CHAPTER XX

Murder

Siegfried: “_What does this mean?_”

Isbrand: “_A pretty piece of kidnapping, that’s all._”

Beddoes, _Death’s Jest-Book_

Parker, too, had spent a disappointing half-hour. It appeared that Miss

Whittaker not only disliked having her photograph taken, but had

actually destroyed all the existing portraits she could lay hands on,

shortly after Miss Dawson’s death. Of course, many of Miss Whittaker’s

friends might be in possession of one—notably, of course, Miss

Findlater. But Parker was not sure that he wanted to start a local

hue-and-cry at the moment. Miss Climpson might be able to get one, of

course. He went round to Nelson Avenue. Miss Climpson was out; there had

been another gentleman asking for her. Mrs. Budge’s eyes were beginning

to bulge with curiosity—evidently she was becoming dubious about Miss

Climpson’s “nephew” and his friends. Parker then went to the local

photographers. There were five. From two of them he extracted a number

of local groups, containing unrecognisable portraits of Miss Whittaker

at church bazaars and private theatricals. She had never had a studio

portrait made in Leahampton.

Of Miss Findlater, on the other hand, he got several excellent

likenesses—a slight, fair girl, with a rather sentimental look—plump and

prettyish. All these he despatched to Town, with directions that they

should be broadcast to the police, together with a description of the

girl’s dress when last seen.

The only really cheerful members of the party at the “George” were the

second policeman, who had been having a pleasant gossip with various

garage-proprietors and publicans, with a view to picking up information,

and the Chief Constable, who was vindicated and triumphant. He had been

telephoning to various country police-stations, and had discovered that

XX9917 had actually been observed on the previous Monday by an A.A.

scout on the road to Crow’s Beach. Having maintained all along that the

Crow’s Beach excursion was a genuine one, he was inclined to exult over

the Scotland Yard man. Wimsey and Parker dispiritedly agreed that they

had better go down and make inquiries at Crow’s Beach.

Meanwhile, one of the photographers, whose cousin was on the staff of

the _Leahampton Mercury_, had put a call through to the office of that

up-to-date paper, which was just going to press. A stop-press

announcement was followed by a special edition; somebody rang up the

London _Evening Views_ which burst out into a front-page scoop; the fat

was in the fire, and the _Daily Yell_, _Daily Views_, _Daily Wire_ and

_Daily Tidings_, who were all suffering from lack of excitement, came

brightly out next morning with bold headlines about disappearing young

women.

Crow’s Beach, indeed, that pleasant and respectable watering-place, knew

nothing of Miss Whittaker, Miss Findlater, or car XX9917. No hotel had

received them; no garage had refuelled or repaired them; no policeman

had observed them. The Chief Constable held to his theory of an

accident, and scouting parties were sent out. Wires arrived at Scotland

Yard from all over the place. They had been seen at Dover, at Newcastle,

at Sheffield, at Winchester, at Rugby. Two young women had had tea in a

suspicious manner at Folkestone; a car had passed noisily through

Dorchester at a late hour on Monday night; a dark-haired girl in an

“agitated condition” had entered a public-house in New Alresford just

before closing-time and asked the way to Hazelmere. Among all these

reports, Parker selected that of a boy-scout, who reported on the

Saturday morning that he had noticed two ladies with a car having a

picnic on the downs on the previous Monday, not far from Shelly Head.

The car was an Austin Seven—he knew that, because he was keen on motors

(an unanswerable reason for accuracy in a boy of his age), and he had

noticed that it was a London number, though he couldn’t say positively

what the number was.

Shelly Head lies about ten miles along the coast from Crow’s Beach, and

is curiously lonely, considering how near it lies to the watering-place.

Under the cliffs is a long stretch of clear sandy beach, never visited,

and overlooked by no houses. The cliffs themselves are chalk, and

covered with short turf, running back into a wide expanse of downs,

covered with gorse and heather. Then comes a belt of pine-trees, beyond

which is a steep, narrow and rutty road, leading at length into the

tarmac high-road between Ramborough and Ryders Heath. The downs are by

no means frequented, though there are plenty of rough tracks which a car

can follow, if you are not particular about comfort or fussy over your

springs.

Under the leadership of the boy-scout, the police-car bumped

uncomfortably over these disagreeable roads. It was hopeless to look for

any previous car-tracks, for the chalk was dry and hard, and the grass

and heath retained no marks. Everywhere, little dells and hollows

presented themselves—all exactly alike, and many of them capable of

hiding a small car, not to speak of the mere signs and remains of a

recent picnic. Having arrived at what their guide thought to be

approximately the right place, they pulled up and got out. Parker

quartered the ground between the five of them and they set off.

Wimsey took a dislike to gorse-bushes that day. There were so many of

them and so thick. Any of them might hold a cigarette package or a

sandwich paper or a scrap of cloth or a clue of some kind. He trudged

along unhappily, back bent and eyes on the ground, over one ridge and

down into the hollow—then circling to right and to left, taking his

bearings by the police-car; over the next ridge and down into the next

hollow; over the next ridge—

Yes. There was something in the hollow.

