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  Sam continued to mooch round and he often recurred to the bar of the “Billhook,” and the men who used it agreed that he was a lad.

  From them his bicycle took him often to the hotel in the county town where Mr. Fortune unostentatiously resided.

  They had been rusticating thus for something more than a week, and Sam was sitting in the “Billhook” at lunch when he heard the telephone ring. “Yes,” the landlord’s wheezy voice answered; “yes, this is the ‘Billhook.’ I’m the landlord. What?” His voice made throaty noises. “Don’t know what you mean. Who’s that speaking? Who is it?” There was a silence. Then a rattling of the telephone. “I say, miss, who was that rang me up?” And again silence.

  Sam finished his lunch and went into the bar. The landlord was gulping down a glass of brandy; his hand shook and his face was a mottled yellow. Sam grinned. “And I’ll ’ave a spot o’ sloe gin myself, guv’nor.” He was served without a word and his money was taken. The landlord watched him go out, shut the door and went back to the telephone.

  In the evening Sam related these events to Mr. Fortune. “It gave ’im a rare turn, sir. Pity you can’t over’ear what’s coming from the other end of the telephone.”

  “Don’t worry,” Reggie murmured. “And then?”

  “Well, then ’e went back to the telephone and rung up someone and ’ad a long talk. ’E saw me off the premises first careful, so I don’t know who that was. But I ’ung about down the road an’ presently ’e came out and ’e went walking round by that old pond under the wood. Sort o’ mooning about. Didn’t do anything. Just starin’ like. And then ’e came back lookin’ that queer.”

  Over Reggie’s face came a slow benign smile. “No. No. He couldn’t do anything,” he murmured. “Now we’ll do a little more telephoning. Good-bye, Sam. I’m afraid you’ll have a night out. I want the ‘Billhook’ watched tonight.”

  “All right, sir. I’d love to do the blighter in. The beastly swipes I’ve drunk in his place! But what do you mean, more telephoning? That message ’e ’ad—”

  “Oh yes. Yes. That was me. Good-bye.”

  As soon as it grew dark Sam went into hiding behind a clump of gorse in the road above the “Billhook.” He saw the regular drinkers of that respectable inn arrive and cheerily depart. At the legal hour the “Billhook” closed its door and the light behind the red blind of its bar went out. Two lights upstairs announced that the landlord and his maid-of-all-work had gone to bed. Then those lights also vanished, and the inn was a vague mass in the dark.

  The night was silent but for the whirr of bats and an owl hooting. After a while Sam made out the beat of a motor engine far away, a bicycle engine efficiently silenced. It came nearer at a great pace, rushed past him, stopped at the inn, and without a knock or a word the door opened and the man and the bicycle were inside.

  For a moment Sam thought he heard a car purring down the road, then lost the sound. But soon other faint sounds came. A man was nearly treading on him, a hand felt for him, a torch flashed into his face. “All right, son,” a voice whispered. “I’m Bell.” The bulk of the Superintendent lay down at Sam’s side. “You’ve got a good nerve. Anything doing?”

  “Not ’alf,” Sam muttered. “Chap and his motor-bike gone into the pub. Couldn’t see him.”

  “Don’t you worry.”

  “But what’s up, sir?”

  “Search me. No more talk now.”

  They lay there some while longer. Then a light came out of the inn, a stable lantern in a man’s hand. He was the landlord. With him walked a smaller man, who carried a spade on his shoulder. They turned off the road. “’Ere,” Sam gripped at Bell, “goin’ down by the pond. That’s where the old ’un went this afternoon. What’s the game?”

  “Shut up,” Bell muttered. He let the two go well ahead before he stood up. Four other men rose out of the ground behind him. They moved on towards the pond silently. The lantern light was glimmering over the water: there was a squelching, splashing sound. The landlord stood in the pond a little way from the bank, digging, and the other man held the lantern. Something came away with a gurgling and sucking, which took two hands to lift, was taken out of the water and the landlord hurried away with it, leaving his companion to bring lantern and spade.

  As they came, Bell turned his torch on them, and other torches flashed out. They were held in the glare while his men closed. “We’re police officers,” said Bell, with a heavy grip on the landlord’s arm. “Now, what have you got for us?”

