It required no very great intelligence to guess how the would-be assassin had planned the attack. He had been hiding somewhere among the trees when the car bearing the party to Monk’s Lodge had rounded the sharp bend just before taking the hill that led to Friar’s Vale. It was an ideal spot for the purpose. The car had of necessity to slow down considerably at the corner, enabling the shooter to take careful aim. The rifle, of course, had been fitted with a silencer, and the slight ‘plop’ it must have made had been drowned by the noise of the engine. But he had felt the wind of the bullet as it whistled by his head, and the smack as it struck the back of the seat.

  To say that Lowe was in the least degree scared would be an exaggeration, but he was not foolhardy, and in that shot he had read a warning not to be ignored. Why his life should be attempted at all, in the circumstances, was a mystery; but that it was connected in some way with the happenings related by Tony he did not doubt for a moment.

  Two things stood out clearly: the unknown shooter must have had knowledge of his arrival, and there was something very extraordinary going on around Monk’s Lodge.

  Tapping the ashes of his pipe on the window-sill, Lowe rose leisurely and stood for a moment looking about the room. It was a comfortable place, made mellow by time. In the centre there was a long, polished oak refectory table and half a dozen ancient carved chairs. The ceiling was low, and supported by heavy beams, which had the effect of making the room appear longer than it was. The only carpeting was a small rectangular rug in front of the wide fireplace, the rest of the floor being of plain polished natural oak. The walls were a distempered russet colour above the oak panelling, and at the far end of the room was a sideboard, its slightly warped shelves littered with specimens of old pewter.

  It was at his own wish that he had remained alone this afternoon — the one following his arrival. The others had tried hard to persuade him to go fishing with them, but he had refused. He wanted to have a good look round at Monk’s Lodge and he wanted to explore the place by himself. The warning on the window could only have been put there with one object: for some reason or other, somebody wanted to get Jack and Tony out of the cottage. Unless the whole thing was a practical joke — and the attempt on his life precluded this possibility — there was no other reasonable explanation. Therefore, it seemed more than probable that within the precincts of Monk’s Lodge would be found the clue to the whole business.

  For twenty minutes or so Lowe explored the ground floor, digging into every nook and cranny; and when he had exhausted this part of the cottage he mounted the stairs and turned his attention to the upper part. He had made a thorough search of the room occupied by Tony and Jack, and was walking along the short corridor that led to his own room when he paused at a small window that looked out onto the garden. From this window it was possible to see odd patches of the winding path that led up to the cottage from the direction of Friar’s Vale, and it was something moving along this path that had caught his eye and caused him to pause at the window.

  Watching, he saw through a gap in the hedge the vivid splash of colour that had attracted his attention. It was a woman in a yellow beret and a canary-coloured pullover. She was walking slowly, glancing to left and right, and he watched her movements curiously.

  At the gate that led into the garden she paused, apparently to admire the house; but after a moment’s hesitation, and again glancing quickly about, she opened the gate and slipped through. As though her sole object was interest in the garden, she strolled in a leisurely fashion up the path, and presently veered slightly until her direction brought her close by the window of the room where Lowe had previously sat.

  Almost opposite this window was a large flowerbed. Here she stopped and, to Lowe’s surprise, began searching rapidly among the tangled mass of flowers. After a second or two she straightened up, slipping something into the pocket of her jumper. Lowe could not see what it was, but he was determined if possible to find out, and leaving the window he went hurriedly down the stairs.

  But by the time he reached the garden, the woman had gone; nor was there any sign of her on the white ribbon of road. Somewhere near at hand, however, he heard the whine of a car, and guessed that it was by this means that she had been able to get out of sight so quickly.

  He went back into the cottage to continue his exploration rather thoughtfully. Another peculiar incident had been added to the list that was so rapidly mounting up, though at that moment the dramatist had no premonition of the tragic conclusion to which they were leading.

