Delphi collected works o.., p.701
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 701
MOTE HALL MURDER MYSTERY.
BODY IDENTIFIED.
The body of the man who was found murdered in the entrance hall at Mote Hall, the deserted Sussex Mansion, was today identified as that of Carl Kleiner. This information serves to deepen the extraordinary mystery which has puzzled Scotland Yard and the Sussex Police for the last fortnight.
Kleiner is a clever American crook, who landed in this country only three days before he was found stabbed to the heart in Mote Hall. His presence in the empty house is unaccountable. He had been staying at Carret’s Hotel, Mayfair, and had told the hall porter that he was going to Sussex for two days and would return to the Hotel.
Robbery was not the motive for the crime, as his watch and a large diamond ring were found on the body. The medical evidence at the inquest stated that the force which drove the dagger to Kleiner’s heart must have been practically superhuman.
Alonzo ordered a fourth pot of tea, and considered the mystery. Carl Kleiner was a clever American crook, who had managed, very successfully, to evade the police for the last five years. What was he doing down at Mote Hall, in Sussex? An expert burglar does not usually amuse himself inspecting deserted country mansions, Alonzo thought, and Kleiner was very expert, besides which he was a man of imagination, and something told Alonzo that there was more in the sudden visit to the empty mansion than was obvious at the moment.
A slim, dark young fellow entered the tea shop, and, catching sight of Alonzo, made his way to the table. “Hullo, Mac,” he said cheerfully. “I got your ‘phone message all right, but I had to jump about a bit to get the job done, but I think I’ve got the dope on Kleiner.”
“Where did you get it, Lon?” asked Alonzo, signalling for another cup.
Lon Ferrers grinned. “Do you remember Lopey Steve, Mac?” he asked. “Well, he wasn’t particularly fond of Kleiner, but he knew more about him than anybody this side of the Atlantic. Here you are...”
He threw a folded paper across the table, and drinking the cup of tea which Alonzo had poured out for him, put on his hat.
“So long, Mac,” he said. “I’d like to know what the game is, but I know it’s no use asking. Till next time. So long!”
Alonzo, left to himself, opened the slip of paper and read: —
“Kleiner came over three days before he was found croaked in Mote Hall. He was believed to have some game on down there. Said he was thinking of buying the place, but that was all eye wash. There must have been something big on, for Kleiner only went out for big stuff. Hertz, a Dago, who used to be Kleiner’s ‘side stepper,’ landed in England the day after Kleiner arrived. He had it in for Kleiner, who, he said, had twisted him on their last deal. Hertz may have done Kleiner in. He will stick at nothing. Photo herewith.”
Alonzo examined the photograph of Hertz carefully. He came to the conclusion that he had never seen such a villainous-looking face in the course of his adventurous career.
After some further consideration, Alonzo came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to go down to Mote Hall and investigate. He was certain that there was something tangible in Mote Hall, and that Kleiner had been after it.
An A.B.C. borrowed from an adjacent chemist’s shop told him that there was a train for East Shallock — a station about five miles from Mote Hall — at four-thirty. He took a cab to his flat at Earl’s Court, and packing a suitcase, into which he slipped his automatic pistol, he caught the train and was soon en route for Mote Hall.
East Shallock was a small country station that boasted of no cabs or other means of conveyance. Alonzo learned that there was an inn two miles further along the road where he could find accommodation. Gripping his suit case he swung cheerfully along the road, his brain busily endeavouring to evolve some scheme of action.
Presently the inn came in sight. It was a prepossessing-looking, old-fashioned place, where Alonzo obtained a hearty greeting from the landlord, who, he was glad to find, was inclined to be talkative.
“Terrible thing, this ’ere murder, sir,” he volunteered presently, as Alonzo was eating his dinner in the tiny dining room. “We ain’t ‘ad a murder in these parts for nigh on 30 year. A strange business for a man to be found stabbed in a ‘ouse that ‘asn’t been lived in for two ‘undred years. But Mote ‘All’s a strange place — I wouldn’t like to spend a night there, and many’s the strange tales they do tell about the old house.”