He saw it first sticking out round the edge of a gorse-bush. It was

light in colour, and pointed, rather like a foot.

He felt a little sick.

“Somebody has gone to sleep here,” he said aloud.

Then he thought:

“Funny—it’s always the feet they leave showing.”

He scrambled down among the bushes, slipping on the short turf and

nearly rolling to the bottom. He swore irritably.

The person was sleeping oddly. The flies must be a nuisance all over her

head like that.

It occurred to him that it was rather early in the year for flies. There

had been an advertising rhyme in the papers. Something about “Each fly

you swat now means, remember, Three hundred fewer next September.” Or

was it a thousand fewer? He couldn’t get the metre quite right.

Then he pulled himself together and went forward. The flies rose up in a

little cloud.

It must have been a pretty heavy blow, he thought, to smash the back of

the skull in like that. The shingled hair was blonde. The face lay

between the bare arms.

He turned the body on its back.

Of course, without the photograph, he could not—he need not—be certain

that this was Vera Findlater.

All this had taken him perhaps thirty seconds.

He scrambled up to the rim of the hollow and shouted.

A small black figure at some distance stopped and turned. He saw its

face as a white spot with no expression on it. He shouted again, and

waved his arms in wide gestures of explanation. The figure came running;

it lurched slowly and awkwardly over the heathy ground. It was the

policeman—a heavy man, not built for running in the heat. Wimsey shouted

again, and the policeman shouted too. Wimsey saw the others closing in

upon him. The grotesque figure of the boy-scout topped a ridge, waving

its staff—then disappeared again. The policeman was quite near now. His

bowler hat was thrust back on his head, and there was something on his

watch-chain that glinted in the sun as he ran. Wimsey found himself

running to meet him and calling—explaining at great length. It was too

far off to make himself heard, but he explained, wordily, with emphasis,

pointing, indicating. He was quite breathless when the policeman and he

came together. They were both breathless. They wagged their heads and

gasped. It was ludicrous. He started running again, with the man at his

heels. Presently they were all there, pointing, measuring, taking notes,

grubbing under the gorse-bushes. Wimsey sat down. He was dreadfully

tired.

“Peter,” said Parker’s voice, “come and look at this.”

He got up wearily.

There were the remains of a picnic lunch a little farther down the

hollow. The policeman had a little bag in his hand—he had taken it from

under the body, and was now turning over the trifles it contained. On

the ground, close to the dead girl’s head, was a thick, heavy

spanner—unpleasantly discoloured and with a few fair hairs sticking to

its jaws. But what Parker was calling his attention to was none of

these, but a man’s mauve-grey cap.

“Where did you find that?” asked Wimsey.

“Alf here picked it up at the top of the hollow,” said Parker.

“Tumbled off into the gorse it was,” corroborated the scout, “just up

here, lying upside down just as if it had fallen off somebody’s head.”

“Any footmarks?”

“Not likely. But there’s a place where the bushes are all trodden and

broken. Looks as if there’d been some sort of struggle. What’s become of

the Austin? Hi! don’t touch that spanner, my lad. There may be

finger-prints on it. This looks like an attack by some gang or other.

Any money in that purse? Ten-shilling note, sixpence and a few

coppers—oh! Well, the other woman may have had more on her. She’s very

well off, you know. Held up for ransom, I shouldn’t wonder.” Parker bent

down and very gingerly enfolded the spanner in a silk handkerchief,

carrying it slung by the four corners. “Well, we’d better spread about

and have a look for the car. Better try that belt of trees over there.

Looks a likely spot. And, Hopkins—I think you’d better run back with our

car to Crow’s Beach and let ’em know at the station, and come back with

a photographer. And take this wire and send it to the Chief Commissioner

at Scotland Yard, and find a doctor and bring him along with you. And

you’d better hire another car while you’re about it, in case we don’t

find the Austin—we shall be too many to get away in this one. Take Alf

back with you if you’re not sure of finding the place again. Oh! and

Hopkins, fetch us along something to eat and drink, will you, we may be

at it a long time. Here’s some money—that enough?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

The constable went off, taking Alf, who was torn between a desire to

stay and do some more detecting, and the pride and glory of being first

back with the news. Parker gave a few words of praise for his valuable

assistance which filled him with delight, and then turned to the Chief

Constable.

“They obviously went off in this direction. Would you bear away to the

left, sir, and enter the trees from that end, and Peter, will you bear

to the right and work through from the other end, while I go straight up

the middle?”

The Chief Constable, who seemed a good deal shaken by the discovery of

the body, obeyed without a word. Wimsey caught Parker by the arm.

“I say,” he said, “have you looked at the wound? Something funny, isn’t

there? There ought to be more mess, somehow. What do you think?”

“I’m not thinking anything for the moment,” said Parker, a little

grimly. “We’ll wait for the doctor’s report. Come on, Steve! We want to

dig out that car.”

