Grey Timothy/Chapter 20

by Edgar Wallace

 

XX.—A WIRE FROM BRIAN

‘The Knightsbridge Shooting Affray’ occupied the contents bills of most of the London evening newspapers the next day. There was damning evidence against the dead man in the shape of a pistol found in his pocket, and obviously discharged recently.

Brian’s evidence at the inquest did not help to dissipate the belief that Caggley was the culprit. The punter enjoyed a little unenviable notoriety during the days that followed. He was held for trial, though it was certain that the jury would return a verdict of justifiable homicide.

He was released from custody on a heavy bail, and returned to Knightsbridge after the police-court proceedings, to find Mr Callander and Gladys awaiting him.

As he came into the room, dispirited, out of conceit with himself, she came toward him, both hands outstretched. There and then, in the presence of her father, he took her into his arms, and found comfort in her nearness and fragrance. Mr Callander accepted the surprising happening with admirable self-restraint, turning discreetly to watch the stream of motor traffic which flowed through the park.

“My dear,” she whispered, “I have told father everything.”

He stooped, and kissed her gently, smiling into her troubled eyes.

Mr Callander turned as she slipped from his arms. “Brian,” he said, clearing his throat, “Gladys has given me to understand that you are—that she is—in fact, that you are not indifferent to one another.”

“That is true,” said Brian quietly. “I love her very dearly.”

“Hum!” said Mr Callander, as he coughed again, “of course—at present—under a cloud—very embarrassing for me—but you may be sure——” He held out his hand. Brian was touched by the emotion of the old man and wrung the proffered hand.

“I want a word with you,” said Mr Callander.

They stepped up to the window.

“Horace has told me,” Mr Callander went on, dropping his voice, “everything.”

His voice shook, and he raised his hand to his trembling lip. This uninteresting son of his was the apple of his eye.

“I cannot expect you to believe,” he said, “that he knew nothing of the infamous plot: yet I am convinced——”

“No more convinced than I am,” said Brian heartily; “in fact, I have absolute proof that Horace knew nothing whatever about the matter.”

The old man nodded. He opened his pocketbook and took out a cheque for two thousand pounds.

“You were good enough to lend this to my son,” he said. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your goodness; it has placed you in an entirely new light. I am an old man, Brian, a prejudiced and narrow old man, I fear, and not over-generous. I have set myself up as a critic—neglecting to rectify faults in my own life which have been worthy of criticism, but I—I——”

He blew his nose with some energy.

It was some time before they sat down to a calm discussion of the position.

He did not say that it might drag the name of Gladys into the case, and, incidentally, that of Mr Callander. He saw, by the gratitude in the old man’s eyes, that his reticence was approved.

“I believe that Caggley was sent here with a cock-and-bull story about the Manchester races in order to throw the guilt on him for my murder. Pinlow intended shooting him to ensure his silence.”

“Has the ownership of the revolver been established?” asked Mr Callander.

Brian shook his head.

“It is next to impossible. The pistol is of Belgian make—obviously purchased abroad.”

The two stayed to lunch, which was half-way through when the servant brought in a card.

Brian read it.

“Chief Inspector Valance, C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”

On the back was scribbled, “I have some good news for you.”

“Show him in,” said Brian; “good news is for all hearing.”

The Inspector was a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man of fifty. He greeted the party with a little bow.

“Sit down, Inspector,” said Brian, with a smile. “Well, what are the glad tidings?—this is my uncle, and this is my cousin,” he introduced.

“The best news for you, Mr Pallard,” he said. “The Crown does not intend proceeding with the case. There was a little flaw in the evidence at the inquest; the Home Office expert has proved beyond doubt that the bullet which killed Caggley was fired from a pistol of a larger calibre than yours.”

“I am glad,” said the girl impulsively, holding out her hands, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“On that fact,” the Inspector proceeded, “there can be no question of a prosecution. Now, Mr Pallard, just as soon as your release is granted, I want you to help me to find the man that did it.”

“I am afraid—” began Brian, when interruption came from an unexpected quarter.

It was from Mr Callander.

“Mr Pallard believes that the murderer was Lord Pinlow,” he said; “he can also supply you with information regarding the killing of a horse at Goodwood——”

“Mr Callander,” began Brian, but the old man silenced him with a little dignified wave of his hand.

“My son, Horace Callander,” he went on, “was an unwitting assistant to Lord Pinlow in that crime. In order to keep our name out of the matter, Mr Pallard has chivalrously declined to prosecute.”

The Inspector nodded.

“Mr Pallard does not give us credit for knowing anything about that matter,” he said, “and it will be news to him that a warrant has already been issued for Lord Pinlow’s arrest in that connection.”

This was news indeed.

“How on earth did you know?” asked Brian in surprise.

The Inspector smiled cryptically.

“These things leak out. We knew something was wrong, and we knew that you suspected the truth—so, as we couldn’t place the culprit, we put men on to shadow you, knowing that sooner or later you would put us on the right track. We struck the trail after we had traced you to the house of Dr Jellis.”

Brian smiled ruefully.

“And all the time I thought I was the only person who knew,” he said.

The Inspector took his leave soon after.

