Complete works of peter.., p.436
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 436
Peabody, drawing back from the window, and stepping gingerly across the body once more, stood in the middle of the room and thought.
Obviously he must go and find a policeman somewhere and tell him. He visualised himself telling some country policeman the events of the afternoon, leading up to the grand climax of the double murder. He visualised the arm of the law with an open notebook and an open mouth wondering exactly where he was to start making notes.
Having come to this conclusion Peabody filled his pipe, lit it and, with a last look at the dead man, walked out into the passage and prepared to descend the stairs.
Outside the wind was positively howling, and whenever it stopped for a moment a great gust of rain descended, beating upon the roof of the farm and splattering noisily into the puddles in the courtyard. Almost at the bottom of the stairs he trod on something—something hard which, as he put his weight on it, gave. He stooped and picked it up, looked at it for a moment, and then realised what it was. It was a diamante buckle, and it was the fellow to the one which he had seen upon the black georgette gown, which, unless someone had moved it, was still lying in the rain at the bottom of the steps leading down to the Turkish Café. Peabody wondered how it had come to the farm. It was funny how all these mysterious things seemed to be associated with each other. Peabody found himself wishing that the buckle could talk. He imagined that it might have a rather peculiar story to tell.
Then he slipped it into his pocket, and continued towards the door.
Arrived, he stood in the doorway straining his eyes across the courtyard. He could make out the rickety fence quite plainly, and, on the other side of the road he could see the dim spot of light which was Plus-Four's pipe, glowing in the darkness beneath the clump of trees.
Then, as he was about to step into the courtyard, cross the space between himself and Plus-Fours, and tackle that gentleman, something else happened. A figure came from out of the darkness from the direction of the Turkish Café, and before Peabody could quite see who it was he sensed that it was the woman—the woman in the gold kimono! She came out of the darkness and approached the broken wooden gate which led into the farm courtyard. Peabody found himself remembering something about the way she moved.
He stepped out of the doorway and took a couple of steps towards the gate. She had entered the gate when, looking up, she saw him, and he heard her sob.
Peabody, standing there in the rain, felt quite sick. He took an involuntary step towards her, then stopped, hesitating, not knowing what to do; and, while he stood, she turned and half walked, half ran to the gate, through it and down the road, back towards the Turkish Café.
Peabody turned back to the door of Sepach Farm and sat down on the step, his head between his hands. For the whole of his little world—the little world which he had built up during the last few weary years—had fallen in. He felt rather like a child; he did not know what to think, what to do.
For the woman in the gold kimono was Irma—his wife!
CHAPTER VII
IT was some minutes before Peabody was able to regain control of his feelings. Then he got up and walked slowly towards the gate, passed through it, and stood in the road, uncertain what to do.
His first impulse had been to dash off down the road to overtake Irma, and to ask her for an explanation of this amazing business; but his logical mind, functioning even in this time of distress, told him that she was not likely to tell him the truth. The realisation that his wife was mixed up in this business; that there was some connection between her and the two murders at the farm, stung Peabody. One idea was predominant; he must not go to the police until he had found out what was the connecting link between Irma and the deaths, for although he would not admit this to himself, Peabody was trying to make himself believe that there was still a chance that his wife was innocent of complicity in the crimes. He was trying to give himself time to protect her.
An idea suddenly came to him. There was little likelihood of anyone visiting Sepach Farm before next day. If he could cross country to Salthaven he could catch the nine o'clock express and be in London by 11 that night. He had made up his mind that he would go to O'Farrel, that he would tell him the whole story, disguising one fact only, the fact that the woman in the gold kimono was his, Peabody's, wife. Peabody felt sure that he could rely on O'Farrel's assistance; he felt certain that the romantic mind of Etienne would immediately seize on the tangled skein of the afternoon's happenings, and unravel it. Peabody thought that it would be possible for O'Farrel and himself to return that night to Sepach Farm, hide the bodies temporarily, and then he, Peabody, would go to the Turkish Café, and would elicit something from Irma which would enable him to come to some definite conclusion as to her guilt or otherwise.
Having come to this conclusion, Peabody felt better. Looking down the road towards the sea, he saw a light glimmer above the cliff edge. This light he knew would be in one of the top rooms of the Turkish Café. Irma had got back, but would she stay there, or would she, knowing that he was in the neighbourhood, try to make her escape? Once more he dismissed the idea of going to the Turkish Café, and, turning on his heel, strode up the road, walking quickly.
Half a mile up the road he branched across country, walked over the wet moorland, brushing through the wet gorse-bushes, occasionally tearing his clothes, which were again thoroughly wet. He was beginning to feel a little better. He was, at least, doing something definite. He realised now that some unkind fate had planned a sequence of mysterious events that had drawn him into a net from which he must somehow cut himself clear.