  “Oh, police, are you?” It was the other man who answered. “Going to make another bloomer, then?”

  “I know you, Clark,” Bell said.

  “You bloomin’ well do, Mr. bloomin’ Superintendent. An’ you know you can’t do anything more against me. I’ve been found not guilty, I have, and you can’t touch me. I know my rights and I ain’t going to stand for any rough stuff. Come off it.”

  “And this is your alibi,” Bell said mildly. “Well, what’s he giving us now?” He took from the landlord’s shaking arms a big metal box. “Thanks. Bring ’em back to the pub.”

  “Now, what do you think you’re doing?” Clark cried. “You’ve got no right to pinch me again. You can’t touch me. I tell you—” One of the detectives, hustling him along, advised him to stow the gab. “You wait till I get to my lawyer, you bloomin’ stiff. I’ll have the hide off you for this. I’ll have you turned out of the force.”

  “Want to talk now, Clark?” said Bell. “Let it out. You hadn’t much to say last time.”

  “I want to know what the bally charge is?” Clark growled.

  Bell laughed. “Well, what is it?” He held up the box. “Seems heavy.”

  They came into the bar of the “Billhook” and the lamps were lit. Bell looked at his prisoners. The landlord’s fat face sagged pallid. Clark scowled. “Going to give me the key?” Bell tapped the box.

  “I dunno nothing about it,” the landlord whined. “I—I was jus’ keeping it for—”

  “Don’t you say anything, George,” Clark said quickly. “He’ll only twist it against you.”

  “Yes, who were you keeping it for, George?” Bell smiled. There was no answer. “All right. I dare say we can tell you. Put ’em in there.” He opened the door of the bar parlour.

  “Here, now, wait a bit. What’s the charge?” Clark protested.

  “Detained on suspicion,” Bell said.

  “Oh yes, I don’t think. You had that before.”

  “And now I’ve got some more,” Bell said, and the two were taken away. “Well, Forbes, what about it?”

  One of his men was already opening the box. It was full of a bundle in leather cloth. Out of that came jewellery. Forbes spread out a printed list and began to examine things. “This is Durfey and Killigrew’s stuff all right, sir.”

  “Good work,” said Bell, and went to the telephone. “That Mr. Fortune? Bell speaking. We’ve got ’em, sir. With the stuff. They had it buried in this pond here. What, sir? You don’t mean—?” He brushed his hand over his face. “Very good, sir. I’ll keep ’em here.” He hung up the receiver. He sat down heavily and lit a pipe. It took many matches…

  Until dawn they waited in the inn, a long watch broken by the complaints of Clark. With the light came a car. Mr. Fortune and Lomas and the Chief Constable of the County. “Hallo, Bell.” Reggie was brisk. “Nobody else in the place?”

  “There’s a woman servant upstairs, Sam says. I haven’t got her up, sir. She seems to have slept through it.”

  “Yes. Been trained not to hear too much. Well, one of your men had better take her off. We shall want her statement. Don’t let her see these fellows. I—”

  A lorry groaned past the door.

  “Well, let’s get on, what?” He turned away. “When I want these two beauties I’ll whistle.”

  Through the window of the bar parlour the sharp red face of Mr. Clark could be seen peering after the lorry. It carried some country policemen in uniform. As near the pond as it
could get, it stopped. The policemen clambered down and hauled out a cumbrous apparatus of iron and rope.

  The Chief Constable strode up to the pond. “It’s not so big, Mr. Fortune. We’ll soon make sure one way or the other.”

  “Yes, yes.” Reggie walked round the bank and measured distances with his eye. “We’re going to make quite sure. They couldn’t throw him further than this. Begin from here and work towards that end.”

  The drags were put in and the constabulary hauled and the black water grew turbid and yellow. The ropes strained. “Got something,” the Chief Constable grunted. “Go steady, lads.” Out of the depths of the pond into the shallows came a shapeless mass of cloth. Policemen splashed in and lifted on to the bank something that had been a man.

  Lomas turned away. The Chief Constable pulled out a flask and drank and passed it to his men. Reggie knelt down by the body… When he stood up again he dabbled his hands in the pond. “Could you blow a whistle, Lomas?” he murmured.

