Читать книгу The Hidden Door - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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"AND it is an entirely mistaken idea, as no one will of course know better than yourself, Mr. Larose," said the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard, "that crime, as we understand it, finds its most fertile soil in great cities, and where people are gathered together in large numbers." He shook his head slowly. "The lonely places of the land, in proportion to the dwellers there, have just as many dark and sinister secrets to hide." He smiled sadly. "The little, sleepy village tucked away in some quiet corner of the country-side, the almost desolate coast about some lonely stretch of sea, or the moor that shelters only some isolated shepherd's hut, may all hug, if we only knew it, their secrets of dark and undiscovered crime."

Gilbert Larose nodded. He was a boyish-looking man, still under thirty, and no one would have imagined, from a cursory glance at his frank and open features, that he was a detective of international reputation, and in his own country was responsible for many an unmarked grave within the prison walls of the cities of the great Commonwealth of Australia.

"Individual crimes, sir," he said respectfully, "particularly those of violence are, I think, always more prone to occur where people live much by themselves. They seem to become morbid then, and brood over little things. I have often noticed that in the lonely parts of Australia."

"Exactly," said the Commissioner, "for they lose the right perspective of things." He smiled. "Now, leading up from these conclusions, I have a nice little problem to place before you. No," he corrected himself quickly, "I am not sure whether it is a problem at all but to determine it, one way or the other, is why I have summoned you here."

He motioned Larose to bring his chair nearer, and unfolding a large ordnance map, spread it out upon the desk before him.

"Now, this is a map of Suffolk," he went on, "and there is a small corner here that just now is very interesting." He pointed with his pencil. "It is this part adjacent to the coast that embraces the towns of Saxmundham, Leiston and Yoxford, and the little village of Westleton."

He leant back in his chair and regarded the detective very thoughtfully.

"To put it in a nutshell, Mr. Larose, within the last few weeks, or to be exact, thirty-five days, four people in this district, all unrelated to one another and of varying ages and differing conditions of life have just walked out of their homes and disappeared, and we are wondering"—he paused a moment—"we are wondering if their several disappearances are just merely coincidences, or if, on the other hand, they are all linked up together by happenings of which we have no knowledge and the significance of which we do not understand."

"Very interesting," commented the detective, "and did all these disappearances take place on different dates?"

"No," replied the Commissioner reaching for a paper that lay upon the desk. "On the night of Sunday, August 13th, the manager of one of the banks in Saxmundham and a school teacher from the neighbouring town of Leiston, about three miles away, disappeared. On the night of Tuesday, August 29th, an innkeeper from Yoxford went, and on Friday, September 15th, just two weeks ago, the bailiff of Lord Thralldom, of Thralldom Castle, walked out into the night and has not been heard of since."

"They all disappeared at night, then?" commented Larose.

"Yes, the bank manager, and the school teacher left their respective homes just before 9.30, but the innkeeper and the bailiff left later. The innkeeper just after ten and the bailiff at a quarter to eleven."

"And were the bank manager and the school teacher acquainted with one another?" asked the detective.

The Commissioner of Police laughed, and raised one hand in mock reproof. "Ah! I knew you'd ask that. That was, of course, the first thought that came into everybody's mind, and it must have been a nice tit-bit of scandal for the two towns. Yes, they were acquainted, and, added to that, the school teacher, although, as I have said, a resident in Leiston, had an account in the Saxmundham bank." He shook his head. "Yes, that made people talk."

"And what is the general view then that people take of these disappearances?" asked Larose.

"Oh!" replied the Commissioner, "that the two of them eloped, of course; that the innkeeper went off with another woman, unknown; and that the bailiff fell over the cliffs in the dark and was drowned."

"Then what made the Suffolk police come to us?" asked Larose. "There would seem to be no particular need unless they are in the possession of more facts than you have outlined to me."

"Well," replied the Commissioner, "there are wheels within wheels." He nodded his head. "It so happens that Mrs. Rawlings, the wife of the missing bailiff, was at one time a cook in the service of the present member of Parliament for the Borough of Ipswich, and, dissatisfied with the efforts of the local police, and angry, so she said, that they were taking no more interest in her husband's disappearance than they had taken in the cases of the others, she went to her one-time master for help. He is an influential supporter of the Government and approached the Home Office direct. They got in touch with me and upon my suggestion, the Chief Constable of Suffolk then forwarded copies of the police reports." He smiled. "That's how it is we come to be drawn in."

"And the local police are not much impressed then? asked Larose.

"No," smiled the Commissioner, "in fact they are inclined to be very annoyed that we have been applied to, but the Chief Constable of Suffolk is a particular friend of mine and, in the course of some conversation over the phone yesterday, he suggested jokingly that as we had got the celebrated Gilbert Larose here, then he ought to be sent down." The Commissioner shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "So, here am I, obliging a friend."

