House That Berry Built (12 page)

“Impertinent fools,” said Berry, “must be discomfited. When four adult beings, the youngest of whom will never see forty again, after well marking these bulwarks, decide that they are those of a windowless house, and are then offensive to people who put them wise – well, such persons must be corrected.”

“Madame Le Dung will correct her husband all right. Her face, when you mentioned Fifi, argued suspicion confirmed.”

“The point is,” said Berry, “they won’t come back this way. When they heard you call Butcher, they fairly legged it for Besse. You know, that wall is a corker. If it was not well done, it would let the landscape down. As it is, it’s right in the picture… Walls are so old. They’re nearly as old as the hills. Balbus and Romulus built them. We’ll have to take care with the house: but, whatever we build above it, that wall will always be the feature of the estate.”

“We should,” I said, “have put a canister within it containing our names and particulars, some coins of the realm of England and a copy of
The Times
.”

“So we should,” said Berry. “Never mind. We’ll put one in a wall of the house. A proper document on parchment, which you shall draw up. Oh, and what do we do tomorrow?”

“Help to run the concrete into the beams.”

Berry fingered his chin.

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Entirely between you and me, I’ve lost interest in grilles. They’ll be improved by burial. The thought that I’m treading their graves will warm my heart. By the time I’m through, I shall probably feel the same about the beams. ‘Run in.’ I suspect the transitive use of such intransitive verbs. It sounds as if we were going to suffer some liquid to pass. My instinct tells me that that is too good to be true.”

“We may have to work it a bit.”

“Quite so. Again the transitive use of an intransitive verb.” He examined his hands. “I suppose they can graft on new finger-tips. And I can wear some false nails.”

“Tomorrow,” I said, “will impose a strain on the palms – the juncture of the palms with the fingers.”

“Blisters?” said Berry.

“It’s just possible. Crowbars are unsympathetic.”

“Hell’s guts,” said Berry. “They wouldn’t allow this at Dartmoor. They dress for dinner there now. And now let’s examine the latest work of men’s hands. I remember a crumb of mortar I meant to remove.”

Eight hours later we learned that our stock had soared in the little village of Besse. Therèse was our informant.

“But Monsieur is terrible. How the village of Besse has laughed. All were emerging from Mass, when four strangers arrived at a run. They were greatly deranged. They said there was a bear in the way, and, when they were asked whereabouts, they said that it was approaching ‘the windowless house’. Then all the world discerned the footprints of Monsieur. The strangers were interrogated, and, sure enough, Monsieur le Major Pleydell was found to be the owner of the bear. And of a second bear which had devoured infants in arms. Imagine how Besse has roared. And all the windows in Paris which are being bricked up! But who would believe that four grown-up individuals could be such imbeciles? And Monsieur le Capitaine, the felon, who is soon to become a priest! But when they came to Monsieur Le Dung, then Besse has broken quite down. Monsieur le Maire had to be helped to the café, and tears were running on Monsieur le Curé’s cheeks. And the strangers are furious, because they have not been believed. And they would not walk back down this road, but sent for a car from Lally to take them back. Ah, Monsieur has made a number of friends today; for the bourgeois despises the peasant, but now the country has had the laugh of the town.”

“And the moral?” said Berry. “Don’t say that Besse missed the moral.”

“The moral, Monsieur? Ah, no. But that is too much. Monsieur cannot deceive Therèse.”

“There’s an excellent moral,” said Berry, “a present of which I make to Monsieur le Curé free of charge. He must use it in his sermon next Sunday. If those four strangers had gone to Mass, as they should, they would not have fallen foul of a disobedient bear.”

“And Monsieur?” said Therèse. “Monsieur was not at Mass.”

“Monsieur was receiving instruction from his cousin, the priest to be.”

Therèse gave a shriek of laughter and disappeared.

In Which Fortune Favours the Bold,

and Two Strangers Approach Our Gates

The next morning brought a letter from Falcon.

September 12th.

DEAR CAPTAIN MANSEL,

Sir Steuart Rowley.

I promised to let you know what progress I made.

