in time for breakfast. The door was opened to him by Maggie, who
greeted him with hearty cordiality:
"Come awa' in, sir. All's ready for ye, and Mr. Macpherson will be back
in a few minutes, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll be tired with your long journey,
and hungry, maybe? Aye. Will ye tak' a bit parritch to your eggs and
bacon? There's nae troot the day, though yesterday was a gran' day for
the fush. Mr. Macpherson has been up and doun, up and doun the river
wi' my Jock, lookin' for ane of his specimens, as he ca's them, that
was dropped by the thief that cam' in. I dinna ken what the thing may
be--my Jock says it's like a calf's pluck to look at, by what Mr.
Macpherson tells him."
"Dear me!" said Wimsey. "And how did the burglary happen, Maggie?"
"Indeed, sir, it was a vera' remarkable circumstance. Mr. Macpherson
was awa' all day Monday and Tuesday, up at the big loch by the viaduct,
fishin'. There was a big rain Saturday and Sunday, ye may remember, and
Mr. Macpherson says, 'There'll be grand fishin' the morn, Jock,' says
he. 'We'll go up to the viaduct if it stops rainin' and we'll spend the
nicht at the keeper's lodge.' So on Monday it stoppit rainin' and was a
grand warm, soft day, so aff they went together. There was a telegram
come for him Tuesday mornin', and I set it up on the mantelpiece, where
he'd see it when he cam' in, but it's been in my mind since that maybe
that telegram had something to do wi' the burglary."
"I wouldn't say but you might be right, Maggie," replied Wimsey gravely.
"Aye, sir, that wadna surprise me." Maggie set down a generous dish of
eggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.
"Well, I was sittin' in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin' for Mr.
Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puir
souls, for the rain was peltin' down again, and the nicht was sae
dark I was afraid they micht ha' tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, I
was listenin' for the sound o' the door-sneck when I heard something
movin' in the front room. The door wasna lockit, ye ken, because Mr.
Macpherson was expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht they
had mebbe came in and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set the
kettle on the fire, and then I heard a crackin' sound. So I cam' out
and I called, 'Is't you, Mr. Macpherson?' And there was nae answer,
only anither big crackin' noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam'
quickly oot o' the front room, brushin' past me an' puttin' me aside
wi' his hand, so, and oot o' the front door like a flash o' lightnin'.
So, wi' that, I let oot a skelloch, an' Jock's voice answered me fra'
the gairden gate. 'Och!' I says, 'Jock! here's a burrglar been i'
the hoose!' An' I heerd him runnin' across the gairden, doun tae the
river, tramplin' doun a' the young kail and the stra'berry beds, the
blackguard!"
Wimsey expressed his sympathy.
"Aye, that was a bad business. An' the next thing, there was Mr.
Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray's cattle
had brokken in, they couldna ha' done mair deevastation. An' then there
was a big splashin' an' crashin', an', after a bit, back comes Mr.
Macpherson an' he says, 'He's jumpit intil the Fleet,' he says, 'an'
he's awa'. What has he taken?' he says. 'I dinna ken,' says I, 'for it
all happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.' 'Come awa' ben,' says
he, 'an' we'll see what's missin'.' So we lookit high and low, an' all
we could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, and
naething taken but this bottle wi' the specimen."
"Aha!" said Wimsey.
"Ah! an' they baith went oot tegither wi' lichts, but naething could
they see of the thief. Sae Mr. Macpherson comes back, and 'I'm gaun to
ma bed,' says he, 'for I'm that tired I can dae nae mair the nicht,'
says he. 'Oh!' I said, 'I daurna gae tae bed; I'm frichtened.' An' Jock
said, 'Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yersel'. There'll be nae mair burglars
the nicht, wi' the fricht we've gied 'em.' So we lockit up a' the doors
an' windies an' gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink."
"Very natural," said Wimsey.