  He examined all the rooms carefully without the slightest result, and then came to a door that was locked. It was in all probability a lumber-room containing odds and ends of no interest to anybody except the owners of the cottage. But still Lowe was curious to see what it contained. He tried the keys of the other doors, but none of them would fit. The lock was apparently a patent one, and he concluded it had most likely been put on by the owners of the cottage in order to safeguard their personal property from the prying eyes of possible tenants while they were away.

  He was making his way downstairs again when Jack and Tony returned. Although they looked tired, they appeared to have had a good day, for the basket Jack was carrying was bulging with fish.

  ‘By the way, Lowe,’ said Tony, suddenly breaking in on a remark of Jack’s when they were having tea a few minutes later, ‘we rang up the police station at Dryseley and told them about Ogden’s failure to keep his appointment.’

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Lowe. ‘Have they found him yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Tony. ‘There’s not a sign of the fellow anywhere.’

  ‘It’s certainly curious,’ muttered the dramatist, absently stirring his tea.

  ‘It’s more than curious,’ said Jack. ‘This man Ogden must be somewhere. He can’t have vanished into thin air.’

  ‘That, apparently, is exactly what he has done,’ said Lowe. ‘Of course, there are several possible explanations. We know nothing of Ogden’s private life whatsoever. He may have a very good reason for wanting to disappear.’

  ‘Then you think he went of his own free will?’ said Jack.

  ‘I didn’t say so,’ replied Lowe. ‘I was merely pointing out that it was possible. By the way,’ he went on, ‘do either of you happen to know a rather pretty woman staying around here?’

  Tony looked across at Jack and winked. ‘We certainly know of one,’ he replied carefully, ‘don’t we, Jack?’

  His friend flushed slightly beneath his tan. ‘Er — yes — I — er — certainly,’ he said, and looked across at Lowe inquiringly. ‘Why?’

  The dramatist was filling his pipe carefully. ‘She called here today while you were out,’ he remarked. ‘I was wondering if either of you knew who she was.’

  ‘Called here?’ gasped Tony in surprise. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lowe, ‘but whatever it was, she apparently found it.’

  They listened interestedly while he told them what he had seen from the upstairs window.

  ‘What was the woman like?’ asked Tony when Lowe had finished.

  ‘She was fair, of medium height, rather slim, and decidedly attractive,’ answered Lowe.

  ‘It must be the same woman that we saw outside Dinwood’s cottage,’ said Jack, turning to Tony.

  ‘Certainly sounds like it,’ agreed his friend. ‘I haven’t seen any other woman round here who would answer to that description.’

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Lowe.

  Jack explained where they had first seen the woman. ‘I can’t think what she’s doing here, or what she was looking for,’ he went on in a puzzled tone.

  ‘Neither can I,’ said the dramatist. ‘I’m rather under the impression that she thought everyone was out. However, it makes another little unexplained incident to add to our list.’

  ‘I wish we could get to the bottom of it all,’ remarked Tony. ‘I hate living in the atmosphere of a shilling shocker.’

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to be patient,’ said Lowe with a smile. ‘We can do nothing at present except wait. At the moment we are rather in the position of a person who has been given a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. We haven’t got enough data to form any theory or to make any concrete move. I’m convinced that all these peculiar incidents are leading to something definite, and that there will be a fresh development sooner or later that will supply us with something to get a grip on. In the meantime, all we can do is to wait and watch.’

  ‘It’s all darned queer,’ complained Jack. ‘That shot on the way from the station, for instance. Who on earth was responsible for that, and why should they want to try to murder you?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ Lowe said, ‘unless somebody has recognised me in connection with the Carraway affair and thinks I’m up to my old games again. It certainly points to one thing, however — something big is either happening or going to happen here, and my presence is considered a danger by the people who are planning it. I should —’

  He stopped suddenly and glanced swiftly across at Jack and Tony. A heavy thud had sounded directly overhead — so heavy that flaky particles of the ceiling floated down between them onto the table. Lowe was on his feet immediately, and the others were not slow to follow his example.

