Terror Tower Page 16

  Just as they were leaving the constable came down the steps and thrust three blue papers into Lowe’s hand.

  ‘The subpoenas for the inquest, sir,’ he explained. ‘Will you give the other two to Mr. Winslow and Mr. McWraith?’

  Lowe promised, and they drove away.

  He let the big Rolls out when they had negotiated the narrow streets of Hythe and, as Jim had predicted, caught up the other car four miles outside Stonehurst.

  He passed it with a warning note from the klaxon, and then slowed so as to keep a uniform distance between them.

  Turning it at the drive gate, he decreased the speed still more, and as he did so he heard above the almost imperceptible purr of the engine the sound of running, stumbling feet.

  They came from the direction of the house and seemed to be going away from him.

  He opened his lips to remark on this to Shadgold and Murley, but before he could frame the words there came from out of the darkness ahead a shrill scream.

  ‘My God! What was that?’ exclaimed Shadgold leaning forward. ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘I heard it,’ snapped Lowe, and pressing his foot on the accelerator, sent the great car bounding forward.

  He swung round the bend in the drive, brushing the shrubbery at the side, and then, as the glare of the headlights fell full on the door of the house, he uttered an exclamation.

  ‘Look there!’ he shouted, but Shadgold and Murley had already seen.

  In the white light of the car’s lamps two men were struggling frantically, while a third was running towards them.

  Again came that hoarse scream of fear and terror, but this time it ceased abruptly and ended in a choking, throaty little gulp.

  One of the desperately fighting men crumpled up and fell limply across the bottom step of the flight that led up to the porch.

  Lowe brought the car to a jarring halt, and as he sprang out the two other men wheeled and dashed away into the darkness beyond the range of the light.

  ‘Go after those two, Shadgold!’ cried the dramatist over his shoulder as he ran towards the figure on the step. ‘I think there’s been murder done.’

  The Scotland Yard man went racing away in pursuit and, reaching the steps, Lowe bent over the sprawling man.

  He was lying face downwards as he had fallen, and already the white stone was red with the blood that welled from under his body.

  Gently Lowe turned him over and saw the knife that was buried to the hilt in his throat.

  A glance showed him that the man was dead, and also that he was the Frenchman, Mr. Lucia, the tenant of the Martins’ cottage!

  Chapter Twenty-One – At the Martins’ Cottage

  He was still stooping over the body when Jim and McWraith joined him.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Jim breathlessly, staring down at the motionless form, and Lowe nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘One of you had better phone Hythe and tell Hartley.’

  ‘I will,’ said Jim, and running up the steps he fumbled for his key.

  He found it and opened the front door.

  ‘What in the world were those men doing here?’ asked McWraith, his usually healthy face an unpleasant grey. ‘There were three of them, weren’t there?’

  Again Lowe nodded.

  ‘Shadgold and Murley have gone after the other two,’ he said. ‘They ran away towards the back of the house. I —’

  He broke off as there came the sound of two shots some distance away, fired in rapid succession.

  ‘Good God!’ muttered McWraith. ‘They ought to advertise this place as ‘Stonehurst for excitement!’’

  ‘It’s too exciting,’ said Lowe. ‘I hope those shots came from Shadgold and Murley and not from the other men, or we may have some more excitement.’

  He knelt down and began to search the pockets of the dead man, laying the contents neatly on the step.

  There were not many. A wallet containing a few notes; a letter; a few shillings and some coppers in change; a watch and chain, and a bunch of keys were all he found.

  He stared at the meagre collection with knitted brow. Why had this man been killed on the threshold of Greytower? Had he been on his way to the house when he had been set upon?

  Remembering those running, stumbling steps, it certainly looked like it.

  Lowe tried to reconstruct in his imagination what had happened.

  Lucia must have been walking up the drive, when he became aware that he was being followed, and ran for sanctuary where there was none to offer him.

