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Roy Glashan's Library
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Touch and Go,"
Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1939
PENSIVELY, yet with a trace of hopeful anticipation, Constable Bragg eyed the low-slung, rather shabby tourer as it nosed into Westingborough railway station yard, its sweetly-running mechanism making little more noise than did the four hard tyres on the gravelled slope. For Bragg knew that the driver of the car had taken the curve at far too great a pace: he had not rounded it on two wheels, or anything of that sort, but if the yard wall had not been so low that the driver of the car could see over it, or if there had been anyone in the way, that young feller would have been for the high jump. And, observing him, Bragg had hopes of catching him doing over thirty in the built-up area represented by Market Street or London Road, and acquiring merit by putting him at a thirty-shillings-and-costs sort of jump before the local bench of magistrates. Not that Superintendent Wadden approved of his men harrying motorists, for he did not: all the same, a thirty-mile limit is a thirty-mile limit, and if young fellers can't be made to keep it like other people—well, where are you?
Thus Constable Bragg, while, ignorant of the fact that he had incurred the disapproval of the Law, Jim Brown pulled on his hand brake by the kerb—and held the release lever as he pulled, for the sake of the teeth on the locking ratchet—and, standing up in the car, ignored the formality of opening the near-side door. Instead, he stepped over it and directly on to the paving, since the bodywork of the car was innocent of running boards and his legs were long enough to render it no more than a mere extra stride. And there for a second or two stood the six feet of leanness that represented Jim Brown—Jeehim, his intimates generally called him—with hair of nondescript brown under his shabby old soft felt hat, honest grey eyes with, usually, a twinkle of fun in them, big ears, and a face of average attractiveness. Since, on his way into the town, he had had to change a wheel, the fact that his grey flannel suit was due at the cleaners had had its final emphasis affixed—placarded, perhaps—and his strong, lean hands (they ranked as his most attractive feature) were as thoroughly disguised as a stage detective. As he stood there, he wanted to scratch his nose, but dared not do it: the hot water in railway station lavatories, he knew, was a very uncertain quantity indeed, and the grease he was carrying on his fingers was the sort of stuff that would stick if applied.
So, with nose still itching, he entered the booking office.
"Oh, Jeehim!" a voice greeted him. "Bus busted?"
He paused to eye the speaker, one not quite so tall as himself, and much tidier—by the look of them, both were in their late twenties or early thirties.
"Of course it isn't," he answered. "I've been doing a spot of valve adjustment. Why?"
"If the bus isn't busted, what do you come to a railway station for?" the other man inquired.
"Percy," Jim answered, "if prepositions were heretics, your name would be Torquemada—not the cross-word one, but the old Spanish joker. Now think that out. I've come here for a wash."
"Bit superfluous, I think," Percy commented. "What you really need is a gang of navvies to dig you out. How's uncle these days?"
"Oh, well—it's touch and go with him."
"You don't mean—ill?" Percy inquired incredulously.
"Not a bit of it! But I tried to touch him for a tenner, and he went. Think that one out with the other while I get my wash."
"And another chance to raise a good potato crop goes west!"
But Jim Brown missed the end of that remark, being already out on the platform in quest of water and soap. And, having got the "lunch edition" of the London evening paper, for which he had visited the station bookstall, Percy Lewinson made his exit, gave Jim's long-bonneted car a rather envious glance, and went out from the station yard.
"After all," he told himself, "he trades in 'em."
While Percy thus emulated the fox under those high-hanging grapes, Jim Brown quitted the ranks of the untouchables as far as hands are concerned, realising by the aid of the mirror in front of the wash-basin that he really must do something about his suit, and emerged to the platform with just two minutes to spare before the arrival of the four-fifteen down express. The stocky, middle-aged little ticket-collector who had taken post at the platform exit had time to assure Jim that the train was a little ahead of time, if anything, and was already signalled, before the great engine rumbled round the curve, clanked and thundered past, and, smoothly and easily, its following of corridor coaches came to rest. With a frown crinkling his forehead Jim Brown watched—and also waited—as some score or more of passengers left the train.
Then he saw her. For most men of his age, there is one girl or woman for whom "her" is name enough in his thoughts. Of middle height, with dainty little hands and feet and a yellow lion's mane of hair that would never attain to other than curly and charming disorder, and to-day was given greater freedom than usual by the tiny black acorn-cup perched on it to represent a hat: not flat-chested and mannish of figure as is the average modern girl, but with a figure suggestive—yet not too much so—of her womanhood, and with, as Jim Brown knew well, eyes in whose laughter a man might forget care, as in their tenderness he might forget all but love for her, Avril Madison began a sedate walk toward the exit, saw him, and changed to eager haste.
"Oh, Jim! Have you really come to drive me home?"
"Umm-m!" Suddenly inarticulate, he took the suitcase she had been carrying. "How many trunks and things?"
"A trunk and a hat-box—I gave the registration slip to a porter. Yes—here he comes! Shall I tell him to put them in your car?"
"Oh, Sandy!" Jim addressed the porter. "Follow us—they're to go in the back of my casserole in the yard."
"Right you are, sir."
Holding the girl's arm lightly, Jim led the way out, tipped the porter after the big trunk and flimsy-looking hat-box had been deposited in the back of his car, and seated himself at the steering wheel.
"This is nice!" she said, as the car moved off—and Constable Bragg frowned at it after nodding approval of such a passenger. "Have you seen daddy lately?"
"Left him to come and fetch you," he responded. "I guessed you'd be on this train, and didn't even stop to put on decent clothes."
"You always had a genius for stating the obvious, hadn't you?"
"What I meant to convey was that he didn't tell me you'd be on it, or know I meant to meet you," Jim explained stolidly, keeping his gaze on the street beyond his radiator cap. It being mid-afternoon of a mid-week day, Market Street was a busy place, and the girl sat silent until Jim swung the wheel for London Road and saw the Idleburn bridge.
"What's wrong, Jim?" she asked then. "Has daddy—"
"Uncle Henry," he interrupted her, stressing the title and name harshly—"has told me where I get off, which is one reason for my meeting you. I'd have waited till the last train had gone, if you hadn't been on this one. And that reminds me—Uncle Henry wouldn't have let Percy Lewinson know you were on it, would he?"
"Not that I know of." She looked rather puzzled. "Daddy—"
"Uncle Henry," he interrupted, again with that harsh inflection. "Not that he's even uncle to you, as far as that goes."
"He's all the daddy I've ever had, and he's been good to me," she insisted with some irritation. "My own father, as you know, died before I was born, and I wasn't four years old when mother and daddy—this stepfather who's always loved me as his own daughter—when they married. He made me take his name, told me from the first I was to consider myself a Madison, and—and made me his heiress, too."
"All that?" Jim queried caustically. "Well, now it's my turn, Avril. He told me to-day, before I started out to meet your train, that if you so much as dared to marry me—a blasted, poverty-stricken motor mechanic, he called me—if you so much as dared, he'd take damned good care you never handled a penny of the money he's got to leave."
"But—but—marry you, Jim?" she asked, aghast.
"Is that such a hell of a prospect, then?" he asked bitterly.
"Oh, Jim, you know I didn't mean that!" she pleaded. "But—but we've always been such good pals, you and I. I—I didn't want to think of anything else for years, and now you—"
"You won't see twenty-five again, Avril," he pointed out, "and—and I love you, want to take care of you and be good to you. Else—but that's all off, now, I know. Stepdaddy put it plainly enough."
"If I felt that I wanted to marry you," she said, "he might make a bonfire of everything he owns, and I wouldn't care. But—"
"But you don't," he completed for her in the pause.
"Honestly, Jim, I've never thought of it," she urged frankly. "I was badly in love three years ago, when I was in Dresden—I've never told you about that till now. But then he let me see him reeling, sodden drunk a few times, and I hated myself because it was so hard to tear that love up and throw it away, and since then—since then I haven't wanted anything but the cheery companionship you and Percy and some others have given me. Haven't wanted to care deeply, because a disillusionment such as I had makes one armour oneself against deep caring. And now—I wish you hadn't told him you—you want to marry me."
He did not answer. With the driving seat back to its limit to give room for his long legs, he was slightly behind her as he sat, and thus was able to look at her without the quality of his gaze being apparent to her—unless she turned her face toward him to look full into his eyes. He knew that, with all he had told her, he had spoiled the cheery companionship of which she had spoken: they could never resume it—and he did not want to resume it. He wanted all of her, all the love of spirit and mind and body that he knew she had it in her to give. She turned her head suddenly, and saw his sombre eyes and set lips.
"Thinking what, Jim?" she asked, trying to speak lightly.
"You, Avril dear," he answered.
"And not finding me a very pleasant thought, by the look of you," she countered. "Positively savage, if you could see yourself."
"Not—it was myself that made me savage," he explained. "In a way he's right—Uncle Henry, I mean. I am a blasted poverty-stricken motor mechanic, as he said, and haven't any right to—"
"Jim"—it was an incisive interruption—"if you say one more word like that about yourself, you can stop the casserole and I'll get out and wait for the Carden bus to take me home. You ought to be proud of yourself, building up the little cycle-shop business you bought into what it is now, and—and"—rather wistfully—"I wish you'd send that suit to be cleaned. It's—you're—Jim, it looks positively hellish!"
"Why"—he brightened a little—"do you care what I look like?"
"Of course I care! I want all my friends to be worthy—or at least look worthy—of such a charming personality as myself."
"Can't you be serious, Avril?" he pleaded sadly.
"Avril Prima Madison, so named because I was born on the first of April," she retorted. "I'm glad my own father had that much sense of fun. Reminding me of it so perpetually, I mean. Jim, there's a little verse—it was written by someone—a woman, so don't be jealous—someone I know I shall love, if ever I meet her, because she sees so far into the heart of life. Listen, Jim! This is it—
'In the foolish country of the wise,
The hills lie flatly under the skies,
And even the sheep have tired eyes—
In the foolish country of the wise.'
"Oh, Jim, come out of that foolish country!"
With his expression even grimmer than it had been before she spoke, he opened out for Condor Hill, shot past the gateway of Condor Grange, and took the steepening grade without changing gear. They roared up into the cutting, came out to the beautiful view of Carden valley and its framing, magnificent perspective, and Avril laid her hand lightly on his arm. There is, on the Carden side of the summit, a widening that admits of parking cars beside the road, and she pointed at it.
"Stop just for a minute, Jim. It's always lovely, and with this autumn colouring and the sun on it, I want to stop and thank God for His being such an artist."
He swung the car off the road camber to the levelled, concrete-faced parking space. They had it to themselves, and for awhile sat silent, except that, once or twice, the girl breathed audibly.
"Life is so beautiful," she said at last.
"Avril, I'm all at sea," Jim Brown confessed, very gravely. "I've tried to tell you I love you—tried to tell you I've quarrelled past redemption with Uncle Henry—your stepfather—because of it, and all you do is quote me a verse that doesn't mean as much as the coke off one cylinder head, and then tell me life is beautiful. D'you think I'm finding it beautiful, knowing that even if you did love me enough to marry me it would cost you every penny you've got coming to do it, and so I can't even hope to ask you to marry me?"