  ‘What the dickens was that?’ queried Tony, and his face in the twilight of the room was visibly paler.

  ‘Light the lamp,’ said Lowe sharply, and his hand fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. ‘What room is just overhead?’

  ‘The lumber-room,’ answered Jack. ‘Here, Tony — I’ve got some matches!’

  Tony took the box he held out and lit the lamp, for the dusk had crept on while they had been sitting talking.

  ‘The locked room!’ whispered Lowe under his breath. He crossed to the door. ‘Come on — and bring the light! We’ll see if we can find out what that noise was.’

  At the top of the stairs Tony held the lamp so that Lowe could see, and the dramatist tried the handle of the lumber-room door. It was still locked.

  ‘I’m going to bust the door open,’ he said, and launched his whole weight against the panel. But the door held. Like the rest of the woodwork in Monk’s Lodge, it was made of seasoned oak, and it took the combined efforts of Lowe and Jack before, with a splintering, rending sound, it crashed open.

  Trevor Lowe was the first to cross the threshold of the room beyond, and he narrowly missed tripping over something that lay on the floor. ‘Tony — the light, quick!’ he shouted.

  Tony came in, the flare of the lamp in his hand jumping fitfully in the draught. The small room was littered with old boxes, but it was what occupied the centre of the floor that riveted the attention of the dramatist. Beside an overturned chair lay the huddled figure of a man, face downwards!

  With a little sharp intake of his breath, Lowe bent down and laid his hand on the motionless form. It was stiff and rigid, and the hand he touched was icy cold. He turned the body gently over until the light from the lamp fell full upon the dead face, and then Tony gave a hoarse cry.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed huskily. ‘It’s Mr. Ogden!’

  Lowe looked at the bloodstains on the chair and on the floor around it. They had long since congealed, proving that Mr. William P. Ogden had been dead for some time!

  Chapter Four – The Woman Who Screamed

  Inspector Jesson of the local police sucked the point of his pencil and flipped the pages of his notebook with a large and not particularly clean thumb. ‘This is a serious business, gentlemen,’ he announced, shaking his head with ponderous gravity. ‘A very serious business!’

  ‘We are aware of that,’ replied Lowe. ‘Murder usually is a serious business.’

  The inspector looked at him doubtfully, as if not quite certain how to treat the remark.

  The hour was late, well past midnight, and Lowe, the local inspector, Tony and Jack were gathered in the dining-room of Monk’s Lodge. Upstairs, Dr. MacGuire, the divisional surgeon, was engaged in examining all that remained of the unfortunate estate agent, while a shuffling of feet in the hall testified to the impatience of the police constable who stood on guard at the front door.

  The sudden and startling discovery of the dead man in the locked lumber-room had provided an unexpected climax to the series of what Tony had called ‘queer happenings’. The dead man had obviously been locked in the room for several days. Lowe was able to tell that from the state of the body, and the blood stains, without waiting for confirmation of the medical evidence. Death had been caused by a heavy blow to the back of the head. The base of the skull was crushed to pulp, and it was probable that death had come so swiftly that Mr. Ogden had never seen the hand that struck him down.

  The discovery of the body might have been postponed almost indefinitely, but for the fact that something had upset its balance and caused it to topple out of the chair on which it had been propped.

  A cursory examination of the room had revealed nothing in the nature of a clue to the murderer’s identity — although, so far as the motive was concerned, it did not require a great deal of intelligence to connect this with the appointment that the estate agent had never kept. Mr. Ogden had become possessed, or was about to reveal, some knowledge already in his possession, that was dangerous to the person behind this strange business. That was the fairly obvious conclusion to be drawn from the letter he had written to Tony Frost. As to what this knowledge had been, Lowe was completely in the dark. Nor, at this early stage, did he feel inclined to hazard a guess. Inspector Shadgold had read him many lectures about theorising without facts. It was easy to unconsciously twist the facts to suit the theories, instead of making the theories suit the facts.