Ten minutes after Peabody had left the farm the man in plus-fours, who had been waiting patiently, nibbling his pipe-stem as usual, on the opposite side of the road, crossed it, walked across the farm courtyard, and entered the farm. He was still whistling "Annie Laurie" under his breath. Once in the farm he ascended the stairs, and, walking into the room on the left of the passage, stood looking at the body of the Russian as it lay on the floor. His face betrayed no sign of emotion whatever.
After a few minutes' scrutiny he crossed the passage and walked into the other room, and looked for some minutes at the body of the man in the fawn raincoat.
After a while he descended the stairs, walked round to the back of the farm and, pushing his way, walked out on to the moorland. He stopped by a clump of trees and whistled. A few minutes later a figure emerged from the bracken near by.
"Good evening," said the man in plus-fours. "Things aren't so good."
The other man, a broad-shouldered individual who looked as though he might have been a sailor, scratched his ear reflectively.
"Anybody hurt?" he asked. "There was a couple of shots somewhere round here about two hours ago. I thought of going into the farm."
"You don't have to think," interrupted the man in plus-fours. "I will do all the thinking that is required, and some thinking has got to be done pretty quickly. At the present moment Sepach Farm, in addition to its other advantages, is acting as a temporary morgue. The thing is how I am to keep the local police from sticking their noses into something that doesn't concern them. There is something else, too. There's a man, a rather nice-looking man, strangely enough, hanging about this place. I met him on the Stranover road this afternoon. He went into the farm; he has just left there, and, if I know anything, is cutting across country to catch the nine o'clock from Salthaven. This fellow perturbs me; I don't know who he is, or what he wants. He's a nuisance."
The man in plus-fours refilled his pipe and lit it. After some moments' reflection he spoke again.
"You had better get back to Stranover, Stevens," he said. "There's nothing else can be done to-night, but before you go, push the motor-bike on to the road. I am going to catch that train from Salthaven, too. You had better stand by at Stranover until I telephone you."
The man went off, and reappeared after a moment, pushing a motor-cycle. Five minutes afterwards the man in plus-fours rode off rapidly through the darkness, along the Salthaven road, and Stevens, shaking himself like a wet dog—for he had spent the whole afternoon on the moor—tramped on on his long walk back to Stranover.
As his figure disappeared along the cliff road, another figure appeared from the direction of Hetton village. It walked quickly to the top of the flight of steps which led to the Turkish Café.
After a moment's hesitation the young man ran down the steps, and knocked on the door of the Turkish Café. The door opened, and, outlined in the doorway, the woman in the gold kimono gazed at the face of the man who stood before her. Then, with a little cry, she collapsed in a dead faint.
The young man who was none other than the second Russian—the man who had informed Peabody that he had heard no shots at the farm—produced a small toothpick from his pocket, and stood picking his teeth, calmly regarding the prone figure on the floor before him. After a moment, he stepped over the woman, dragged her into the café, shut and locked the door and sat down. Presently she stirred; her eyes opened.
The young man smiled sardonically, and lit a cigarette. "Well, Madame Steitlin," he said in Russian, "what have you to say?"
CHAPTER VIII
THE nine o'clock train was just about to pull out of Salthaven station, and Peabody, alone in his carriage, was congratulating himself on the fact that, at least, he would have time and opportunity to think. He was not allowed to think for long, however, for at the last moment the carriage door opened, and the man in plus-fours jumped in. He was still looking quite pleased with himself, and there was still a raindrop perched perilously on the end of his nose.
He puffed vigorously at his pipe, and sat down in the opposite corner of the carriage, regarding with great interest the photographs on the other side of the carriage.
Peabody recovered from his surprise at seeing this mysterious individual, once more made up his mind to come to a complete understanding with him.
"I'd like a few words with you," he said, abruptly. "I don't know who you are or what you are, but it seems to me that you have spent the greater part of this afternoon and evening in following me about. When you first spoke to me this afternoon I thought you were just a chatterbox; afterwards there seemed to be rather more behind what you said than I thought at the time. There has been some pretty weird business going on in the vicinity of Sepach Farm and I believe you've got something to do with it. Incidentally, I may as well tell you that I'm going to make it my business to see that the police are informed of what has happened this afternoon."
The man in plus-fours blew a perfect smoke-ring across the carriage.
"Well, of course, you know best," he said gently, "but, do you know, I've always found that it's an awfully good thing not to interfere in matters which don't concern one. I might as well say that I don't know what you were doing hanging about the Stranover road this afternoon, but I would not think of saying such a thing, for the very simple reason that it isn't my business. Live and let live, is what I say."
"I've no doubt," said Peabody, "that this is a case of live, and let not live. There has been murder done this afternoon; somebody is responsible; for all I know it may be you."
"Exactly," said the man in plus-fours, blandly. "It's pretty obvious that people don't get murdered unless somebody's done it. But, by the way, where has this murder taken place?"
