Missing or Murdered (9 page)

“Not well enough to have discovered the lady, Heather, or even her name. It would seem that the correct thing to do now is to discover the lady. Then we could get a move on.”

“I wonder why Walter never mentioned the lady's visit to me.”

“I've told you, Heather: he doesn't want to start an inquiry which would involve his master in any scandal.”

“Just so—that fits in with your idea of a conspiracy. Not an impossible contingency either, Mr. Vereker, not at all impossible!”

Vereker laughed heartily. “I could concoct you a thousand similar possibilities, inspector, but the night's getting old.”

“The night's always young when the port's old,” remarked Heather, glancing at the bottle appreciatively.

“Brilliant, Heather, brilliant! You couldn't have said that on a poor vintage. By the way, before we turn in there's one little thing I should like you to see.”

“What's that?” asked the inspector.

“Oh, something up in the study, come along now.”

Inspector Heather rose and followed Vereker up to the study. Having switched on the light, the latter carefully closed the door and led his companion over to the writing-table on which still lay Lord Bygrave's bundles of papers and letters.

“What do you make of it, Heather?” he asked. “You've had a run through the correspondence. Have you discovered anything?”

“No; there was nothing of importance in the correspondence at all. So I thought it a good plan to ask Farnish to tie up all the bundles for me. You see the point now?”

“Excellent, Mr. Vereker, excellent!” exclaimed the inspector. “He has tied up every bundle with a granny-knot.”

“It could be argued that Lord Bygrave might have done so in a hurry,” remarked Vereker, “but it's almost impossible with such a confirmed tier of reef-knots. The tying of knots is like the tying of a bow tie. Once you have acquired the skill to do it unconsciously, you never deviate even in a hurry from that method. The one occasion on which you might deviate is the one on which you have suddenly become conscious of the actual process or method of tying.”

“There's a lot of truth in that,” remarked the inspector in a pensive way.

At this moment the telephone bell in the study rang a shrill appeal. Inspector Heather went over to the instrument and put the phone to his ear.

“Yes—yes—all right. I'll tell Farnish. Who am I? A visitor, good-bye.”

“Of course,” continued Vereker, “this little experiment about knots only tends to prove that Lord Bygrave did not tamper with that one bundle of correspondence. I should say about seventy-five per cent of ordinary people invariably tie with a granny-knot. By the way, who the dickens has rung us up at this time of night?”

“Mr. Sidney Smale, Lord Bygrave's secretary. He's staying in town overnight—will be here for breakfast to-morrow morning.”

“The Lord has delivered the Philistine into your hands, Heather. I hope you'll put him through it in your most inspectorial manner. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector. “As soon as I have written up some of my notes I shall turn in too.”

When Inspector Heather and Vereker came down almost simultaneously to breakfast next morning they found Mr. Sidney Smale, Lord Bygrave's secretary, helping himself to a liberal portion of Cambridge eggs from the hot-plate on the buffet. He at once placed his plate on the breakfast table and shook hands with Vereker, whom he had met before.

“It's a perfect morning,” he remarked. “I walked over from the station; the nip in the air has given me an enormous appetite.”

“Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard,” said Vereker.

“Good morning, inspector—an unexpected meeting I can assure you. I've a crow to pick with you for cutting short my holiday in Paris.”

“I'm sorry,” replied the inspector quietly, “the situation here demanded your immediate presence,” and began to help himself to food.

Little was said during the meal. Mr. Sidney Smale ate avidly, his whole attention centred on appeasing his excellent appetite. His round head covered with fair curls was bent over his plate; his blue eyes, distorted by the lenses in large tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, might have been looking anywhere so indeterminate seemed the direction of his glance. His little mouth, though bent in a perfect Cupid's bow, seemed excellently adapted for eating rapidly. Heather, every now and then scrutinizing him furtively, noticed that neither lip nor chin could boast any virile adornment in the shape of hair. He also noticed that Mr. Sidney Smale's hands were diminutive and as chubby as an infant's.