"And what do you think of it yourself, sir?" asked the detective, laughing back.

The smile immediately left the Commissioner's face, and he hesitated some moments before replying. Then he said very slowly, "Frankly, Mr. Larose, I do not know, for taking the reports singly, the four disappearances seem trivial and of no importance except to those intimately concerned." He spoke sharply. "Taken singly, I say, but"—and he looked troubled—"taken all four together, there are features about them that I do not like and I am now wondering if that pretty little corner of Suffolk"—he pointed to the outstretched map upon the desk—"usually so given up to holiday-makers and happiness, is not now choking under the grip of some unknown and bloody assassin."

He picked up a bundle of papers lying before him and in a quick movement handed them across to the detective.

"Here, take these," he said, "and go down into Suffolk, the first thing to-morrow." He was smiling again now. "You will come back looking rather foolish or else"—he nodded his head grimly—"I shall expect you to be giving evidence, in the near future, at the Ipswich Assizes."

For a long time then, when alone in his room that night, Larose considered the reports that the Chief Commissioner had handed over, but it was the photographs of the missing persons that first engaged his attention. They were all of fairly recent dates.

The school teacher was a plain-looking brunette of an unattractive type. She had a grave, thoughtful face, with oval, rather dreamy-looking, dark eyes.

The bank manager was a plain, matter-of-fact looking man, with closely cut hair over a square forehead. He had a shrewd face, and a chin that spoke of resolution and self-control.

The innkeeper looked jovial and merry. His face was round and chubby and his lips were parted in a smile.

The bailiff's face was long and taciturn-looking. Its expression was grave and he had the appearance of a man with no imagination but with a strong sense of duty.

"Well, certainly this bailiff was no gay Don Juan," muttered the detective, "nor the banker, either, I should say. The innkeeper, however, would appreciate the good things of life, for he looks a bit of a sport. As for the girl"—he hesitated—"well, I can't think of anyone eloping with her and certainly not a man of the type of the bank manager. Indeed, I can hardly imagine either of them inspiring romance in anyone."

He unfolded the reports. They had been drawn up by the local constables, and amplified later by the enquiries of special plain-clothes officers who had been sent down from Ipswich. He carefully and methodically proceeded to pick out the main facts.

Rita Ethelton, single, lived with her parents at Leiston. She was twenty-seven years of age and had taught in the town for upwards of three years. She was well-thought of by her superiors. She was not keeping company with anyone. She was grave, studious, and of a quiet disposition. Her only out-door recreation was walking, and she often went for long walks by herself.

On the night of her disappearance, she had announced to her parents that she would go out for some fresh air, and had left her home about 9.30. No one in the town seemed to have noticed her, and consequently it was not known in which direction she had gone. It was a moonlight night, but clouds were threatening and she had taken her macintosh with her. It was certain she was carrying no money, for her bag with her purse in it had been left behind in her bedroom.

She had not been missed until the next morning, for her parents, accustomed to her roaming expeditions, had retired to rest as usual at 10 o'clock, leaving the front door unlocked.

There were no circumstances that could suggest to them any reason for their daughter going away. She was their only child, she had no troubles that they were aware of, and was in perfect health.

She was quite well-off for she had more than £30 in the Post Office Savings Bank, and £200 on fixed deposit, in the Saxmundham branch of the East Anglian bank.

The plain-clothes officer, sent down from Ipswich, was of the opinion that if the going off were a premeditated one, then most elaborate precautions had been taken to prevent it being established as such.

Augustus Andrew Holden was forty-two years of age and had been the manager of the East Anglian bank in Saxmundham, where he had two assistants under him, for upwards of five years. He was married and had three children, two boys, aged eight and eleven, and a girl, six. He was apparently living on happy terms with his wife, who was five years his junior. He resided over the bank premises in the High Street, and there was a private entrance to his house at the side.

He enjoyed a good reputation in the town and was respected by everyone. He was a man of simple habits, golf being his only recreation. He was invariably in good health.

He was in no financial trouble, and had a good balance at the Ipswich branch of Lloyds bank. He had also £1,200 invested in Government securities.

He was regarded as a valuable and trusted servant of the head office of his bank in Norwich.

On the night of his disappearance, he had been writing after supper and then, just as Mrs. Holden was upon the point of going to bed, he had remarked that he was suffering from a slight headache, and would go for a brisk walk before turning in. He had taken a cap and stick from the hall and let himself out of the door, and that was the last that anyone had seen of him.

Mrs. Holden, retiring to bed, had at once fallen into a sound sleep, but awakening during the night and becoming aware that her husband was not beside her, she had switched on the light and found to her consternation that it was past three o'clock.