For a little while she did not answer, nor did she look at him. Her gaze was on the dim lands beyond Carden, groves of pine and larch, and yellow dunes, heather-specked, from which the dark trees rose: on placid meadows, and the lines of streams and jewels of ponds, platinum-and-gold under the afternoon sun, and shining silver threads of railway that went and were lost in the hazed west.
"Jim," she said at last, "when you've cleaned the coke off all the cylinder heads, and started the engine again and heard it running as you love to hear an engine, then life must be beautiful to you. But you're still in that foolish country of the wise. If ever I want—if I wanted to marry you in the way that makes it right to come to you and tell you I'm yours, and all the pennies in the world were heaped up in one great mountain range, I'd climb the range and slide down the other side to you—and turn my back on the pennies, too! Perhaps, Jim"—she turned her head to look full at him—"this isn't a promise, but only a perhaps, mind—perhaps, if ever you can tell me how much more than the coke off one cylinder head my verse means to you, I will want to marry you. Because, then, we can go together into the wise country of the foolish, where all the people born on April fool day belong."
"Tell me that verse again, Avril, will you?" he asked.
She repeated it, and he frowned as he puzzled over it.
"Am I one of the sheep, by any chance?" he inquired. "I think you're a lamb," she said reflectively. "A woolly lamb."
Again he puzzled over it, while a lorry ground up from Carden on second gear, and spoilt the stillness of the September afternoon.
"Better be getting on, hadn't we?" he suggested when the lorry had got beyond the crest and its driver had changed to top gear.
"Quite right, Jim," she said with a trace of irony. "I'm very nearly home, now, but you have a terribly long way to go."
Without pressing the starter button, he eased off his hand brake with the clutch out and the gear in third. The car moved off, gathered momentum, and he took his foot off the clutch pedal. They purred down the hillside, and the perspective diminished until no more than Carden Street showed beyond Cortazzi's hotel, the Carden Arms. Some little way beyond it, Jim swung the steering wheel into the lane leading to Todlington—Mr. Hawk, the stationmaster, came out to register Miss Madison's return from her continental holiday as they passed the station—and on they went toward Todlington, the next village, where the sandy allotments grew carrots and onions but baulked at potatoes and cabbages, and the road they travelled was shaded by larches and their fellow evergreens, or ran through patches of heather and even bare, barren sand.
Beyond, they went by stubbles of cornland, more fertile than Todlington itself, and passed a gaunt, many-windowed structure which announced itself by means of a pair of gigantic hoardings as MADISON BRUSH COMPANY, LTD., THE BRUSH THAT PAINTS THE WORLD. And thereby hangs a story worth the telling—like Browning's "Epilogue to Asolando".
For, some thirty years previously, one Henry Madison, then a young man and unmarried, had despaired of this business, which had been left him by his father. He had been in London, attempting to sell the business, and had passed a house where re-decoration was in progress. As he had passed, one of the men engaged in painting the front had remarked to his fellow—"Say, Sid, it's about time I bought meself a new Madison." On which Henry Madison had given up all thought of selling the business, given the man half a sovereign without explaining his generosity, and gone back to make Madison brushes paint the world. The workman had gone on hoping (vainly) that other lunatics of the same kidney would come along, and Henry Madison had gone back to nurse and foster his brush-making business into deserved prosperity.
Ancient history, this, as Jim Brown drove Avril Madison homeward. He turned the car into a narrow lane, came to a laurel-guarded gateway, and, entering on a wide, gravelled approach to the frontage of a white, pillared-porched, Georgian house, saw that the front door stood wide. The car was running so silently that only the noise of its tyres on the gravel could have been audible to anyone inside.
"No need to disturb either Uncle Henry or Hallam," Jim remarked. "I'll just dump your belongings inside, and then buzz off and leave you, Avril. I'm not anxious to encounter him again."
He switched off his engine and, having got out, opened the near side door for the girl and then took the trunk out of the back and preceded her toward the house. But, on the doorstep, he paused, looking in toward the comparative dimness of the entrance hall. What he saw caused him to back a step, obstructing the girl from following him, and he put the trunk down in the porch, instead of taking it inside.
"Stop here, Avril," he bade, quietly. "There's—not one more step do you take. Stop here till I've investigated."
"Investigated what?" she demanded sharply.
"Uncle Henry—I don't like the look of it," he answered. Then, as she would have spoken. "No—don't ask anything—just wait! Wait here, too—promise me you won't try to walk past that trunk."
"I—I promise," she answered. For there was light enough within the house to show her a crumpled figure at the stairs' foot.
Jim Brown went inside. She saw him bend over whatever lay at the foot of the curving stairway. Saw him kneel and, without touching the still figure, make some sort of examination, rise to his feet, and return to where she waited. And, she noted as he returned, there was no change in his rather grim set of face, no difference in the gravity of his normally humorous grey eyes. She saw—she was to remember it, after—the half-light of the entrance hall, the shining blackness of the staircase balustrade, kept polished and beautiful by old Hallam who loved old things, and the queer, inhuman-looking heap of clothes at the foot of the staircase. Giovanni Alfieri, an Italian artist contemporary with da Vinci, had built that staircase in Venice, and it had been raped away and put in this stuggy, squat house when the first Hanoverian had made the last Stuart only a memory, and now there was a dim heap at its foot, as if it might have been still in Venice and one of the Three had decreed an assassination—Avril knew what Jim Brown would say, before he spoke—knew it from his grimly-set face, perhaps—
"Uncle Henry is dead. Murdered, I think."
"Then"—to herself, her query sounded banal, unfeeling—"what do we do next?"
"I think I take you back to the Carden Arms, and we don't touch anything here"—his voice sounded practical, methodic (belonged, in fact, to the country in which even the sheep have tired eyes, she reflected)—"and you stay there for the present. Though, of course, with things as they are you're"—he broke off, evidently refraining from some caustic comment—"but, by the look of it, this is a case for Inspector Head."
OF course, Jim was right. Bodies must be left exactly as they are until the police have seen them, and that crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, indistinct in the dim light of the entrance hall, must not be touched, let alone moved. Yet Avril wanted to go and straighten it, kiss the forehead just once more and say good-bye to the old man who, though no kin to her, had loved her so well and done all he could to make happiness in her life for as far back as she could remember.
"As long as you keep quite out of the place, don't go any nearer," Jim remarked, "it ought to be possible to keep you out of both the inquest and—and the trial, if they get whoever did it. I'm thinking for you, Avril. Come along"—stooping, he took up the trunk again—"and we'll get Cortazzi to give you a room while I find Plender and tell him—come back here with him, I expect, since I found the body."
"But—but you said murdered, Jim," she half-protested. "He—he might have missed a stair and fallen—"
"He didn't grip his own throat enough to leave fingermarks," he interrupted, "and the fingermarks are there. That's why I said murdered. Obviously, you can't sleep here to-night, and equally obviously you don't want all the questioning and ugliness of being a witness. Come back to the Carden Arms, keep quite out of it, for your own sake."
She followed him to the car and took her seat in it again while he replaced the trunk in the back. Then, starting the engine again, he drove along the way they had come—and, as they passed Carden station, Mr. Hawk observed their return and made a note of the fact that Miss Madison seemed to be going off again somewhere, so probably there was something up. Mr. Hawk, not overburdened by his duties, was always on the look-out for something up, some compensation for the neglect accorded him by the directors of the line, who ought, as he often proclaimed, to have put him in charge of a big main-line junction long ago, instead of letting his marvellous organising abilities moulder in a potty little place like Carden.
Emerging to the village street, Jim Brown glanced both ways in the hope of seeing a police uniform—with, of course, a policeman inside it—but neither Sergeant Plender nor Constable Hawker was anywhere in sight. Well, that end of it must wait: Avril, very silent beside him, was his first consideration; her silence and attitude indicated how terrible this blow was to her. He drove on to the forecourt of the Carden Arms and drew up before the hotel entrance to get down and hand her out from the car and into the hotel.
"Ze tea, Mees Madison?" Cortazzi himself greeted her before bowing at Jim. "I get you ze tea myself, an' make it especial for you."
"Miss Madison wants a room here," Jim said bluntly, before she could speak in answer.
"Ah, ze room—yaas. Zere is plenty of rooms, for ze feeshing she is fineesh, an 'zey do not yet come to 'unt ze cub of ze fox. You laik ze room to look at ze 'ill, Mees Madison, or per'aps ze room which look at ze trees at ze back. Or ze room 'ere in front—"
"Settle it with him, Avril—I'll have to go and find someone to report the—what I found." Jim felt it would be better to give her even that little to do, as a means of averting the breakdown which appeared imminent. "Cortazzi, there's a trunk and suit-case and hat-box in the back of my car, if you'll get someone to fetch them inside for Miss Madison. I'm rather in a hurry to get away—I'll be back to see if there's anything I can do for you, Avril, some time this evening."
"You're being very good to me, Jim." He could hear the tears in her voice. "Any—any room, Mr. Cortazzi. Quickly, though."
Short of turning catherine-wheels, Cortazzi gave a world's greatest exhibition of activity, and before she could realise all that had happened Avril found herself alone with her baggage in "ze room to look at ze 'ill."
Some two years or more before Jim Brown found Henry Madison's body at the foot of a staircase, Superintendent Wadden, in charge of the police force of Westingborough and district, had given Sergeant William Plender authority over Carden village, with a certain Constable Vane, a well-born youngster who had thought he might make a career of the police force, as his assistant. Vane, however, had eventually preferred the Air Force to police work, and the superintendent, whose brains were always exercised over how to make the best of the limited staff under his control, had had to transfer Constable Hawker, whom he always called his man of weight (Wadden was near on eighteen stone himself, but Hawker could tip the scale against him, physically) to Carden, for lack of any younger and more intelligent man. Good organiser and disciplinarian though he was, Wadden had to use all his ability to ensure that his far-flung district was efficiently policed: he had had doubts of putting a man like Plender in charge of any place beyond his own immediate ken, but consoled himself—when he thought of it—by the reflection that Carden was a law-abiding place, and though Plender might be rather bumptious and inclined to act on his own initiative a trifle too much, he was an intelligent officer as a rule, and could not go far wrong there.
That Wednesday afternoon, Plender stood on the front doorstep of his cottage in shirt-sleeves and, with more than a suspicion of garden mould on his police boots, (his King Edwards had taken first prize at the Carden and District Horticultural Show, and Mr. Hawk the stationmaster, also an enthusiastic amateur gardener, had hinted at rank favouritism as responsible for the award) listened to Jim Brown's bald statement.
"Did you say murdered, Mr. Brown?"
"I think I said it plainly enough," Jim retorted with asperity.
The sergeant shook his head. "I shouldn't, if I were you," he said.
"But, damn it all, he was murdered!" Jim exclaimed heatedly.