“We will try to do the thing quietly,” he said, “but if Lord Pinlow is arrested by to-morrow we shall be obliged to give publicity to the fact.”

That night the little club in Summers Town, of which Mr Augustus Fanks was so excellent a patron, was raided by the police. It was an unfortunate circumstance that Mr Fanks was present. He had come to find Tinker Smith, who did odd jobs for him. Mr Fanks, being a man of boundless indebtedness, and being, moreover, in the habit of sailing close to the law, had often need of an expert who was willing and able to secure documents of a character compromising Mr Augustus Fanks.

For there had been times in his exciting career when Mr Fanks had written letters, so much like blackmailing letters, that only one expert in the world could detect the difference. And that expert was Mr Fanks.

It happened that such a letter, addressed to a man whose help Fanks required, and of whose lurid youth he had the fullest details, had been sent by the desperate correspondent to his lawyer, and Mr Augustus Fanks was most anxious to recover that letter before it reached the depository of the Director of Public Prosecutions.

But the man he sought was absent, and Fanks had hardly ascertained the fact when the door was burst open and the police swarmed into the room.

If the truth be told, the primary object of that raid was the same that animated Mr Fanks—they very greatly desired to lay their hands on Tinker Smith. Though Augustus Fanks protested, produced his card, and swore by all the gods that he was an innocent visitor attracted by curiosity, they marched him off to the nearest police-station. But they did not find Tinker Smith.

What they did find was a letter signed ‘P.’, which ran:

 

“I am laying low with S. Pallard swears I have had something to do with the shooting at Knightsbridge. He shall pay in many ways. If I do not see you again, take charge of my flat, and burn all my letters. I advise this as much in your interest as in mine. Au revoir.”

 

The police had saved Mr Fanks the trouble, for the flat was already in their hands.

But the letter was interesting, if for no other reason than because it had been posted in London on that day, and an ‘A.S.’ message—which means ‘All stations’—was flashed from one end of London to the other, to the effect that the wanted man was in London.

Gladys Callander, returning home the next evening with the happy assurance that her lover was saved the humiliation of an appearance at Old Bailey, was startled by a contents bill.

 

KNIGHTSBRIDGE
MURDERER
A CLUE

 

She sought the paper to find, for the first time, Pinlow’s name mentioned with the affair.

There it was, in the boldest type, the story of the killing of Greenpol, the arrest of Fanks in that connection, and as much of the letter found in his possession as an ingenious reporter could extract from the police.

She breathed a deep sigh of relief. At last the truth was out. She bought all the papers she could buy at the station. They told her little more than the first. One contained a little interview with Brian, which, in the main, consisted of a record of his unwillingness to talk on the subject. She reached home to find that neither Horace nor her father had arrived. She went straight to her room to change her dress, and came down to receive a telegram from the hand of her maid.

“MUST SEE YOU, AM SENDING CAR.—BRIAN,” it ran.

There was something of frantic urgency about the wire that alarmed her. What could have happened? She wished her father was there. Even Horace would have served. She scribbled a reply, but then it occurred to her that he would not receive the message. He was to have gone to Wickham that day to escape the persistent interviewer. She laid the telegram down, then on second thoughts she decided to send it. He had wired that he was sending the car—he would not be coming himself. Again she wondered what had kept him.

She despatched a maid to the village to send the wire. The girl had not returned when a large car came gliding up the walk. The chauffeur touched his hat to the girl.

“Are you from Mr Pallard?” she asked.

“Yes, miss,” replied the man.

“Has anything happened?”

“I don’t know, miss, only he told me I was to hurry back.”

She ran into the house and snatched up a coat. She was hardly seated in the car before the driver started it with a jerk. Then she remembered that she had left no note to explain her hurried departure. She trusted that the servant would tell her father. They tore through the village and turned abruptly to the right.

Now the road to London ran in the opposite direction, and Gladys, thinking the man might have made a mistake, leant out of the window.

“You have taken the wrong road,” she said.

“The other road’s up,” said the man abruptly.

There was a hint of brusqueness in his tone which annoyed her. She sank back on the padded seat wondering how Brian came to employ such a boor. Then she remembered that Brian had only one car, and that this was not it. Neither was the chauffeur the man who had driven her before in London.

It was growing dusk. She could not read the signposts. Only the glow of the setting sun was behind her. They were going due east. A cold fear gripped her heart. She knocked on the window in front, but there was no response. She put her head out of the window, and screamed at the man to stop.

He sat stolidly, taking no notice. The car was proceeding at a great pace. She noticed that they passed few cars, and that the road was not of the even surface which she was accustomed to. They had been journeying an hour. The man had evidently made several detours to avoid towns, and now they were going due south, along a stretch of main road. Her hopes rose, only to sink again, as the car turned abruptly to the right, driving down a narrow road. For a mile it ran thus, then turned again to the right—this time along a private road, where the car bumped and jolted in the ruts of a farm track.

It turned again, this time through a broken gate, and came to a stop before the door of a dilapidated old farm.

She fumbled at the door, her hands trembling, when a man slipped from the doorway and opened the door. Though he had altered and his heavy moustache had been shaven off, she recognized him.

“Lord Pinlow!” she gasped.