He had managed to struggle to his feet, and, pulling himself together, was wondering—his heart hammering and his mouth as dry as sand—what he had better do, when a youthful voice from a bush beside him observed on a confident note:
‘You’re dead! It’s a plame we’re gaying.’
Gascoigne jumped a couple of yards. Then out of the bush crawled a boy in the uniform of a Wolf Cub. He was an engaging-looking child with scratched knees, freckles, a green cap, a grey jersey and a broad smile.
‘I bagged him, Chinstrap,’ he observed.
‘Yes, Mr. Handley,’ responded a second voice, as its owner followed the freckled Mr. Handley on to the path. ‘I don’t mind if you did, sir.’
‘Well, it’s a fair cop, Governor Handley,’ observed Gascoigne, collecting his wits. ‘How do, Colonel?’
‘Happy to meet you, sir,’ responded the Colonel. ‘Cow dew, did you say, sir? I’ll try anything.’
‘Well, look here,’ said Gascoigne earnestly, ‘as it happens, I’m rather in a spot.’
‘Lather in a pot? I don’t think I should like it,’ giggled the Colonel, entranced by his own wit. ‘Did you hear that, Mr. Handley? He said “rather in a spot,” and I said “lather in a pot.” Not bad!’
‘Oh, dry up, Chinstrap, and don’t be funny,’ said Mr. Handley, giving the Colonel a dig in the spine which made him wince. ‘Can’t you see he’s serious? Are you training for anything?’ he asked, looking with great interest at Gascoigne’s running-vest with the Club badge on the left breast.
‘No. Just a cross-country run,’ said Gascoigne. ‘But I’m a—a sort of a special constable in my spare time—help the police a bit, you know—and I’m on the track of a criminal and I want to get in touch with them. Where’s the nearest police station? Do you know?’
‘We wouldn’t be Wolf Cubs long if we didn’t,’ said Mr. Handley, giving a realistic howl. ‘Look here, we shall probably go a good deal faster than you, even if you are a runner. We have to keep up a wolf’s pace, you know, which most grown-up people can’t manage. It takes a bit of doing, I can tell you! So perhaps we had better forge ahead and you can follow at your own pace. We’ll leave a spoor. Where do you want the police to meet you? Wouldn’t you like us to help you track the criminal? We’re very good at tracking, you know. I’m the best tracker, and Chinstrap comes-second, and then— ’
‘You silly ass!’ shrieked the Colonel. ‘Of course you’re not the best! Why, only last week— ’
‘Oh, dry up! We’re on a job,’ said Mr. Handley hastily.
‘You’re jolly good chaps,’ said Gascoigne, gratefully. He had been wondering how he could manage to get rid of the two children. It was quite impossible that they could play in the wood for long without discovering the body. ‘All right. You push along, then, but mind how you go. I shouldn’t rush. I wouldn’t have anyone of the Itma team hurt for any money.’
‘Dirt and honey, sir?’ said the irrepressible Chinstrap, smacking himself on the head, or, rather on the cap, with delight, and then ecstatically punching his friend. ‘I don’t think me sister would like it.’
The two little boys then neighed like horses, and began to canter away.
‘What, Crafty Clara?’ came over the air on the boyish, treble notes of Mr. Handley. ‘The woman who— ’ Gascoigne missed the rest of it, and settled down grimly to await the arrival of the others, not certain how long it would be before help came, and speculating upon the length of time the body had been in the wood before he had arrived. He could guess who had killed Firman, but not where the murderer had gone. It was evident, though, that the checker-in had heard the shot, and this would help to fix the time of the death.
At the end of ten minutes he heard the sound he had been awaiting, the call of the cuckoo repeated four times. He came out on to the path by which he had reached the wood, and saw O’Hara alone.
‘We’re too late,’ he said, as soon as his cousin came near. ‘Somebody’s shot poor Firman through the head. I’ve found the body.’
‘We saw him kidnapped,’ said O’Hara. ‘That fellow— Battle, or whoever he is—swooped on him with a car just as we’d got him cut out from the rest of the field. He forced him to get in. We’ve been trying to find out where the car went. That’s why I’m late. Is he really—I suppose you do know that he is dead?’
‘He’s dead all right. He was killed before I got here. I found the body. It’s back there.’ Gascoigne jerked his head. ‘Could you swear to Battle?’
‘Impossible to swear to him. For one thing, he’d got a tin hat on—you know how that alters a chap’s appearance—and he had a handkerchief tied over his mouth and chin. There was nothing to see but his eyes, and I couldn’t have sworn to those, I mean, not at a trial or even to the police.’
‘It wasn’t Cassius, I suppose?’
‘It might have been. I couldn’t say. Nobody could accept my identification, I’m afraid.’
‘What happened, exactly?’
‘Well, it isn’t very easy to describe. He just drove straight up to Firman. I thought he was going to drive into him at first. So did Firman. He jumped a gorse bush and the fellow drove straight on after him. Then he took out a gun, after he had pulled up the car, called on Firman to stop, went up to him, stuck the gun in his ribs, and took him back to the car. Firman got into the car, and away they went.’
‘Where were you when all this happened, then?’
‘About two hundred yards behind; but we were on the other side of a hedge, and I don’t think the fellow saw us. He was in the deuce of a hurry. Neither of us did a thing. I still don’t see what there was to do. The two were in the car, and the car was off, before we could grasp what had happened.’
‘Did Firman seem to know the chap?’
‘Oh, yes, there’s not much doubt he did.’
‘Well, this fellow’s killed him—or somebody has.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve sent someone to fetch the police. I’d better trot back and direct them here. I should think he’s got them by now. By the way, I found a telephone, and rang up Mrs. Bradley. I thought she ought to know about the kidnapping.’
‘We shall have to ring her again.’ said Gascoigne gloomily. ‘We are unlucky. It looks as though Firman knew something really important.’
‘Or else that, whatever he knew, they had reason to think he’d spill it.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
—«♦»—
‘… so she said he was like a green stick that had been laid to dry over a baker’s oven.’
Ibid. (King Grisly-Beard)
« ^ »
Laura, meanwhile, had received a reply to her message and gift. She had given the address of the hotel at Welsea to David Battle in case there should be any queries about the portrait of her that he was painting, and here she was rung up on the telephone at about the time that the police, converging on two sides—for the Wolf Cubs had made haste to call the local police constable to the wood—had seen the body of Firman and had taken it, Gascoigne and O’Hara into their charge.