"That," said Plender weightily, "is for us to decide. Now if you don't mind waiting just a minute, Mr. Brown, I'll get me coat and helmet, and ring over to Westingborough for Doctor Bennett to come and make an examination of the bod—of the gentleman, and then I'd like you to come along with me. Whatever's happened to him, you see, you'll be an important witness—a very important witness, I might say—"
His voice faded out as he receded, still talking, into his house, leaving Jim on the doorstep. Far more than the minute had elapsed when he reappeared, in tunic and helmet, and with not a sign of garden mould on his boots, now. He went on talking as Jim led the way out to the car.
"Very good of you to drive me over, Mr. Brown—if you don't mind, we'll stop at Williams' as we go through Todlington, and pick him up. Doctor Bennett is going to inform the supe—Superintendent Wadden, I mean—because the line to Westingborough police station was engaged when I tried it, and I don't want to lose a minute. I s'pose Inspector Head'll have to come over and have a look, though if it's a plain case as it's most likely to be, and I have Williams with me while I make an investigation—still, you never can tell what Inspector Head'll do. But I advise you not to say murdered till I've made that investigation, Mr. Brown. There's suicide, and accident, and manslaughter, and—well, all sorts of things, and when you say murder, you're sort of making a terrible accusation against—well, I suppose it's against some person or persons unknown, if you get what I mean..."
The voice droned on, ponderously, but Jim Brown heard little of the exordium, for Avril's voice, begging for a room, quickly, was still in his thoughts, and Avril's lovely eyes, not yet tear-blurred, were pictured on the landscape before him. For the third time that afternoon, he passed Carden station, and Mr. Hawk, observing that Sergeant Plender had replaced Miss Madison as passenger in the car, breathed hard with excitement, for not merely was something Up, but something was Wrong. Meanwhile Jim stopped at the cottage in Todlington that bore the blue and white label "County Police", and took up Constable Williams before turning in at the laurel-guarded gateway for the third time that day, and observing his own tyre marks, a foot nearer the door than the wheels were now, as he got out from the car.
"There—in there, sergeant." He pointed toward the still opened door. By this time, the light had begun to fail: whether the body still lay as he had left it, he could not tell.
"Wait a bit," Plender counselled, also getting out from the car. "I've got to get the hang of this right from the start. To begin with, now, was that door open like that when—when you left it?"
"Must have been—yes, it was," Jim answered. "Now I come to think of it, I didn't shut it when I left him before going to look for Av—before I went to Westingborough station to meet Miss Madison, I mean."
"Wait a bit, Mr. Brown—wait a bit. Let me get the hang of it from the very start," Plender urged, with a trace of excitement. "You mean you came here before you came here with Miss Madison and found the body down at the foot of the stairs? You saw Mr. Madison alive to-day?"
"Yes. This afternoon, before I drove to Westingborough."
"I see. And—but surely there'd be somebody to shut the door after you when you came out. You say you left it open then?"
"I did. And Mr. Madison had opened it himself when I rang the bell. You see, sergeant, he only keeps a man and woman to look after things. Hallam is the name of the man, in case you don't know it, and the woman is Susan, who cooks and does what Hallam doesn't—but this happens to be her weekly afternoon off. And I suppose—"
"Mr. Madison didn't come to the door with you when you left?" Plender inquired, interrupting as he felt for his note book.
Jim shook his head. "Not likely," he said, rather grimly.
"And what do you mean by that?" Plender asked, with sudden stiffness of manner, and opening the notebook as he spoke.
"I mean he did not come to the door, and I didn't shut it," Jim answered shortly, with a hint of stubbornness.
"It begins to appear, then, that you were the last person to come out of this house by that door." Still more stiffly.
"Begins to appear to me, sergeant," Jim said caustically, "that your genius for making long shots is keeping you from the examination you said you meant to carry out, when we started to come here. Twenty persons might have gone in and out by that doorway since I came through it, and if they found it open, quite probably all of 'em would leave it so."
"What was the time when you first left it so?" Plender persisted.
"I don't know. I got to Westingborough in time to meet the four-fifteen down, and had to stop to change a wheel on the way. I'd called in at my garage at Carden, too. Say three, or three-fifteen."
"Whereabouts did you leave Mr. Madison—inside the house, I mean?"
"Where—oh, yes, I see. In a room he uses as a sort of office at the top of the stairs—the door of the room faces the staircase."
Plender devoted some seconds to silent digestion of what he had learned. Out here before the house, the light was beginning to fail very perceptibly, now, and the doorway before them framed an oblong of darkness. No light showed in any of the windows to either side, and the house itself, apparently untenanted except by the still figure Jim had seen at the foot of the stairs, had an ominous, boding aspect.
"Well, that's that," Jim said, breaking in on the sergeant's reflections, with suddenly intense desire to get back to Avril, to comfort her, aid her in any way he could. "You won't want me any longer, sergeant, now I've told you all I can?"
"Oh, but I shall!" Plender dissented—and, even at that point, Jim heard a sinister note in his voice. "In fact, I'm not sure that I'm not going to want you very much indeed. You can't go yet, anyhow. Williams"—he turned to the silent constable—"d'you happen to know whether this house is wired for current, or do they use paraffin lamps?"
"I can tell you," Jim Brown interposed. "You'll find one switch just on the left of the doorway as you go in, and that light'll show you where the other switches are, if you need more light."
"I see," Plender said. "Well, you'd better come along inside with us while I make my investigations. Come on, Williams."
He led the way and, by means of an electric torch that he took from his pocket, found the switch beside the door and pressed it down. Light shone down from a central pendant; old oak chairs and settle, an oak table of which the surface was like a mirror, and the dark richness of the staircase balustrade, all in perfect keeping with the proportions of the hall, revealed the fact that not only Henry Madison, but his forbears too, had had both wealth and good taste. And at the foot of the stair lay the still figure as Jim Brown had left it: now, he stood back while Plender, his helmet in his hand—seeing him, Williams too removed his helmet in the presence of death—knelt beside the body and gazed down at it. In less than a minute he was on his feet again, not having touched the body, and gazing straight at Jim.
"It looks as if—" he began, and did not end it.
Again there was in his voice that ominous, almost threatful note. Jim Brown shrugged slightly—there was impatience in the gesture.
"I told you he was murdered," he said. "It's obvious enough.'"
"If"—Plender looked at the open door—"if you left here about three as you say, it looks as if you were very likely the last person to see him alive. If nobody else—or only one other—left that door open when they went out. And I want to know—"
Again he broke off, thoughtful for the moment. Doctor Bennett would get in touch with Superintendent Wadden before setting out to examine the body, and then Inspector Head would take over, of course. Unless—the case was shaping itself, an obvious, plain case, by the look of it. Both Bennett and Head would be here soon, and if he, Plender, were to get the glory he saw as coming to him, he must lose no time.
"Probably Hallam could tell you a good deal," Jim said.
"When I asked you, outside there"—Plender took no notice of the suggestion—"whether Mr. Madison came to the door with you when you left him this afternoon, you said it was not likely. What did you mean by that? Why wasn't it likely he'd come to see you out?"
"It wasn't, that's all," Jim answered stubbornly.
"It won't pay you to keep anything back," Plender warned him.
"Oh, heaven and earth!" It was an exasperated exclamation. "Do you suspect me of having murdered him? Why the devil can't you see if Hallam is anywhere about, and find out who was here after I left?"
"I don't take orders from you as to how I investigate a case—especially a case like this," Plender snapped back harshly.
"Then what do you do?" Jim inquired with acid quietness. "Stand here over the body all night, trying to get out of me what I don't know and so can't tell you? For that's what it looks like."
Another pause, and then Plender, an angry man now, gave in.
"Come on, both of you," he said shortly. "If this man Hallam is anywhere about the place, we'll hear what he has to say."
They followed him, Williams keeping in rear of Jim Brown as if to ensure that he did not attempt to escape, to a door under the staircase which, opened, revealed a passageway, at the far end of which was another door in the right-hand wall, so far opened as to reveal light. Plender led on, and as he faced the door it opened: a stocky, middle-aged man stood revealed, spectacles on his nose, and a paper-covered book in his disengaged left hand. He took off the spectacles to stare in amazement at two police officers in uniform and Jim Brown.
"What's up?" he asked. "What are you doing here like this?"
"Do you know the front door of this house is wide open?" Plender demanded in reply, with rasping reproof.
"Is it? No, I didn't know," the other man answered calmly.
"Your name is Hallam, I take it," Plender suggested.
"Yes, it is. What about it?" He sounded ruffled by the manner of the question, as well he might be.
"Do you know Mr. Madison is lying dead at the foot of the stairs?"
Hallam started as if struck, and leaned against the door-post as he stared at the sergeant, at Jim Brown, and at Williams.
"Sus-say that again," he gasped out weakly. "Dead—Mr. Madison?"
"Are you altogether a fool?" Plender barked at him—Bennett and Head might be here at any minute, now. "What have you been doing with yourself since three o'clock this afternoon? Answer me, man!"
"Been? Why, here, of course!" He sounded aggrieved by the query.
"You mean—you haven't been to the front of the house at all?"
"No. I don't go unless I'm sent for. Besides, I had plenty to do. Miss Avril may be here at any moment, and it's the cook's half-day—"
"You mean the front door can stand wide open for hours and you don't trouble to go and see about it?" Plender interrupted caustically.
"I shut it if I'm told—I didn't know it was open," Hallam retorted with a trace of sullenness. Then, with sudden change of manner—"But you say Mr. Madison's dead—and Miss Avril due at any minute—"
He would have gone toward the front of the house, but Plender stood in his way and prevented it.
"Oh, no, you don't!" the sergeant said. "I want to hear a lot more, yet. Do you know Mr. Brown here called to see Mr. Madison this afternoon, and was with him till somewhere about three o'clock?"
"Seeing that I let Mr. Brown in, and told the master he wanted to see him, I ought," Hallam answered. "But—"
"You stay here and answer my questions—never mind anything else, yet," Plender counselled harshly. "Where did Mr. Madison have his interview with Mr. Brown—was it in the hall in front there?"
"No, it wasn't," Hallam answered. "It was in the master's office, at the top of the stairs. The door facing the top stair."
"Did you see Mr. Brown leave the house?"
"No. I heard him and the master talking, and then came back here to get on with what I had to do. I knew Miss Avril might be back—"
"Never mind her, for the present. What were Mr. Madison and Mr. Brown talking about? Did you hear enough to gather that?"
"No. All I know is they sounded a bit 'eated—heated, and it wasn't my place to listen to what it was about."
"Angry with each other, you mean?" Plender sounded excited, now.
"I s'pose you'd call it that," Hallam admitted, with a glance at Jim—of apology, or of apprehension, perhaps.
"Angry with each other—yes." Plender opened his notebook at a blank page—his pencil was ready between his fingers. "Now—be very careful over this, Hallam—what did you hear to make you think they were angry with each other? What were the words—do you remember?"