  The Chief Constable did that. “Is it the chap you were looking for?”

  “Oh yes. Gold teeth, as per invoice. The late Harvey Stroud.”

  “Was he drowned?” said Lomas.

  “No, not drowned. Skull fractured. Injury to bones of the face. Hit and jabbed by hard, heavy weapon. Same like the porter. Ah, here come the operators.” Under the propulsion of Bell’s men, Mr. Clark and the landlord reluctantly approached. “Come along,” Reggie called. “Just want you to recognise the deceased.”

  The landlord caught sight of that shapeless face and gave a gasping cry and swayed round, hanging on the arms that held him.

  “Yes. Your error,” Reggie said. He contemplated the little red face of Percy Clark. Its look of impudence was fixed, but his jaws worked fast. “Still chewing gum, Mr. Clark?”

  Then Clark swore at him…

  That afternoon the Public Prosecutor was asked to come and see the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. He found Mr. Fortune with Lomas. “My dear old Finch,” Reggie beamed. “Journeys end in lovers meetin’. And now we live happily ever after. You’ve been so useful. How wonderful that is! But how gratifyin’! Another nice case for you now.”

  “Good heavens!” Finchampstead exploded. “Another case of yours? I should have thought that last exhibition was sufficiently ignominious. What is this, now?”

  “Percy Clark, dear. Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more.”

  “Are you mad? You can’t charge the man again.”

  “Not the same murder. No. This is another one. And thus we will establish your shaken reputation, Finch.”

  “My reputation!” Finchampstead gobbled.

  “Yes, old thing. Yes, it was too bad.” Reggie soothed him. “But necessary, you know. All for your country’s good. We had to prosecute the beggar. We had to make him show his hand. And you did it beautifully, Finch.”

  “What does this mean, Lomas?” Finchampstead groaned.

  “He’s quite right,” Lomas chuckled. “He generally is, confound him. Don’t you see, the prosecution drove Clark into a corner. His only chance was to set up that alibi. And the alibi gave him away.”

  “It was perjured evidence? I dare say. If you hadn’t been so hasty—”

  “Not hasty. No. Forcin’ the game,” Reggie smiled. “When he put that fat landlord into the box, he put the rope round his neck. We had it sworn that he was a pal of the landlord’s, and that he’d been at the ‘Billhook’ on the evening of the burglary. So I went down with my chauffeur to look into the landlord. And we found another fellow came to the ‘Billhook’ that night. A tall, dark fellow who came in a car, went into a back room with the landlord and Mr. Clark, and was never seen to go away. His car was there days after. Well, you know, there was a man reported missing from that Saturday who had interests in burglary—Mr. Harvey Stroud. Bell was always worrying about him. Bell thought he might be the man who put up the job. It looked as if he was. We knew the murder of the porter wasn’t according to plan. If Mr. Stroud came quietly down to the ‘Billhook’ to collect the swag and found he’d been mixed up in a murder, he wouldn’t be pleased. There might well have been a row. Another little affair not according to plan. So I rang up the landlord and said, ‘What’s become of Harvey Stroud?’ Only that and nothing more. Just to see the reaction. He reacted very nicely. He gargled. Then my man saw him go out and wander round the adjacent pond, just looking at things. And then he went back and telephoned to Mr. Clark. Soon as the evening shades prevailed, Clark buzzed down to the ‘Billhook.’ In the night they went out and dug the swag out of the pond. And Bell got ’em with the goods all present and correct.”

  “We can convict them of the burglary, then?” said Finchampstead.

  “Oh yes. Yes. And the murder of Stroud. We dragged the pond this morning. Harvey Stroud was there with his head bashed in and his pockets full of stones. And now your fat friend the landlord is coughing up confessions.”

  “I always knew that rascal Clark was guilty,” Finchampstead announced. “This is very satisfactory, Fortune.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Mr. Fortune murmured. “One of my neater cases. Pure art. No vulgar emotion.”