Vereker, who was secretly observing Heather, smiled quietly to himself. He could see that the inspector had taken an immediate dislike to Lord Bygrave's secretary. It was the same feeling of repulsion that he himself had experienced on his first encounter with the man and which had prompted him, in a vein of malicious humour, to misname him Mr. Snail.

Inspector Heather, always economical in the matter of time, had tried at once to broach the subject of Lord Bygrave's disappearance, but Mr. Smale had replied firmly:

“No, inspector, I won't be drawn just now. After breakfast, if you please. It's a principle of mine—think of nothing unpleasant during a meal. Think of nothing, in fact, but your food. Concentrate on it as you would on a work of art. It's the secret to a perfect digestion. Thank the Lord I've got one!”

He rose from his chair, walked over to the buffet, and raised the lids of several dishes.

“Aha, devilled kidneys! I'm passionately fond of them! What a joy an English breakfast is! Thanks, inspector, for recalling me from Paris.”

When Mr. Smale had finished eating he lit a pendulous pipe which seemed to add more curves to the almost ludicrous rotundity of his countenance and, clasping his small hands together with an air of complete satisfaction, announced that he was at the service of Scotland Yard.

“You know what has happened during your absence, Mr. Smale?” asked the inspector tentatively,

“Farnish has given me a brief account. Imprimis, let me say, I don't take Lord Bygrave's absence from home very seriously.”

“Nobody would, if it were known where he is and what he is doing. You are aware that he was expected back some time ago?”

“I suppose his lordship can take an extension of leave without saying ‘please, sir' to his subordinates in a Government office.”

“That's not quite the way to put it, Mr. Smale,” continued the inspector calmly. “No public servant behaves in the manner you are pleased to suggest. You have probably never been a public servant.”

“No, inspector, I have not; I'm sorry if my way of putting it has offended your dignity as a public servant.”

“No offence, Mr. Smale, to me. To return to the point, what makes you consider Lord Bygrave's disappearance lightly?”

“Well, you see, I haven't considered it much at all as yet. I haven't shaken off the frivolous atmosphere of my holiday. But, to be serious, Lord Bygrave, as you know, is a very keen naturalist. On this subject I think he is eccentric. I feel sure, if he started chasing a rare butterfly or insect, a Royal command wouldn't bring him to a standstill until he'd captured or lost sight of the prize. Then he'd return and make so nicely worded an apology that he'd turn away all Royal wrath.”

“You think Lord Bygrave is eccentric?”

“Is butterfly-chasing a normal pursuit for a man in this year of our Lord?”

“That's his hobby, Mr. Smale.”

“It's an extraordinary hobby for a man, inspector. We all chased them when we were boys, but only eccentric men carry their childish hobbies into manhood's estate. I should be very much surprised, for instance, to see you still sucking your thumb.”

“I often wish I had a kite,” remarked Vereker, glancing out of the window at the breezy sky.

“Is there any other respect in which you think Lord Bygrave eccentric?” continued the detective gravely.

“In several ways: he dislikes strawberries; is extremely uncomfortable in the presence of women, even if he doesn't cordially dislike them; is afraid of spiders, and would rather shoot his grandmother than shoot a rabbit.”

“Had he many lady visitors?”

“Very few—practically only his relatives.”

“Do you remember the visit of a heavily-veiled lady some six months ago, over which Lord Bygrave seemed unduly agitated?”

For some moments Mr. Smale was silent, as if in an effort to recollect.

“I can't say I do. What was her name?”

“We are trying to discover that.”

“You are certain that such a lady called?”

“Yes.”

“I was unaware of the incident.”

“Now, Mr. Smale, may I ask you what is your position here as an employee of Lord Bygrave?” asked the inspector, suddenly changing the subject.

“I'm supposed—supposed, mind you—to be his private secretary. Lord Bygrave's life seems to leave little about which to be confidential with anyone. Any matter of importance he deals with himself. I merely answer his everyday business correspondence, attend to his gifts to charities, etc. I deal directly with his bailiff or estate agent, because he himself dislikes being bothered about the details of estate management.”