"I—I heard Mr. Brown say, 'Neither you nor anyone else is going to stand in my way,' and then Mr. Madison—"
"Wait—wait, man! Let me get that down. You're sure of the words, sure that was what Mr. Brown said to Mr. Madison?"
"Dead sure," Hallam responded, with another glance at Jim.
"Neither—you—nor—anyone—else—is—going—to—stand—in—my—way," Plender repeated each word as he wrote it. "Now, then. And after that, Mr. Madison said—what did he say?"
"It's not quite so clear in my mind," Hallam confessed. "Something about a beggarly—no, not that—something about a poverty-stricken motor mechanic. That was it. A poverty-stricken motor—"
"You mean, he was calling Mr. Brown a poverty-stricken motor mechanic?" Plender suggested, his pencil poised ready to write again.
"That was it. Yes. Then I recollected what he'd say if he caught me listening, and came back here. So I didn't see Mr. Brown go, nor anything. Stopped here at my work—I knew the master would ring for me if he wanted me, and with the cook's half-day and Miss Avril—"
"All clear—that'll do till you're called on to testify in court," Plender interrupted him, and turned to Jim Brown. "James Brown," he went on, "it is my duty to arrest you and charge you with having murdered Mr. Henry Madison in this house at about three o'clock to-day, and I warn you that anything you may say in answer to the charge may be taken down and produced as evidence against you."
"Oh, don't be such a blasted fool!" Jim Brown retorted.
ALTHOUGH it was late September, the massive figure of Superintendent Wadden appeared in shirtsleeves in the doorway of Inspector Head's room in the Westingborough police station, and Head looked up at his chief from the report he was writing, seeing the rolls of fat that blanketed the superintendent's neck, the red face and fierce eyes, and lips pursed under Wadden's white moustache in readiness to blow—a trick by which anything from faint irritation to gusty wrath found outlet, the strength of the puff indicating the degree of discomposure. Himself normally clothed in a well-cut, grey lounge suit, Head pointed at the chair at the end of his desk.
"Come in if you feel like it, chief," he invited. "Two more words, and I've finished. Finding it warm, by the look of you."
"I thought"—Wadden advanced into the room and stood by the chair, but did not seat himself—"I'd come and ask you about the wording of my resignation. Y'see, it's not like rendering a report to the chief constable, exactly. I s'pose there'll be a presentation, and I'll have to make a speech—write it first and mug it up."
Head wrote his two words, pushed the sheet of paper aside, laid down his pen, and leaned back to look up into the fierce eyes.
"So you really mean it," he said thoughtfully.
"Meant it for years," Wadden assured him. "Since—since you side-tracked me over it on the Forrest case. So far, every time I've got to the point of considering when to hand in my resignation, you've up and spoilt everything by starting a fresh case. Not you really, but someone's shot someone, or jabbed a knife into 'em, or something of the sort, till I'm damn near ashamed to put 'Westingborough' at the top of a private letter to a friend. In fact"—he leaned on the back of the chair, and it creaked a protest—"the old lady said to me only last night that we ought to get out of this district when I do retire, to save us from getting murdered in our beds."
"Better sit down, I think," Head urged. "You put less strain on the chair that way—and it's station property."
"Yes"—as Wadden acted on the suggestion, and the chair creaked still more—"we do appear to get more than our fair share. But except for Forrest, the killers have practically all been strangers. And now—"
"And now I shudder every time I hear of a stranger stepping off a train or stopping a car to look at the town," Wadden completed for him. "But it looks—touch wood!—it looks as if we're in for a quiet time, and—if I were you, Head, I wouldn't take my job. The big noise is pretty sure to offer it to you, but you don't want to spend the rest of your working life indenting for police boots and getting fellers on the carpet to rake their livers and going round inspecting quarters and all that. It ain't you, laddie, the sort of slavery a superintendent lives in. You keep in plain clobber, and let someone else have it."
"I don't see myself carrying on under anyone else," Head reflected.
"Bless you for them words!" Wadden responded. "But"—he blew, with only such force as would displace a feather—"if you think I'm carrying on, with one drunk and a poacher in the cells here and no prospect of a case worth calling one—well, I can let you into a secret, now. I've had it up my sleeve quite a while."
"Such as—?" Head turned as he sat and prepared to listen.
"Guddle—you know Guddle, that dirty little swipe of a house agent over at Crandon—happened to hear some while ago that I want to find a place with enough land to put up glasshouses and grow tomatoes—"
"Who hasn't heard it?" Head interjected prayerfully.
"All right!" Wadden snapped. Then he blew, and the report Head had just finished floated up from the desk and skithered away to alight in a far corner of the room. "Confound you, don't listen!"
"Guddle found you a place?" Stooped in the corner with his back to Wadden, Head put the question quite calmly as he picked up the paper.
"And I'm not addressing any remarks to your rear elevation, either," Wadden told him severely. "Yes"—as Head, the paper in his hand, returned to seat himself again—"he found me exactly what I want, about a mile out on the marsh road from Carden to Crandon—you know, the road that goes past Castel Garde. Well-sheltered, about four acres of land—it's been let for grazing—and the sort of house to write odes about. Eleven fifty, they're asking. I offered nine hundred, and now I'm waiting to hear from Guddle that the offer's accepted, and in goes my resignation. He told me he'd let me know either this afternoon or to-morrow morning, so I thought it was time to let you into the secret."
"You haven't actually got it yet, then?" Head inquired.
"Not—well, the deeds aren't signed, of course, but it's as good as. And mark you, Head, there's every blessed sort of market-gardening being done between Carden and Crandon—except tomatoes! Maybe a few in the open, here and there, but not one blessed pane of glass with a tomato plant behind it. Which means a local market for mine—supply not equal to the demand, unless I borrow capital and extend beyond my original idea, the one I've had for years. And on that—"
He broke off, and regarded the rather soiled report sheet silently.
"Yes, I shall have to copy it on to a clean sheet," Head observed. "Doesn't matter—there's very little doing, as you said some while ago!"
"Suffering mackerel!" Wadden ejaculated, and Head slapped his hand down on the paper for the cyclone that followed the epithet. "How the hell did you know I was thinking that paper had got dirty? But, laddie, you were saying"—his voice softened perceptibly—"you couldn't see yourself carrying on under anyone else after I'd resigned."
"I did say that," Head agreed, "and yet I don't see myself as superintendent here, if it is offered me."
"Oh, it'll be offered you all right, on your record. But if you retire when I do, you'll get a fairish pension, though you're still comparatively young. Not the full pension, of course, but the chief constable'll see you all right. So—what about it, laddie?"
"You—you suggest I should retire?" Head demanded incredulously.
"When I do," Wadden assented, but with more than a trace of trepidation in his tone. "Wa-wadden and Head, tomato growers. Under glass."
Long training, perhaps, accounted for the fact that Head's features expressed no emotion whatever. He wished himself behind frosted glass, and sound-proof at that, for he wanted to shout laughter at the idea. But not for worlds would he have betrayed his opinion of the suggestion to the man beside him, and all his inclination to mirth vanished swiftly as he sought for some way of evading the proposal without hurting the superintendent's feelings. How to get out of it...
Ping-ng-ng-ng-ng-ng-ng-ng!
With real gratitude for the interruption, he reached for the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. The voice of Sergeant Wells, at their private exchange in the charge-room, reached him.
"Doctor Bennett, asking for Superintendent Wadden, Mr. Head."
"Hold on." He handed over the receiver to Wadden. "Bennett wants you, chief. That drunk of his asking for an independent report, I expect. Though there's plenty of evidence that he was drunk—"
He broke off as Wadden spoke.
"Doctor Bennett? Yes, it's me. If it's that—what?"
Listening, Head heard the sharpish rumble of the doctor's voice in the receiver, and heard, too, the brief gust that Wadden blew.
"Damn it all, doctor, the man had a perfect right to fall downstairs and break his neck if he liked! It's not actionable—they were his own stairs... Eh? Oh, hell! And me just sure I could retire and start growing tomatoes under glass! But—yes, yes... Brown? Never heard of him... Oh, yes, though—that new garage over at Carden. Yes, I get it... What? Madison the brush-factory man? I say, this looks rather... Yes—yes. But Brown said—you say Plender said Brown said... I get that—yes. And it was Brown who said—"
Another longish period of the voice in the receiver, and then—
"It's what this Brown thought, apparently—yes. But—look here, doctor. I saw Madison coming out of the bank here this morning—out of the bank, I said—yes. Well, he looked the sort of good feeder who might die of apoplexy at any time—and if you start thinking I might too, your job as surgeon to this police station isn't worth two halves of a tomato pip. Tomato pip, I said! But—sorry, I didn't mean to blow straight into the instrument. But I was going to say—suppose Madison had a fit at the top of the stairs, and put his hand to his own throat, he might easily leave fingermarks on it eh?"
More murmurings, while Head sat waiting, listening.
"Quite so, and this chap Brown wants a bat-catcher to go round his belfry. Tell you what it is, doctor—we've had so many murders round about here the last two or three years, you'll be refusing to give a certificate soon if any patient of yours dies of typhoid or double pneumonia. Well, you get along and give us the dope for a verdict of accidental death, and I'll get Inspector Head to run over to Todlington and see that Plender hasn't exaggerated any points—he's far more likely to do that than miss 'em—and then look in on Brown on his way back and read the riot act to him. Unless you'd like to have a look at him and see if he's suffering from murder on the brain—eh? New disease, discovered by the celebrated Doctor Bennett. Harley Street in one go, and rows of Rolls-Royces waiting at the door... Funny? Not a bit of it. Just prophesying. Well, I've got Head here alongside me this minute, and I'll push him off to see how Madison missed his footing. Yes. So long, doctor—see you at the inquest."
He replaced the receiver, and blew, not at all softly.
"A ruddy inquest to organise—if I get Payne-Garland in the morning it'll be time enough. Head, I'm off work for to-day, and it won't hurt you to turn out your little chariot and drive over there—scenery ought to be perfectly lovely from the top of Condor Hill just now—and don't forget! Daylight saving winds up Saturday week, and it'll be getting dark by this time, then. You ought to be grateful to old Madison for breaking his neck now, instead of ten or twelve days later."
"I'm not," Head answered rather sourly. "What's it all about?"
"As nearly as I can get it, Sergeant Plender telephoned Doctor Bennett—and why the hell he didn't telephone us is a thing he's got to explain when I get him on the carpet. Telephoned Bennett, and told him Brown of Carden—that's the bloke who took a little cycle shop there not long ago and blossomed it out into a garage that makes even Parham's sit up and lay two eggs a day—this Brown told Plender he had discovered the body of Henry Madison mysteriously murdered and lying at the foot of his stairs—Madison's stairs, not Brown's—in his residence—Madison's residence, not Brown's. Whereupon Plender tried to get us, and couldn't. Whereupon he got Bennett instead, and told him he was going—with Brown, who had reported the discovery—to Madison's residence, and would Bennett get on to us and tell us all about it, and then go along and investigate the body—as is right and proper. But I suspect Plender made very little effort to get us. Brown's bat about murder made him think he could cover himself with glory, and he's gone along to get ahead of Head. Y'know, I saw Madison coming out of the bank here this morning, and it struck me at the time that if he insisted on doing himself too well and not taking enough exercise, he was due to drop down dead any old while. I was right, as usual."
