The Phantom Hollow, page 2
part #1 of Trevor Lowe Series
‘THERE IS DANGER. GO WHILE YOU CAN!’
And they looked as though they had been written by a finger dipped in blood.
Chapter Two – Mr. Trevor Lowe
Monk’s Lodge,
Near Friar’s Vale,
Somerset.
7th August.
My Dear Lowe,
I don’t for a moment expect that you will be able to accept this invitation, knowing how busy you usually are; but if you have got any spare time hanging on your hands, I should be awfully pleased if you could come down and stay here for a while. To be quite frank, the most extraordinary things have been happening here during the past few days; and, knowing your tremendous interest in anything abnormal or outside the general run of life, I’m certain you would enjoy yourself. I won’t tell you anything more until I see you — if I do see you!
I am staying here with Jack Denton, whom you may have heard me mention but whom I don’t think you have ever met. We are quite alone, but I think we can make you tolerably comfortable. Monk’s Lodge is a very old place — part of a ruined monastery, and apart from anything else — and there is a great deal more — I know that will interest you immensely. Come at once if you can, and if you want to work bring your secretary with you. If you let us know what train you are coming by, we will meet you at King’s Hayling station.
Do come.
Yours sincerely,
TONY FROST.
That famous dramatist, Mr. Trevor Lowe, read the letter over his breakfast and then handed it across the table to his friend and secretary, Arnold White. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked with his characteristic one-sided smile.
White glanced quickly through the contents and noted the signature. ‘Tony Frost? Isn’t he the eldest son of the Lancashire cotton mill owner?’ he asked.
‘That’s the fellow,’ said Lowe, nodding and reaching for the toast and marmalade. ‘His father financed that last play of mine. His son’s a charming chap. Looks a fool, but isn’t.’
White read the letter again. ‘Wonder what he means by extraordinary happenings?’ he queried.
The dramatist helped himself to some marmalade. ‘I have no more idea than the man in the moon,’ he declared. ‘But it certainly sounds interesting.’
‘Apart from the interest side,’ said White, ‘the holiday would do you good.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself,’ replied Lowe, munching his toast. ‘We’ve finished the play — there’s only that film to complete —’
‘And there’s a month yet before that’s due,’ said his secretary. ‘So there’s no need to worry about it for the moment. You’ve been working at pretty high pressure, and you need a change of some sort.’
‘With the possibility of a little excitement thrown in,’ said Lowe with a smile, after which he finished his toast and searched in the pocket of his dressing-gown for his pipe.
‘Well, I haven’t had any of that kind of excitement since that business with Shadgold. By Jove, I wonder if these ‘extraordinary happenings’ are likely to lead to anything half as exciting?’ He rose and, going over to a side table, began to fill his pipe from a big jade-green tobacco jar.
Arnold White looked across at the back of his employer and smiled to himself. He remembered the ‘business with Shadgold’ not altogether with unadulterated pleasure, for it had been a hectic and dangerous time for both of them.
Trevor Lowe had decided to write a crime play, and in order to secure the necessary detail had consulted his friend Inspector Shadgold of Scotland Yard. Shadgold was at the time investigating the murder of Thomas Carraway, the ex-member of Parliament who had been found stabbed to death in the grounds of his house in the country. He suggested that Lowe would acquire all knowledge he wanted if he accompanied him on the case. Trevor Lowe had eagerly agreed, and the result had been that when Shadgold had found himself completely at sea, the dramatist, with his keen sense for detail, had solved the mystery. It brought him no little publicity, for the crime was a sensational one. His photograph appeared in all the newspapers in the unaccustomed position of being chief witness in a notorious murder case, and the gross takings of one of his plays that was running at the time doubled themselves. Ever since that time he had taken a tremendous interest in any case that Shadgold was concerned with, and the inspector had a habit of dropping in and discussing any particular problem which was worrying him.
‘I should think it unlikely that this would turn out to be anything like the Carraway affair,’ remarked White as Lowe struck a match and lit his pipe.
