Bony - 10 - The Devil’s Steps Read online

  He had more time this morning, because of the smaller number of shoes to clean, and he wandered round to the main entrance, the door of which was not yet opened. There he visited the shrub tub to smooth the earth he had so rudely disturbed the previous evening. It was as well, for Miss Jade would certainly have noted the disturbance and asked questions. In the light of day, it appeared as though a rabbit had been burrowing. There was the hole from which he had taken the whisky bottle, much larger than when he had made it, and there beside the hole were the impressions of four fingers and a thumb of a man’s outspread hand.

  Whilst filling in the bottle hole, Bisker’s mind worked with, what was for it, abnormal speed. He went over his own actions during the time he had sat on the edge of the tub, and during the last time when he had dragged from the soil the two fountain pens and the bottle and he could not recall that he had pressed either of his hands flat out like that on the soft earth.

  Had the impression been made by the hand of the gun­man? Bisker worried at this question. There were, of course, no fingerprints, but the shape of the hand was clear, a left hand, and the impression had certainly not been there when he had sat on the edge of the tub the previous evening as dusk was falling. The man whose left hand had made the impression had stood at the tub and used his right to delve into the earth, and the only man beside himself who had had an interest in the tub was the gunman.

  “Whay!” murmured Bisker. There was yet another man—the bloke who had buried the pens. The impression might have been made by his left hand.

  Now what to do? If he left the impression, the gunman, or the man who had buried the pens might come along and see it, and then press it out. And Mr. Bonaparte might like to see it. He might want to measure it, measure the span and so get to the size of the hand. Yes, what to do?

  It was almost full daylight. The sun was due to rise. All was still quiet inside the house, and it was yet ten or fifteen minutes before one of the maids would open the front door and sweep the porch. The idea of placing a strip of tin over the impression occurred to Bisker, and then he saw that this would attract attention to it. So better leave it alone.

  He crossed back to the wood-stack and from there passed along the rear of the garages. In this way he came to his hut at its rear, sidled along the wall to reach the door, and at the same time regarded with interest the narrow cinder path he had avoided on going to the house.

  Bisker was thoroughly enjoying himself this morning. He shaved with cold water, taking unusual care. He washed in cold water, and instead of leaving his hair to dry in conform­ity with the cast made by his hat, he combed it, and then, on impulse, hunted for and found among his effects a pair of scis­sors, with which he trimmed his unruly moustache, taking years off his age and eighty per cent off his appearance of dissipation.

  Now ready for breakfast, he buttoned up his old coat, stooped and laced his heavy boots, stood up and regarded his bed upon which the blankets lay in disarray. He lifted the top end of the mattress and took therefrom the bottle which had brought him such adventure. It was still a quarter full, and for several seconds he regarded it with desire writ plainly on his weather-beaten face. Then he put the bottle back beneath the mattress, and left the hut to go to the house the same way he had previously gone to it. In the kitchen he sat down to breakfast with George.

  “Goin’ to be a nice day,” began the drinks steward.

  “Yes,” Bisker agreed. “Won’t last, though. ’Ow’s the old bitch this mornin’?”

  “Haven’t seen her yet.” George poised bacon on his fork and stared at Bisker. He had heard a new Bisker the previous morning when summoned by Miss Jade’s bell, and now he was seeing a new Bisker. He added: “What have you been doing to yourself?”

  “Doin’ to meself?” Bisker echoed. “Wot d’you mean?”

  George regarded Bisker with his dark eyes narrowed.

  “You’ve been combing your hair and training your mo’,” he said, accusingly, to which Bisker belligerently demanded:

  “Wot the ’ell’s wrong with that? I don’t comb me ’air into a quiff like you.”

  “All right, don’t get shirty. Get me a paper when you go down to the store, will you?”

  “I might! If you pass me a snifter about ten o’clock.”

  “That reminds me,” said George, and Bisker cursed himself for reminding George. “That reminds me. You said that Miss Jade ordered a full bottle of whisky yesterday morning, and I haven’t checked up on what became of the bottle.”

  Bisker snorted and regarded George with open contempt.

