“Packing?”
“Well, he was wandering about the room clearing up his papers, and there was a despatch-box open on the table, and a suitcase on the floor. And, as I knew he was due to be at the funeral, I thought this was rather a funny time for him to want to leave. Especially as he’d given no notice to Mrs. Davis. So I wondered whether, perhaps, there was anything behind it.”
“You did well to wonder,” said Bredon. “So what did you do?”
“Well it stuck in my head that Mottram, when he came down here, came in a motorcar. Mrs. Davis, though her trade announcement advertises good accommodation for man and beast, does not run to a garage. There is only one in Chilthorpe; you can just see it down the road there. Now, thought I, if by any chance Mr. Brinkman is meditating a precipitate disappearance, it would be like his caution to have made all arrangements beforehand. And if I went down to the garage and had a look at the car, it might be that I, though heaven knows I am no motorist, should be able to see whether he had got the car in proper trim for a journey.”
“You must have talked very nicely to the garage people,” suggested Angela. “It would never do if you were suspected of being a motor-thief.”
“Well, I had to do my best. I changed my mind about going to the funeral, and made the excuse that I wanted to go fishing. I heard you gasp, Mr. Eames; but Brinkman knows nothing about fishing. Then, when you had started, I went off to the garage by myself. Fortunately, very fortunately for my purpose, it proved that there was nobody in. There are only two men, in any case, and they neglect their business a good deal. I had an excuse if one was needed, but when I found myself alone in the garage I flung caution to the winds. There was a cardcase inside which showed me which was Mottram’s car. My investigations led me to the conclusion that the car was in readiness for an immediate and secret departure for some considerable journey.”
“Do tell us what they were,” said Angela demurely. “Just for the interest of the thing.”
“Well, I removed with some difficulty a kind of cap from that thing behind, which put me in a position to examine the interior of what is, I suspect, called the petrol-tank. The careful insertion of a pencil showed that the tank was quite full; which suggested that a refill had been obtained since they arrived.”
“They might have run short on the journey down, a mile or two out,” suggested Angela. “But this was not all?”
“No, there was a map lying on the driver’s seat, somewhat carelessly folded up. I thought it a point of interest that this map did not include Pullford, and seemed to contemplate an expedition to the west or southwest.”
“There’s not a great deal in that,” said Bredon. “Still, it’s suggestive. Anything else?”
“Well, you know, I lifted up one of the seats, and found there a collection of sandwiches and a large flask of whisky.”
“The devil you did! But they might have been for the journey down here. Did you taste the sandwiches to see if they were fresh?”
“I took that liberty. They seemed to me, I must say, a trifle on the stale side. But who was I to complain? I was, as it were, a guest. Meanwhile, let me point out to you the improbability of Mottram’s loading up his car with sandwiches for a twenty-mile drive.”
“That’s true. Were they properly cut? Professional work, I mean?”
“I suspected the hand of the artist. Mrs. Davis, no doubt. The whisky I did not feel at liberty to broach. But the idea suggested itself to me that these were the preparations of a man who is contemplating a considerable journey, and probably one which will not allow him time to take his meals at a public-house.”
“And why a secret departure?”
“Why, somebody had induced a coat of black paint over what I take to be the numberplate of the car. I am a mere novice in such matters, but is that usual?”
“It is not frequently done. And was the paint still wet?”
“That is a curious point. The paint was dry. I supposed then, that Brinkman’s preparations for departure were not made yesterday or the day before.”
“It’s awfully kind of you to take all this trouble, and to come and tell us.”
“Not at all. I thought perhaps it might be worth mentioning, in case you thought it best, well, to lay hands somehow on Brinkman.”
“Why, Mr. Pulteney,” said Angela, bubbling over, “we were just preparing to lay hands on you!”
XVIII
The Barmaid Is Brought to Book
The bewilderment registered by Mr. Pulteney’s face at this extraordinary announcement rapidly gave way to a look of intense gratification. “At last,” he said, “I have lived! To be mistaken for a criminal, perhaps a murderer—it is my nunc dimittis. All these years I have lived the blameless life of one who is continually called upon to edify his juniors; I have risen early in order to convict my pupils of the sin of being late; I have eaten sparingly in order to pretend that the food provided by our establishment is satisfying when it is not; I have pretended to sentiments of patriotism, of rugged sportsmanship, of moral approval or indignation, which I did not feel. There is little to choose, believe me, between the fakir and the schoolmaster; either must spend days of wearisome mortification, because that is the way in which he gets his living. And now, for one crowded hour of glorious old age, I have been mistaken for a guilty intriguer. The blood flows richer in my veins; I am overcome with gratitude. If only I could have kept it up!”
“
