Читать книгу The Three Oak Mystery - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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THEY stood, as if petrified, looking up at the ghastly object and Lexington was the first to move. His foot was raised to take an impetuous step forward, when Soc, who had not released his grip of the boy's arm, pulled him back.

"Stay where you are," he said sternly.

"It's Mandle!" whispered Lex, and Soc nodded.

"It's Mandle all right," he said grimly, and dropped his eyes from the bough to the ground beneath. "The earth is a little too hard to leave any impression," he said regretfully. "Go ahead carefully, but don't put your foot down on anything that looks like a print."

Presently he stood under the branch and by reaching up and standing on tiptoe could just touch the dead man's hand.

"Look carefully round, Lex, and see what you can find. I am going up that tree."

With extraordinary agility he scrambled up the gnarled trunk and found it a comparatively easy matter, for it was inclined at an angle. Some other climber had been there, and recently. In several places the bark was torn and there was an impress of a man's nailed boots. It was an easy matter to reach the branch where the murdered man lay, and Lexington, watching his brother, saw that he paid little or no attention to the body, save to take a long scrutiny of its feet. He seemed more interested in the branches above, and peered up in his short-sighted way, a mannerism of his, for the eyesight of Socrates Smith was remarkably good.

Presently he came back and dropped lightly to the ground.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes what?" asked Lexington curiously, but Soc offered no explanation.

Evidently he had seen something which he had expected to see.

"Did you find anything?" he asked.

"This," said Lex, and handed him a little brass cylinder.

Soc looked at the cartridge case and nodded.

"A 35 automatic," he said. "I knew that it was a nickel-jacketed bullet by the wound it made. Anything else?"

Lex shook his head.

"It's horrible, isn't it?" he said in a whisper, looking up at that terrible face staring down upon them with its blank eyes.

"Fairly horrible," said his brother quietly, "but remarkably interesting."

Lexington Smith was not sufficiently experienced to take a detached interest in the crime as an artistic performance. To him the limp, inanimate figure was that of his host, a man who had been alive and well, and with whom he had been talking on the previous evening.

What a terrible shock for the girl! He remembered her suddenly.

"How could they have done it?" he asked. "There must have been more than one in this. They must have come into the house while we were sleeping, Soc; that's the horrible thought."

"How many people do you think?" asked Socrates quietly.

"At least three," replied his brother. "They must have taken him out of bed, and yet we heard nothing. Do you think they drugged him?"

"I think lots of things," said his brother evasively. "Now, Lex, just tell me what you think happened."

Lexington was silent for a moment.

"He must have some very bad enemies," he said. "You told me he was afraid and evidently expected some such attack as this. In the night they secured admission to his room, and either drugged him or terrified him into silence, and then carried him out to this lonely spot and murdered him."

Socrates shook his head.

"Why not murder him in the house?" he said. "If they could drug him, why not poison him? Why take the trouble to carry him for nearly a mile in order to have the satisfaction of shooting him at their leisure? No, my son, that theory doesn't work!"

"But they must have carried him," insisted Lexington. "Poor Mandle hadn't the use of his legs. And, Soc! do you remember the flash-light—the signal?"

"I haven't forgotten that," said his brother quietly. "Now Lex, go back to the house and telephone to the police. I'll stay here."

As luck would have it, Lexington had no need to go back to the house. When he climbed the path and emerged on to the main road the first person he saw was a policeman riding leisurely down the hill on his bicycle. Lexington stopped him and told him what had occurred in a few words.

"Murdered?" said the policeman incredulously. "Mr. Mandle?"

He wheeled his bicycle into a clump of bushes.

"Just wait a minute, sir," he said, "my inspector will be along here in about three minutes. We ought to tell him, and it will save me telephoning."

The inspector made his appearance in five minutes and stopped his tiny car at his subordinate's signal. The three men made their way back to the scene of the tragedy.

