Female of the Species Read online

  “Of course,” he went on thoughtfully, “I may be wrong. If so – it’s hopeless from the start. They’ve got Drummond’s wife: if they want to they can kill her right away. But somehow or other–”

  He broke off, staring at the road ahead. The light was of that half-and-half description when headlamps are useless and driving is most difficult.

  “Anyway, I’m afraid this is a pretty hopeless quest,” I said. “We don’t even know what sort of a car we are looking for–”

  He touched the accelerator with his foot.

  “What’s that dark thing there beside the road?” he said. “It’s a car right enough, and you never can tell.”

  We drew up beside it, and the first thing I noticed was a pool of lubricating oil in the road, under the back axle. Only a coincidence, of course, I reflected, but I felt a sudden tingle of excitement. Could it possibly be the car we were looking for?

  We got out and walked up to it; the car was empty – the blinds of the back windows drawn down. “We’d better be careful,” I said a little nervously, “the owner may be in the field.”

  “On the other hand, he may not,” said Darrell coolly, and opened the door.

  It was an ordinary standard limousine, and at first sight there seemed nothing out of the normal to be seen. There was no sign of disorder, as there had been in the Bentley: the rug on the seat was carefully folded. And it was almost mechanically that I opened one of the back doors, to stand nearly frozen with horror at what I saw. The covering of the front bucket seat beside the driver’s was saturated with blood from the top right down to the floorboards.

  “Good God!” I muttered, “look here.”

  Darrell came and looked over my shoulder, and I heard him catch his breath sharply.

  “This evidently,” he remarked, “is the car we are after. There’s a torch in the pocket of the Sunbeam: get it, like a good fellow.”

  By its light we examined the stain more closely. The average width was about six inches, though it narrowed off towards the bottom. But one very peculiar point about it was that near the top were a number of strange loops and smears, stretching away out of the main stream. They were the sort of smears that a child might make who had dipped its fingers in the blood, and had then started to draw patterns.

  “The person who sat in this seat must have bled like a pig,” said Darrell gravely. “From a wound in the head obviously.”

  Whose head? Who was it who had sat in the seat? Once again the same ghastly question, unasked and unanswered, save in our own minds. But I remember that to me all his hopes and ideas about crudeness and art suddenly became rather pitiful. To me there seemed no doubt who it was who had sat in that seat. And I felt thankful that Drummond wasn’t there with us.

  One could picture the poor girl sitting there, probably unconscious, with the blood welling out from some terrible wound in her head, while the devil beside her drove remorselessly on. A hideous thought, but what alternative was there?

  “What do you make of it, Dixon?”

  Darrell’s voice cut into my thoughts.

  “I’m afraid it’s pretty obvious,” I said. “And I’m afraid it rather disposes of your hopes as to crudity and art. This is the crudest and most brutal attack on a woman, that’s all.”

  “You think so?” he said thoughtfully. “And yet it’s all a little difficult to understand. Why did they stop here? What has become of them?”

  “It’s a road without much traffic,” I answered. “Probably they changed into another car to put people still more off the scent. Don’t forget that if they had garaged this car anywhere for the night they would have had some pretty awkward questions to answer.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “And yet it presupposes that the thing had been arranged beforehand.”

  “It probably was,” I pointed out. “They were anyway going to change cars, and the fact that the poor girl was so terribly wounded did not make them alter their plans.”

  “But why mess up two cars?” he argued. “That’s what I can’t get at.”

  He once more switched the torch on to the stained cover.

  “You know,” he said, “those loops and smears puzzle me. What on earth can have caused them? What possible agency can have made that stream of blood divert itself like that? Hold the torch a moment, will you? I’m going to copy them into a notebook.”

  “My dear fellow,” I remarked, “what on earth is the use? Do it if you like, but I should say that the best thing we can do is to make tracks for the nearest police-station and give them the number of this car. We want to find out the owner.”