  Standing in the room of death while Tony had gone off to inform the police, Lowe hurriedly ran through the actual facts that were in his possession, and found that they were unpleasantly meagre. There was the man whom Tony had seen peering through the hedge, and who might quite possibly have been only a tramp and nothing to do with the affair at all. There was the letter written by Mr. Ogden that, in light of the discovery of that night, was quite definitely connected with the problem. Then there was the scrawled warning on the window, the shot that had only missed Lowe by a fraction of an inch, and the strange behaviour of the woman in the garden, and finally the discovery of the dead man in the locked room.

  There was some thread, invisible at the moment, that linked all these incidents together, and Lowe was still occupied in trying to discover a starting point from which to begin his investigation, when Tony’s arrival with the police forced him to shelve the subject for the time being.

  ‘Yes, it’s a very serious matter,’ remarked Inspector Jesson for the third time, ‘and I should like you to answer a few questions. Which of you was the first to discover the crime?’

  ‘I was actually the first to enter the room,’ answered Lowe.

  Inspector Jesson nodded. ‘Right then, sir; I’ll begin with you,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Trevor Lowe,’ answered the dramatist.

  The bull-like head of the inspector jerked up. ‘Eh? You don’t happen, by any chance, to be the Mr. Trevor Lowe, do you?’

  ‘I’m not aware,’ replied the dramatist, ‘of anyone else possessing the name.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ said the inspector, writing laboriously in his notebook. ‘You’re a playwright, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve had some experience in that profession,’ answered Lowe with a smile. The inspector was obviously preparing to fire off a battery of questions, and nobody knew better than he what little result would be gained by this tedious routine work. It was a sheer waste of time, though he realised that the official was merely complying with the regulations, and therefore he did his best to conceal his impatience.

  ‘Are you staying in the house?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Yes; I’m a guest of Mr. Frost and Mr. Denton,’ replied Lowe, and he proceeded to relate what had brought him to Monk’s Lodge. He did not mention the shot from the hillside, a fact which Jack and Tony noticed.

  The inspector listened attentively, and raised his rather bushy eyebrows when he heard about the warning on the window. ‘You ought to ’ave reported that to the police,’ he muttered, glaring across at Tony. ‘’Owever, it can’t be ’elped now. Did you know the dead man?’ he went on, addressing Lowe.

  ‘I have never seen him before in my life,’ Lowe answered.

  ‘How do you suppose he came to be in that room?’ asked the inspector after he had noted down Lowe’s previous reply.

  ‘My suppositions are not evidence, you know,’ pointed out Lowe gently. ‘But I suggest he was put there by the person who killed him.’

  The inspector’s rather florid face went the colour of a newly boiled beetroot. ‘Um — yes — very likely!’ he growled. ‘Now, I understand he had an appointment to see Mr. Frost on the afternoon of Wednesday last?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ put in Tony, ‘and he never kept it.’

  The inspector turned and looked at him with great dignity. ‘I’ll deal with you presently,’ he said. ‘One witness at a time, if you please.’

  He repeated his question to Lowe, and the dramatist replied in the affirmative.

  ‘That is so far as I know,’ he added a trifle maliciously. ‘I had not arrived then.’

  ‘Oh!’ Inspector Jesson appeared a trifle nonplussed. ‘Then you don’t know whether he kept his appointment or not?’

  ‘Dash it all!’ interrupted Tony, ‘I’ve just told you he didn’t!’

  The inspector drew himself up to his full height. ‘If I ’ave any more interruptions from you, sir,’ he said, frowning, ‘I shall ’ave to ask you to leave the room!’

  ‘But —’ Tony was beginning, when a sign from Lowe stopped him, and he subsided.

  Inspector Jesson cleared his throat. ‘Now,’ he said, glancing at his notebook, ‘about this appointment. Mr. Ogden left his office after lunch on Wednesday with the intention of coming ’ere to Monk’s Lodge, and these gentlemen —’ He indicated Jack and Tony with a wave of his fat hand. ‘—say ’e never arrived. Now what proof have we of that?’

 

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