The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (important of reading books TXT) 📕

THE TELEPHONE MESSAGE

If Pratt had only known what was going on in the old quarries at

Whitcliffe, about the very time that he was riding slowly out to Barford

on his bicycle, he would not only have accelerated his pace, but would

have taken good care to have chosen another route: he would also have

made haste to exchange bicycle for railway train as quickly as possible,

and to have got himself far away before anybody could begin looking for

him in his usual haunts, or at places wherein there was a possibility of

his being found. But Pratt knew nothing of what Byner had done. He was

conscious of Byner’s visit to the Green Man. He did not know what

Pickard had been told by Bill Thomson. He was unaware of anything which

Pickard had told to Byner. If he had known that Byner, guided by

Pickard, had been to the old quarries, had fixed his inquiring eye on

the shaft which was filled to its brim with water, and had got certain

ideas from the mere sight of it, Pratt would have hastened to put

hundreds of miles between himself and Barford as quickly as possible.

But all that Pratt knew was that there was a possibility of

suspicion—which might materialize eventually, but not immediately.

On the previous evening, Pratt—had he but known it—made a great

mistake. Instead of going into Murgatroyd’s shop after he had watched

Byner and Prydale away from it—he should have followed those two astute

and crafty persons, and have ascertained something of their movements.

Had he done so, he would certainly not have troubled to return to Peel

Row, nor to remain in Barford an hour longer than was absolutely

necessary. For Pratt was sharp-witted enough when it came to a question

of putting one and two together, and if he had tracked Prydale and the

unknown man who was with him to a certain house whereto they repaired as

soon as they quitted Murgatroyd’s shop, he would have drawn an inference

from the mere fact of their visit which would have thrown him into a

cold sweat of fear. But Pratt, after all, was only one man, one brain,

one body, and could not be in two places, nor go in two ways, at the

same time. He took his own way—ignorant of his destruction.

Byner also took a way of his own. As soon as he and Prydale left

Murgatroyd’s shop, they chartered the first cab they met with, and

ordered its driver to go to Whitcliffe Moor.

“It’s the quickest thing to do—if my theory’s correct,” observed Byner,

as they drove along, “Of course, it is all theory—mere theory! But I’ve

grounds for it. The place—the time—mere lonely situation—that scrap

iron lying about, which would be so useful in weighting a dead body!—I

tell you, I shall be surprised if we don’t find Parrawhite at the bottom

of that water!”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Prydale. “One thing’s very certain, as we

shall prove before we’re through with it—Pratt’s put that poor devil

Murgatroyd up to this passage-to-America business. And a bit clumsily,

too—fancy Murgatroyd being no better posted up than to tell me that

Parrawhite called on him at a certain hour that night!”

“But you’ve got to remember that Pratt didn’t know of Parrawhite’s

affairs with Pickard, nor that he was at the Green Man at that hour,”

rejoined Byner. “My belief is that Pratt thinks himself safe—that he

fancies he’s provided for all contingencies. If things turn out as I

think they will, I believe we shall find Pratt calmly seated at his desk

tomorrow morning.”

“Well—if things do turn out as you expect, we’ll lose no time in

seeking him there!” observed Prydale dryly. “We’d better arrange to get

the job done first thing.”

“This Mr. Shepherd’ll make no objection, I suppose?” asked Byner.

“Objection! Lor’ bless you—he’ll love it!” exclaimed Prydale. “It’ll be

a bit of welcome diversion to a man like him that’s naught to do. He’ll

object none, not he!”

Shepherd, a retired quarry-owner, who lived in a picturesque old stone

house in the middle of Whitcliffe Moor, with nothing to occupy his

attention but the growing of roses and vegetables, and an occasional

glance at the local newspapers, listened to Prydale’s request with

gradually rising curiosity. Byner had at once seen that this call was

welcome to this bluff and hearty Yorkshireman, who, without any question

as to their business, had immediately welcomed them to his hearth and

pressed liquor and cigars on them: he sized up Shepherd as a man to whom

any sort of break in the placid course of retired life was a delightful

event.