  “It won’t take a moment,” he said, “and then we’ll push off. There – is that about right?”

  He handed me his rough sketch: a copy of it is before me as I write.

  “Yes,” I remarked, “that’s pretty well how it looks. But I’m afraid it’s not going to help us much.”

  “You never can tell,” he answered. “Those marks didn’t come there accidentally – that I swear. It’s a message of sorts: I’m certain of it.”

  “It may be a message, but it’s absolute gibberish,” I retorted. “Now don’t you think we’d better push on to a police-station. I’ve got the number of this car – ZW 3214.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully.

  “Can you drive my Sunbeam?” he said.

  “I blush to admit it,” I answered, “but I’m one of those extraordinary people who have never driven a car in my life.”

  “That’s a pity,” he remarked. “Because I was going to propose that I stopped here, while you went. I think one of us ought to remain, in case anything happens.”

  “Good God!” I said, “hasn’t enough happened already? However, I don’t mind staying. Only get a move on: I’m beginning to feel like dinner.”

  “Stout fellow,” he cried. “I’ll be as quick as I possibly can.”

  He got into his car, and in half a minute was out of sight.

  Now as I have already explained I am not one of those fortunate individuals to whom battle, murder, and sudden death come as the zest of life. And honesty compels me to admit that at no period of my career have I more bitterly regretted not having had lessons in driving. Moreover, I am essentially a town man: the country always seems to me to be so full of strange noises. Especially at night – and it was dark by now.

  I lit a cigarette – quite unaware of the horror with which Drummond would have viewed such a proceeding. To see and not be seen, to hear and not be heard, was a dictum of his I was to learn later.

  All sorts of weird whispering sounds came to my ears as I stood there beside the car. And once I gave a terrific start as a shrill scream came from the field close by.

  “An animal,” I reflected angrily. “A rabbit caught by a stoat. Don’t be such a fool.”

  I began pacing up and down the middle of the road, conscious of an absurd desire for someone to speak to even if it was only an inebriated farm labourer. And then by way of forcing discipline on my mind, I made myself go over the whole amazing business from the beginning.

  What was the letter that had made Mrs Drummond leave the house? Where did the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot come in? Why had this car stopped here and what had happened after? And finally those strange smears. Were they indeed some message, and if so who had written it? Was it that poor girl trying to write some final communication as she felt her life slipping away from her?

  My thoughts turned to Drummond, and I felt most bitterly sorry for my earlier sarcasm. Still, there had been some excuse: I defy any ordinary person to have viewed his behaviour without feeling some doubts as to his sanity. The fact remained, however, that I owed him the most abject apology. Not that my apology would be much use to the poor devil in exchange for his wife.

  I ground my cigarette out with my heel, and stared down the road. Surely it was about time for Darrell to get back. And as I stood there leaning against the bonnet, a bird got up with a sharp cry from a point in the hedge so
me hundred yards away. It was the cry of sudden alarm from which a poacher might have read much, but I read nothing.

  And then a twig cracked: I heard it distinctly and stiffened. Another – and yet another, whilst I stood there motionless peering into the darkness. Did my eyes deceive me, or was there something dark moving cautiously along the grass beside the road, in the shadow of the hedge? I recalled times in France when strange things took shape in No Man’s Land: when men became as bushes and bushes as men. And putting my hand to my forehead I found it was wet with sweat.

  I listened again: all was silent. The stealthy mover, if there was a mover, was moving no more. My imagination probably, and with a shaking hand I extracted my cigarette-case. Damn it! what was there to be frightened at?

  “Lawks sakes – look at this ’ere!”

  The voice came from the hedge not ten yards away, and in my fright I dropped my case in the road. Then with an effort I pulled myself together: to be frightened at my time of life by a mere yokel was not good for one’s pride.

  “Look ’e ’ere, mister.”

  “Where are you?” I said. “I can’t see you.”