"It wasna till the next mornin'," said Maggie, "that Mr. Macpherson
opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An' then the telegrams
startit. Back an' forrit, back an' forrit atween the hoose an' the
post-office. An' then they fund the bits o' the bottle that the
specimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i' the river. And aff goes
Mr. Macpherson an' Jock wi' their waders on an' a couple o' gaffs,
huntin' in a' the pools an' under the stanes to find the specimen. An'
they're still at it."
At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.
"Gude save us!" ejaculated Maggie, "I was forgettin' the puir
gentleman."
"What gentleman?" enquired Wimsey.
"Him that was feshed oot o' the Fleet," replied Maggie. "Excuse me
juist a moment, sir."
She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of
coffee and lit a pipe.
Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee--not
being a man to deprive himself of his pleasures--and walked quietly
upstairs in Maggie's wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half
open--the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage.
He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-headed gentleman, whose long,
foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted
rakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by
the bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Ferguson," said he. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
"Good morning," said Mr. Ferguson snappishly.
"I had no idea, when we last met," pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed
and sitting down upon it, "that you were thinking of visiting my friend
Macpherson."
"Get off my leg," growled the invalid. "I've broken my kneecap."
"What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn't it? And they say it takes
years to get right--if it ever does get right. Is it what they call a
Potts fracture? I don't know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive.
How did you get it? Fishing?"
"Yes. A slip in that damned river."
"Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher,
Mr. Ferguson?"
"So-so."
"So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy for
this part of the country? I rather like a Greenaway's Gadget myself.
Ever tried it?"
"No," said Mr. Ferguson briefly.
"Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you use
one? Have you got your fly-book here?"
"Yes--no," said Mr. Ferguson. "I dropped it."
"Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket."
"Not so bad," said Mr. Ferguson. "I've sometimes caught trout with it."
"You surprise me," said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented
the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected
his improvisation to pass muster. "Well, I suppose this unlucky
accident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned bad luck.
Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch."
"What's that? A trout?"
"Yes--a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never
know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or
other. I'm going out with Mac to try for him to-day. He's a jewel of a
fellow. We've nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don't joggle about
like that--you'll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get
for you?"
He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.
"Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?"
"It is. How's sport?"
Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on
the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.
"I say, d'you know who that is? It's Robert."
"I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?"
"No, we haven't. What's all this mystery about? And what's Robert
doing here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why is
Great-Uncle Joseph so important?"
"One thing at a time. Let's find the old boy first. What have you been
doing?"
"Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, you
were off your rocker." (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) "But then I
considered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thought
Great-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense in
what you said, after all." ("Dashed good of you," said Wimsey.) "So I
went out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there's the
faintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down like
this. Well, I hadn't got very far--by the way, I took Jock with me. I'm
sure he thinks I'm mad, too. Not that he says anything; these people
here never commit themselves----"
"Confound Jock! Get on with it."
"Oh--well, before we'd got very far, we saw a fellow wading about in
the river with a rod and a creel. I didn't pay much attention, because,
you see, I was wondering what you----Yes. Well! Jock noticed him and
said to me, 'Yon's a queer kind of fisherman, I'm thinkin'.' So I had a
look, and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his fly
floating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering into
all the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailed
him, and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of a
hurry and started to reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it,"
added Macpherson appreciatively.
"I can believe it," said Wimsey. "A man who admits to catching trout
with a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything."
"A pink what?"
"Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on."
"Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling and
hauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of a
sudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That made
me pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and I
yelled out, 'Good God, it's Robert!' And he dropped his rod and took
to his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came down
an awful crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought him
home. He's got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Very
interesting. I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself,
but it wouldn't do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He's a good man."
"You've had extraordinary luck about this business so far," said
Wimsey. "Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far down
have you got?"
"Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting his
knee and so on, we couldn't do much yesterday."
"Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let's
get down to it."
He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand ("Robert's," interjected
Macpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down in
a brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage.
Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph.
Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there--then turned suddenly to Jock.
"Where's the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?"
he demanded.
"Eh, well! there's the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye'll
whiles find things washed up there. Aye. Imph'm. There's a pool and a
bit sand, where the river mak's a bend. Ye'll mebbe find it there, I'm
thinkin'. Mebbe no. I couldna say."
"Let's have a look, anyway."
Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detail
appeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.
"That's a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse,
we've only got two fields to cross."
The car was still at the door; the hired driver was enjoying the
hospitality of the cottage. They pried him loose from Maggie's scones
and slipped down the road to Gatehouse.
"Those gulls seem rather active about something," said Wimsey, as
they crossed the second field. The white wings swooped backwards and
forwards in narrowing circles over the yellow shoal. Raucous cries
rose on the wind. Wimsey pointed silently with his hand. A long,
unseemly object, like a drab purse, lay on the shore. The gulls,
indignant, rose higher, squawking at the intruders. Wimsey ran forward,
stooped, rose again with the long bag dangling from his fingers.
"Great-Uncle Joseph, I presume," he said, and raised his hat with
old-fashioned courtesy.
"The gulls have had a wee peck at it here and there," said Jock. "It'll
be tough for them. Aye. They havena done so vera much with it."
"Aren't you going to open it?" said Macpherson impatiently.
"Not here," said Wimsey. "We might lose something." He dropped it into
Jock's creel. "We'll take it home first and show it to Robert."
Robert greeted them with ill-disguised irritation.
"We've been fishing," said Wimsey cheerfully. "Look at our bonny wee
fush." He weighed the catch in his hand. "What's inside this wee fush,
Mr. Ferguson?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," said Robert.
"Then why did you go fishing for it?" asked Wimsey pleasantly. "Have
you got a surgical knife there, Mac?"
"Yes--here. Hurry up."
"I'll leave it to you. Be careful. I should begin with the stomach."
Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him open with
a practised hand.
"Gude be gracious to us!" cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder.
"What'll that be?"
Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of Uncle
Joseph. "One--two--three----" The stones glittered like fire as he laid
them on the table. "Seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Try a
little farther down, Mac."
Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Macpherson dissected his legacy.
"Ten--eleven," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid the sea-gulls have got number
twelve. I'm sorry, Mac."
"But how did they get there?" demanded Robert foolishly.
"Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallows
his diamonds----"
"He must ha' been a grand man for a pill," said Maggie, with respect.
"--and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybody
who read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you to
study."
Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.
"I knew there was something in it," he said. "That's why I went to look
up the will. And when I saw _you_ there, I knew I was right. (Curse
this leg of mine!) But I never imagined for a moment----"
His eyes appraised the diamonds greedily.
"And what will the value of these same stones be?" enquired Jock.
"About seven thousand pounds apiece, taken separately. More than that,
taken together."
"The old man was mad," said Robert angrily. "I shall dispute the will."
"I think not," said Wimsey. "There's such an offence as entering and
stealing, you know."
"My God!" said Macpherson, handling the diamonds like a man in a dream.
"My God!"
"Seven thousan' pund," said Jock. "Did I unnerstan' ye richtly to say
that one o' they gulls is gaun aboot noo wi' seven thousan' punds'
worth o' diamonds in his wame? Ech! it's just awfu' to think of. Guid
day to you, sirs. I'll be gaun round to Jimmy McTaggart to ask will he
lend me the loan o' a gun."
THE UNSOLVED PUZZLE OF THE MAN WITH NO FACE
"And what would _you_ say, sir," said the stout man, "to this here
business of the bloke what's been found down on the beach at East
Felpham?"
The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an overflow of
third-class passengers into the firsts, and the stout man was anxious
to seem at ease in his surroundings. The youngish gentleman whom he
addressed had obviously paid full fare for a seclusion which he was
fated to forgo. He took the matter amiably enough, however, and replied
in a courteous tone:
"I'm afraid I haven't read more than the headlines. Murdered, I
suppose, wasn't he?"