“Haunted?” queried Alonzo, with a smile.
“They do say so, sir,” replied the landlord. “You see, the ‘all used to be a monastery in the olden times, and the monks as were in it never came out of the place. When they died they were just buried by the others. Well, the story goes that at last there was only three of ’em left, an’ these three used to take turn and turn about to guard the treasure that was supposed to be in the vaults underneath. Some rapscallion in the neighbourhood, thinking to get the treasure, climbed the monastery wall one night. He was never ‘eard of again, but years after they found what was left of ’im in the ‘all, just the same as this ’ere Mr. Kleiner. There’s old folk about ’ere who swear they’ve seen the ghosts of the Three Grey Men of Mote Hall — as they are called — walkin’ about the grounds at night with daggers in their ‘ands, and tho’ it may sound silly like, I’ve often thought I’ve seen a light in the windows late at night myself.”
Alonzo, his dinner finished, lit a pipe. It was strange, he thought, that Kleiner should have met his death in the manner of the old legend, for although Alonzo did not believe in ghosts, he had encountered strange coincidences in his time. After a few minutes he strolled into the passage between the dining-room and the private bar. He looked through the bar door, then drew back quickly out of sight, for, sitting against the bar, drinking a whisky and soda, was the man whose photograph was in Alonzo’s pocket — Hertz!
Alonzo, back in the dining-room, considered the situation. What was Hertz doing at Mote Hall? Was it merely curiosity to see the scene of his late partner’s death, which had brought him here, or was there some other and more sinister motive?
A glance at the inn’s register showed him that Hertz had registered as a “Tourist.” with an address in Paris. Alonzo smiled gently to himself, and, knocking out his pipe, went up to bed.
IT was 3 o’clock the next morning. The moon had sunk behind the clouds, and the night was dark as Alonzo ascended the bracken-covered path which led to Mote Hall. The outline of the old mansion, ghostly in the dim light, brought to Alonzo’s mind the landlord’s story of “The Three Grey Men.” A convenient tree helped him to scale the wall, and ten minutes afterwards he forced the dusty shutters which covered a ground floor window and made his way into the house.
Walking on tiptoe he quickly found the entrance hall and examined the spot where the body of Kleiner had been found. The ominous red stain was still on the wooden floor, and, as Alonzo’s electric flash lamp travelled over the walls of the old place, he wondered whether the story of the treasure was true, and whether Kleiner had thought the tale worth investigating. After a few minutes’ search he left the hall and, mounting the wide staircase, examined the rooms on the first floor. Empty and thick with dust, they told him nothing, and, after some fifteen minutes’ fruitless search he returned to the entrance hall.
He flashed his lamp round the place once more, and as the white beam of light fell on the back of the ancient fireplace he stifled an exclamation. Almost hidden behind a projecting stone was a piece of white paper. He picked it up, and a soft whistle of astonishment escaped him. The handwriting was the same as that in the inn register. The note in his hand had been written by Hertz. He opened the folded paper and read:
Dear K.,
The stuff is in the third vault next to the old torture chamber. Wall facing the door. Fourth stone from the ground upwards, sixth stone from the wall sideways. Press. When wall opens out, you will find oak cupboard inside. Press middle rose in bunch of flowers carved on right panel, and the cupboard opens. Meet you as arranged. Good luck.
H.
So Hertz had been in the game with Kleiner! And, the stuff was downstairs in the vaults! Alonzo sat for a moment, his torch switched off, staring straight at the darkness in front of him. Then a smile curved his lips, and he nodded his head, in silent amusement.
After a minute he rose and, walking as quietly as a cat, made his way by the winding stone staircase down to the vaults. The light of his torch enabled him to find the middle vault — the one next to the small square room which had been used, as a torture chamber in the olden times. He walked to the opposite wall and, carrying out the instructions in the note, threw his weight against the brick indicated. A moment passed then, with a creaking noise, a square of the stone wall moved outwards, disclosing, as the note had said, the door of an ancient oak-carved cupboard.