‘I should think so, too,’ replied the dramatist. ‘But still, you never know. Anyway, I shall go, and hope for the best. You might see how the trains run.’
White went over to the desk and consulted a Bradshaw. Presently he looked up from the book. ‘There’s a fast train at eleven fifteen,’ he said. ‘That ought to enable us to arrive at Monk’s Lodge in time for tea.’
‘Me to arrive,’ corrected Lowe quietly. ‘You’re not coming!’
White looked surprised. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because,’ answered the dramatist, ‘when you do come, I would like you to bring the car with you, and they haven’t finished repairing that cracked cylinder head yet.’
‘I see,’ said White. ‘Shall I wire Frost that you’re coming down?’
His employer nodded. ‘Yes, do,’ he said.
Trevor Lowe arrived at Paddington shortly after eleven, and having secured a first-class ticket through to King’s Hayling, stopped at the bookstall to buy one or two papers. The train was not crowded, and he had no difficulty in finding a corner seat in a first-class compartment adjoining the luncheon car. He handed the obliging porter, who had looked after his suitcase, a tip that brought a smile to that official’s not very prepossessing face, and settled down for the journey.
Punctually at eleven fifteen, the guard blew his whistle; and with a deluge of steam, and a wailing of brakes, the Western Express got under way. And while Lowe read his papers and the train thundered along the steel track to its destination, a telegraph boy set out from King’s Hayling on a bicycle. He carried in his pouch a telegram addressed to Tony Frost, stating the time of Lowe’s arrival, and signed by White; and in spite of the urgency with which all wires are supposed to be treated, the boy did not overexert himself. He pedalled at a leisurely pace along the dusty country roads, tunelessly whistling snatches from the latest fox-trot that the radio was popularising at the time. Reaching Friar’s Vale eventually, he stopped to ask the way to Monk’s Lodge, and the look of disgust that crossed his face when he was told that it was two miles further on was a study fit for a cartoonist! He was no longer whistling when he remounted his bicycle.
It was no joke riding the six miles to Friar’s Vale and back again on a scorching day like this. His collar was already limp and clammy, and the sight of a steep and rough incline before him did nothing to restore his good humour.
‘Fancy living in a blinking ’ole like this,’ he muttered as he began to negotiate the hill. ‘People who live orf the earth ’aven’t no right to ’ave telegrams!’
As the incline grew steeper, he began to tack from side to side of the road, hoping by this means to lighten his progress. Unfortunately, during one of these erratic manoeuvres the front wheel of the bicycle came in contact with a sharp flint, and with a hissing sigh the tyre went flat.
‘That’s torn it,’ grunted the boy, with no intention of being funny; and getting off his machine, he stood staring at it while he wiped his streaming face with a grubby handkerchief.
He was still contemplating the useless bicycle when a man came round the bend in the road, walking briskly. He was broad-shouldered and thick-set, and his rather pale complexion was accentuated by the little black pointed beard that concealed his chin.
‘What’s the matter, my lad? Had an accident?’ He spoke smoothly and slowly, but his dark eyes were eager and alert, and they took in every detail of the boy’s official uniform.
The telegraph boy explained what had happened.
‘You were going to Monk’s Lodge, were you?’ said the newcomer thoughtfully, and then he smiled. ‘I’m going past there myself, so if you like I’ll take the telegram for you while you set to work and mend your puncture.’
The boy hesitated. It was against regulations, but it would save a lot of trouble; and, after all, it was doubtful anybody would find out.
‘You’re a sport, you are, guv’nor,’ he said suddenly, making up his mind. He fumbled in the leather pouch at his side and, taking out the buff envelope, handed it to the man with the beard. ‘It’s for a Mr. Frost,’ he said unnecessarily.
‘All right, I’ll deliver it,’ said the man, slipping it into his pocket; and, leaving the boy to wrestle with the damaged tyre, he went on up the hill.
The moment he got out of sight of the boy, however, his calm manner deserted him. With eager but careful fingers he unsealed the flap of the envelope, taking the utmost pains not to tear it, and withdrew the contents.