Socrates Smith had disappeared but they heard him working through the thick bushes to the left of the path. After a while he emerged carrying in his hand a pair of gum shoes which he put down carefully.

Lexington had revealed the identity of his brother, and the name of Socrates Smith was one to be respected.

"Well, Mr. Smith, this is a very bad business," said the officer.

"Pretty bad," said Socrates glancing keenly up at the body.

"It is bewildering," said the inspector. "Why did they tie him?"

"He's not tied very securely, I think you'll find," said Socrates. "The rope has just been thrown up at the body and has swung round him by its own momentum. It has the appearance of being tightly bound, but the first thing I saw when I went up the tree was that both ends of the rope are loose. He maintains his position on the branch by natural balance. There are no foot-marks of any kind."

"The ground is a little too hard," said the inspector, disappointed, and then he brightened. "If they came from or went through the valley they'd have to pass across a bit of soft ground. There's a spring about a hundred yards further on which keeps the path muddy."

"Is that so?" said Socrates quickly. "Then that explains—" he picked up the galoshes and exposed the soles. They were covered with a thin cake of yellow mud which had dried. "I wondered how that came about," he said.

The inspector took up the shoes and examined them. "They're new," he said unnecessarily and shook his head. "These sort of things are sold by the hundred and unless they were bought at Godalming or some local town it would be difficult to trace the buyer."

Socrates Smith nodded.

"That is mystery number one unravelled," he said. "I couldn't understand why they wanted galoshes."

"There was only one pair, I suppose?"

"Only one pair," said Smith gravely, "because only one person was concerned in this murder."

Lexington looked at his brother and gasped.

"Only one?" he said incredulously. "Do you mean to say that one person could have carried him a mile?"

"I say there was only one person concerned in the murder," said Socrates carelessly.

"There must have been more, Mr. Smith."

It was the inspector who spoke. "You probably don't know that Mr. Mandle was a martyr to rheumatism and hasn't walked for a month. I was only talking to him about the matter two or three days ago."

"I know," interrupted Soc quietly. "My brother and I are guests of his."

"Staying at the house?" asked the officer in surprise, and Soc nodded.

"Nevertheless I maintain that there was only one person concerned in this murder," he said, and the inspector drew a long breath.

"Well, he must have been a remarkable one person," he said.

"Now let us have a look at the muddy patch," said Socrates. "I think we shall find impressions of the galoshes, which by the way are number twelves and have been worn by somebody with a bigger foot than a twelve for the left shoe has burst a little."

They followed the winding path for a few hundred yards and came to a place where it dipped down and crossed a distinctly marshy patch. Here the yellow earth was turned to a dark grey and was moist and plastic.

"Be careful now," warned' Socrates, "there are half-a-dozen footprints here, but most of them are old. Here are our galoshes."

He squatted down and pointed to an impression which had obviously been made by overshoes. The corrugations of the sole were plainly visible, but there was only the mark of one sole. They found the other impression five feet away on the farther side of the wet patch.

"A long-striding gentleman, this," said the inspector, but Socrates shook his head.

"He jumped this patch," he said. "Do you see how deep the toe impression is where he took off and how heavy he came down, on the other side? He was familiar with the lay of the land, for he made no mistake in estimating the width of the jump."

"What is that?" asked Lexington pointing.

Socrates followed the direction of the finger which was extended toward an even muddier area to the right of the path.

"Good Lord!" said Socrates and squelching through the mud, stooped and picked up a shoe.

It was a lady's shoe, deeply embedded in the heavy clay and near at hand was a small foot-mark showing the natural form of a foot.

"A woman's shoe, that may be important," said the inspector. "Somebody evidently got into that morass and left her shoe behind her."

Socrates nodded.

"And it also looks as if she was trying to avoid leaving a mark on the path," he said.

It was a small shoe, almost new, and he examined it curiously.

"An American made brogue," he said and pulled back the tongue. On the underside the leather was undressed and somebody had written the initials "M.T."

"M.T." he repeated—"Molly Templeton!"