I left Lally, as you know, on August 20th. From there I drove to Oloron, where I spent two nights. Then, for a week, I rambled about the country, visiting villages and towns, till I came to the sea. There I turned north and made my way to Bayonne. At Bayonne I turned east and made my way back to Salies. There I spent two nights. I reached Orthez the following day. That was September 3rd. I stayed at La Belle Hôtesse, which no doubt you know – to find that I had missed Shapely by thirty-six hours.

I won’t detail the action I took, but will tell you what I found out.

Shapely reached Pau from Paris by the early-morning express on Thursday September 1st. He drew from the cloakroom some baggage which he had left there in June and drove direct to the garage at which he had left his van. He gave orders for the van to be serviced and ready by half-past ten. At that hour he returned, paid his bill and left, driving the van. That evening, at half-past six, he came to La Belle Hôtesse, where he spent the night. The next day, September 2nd, he drove to Bordeaux. There he made arrangements to ship the van and caught the night train to Paris, arriving at Croydon at four o’clock the next day.

I saw him on September 7th.

I pointed out that Orthez was twenty-five miles from Pau – a distance which even a van can cover in less than eight hours. I asked which way he had taken and how he had spent that time.

His answer was this. That, whilst he was touring with Tass, he had made a photographic record of the way by which they had gone. That record had been incomplete, because he had run out of films. Having occasion to fetch his van, he had taken the opportunity of making good that gap. He showed me the pictures he had taken of the country by Navarenx.

I do not believe his explanation. I think that he went to meet Tass. He was plainly shaken by my questions and feared I knew more than I did.

The region south of Orthez is being carefully combed.

Yours very sincerely,

RICHARD FALCON.

“My God,” I said. “What shocking bad luck! Falcon was sitting at Salies, while Shapely was ten miles off.”

“Wicked,” said Jonah. “But observe, if you please, that Falcon doesn’t complain. He’s used to hard knocks.”

“I hope he’s used to hard nuts. Shapely will take some cracking. Fancy having those photographs ready.”

“Yes,” said Jonah. “He’s up against something there.”

“There remain,” I said, “two things which are too hard for me. First, why did Shapely lie – say that he passed through Lally the day before he did?”

“You believe that it was a lie, and not a mistake?”

“Yes,” I said. “For this reason. If you are right, and Shapely directed the crime, the vital dates would have been engraved on his mind.”

“So they would,” said Jonah. “That’s one to you.”

“Secondly, why didn’t he tell Falcon that his passport was with the Customs on the day that the crime was done? I know you say that he probably shrank from producing so perfect an alibi. But I don’t feel that that’s the answer.”

Jonah raised his eyebrows.

“I can give you no other,” he said. “But, whatever answer you get, it won’t alter the facts of the case. That Shapely directed the murder, I do believe: that would explain the timing – and other things: but he took the greatest care to secure himself. By staying beyond that post at the critical time, he made himself as safe as he would have been if he’d been locked up in some jail. To all intents and purposes, he
was
under lock and key.”

“That’s very true,” said I. “How easy it is to fail to see the wood for the trees.”

With that, we went up to the site: but all that day I was thinking of Falcon’s letter and how Fate seemed to favour the men who had conspired to put Old Rowley to death. Of Shapely’s guilt in the matter, I now had no doubt. Shapely had a strong motive – a very strong motive – for sending his stepfather down. Tass had gone straight from Shapely – straight as an arrow from Shapely, to do the deed. Shapely’s alibi bore the stamp of design. And Tass was not to be found; but Shapely had visited the district where Falcon believed him to be – and had paled when Falcon had asked him how he had spent his time. Here was no proof; but add together these facts, and they made, to my mind, a strong case – not a case, of course, for a jury; but many a felon has never come to be tried.

I shall always maintain that such an outlook was fair. I admit that we had liked Old Rowley, had never liked Shapely, had never set eyes upon Tass. But Shapely’s cast-iron alibi got me under the ribs. That it was accidental, I simply could not believe. And if it was not accidental – well, what of a man who does wilful murder by proxy, and takes the greatest care to secure himself?

