Biggles Goes Alone Page 3

  “I was only repeating what I’d heard in the village,” expostulated Captain Gower.

  “More fool you to listen,” growled Biggles,

  “He was out all last night, fishing,” said Major Payne.

  “Who says so?” queried Gower.

  “Nobody, as far as I know. But his boat wasn’t at its mooring. But I’d better be going in case the police want me.” The Major strode away.

  “I imagine Miss Lewis’ evidence will be the most important factor in the case,” surmised Captain Gower.

  “That and the result of the post mortem examination. We don’t know yet how or why the girl died,” reminded Biggles. “We might as well have a drink while we’re waiting for the police to do their stuff.”

  CHAPTER IV

  MOSTLY QUESTIONS

  As an earthquake is usually followed by more if less severe shocks, so in the village of Polstow following the death of Vera Harrington.

  In an uneasy atmosphere of gloom that had settled on the hotel Biggles waited in a deck chair on the terrace for the police interrogation. He learned from the house boy that the Flower Show had been cancelled. As the investigation proceeded some of the guests, having been interviewed and cleared, took their departure. The Gravesons did not appear.

  At last came Biggles’ turn to be questioned by Chief Superintendent Smalley, a stockily built man with a glint in his eyes and an uncompromising expression. He pulled up a chair and sat facing Biggles, with the sergeant standing by notebook in hand. Biggles could easily account for his movements overnight because he had sat on the terrace talking with Captain Gower until after eleven o’clock when they both retired to bed. This confirmed what Gower, who had already been questioned, had said.

  Biggles wondered why he had been left until last. He was soon to know. To his surprise and somewhat to his annoyance the Superintendent led off with the last question he expected.

  “Is it correct that you’re attached to a special department at Scotland Yard?”

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up, for he had not mentioned this to anyone. “That’s right, Chief. How did you know?”

  “Major Payne told me.”

  “How did he know?”

  “An Assistant Commissioner at the Yard who has often stayed here rang him up and told him he was sending one of his staff along for a rest.”

  Biggles sighed. “As simple as that. I should have asked my chief to keep the soft pedal on that angle. I must tell Payne not to broadcast the information.”

  “What’s your official position—if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Air Detective-Inspector. The air part of it means I specialize in any trouble involving aviation.”

  “I suppose you’ll be taking an interest in this case?”

  “Not more than comes my way as a casual spectator. As you know, I’m on holiday.”

  The Superintendent then revealed that curious attitude of mind so often encountered in the provinces, even among professional men, where anything to do with London is concerned.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “We may be country bumpkins but we can usually handle our affairs all right.”

  Biggles looked pained. “I’m sure you can. Who said anything about country bumpkins? I didn’t. Don’t worry. I’m not likely to interfere.”

  “Sorry—but we sometimes feel—”

  “I know. You resent the idea that we may think we’re smarter than you are. Forget it. That notion, which let me say is quite wrong, starts with you, not us.”

  The Superintendent switched the subject. “How well did you know Vera Harrington?”

  “Only by sight. I’ve seen her here. I’ve never spoken to her.”

  “This lad Paul Graveson is thought to have been keen on her, I understand.”

  “That seemed to be the impression. I wouldn’t know. Having learned to mind my own business I’ve never given it a serious thought.”

  “This is purely a routine question. Where were you last night?”

  It was then that Biggles described how he had sat on the terrace with Captain Gower. “Notice anything unusual?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Did you see Paul Graveson about?”

  “No. I heard him park that noisy car of his about an hour before dinner and later I saw him in the dining-room. I didn’t see him after that.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No. We had little in common to talk about. But tell me this, because I’m still not quite clear as to what this is all about—I’ve only heard a garbled version which to me doesn’t add up to make sense—I take it that at this moment you’re dealing with the death of Vera Harrington as a case of murder. Is that right?”

  “Until I get a pathological report which says the girl died from natural causes I’m bound to. After all, here was a girl who had never had a day’s illness in her life. Never complained of an ache or a pain. Up to six o’clock yesterday evening she was bustling about on work in connexion with the Flower Show. Even at ten o’clock last night she was alive and well. There’s ample evidence of that. Within an hour she was dead, in circumstances which must be regarded as peculiar.”

  “You’re sure about the time factor?”

  “It’s confirmed by the doctor. He reckons death occurred at between ten and eleven last night; so as Paul Graveson was there, on his own admission, until ten-thirty, it must have been sudden.”

  “So you think he may have had something to do with it.”

  “What else can I think? Suspicion is bound to fall on him.”

  “When do you expect a medical report?”

  “I should have a preliminary report by tomorrow morning. I should know if there was any heart trouble, or if the girl died of cyanide poisoning.”

  “Why cyanide in particular?”

  “I have reasons. Well, I think that’s about all. I shan’t have to trouble you again.”

  “Good. That suits me.”

