There are sentences and sentences: there are phrases which can be taken in two ways, and phrases which can mean only one thing. And every single word of that letter came into the latter category. I know: I read it myself. Not the very faintest shadow of doubt could exist in anyone's mind as to what the relationship was between the writer who signed himself "Jacko" and the woman to whom it was written. He was her lover, and what he had written burned white hot.
The afternoon wore on and Charles Tranter sat motionless at his desk. The kettle had scorched a ring on the leather: the gas still burned in the grate. Every now and then he would pick up the letter and torture himself afresh, until he writhed with the mental agony of it and his nails bit into his flesh. His imagination grew more and more vivid, and gradually in his subconscious mind the certainty of what he was going to do took form. But it would have to be done carefully.
He replaced the kettle and turned out the gas. Then, putting the letter and envelope in his pocket, he rang the bell.
"Pack a suitcase for me, Garton," he said, when the butler appeared. "And tell Mrs. Tranter when she returns that I have been suddenly called up to London and shall be away for a couple of nights."
"Very good, sir," answered the man. "But Williams is over with the mistress."
"I will drive myself," said Tranter curtly, and the butler concealed his surprise. It was a new departure for Tranter to drive himself— generally he detested taking the wheel. So when, half an hour later, he watched his master turn into the main road, he voiced his feelings aloud.
"Wonder what's happened," he muttered to himself. "I've never seen the bloke look like he does this evening. Queer fish."
But had he known the cause of the bulge in the queer fish's pocket he might not have returned whistling to his pantry.
Now I want to be fair to Charles Tranter, and I like to think that his madness began that afternoon, when all the devils of jealousy assailed him in his study. Even to an ordinary man that letter would have been hell: to him it must have meant the uttermost depths of the pit. It was all so painfully clear: the sick friend—the visits to Newbury. Once he had telephoned her there, and the wife had answered. Janet was out, but she rang up shortly after, and he had suspected nothing. Why should he? But now he saw it all: the two women hanging together as women always did.
"Come round, darling: your fool of a husband has just rung up. I've told him you're out, but you'd better put a call through to him to keep him quiet."
His grip tightened on the steering wheel till his knuckles showed white and the car swerved dangerously. Steady! That sort of thing would not do: there must be no question of his being laid out by an accident now. Not, at any rate, until he had killed the man who signed himself Jacko.
He thought out his plans as he drove along. The address was on the paper, so that there would be no difficulty in finding him, and since he had got away from his own house without seeing Janet, she would not be able to warn her lover. That was why he had gone before her return: he could never have kept his knowledge from her quick eye. She could be dealt with later: he had not made up his mind yet what he was going to do with her. For the present Jacko was enough.
He arrived at Newbury about eight o'clock and, registering under the name of Johnson, he took a room at the Bull. Then, having ordered a large whisky and soda and some sandwiches, he sat down with the local telephone book in front of him. He had to find out the name of the man he was going to murder.
The number was 005, and he methodically went down every column. At last he came to it. 'Captain Jack Featherston, of Avondale Farm. That was the address on the letter: he had got his man.
He rose and went into the bar, leaving his sandwiches untouched. There was no hurry now; he could afford to bide his time. Another whisky and soda was what he wanted, and, taking it from the girl, he crossed to a corner. Two men by the bar looked at him covertly: Charles Tranter did not know that his face was like that of a corpse save for his eyes. And his eyes were not good to look on. Suddenly the name Avondale caught his ears, and something about old Feathers. So that was the devil's nickname, was it, Feathers?
He listened intently: a morbid curiosity possessed him to learn all he could about this man who had stolen his wife. But the men began talking of other things, and after a while he got up and joined them at the bar.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I could not help overhearing one of your remarks about Avondale Farm. Is it, by any chance, a Captain Jack Featherston who lives there?"
"That's right," said one of them.
"I wonder if it is a man I knew. Tall and dark—about forty."
"Wrong bird," answered the other promptly. "This Featherston is fair, and not a day more than thirty."
"Married?" queried Tranter, casually.
"No," was the answer. "Poor old Feathers can't afford the luxury of a wife."
"But he could afford the luxury of someone else's," thought Tranter. "Does he live there alone?" he asked.
"Yes, except for a deaf old woman who looks after him."
Tranter turned away, lest they should see the triumph in his eyes. Only one deaf old woman. And as he left the bar the two men glanced at each other.
"Rum customer." said one. "Seemed damned curious about Feathers."
"Rather too curious," answered the other uneasily. "I didn't like his looks at all. Still, Feathers is quite able to take care of himself. Do you know that fellow who has just gone out, Maud?"
The barmaid shook her head. "Just arrived," she said. "Name of Johnson. And that dial of his would turn the milk sour."
Quite unconscious of the interest he had aroused, Charles Tranter went to the garage. Alone—save for one old deaf woman! Luck was with him.
"Avondale Farm, sir?" said the man in charge. "Captain Featherston's. It's about five miles out on the Andover road. Will you be coming back tonight?"
"I shall," answered Tranter, and drove out of the yard. He drove slowly. Now that the moment had arrived he felt strangely cool. His scheme was mapped out in its main outline: details would have to take care of themselves. It was going to be a nuisance if Featherston had people dining with him, but it would only mean postponing it for two or three hours. And he did not mind waiting.
A notice-board loomed up, announcing that fresh eggs could be bought at Avondale Farm, a hundred yards farther on, and Charles Tranter stopped the car. He would walk the last bit, he decided, as he fingered the revolver in his pocket for the hundredth time. It was easier to reconnoitre on foot, and he must make sure Featherston was alone.
The farm stood back some fifty yards from the road, and for a while he stood by the gate, examining it. Light was streaming out from one of the downstairs rooms. Seated in a chair was a man with his feet on the leather fender that ringed the fireplace. He was smoking a pipe, and a reading lamp stood on a table beside him. Fair, with a short clipped moustache, he sat studying a small book in which he occasionally jotted something down.
Suddenly with a weary little gesture he flung it on the table, and, standing up, he stretched himself. Then he turned to a wireless set, and a moment later the time signal from Greenwich sounded. Nine o'clock.
"This is the National programme from London...Here is an S O S..."
A thin smile hovered round Tranter's lips as he stood in the shadow of some bushes on the other side of the drive. S O S! One would be wanted here soon. And then he began to shake with overmastering rage. There, standing by the open window, with his hands in his pockets, was the devil who had wrecked his life. In that very room Janet had sat: had been kissed. But never again. Nemesis was at hand. Not too quickly, of course: he would first play with "Jacko" a little. And with a great effort he pulled himself together and stepped out on to the drive.
The man at the window leaned forward. "Who's that?" he called out sharply. Tranter came into the light and Featherston stared at him.
"Good Lord!" he said.