"We'll hope so, chief," Head observed, as he took the soiled sheet of paper, thrust it in a drawer of his desk, and closed the drawer. He stood up. "Then you want me to go over to Todlington?"
"Whaddye mean, man—hope so?" Wadden blew a hurricane as he glared at his inspector. "Accident—I feel sure. Run over and make a certainty of it, and I'll be here till you get back. There's a new system of regulating temperature in glasshouses, and I want to go into it thoroughly—here as well as anywhere else. Make it quick—you ought to be back in little over the hour, if you hustle. Hour and a half, anyhow. If not, see you in the morning. So long, laddie."
Back in his own room, the superintendent donned his tunic, for with the approach of evening the temperature had so far lowered that he hoped his old lady would have lighted a fire in the sitting-room at home, by the time he got there. Meanwhile he immersed himself in a study of a pamphlet which explained the new system of heating glasshouses and regulating temperature to the nth point, ever and again consulting a pocket dictionary, for caloric values and similar abstrusenesses had not been invented when he left school.
He had lost consciousness of time in his study of the new system when his telephone bell roused him, and he took the receiver.
"Head speaking, chief. To tell you—I'm speaking from the Carden Arms. I've just seen Plender. He's on his way to you with Constable Williams from Todlington, who is handcuffed to James Brown. Plender arrested Brown and charged him with the murder of Henry Madison."
"Plender— Oh, unholy lobsters! Head, are you joking?"
"Unfortunately, I'm not, chief. Brown, it appears, had seen Madison this afternoon, and Plender got evidence of a quarrel between the two of them and made the arrest. By what he says, things look serious for Brown. I couldn't question Brown, of course, and by the look of him he wouldn't have answered if I had. Mulish, if you know what I mean."
"But—but Plender jumping at it like— Oh, hell! On his way?"
"Yes. He was waiting here with Williams and Brown for the bus to come along from Crandon. I stopped Ednam the grocer, who was coming along in his car, and got him to take them on—they should be with you soon. Couldn't have a possibly innocent man travelling in the bus with a handcuff linking him to a policeman, and I explained as much as was necessary to Ednam, who seemed to understand. Now I'm hurrying along to Madison's place in the hope of getting there before Bennett leaves. You'll have Brown and Plender along presently."
"All right—make the best of it, Head. We can't cancel an arrest for murder—but as soon as I've got through the formal charge I'll shrivel Plender's internal organs for this—unless he's got absolute proof that Brown murdered the old chap, and I'm absolutely certain it's a case of accidental death. You get along—I'll handle this end, and heaven help Plender, for he'll need help by the time I've finished with him. So long, Head—catch Bennett and help him to prove it accidental. Else, I'll never get those glasshouses built in time to raise a tomato crop next year. Go to it, laddie."
He replaced the receiver, stood up, blew a meditative zephyr as he reflected on Plender's impetuosity, and then went slowly out from his office and along to the charge-room, where sat Sergeant Wells. There was so little to do that Wells did not even affect activity as his superior entered the room. Wadden was about to speak when the buzzer sounded on the switchboard, and Wells took up the receiver and listened.
"For you, sir," he said, and offered the receiver after telling the caller to hold on. Wadden took the vulcanite and held it to his ear.
"Wadden speaking. Who is it?"
"Guddle, Mr. Wadden—Guddle and Cheek, of Crandon. About that property you offered nine hundred for, on the Carden—Crandon road."
"Yes—well?" Wadden let some of his eagerness appear in his voice.
"Sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Wadden, it's gone at very nearly the figure they were asking, to Mr. Ednam of Westingborough. He saw the solicitors here at Crandon and put down the deposit this afternoon—"
"Guddle, I've a good mind to come over to Crandon and flay you alive! You let that—that grocer steal the property from under my nose, and never even let me know he was offering for it!"
"Well, Mr. Wadden, you've got to admit there's a big difference between your offer of nine hundred, and the eleven hundred which I know Mr. Ednam is paying for the place. And there wasn't time—"
"Time be damned! I'd have gone to twelve hundred to get a place like that, let alone eleven. Guddle, you—you flatfish! I—I—"
He blew, and heard an "Ahhh!" of pained protest as the receiver at the other end roared the blast in the house-agent's ear.
"And serve you right!" he said with grim complacence. "Whaddye think a grocer wants with a piece of land like that? What's he going to grow? Soap and candles, or tea in pound packets?"
"He didn't say, Mr. Wadden. But I'll remember to let you know if—"
But, at that point, Wadden slapped the receiver back on its hook. For he heard shuffling steps outside the room, and Jeffries, police clerk, chauffeur at need, and general handy man about the place, opened the door to admit Constable Williams, handcuffed to Jim Brown, with Sergeant Plender in rear of them. With a glance at the prisoner, Wadden stood to attention at the end of the desk behind which sat Sergeant Wells, and as the three ranged in front of the desk Jeffries hurried round to get to a place beside Wells and open his note-book in readiness to make a Hansard of all that might be said.
Little, however, was said. A few words from Plender, and then the official charge was read. Beyond assenting in one word when informed that the charge involved the taking of his finger-prints, Jim Brown kept silence until, after being searched and listening to the inventory of his belongings as they were taken from him, he was led away. Then the superintendent turned to Plender.
"I'd like a word with you, sergeant," he said, with surprising gentleness. "You'd better come along to my room."
"Plender's for it," Jeffries murmured softly after the charge-room door had closed on the two retreating figures.
"You've said it," Wells agreed. "As long as the supe. only blows at you, you're all right, but when he goes quiet it's hell for somebody."
Back in his own office, Wadden seated himself at his desk and looked up at Plender. There was a chair at the end of the desk, but he did not suggest that the sergeant should occupy it.
"How's that garden of yours at Carden getting on, Plender?" he asked.
"Oh, very nicely, sir, thank you," Plender answered.
"Mrs. Plender quite well?"
"Yes, thank you, sir."
"Ah! Well, a wife takes her husband for worse as well as better, doesn't she? Now about this charge against Brown—what do you know about him, for a start? We need to complete the case, you know."
"I've no doubt about his guilt, sir," Plender asserted earnestly. "Otherwise, of course, I shouldn't have made the arrest—"
"No, no, sergeant! Not that at all. What do you know about the man—past history, relatives, anything that may give us lines to work up the case against him and support your charge of murder. Carden's a small place, and I expect you hear nearly everything that goes on there and know everybody—you ought, if you don't. So this man Brown, and what you know about him. A bit of a bad egg, eh?"
"Well, no, sir, I can't say that. Past history—his mother was Henry Madison's sister, but she married a drunkard—this James Brown was the only child. They went down in the world, and I have heard old Madison wouldn't have anything to do with her, so she had to put up a fight on her own to educate the boy—that's what's generally said, sir. The father died when this James Brown was only a child. I s'pose it'd be some while ago when he took over that cycle shop in Carden Street—the man who'd been running it went bankrupt, and he got it for a song."
"How long ago?" Wadden interrupted, interestedly.
"Well, sir, it's over two years since you put me in charge at Carden, and he had it then. Hadn't had it long, I think."
"Well, carry on about him," Wadden invited kindly.
"Superior sort of feller, he seemed," Plender admitted, "and worked hard—I've got to say that for him, sir. Motor cycles, mainly, at first, and small repairs—and about a year ago he went in for cars as well and took on a second mechanic. It'd be about then, I think, people got talking about him and Miss Madison—you know how they will talk in a village, sir. Not that she—well, there was a sort of little group of 'em—that young Mr. Lewinson was another, and I've even seen Mrs. Houghton from Castel Garde talking to him outside his place as if he was very nearly somebody—not as if he was just a garage proprietor. Maybe that was because she knew Henry Madison was his uncle. But quite a lot of people—the parson and his wife, and others, sort of looked on him as if he was one of theirselves."
"Themselves, Plender," Wadden corrected gently. "And that young Lewinson—I don't know if it will interest you, but he claims to trace descent right back to old Saxon times, and says his name is really Leofwinsson. The information might be useful to you."
"I—I don't quite see how it could, sir," Plender said doubtfully.
"No, you wouldn't." Wadden's tone was silkily gentle. "But you may be looking for all sorts of things to be useful to you, some time or other. You never can tell what may happen in life. And so James Brown, charged with murder, appears quite a respectable citizen."
"I s'pose you've got to say he is, sir," Plender agreed.
"Guilty of murder, though," Wadden suggested encouragingly.
"I don't think there's the slightest doubt of it, sir."
"Otherwise, you would not have arrested him, of course, it being a very serious thing indeed to charge a possibly innocent man with murder."
"Yes, sir, but the evidence is nearly always circumstantial, isn't it? Like—like it'll have to be in this case, I mean. They don't let people see 'em at it, I mean, sir—as a rule, that is."
"Quite right," Wadden encouraged him again. "A rule with very few exceptions. Now think back and tell me, sergeant—can you recall any case, since the Crippen affair*, where a murderer has evaded arrest or got far away, once the case against him began to appear clear?"
* The Crippen case was the first in which wireless was employed as an aid to the interception and arrest of a suspected murderer.
"No, sir, I don't think I can," Plender admitted, after wrinkling his brows in thought over it.
"Neither can I, off-hand," Wadden said. "And you realise, I suppose, that the longer you let a man suspected of murder remain free, the more chance there is of his giving himself away, in addition to which you have the advantage of being able to question him?"
"Ye-yes, sir," Plender admitted unhappily, after a long pause.
"But of course, if you are convinced of his guilt—" Wadden said comfortingly, and the sergeant's face brightened at the words. "Now let's forget all about that, and go into this case a bit. You had Doctor Bennett's assurance that the man Madison was murdered, hadn't you?"
"Well, no, sir. You see, he was so long getting there, and the case against Brown was so clear after I'd put a few—"
"Wait a bit, sergeant—wait a bit! What makes you absolutely certain that Madison was murdered—that he didn't have a fit or something of the sort at the top of the stairs and fall down 'em?"
"Well, sir, the fingermarks on his throat proved it murder. He wouldn't have strangled himself with his fingers, sir."
"Sure it wasn't the fall downstairs that killed him, are you?"
"One look at his face was enough, sir. He was dead before whoever did it pitched him down that staircase—Brown, for a certainty."
"Umm-m!" Wadden reflected over it for some seconds. Yet again, his retirement was postponed, whether Guddle found him another place suited to tomato growing (under glass) or no. No longer could he even attempt to regard this as a case of accidental death. "For a certainty, eh? Well, just state how you arrived at that certainty—make it a verbal report, and don't miss out any of the facts."
Since he himself had been responsible for the sergeant's training, he listened to a consecutive and very complete report of all that Plender knew, from the moment in which James Brown had stood on the doorstep of the cottage in Carden to that of the arrest. Listened, and digested in silence all that he had heard while Plender, helmet in hand, waited.
