THE RABBIT'S PAW

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22025, 4 February 1935, Page 17

THE RABBIT'S PAW

By SELWYN JEPSON Author of "The Qualified Adventurer." " Snaggletooth," " I lger uawn. "1 jVlet Murder," "The Denth Cong," etc., etc.

CHAPTER IV. —(Continued) X iaw what he meant. The prints •were clear enough, an average-sized man by his weight and length of boot. Seven or eights . . . " Stout boots, these," Peter commented. with the dry, concise tone he uses when lie is pleased or excited. " Nails in .'em, too. Hullo —yes, here it is again. See this? Two nails missing on the heel of th" left. This is almost what we. might rail a clue, Georpe ray boy. Is anybody in sight at the moment, showing interest in us?" " Not that I. can see." He walked slowly along the side of the path, his head bent, his keen eyes picking out the "trail. " Best people use plaster of Paris," he remarked. but we'll have to make do 4 He produced an old letter from his pocket (a typed business one. on thin quarto paper, I noticed), and with a penknife he cut out quite an accurate template of one of the most defined prints of the left foot. Fitting it into it, he felt its . surface for the small holes left by the nails, and marked their positions bv puncturing the paper with the kniie point. "A bit'' sleuthy of me," he Apologized, " but you never know." He folded the template, put it away in his wallet and inspected the path Again for several yards in both directions, and finally said: '• He didn't come back this way. And now 1 wonder if you are as thirsty as I am ? 1 admitted that 1 was, and we turned ,toward the house, Peter remarking that Ditcham House got on his nerves. " 1 suppose it's Vance, really. Aunt Edith isn't so bad," he said. " She's human in x'laces. But our authority on the Reformation seems to be a dry stick. Even his face is like one of his parchment relics. And the mould has got into his veins, I'm igent, very, but not active. No. Was he really.upset at owing Passmore five thousand quid. Did it worry him at all that Betbniay was to marry the man?" He lapsed into silence. " You tire quite, sure," I began, • that lie wasi not capable of " "Murder to save his daughter? George, I am not sure about anything in this queer and sinister business. Vance knew! might suspect him, and he told me so, -very subtly after tea. Wliy did he descend on us in the Dutch garden? To have it out with me —to disarm me, if you like., with candour. Eou heard."

I stopped and looked at him. " Then you still think that Vance —" He made an impatient gesture. „ "Face it, George, for heaven's sake I" The weapon;? It had been assumed at the inquest that it was the dead man's. Only assumed, though. No firearms certificate, no police registration, no record of its purchase had appeared. An old type of pistol bought before guch things were controlled, and stowed away somewhere . . . But if Passmore had been murdered, whose pistol? Uncannily, but littki to my surprise, Peter said: " Anybody's revolver until we settle the ownership. That's one line of inquiry to be followed." "Vance!" 1 muttered, but thinking cf my poor Bethmav. " Another, obviously, is Constance Passmore." " What?*' " Another line of inquiry.' He paused and then: " You were there, George. You ve witnessed everything from the beginning, when" I had the ill-luck to be off the scene. Your ears and eyes and nose and the-impressions they collected for vou are all I have. Now, George, she cried out: " You're dead! Why are you dead?' didn't she, when she dropped down by his body? Was that in grief or horror?" , God knows her cry was clear enough in mv memory, but 1 thought it out. "In both," I said, " and I'm not 6iire there wasn't a tinge of something else. Disappointment —as though his dying just then was not the best thing that could have happened for her. He nodded. , " ' Why are you dead? gives that feeling, even without tone of voice to it. It doesn't sound as though she had'any hand or interest in his murder." ' . " She wasn't acting. He sihot me a quick glance. " She's ' beautiful; therefore she s good and true," he sighed. " Such w biologic blind-folding." "She didn't —and doesn t —attract me in the least," I retorted. " I was suspicious of her and wondering who the devil she could be. Stop being Psychology's pet boy rnd tell me what vou propose to do. lhat man Smet waite will have stirred up the Passmores, and if I know anything about them and their temper, they'll be down on you—on us —like a ton of bricks, wanting to know what the hell -for here we are, whispering among ourselves that brother William didn t kill himself. Although that restores the family reputation for sanity, it also starts a lot of awkwardness, as you ve elreadv demonstrated. r lhe funeral is to-morrow., Will they-want to re-open the inquest, adjourn it while the police make further inquiries, and thrash the whole thing out? Or what? Hadn t.we better see them and talk it over? Put your theory to them for what it s worth?" , "And Va noo?" mormared Peter. "What happens there?" " I haven't forgotten that. But he didn't do it, whatever you say about motive and suspecting everybody, and so on. You know he didn't! Hell be able to prov.e it But if we wait for the Passniores to jump en lis, the likelihood of their being reasonable is remote. I know - 'em. They'll say we are Ehielding Vance and demand "We are shielding Vance," he interrupted. "To it certain extent, anyhow." •C' " • " What do you mean? " He did not explain, but went on quickly: " You're right about the Passmoies, tlitftieh. We'll have to tell Vance we think it be.st to take them into our confidence. He won't be able to object, and if he does —well, we may at least discover how ftr he sees himself in a guilty position and how much it worries him " Something h.id occurred to me, inevitably in consequence of my previous train of thought, and because it Wade tne uneasy I put words to it. II Beth may's room is above the library. She heard the shot. Vance was hi the library—and didn't." ."I know, I know." Peter waved his hands' as though he had quite enough to think about at the moment without adding to it. " He must.have heard it!". I added, niore to myself than him. We had crossed the lawn and were ibout to pass into the Dutch garden on-our way to the terrace when Peter popped bet we. hi the two ancient Cypress trees which stood on either•ide of the entrance.