  “Now what would any ordinary bloke think would become of a bottle of whisky left in an office full of detectives? I asks you, George, to tell me that one.”

  George offered no further comment, which pleased Bisker, who said, presently:

  “You kept up late last night?”

  “Fairish. They was all talking about the murders and it kind of made ’em thirsty. They were arguing about who was likely to have killed Grumman, and when.”

  “You reckon the ’tecs will be out again today?”

  “Almost sure,” replied George. “When that feller shot Rice, did you think he was going to plug you, too?”

  “No not whiles I stayed still, George, and you can bet I stayed as still as a statue. So did the old cat. He ’ad a nasty, mean, pasty-looking dial, George, and I didn’t like the look in ’is eye. I knows when a bloke means business.”

  “How tall was he—how big?” pressed George, who looked up over Bisker’s shoulder. Bisker was about to reply when a maid spoke:

  “Bisker! Miss Jade wants you in the office directly after you’ve had breakfast.”

  “Righto, Alice.” Then to George, Bisker said: “ ’Ow tall was that murdering bloke, did you ask? Lemme see. About like you. Might be an inch higher. Say five feet eleven, and weighin’ around nine stone six. He ’ad wavy black ’air, and a dark smudge on his top lip like as ’ow he ’ad only just shaved orf a moustache.”

  “Hum! That’s interesting. You tell the police that?”

  “Expect so. Can’t remember all I told ’em.”

  “Did you notice anything else about him—about his hands, his shoes? What kind of a suit was he wearing?”

  “He was wearing a grey suit, a double-breaster, with a bluish sort of tie. His shoes I didn’t take stock of, but I did notice the ’ands. They was narrer with long fingers—like yours. A foreigner of some kind—a cold snake of a man I’d like to jump on with me boots. Well, here’s me for the old dragon. See you later, George.”

  On entering the office, Bisker found Miss Jade at the tele­phone, and while standing waiting for her, he was able to hear that she was answering an enquiry for accommodation. She spoke quietly but well, and this morning she looked to Bisker as she always had done, a woman who knew how to dress, a being who lived in a different world. The black skirt revealed admirable lines, and the dark brown cardigan moulded her bust to suggest that she might be a woman of about twenty-five. Her hair might have been done by a maid born for just that artistic work, whilst her make-up was per­fectly suited to her colouring and the morning.

  “Ah! There you are, Bisker!” she exclaimed on putting down the telephone. “On the table outside I found a note from Mr. Bonaparte. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Yes, marm.” Bisker could see that Miss Jade noticed his clipped moustache. “I met Mr. Bonaparte when I was going for a walk last night down at the store. He was talkin’ with some people in a car, and he asked me to deliver a note he wrote on a mudguard.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About half-past nine, marm.”

  “Then why didn’t you deliver it last night?”

  “I forgot it, marm.”

  “Forgot it!” echoed Miss Jade, her brows carefully raised.

  “Yes, marm,” Bisker confessed. “I’m sorry if it’s important.”

  “Not precisely important, Bisker. But don’t dare to forget the next time. Er—ther
e are some people coming by the midday bus. A gentleman and his wife, and two single gentlemen. Don’t forget to be down at the road when the bus arrives.”

  “All right, marm.” Bisker looked doubtful, adding, dubiously: “But what ’appens if I’m being baled up by the detectives when the bus is due?”

  “Detectives, Bisker? What do you mean?”

  “Well, marm, it’s likely that there’ll be more detectives out today. They’ll want to ask all the same questions they asked yestiddy. It’s a nice day, and it’ll be a nice motor drive for ’em. Then there’ll be more reporters and more photo­graphers. Still I’ll do me best, marm.”

  Miss Jade regarded Bisker as though she were seeing visions. Her brows were no longer raised. They were depressed and the two dreadful vertical lines showed plainly between them. Then she said:

  “Yes, I suppose they will, Bisker. It is all going to be a great nuisance. Well, do your best to meet the bus. That’ll be all. But wait! Don’t dawdle coming back with the papers.”

  “Very well, marm.”