"Brown had called to see Madison—admitted to having called to see Madison, before three o'clock in the afternoon, and had returned later and found him dead," he observed at last. "Why did he return?"
"He told me he went to Westingborough to meet the four-fifteen express, so that'd be to meet Miss Madison and take her home, I expect—"
"He told you he went there, the second time, with Miss Madison?" Wadden interrupted with a trace of impatience.
"Yes, sir, he did tell me that, before he got his back up."
"As how?" Wadden inquired interestedly. "Got his back up?"
"When I asked him why Mr. Madison didn't come to the door with him after he'd had that interview about three o'clock this afternoon."
"I see-e. And he didn't tell you why, himself?"
"No, sir. It was the man Hallam who gave away the fact of their quarrel—Brown's and Mr. Madison's, I mean."
"Did you ask Hallam if he'd seen or heard anyone else about the place after Brown had had that interview with Mr. Madison?"
"Well, no, sir, I didn't," Plender confessed uneasily. "The case against Brown was quite clear by that time, you see, sir—"
"The second time Brown came to the house," Wadden interrupted, "he obviously had Miss Madison with him. Did you see her and try to find if she could throw any light on, say, Brown's attitude to Madison, or on what happened when they arrived there, or any other point?"
"No, sir. She wasn't there at the time, so I couldn't—"
"You assumed that Brown was going to make a bolt for it if you let him get out of your sight—is that it, sergeant?"
"I couldn't tell but what he might, sir. He had his car there."
"What sort of car? Could you describe it?"
"Low-built—very fast, sir. Smoke-grey, with rusty patches along the bonnet and a big dent in the near side of the radiator not far from the top—about three inches down, it'd be. Four-seater—"
"That's enough. A car you could recognise anywhere, isn't it?"
"I'd pick it out all right, sir," Plender admitted, with growing unease as he reflected over all the admissions Wadden had forced from him, gently and friendlily. He began to sense the superintendent's attitude as the gentleness he had never yet experienced.
For awhile Wadden sat silent, gazing at his desk. Then he looked up at the man beside him, a long, intent look.
"Carden is a peaceful little place as a rule, sergeant," he said, "and naturally I didn't anticipate any happening of this sort when I put you in charge there. But I was a little troubled in my mind about giving you the post, all the same. What do you think will happen if Brown is proved innocent of this charge?"
"I—but he's guilty, sir," Plender protested desperately.
"I shall have to answer to the chief constable for the cost of police court proceedings," Wadden pursued, as if his sergeant had not spoken. "Quite possibly for the cost of a futile murder trial as well. There may be a civil action against us for unjustifiable arrest. In that case, I get severely reprimanded, and you leave the force. If, on the other hand, Brown is guilty, he might have been questioned by Inspector Head in a way that would cause him to implicate himself, before arrest, and that would have simplified the case, to what extent we can never tell, now—because your action put him beyond questioning. Your haste over it may be the cause of a guilty man securing an acquittal, for all we can tell—it's difficult enough to get convictions, heaven knows, even in what look like clear cases, with the favour shown to accused persons nowadays. Do you know what I'm going to do, sergeant?"
"Nun-nun-no, sir," Plender stammered fearfully.
"I'm going to take you out of that nice cottage with the nice garden—I'm sorry for Mrs. Plender, but it's got to be. I think—yes. You will hand over Carden to Sergeant Harrison at the end of October, and take his place here in Westingborough, where I shall have you under my own supervision, just as you were when you were junior sergeant in my district. I can't and don't wish to alter your rate of pay—for Mrs. Plender's sake, not yours—but I'm going to turn you into junior sergeant again, and"—very softly and gently indeed—"by God, if you make one slip in your duty, exceed your authority by one hair, out you go—and you're two years short of qualifying for any pension at all. I'm going to rake your liver with a toasting fork till you understand that you're Sergeant Plender, and not Inspector Head. And I'm putting in a special report to the chief constable of the county to justify all I do, in advance of the severe reprimand I see coming to me over putting a man like you in charge at Carden. Now you can get away home and break the news to Mrs. Plender—I'll tell her myself I'm sorry for her, in case you forget to do it. By the way, look into the charge-room on your way out and tell Wells I want him here. Good-night, sergeant."
"I—I'm very sorry, sir
"I hope to make you sorrier yet. Good-night, sergeant."
"Oh, Wells, I want you to get on to Payne-Garland and tell him he's got to conduct an inquest—to-morrow, somehow."
"Very good, sir."
"Did Plender look happy as he went out?"
"He—he had tears in his eyes, sir."
"Umm-m! Had he? Well, he's that sort of man. Mind I don't have to put 'em in yours, Wells—though I'm not scared on that point."
"Glad to hear it, sir." There was real affection in the sergeant's gaze at his chief.
"Eh, well—you be careful, though!" He blew, gently.
"I—I'll try, sir."
"Ah! Let me know what Payne-Garland says—what time fits him. At Todlington, of course. Yes—yes. Poor little woman!"
THE door of Madison's house—it had no name, and was generally termed merely "Madison's"—was still open when Head pulled on the hand brake of his two-seater before the entrance and got out. In the oblong frame of light he saw Doctor Bennett, apparently busy with a nail file at first, but slipping it in his pocket as he heard footfalls under the pillared porch. Then Head entered, and faced the doctor.
"Ah, I was waiting for you, inspector. A simple case, from my viewpoint. Strangled. Held till he was dead, and then rolled down the staircase there. A very fine staircase it is, too."
Head glanced at the body, apparently untouched—the rumpled clothes and air of disorder, together with the unnatural posture, suggested that Bennett had left it as he had found it.
"Would you say he took long to die?" he asked.
Bennett shook his head. "He didn't suffer much," he answered. "A man of his habits—sedentary, and I happen to know with a heart none too strong—no, it must have been pretty quick. Not later than four this afternoon, I deduce from my examination. As nearly as possible, I restored the body to the posture and general appearance it had when I got here, knowing you'd wish that. Robbery wasn't the motive—he's got some loose pound notes with the edges showing in his vest pocket. And a rather heavy gold watch chain—they're not much worn nowadays, but Henry Madison was old-fashioned. You might tell your superintendent his theory of Madison making the fingermarks on the throat himself won't hold. You'll see for yourself that the position of the fingers makes that impossible—the position as shown by the marks, I mean. And the man here—Hallam, his name is—told me Miss Madison is due here at any minute—she's been away on the continent—so if I were you I'd get that body out of sight as soon as possible. You'll understand why as soon as you take a glance at the face. A strangled man is not a pretty sight for relatives, though she—"
"Yes?" Head asked, as the sentence remained incomplete.
"I was going to say she isn't a relative at all, strictly speaking. Madison married a widow, and this girl is the daughter of her mother's first marriage. Madison had her name legally changed by deed poll—I remember seeing the announcement in some paper or other. But she's always looked on him as her father, and that sight ought to be kept from her. Splendid girl—my wife's had her over for tennis sometimes."
"The usual modern type, I suppose?" Head suggested.
"Suppose again," Bennett advised drily. "No type at all, except that she's altogether womanly and keeps a brain and a pretty sense of humour, as a rule. What about making your examination, though?"
"Not while you keep on giving me useful points," Head countered, smiling. "An arrest has already been made—'"
"Eh?" Bennett's startled query interrupted him.
"James Brown, of Carden, nephew to the dead man—I had a brief talk with Sergeant Plender, who made the arrest, on my way here."
"Brown—Jeehim—" Bennett sounded almost awestruck over it. Then he shrugged. "Well, perhaps, and that makes it—not exactly a crime passionel, but probably the old man warned him off and he lost his temper. Dogged, earnest sort of chap, Jeehim—always a bit too serious."
"And why would Madison warn his own nephew off?" Head inquired.
"His own—of course, you don't know the history, though. Elma Madison, this dead man's sister, married beneath her, which might have worked out all right if Brown senior hadn't gone on drinking till he died of delirium tremens, or the effects of it, after squandering her pretty considerable fortune. But from the day of the marriage Madison disowned his sister, refused to have anything to do with her, and when her husband died—unfortunately, not soon enough to leave her anything worth talking about—she spent what she had left on this boy, managed to scrape him into Marlborough and keep him there till he got to the age at which a youngster swings on to the varsity period. Jeehim didn't. He went to work—at Parham's garage in Westingborough, for a beginning. Saved a bit out of no wages at all, and when that cycle shop at Carden fell into the market at next to nothing, since there was no goodwill to the place, he bought the defunct business. Borrowed most of what he needed to buy it, I happen to know—"
"Do you happen to know where he borrowed it?" Head interrupted significantly, gazing full into the doctor's eyes.
"Eh, well, I'm a happily married man now, Head, but I don't mind telling you there was a time when Elma—what is it? Near on thirty years ago, just after I bought my practice. And—her son, d'you see? Might have been mine too, if... So when I got to know he wanted to begin on his own—well, there's no fool like a middle-aged fool, is there? And, d'you know, I haven't seen him to speak to since he came over to Westingborough about a year ago and paid the last of what I'd lent him, but I know he was keeping an eye on Miss Madison. Young Lewinson was in the running too—these things get talked about among women pretty extensively—but as far as I know she never favoured one more than another. Promised to remain a spinster for some years yet, apparently. Not that she ought. Some man ought to be lucky."
"You appear to have a liking for her," Head observed.
"Liking? If we'd had a girl child instead of the boy who died, I'd have prayed to see her what Avril Madison is. Not so much in looks, except for her wonderful eyes, but for what's behind those eyes. Other world wisdom—you'll think I'm talking rot, though."
"You forget, doctor. I had to send Nell Cummins to give herself up. You mean—the sort of wisdom that Nell had?"
Bennett nodded and, ignoring the body at the staircase foot, gazed out to the darkness beyond the doorway.
"Yes, of course, you've got some of that wisdom yourself, Inspector Head," he said. "Not the sort that makes money, but—well, there it is. In Nell Cummins' place, I think, Avril Madison would have done what Nell did—and so would you or I. You're pretty sure to meet her before you've finished this case, and—and if Jeehim did it, remember old Madison had a tongue that could scarify a man's soul. You couldn't reduce a killing like that to manslaughter, I know, but—get finished with that body and get it decently covered and put away as soon as you can, in case the girl turns up here to-night. Yarning like this, I'm only preventing you from getting on with your work, and neglecting my own at the same time. You'll find a telephone, by the way, in the room at the top of the stairs, and the carpet up there is just as I found it. As it was when Madison was flung down the stairs, I believe."
"Many thanks, doctor. And—you've quite finished, ready for the inquest?" Head glanced at the body as he spoke.
"Quite—unless you want me to stay to answer questions."
"No. If I come on any, I'll file them in my mind and put them to you later. Many thanks for what you've told me—not only the part that's relevant to this case. I won't keep you any longer."