“Let’s have a look at the cap. H’m. Sold by a gentleman, resident in

Stepney. Almost new. Smells strongly of California Poppy—rather a swell

sort of gangsman, apparently. Quite one of the lads of the village.”

“Yes—we ought to be able to trace that. Thank Heaven, they always

overlook something. Well, we’d better get along.”

The search for the car presented no difficulties. Parker stumbled upon

it almost as soon as he got in under the trees. There was a clearing,

with a little rivulet of water running through it, beside which stood

the missing Austin. There were other trees here, mingled with the pines,

and the water made an elbow and spread into a shallow pool, with a kind

of muddy beach.

The hood of the car was up, and Parker approached with an uncomfortable

feeling that there might be something disagreeable inside, but it was

empty. He tried the gears. They were in neutral and the handbrake was

on. On the seat was a handkerchief—a large linen handkerchief, very

grubby and with no initials or laundry-mark. Parker grunted a little

over the criminal’s careless habit of strewing his belongings about. He

came round in front of the car and received immediate further proof of

carelessness. For on the mud there were footmarks—two men’s and a

woman’s, it seemed.

The woman had got out of the car first—he could see where the left heel

had sunk heavily in as she extricated herself from the low seat. Then

the right foot—less heavily—then she had staggered a little and started

to run. But one of the men had been there to catch her. He had stepped

out of the bracken in shoes with new rubbers on them, and there were

some scuffling marks as though he had held her and she had tried to

break away. Finally, the second man, who seemed to possess rather narrow

feet and to wear the long-toed boots affected by town boys of the louder

sort—had come after her from the car—the marks of his feet were clear,

crossing and half-obliterating hers. All three had stood together for a

little. Then the tracks moved away, with those of the woman in the

middle, and led up to where the mark of a Michelin balloon tyre showed

clearly. The tyres of the Austin were ordinary Dunlops—besides, this was

obviously a bigger car. It had apparently stood there for some little

time, for a little pool of engine-oil had dripped from the crank-case.

Then the bigger car had moved off, down a sort of ride that led away

through the trees. Parker followed it for a little distance, but the

tracks soon became lost in a thick carpet of pine-needles. Still, there

was no other road for a car to take. He turned to the Austin to

investigate further. Presently shouts told him that the other two were

converging upon the centre of the wood. He called back and before long

Wimsey and Sir Charles Pillington came crashing towards him through the

bracken which fringed the pines.

“Well,” said Wimsey, “I imagine we may put down this elegant bit of

purple headgear to the gentleman in the slim boots. Bright yellow, I

fancy, with buttons. He must be lamenting his beautiful cap. The woman’s

footprints belong to Mary Whittaker, I take it.”

“I suppose so. I don’t see how they can be the Findlater girl’s. This

woman went or was taken off in the car.”

“They are certainly not Vera Findlater’s—there was no mud on her shoes

when we found her.”

“Oh! you were taking notice, then. I thought you were feeling a bit dead

to the world.”

“So I was, old dear, but I can’t help noticin’ things, though moribund.

Hullo! what’s this?”

He put his hand down behind the cushions of the car and pulled out an

American magazine—that monthly collection of mystery and sensational

fiction published under the name of _The Black Mask_.

“Light reading for the masses,” said Parker.

“Brought by the gentleman in the yellow boots, perhaps,” suggested the

Chief Constable.

“More likely by Miss Findlater,” said Wimsey.

“Hardly a lady’s choice,” said Sir Charles, in a pained tone.

“Oh, I dunno. From all I hear, Miss Whittaker was dead against

sentimentality and roses round the porch, and the other poor girl copied

her in everything. They might have a boyish taste in fiction.”

“Well, it’s not important,” said Parker.

“Wait a bit. Look at this. Somebody’s been making marks on it.”

Wimsey held out the cover for inspection. A thick pencil-mark had been

drawn under the first two words of the title.

“Do you think it’s some sort of message? Perhaps the book was on the

seat, and she contrived to make the marks unnoticed and shove it away

here before they transferred her to the other car.”

“Ingenious,” said Sir Charles, “but what does it mean? The Black. It

makes no sense.”

“Perhaps the long-toed gentleman was a black man,” suggested Parker. “Or

possibly a Hindu or Parsee of sorts.”

“God bless my soul,” said Sir Charles, horrified, “an English girl in

the hands of a black man. How abominable!”

“Well, we’ll hope it isn’t so. Shall we follow the road out or wait for

the doctor to arrive?”

“Better go back to the body, I think,” said Parker. “They’ve got a long

start of us, and half an hour more or less in following them up won’t

make much odds.”

They turned from the translucent cool greenness of the little wood back

on to the downs. The streamlet clacked merrily away over the pebbles,

running out to the southwest on its way to the river and the sea.

“It’s all very well your chattering,” said Wimsey to the water. “Why

can’t you say what you’ve seen?”