  It is possible that had Bisker not been rotund he might have bowed to Miss Jade. He withdrew as he invariably withdrew from the presence of Mrs. Parkes, back first to the door and beyond, due to habit, for Mrs. Parkes had been known to throw things.

  The first bus from the railway town of Manton arrived at the Mount Chalmers store at ten o’clock, and Bisker was there to receive the Chalet papers, with the extras ordered by George and Mrs. Parkes. The place was crowded with resid­ents and visitors, all as anxious as Bisker. His next call was at the Post Office, and when it came his turn to collect the letters he saw the back of a stranger seated at the telephone switch-board, and without smiling, he slowly closed one eye at the postmaster.

  Bisker did not “dawdle” on the walk back, uphill and about half a mile, but when he reached the Chalet driveway, he had read most of the front-page reports on the double murders at Mount Chalmers.

  As Fred, the casual man, had predicted, Bisker was famous.

  Several cars had passed him, and three were parked outside the main entrance. A group of men were standing in the porch. Two others were taking photographs from positions on the lawn. A little self-conscious, Bisker walked through the group on the porch and so entered the office with the mail and newspapers. There he found Miss Jade talking to Inspector Snook.

  Silently, he placed letters and all but two of the papers on the secretary’s desk, and withdrew as he had previously done and this time regarded suspiciously by the detective, who was not to know of Mrs. Parkes’s addiction to throwing things.

  When the midday bus arrived, Bisker was down to meet it. A large modern vehicle, it disgorged half a dozen people and the driver, who removed several suitcases and a hat box from the luggage grid at the rear.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Watkins!” called Bisker. “Mr. Downes and Mr. Lee. Make sure, please that all your luggage is put down.”

  The people named sorted themselves from the rest, and Bisker noted them for their tipping value, he having already become adept in this summing-up. Watkins was heavy and well dressed in sports clothes. His wife was overloaded with furs and jewellery. Mr. Downes was a man about forty, grizzled and short-moustached, and Mr. Lee wore clothes in the manner of a countryman on holiday. The party followed the loaded Bisker, who staggered up the driveway, chatting about the scenery. Bisker decided that Mr. Lee was the best tipping prospect.

  Chapter Ten

  Bony Resumes His Holiday

  TOWARDS THREE O’CLOCK, a car deposited Bony at the driveway to the Chalet, and then proceeded on up the mountain road. The sun was no longer shining, for the sky was almost filled with cloud moving slowly from the west. The continued clarity of the atmosphere, together with the wind-direction, indicated rain before the following morning.

  As he had left the Chalet, so he returned. He wore no hat, and the wind ruffled his fine black hair. His clothes had been brushed and pressed by Colonel Blythe’s valet, so that he might have been returning from a stroll, after lunch in Miss Jade’s beautiful dining room. The cut on his cheek-bone although noticeable, was no longer angry in appearance.

  Instead of passing up the driveway, Bony followed the road to the ramp leading to the wicket gate. On the bank above the place where the body of Grumman had been found were standing four men, and these Bony assessed as pressmen. At the wicket gate he met Inspector Snook.

  “Ah—good afternoon, Inspector!” he said in greeting. “Beautiful scenery—wonderful view.”

  “Damn the view!” remarked Inspector Snook. “You just arrived?”

  “Only just,” admitted Bony, smiling provocatively.

  “Know anything?”

  “Only what I learned during a visit to your palatial Head­quarters. The Super wasn’t in a healthful frame of mind.”

  Snooks regarded Bony with a stony stare.

  “Healthful!” he repeated.

  “Yes, that is what I said, my dear fellow. Temper is dangerous to one of Bolt’s physique. Upsets the stomach and brings about ulcers, and ulcers bring about—— Well, you know what ulcers bring about. The cause of his annoyance was the clear getaway of friend Marcus. He appears to have the idea that Marcus got away to Melbourne, or Timbuctoo, or some such place, and when I suggested that Marcus might have retired to a house somewhere on this mountain, his annoyance increased.”

  “Did you read up Marcus’s history?” enquired Snook.

  “Yes. Quite a broth of a boy. Four known murders and about a dozen suspected killings between here and New York and London. Goes in for disguises and what not, and is by no means a poor linguist.”