  ‌The Red Golf Ball

  ‌Gerald Verner

  John Robert Stuart Pringle (1897–1980) wrote breezy crime thrillers in the Edgar Wallace mould. His first story, using the pseudonym Donald Stuart, was “The Clue of the Second Tooth”, written in 1927, the first of forty-four stories contributed to the Sexton Blake Library. In 1933 Pringle began writing for publishers Wright & Brown as Gerald Verner, which became his principal pen-name, although he was so prolific that, in order to avoid saturating the market, he started to write under the pseudonyms of Nigel Vane and Derwent Steele as well as Donald Stuart. His detective Trevor Lowe featured in fourteen full-length novels, and several short stories; his debut, Phantom Hollow (1933), was dedicated to Mrs. Edgar Wallace.

  Sport features in several of Verner’s tales, including The Silver Horseshoe (1938) and The Tipster (1949). In The Jockey (1937), a man calling himself “The Jockey” sends a letter to a crooked bookmaker, demanding thousands of pounds. This proves to be the first salvo in a campaign against those he claims have besmirched the good name of horse racing, but have escaped conviction because of a lack of evidence. When murder follows, the Jockey becomes the prime suspect. This story, originally titled and published in 1939 as “The Fatal 13th”, as by Donald Stuart, was revised to become “The Red Golf Ball”, a Trevor Lowe story written by Gerald Verner.

  That famous dramatist, Mr. Trevor Lowe, found Glen Hill Golf Course a very pleasant place that afternoon. A heavy programme of work leading up to the opening of his latest West End production had kept him busy night and day for several weeks, and the relaxation was welcome.

  He had not been playing too well, probably because of his lack of practice, and at the thirteenth hole he essayed a rather difficult putt in some trepidation. The little white ball, however, behaved beautifully, rolled gently across the smooth green, paused for the fraction of a second at the lip of the hole, and dropped neatly in. Lowe gave a sigh of relief and his opponent Colonel Grayling uttered a grunt.

  “Never thought you’d bring that off,” he said. “That makes you three up.”

  The dramatist retrieved his ball and smiled.

  “I’m getting back some of my old form,” he remarked. “You won’t find it such a walkover as you thought, old man.”

  The colonel stabbed the flag viciously back into its socket, picked up his clubs, and started for the next tee.

  “Don’t count your chickens,” he growled over his shoulder, his red face a shade redder with annoyance. “There’s nothing in it so far. Five more holes to go yet.”

  Lowe lighted a cigarette without replying and strolled after him. Obviously Grayling was a little disgruntled at the prospect of what he had imagined an easy victory being snatched from his grasp at the last minute. He watched the colonel as he carefully teed his ball, addressed it, and wi
th a determined expression, drove off. The drive was a terrible fiasco. The ball, badly sliced, flew to the right at an acute angle, struck a hillock at the side of the fairway, and vanished into a thick clump of trees twenty yards away.

  Grayling glared after it in speechless rage.

  “Hard luck, old man,” said Lowe sympathetically, and the colonel found his voice.

  The air quivered with a concentrated selection from a vocabulary acquired during thirty-five years in the Indian Army, and the dramatist listened admiringly. Lack of breath eventually brought the astonishing flow to an end, and without waiting to see his companion’s shot Grayling snatched up his bag of clubs and set off angrily in search of his errant ball.

  Lowe watched him until his stout figure disappeared in the shadow of the trees, and then set about preparing for his own drive.

  But that drive was never made. The club was swinging up over his shoulder when Grayling shouted his name.

  Uttering a mild imprecation—mild at least in comparison with the colonel’s previous outburst—the dramatist stopped in the midst of his swing and looked towards the sound of his opponent’s voice. Grayling was standing on the edge of the clump of trees beckoning frantically, with every sign of acute agitation.

  “What is it?” called Lowe impatiently, not unreasonably annoyed at having his stroke interrupted.

  “Come here, will you?” shouted Grayling. “I—it’s something pretty serious, I’m afraid.”

  There was a quiver in his voice, and wondering what could be the cause of it Lowe hurried over to him.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded when he reached him, for Grayling’s ruddy colour had left, and he was as nearly pale as many years’ tan would permit.

  For answer the colonel grabbed his arm and led him in among the trees.

  “Look there!” he grunted hoarsely, and pointed with a stubby finger that was not quite steady.