Bennett held out his hand. "You're a damned good chap, Head, and I don't care who knows it," he said. "See you to-morrow, probably."
He went out to his car, and Head, stepping past the body, ascended the staircase, paused a second at the top to eye the rucked and rumpled rug which stretched from an open doorway to the edge of the topmost stair, mute evidence of struggle. Then he went through the doorway and saw an upright telephone instrument on top of a bureau of which the flap was down, and one little upper drawer pulled out. Disregarding all else, he removed the receiver and dialled Westingborough Cottage Hospital, asking, when he got a reply, for an ambulance to remove a body to the mortuary. One glance at the dead face had told him Bennett was right: Avril Madison must not see that which lay at the stairs' foot—or, if she had already seen it, must not be given the chance of looking on it again. Glassily-staring eyes, protruding tongue between clenched teeth—it must not remain here a moment longer than was inevitable.
He went down again and knelt beside the twisted body to gaze at the marks on the throat. Bennett would have taken measurements of the impresses, and of their distance from each other, he knew. Now, trying to get a similar grip on his own throat, he found it impossible, no matter how he turned wrist or fingers of either hand, to do it: the possibility of Madison having gripped his own throat in some seizure was ruled out—here was murder, past question.
And that was that. The pockets yielded nothing which might indicate either the cause of crime or point to a possible criminal. Finger-prints—possibly upstairs, and possibly on the balustrade of the staircase, but not here. Whorls and markings do not appear on gripped flesh, Head knew: Bennett's measurements would probably show an average-sized hand, and there was nothing distinctive in the method of grip. Rising to his feet again. Head took a rug from the centre of the entrance hall and covered the body, after which he looked round the place.
It was eerily still. Covering the body with the rug had accentuated rather than modified the deathliness of the silence. A seen body is not so fearful as a lump which one knows contains a hidden body, a fact which impressed itself on Head in the few seconds that he stood absorbing impressions, although his own hands had done the hiding. The hall was a beautiful apartment—rather, its fitments made it beautiful. And that old man—if Jim Brown were innocent, would Madison's own life provide information through which the guilty might be reached? If Jim Brown were innocent! Plender had been quite sure of his guilt.
But then, Plender was not the wisest man on earth—nor even in the Westingborough district, for that matter. Hasty, over-confident, conscientious and earnest enough, but the reverse of intuitive. Bennett, though, intuitive to a degree, had realised Brown's guilt as a possibility, if not a probability.
The case was scarcely in its infancy, as yet. Gestating, say.
That room upstairs, now. But surely there must be somebody in the house? The man Hallam—where was he? And other servants, too?
Moved by another thought, Head ran up the stairs and took off the telephone receiver a second time to dial Westingborough police station.
"Westingborough police. Whom do you want, please?"
"I recognise your voice, Sergeant Wells. Get Jeffries to turn out with the saloon, get your finger-print outfit and camera and flashlight together, and come over to Madison's house at Todlington. You'll find me here when you arrive. Tell Superintendent Wadden it is murder, past question, and I'm just beginning to see what I can get here."
"Very good, Mr. Head. Is that all?"
"All till I see you, Wells, thank you. Good-bye."
He went down again. Odd, this utter stillness. There would be a bell-push or -pull in the doorway, though, and Bennett had implied that the man Hallam was somewhere on the premises. Head took two steps toward the still open door, and stopped, for footsteps were sounding on the gravel without, and then somebody exclaimed—"Two cars!" A woman's voice, and no other replied.
She came on, and stood in the doorway, gazing blankly at Head, at the humped rug by the staircase, and back at him. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but he forestalled her.
"To whom were you speaking, when you saw two cars out there?"
"Why—why, to meself, of course," she answered.
"An' who might you be, a-makin' of yourself at home here like this?"
"I am Inspector Head, of the Westingborough police force," he answered. "Are you quite sure you were talking to yourself?"
"Am I—well, of all the imperence! As if I'd—well!"
"That heap you keep looking at is Mr. Henry Madison, dead," Head told her. "Now come inside and give me some account of yourself."
But she leaned against the doorpost, her eyes widened in horror.
"Dead? The master dead? An'—an' pleece? Oh, poor Miss Avril!"
He gave her a minute or more for recovery. Then—"I want you to come inside here and help me, if you can. I'm trying to get at the cause of his death, and you may be able to tell me useful things about him, things that will help. Come in and sit down, please."
She recognised authority as well as kindness in the final sentence, and came forward, rather totteringly. He drew out one of the oak chairs from the centre table, and signed to her to seat herself.
"Now," he said, as she sat and stared up at him, fearfully, "tell me your name first, please. I know already that you work here."
"Susan—Susan Allbright, sir." She accorded him the title as naturally as she spoke her own name, and went on staring up at him.
"And how long have you been employed here, Susan?"
"Ju-just on ten years, sir. Ten years come Christmas."
"What other servants are there in the house?"
"There's only me and Hallam, sir."
"Hallam—yes. No—don't bother about that rug and what's under it, Susan, more than you're forced. Mr. Madison was not a young man, you know, and this has to come to us all." He did not add the hope that it might not come to either him or her in such a way as had ended Madison's life. Do you know, I've been here quite a while, and haven't seen anything of Hallam, up to the present? Yet the doctor who was here before me seemed to indicate that the man was somewhere about."
"I expect he's in his room, sir. The master never liked us to show ourselves in the front of the house except when we had to. He was—well, a bit peculiar about it, and as a rule we keep at the back, both me and Hallam, unless we're rung for."
"I see. And you cook and all that sort of thing, eh?"
"Well, sir, we sorter divide it up, me and Hallam—an' Miss Avril too, when she's at home. Always does her own bed and sometimes the master's too, she does, because it ain't much of a staff for a house this size, is it, now? An' Miss Avril she's always thoughtful."
"Sounds a good sort," he commented reflectively. "Yes. Don't think I'm asking you questions for nothing, Susan, because I'm not. I want to find out all about the house and the people in it."
"You don't mean—was it murder, then?" Fear showed in her eyes as she stared up at him and put the question.
"I'm afraid that's what it was, though," he answered, as gently as he could. "In fact, a man has already been arrested over it, so you needn't fear that he's going to do any more harm here. You say you and Hallam divide up the work. How do you mean that?"
"Well, sir, he's as good a cook-general as I am, an' to-day, like, it bein' my half-day off, though Miss Avril was to come back either to-day or to-morrow, me an' him arranged I'd take it just the same, an' he'd cook dinner for the master—an' for Miss Avril too, if she got back in time for it. Because we didn't know when she would be back exactly, her not sayin' on the lovely picture postcard I had from her. An' the master didn't say, neither, only she'd be back either to-day or to-morrow, an' most likely to-day. I don't think he knew, neither."
"What time was it when you went for your half-day?" Head inquired.
"It'd be ha'-past one, about," she answered. "About that. Hallam said he'd clear an' wash up, an' get the dinner, so I needn't hurry myself. An' get the master his tea, too. I do the same when it's his time off—do all the stoves an' the furnace an' everything for him. We arrange it like that, me an' him."
"And now, knowing his master is dead, he stays out at the back," he observed. "You'd think he'd show more—more interest, wouldn't you?"
"'Abit's a strong thing, sir," she pointed out. "Hallam's been in this place fifteen year—more, it must be nearer twenty years, now. An' the master's always been most particular about us keepin' ourselves out of sight—I remember his tellin' me a well-run house don't never seem to have no servants, but things get done without their bein' seen, an' he's rubbed that into Hallam too, lots of times. So you see—if it was me, I expect I'd done the same. I wouldn't of come in the front way, only I see the door open an' somebody strange inside, an' it seemed the master must of forgot to shut it, like, or else didn't know."
"Strict sort of master, eh?" he inquired.
"In his way, I s'pose you'd say so," she answered, "but when you got to know his ways, there wasn't a better. Always a pound at Christmas an' another for me birthday—he never forgot that, because he asked me when it was when I first come an' took the place. Everything had to be just so—if ever he had to tell me a thing twice, I knew all about it the second time, an' he wasn't above callin' me names, neither. The same way, if he was pleased, he'd thank me an' tell me so. I—I'll never get another place like it, an' now he's—it's all over."
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief which she produced from nowhere, apparently. Head gave her a minute or so, and resumed.
"You left the place at half-past one or thereabouts, you say, Susan. Do you know if anyone called here this morning, before you left?"
"No, except the manager from the factory, like he does every morning except Saturday an' Sunday. Mr. Imminger, that is. Oh, an' young Mr. Lewinson! I nearly forgot about him. He come along on his motor-bike about ha' past twelve, it'd be, an' the master saw him. It was to ask when Miss Avril'd be back, I expect. I thought so at the time."
"Did he stay long, do you know?"
"I didn't see him go, sir, but he must of gone before I did, because the motor-bike wasn't nowhere when I went off, an' it'd been standing out in front where he left it if he'd been still here."
"You mean—you didn't hear him start up and go off?" Head asked.
She shook her head. "When you get out the back there"—she nodded at the door leading off from the back of the hall—"you don't hear nothing of what goes on in front here. Hallam told me the master had it done like that, because he couldn't abide what he called clatter an' chatter. An' he told me once the less he heard an' seen of me, the better he'd like me. If ever that door was left open, an' it never was more'n once or twice all the time I've been here—if it was, the shindy he kicked up was enough to make a body's hair fall off."
"And only this Mr. Imminger and young Mr. Lewinson called this morning, you say? Nobody else, to your knowledge?"
"There wasn't nobody else, sir, because I answered the door to them two. Hallam had to go up the village, an' wasn't back till young Mr. Lewinson was here—till after I'd answered the door to him."
"And why had Hallam to go to the village?" he inquired.
"It was a pair of the master's boots. I told Hallam Ebbutt—that's the Todlington cobbler—I told him Ebbutt'd send 'em along some time to-day, but he said the master might want 'em, an' if they wasn't here there'd be a shindy—which there would. But I knew the master wouldn't be wearin' of 'em to-day, an' told Hallam so, but he said it was best not to take any chances, an' so he went. An' even then they wasn't done an' he had to wait, but both him an' me we don't care as long as everything is right for the master, an' he waited an' brought 'em back."
For a minute or two Head considered it.
"I think that's all I wish to ask you for the present, Susan," he said eventually. "An ambulance will be here shortly to take away Mr. Madison's body—that is, after my own men have taken flashlight photographs of it—and I think you'd better not be here for that. You will stay the night in the house, I hope?"
"Why, yes, sir. Miss Avril might turn up, any minute."
"Yes, of course. Well, if you can find Hallam anywhere about, tell him I'd like to see him here, will you?"
"I will, sir. It's—it's an awful thing for Miss Avril."
"It is," he agreed meditatively. "Send Hallam along, if you can."
"I'll tell him you want him, sir."