  The fellow gave a cackling laugh which made me think he was not quite right in his head. And then came another remark which caused me to start forward in horror.

  “A dead ’un.”

  “Where?” I cried, moving towards him slowly. My mouth felt suddenly dry: it required all my will power to force myself to go. I knew what I was going to see: I knew that there in the darkness just ahead of me I would find some half-witted yokel staring inquisitively at the body of the unfortunate girl. There would be a terrible wound in her head, and at each step I took my reluctance increased. I loathed the thought of having definite proof: up to date there had been a doubt, however shadowy.

  “Where?” I said thickly, once again, and then I saw him just in front. His back was towards me, and he was bending over something that lay in the ditch close to the hedge. He was chuckling to himself in an idiotic way, and I heard a voice croak at him: “Shut up!” It was my own.

  I reached his side, and bent over, too. And for a moment or two I stood there staring, hardly able to believe my eyes. True, a body was there, lying in that peculiar twisted position which tells its own tale. True, there was a terrible wound in the head, clearly visible even in the darkness. But it was not a woman; it was a man. And the feeling of relief was stupendous.

  I turned to the yokel foolishly: turned and froze into immobility. The idiotic chuckling had ceased, and the face that was thrust near mine wore a sarcastic smile.

  “Too easy,” he remarked.

  A pair of hands fastened on my throat, and I began to struggle desperately. Dimly I realised that it was a trap: that the man had been acting a part so as to draw me into an advantageous position in which to attack me. And then all other thoughts were blotted out by the appalling knowledge that as far as strength went I was a child in his hands. There was a roaring in my ears, a ghastly tightness in my throat. And I remember that my last coherent thought before I became unconscious was that if Drummond had been in my place the result would have been very different.

  It was fitting, therefore, that the first man I should see when I opened my eyes was Drummond himself. For a moment or two I couldn’t remember what had happened, and I stared foolishly around. I was lying on the grass beside the road, and my head and coat were sopping wet. Drummond with Darrell and another man were standing close to me in the light of the headlamps of a car.

  “Hullo!” I said feebly.

  They swung round.

  “Hullo! little man,” said Drummond. “You gave us a nasty shock. What fun and laughter have you been engaged in?”

  “Where’s the dead man?” I cried, sitting up.

  They all stared at me.

  “What’s that?” said Drummond slowly. “A dead man, you say?”

  I struggled to my feet, and stood swaying dizzily.

  “Steady, old man,” said Drummond. “Easy does it.”

  “There was a dead man,” I repeated, and then I stared round. “Where’s the other car?”

  “Precisely,” agreed Drummond. “Where is it? It wasn’t here when we arrived.”

  “Not here,” I repeated stupidly, “I don’t understand. What’s happened?”

  “That’s easily told,” said Drummond. “By mere chance I ran into Peter at the police-station, and when I heard what you’d found I came along with him and this officer. We must have gone half a mile beyond here before he knew we’d gone too far. So we turned and came back. And the pool of oil told us where the car had been. Peter knew you couldn’t drive, so we thought you must have been abducted in the car. And then quite by chance the officer found you in the ditch. You looked like a goner at first, but we sluiced you with cold water, and you’ll be as fit as a trivet in a minute or two. When you do let’s hear what happened to you.”

  “I’m all right now,” I said. “A bit dizzy, that’s all. Let me sit down in the car for a little.”

  It was quite true. My head was quite clear, and, except for a most infernally stiff neck, I felt none the worse for my experience. And I told them exactly what had taken place. They listened in silence, and it was only when I hesitated a little over saying who it was I had expected to find in the ditch that Drummond spoke.

  “I understand,” he said curtly. “Go on.”

  I finished my story, and then he spoke again.

  “If any confirmation is needed,” he remarked, “the ditch should supply it. Where was the body lying?”

  I got out of the car and led them to the spot. As he had said, the ditch did supply it. A great pool of blood showed up red and sinister in the light of Darrell’s torch, but of the body of the man whose blood it was there was no trace.