"It's murder, right enough," said the stout man, with relish. "Cut
about he was, something shocking."
"More like as if a wild beast had done it," chimed in the thin, elderly
man opposite. "No face at all he hadn't got, by what my paper says.
It'll be one of these maniacs, I shouldn't be surprised, what goes
about killing children."
"I wish you wouldn't talk about such things," said his wife, with a
shudder. "I lays awake at nights thinking what might 'appen to Lizzie's
girls, till my head feels regular in a fever, and I has such a sinking
in my inside I has to get up and eat biscuits. They didn't ought to put
such dreadful things in the papers."
"It's better they should, ma'am," said the stout man, "then we're
warned, so to speak, and can take our measures accordingly. Now, from
what I can make out, this unfortunate gentleman had gone bathing all
by himself in a lonely spot. Now, quite apart from cramps, as is a
thing that might 'appen to the best of us, that's a very foolish thing
to do."
"Just what I'm always telling my husband," said the young wife. The
young husband frowned and fidgeted. "Well, dear, it really isn't safe,
and you with your heart not strong----" Her hand sought his under the
newspaper. He drew away, self-consciously, saying, "That'll do, Kitty."
"The way I look at it is this," pursued the stout man. "Here we've been
and had a war, what has left 'undreds o' men in what you might call
a state of unstable ekilibrium. They've seen all their friends blown
up or shot to pieces. They've been through five years of 'orrors and
bloodshed, and it's given 'em what you might call a twist in the mind
towards 'orrors. They may seem to forget it and go along as peaceable
as anybody to all outward appearance, but it's all artificial, if you
get my meaning. Then, one day something 'appens to upset them--they 'as
words with the wife, or the weather's extra hot, as it is to-day--and
something goes pop inside their brains and makes raving monsters of
them. It's all in the books. I do a good bit of reading myself of an
evening, being a bachelor without encumbrances."
"That's all very true," said a prim little man, looking up from his
magazine, "very true indeed--too true. But do you think it applies
in the present case? I've studied the literature of crime a good
deal--I may say I make it my hobby--and it's my opinion there's more
in this than meets the eye. If you will compare this murder with some
of the most mysterious crimes of late years--crimes which, mind you,
have never been solved, and, in my opinion, never will be--what do
you find?" He paused and looked round. "You will find many features
in common with this case. But especially you will find that the
face--and the face only, mark you--has been disfigured, as though to
prevent recognition. As though to blot out the victim's personality
from the world. And you will find that, in spite of the most thorough
investigation, the criminal is never discovered. Now what does all
that point to? To organisation. Organisation. To an immensely powerful
influence at work behind the scenes. In this very magazine that I'm
reading now"--he tapped the page impressively--"there's an account--not
a faked-up story, but an account extracted from the annals of the
police--of the organisation of one of these secret societies, which
mark down men against whom they bear a grudge, and destroy them.
And, when they do this, they disfigure their faces with the mark of
the Secret Society, and they cover up the track of the assassin so
completely--having money and resources at their disposal--that nobody
is ever able to get at them."
"I've read of such things, of course," admitted the stout man, "but
I thought as they mostly belonged to the medeevial days. They had a
thing like that in Italy once. What did they call it now? A Gomorrah,
was it? Are there any Gomorrahs nowadays?"
"You spoke a true word, sir, when you said Italy," replied the prim
man. "The Italian mind is made for intrigue. There's the Fascisti.
That's come to the surface now, of course, but it started by being a
secret society. And, if you were to look below the surface, you would
be amazed at the way in which that country is honeycombed with hidden
organisations of all sorts. Don't you agree with me, sir?" he added,
addressing the first-class passenger.
"Ah!" said the stout man, "no doubt this gentleman has been in Italy
and knows all about it. Should you say this murder was the work of a
Gomorrah, sir?"