Alonzo stepped back, every nerve strained to catch the slightest sound. Suddenly he switched off his torch, and, moving quickly and silently to the stone staircase which led upstairs, he ascended half a dozen steps. Above him he heard a slight shuffle. Descending quickly, he switched on his torch again, and making his way to the treasure cupboard, he found the middle rose in the bunch of flowers carved on the right panel. He put his thumb on the rose and pressed, and, as the cupboard doors slowly commenced to open, he sprang backwards.
A second later an iron bar, worked by some hidden mechanism, came downwards and outwards from the cupboard. Affixed to the top of the bar was a gleaming knife. The bar struck suddenly at the place where Alonzo had been standing, then disappeared back into the cupboard. Alonzo switched off his torch and dropped it with a crash; then, giving a deep groan, he moved into the shadows. As he did so the light of an electric torch appeared on the stairs and, a moment later, his face working with excitement, the figure of Hertz appeared at the bottom of the stairway.
Alonzo stepped forward into the circle of light.
“Good evening, Mr. Hertz!” he said, smiling into the astounded countenance of the other. “How disappointed you must be at the failure of your little scheme. Your annoyance at not seeing me lying dead on the floor must be acute, I am sure!”
“What the hell do you mean?” gasped Hertz, his face white with fear and anger.
“I’ll tell you, my friend, exactly what I mean.” replied Alonzo. “You knew of the existence of this treasure and you wanted to get it; at the same time you were aware that the doors were guarded by this device of the olden time monks, and that if any one attempted to open the door without knowing the actual secret they would be stabbed by the mechanical knife. I’ve seen another, exactly like it, in Strasbourg. But you had to get the doors open somehow, and so the idea came to you, that you might kill two birds with one stone. You put Kleiner on to the job, and when he was stabbed you came down to Mote Hall and moved the body upstairs carrying away just as much of the treasure as you could.
“You saw me enter the Hall tonight, and you wrote out that note, which I found in the fireplace, whilst I was on the first floor. You knew that I would descend to the vaults and carry out the instructions in the note, and you hoped to get me out of the way and the treasure chest open a second time. Luckily for me I realised that the note which I found had been written only a few minutes before. I have good eyesight, and I realised that that note was not three weeks old. Hard luck, Mr. Hertz!”
“Who are you, any way?” asked Hertz angrily.
“My name is Alonzo MacTavish,” replied Alonzo quietly.
Hertz gave an exclamation of surprise. “MacTavish,” he ejaculated, “Why Kleiner often told me about you — the cleverest crook in the world, he called you. Now, look here, MacTavish, you’ve got me beat. I guess you’re right about Kleiner. I had to get him out of the way, but he’d have done the same to me. Help me get this stuff away, and we’ll go halves. There’s a king’s fortune in that cupboard. Well, what do you say?”
“I don’t do business with murderers, Hertz,” replied Alonzo, quietly.
“Say, don’t be a fool,” Hertz pleaded. “Do you know what that stuff is in the cupboard? Well, I’ll tell you. Don’t you believe any old stories about monks’ treasure — the stuff in that chest is the jewels brought from the Russian Churches during the revolution. There’s diamond crosses and things worth thousands. I guess some refugee royalists put it here for safety, so that the Bolsheviks shouldn’t claim ’em, thinking that nobody would ever find ’em out. I found out anyway, and I’m going to have my whack at ’em.”
“Oh, no, you’re not, Mr. Hertz,” said Alonzo. “I’ve done some funny things in my time, but I don’t work with murderers, and I don’t rob churches. This stuff is going to stay exactly where if is for the moment.”
Alonzo took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Then he looked up — straight into the barrel of the heavy automatic which shone in Hertz’s hand.
“Oh, you think so, my chivalrous friend, do you?” answered Hertz. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. You know too much, and I’m going to see that you don’t talk. I’m going to shoot you, my friend, and your body is going into that cupboard when I’ve cleared it of some of the stuff that’s in it. Dead men tell no tales, and—”
Something whizzed past Alonzo’s head, and Hertz, dropping the revolver, staggered back, his eyes wide with fear. A long knife, unerringly thrown, had transfixed his right arm. Alonzo spun round then stepped back with an involuntary gasp of astonishment. Half of the wall which separated the vault from the torture chamber had swung back, and in the opening stood the Three Grey Men of Mote Hall!