  “So what happened,” said Drummond thoughtfully, “is fairly easy to spot. But the reason for it is a little more obscure. The gentleman who caressed your windpipe had evidently been sent back to retrieve car and corpse. Finding you here he gave you the necessary medicine. Then he removed corpse in car. But if that was the great idea, why were car and corpse left here in the first place?”

  “Would you recognise the man who attacked you, sir?” said the police-officer, speaking for the first time.

  “I think I’d recognise him,” I said, “but I couldn’t give you a description of him that would be the slightest help.”

  “Well, there doesn’t seem much use our standing here any more,” remarked Drummond at length, and his voice was weary. “We know the number of the car, so the owner can be traced. But I shall be very much surprised if we find that helps us much.”

  He sighed, and lit a cigarette.

  “Come on, Peter, we’d better be getting back. My stomach is flapping against my backbone, for want of food, and we can’t do any more good here.”

  And I, for one, agreed with him fervently.

  Chapter 4

  In which we get the semblance of a clue

  Looking back on it now after the lapse of time, I find it hard to recall my exact state of mind that night. I remember that amongst certain members of the house-party I found myself in the position of a popular hero. To have been assaulted and left for dead conferred an air of distinction on me, which I found rather grateful and comforting. The tacit assumption seemed to be that only abnormal strength of constitution on my part had saved my life.

  I also remember experiencing a distinct feeling of pique that amongst other members of the party my adventure seemed to cut no ice at all. They appeared to regard it as the most ordinary thing in the world. Two new arrivals had come – the two whom Longworth had been told to summon under the names of Ted and Toby. Their surnames were respectively Jerningham and Sinclair, and Tracey had managed to squeeze them into the house. And it was in describing the events of the afternoon and evening to these two that the point of view of this second section of the party became obvious. Not, I mean, that I wished it to be exaggerated in any way: at the same time I adm
it that I felt, when all was said and done, that whilst Drummond and Darrell had been in perfect safety at a police-station, I had had a murderous assault made on my life. And to have it described by Darrell as getting a clip over the ear-hole struck me as somewhat inadequate. The replies of the audience also left, I thought, a certain amount to be desired.

  Jerningham said: “Pity you didn’t ladle the bloke one back.”

  Sinclair said: “Splendid! So we know one of them by sight, anyway.”

  Then they all dismissed the matter as trifling, and resumed the interminable discussion. Not that I minded, you understand – but it struck me that it showed a slight lack of a proper sense of proportion.

  However, I waived the matter: it was not my wife who had been forcibly dragged from her car in broad daylight. Had it been I should have been insane with worry. And that was the extraordinary thing about Drummond. Outwardly he seemed the most self-possessed of us all, and only the strained look in his eyes showed the mental condition he was in.

  Bill Tracey was absolutely beside himself. That such a thing should have happened in his house made him almost incoherent. And it was characteristic of Drummond that in spite of his own agonising suspense, he should have gone out of his way to ease things for Bill.

  “My dear fellow,” he said more than once, “please don’t blame yourself. The fact that it happened to take place here is nothing whatever to do with you. They waited till they were ready and then they struck. That they happened to become ready when we were staying with you, is just pure chance.”

  Which, though perfectly true, did but little to alleviate his feelings of responsibility. It was his house, and the bald fact remained that one of his guests, and a woman at that, had been decoyed away from it and been made the victim of foul play. And apart from his natural grief at such a thing happening, the prospect of the notoriety involved concerned him, of course, more than any of us save Drummond himself. It was Jerningham who summarised the situation after a while.

  “Let’s just see,” he said, “that we’ve got this thing clear. Whilst playing tennis this afternoon Phyllis got a note delivered by hand of such importance that she stops playing and goes out alone in the Bentley. At that time Hugh was having a bit of back chat with the two foreign-looking blokes–”