Everyone worked all out for the whole of that week; but what laid stripes upon us was that on Thursday night the temperature fell.

We had finished the beams on Tuesday, and they had been carefully covered against a possible frost. So they were safe. But now, though all was ready by Saturday night, though all had fought against time to lay and tie and shutter six thousand square feet – and won the fight, such labour might be in vain. We could take no risks with the platform on which the house was to stand.

There was nothing to do but go on – and hope for the best.

I stood on Friday with Joseph and watched the sun go down.

“And never a cloud,” he muttered. “Who ever saw such weather? And autumn coming in fast.” He shook his head. “There will be a sharp frost tonight.”

“Tell me,” I said. “If it’s like this on Sunday evening…”

“Then to run in the concrete on Monday would be a criminal act. You see, Monsieur, it is like this. In the first place, once we begin, we have got to go on. Such a platform cannot be laid piecemeal. By working with all our might, we can do the job in two days. And in two days, do it we must. In the second place, if we run that concrete in and then we have a hard frost before the concrete has set, the platform will never be safe. In such a case, therefore, we should be faced with the task of taking the whole of it down and starting afresh. All the material would be wasted, and as for the labour – well, demolishing ferro-concrete is not amusing work. In this case, such a task is unthinkable. Six thousand square feet! Tied into these beams and these walls!” He threw up his hands. “I am bound to tell Monsieur the truth. Unless the weather changes, we must not attempt the work.”

“Can we telephone to you on Sunday?”

Joseph smiled.

“I shall be here, Monsieur. I shall not leave Lally this weekend. And early on Monday morning, I shall decide ‘yes’ or ‘no’. At the moment I am not hopeful. I am ready to take a risk. To start at all at this season is taking a risk. But to take that risk is worth while, for, if we succeed, we can work right through the winter, except for two or three weeks. Not at this pace, of course: but choosing our time. And walls can be covered while they are being built. And if a frost catches us napping – well, it is not a very great business to pull down six feet of wall and build it again. But the platform – no.”

“Exactly how long do we need without a sharp frost?”

“For this platform, Monsieur? Five days. Two to run in the concrete, and three for the concrete to set.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Four would do, but I would rather have five. Well, we have done our best. On Monday all will be ready. If the weather holds out against us, it cannot be helped.”

“The weather is very capricious. It may be like this on Monday, and ten days later there may be no frost at all.”

“That, Monsieur, is perfectly true. But every day that passes increases the risk which we are prepared to take. We are very high up here – two thousand six hundred feet. And once October is in, to hope for five days running without a sharp frost would be to tempt Providence.” He shook his head. “No, Monsieur. I am in charge. And so long as I am in charge, if we cannot lay the platform next week, we must wait for the spring.”

It was just before one o’clock on Saturday afternoon that I noticed a change in the wind.

Because the work was so urgent, the break for dinner had been cut from two hours to one, and the men were on their way back from Lally and Besse. Jonah and I had broken our fast at the site.

I hastened to Joseph, standing beside his hut.

“The wind’s changed, Joseph.”

His chin was up in a flash.

Then—

“I cannot feel it,” he said. “But Monsieur was higher up.” He raised his voice. “Ulysse.”

One of the men replied.

“Monsieur Joseph.”

“Monsieur le Capitaine says there is a change in the wind.”

“That is so, Monsieur Joseph. Myself, I remarked it as I was coming from Besse. If it lasts, the drought will be broken within twelve hours.”

Joseph turned to me.

“Monsieur brings me good tidings,” he said. “Ulysse is knowledgeable. He has been bred as a shepherd, and his advice is better than that of a weather-glass.”

I think it was. It was certainly four hours ahead of our barometer. This began to fall about five o’clock. And a golden sun went down in a bevy of cloud…

When I woke on Sunday morning, the opposite side of the valley was not to be seen.

I walked up to the site before breakfast.

Hadrian’s Wall was looming out of the mist, and a sound of hammering came from the heights above.

I made my way to the waste of steel above wood.