The dim light from the chamber beyond showed faintly on the long grey monks’ gowns and the hoods which concealed the faces of the wearers. The tallest of the three stepped forward and spoke to Hertz.
“Do not be alarmed, my burglaring friend,” he said, speaking with a slight accent. “We are not ghosts, but very much flesh and blood.”
He bowed to Alonzo.
“Sir,” he said, “may I introduce myself — Colonel Count Stefan Ketivra, late of the Russian Imperial Life Guard.” The next grey-gowned figure stepped forward— “Lieutenant Kapek Packski, of the Sharpshooters, and” — as the third figure advanced— “Lieutenant Karolis Ivanoff, of the same regiment.”
Alonzo returned his bow.
“I am Alonzo MacTavish,” he said— “gentleman adventurer, knight of the road, or, if you will, plain crook!”
Ketivra held up his hand.
“Sir,” he said, “crook or not, you would have protected the holy treasure which we guard, and for that we salute you. For years we have guarded this, the remnants of our churches’ treasure and, but for the conversation which we overheard, this murderer would have succeeded in his foul plot. We shall deal with him in good time. As for you, you must leave Mote Hall at once, and never set foot in it again. This you must swear upon your honour, also that you will never mention what you have seen this night.”
“I give you my word,” said Alonzo.
“Good,” replied the Count. “We have found the ancient legend of The Three Grey Men most useful for our secrecy, and it must be guarded. And now, Good-bye. Kapek will see you safely away.”
Alonzo bowed and followed the silent lieutenant of Sharpshooters.
AS the village clock struck five and the dawn broke, Alonzo, whistling quietly to himself, walked along the country road towards the inn. The mystery of Kleiner’s death was solved, and Alonzo’s curiosity was satisfied. He stood on the crest of the hill and looked back at Mote Hall. Suddenly, on the quiet morning air, a shot rang out: then all was silence. Alonzo raised his cap.
“Good-bye, Mr. Hertz.” he said, and, singing, strode off to the inn.
THE UNHAPPY LADY
THE BEAUTY OF the moonlight was entirely lost upon Mr. MacTavish as, with his hands stuck in his trouser pockets and his silk hat at its accustomed angle, he wandered slowly down Park Lane in the direction of Piccadilly and ruminated upon the hardships of life. Things had not gone well of late. An attempt to remove a diamond necklace from the strongroom of an American millionaire had resulted in complete success — with the exception that the diamonds, on examination, proved to be excellent imitations of the original necklace, which, he discovered later, was safe on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Added to which, the knowledge that the information contained in the secret diplomatic papers which he had, so assiduously, stolen from the Moravian Legation, was already in the possession of the Ambassador to whom he proposed selling it, did not help matters a bit.
Money is always necessary to a swell cracksman and, at the moment, it was only distinguished by its absence.
He stopped half way down Park Lane and, looking over the quiet park which lay before him, considered the matter. What was to be done? The question was never answered, for at that moment there sounded on his ears the unmistakable sound of a woman crying quietly.
He looked up and down Park Lane, and was, apparently, the sole occupant of the street, except for the motionless figure of a policeman near the Marble Arch end. A further search, however, revealed the fact that there was, a few paces to his left, a narrow mews, the entrance of which was obscured in the shadow, and it seemed that the sound had come from this direction.
Alonzo walked quietly to the end of the narrow passage and looked round the corner. The possessor of an extremely soft heart, where the feminine sex was concerned, he could not fail to sympathise with the sight which met his gaze, for sitting on the stone steps which led to the entrance of one of the small houses attached to the mews, was a lady.
Her evening cloak was wrapped close about her and a stray gleam of moonlight from the opposite end of the mews glinted on a mass of high-piled auburn hair — a wondrous sight in these days of bob and shingle — whilst the small handkerchief with which she was endeavouring to stifle her sobs obscured only a small portion of a face which was unmistakably beautiful.