  He probably had not known that the house was empty. But why had he come at all? Had he, too, been in possession of some knowledge regarding Stonehurst’s secret that he was anxious to impart?

  While Lowe was still thinking Jim came out of the door.

  ‘Hartley’s coming over at once,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He was terribly shocked at the news.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ muttered Lowe; ‘this village of yours seems full of battle, murder and sudden death.’

  Jim came down the steps and stood beside him.

  ‘Do you think he was coming here to see us?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks like it,’ replied Lowe.

  He rose to his feet and mechanically brushed the knees of his trousers.

  ‘We’d better leave him here until Hartley and the doctor have seen him.’

  He picked up the wallet and went carefully through it in the hope of finding something that he’d overlooked in his previous hasty search.

  But there was nothing. The letter was no help at all. It was merely a bill from the local newsagent.

  He was returning it to its envelope when Shadgold arrived panting and exhausted.

  ‘They got away,’ he said jerkily. ‘We lost them in a wood over there behind the house.’

  ‘Who fired the shots?’ asked Lowe.

  ‘They did,’ said the burly inspector; ‘and they hit Murley too.’

  ‘It’s nothing much,’ said Murley, coming up a little shakily. ‘A bullet slashed my wrist.’

  He held out a hand dripping with blood.

  ‘You’d better let me tie that up,’ said McWraith. ‘I’m very good at first-aid.’

  He took Murley by the arm and led him into the house and Shadgold turned to Lowe.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked, pointing to the dead man.

  ‘A Frenchman called Lucia,’ answered the dramatist. ‘I’ve told you about him.’

  ‘I remember.’ The Scotland Yard man nodded and rubbed his head. ‘I wonder what he was doing here and why they killed him?’

  Lowe explained the conclusion he had come to, and Shadgold agreed with him.

  ‘I expect you’re right, Mr. Lowe,’ he said. ‘Poor devil! There’s something horrible in the thought of his running for help to an empty house. Did you find anything in his pockets that is likely to help?’

  The dramatist shook his head.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘That’s all there was; you can see for yourself.’

  Shadgold looked hastily over the small heap.

  ‘Nothing here,’ he grunted. ‘Maybe we shall find something among his things at the cottage.’

  ‘I hope we may,’ said Lowe. ‘We’ll go along there as soon as Hartley arrives.’

  The superintendent arrived in an ambulance a quarter of an hour later, a perplexed and worried man, bringing with him Dr. Peters.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the police doctor, his scraggy neck longer than ever. ‘Another, eh? This is getting monotonous, you know! And I used to say that Stonehurst was a dead and alive hole. If this sort of thing goes on much longer it’ll be completely dead!’

  ‘How did it happen, sir?’ asked Hartley, and Lowe told him.

  ‘You weren’t able to recognise either of the men?’ said the superintendent gloomily.

  ‘No,’ said Lowe. ‘All I can tell you about them is they were of medium height and wore overcoats and caps.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t require a great deal of med
ical knowledge to see how he died,’ broke in Dr. Peters, looking up from his position beside the body. ‘The knife severed the jugular and windpipe. It must have been driven with considerable force, and, of course, death would have been almost instantaneous.’

  He straightened up and, feeling in his pocket, produced a cigarette-case.

  ‘You can take him away now, if you want to.’

  ‘I’ll have the knife first,’ said Hartley. ‘There may be prints on that hilt.’

  He took out his handkerchief, wrapped it round the handle, and withdrew the weapon from the wound.

  ‘Did you notice whether the man who killed him was wearing gloves?’ He addressed the question to both Lowe and Shadgold, but it was the dramatist who answered.

  ‘I couldn’t be sure, but I don’t think he was,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ confessed Shadgold. ‘The whole thing happened so quickly.’

  ‘I’ll have it dusted anyhow,’ grunted Hartley.

  He put the knife, still wrapped in the handkerchief, carefully away in his pocket and called to the constable who was standing near.