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Something had attracted his sharp eyes, and he stepped closer to the tree on the sight. He peered into it at a point level with his head. " What is it?" " Sob—keep quiet—" He thrust his hand into the tree and parted the thick, still branches which formed an unbroken surface ot evergreen some twenty feet high and more than that in circumference. A man, 1 thought, could hide in there as long as he liked without beinsi B»eu from the outside. And, horror unspeakable, a man was hiding there! . ■ • He fell out, bead and shoulders of him, as Peter pulled the branches aside. ... [ caught a glimpse of a greenish, sickly white face and staring eyes, a lolling arm which hung uncannily limp, and a neck with a yellow handkerchief tied round, it as a muffler. A dead man! . . . CHAPTER V. WFI PRACTISE TO DECEIVE His jacket was rusty-brown velvet like a gamekeeper's, his waistcoat a check affair with leather buttons; the fingers were rough and calloused, with broken, dirty nails. 1 heard the quick, heavy beating of my heart, and Peter's stutter of horror. Then he thrust the thing back with all his strength, so that it disappeared and the close branches covered it again. We said no word, but stood dumbfounded, our eyes everywhere but on the cypress. Peter was pale, and his mouth like a long-healed scar. He fumbled mechanically for his cigarette ca.se and offered it to me. The :3ame of the petrol lighter quivered. " The yellow muffler caught my eye," he said in a voice I scarcely recognised. " Chance, instinct —God knows what —made me look closer. I didn't know it was—that." " Who is it?" " 1 don't know. You ever seen him?" I shook my head. " You saw—how he had died?" Peter said. " No. I was behind you. I didn't see much." " There'si a wound in the side of his head. A nasty wound." " Murdered?" The word escaped me, and he nodded. " Probably." " And shoved in there —" He nodded again. " Pull yourself together and let s get on." I obeyed him with my mind like a jelly. " Leave it to me," I heard him say. " He's not; been dead long. Twentyfour hours —not more. Whoever put him in there won't leave him there. Ought to tell the police . . .but we'll put it ol! a little. Criminal, but can't be helped. . . . Surely they won't leave him in the tree? Only a matter of time before someone sees him —or he falls out by himself . . . murderer must take him. away. . . . We were in the Dutch garden. I looked back through the gap in the cypress, and could not believe I had seen what it hid. Then Peter snapped his fingers, and a queer light shone in his eyes. "Unless he was planted, purposely!" I saw what he meant. " Why in that tree, so close to here?" he went on, talking to himself. " Put in there at night, when nobody could watch. Killed somewhere else — must have been. Why killed ? W hat had he done? Blackmail? Knowing too much about something?" He lifted hisi head. A voice floated to us from the terrace. A timug, important voice—Mr. Smethwaite's. It brought us to our senses more : effectively, perhaps, than anything else could have done. We went up to hear what he was saying, and to whom. There were three people on the terrace besides Mr. Sinethwaite. Paul and Rohan Passmore and Edith Vance. The journalist was talking, and Edith, sitting at her needlework in the chair j where we had left her after tea, was ; obviously puzzled. She knew, however, j that she was in the midst of dramatic j happening!), and that Mr. Smethwaite's tone was both authoritative and faintly j j threatening. She had not been present j at our first brush with the journalist, ; and apparently neither Bethmay nor j James Vance had told her about it. "I repeat, madam," Mr. Smethwaite j was saying, " that it would be best if j you took heed of my request and summoned Mr. Vance at once. The matter j concerns him closely, and we—these j gentlemen and myself—wish to discuss it with him immediately." " I do not know who you are," she said, " but I have already told you twice that my brother and my niece have gone for a walk. Doubtless they are <in the park somewhere and will return presently. If you wish to wait, you may do'so in the hall." "It's all right; Miss Vance. Mr. j Smethwaite only wants Mr. Vance to know that he is determined to make what he calls 'inquiries,' and that the Passmores are, quite naturally, worried by the development —if it can be said to be that." Paul shifted his feet, stared at Peter, and said: "You're saying that. William was murdered. That's the development." Peter agreed sombrely, and Paul went on: " I suppose you realise what you're up to —spreading rumours like that? " Without Mr. Smethwaite's assistance I couldn't possibly have done anything in that direction. The gentle eavesdropper, you understand. Rohan growled in his throat, but Paul gestured to him to keep silent. " I understand that. But it s beside the point. The fact remains that vou have seen fit'to decide that we, the police and everybody, have been hoodwinked into thinking William killed himself." . . , Peter agreed with a jerk of his head. Paul's brows drew together. We were all very still, for there was a storm hovering, and we none of us knew what would happen should it Peter's eyes were restless as he weighed his audience in the brief moment of expectancy. He saw that the brothers were angry and determined to make trouble, and he did the onlv possible thing: he gave thein quickly and concisely the exact process bv which he bad come to his conclusions. He explained the chance remark about the golf-clubs, the discrepancy in the side from which the fatal bullet had entered William's temple when considered in the light ot his habitual le'ft-handedness, and finally the small likelihood that he should have sat facing the pool, with his le£ s ( } n the water side of the coping, before shooting himself. " Come and I'll show you what I mean," lie added, and marched off down the terrace to the Dutch gardens without waiting to see either the effects of his words or whether he was followed. But the Passniores followed. Jhey had little choice; for one thing Smethwaite was hot on Peter's heels in his anxiety to see the theory demonstrated, and for another, even if thev thought Peter had gone out of his senses, they would have to go after him to tell him so. But if that, was their intention, he crave them small opportunity. He had started being what he called " diagrammatic " before they were properly assembled round the lily pond. (To b«> continued daily)