When he had finished reading the brief message, he put the telegram back and carefully resealed the envelope. And as he went on to Monk’s Lodge, his dark brows were drawn together in an angry frown, and his thin lips were compressed so tightly that they had the appearance of a scarlet scratch above the blackness of his beard.
*
Tony Frost found the telegram lying on the front doormat when he and Jack returned to the cottage for lunch after a morning’s fishing, and there was nothing in its appearance to show that it had been tampered with.
‘I bet this is from Lowe!’ he exclaimed, picking it up and ripping it open. ‘Yes, it is, by Jove!’ he went on after he had glanced at it. ‘He’s coming on the Western Express, and arrives at King’s Hayling this afternoon.’
‘We’d better have lunch right away, then,’ said Jack, ‘otherwise we shan’t get there in time for the train, and we don’t want to keep Lowe hanging about.’
They had a hasty lunch of tinned tongue and tomatoes, and arrived at King’s Hayling, hot and dusty, after their six-mile tramp, ten minutes before the train was due in.
‘We can’t expect Lowe to walk back,’ said Tony. ‘He’ll have luggage and things. We’d better see if we can’t get hold of a car of some sort.’
‘There you are — that’s what you want,’ said Jack. ‘That car looks as if it might be for hire.’
Drawn up at the kerb outside the station entrance was a rather dilapidated car. It was the only vehicle standing there, for cabs were an unknown luxury in King’s Hayling, and a gloomy-looking individual who was sitting on the running-board, studying the racing columns of the Somersetshire Sun, looked up as they approached.
‘Want a car, sir?’ he asked quickly.
‘Yes.’ Tony explained that he was expecting a friend by the London train and wanted a conveyance to take them back to Monk’s Lodge.
‘Never ’eard of it!’ said the driver, scratching his head. ‘But if it’s near Friar’s Vale, I’ll do the run for ’alf a quid.’
They clinched the deal at once, and turned into the station. There were still seven minutes to wait, and to pass the time Jack bought a copy of the local paper. He was glancing casually down the front page when an item in the bottom right-hand corner attracted his attention. Under the heading, ‘Strange Disappearance of a Dryseley Man’, the paragraph ran:
*
‘The strange disappearance of a Dryseley estate agent is causing a good deal of interest and not a little alarm. The missing man is a Mr. William P. Ogden, aged forty-seven, a bachelor living in North Rise, Dryseley. A clerk in the employ of the firm, of which Mr. Ogden is the head, stated that after lunch on Wednesday last Mr. Ogden left the office on some mission, the details of which he did not disclose. Since then nothing has been seen or heard of Mr. Ogden. It is feared that he may be wandering somewhere suffering from loss of memory . . .’
*
There followed a photograph and a description of Mr. Ogden, with a request that anyone able to supply information should do so to the Dryseley police superintendent.
Jack caught Tony by the arm and pushed the newspaper in front of him. ‘Read that!’ he directed, stabbing with his finger at the paragraph, and there was a queer harshness about his voice. ‘That accounts for his failing to keep his appointment the other afternoon!’
Tony’s expression changed as he read the brief news item. ‘This is dashed queer,’ he commented seriously. ‘I’m blessed if I know what to make of it all.’
The shrill scream of a train-whistle stopped Jack from making any reply. A feather of smoke in the distance heralded the approach of the Western Express, and a few seconds later the train came, clanking and hissing, into the station.
Jack and Tony started down the platform as it drew to a standstill, eagerly watching the people getting out. Almost the first passenger to alight was Trevor Lowe, and as he caught sight of Tony he smiled and waved. The latter dashed up and gripped his hand.
‘I say, Lowe,’ he exclaimed breathlessly, ‘I’m glad to see you. Awfully decent of you to come. Only a cottage, you know — have to take pot luck and all that!’ He checked his torrent for a moment and grabbed Jack by the arm. ‘Meet my friend, Jack Denton,’ he went on. ‘Jack, this is Trevor Lowe.’