  As the man came over Lowe whispered something in the superintendent’s ear.

  ‘All right, sir,’ Hartley nodded. ‘I’ll finish here, and then I’ll join you.’

  ‘Come on, Shadgold,’ said Lowe; ‘we’ll go down to the cottage where this fellow was staying and see if we can find anything there.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ said Jim, who had been near enough to hear what was said. ‘I know where the place is.’

  ‘Fine!’ agreed Lowe, and followed him past his own car to where Jim had left the other.

  They had to back past the ambulance and down the drive, for there was no room for them to turn, but Jim managed it without mishap, and once they reached the road, it only took a few minutes to the Martins’ cottage.

  It was a pretty little place, with a thatched roof, standing in a narrow lane that opened on to The Green.

  They left the car at the end of the lane and reaching the cottage, found that it was in complete darkness.

  As they walked up the stone paved path Lowe took from his pocket the bunch of keys belonging to the dead man, which he had brought with him.

  ‘I don’t know which of these —’ he was beginning, and then as they reached the porch he saw that the door was half-open.

  Unless Lucia had left it like that, which was unlikely, somebody had been there before them — might even be there still — and, with a whispered warning to Shadgold and Jim, Lowe craned forward and listened.

  There was no sound from the darkness within, but that was no proof that the place was empty. They had made no secret of their approach, and if there was somebody lurking inside they would have been heard.

  Lowe pushed the door farther open and cautiously stepped across the threshold.

  Again he listened, but still there was no sound. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he took out his torch and flashed the light into the hall.

  It was empty.

  Turning the ray on to the lock of the door, he saw that the wood round it was splintered and the catch into which the bolt shot wrenched from its fastening.

  ‘Somebody has broken in here recently,’ he whispered. ‘But I think they must have gone. Shall we risk it?’

  Shadgold nodded.

  ‘Come on then,’ said the dramatist, and stepped into the hall.

  Crack!

  A bullet whistled past his head and splintered the edge of the door. He hastily switched out his light.

  Crack! Crack!

  Two more shots followed so closely that the reports sounded almost like one.

  He saw the spears of orange flame from the stairway and pulled Shadgold and Jim down with him as he dropped flat.

  A fusillade of bullets whined angrily over their heads, and then came a rush of feet as somebody charged towards them.

  Lowe caught sight of a man’s figure and, shooting out his hand, gripped an ankle. There was a smothered oath and the thud of a falling body.

  ‘Hang on to him!’ exclaimed the dramatist, and switched on his torch again.

  But the man was already up and running down the path.

  Jim, who had managed to regain his feet, gave chase and overtook the fugitive at the gate, but with a snarl of rage the man turned and caught him a stinging blow on the point of the chin.

  An inch to the right and it would have been a knock-out. As it was it sent Jim staggering backwards into a clump of laurel.

  ‘That,’ said Trevor Lowe, as he scrambled to his feet, ‘was a near thing!’

  He took off his hat and pointed silently to two neat holes that had been drilled through the crown!

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Mr. Lucia — from Paris

  ‘He must have come straight on here after Lucia was killed,’ said Lowe, putting his hat back on his head, ‘and our arrival disturbed him.’

  He walked into the hall, flashing his light around. The place was very plainly furnished, in rather an old-fashioned way, and on the carpet by the narrow staircase he found the marks of muddy feet.

  ‘When he heard us coming he hid by the curve of the staircase, hoping to take us by surprise.’

  ‘Which he succeeded in doing,’ grunted Shadgold.

  ‘He had a punch like the kick of an ox,’ said Jim, tenderly caressing his bruised jaw. ‘I wish I’d been able to hold him.’

  ‘I wish you had,’ said Lowe. ‘I’d have liked to have had a few words with him. Now we’re here we may as well have a look round, though I’m afraid we’re too late to find anything.’

  He opened a door to the left of the hall, and found himself in a small sitting-room.