Joseph was there, with the rain running down his face, checking the shuttering and putting finishing touches to the holes for which the plumber had asked.

When he saw me, he pulled off his beret.

“Good morning, Monsieur. That we are the favourites of Fortune, there can be no doubt. This is the weather I have prayed for. While it lasts, there will be no frosts – there was none last night – and, for what we have to do, it is the finest weather that we could have. Give me a week of this, and your house will stand as though it were built upon rock. The sun is not good for concrete, until it has set: we should have had to water with watering-cans, and, with the
ruisseau
so low, we should have had to bring the water from Besse. Oh, we are very lucky. But I wish that today was tomorrow, and that is the truth.”

“Have you seen Ulysse?” said I.

“My weather-glass, Monsieur? Yes. I walked up to Besse this morning and turned him out. He says that this will certainly last for three days – and possibly more: but he adds that, when it clears, there will be a very sharp frost.”

“Oh, hell,” said I. “If it only lasts three days…”

“We must pray,” said Joseph. “We must work, and Mesdames must pray very hard. And in case their prayers are not heard, I am having tarpaulins sent up. And braziers. I do not like the idea. I shall not be satisfied. But, with weather like this, I am bound to take a chance. It is too promising.”

I may have worked harder than I did in the next two days, but, if I have, I cannot remember when. Each evening, at six o’clock, I could hardly stand up. Jonah and Carson worked, I think, rather harder – and seemed not at all fatigued. On Tuesday morning Berry’s back gave out – this to his genuine distress, but to no one’s surprise. The day before he had worked for eleven hours, for quite six of which he had been soaked to the skin. This was, of course, asking for trouble. Muscular rheumatism has been his familiar for years.

Sand and stones and cement…sand and cement…sand and stones and cement…

This was mixed on the ‘drive’ and shovelled into buckets which could have contained a boar. The buckets were hauled to the scaffold, some seventy feet above: there their contents were emptied into the travelling trucks. These ran on a little railway, along the footbridge scaffold and up to Hadrian’s Wall. There the lines branched and ran to right and to left, up to the end of the platform, now being made. (These lines were continually shifted, according to where, upon the platform, the concrete, so mixed, was required.) When they reached the point at which the masons were working, the trucks were tipped and their burden fell on to a raft: and from the raft it was shovelled on to the waiting steel. Once there, it had to be ‘worked’. And when it had been well ‘worked’, so that every rod was embedded and there were no ‘pockets’ left, then it had to be carefully levelled just to the top of the steel. Then the grilles were laid and tied: and then a finer mixture was spread upon them. And when these, too, were embedded and out of sight, then the whole was levelled to precisely the height of the wall.

The men worked magnificently. After all, it was not their home. But everyone knew of the gamble and what was at stake. It became a point of honour that the rafts should never be empty, that the trucks should not wait upon the buckets nor the buckets upon the trucks.

All day long the lorries were bringing sand and cement. All day long men were shovelling and hauling, their bodies streaming with a mixture of rain and sweat. All day long men were ‘working’ the concrete, stirring, slicing with trowels till it shuddered like any quicksand and found its level itself. All day long the masons were finishing the surface, checking it with square edge and level and leaving it true and flawless, as only a craftsman can.

One or other of the brothers was there the whole of the time, while Joseph directed the battle and fought himself. His energy was inspiring. If ever a hitch occurred, he was there and was bearing a hand before anyone else: when a section of railway jammed, he had it free before I could send for a pick: one moment he would be on the scaffold, urging the mixers below, and the next he would be at the farther end of the platform, checking a level with a mason or tying a grille into place. And once, when a truck jumped the rails and men were straining like madmen to keep it from spilling its load, he seized a raft and carried it single-handed and set it down by the truck in the nick of time. I mention this, because it was not only a great feat of strength but, to me, a great example of presence of mind. He saw that the men were failing, that even his added strength could not hold the truck up, that Mahomet must be brought to the mountain – and that at once. And so he did it somehow. Not one man in a thousand would have ‘got there’. But Joseph did.