  “And you think he might be still hanging around here?” Snook said, a hint of contempt in his voice. “What makes you think that?”

  “Intuition,” Bony blandly replied. “Ah! I observe George serving tea to guests on the veranda. You will have to excuse me.”

  Inspector Snook scowled at Bony’s back. Intuition! Well, what could you expect from a half-caste promoted to the rank of Detective-Inspector? Must have influential friends to get him up to that rank and send him on such joy-rides for the blinking Army. As for Marcus’s getaway, well, that wasn’t his fault. With five minutes to spare in a mile-a-minute car on ninety-miles-an-hour roads, there were five gateways to free­dom for Marcus, and Marcus had got those five minutes.

  Having reached the veranda, Bony caught the eye of George and drifted to a quiet corner where he sat in a wickedly sensuous lounge chair and was waited on by the smiling steward.

  “Looks like rain, George,” Bony remarked. “Do I observe some new guests?”

  “Yes, sir. Several new guests arrived today. Just back from the city?”

  “Just back, George. My friends brought me as far as the drive. Plenty of policemen still meandering about.”

  “They are apt to do that, sir, after the crime.”

  “Naturally,” Bony agreed.

  “Another cup of tea, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I see that you’ve cut your cheek, sir. Rather badly, too,” George said solicitously. “Miss Jade keeps a surgical box, and she could dress the wound, if you wish.”

  Bony smiled. He regarded the dark eyes gazing down upon him.

  “I might accept your suggestion after dinner,” he said. “I bashed my cheek against a projection in the friend’s car as I was getting out. They put some plaster and stuff on it, but I washed it all off before I left to return home. It looked worse than the cut. I see a guest waiting to catch your attention.”

  “Thank you, sir,” George murmured, and wheeled away his serving trolley.

  The wind contained a cold finger, so Bony did not long remain on the veranda. He had seen Inspector Snook walk up from the wicket gate, and he had observed the roof of the bus which had stopped below the gates to pick up the press­men who had gone down to meet it. And now, slowly and pensively, he left the veranda and strolled along the path which would take him to the driveway and the end of the house wh
ere the main entrance and garages were situated. He was in time to see Snook and three other plain-clothes men get into a car and leave.

  He began to admire Miss Jade’s shrubs, many of which were flowering. Her selection of rhododendrons was excellent. Having crossed the drive to admire these, he came presently to the path leading to Bisker’s hut.

  The path was composed of cinders. It was hard and level, but not sufficiently hard to prevent boot tracks being registered on its surface for such as he to see. There were many marks made by Bisker’s hob-nailed boots number eight. There were the tracks made by another eight boot, worn by a man who had gone towards the hut and then had returned. And there were the impressions of a twelve-sized shoe or boot made previously to the visit of the man wearing the eight size, for his boot-mark frequently overlaid the impressions of the twelve size.

  On either side of the path there was a border of painted-wooden boards, and upon the outside of these boards the ground was cultivated and grew varieties of early-spring flowers planted somewhat widely apart. One of these, a heath, was a miniature hillock of heliotrope.

  It grew within a few yards of Bisker’s hut, and near to it the ground bore evidence of recent disturbance.

  On either side of the path the ground had been roughly dug, and since the operation had been completed it had rained much and this had tended to level the soil, a dark loam of fine texture. Where Bony had struggled with the gunman, there were patches of ground pressed into a greater degree of levelness and he saw the impressions of toe and heel marks, and several impressions of the abnormal shoe or boot size twelve. They had been made by the same man on the path and down on the ramp leading to the highway.

  Here, a little off the path, the impressions made by the large boot or shoe could not be considered as an impression which the wearer would normally make when walking, but the impressions on the path were normally made.

  Bony proceeded towards Bisker’s hut, slowly and with the interest of the guest captivated by the sylvan scene of garden and trees and the smoke-blue view beyond. He came to the hut, and, with his hands clasped behind him, often stopped to admire this and that. He circled the building to see his own tracks and those made by the large-size boot or shoe of the gunman, who had pretended to be drunk and who had also pretended that the hut was an abnormal tree trunk.