Whose Detective Tales President Wilson Read for Relaxation
FTER some unseen hand had thumped loudly and steadily at the panels of his bedroom door for the better part of five minutes, Manson pulled himself out of the seductive embrace of his blankets to realize that the wintry dawn was at hand, and that the moon, just then at its full, was dipping towards the horizon beyond the pine woods in front of his uncurtained window. He slipped out of bed and switched on the electric light at its head all in one action, and as he crossed to the door glanced at the watch which lay on his dressing-table. Six forty-five—two hours and a quarter before his usual time! And who the devil could this be, thundering so persistently at his door?
A man he knew well enough stood there when he opened it—a young man of about his own age, who had evidently flung on his clothes in a tearing hurry, and showed signs of strange and unusual excitement. He thrust out both hands and shoved Manson back into the room, closed the door behind them, and began to blurt things out, staccato fashion.
“Thought I'd never wake you, by George!—bother about rousing your servants too! And by George, here's the very devil. I've run all the way from town.”
Manson was wide awake by then, and his lawyer's brain was as cold as the wooden parquetry of the floor. He turned away, and thrusting his feet into a pair of wool-lined slippers, reached. for a dressing-gown.
“What's the trouble, Campion?” he asked in his most matter of fact tones. “Something unusual, of course”
“Unusual!” groaned the other. “Good Heaven, I should say so. It's Leaver—Dick Leaver! He”
“Take your time,” said Manson. “What about Dick Leaver? Steady—if you want me to comprehend.”
Campion dropped on the lounge at the foot of the bed. He puffed out his cheeks as if to blow something away from him. Then he shook himself.
“Comprehend, ah,” he muttered. “Hanged if can comprehend! Dick Leaver's arrested! Midnight! He is in the lock-up at Southminster. That's where I've come from. He sent for me d'you see, Manson—about half-past five this morning. And it's murder—charge of murder, you know.. You see”
Manson motioned him to silence, opened the door, and went out on the landing. Campion caught a glimpse of a housemaid and her dustpan and brush.
“Jane,” said Manson, “go down and tell the cook to make
coffee at once.and to put it in the library with some biscuits. I shall be down there in ten minutes.” He closed the door again, and passing Campion laid a hand on his clothes. “Now, Campion—clear talking, if you please. If you want to tell, begin at the beginning.”
“If you knew the beginning,” retorted Campion. He was recovering his wits and his breath, and his voice grew steadier. “And some tales begin in the middle, don't they?—this does, anyway! But I tell you, about five-thirty this morning a policeman came to tell me that Dick Leaver was detained at the lock-up and wanted to see me at once—of course I'm a pal of his and our house is near. I went there, quick as I could. And what I heard there, put briefly, amounts to this—and hanged if I can understand it. You know that piece of common, wild wasteland outside the town on the north side? The Warren, they call it. There's a wood runs along the east side of it, part of Sir John Bower's estate.
“Well, just before eleven o'clock last night Sir John's game-keeper, Richards, and a watcher who was with him, were in that wood on the look-out for poachers. They suddenly heard a couple of shots, fired almost simultaneously close by. They made in the direction of the sounds. On the Warren, just outside the wood, there's an old sand-pit, grown over with bramble mostly, but with a clear space in it. On this clear space—it was full moon remember—they saw a man lying and another man standing close by. They went up and found the standing figure to be Dick Leaver. He'd an automatic pistol in his hand which had just been fired. The man lying in the sand was his cousin, Gerald Paisley. He was dead.”
“Quite dead,” asked Manson.
“As a door-nail. And of course, Richards, who knew both Leaver and his cousin well enough, at once asked Dick what all this meant? What do you think he replied?”
“Tell me,” said Manson.
“All he said was 'Good God, I believe this is my pistol.' That was all, and Richards told the police that as soon as he'd said it he turned straight away and marched off towards the town—never even looked round. What d'you make of that now?”
“What did Richards do?” asked Manson.