Peabody looked straight into the grey eyes of the man in the plus-fours.
"There has been murder at Sepach Farm," he said, "and you know it."
"I don't," said the man in plus-fours "and if there's been a murder at Sepach Farm what have you done with the body?"
Peabody sat back and gasped.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well," said the man in plus-fours, "when you were in the farm, or, rather, when you were just leaving it, you know, when that weird woman in the gold kimono came up the road, I was trying to light my pipe under the trees on the opposite side of the farm. I could not do it because of the wind, so after you left the farm I went in just to light my pipe, you know, and I looked all over the place, and I could not see anybody. Still, you never know, perhaps somebody moved them."
"I see," said Peabody, "I said that a murder had been committed, and yet you, who have seen no bodies, refer to 'them.' So you did see the two bodies at Sepach Farm? I believe..."
The man in plus-fours leaned over towards Peabody. His jaw had set in quite a determined manner, and his eyes were very hard.
"Now, look here," he said, "let's finish with this nonsense. Whatever you have seen, or whatever you have heard this afternoon and this evening, if you value your own skin, I advise you to keep it to yourself. In other words, mind your own business. What has happened at Sepach Farm has got nothing to do with you. As a matter of fact, I don't know why you've been hanging about the place, neither do I care, but I tell you this, and I mean it. You say you are going to the police—all right! Go to them, tell them your story about Sepach Farm, tell them your story about the shots and bodies! I tell you they won't believe you. They will tell you that you are mad; that you are suffering from hallucinations. Try it, and see. In the meantime, take a tip from me and keep away from Sepach Farm. It never was a very healthy place if the tales they tell in the neighbourhood are true, and it's certainly not likely to be a health resort now."
And, with these remarks, the man in plus-fours got up, put on his cap, knocked out the little chubby pipe, and walked down the corridor of the train towards the dining-car.
Peabody, knowing that there would be no meal served on the train at this hour, wondered, why he had gone, but, presently, glancing down the corridor into the dining-car, he saw the man in plus-fours, sound asleep, a beneficent smile on his countenance, at peace with all the world.
Peabody, in spite, of all his suspicions, had to admit that this weird individual certainly did not look like a murderer.
He leaned back in his seat, trying vainly to make some sense out of the jumble of weird events which had transpired during the day. He was terribly worried, and the thought of Irma, recurring every two or three minutes, almost drove him mad. It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the lights of Victoria Station come into view.
Arrived, he dismissed everything from his mind except the story he was to tell O'Farrel. He would tell him nearly everything: that Irma, when she had left him originally, knew the secret of the ray; but he would not tell O'Farrel that the woman in the gold kimono was Irma. For some reason which he could not explain, he wanted to keep this knowledge to himself. He could bear that O'Farrel should think that Irma had stolen the secret of the ray, but he could not bear that Irma should be suspected of the murders at Sepach Farm, although deep inside, Peabody himself thought that she had played some part in the double crime.
CHAPTER IX
O'FARREL, clad in a brilliant crêpe-de-chine dressing gown, his feet poised on the end of his writing desk, lay back in his chair, and listened with rapt attention to the story which Peabody told.
Then he selected a cigarette from the box on the table, inserted it in a long holder, and smoked for some minutes.
"All very interesting," he said eventually, jumping up from his chair and walking up and down the room, "but may I ask this? Why do you consider that your wife has anything to do with this business? You say that, before she left you, years ago, you had told her the secret of this ray, and the fact that this unfortunate individual signalled to you the formula doesn't necessarily mean that he obtained it from her. It may have been stolen from somewhere else."
Peabody realised instantly that O'Farrel had put his finger on the one weak spot in the story. Had he told O'Farrel that the woman in the gold kimono was his wife, the connection between her and the knowledge of the ray formula on the part of the murdered man at Sepach Farm would have been obvious; but he said nothing.
O'Farrel regarded Peabody intently for a moment; then he continued: "Beyond that, the whole thing is rather interesting. Briefly, I take it your story is this: You are walking along a road and are accosted by a stranger in plus-fours, who asks you a lot of ridiculous questions. Further along the road you meet another stranger, a Russian, with a limp. By some means or other he knows your name. Further on you find a black georgette gown lying in the rain in front of a mysterious café, in which some enterprising lady, dressed in a gold kimono, is having what is usually described as a 'good cry.' A little later—on your way to the farm—you pass a young foreigner, probably a Russian, you think. His clothes are quite dry, which would seem to indicate that he had been standing up at the farm; but he says that he has heard no shots,-although you say he must have heard them. Add to this a couple of corpses on the first floor, and our plump friend in plus-fours hanging round generally, and it would seem that we have the makings of a very fine story."
O'Farrel blew a smoke-ring into the air, and watched it sail across the room.
"There is only one thing that I am certain about," he went on continuing his restless pacing. "I think I can elucidate the mystery of the georgette gown."