The dramatist shook hands and exchanged a few words with Jack while Tony signalled a porter.
‘We’ve got a car outside,’ said Tony as he succeeded in attracting the porter’s attention; the man came up and took charge of Lowe’s luggage. ‘Come on!’ He led the way out of the station and, after instructing the porter to put the bag in the front of the car with the driver, the three of them got into the back.
The car was not much to look at, but it went quite well, and was soon running towards Friar’s Vale at a steady twenty miles an hour. The afternoon was perfect; and to Lowe, who had not been out of London for over six months, the air and beauty of the countryside was very pleasant. He allowed himself to relax against the upholstery and turned to Tony.
‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘what about these ‘queer happenings’ you mentioned in your letter? Let’s hear about them — or was that just put in as an inducement to get me to come down?’
‘It certainly was not,’ replied Tony indignantly, and with the help of Jack he proceeded to give Lowe an outline of the events that had taken place, concluding by showing him the news paragraph in the local paper.
The dramatist read the item carefully, read it through a second time, and then laid the paper on his knee in silence. Jack, who had expected him to make some kind of comment, was rather surprised when he did nothing of the sort. In fact, his next remark seemed to be totally irrelevant to the thing they had been discussing.
‘How far is Monk’s Lodge from Friar’s Vale?’ he asked after what seemed a lengthy pause.
‘A little over two miles,’ answered Jack, and Tony nodded in confirmation.
Lowe asked no further questions, but appeared lost in a contemplation of the surrounding scenery. The road, at this point of their journey, wound and twisted between high banks that rose on either side to thickly wooded hills. Before them was a sharp bend, and beyond that the road sloped steeply upwards. The driver, who was evidently familiar with the way, sounded his horn, took the corner carefully, and then pressed his foot hard on the accelerator in order to take the hill ahead. The car engine roared noisily, and the machine bounded forward with a jolting motion that almost threw Lowe and his companions off the seat. The ancient springs squeaked and groaned painfully as the wheels bumped over the rough surface.
‘By Jove!’ gasped Tony. ‘I’m bruised all over!’
Lowe said nothing. He had twisted round and was peering with a rather stern face at the back padding of the seat. Jack turned also to see what he was looking at, and as he did so the dramatist leaned a little sideways and plunged the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into a small tear in the leather upholstery, close to where his head had been.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Jack.
‘This!’ answered Lowe shortly, and held out his hand. In the centre of his open palm was a bullet, jagged and flattened by the vicious force of its impact.
‘How did that get there — what’s it for?’ asked Tony in surprise.
Trevor Lowe’s lips curled slowly in a rather hard smile. ‘What’s it for —?’ he repeated softly. ‘I rather think somebody meant it for me!’
Chapter Three – The Locked Room
Trevor Lowe leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully. He was seated by the open window that overlooked the garden of Monks Lodge. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was already casting long grotesque shadows on the lawn, and touching the distant vista of the woods with the mellow gold of approaching evening. Lowe, however, saw nothing of the beauty of the scene before him. With his level brows contracted to a deep frown, he was thinking busily.
He was a man of middle height, dark, with greying hair at the temples and clean-shaven. His face, without in any way being handsome, was very pleasant; and when he smiled — as he did very readily — his smile was truly delightful. In spite of his success, he had never acquired that air of conscious superiority that marks — and mars — so many men of his profession; but at the same time no one who came in contact with him could fail to realise that this was no ordinary man. He seemed in some indefinable way to exude a tremendous sense of latent power. His chief asset might be described in one word: charm — a rare and subtle thing, but a thing which Trevor Lowe possessed in abundance.
When he had accepted Tony Frost’s invitation, it had been more with a view to enjoying the quiet relaxation offered by a few days in the country than to any interest in the queer happenings that Tony had hinted at in his letter, and which at the time he had believed to be merely some trifling affair, if not existing wholly in Tony’s fertile imagination. And yet within half an hour of his arrival in Somerset, an attempt had been made on his life by someone wielding a rifle!