  It was fairly comfortably furnished, and on the centre table was an oil-lamp. He lit this and glanced quickly about.

  ‘You see,’ he muttered, and Shadgold nodded.

  The room had been thoroughly ransacked.

  There was a small bookcase containing for the most part old and out-of-date novels, pamphlets and old magazines, and some of these had been pulled out and thrown on to the floor.

  An old-fashioned bureau standing against one wall had been broken open and most of its contents scattered in all directions.

  A cupboard by the side of the fireplace was open, the broken door hanging half off its hinges.

  ‘I wonder what he was looking for,’ said Shadgold, gazing round at the wreckage.

  ‘What we came to look for,’ replied Lowe. ‘Anything the dead man may have left behind that would give these people away.’

  ‘Do you think Lucia was a member of the gang?’ asked the Scotland Yard man.

  ‘I should say it was probable,’ answered the dramatist, biting his lip.

  ‘And he tried to double-cross them, eh?’ continued Shadgold. ‘He was going to spill the beans when they got him?’

  ‘That seems the most probable explanation,’ replied Lowe. ‘He fell out with his associates over something or other and, knowing that I was staying at Greytower, came round to see me. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a likely theory, anyway,’ agreed the inspector.

  He went over and began poking among the litter in the bureau.

  ‘I suppose we may as well make a search, in case that fellow overlooked something.’

  ‘Yes, there’s just a faint chance we might find something,’ said Lowe. ‘If you take the bureau I’ll deal with these books.’

  They searched diligently while Jim stood by the door and looked on, but they found nothing.

  The papers in the bureau mostly belonged to the original owner of the cottage, and consisted of letters and receipted bills.

  There were one or two unpaid bills addressed to Mr. Lucia, but nothing else.

  Neither was there anything among the books.

  In the fireplace, however, Lowe found a heap of charred paper, and going over it, carefully extracted a thicker wad from underneath the rest.

  ‘This looks like a book of some description,
’ he said, bringing it under the light. ‘Part of the leather cover is still unburned.’

  He spread a sheet of paper on the table and, laying the charred mass on it, examined it carefully.

  ‘Yes, look here.’ He glanced up at Shadgold, who was peering over his shoulder. ‘You can just see a ‘D’ and part of an ‘I.’ It was a diary.’

  ‘Is there anything left of it that’s readable?’ asked Shadgold eagerly.

  Lowe shook his head.

  ‘No, unfortunately,’ he replied. ‘This looks as if it was only the cover. I think the pages were torn out and burned separately.’

  He straightened up, shot a quick frowning glance round.

  ‘There’s nothing more here,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if the rest of the cottage will prove luckier.’

  He took the lamp and, followed by Shadgold and Jim, explored the lower floor.

  The sitting-room with the kitchen and scullery comprised the whole of this, and there was nothing at all in the kitchen and scullery except some dirty dishes in the sink and a few articles of food.

  They opened all the cupboards and searched through their miscellaneous contents, which were mostly rubbish, but their diligence went unrewarded.

  ‘There’s only upstairs now,’ said Lowe. ‘Come on, we’ll see what we can find there.’

  There were two rooms upstairs, a large room over the sitting-room and hall, and a smaller one over the kitchen.

  This was locked, but the key was in the door, and Lowe turned it and looked in.

  Apparently it had not been used by Lucia, for the bed was bare; the sheets and blankets neatly folded and lying near the footboard.

  Apart from the bed there was only a washstand, a kitchen chair, and a narrow wardrobe.

  Lowe opened the wardrobe and found that it was empty except for three coat-hangers and the lid of a cardboard box.

  The drawer in the lower part was also empty.

  ‘Nothing here,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t think Lucia used the room at all.’

  They came out, shut the door, and went into the larger room.

  This was better furnished. The bed was a double one, and beside the washstand and wardrobe there was a dressing-table and a chest of drawers.