The Scarlet Circle by Jonathan Stagge

Author:Jonathan Stagge
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

XIX

With the minimum of trouble I put Dawn and Bobby onto the train which would take them to Aunt Mabel. My relief at waving them good-by was immense. I had no responsibilities any more. I could go to town on my quiet little side investigation which, although it seemed to be leading me farther and farther away from the murders, was at least leading me somewhere.

Sweeney was back at the hotel when I returned. I met him in the hall gloomily talking to Mr. Mitchell. His temper seemed even worse than it had been in the morning, and from his few barked sentences I gathered that the official investigation was not progressing with any sensational rapidity.

“I was just telling Mitchell,” he snapped “that anyone who goes out after dark goes out at his own risk. I’ve said the same thing in the village. Barnes is going to be on duty all night, patrolling the beach. A couple of other men are taking on in the village. If there’s a third murder tonight”—his mustache bristled ferociously—“I might as well put a rope around my neck and jump off the roof of the City Hall.” He snorted. “You still taking an interest in the case, Westlake?”

“Sure.”

He laughed sarcastically. “The amateur expert! They always solve the mystery while the dumb cop flounders around, don’t they?”

“Traditionally,” I said.

“Solve this, Westlake, and I’ll give you—”

“Three dollars and forty-six cents,” I said. “That’s what it’s cost me to date.”

I left them in search of Buck Valentine. The lifeguard wasn’t in the hotel. I found him lounging on the beach, his great tanned torso exposed except for what his brief white trunks concealed. If he was lifeguarding he didn’t have to work very hard at it, because there were no bathers in sight.

I dropped at his side and said: “Hello.”

His young face was drawn and irritable. “Hi, Doc. Hell of a morning I’ve had with your pal Sweeney. He’s been throwing questions at me like crazy. I wish he’d get it into his thick head that I don’t know a darn thing to interest him.”

“You don’t?”

“Why the hell should I?”

“Personally I’d like to know why you spent part of last night digging up old Mr. Fanshawe’s grave with the assistance of a cocaine peddler.” Remembering the strange conversation I had overheard between him and Mitchell that morning, I added: “And whose body is it you’re so keen to have removed from the churchyard?”

He listened to that as if he had been suddenly hit between the eyes. For a few seconds he stammered ineffectually. Then he managed:

“Cocaine peddler? What do you mean—cocaine peddler?”

“Didn’t you know that’s Miss Heywood’s line of business?” He got up, towering over me.

“Miss Heywood!”

“Exactly.” I took a brodie then. “There’s no point in pretending you don’t know. The two of you were digging in the graveyard to locate some cache of dope, weren’t you?”

“You’re crazy,” he faltered.

“You deny that?”

“Of course I deny it. Dope—why should I give a damn about dope?”

“You don’t deny digging in the graveyard with Miss Heywood, digging up Mr.

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