Again, there was that other maxim of Peter’s which had helped me when I had been a roadman. ‘If you are playing a part, you will never keep it up unless you convince yourself that you are it.’ That would explain the game of tennis. Those chaps didn’t need to act, they just turned a handle and passed into another life, which came as naturally to them as the first. It sounds a platitude, but Peter used to say that it was the big secret of all the famous criminals.
It was now getting on for eight o’clock, and I went back and saw Scaife to give him his instructions. I arranged with him how to place his men, and then I went for a walk, for I didn’t feel up to any dinner. I went round the deserted golf-course, and then to a point on the cliffs farther north beyond the line of the villas.
On the little trim newly-made roads I met people in flannels coming back from tennis and the beach, and a coastguard from the wireless station, and donkeys and pierrots padding homewards. Out at sea in the blue dusk I saw lights appear on the Ariadne and on the destroyer away to the south, and beyond the Cock sands the bigger lights of steamers making for the Thames. The whole scene was so peaceful and ordinary that I got more dashed in spirits every second. It took all my resolution to stroll towards Trafalgar Lodge about half-past nine.
On the way I got a piece of solid comfort from the sight of a greyhound that was swinging along at a nursemaid’s heels. He reminded me of a dog I used to have in Rhodesia, and of the time when I took him hunting with me in the Pali hills. We were after reebok, the dun kind, and I recollected how we had followed one beast, and both he and I had clean lost it. A greyhound works by sight, and my eyes are good enough, but that buck simply leaked out of the landscape. Afterwards I found out how it managed it. Against the grey rock of the kopjes it showed no more than a crow against a thundercloud. It didn’t need to run away; all it had to do was to stand still and melt into the background.
Suddenly as these memories chased across my brain I thought of my present case and applied the moral. The Black Stone didn’t need to bolt. They were quietly absorbed into the landscape. I was on the right track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed never to forget it. The last word was with Peter Pienaar.
Scaife’s men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a soul. The house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to observe. A three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road; the windows on the ground-floor were all open, and shaded lights and the low sound of voices revealed where the occupants were finishing dinner. Everything was as public and above-board as a charity bazaar. Feeling the greatest fool on earth, I opened the gate and rang the bell.
A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in rough places, gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call the upper and the lower. He understands them and they understand him. I was at home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was sufficiently at my ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I had met the night before. I can’t explain why, but it is a fact. But what fellows like me don’t understand is the great comfortable, satisfied middle-class world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs. He doesn’t know how they look at things, he doesn’t understand their conventions, and he is as shy of them as of a black mamba. When a trim parlour-maid opened the door, I could hardly find my voice.
I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan had been to walk straight into the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance wake in the men that start of recognition which would confirm my theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall the place mastered me. There were the golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats and caps, the rows of gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which you will find in ten thousand British homes. A stack of neatly folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an old oak chest; there was a grandfather clock ticking; and some polished brass warming-pans on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chiltern winning the St Leger. The place was as orthodox as an Anglican church. When the maid asked me for my name I gave it automatically, and was shown into the smoking-room, on the right side of the hall.
That room was even worse. I hadn’t time to examine it, but I could see some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece, and I could have sworn they were English public school or college. I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the dining-room and given my name to her master, and I had missed the chance of seeing how the three took it.
When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening dress—a short coat and black tie, as was the other, whom I called in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a blue serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club or school.
The old man’s manner was perfect. ‘Mr Hannay?’ he said hesitatingly. ‘Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.’
Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
‘I think we have met before,’ I said, ‘and I guess you know my business.’
The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played the part of mystification very well.
‘Maybe, maybe,’ said the old man. ‘I haven’t a very good memory, but I’m afraid you must tell me your errand, Sir, for I really don’t know it.’
‘Well, then,’ I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking pure foolishness—’I have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.’
‘Arrest,’ said the old man, and he looked really shocked. ‘Arrest! Good God, what for?’
‘For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month.’
‘I never heard the name before,’ said the old man in a dazed voice.
One of the others spoke up. ‘That was the Portland Place murder. I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, Sir! Where do you come from?’
‘Scotland Yard,’ I said.
After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of innocent bewilderment.
Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking his words.
‘Don’t get flustered, uncle,’ he said. ‘It is all a ridiculous mistake; but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It won’t be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home. You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.’
‘Right, Percy! Of course that’s easy enough. The 23rd! That was the day after Agatha’s wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with Charlie Symons. Then—oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I remember, for the punch didn’t agree with me, and I was seedy next morning. Hang it all, there’s the cigar-box I brought back from the dinner.’ He pointed to an object on the table, and laughed nervously.
‘I think, Sir,’ said the young man, addressing me respectfully, ‘you will see you are mistaken. We want to assist the law like all Englishmen, and we don’t want Scotland Yard to be making fools of themselves. That’s so, uncle?’
‘Certainly, Bob.’ The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice. ‘Certainly, we’ll do anything in our power to assist the authorities. But—but this is a bit too much. I can’t get over it.’