greyhound loosed from the traps.
‘Come on!’ he cried, springing forward.
‘Less than an hour ago – you’re certain of that, are you, Mr Meadows?’
Telephone in hand, Sinclair directed his question towards the rumpled figure on the settee. Receiving a nod in reply, he spoke into the receiver, ‘He hasn’t had time to get anywhere, Arthur. Not to the channel ports, certainly, nor to Southampton. But I want them all alerted… Yes, I’m aware it was done earlier today. But this is a specific warning. We know he’s on his way. And I want it spread wider. Bristol. Liverpool. Anywhere he might take passage from.’
The chief inspector paused to listen, biting his lip as he did so, and then peering at Madden, who was standing with folded arms by the fireplace, a frown etched on his brow. Beside him, Billy Styles knelt on the hearth: he was carefully sifting through the ashes in the still smoking grate, though with little expectation of finding anything. No trace of their quarry, no single piece of physical evidence that could be tied to Gaston Lang, had been discovered so far: not in the sitting room, where they were, nor anywhere else in the house, which still echoed to the tramp of detectives’ feet. All they knew for sure was that Lang himself had been there not an hour before. And now he was gone.
‘Yes, a Mr Henry Meadows…’ Sinclair had begun speaking again. He glanced at the man on the settee, who, in the middle of trying to tuck in his shirt, half rose, as though answering to his name. ‘He works for a solicitor in Midhurst called Bainbridge. The owner of the cottage is a client of Bainbridge’s and he dealt with the lease. It was advertised in a local newspaper. Lang, or De Beer, as they knew him, called at the office unannounced – this was in early August – and made an offer. Apparently Bainbridge wasn’t keen on the business – Lang had no references – but after he made a cash offer and agreed to a deposit he let him take it. On Friday Lang rang up and announced he was leaving. Although he was paid up to the end of the year, he didn’t ask for any money back. But Bainbridge thought he’d better send out one of his clerks just the same to do an inventory. Meadows says they were supposed to go through it together, but Lang told him when he got here that he was leaving right away and he’d have to do it on his own. My guess is we missed him by half an hour, no more.’
The bitterness of the pill he’d had to swallow showed in the chief inspector’s tense expression. Angry and thwarted, he’d needed all the self-control he could muster to deal with the hapless Meadows, who, shocked by the sudden eruption of detectives into the cottage and the rough handling he’d received, had proved to be a witness of limited value.
‘This car he left in – what make was it?’ Almost before the clerk had recovered his senses, Sinclair had begun pressing him. ‘What model?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I really couldn’t say…
Fair-haired, and tending towards plumpness, Meadows had been helped to the settee and given a glass of water, but neither had settled his nerves. Discovered in the sitting room by the detectives who’d burst in at the front, he’d been thrown to the floor and pinned there for several seconds, and although it was soon realized he was not their man, the experience had rendered him all but speechless for precious minutes, leaving the chief inspector to pace the sitting room while he waited.
‘I’ve never owned a car, you see. I get about on a bike…’
Still gasping, Meadows had paused to fumble with his tie, pulled askew in the struggle, and only belatedly become aware of the glare he was receiving from Sinclair.
‘It was black, though… the car, I mean. Mr De Beer had taken it out of the garage. He was putting his trunk in it when I arrived, pushing it up on the back seat.’
‘His trunk, you say… can you describe it? Size… colour… anything?’
Meadows’ fleshy face had turned redder. Near tears, he’d stared back at his tormentor.
‘It might have been brown, sir, but I’m not certain. It was just a trunk…’
Sinclair had already imparted this information to Chief Superintendent Holly in London, asking that it be passed on to the authorities at the ports, including customs officers. ‘The car’s obviously a four-door sedan, not that that helps much.’
With a glance at his watch now, he brought their conversation to an end.
‘I must ring this fellow Bainbridge, the solicitor in Midhurst, and tell him what’s happened. He may have other information. We’ll be here for a while. I want a forensic team to go through the place. It looks as though Lang’s wiped it clean. But we might find a fingerprint somewhere.’
As he put down the phone, Braddock entered. He’d been to the garage to see if anything had been left there by their quarry. A quick shake of the head told Sinclair his errand had been fruitless.
‘There’s no need for you to stay, Inspector.’ Sinclair reached for his pipe and tobacco. ‘You can take the uniformed officers back if you like. But return the car, if you would. We’ll need it later.’
Meadows stirred unhappily on the settee. ‘What about me, sir? Can I go? I ought to report to Mr Bainbridge.’
‘You can do that in a moment, when I ring him. But I want you here just now. You may remember something useful.’
The chief inspector hadn’t meant his words to sound harsh, but Meadows flushed on hearing them and his misery seemed to increase. Unaware of it, Sinclair caught Madden’s eye and gestured towards the front door, inviting him to step outside into the garden.
‘We had him in our hands, John. And now, by God, we’ve lost him.’ Waiting only for the door to be shut behind them, Sinclair gave vent to his frustration.
‘Don’t assume that, Angus.’ Seeing the distress on his friend’s face, Madden sought to assuage it. ‘They may still get him at one of the ports.’
‘I very much doubt it. He won’t try to leave now. He knows we’re looking for him.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
Sinclair shrugged. ‘You heard what Meadows said. He wouldn’t wait for a moment. He was getting out.’
Eyes cast down, the chief inspector studied the small patch of garden before them. In the dying light of afternoon, grey as lead, the sodden lawn, bordered by shrubs and flower beds, had a dank, unwelcoming look. He’d been fumbling for some minutes with his tobacco pouch, trying to fill his pipe, but as though defeated by this simple task, he abandoned the effort and thrust both back into his pocket.
Madden grunted. ‘So you think he learned about the search going on in Midhurst?’
‘It’s the obvious explanation, isn’t it?’ Sinclair grimaced. ‘The word would have spread fast enough. Perhaps he was there himself, in town. He’s got the luck of the devil, this man.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘He’s been carrying a bottle of chloroform around with him in his pocket since yesterday. Does that mean he had a victim in mind? Or was it just a precaution? Either way, all I can hope is that we’ve scared him off. But I can’t see him walking into any trap now. Not Gaston Lang. He’ll find another place to lie low and wait for the fuss to die down. It’ll be up to someone else to catch him. If they ever do.’
Lifting his gaze he stared out over the hedge towards the distant Downs.
‘I’ve no taste myself for the hangman’s rope. The practice is barbaric. But there’s never been a man I wanted to lay hands on more. Aye, and hoped to see swing. But I doubt we’ll set eyes on him now. We’ve missed our chance, and we won’t get another. He’s gone for good.’
31
Sam turned at the gate and whistled.
‘Come along, Sally. Get a move on, old girl.’
The dog hesitated in the lighted doorway, unwilling to leave the warmth of the kitchen. Behind her he could see Bess’s anxious figure. The cook’s pink face, even more flushed than usual from the tears she’d shed, radiated distress like an alarm beacon.
‘You’ll let us know what they say, won’t you, Sam?’ she called out to him.
‘Of course I will, love. What’s more I’ll get them moving. You can tell Mrs Ramsay that, too.’ Sam slapped his thigh. ‘Now that’s enough of that, Sal. Come on!’
It would be dark in less than an hour and he wanted to get over to the barn again while there was still some