"Molly Templeton!" repeated Lex. "Good heavens, Soc, she couldn't have been here! She—"

Then in a flash he remembered the dark form that he had seen stealing across the lawn on the previous night.

Molly Templeton! That radiant girl! What could she have been doing there, and why should she have tried to avoid leaving her footmark in the mud?

He looked bewildered at Socrates and there was a little gleam of laughter in his brother's eyes, an unexpected gleam, because Socrates was a grave man in such crises as this.

"Where does this path lead to?" he asked suddenly.

"To the White House. Mr. Jetheroe's house."

Soc nodded.

"Who is Mr. Jetheroe?" he asked.

The inspector seemed at some loss to describe Mr. Jetheroe in adequate and understandable terms.

"He's a writing gentleman," he said. "I don't know what he is by profession, but I know he writes scientific articles. He is a very quiet nice man, and a friend of Miss Mandle's."

Evidently the inspector did not know that Molly was the step-daughter, for he went on:

"Who is Molly Templeton?"

To Lexington's surprise, his brother replied:

"The name of a girl I know. It struck me as a coincidence, that's all. Has Jetheroe lived long in the neighbourhood?"

"About four years," said the inspector. "He came here about two months after the late Mrs. Mandle died. He had been abroad, I think."

"Been abroad, eh?" said Socrates thoughtfully.

He walked ahead with Lexington along the path towards Mr. Jetheroe's house, leaving the inspector and the policeman to guard the body.

"Naturally Mandle has many enemies," he explained. "He has sent quite a number of promising young gentlemen to penal servitude, and, although one doesn't take a great deal of notice of the threats which criminals utter in their anger at the moment of sentence, yet now and again you do find a convict who nurses a plan for vengeance through the long terms of imprisonment."

"Do you think that this is such a case?" asked Lex.

"It may be," replied Socrates; "it may be. Anyway, I am always suspicious of people who suddenly appear in a neighbourhood after having been 'abroad' for a long time."

Smoke was coming from the chimneys of Jetheroe's house when they passed through the gates and up the gravel drive.

A maid-servant, a little fluttered by the appearance of strangers at this hour, opened the door to them.

"Mr. Jetheroe is in his room," she said. "What name shall I say?"

"Just say Smith, and tell him that we've come on rather important business," replied Socrates.

He was ushered into a large and somewhat untidy work-room, and a man sitting at a big oak table covered with an untidy litter of paper, rose and looked at them from under his bushy white eyebrows.

"A remarkable-looking man," thought Socrates, with reason. He stood over six feet in height, and the spareness of his frame gave the illusion of an even greater height.

The face was thin and refined. The hair flowed back over his collar, a white mane.

Lexington was reminded of the portrait of the great musician, Liszt.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Mr. Jetheroe.

His manner was not particularly genial. Indeed, there was in his hard, harsh voice something menacing and to Lexington's impressionable mind, forbidding.

"What can I do for you?"

"I have come to see you in relation to Mr. John Mandle," said Socrates quietly, and he thought he saw the man start.

"Yes, I know Mr. John Mandle by sight," said Jetheroe. "Sit down, please. Did he send you?"

"Mandle is dead," said Soc quietly.

"Dead!"

Some queer emotion was expressed in the sudden flash of his eyes and the scarcely observable change of countenance.

"Dead! you say?"

"He was murdered last night, within a few hundred yards of this house," said Socrates, and there was a dead silence.

"That is very interesting," said Jetheroe, and his voice was cold and hard. "And, of course, very dreadful. Have you found the murderer?"

"We are seeking for him now," said Smith.

"You are a detective?"

Socrates smiled.

"I suppose I am in a way," he said. "I am not attached to the regular force. My name is Socrates Smith. You may have heard of me."

To his surprise Jetheroe nodded.

"Yes; I have read your book on blood-tests," he said. "Now, Mr. Smith, can I be of any assistance to you? I may tell you that I have never met Mr. Mandle, although I know his step-daughter very well. Very well, indeed," he said emphatically.