“A dead man i’ that old shaft i’ one o’ my worked out quarries!” he

exclaimed. “Ye don’t mean to say so! An’ how long d’yer think he might

ha’ been there, now, Prydale?”

“Some months, Mr. Shepherd,” replied the detective.

“Why, then it’s high time he were taken out,” said Shepherd. “When might

you be thinkin’ o’ doin’ t’ job, like?”

“As soon as possible,” said Prydale. “Tomorrow morning, early, if that’s

convenient to you.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” observed the retired quarry-owner. “You

leave t’ job to me. I’ll get two or three men first thing tomorrow

morning, and we’ll do it reight. You be up there by half-past eight

o’clock, and we’ll soon satisfy you as to whether there’s owt i’ t’

shape of a dead man or not i’ t’ pit. You hev’ grounds for believin’ ‘at

theer is–-what?”

“Strong grounds!” replied the detective, “and equally strong ones for

believing the man came there by foul play, too.”

“Say no more!” said Shepherd. “T’ mystery shall be cleared up. Deary me!

An’ to think ‘at I’ve walked past yon theer pit many a dozen times

within this last few o’ months, and nivver dreamed ‘at theer wor owt in

it but watter! Howivver, gentlemen, ye can put yer minds at ease—we’ll

investigate the circumstances, as the sayin’ goes, before noon

tomorrow.”

“One other matter,” remarked Prydale. “We want things kept quiet. We

don’t want all the folk of the neighbourhood round about, you know.”

“Leave it to me,” answered Shepherd. “There’ll be me, and these men, and

yourselves—and a pair of grapplin’ irons. We’ll do it quiet and

comfortable—and we’ll do it reight.”

“Odd character!” remarked Byner, when he and Prydale went away.

“Useful man—for a job of that sort,” said the detective laconically.

“Now then—are we going to let anybody else know what we’re after—Mr.

Eldrick or Mr. Collingwood, for instance? Do you want them, or either of

them, to be present?”

“No!” answered Byner, after a moment’s reflection. “Let us see what

results. We can let them know, soon enough, if we’ve anything to tell.

But—what about Pratt?”

“Keeping an eye on him—you mean?” said Prydale. “You said just now that

in your opinion we should find him at his desk.”

“Just so—but that’s no reason why he shouldn’t be looked after tomorrow

morning,” answered Byner.

“All right—I’ll put a man on to shadow him, from the time he leaves his

lodgings until—until we want him,” said the detective. “That is—if we

do want him.”

“It will be one of the biggest surprises I ever had in my life if we

don’t!” asserted Byner. “I never felt more certain of anything than I do

of finding Parrawhite’s body in that pit!”

It was this certainty which made Byner appear extraordinarily cool and

collected, when next day, about noon, he walked into Eldrick’s private

room, where Collingwood was at that moment asking the solicitor what was

being done. The certainty was now established, and it seemed to Byner

that it would have been a queer thing if he had not always had it. He

closed the door and gave the two men an informing glance.

“Parrawhite’s body has been found,” he said quietly.

Eldrick started in his chair, and Collingwood looked a sharp inquiry.

“Little doubt about his having been murdered, just as I conjectured,”

continued Byner. “And his murderer had pretty cleverly weighted his body

with scrap iron, before dropping it into a pit full of water, where it

might have remained for a long time undiscovered. However—that’s

settled!”

Eldrick got out the first question.

“Pratt?”

“Prydale’s after him,” answered Byner. “I expect we shall hear something

in a few minutes—if he’s in town. But I confess I’m a bit doubtful and

anxious now, on that score. Because, when Prydale and I got down from

Whitcliffe half an hour ago—where the body’s now lying, at the _Green

Man_, awaiting the inquest—we found Murgatroyd hanging about the police

station. He’d come to make a clean breast of it—about Pratt. And it

unfortunately turns out that Pratt saw Prydale and me go to Murgatroyd’s

shop last night, and afterwards went in there himself, and of course

pumped Murgatroyd dry as to why we’d been.”

“Why unfortunately?” asked Collingwood.

“Because that would