of the net.’
Linder spoke perfect English, but there was just the faintest trace of his Norwegian origins in his intonation.
‘Did you know it was Barbara Willis?’ asked Sally.
‘No, I hadn’t the slightest idea who it was. But Tyson recognized her at once. He had been reading all about her, and her photo had been in his paper for several days.’
Wyatt put his empty glass on the mantelpiece, and said: ‘How long are you staying here, Mr Linder?’
The young Norwegian frowned thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps another two or three weeks. I am usually here for a month at this time of year – it’s my annual holiday. I rent a small, furnished cottage over on Fallow Cliff, not far from Bill Tyson’s place. My home, of course, is in London.’
‘What part of London?’ idly queried Sally.
‘St John’s Wood.’
Wyatt continued pleasantly:
‘I was hoping that Tyson could have come along with you. Maybe I’ll walk over and see him later on.’
Linder smiled.
‘I’m afraid poor old Tyson does not like answering questions, and he’s had rather a lot just lately. You may find him a little difficult to handle, Mr Wyatt. He was quite rude to that other fellow.’
‘What other fellow?’ demanded Wyatt at once.
‘Why the man who came over from Teignmouth. I think his name was Knight.’
‘Knight?’ repeated Sally. ‘Wasn’t that the man who was engaged to Barbara Willis?’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Wyatt.
‘Then I suppose it was understandable that he should be curious about his fiancée’s death,’ said Linder. ‘He drove over from Teignmouth yesterday morning. He seemed most anxious to know what actually happened when we discovered the body.’
‘You say Bill Tyson lives near you at Fallow Cliff?’ persisted Wyatt. Linder nodded.
‘Yes, just the other side of the bay – about four miles by road. The best time to catch him would be in the evening, I should think.’
‘Right. Will you tell him we’ll be along about eight-thirty tonight?’
‘I’ll tell him,’ promised Linder, making a move towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he hesitated uncertainly for some moments, then said:
‘Mr Wyatt, I read in the paper about your finding the girl in your garage. Do you think she was murdered by the same person who killed Barbara Willis?’
‘Yes,’ said Wyatt after a moment’s pause.
‘But it is so horrible!’ exclaimed Linder incredulously. ‘Two girls strangled in a few weeks! Who would do a terrible thing like that?’
‘A man called “Mr Rossiter”,’ replied Wyatt simply, eyeing Linder shrewdly.
‘Mr Rossiter? But who is this Mr Rossiter?’
‘That,’ said Wyatt confidently, ‘is what I’m going to find out, Mr Linder.’
Sally and her husband spent the afternoon in Teignmouth, and after tea they drove slowly round the lanes encircling the coast, with the idea of eventually ending up at Tyson’s cottage. Sally tried to follow their route on a road map, but very soon lost herself. Her husband offered neither help nor criticism: he sat without speaking for minutes at a time. Having discovered her bearings at last, she was almost startled when he suddenly asked:
‘What did you make of Hugo Linder?’
‘He seemed rather a pleasant sort of person, I thought. Though I should say he’s on the nervy side. Almost neurotic in some respects. He was pretty het-up about everything, wasn’t he?’
‘He was.’
Sally switched on the headlights.
‘What does he do for a living?’ she asked.
‘He’s supposed to be an architect, I believe. Though I should imagine he has private means.’
They had just passed a small waterfall when Sally imagined she caught a glimpse of a car overtaking them. They rounded a bend and she lost the car in her driving mirror, but on the next level stretch the oncoming car began to overhaul them rapidly. Suddenly, its headlamps snapped on, and Wyatt half-turned in his seat. The car crept up until it was fifteen yards behind them, then seemed content to remain at the distance.
‘Why doesn’t he go ahead if he’s in a hurry?’ murmured Sally, who was vaguely annoyed by the headlights in her mirror. ‘In any case I wish he’d put those lights out …’
‘Sally you’d better slow down – we’re coming to one of those hump-back bridges and the road narrows,’ said Wyatt, who had caught a fleeting glimpse of it about two hundred yards ahead. Sally took her foot off the accelerator, but the car behind made no attempt to pass them.
‘Why doesn’t he go ahead?’ demanded Sally once more. It was not until they were about seventy yards away from the bridge that the car behind suddenly put on a spurt.
‘Sally, for God’s sake, look out! He’s trying to pass you!’ cried Wyatt.
‘But we’re nearly on the bridge!’ exclaimed Sally desperately.
‘Pull over …’
‘I can’t! There’s no room …’
They were forced into the side of the road, and as they came to the steep little bridge, the overtaking car suddenly shot in front, leaving Sally no alternative but to steer right into the parapet. The car shot clean through the low wall as if it had been matchwood and took a neat somersault right into the river below. The driver of the other car straightened out expertly, stepped hard on his accelerator and disappeared into the night.
Wyatt was never quite sure whether he completely lost consciousness after feeling the terrific impact of the car meeting the water. He was aware that the car was lying on its side, and that he could feel the steering wheel in the middle of his back. He tried to open the door tilted above him, but the fall had jammed it. The window, too, was stuck. For a few frantic moments he fumbled in the back of the car and eventually found the starting handle.
The water was swirling into the bottom of the car, and Sally lay motionless, with her head against the side window. Desperately Wyatt raised the handle and struck at the glass in the window nearest him. It took him some seconds to dispose of all the jagged edges. Then he lifted Sally as high as he could and tried to gain a footing on the floor of the car.
The sharp sound of breaking glass seemed to restore Sally to consciousness. She opened her eyes and then clutched Wyatt’s arm.
‘Sally! Can you hold on a minute?’ he gasped, trying to steady her. She nodded and took a grip on the handle of the sunshine roof, which had also jammed. In a few seconds Wyatt managed to clamber out of the window. It was not easy, however, to stand with water well above his waist and help Sally to follow suit. After this was accomplished they had to cling to the car for some minutes to recover.
Meanwhile, Wyatt surveyed their position. It was lucky that the river was running low, and was no more than five feet deep in the centre of its channel. Nevertheless, the current was strong under the narrow bridge, and he had considerable difficulty in getting Sally on to the bank. They lay there exhausted for quite a while; then Wyatt became conscious of his saturated clothes, for the night was appreciably cooler.
It was starlight now, and they could just discern the outline of the car in the middle of the stream, with the fast-flowing waters surging around it.
‘What time is it?’ asked Wyatt at last.
‘No idea. My wrist-watch has stopped.’
There