  The Superintendent, after a moment’s hesitation, went on: “By the way, speaking professionally and strictly between ourselves, assuming you’ve formed an opinion of Paul Graveson since you’ve been here, would you judge him to be a type capable of murder?”

  Biggles considered the question. “Since you ask me, Chief, frankly, no. Minor crime, perhaps, because some of these modern youngsters, who hardly regard it as such, take a less serious view of the law than we did in our day. But with a very occasional exception they draw the line at murder.”

  The Superintendent then produced what he obviously regarded as a trump card. From a pocket he took a small glass jar with a glass stopper. “Then how do you account for this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Cyanide. Enough to knock over a herd of elephants.”

  Biggles’ surprise must have shown on his face. “Where did you find that?”

  “In Paul Graveson’s room, wrapped in a piece of rag in the bottom of a drawer.”

  “No one in his right mind would leave the stuff standing about. The gas it gives off can knock a man out.”

  “Maybe he had a reason for hiding it.”

  “If I’m right in guessing the reason you have in mind he surely wouldn’t be such a fool as to keep it in his room. There’s no doubt about it belonging to him?”

  “None whatever. He says it’s his. It’s labelled in his own writing. Hydrocyanic acid, to be specific.”

  “Could he account for having it in his possession?”

  “He says he’s had it for years. His explanation is it’s the stuff he puts in the bottom of a killing-jar when he goes out after butterflies and moths.”

  “Could be. We know he is a bug hunter and we know cyanide is used in killing-bottles. How did he get hold of it? He’d need a permit to buy it, in which case there should be a record somewhere.”

  “He says he made it himself.”

  “That isn’t difficult if you know how. It can be derived from a number of plants, almonds, laurel, and others. The stuff smells of almo
nds.”

  “I’d wager this is the stuff that killed Vera Harrington. One grain and death is practically instantaneous.”

  “You might lose your bet.”

  The Superintendent looked surprised. “You still think Paul Graveson is innocent?”

  “Innocent of what?”

  “Murdering Vera Harrington.”

  “Surely it has yet to be proved that she was murdered. For that reason alone I’m keeping an open mind about it.”

  “But the stuff in this bottle—”

  “In the bottle is a different matter from being inside the body of Vera Harrington.”

  “He took the girl a box of chocolates with a bunch of roses. Miss Lewis says she saw them. In the morning when she went down the box had been opened and some of the chocolates eaten. It looks as though the girl was eating them while she was putting the roses in a vase.”

  “Where are the chocolates now?”

  “At my headquarters, being analysed.”

  “Okay, Chief. I’ve told you what I think. It’s your pigeon, not mine.”

  “Wouldn’t you think this is sufficient evidence for holding young Graveson on suspicion?”

  “It isn’t what I think, Chief,” replied Biggles, evenly. “But if I were in your place I’d feel inclined to watch my step until I’d seen the pathologist’s report on the post mortem. If there’s cyanide in the girl’s stomach he’ll find it. That would put a different complexion on the case.”

  “Meanwhile the bird might fly.”

  “If he did he couldn’t fly far.”

  The Superintendent looked at Biggles curiously. “Have you some interest in young Graveson?”

  “None at all.”

  “Then why are you so sure he didn’t kill this girl?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m not sure he didn’t. I’m not sure of anything. I’m merely expressing my opinion that she didn’t die of cyanide poisoning. As you said a moment ago, cyanide kills almost instantaneously. Vera was all right when Paul left the house.”

  “We’ve only his word for that.”

  “Then put it this way. If Paul had given the girl a dose of cyanide—no matter how—how was it she was able to go round the house and lock up after he’d gone? Only she could have done that because Miss Lewis had gone to bed. I understand that’s what she says.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But remember, as you would say, we’ve only got her word for that. Assuming it to be the truth, and I’m not questioning it, it means that only Vera could have locked up. Could she have done that if Paul had given her a dose of cyanide?”

  The Superintendent was looking hard at Biggles’ face. “I see what you mean,” he said slowly, putting the cyanide back in his pocket. “You make a point there.”

  “What’s happening at the Thatched House now?”

  “Miss Lewis is staying only long enough to tidy up and put dust covers on the furniture. As soon as possible she’s going to Truro, where she has a sister living. That suits me. She’ll be handy if I want her. Well, I must be getting along. I still have two more people to see. The old man, Doctor somebody, who lives next door to Vera, was in bed when I called. His daily, a Mrs. Chandler, told me he didn’t get up much before lunch-time. And there’s another fellow. Trelawny. A fisherman of sorts. He was out in his boat when I went to the shack where he lives. He was out all night, they say. He may have noticed something. I understand he knew Vera pretty well.”

  “I believe they were on good terms. He sometimes took her in some fish, and on occasion, so I’m told, she’s been out with him, fishing.”