She had then immediately rung up the police station and, getting speech with the officer on night duty there, had explained what had happened and had insisted that a search should be made at once. But as she could furnish no idea as to in which direction her husband had gone, nothing, of course, had been done.

Later, she had stated that she had no idea how much money Mr. Holden had had upon him when he left the house, but it would not have been much, she was sure, for it was never his habit to carry more than a few shillings about with him at a time.

Samuel Baxter was 34 and had been the landlord of the Yoxford Arms for just over three years. He was married to a woman about his own age and there was one child of the marriage, a girl of six. He was apparently quite happy in his married life.

The inn was a small and unpretentious one, but he did a good trade and, keeping a good table, on market days had always as many customers as he could accommodate. He was one of the local bookmakers of the town and being of a happy, care-free disposition, was liked by everyone.

The night of his disappearance, it had been noted by those then present in the inn that he had closed the bar sharp to the very second of ten o'clock. Indeed there had been remonstrance upon the part of one customer that Baxter was turning them out before the legal time.

Then next, one of the two serving maids, an elderly woman, had heard him go into the back yard as she was getting into bed and she had told the police that it could not have been later than five minutes after ten.

Mrs. Baxter was out at the time, having gone to the talkies in the town. She had, however, returned home a few minutes after eleven and, not seeing her husband, she thought that he must have gone out, as he sometimes did, to have a chat with some friend. So she had gone to bed, and quickly falling asleep, had not awakened until the maid had brought in a cup of tea just before seven the next morning. Then she had been astonished to find that her husband was not in the bed alongside of her.

No information was then forthcoming in any direction as to what had happened to Baxter. He had visited none of his friends, no one had seen him after he had closed the inn, and no traces of any of his movements had been found anywhere.

It was remembered, however, by the Yoxford townspeople that once before, about eighteen months previously, Baxter had been missing for a week, and upon his return had given the information that he had been called suddenly to London upon important business.

Peter Rawlings was forty-five years of age and for twenty-two of those years had been in the service of the present Lord Thralldom. For the last nine he had been his bailiff and had had entire charge of the farms and lands attached to the castle. He resided at what was known as the Home Farm, and his house was about a mile distant from the castle. The land belonging to Lord Thralldom was roughly 3,000 acres, and comprised arable land, pastures, plantations, marshes and a stretch of the sea-shore, and as Lord Thralldom was old and an invalid, the bailiff had plenty to look after and was a busy man.

Rawlings was married and his wife was five years older than he was. They had no children and kept one maid, a young woman of twenty. They were supposed by everyone to be a happy and contented couple.

The bailiff had the reputation of being a quiet, sober, and industrious man, and financially he was in good circumstances. He had saved money. He lived a very uneventful life and had never been known to take a holiday. He was most zealous in looking after all his master's affairs, but his chief interest was supposed to be in the herd of pure-bred jersey cattle that Lord Thralldom possessed.

On the night of his disappearance, he and his wife had retired to bed, as usual, about 9.30, but Rawlings had been very restless and unable to get to sleep. Suddenly, just before eleven o-clock, so his wife judged to be the time, he had jumped out of bed, and huddling on some clothes, had muttered something about some matter he ought to have seen to before going to bed. His wife had been too sleepy to take much notice of what he had said, but she had heard him pull on his boots and then go out through the back door. Then she herself had been unable to get to sleep and finally, beginning to wonder what her husband had gone out for, and thinking that at any rate he had been gone long enough, she had struck a match and found it was half-past twelve.

Then she had not gone to sleep at all and the hours going by with no return of her husband, she had at first become frightened and then hysterical. She had awakened the maid and the two women had sat together, waiting for daylight to come.

And when it had come, they could find out nothing. Nothing had been heard or seen of the bailiff since.

As to what he had been wearing when he had left the house, he had been only partially dressed, for he had just put his trousers and jacket over his pyjamas. There might have been a few odd shillings in his pockets but certainly nothing more.

That concluded the four reports. There was a note added by the Chief Constable of Suffolk that the investigations in all four cases had been of a most exhaustive nature, but that in not any one of them had anything been discovered to furnish a satisfactory explanation for the disappearance.

Larose put down the reports with a frown. "Four very ordinary persons," he remarked, "and it is difficult to conceive of any of them leading a double life, still," and he shook his head slowly, "you never can tell." He looked musingly out of the window. "No one but our own selves can ever know the secrets of our own hearts and, if we are honest, we must admit that moments have come to us all when if we had followed our own inclinations, the law of the jungle would have been the only law we should have obeyed. We have thought things we have never dared to write down, we have had longings we should never dare to express, and we have"—he shook his head in annoyance—"but Gilbert, Gilbert, I believe you're a very bad man. All people are not like you."