"Did Miss Templeton come here last night?"

This time the man was obviously master of himself.

"I have not seen Miss Templeton," he said, "for two or three days."

"She didn't come here last night?"

Jetheroe shook his head.

"Why should you imagine she did? I presume she is at Mr. Mandle's house. Does she know of this?" he asked.

There was no especial reason why Socrates Smith should think that this man was attempting to deceive him. His voice and his attitude were natural and he answered without hesitation, and yet Soc knew in his bones that this white-haired man was playing with him.

"If you don't mind my saying as much, Mr. Jetheroe, you do not seem to be greatly shocked by the death of John Mandle."

"I am not easily shocked," said Jetheroe, leaning back in his chair and putting his finger-tips together. "I am neither shocked nor surprised to discover that Mandle has been murdered."

"Why aren't you surprised?" asked Socrates sternly, and a faint smile quivered at the corner of the man's thin mouth.

"Mandle was not the most lovable person in the world," he said. "He treated Molly disgracefully, but that is beside the point. He was an ex-officer of police, and must have made many enemies. For he was a hard, unscrupulous man, who, with his friend Stone, would never hesitate to stretch the limit of fairness in order to secure a conviction against some unfortunate devil who fell into their clutches."

"You seem to know a great deal about him, Mr. Jetheroe?"

Jetheroe shrugged his shoulders.

"One learns these things. After all, he was something of a public character in his day, Mr. Smith, just as you were."

"Did he ever do you an injury?" asked Soc bluntly, and again that faint smile.

"How could he do me an injury?" replied Jetheroe. "He has only recently swum into my ken. I have been abroad a great deal."

In spite of his imperturbable face and apparent preoccupation, the mind of Socrates Smith was working at whirlwind speed. He put his hand in his pocket aimlessly and took out a little pocket-book.

"I suppose I'd better make a few notes," he said. "Although I am not officially associated with Scotland Yard my presence on the spot is certain to result in my having some official standing in the case."

"Where was he shot?" asked Jetheroe.

"How did you know he was shot," demanded Soc Smith quickly, and only for a second was the man nonplussed.

"It sounded as though I had some guilty knowledge of the crime," he said with his quick smile. "But I will explain just why I think he was shot. At about half-past twelve or it may have been a quarter to one this morning, I was sitting here working, correcting the proofs of an article I had written for the 'Scientific Englishman'—there are the proofs," he pointed to a litter of galley-slips. "In the midst of my work I heard a shot. It came from the direction of the valley. We call that little depression about three hundred yards from the house a 'valley,' though it isn't worthy of the name. I suppose it is called valley because there is a spring, and in the wet season, a little river there."

"Was it one shot you heard?"

"Only one," replied Jetheroe. "I dismissed the matter from my mind thinking that possibly there were poachers about. When you told me that John Mandle was murdered my mind immediately went back to that shot."

"H'm," said Soc, and opened his note-book.

Standing on a small table at Jetheroe's elbow, he had noticed the remains of a cup of tea and what had evidently been a plate of buttered toast, for one "finger" of toast still remained.

Laying his note-book on his knee Soc wrote three words and Jetheroe watched him keenly.

"Do you know this person?" asked Socrates handing the book to the man.

Jetheroe frowned at the name and shook his head, handing the book back.

"No, I don't know her," he said. "Why?"

"I wondered," replied Socrates and rose, slipping the book into his pocket.

"You are sure you did not see Miss Templeton last night?" he asked softly.

"Absolutely sure," replied the other in an emphatic tone. "I have not seen Miss Templeton for—"

Socrates Smith stooped and drew from under Jetheroe's table a large waste-paper basket, which was half filled with scraps of paper. He put his hand in and drew something forth.

"Will you explain how this came here?" he said, and Lexington gasped, for it was a girl's shoe, and he knew at once that it was the fellow of the one he had discovered in the valley.