  “I’ll hear what he has to say.” Still the Superintendent hesitated. “Have you any other ideas about this business?”

  “Oh come, Chief, you don’t need any help from me,” murmured Biggles, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “That’s right enough. But I’m always ready to admit that two heads are sometimes better than one.”

  “Naturally, being on the spot I’m bound to give this business a certain amount of thought. But I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m butting in—”

  “Never mind about that. What’s your candid opinion?”

  “All right. Remember, you asked me. There are one or two details which have already struck me as a bit odd. I’ve often picked up a lead by concentrating on anything unusual, however apparently irrelevant it may be. I mean, any departure from what we might call normal human behaviour.”

  “Have you noticed anything like that?”

  “Yes, take these chocolates, for instance. Correct me if I’ve got the facts wrong, but I understand that in her statement Miss Lewis says she found the box of chocolates on the table with the lid off.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, that struck me as peculiar because most people, when they’ve finished eating chocolates from a box, put the lid back on. Vera didn’t do that. She left the lid off. I ask myself why.”

  “The chocolates are being analysed.”

  “So you told me. Again, according to what Payne tells me, Vera’s last words to Paul were that she was going to put the roses, those he’d brought her, in water before going to bed. Did she do that?”

  “She started but she didn’t finish. She’d fetched a glass vase of water and put it on the table near the chocolates. She’d arranged a few of the roses in the vase but the rest were still lying on the table.”

  “So the question arises, why didn’t she finish the job while she was at it? That looks to me as if she was interrupted. She was found upstairs. Why did she go up? Did something happen to cause her to go up? Was that what caused her to break off in what she was doing? She went up. That we know. She never came down. Why? Because she couldn’t. She was either dead or dying, because it must have been at that moment that death struck. She was able to get up. When she went up she obviously had every intention of coming down again or she would have put out the light in the sitting-room. The chances are she would also have finished arranging the flowers, which she would hardly have left lying on the table all night, and put the lid on the box of chocolates.”

  “Yes, that all sounds reasonable.”

  “There was also a light in the bedroom, I understand. Did she light the lamp?”

  “No. Miss Lewis had already done that. She did it every night when she went up. Vera often read in bed so she put everything ready for her.”

  “I see. Then the question you have to answer is, why did she go upstairs before she was quite ready to go to bed? Presumably she had already locked up. All she had to do, then, was finish the roses and put out the light. Why didn’t she do that?”

  “The most obvious answer is she heard a sound of some sort and went up to see what had caused it.”

  “That could be the answer. But what about Miss Lewis? Wouldn’t she have heard the same noise?”

  “She says she heard nothing. Her hearing is all right and it was a dead still night.”

  “Still, as you say, Chief, Vera may have heard something. The alternative is, she went up to fetch something. What was it? What could she want at that hour of night? Whatever the reason it must have been urgent or she wouldn’t have broken off in the middle of what she was doing. Find out what it was, Chief, and you’ll be well on your way to the solution of your problem.”

  “You may be right. But how am I going to work that one out? There isn’t a smell of a clue.”

  “There must be one. It’s up to you to find it. Vera didn’t stop what she was doing for no reason at all. The answer’s there, somewhere.”

  Major Payne came out. Speaking to the Superintendent he said: “There’s a woman here asking to speak to you if you were still about.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Mrs. Chandler.”

  “You mean Doctor Venner’s daily. I saw her this morning.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any idea what she wants to see me about?”

  “No. She won’t say. But she says she’s brought a
message from Doctor Venner so it may have something to do with Vera. The Doctor would have walked down himself but he isn’t well enough.”

  “In that case I’d better see her. You might as well bring her here.”

  Major Payne went off.

  The sergeant produced his notebook.

  “Want me to go?” asked Biggles.

  “No. You can stay if you like to hear what she has to say.”

  CHAPTER V

  TRELAWNY

  In a couple of minutes the hotel proprietor was back with a buxom young woman who did not look too pleased at being sent down the hill on a hot day. She was still in her working clothes.

  “You wanted to see me?” prompted the Superintendent.

  “Not me. The Doctor sent me with a message.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Emily Chandler.”

  “And you work for Doctor Venner—is that right?”

  “That’s right. I go in mornings only, like I told you when you called.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “I told you the Doctor wasn’t up when you called at the house.”

  “That’s right. So you did.”

  “When he came down I told him what had happened and that you’d been to see him.”

  “Do you mean you told him about the death of Miss Harrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the first he knew of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “He said it reminded him of something, and he thought you might be interested to know that Trelawny was at the Thatched House last night.”

  There was a general stiffening in the attitudes of those present.

  “How does he know that?” inquired the Superintendent.

  “He saw him.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Three o’clock in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Three o’clock this morning.”

  “Is that so?” said the Superintendent slowly. “He’s quite sure of this?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How did this come about? What was the Doctor doing at three o’clock this morning?”