“Have you much to do with the financial side of Lord Bygrave's affairs?”

“Only occasionally.”

“Do you remember a transaction which occurred six months ago, concerning about £10,000 worth of securities?”

Mr. Sidney Smale puckered his brow; a strange, uneasy look flickered in his pale blue eyes for a moment and then swiftly vanished.

“I can't say I do,” he replied slowly, “my memory is not one of the best. Perhaps Lord Bygrave carried out the transaction himself.”

“He sold £10,000 worth of registered stock and purchased bearer bonds. You have no idea what happened to those bonds, by any chance, Mr. Smale?”

“I'm afraid I'm unable to enlighten you on the subject, inspector.”

“I've only a few more questions to put to you, Mr. Smale. Can you remember the date of your departure for Paris?”

“Let me see—yes—Lord Bygrave left on Friday, the 1st, and I went off on Monday morning.”

“Can you tell me what your movements were on Saturday?”

“I went up to town. I had some purchases to make before leaving for Paris. I met some friends and we had a jolly dinner together—bachelor affair you know—a boisterous evening it was!”

“Where did you stay that night?”

“Oh, I say, inspector, does it really matter?”

“It is most important. On that Saturday Lord Bygrave went missing.”

“I hope you don't think I'm implicated.”

“I'm afraid I must ask for an answer to my question, Mr. Smale.”

“I stayed in a little hotel in Soho. I'm blessed if I remember its name now. You see we had had a jolly evening; my recollections are hazy. I sometimes relax, you know, inspector. Life is confoundedly dull down here and as old Horace says:

“‘Siccis omnia nam dura deus proposuit, neque mordaces aliter diffugiunt solicitudines.' Please translate, Vereker, for the inspector's benefit.”

“Sorry, I'm afraid I haven't got a crib handy,” replied Vereker tactfully.

“You stayed in a Soho hotel?” questioned the inspector again, his features showing the faintest trace of anger.

“To the best of my information and belief,” replied Mr. Smale airily.

“You signed the usual hotel form?”

“If they insisted on it I probably did. In fact, I have a hazy recollection that I signed my name somewhere; I only hope it wasn't to a promissory note.”

“Good, that is something. You returned to Bygrave Hall on Sunday?”

“Certainly.”

“Can you remember what you did on Sunday, Mr. Smale?”

“Very clearly. I tried to cure a headache, counted what I had spent the night before and found that I had three shillings in coppers and a few sixpences out of a tenner; packed my trunks and went to bed a wiser man.”

“You arrived in Paris on Monday?”

“I did, and put up at the Hôtel des Anglais.”

“What salary does Lord Bygrave pay you as his private secretary?”

“Three hundred pounds per annum and my keep. I also take a fair toll of his tobacco and matches. Not so bad, taking it all round.”

“You are a member of a night club?”

“I used to be when I lived in town. Can I give you the name of all the ladies I've danced with there?” said Mr. Smale, his face showing its first traces of annoyance during the examination.

“I dare say I know some of them already,” replied the inspector bluntly, while Vereker's face broke into an almost imperceptible smile. “Your turf accountant's name is—?” asked the inspector listlessly, as if tired of the bombardment.

“Oh, you know all about him!” snorted Mr. Smale angrily.

“Wasn't there some trouble between you and him?”

“There was; he was a blackmailing scoundrel, and you know it, inspector!”

“I've heard from others, though their opinion may not be worth much, that he is a very trustworthy man,” replied the inspector quietly.

“Look here, inspector, I'm not going to be insulted any longer. By what authority are you questioning me like this? Are my private concerns anything to do with you? Damned insolence—that's what I call it!” Mr. Sidney Smale rose quickly from his chair. “If you want any further information from me, inspector, bearing on Lord Bygrave's disappearance, you will kindly put your questions through Farnish. I refuse to see you personally again.” With a violent slam of the door, Mr. Smale had vanished.