She went out, and Head stood waiting, reflecting on the character of the man who had been so averse to clatter and chatter and had insisted so strongly on unobtrusiveness on the part of his domestic staff. Then, by the doorway through which Susan Allbright had made exit, appeared the stocky figure and grave face of Hallam—his eyes were reddened as if by weeping. Palish grey eyes, and Head had a fleeting impression that he had seen them, or eyes very like them, at some time or other. Probably he had seen Hallam in Westingborough or while out on his round of the district, and had noted the eyes more than the man.
"Inspector Head, Susan tells me," Hallam said, in a quiet, well-accented way that conveyed the respect of a trained serving man of the better type. "What is it I can do for you, sir?"
"Sit down, Hallam," Head invited, and himself perched on the edge of the beautiful old centre table. "Just a few questions to find out if you can help me in clearing up this matter. As, for instance, what time was it when Susan went off for her half-day?"
"It'd be about half-past one, as usual, sir," Hallam answered. "I thought, though, it was cleared up. Sergeant Plender charged Mr. Brown with the murder here in my hearing."
"Quite so," Head agreed, and smiled slightly, "but you must realise that there's a big difference between charging a man and getting a verdict of guilty against him in a criminal court. Now, for a start, can you explain how it happens that I've been here quite a while, and you have either been unaware of it or have ignored my being here?"
"Quite easily, sir." Hallam achieved very nearly a smile in replying. "My place, as I've had drilled into me for years, is the other side of that door there, and I don't come this side of it unless somebody summons me or rings the front door bell."
"That was while Mr. Madison was alive, though," Head pointed out.
"Yes, sir," Hallam replied with a sort of dignity, "but I've served Mr. Madison for nigh on twenty years, and I respect his wishes just as much now he's dead as I did while he was alive."
"I understand. Quite right of you, of course. And the open door?" He nodded toward it as he put the question.
"Sergeant Plender told me not to touch it, nor anything else in here, sir," Hallam answered. "He asked me to stay here and see that nothing was touched, too, till Doctor Bennett got here, and I did."
"And then went back to your own quarters, apparently."
"That is so, sir."
"What was Mr. Madison's attitude toward this James Brown, do you know, Hallam? Did he ever express any opinion of Brown in your hearing?"
"Couldn't abide him, sir. It'd be about two years ago, or a little more, when Miss Avril got back after being in Dresden for some while—about then, or a little after she got back, Mr. Brown came here a few times to see her. Then one day Mr. Madison got to know about it. He told Mr. Brown in my hearing, that his father's son—Brown's father's son, that is—had no business in this house. He said since the father had been a rotter the son wasn't likely to turn out much better, with that blood in his veins—tainted blood, he called it, and said Mr. Brown had better leave Miss Avril alone, or it'd be the worse for him."
"And what did Brown say?" Head asked.
"Nothing, sir. Just turned and walked out of that door. I thought myself—God forgive me for saying it about a master who was good to me—I thought at the time he might have saved up a thing like that till I was out of hearing, but as I know well, when anything upset him there was no limit to what he would say. Mr. Brown never came near the place again till to-day, but I know he met Miss Avril out a good deal. Not that it meant anything particular as far as I know—their meeting, I mean. He's not the only one, by a long way."
"You mean she's a bit of a flirt?" Head suggested, with a view to getting the man's real opinion of the girl.
"That's a wicked thing to say about a lady like her," Hallam retorted, with feeling in his voice. "Miss Avril is far above anything of that sort, and I'd pity the man who tried to take liberties with her."
"Probably, but you rather gave the impression—without meaning it. And you say Brown stood for a terrible insult like that, and made no reply when Mr. Madison taunted him with his father's weakness?"
"That's what he did, sir—just turned away and walked out without a word. Why he came here to-day I don't know, except for what I overheard the master tell him—about being a poverty-stricken motor mechanic—I told Sergeant Plender all about that, though."
"I know you did," Head assured him. "I saw Plender on his way to Westingborough, and—" He broke off, realising that the case against Brown was becoming very strong indeed. The man might have kept silent when the worst insult that could be conceived was hurled at him—in the presence of a third person, too!—but that insult must have rankled, and when this additional sneer had been spoken, had he at last been unable to retain control of himself, and in mad rage choked the life out of the man who, wealthy himself, had ignored a sister's poverty and struggle for her son's well-being, and then forbidden that son his house, and access to the girl Brown undoubtedly loved?
Guilty or innocent, Head reflected, Brown might have helped to solve the problem of how Madison had died, if Plender had not placed him beyond the possibility of being questioned. By the look of him, he was not the type that would volunteer a statement—inwardly, Head damned Plender for his precipitate action, and prayed that Wadden might deal with the man as he deserved. Then, faced toward the entrance, he saw lights approaching, and went to the doorway in time to see one of the ambulance attendants get down from beside the driver.
"Not yet," he called to them as the driver switched off his engine. "I want you to wait where you are till my own men have arrived and finished photographing. This is a criminal case."
"Right you are, Mr. Head," one man called back cheerfully, while another murmured, quite audibly—"O Gord! Another ruddy murder!"
Head turned back. Hallam had risen from his chair, and stood, now, gazing at the humped rug rather fearfully.
"Sit down again," Head half-invited and half-bade. "I'd like to ask you a few more questions, before getting on to other things."
"I—it moved, I'll swear!" Hallam whispered.
"If so, it was because I didn't arrange the rug properly," Head said with purposeful unconcern. "Mr. Madison has been dead hours, as my own sight and the doctor's examination tell me, and the dead do not move, Hallam. Sit down again for a few minutes, please."
"Ve-very good, sir," the man assented, and reseated himself.
"Did you see Brown leave the house this afternoon, after his interview with Mr. Madison?" Head asked quietly.
"Nun-no, sir. Did I—no, sir." He seemed to have some difficulty in recalling his thoughts from the movement he had seen or imagined. His pale grey eyes gazed up at Head for a moment, and turned again to the rug, at which he stared fixedly for awhile.
"Else," he said at last, as if conscious that Head expected a more coherent reply, "I should have shut the door after he'd gone."
"He and Mr. Madison were still talking when you went to the back of the house?"
"Mr. Madison was, sir. Calling him a poverty-stricken motor mechanic, as I told Sergeant Plender when he asked me about it."
For a minute or less Head reflected. Even if, after that taunt, Brown had instantly gripped the old man by the throat, he had retained that grip long enough for Hallam to get some distance away, before throwing his victim down the staircase. Yet, even so—
"By the look of things, Hallam, Mr. Madison fell the full length of that staircase. Do you mean to tell me you heard nothing of his fall?"
Hallam looked up at him again and shook his head. "Once that door is shut, sir, you don't hear nothing of what goes on the other side of it, neither out there nor in here. I wouldn't hear."
"Where did you go, when you left them talking?"
"Back to my room at the end of the passage, sir. I was peeling potatoes for dinner, I remember—enough for Miss Avril as well as the master, in case she got back in time for dinner."
"In readiness for Susan to cook, you mean?"
"No, sir. I should have done the cooking and laid the table and everything else. It was Susan's half-day off."
Their stories confirmed each other, Head admitted gladly. "What about getting tea for Mr. Madison?" he inquired.
"I had the kettle on the boil and everything ready for when he should ring, sir," Hallam answered. "Neither Susan nor me ever took in tea to him before he rung. We knew better."
"And you remained out there till Sergeant Plender found you?"
"Naturally, sir. If I'd known the front door was left open, I'd have come and closed it. But of course I didn't know."
"You have no idea whether anyone else came to the house between Brown's call on Mr. Madison, and his arrival here the second time?"
"None, sir. Though, if anyone had, you'd think they'd have rung. Though with the door wide open they mightn't, of course, specially if they wanted to do the master any injury."
"Why should anyone want to do him an injury?"
"I don't know, sir." Hallam turned sorrowful eyes up at his questioner. "The best master—" Abruptly he stood up and turned his face away. "Excuse me, sir. I—I can't bear it!"
"All right—I won't question you any more, for the present. You can go along and get Susan to make you some tea, or something. Oh, before you go, though—have you been up the staircase since you heard Mr. Madison and Brown talking together down here?"
The question was purposefully based on a wrong assumption, but Hallam corrected it in answering—
"Not down here, sir—they were outside the master's room at the top of the stairs. And I haven't been up there since."
"That's all, thank you, Hallam."
He waited till the man had gone out, and then himself went up the staircase and entered the room at the top. Its doorway was directly opposite the topmost stair: the big black goatskin rug laid over the stair-carpeting between doorway and stair's top had been pulled and pushed into humps and ridges by desperately-planted feet. Head entered the room, touching nothing until Sergeant Wells should have done his work here with the finger-print-detecting outfit.
He crossed to the bureau on which the telephone stood and gazed down at the lowered flap and little drawers behind it. Especially at the one opened drawer, drawn out nearly to its limit: the tiny button by which it could be drawn out would hold no prints, but still Head refrained from touching it. The drawer itself was empty, save for clean paper laid in as a lining. Wells would be here soon, and in all probability that drawer would tell him nothing, reveal no prints of any sort. But had Madison, evidently a man of intensely methodical habits, left it thus, untidily drawn out, though empty?
Or had some other, coming here after Brown had left the house, drawn it out while Madison lay dead in the hall below, and taken—what?
Did the drawer point to a motive, other than such sudden rage as might have caused Brown to strangle the man who had so maligned him?
Sound of a car engine and wheels on the gravel outside the house and Head recognised the note of the engine. Wells at last!
"NOTHING at all, Mr. Head."
Sergeant Wells, blower in hand, faced Head as he reported. Head glanced up the staircase, and then went to where, thrown aside in an untidy heap, lay the rug that had covered the body of Henry Madison until the ambulance men had taken it away. He took up the rug, using both hands to extend it to proper proportions.
"I thought it would be that, as soon as the staircase balustrade gave us nothing," he said, and, advancing into the hall, relaid the rug in the place from which he had taken it. "Hallam and Susan here can clear away the dust you've left, I think—it's a bit late, and dusting all you've blown over would take some time."
"I'll do it if you like, sir," Wells offered.
"That's why I'm not asking you," Head told him, with a slight smile. "Susan—Susan Allbright, the maid here, will attend to it in the morning. Also, I have other ideas for you—and you too, Jeffries." He glanced at the younger man of the two, who stood with the camera he had just refolded after use in his hand. "Put all those things down on this table, go through that doorway there into the passage you'll find behind it, stand a few feet away from the door, and wait there till I tell you to come out. And don't talk to each other. That's all."
They went, curiosity evident in the expressions of both. As soon as the door had closed, Head took the strap which was used as additional security for the case in which the fingerprinting outfit was packed for travelling, and with it went up the staircase and into the room at the top. Inside, he took an old-fashioned, heavy mahogany writing-case and put it in the middle of a fairly large rug. To this he added account-books and other available volumes until he had an exceedingly weighty but not too bulky oblong, and then, folding the rug over the whole, he strapped it securely and found that it took real strength to lift the resulting package. He carried it to the top stair, put it down, and gave it a push. It went bumping, rolling, and turning, to come to rest on the rug at the foot of the stairs, just as Madison's body had come to rest there, and Head followed it down and, opening the door which gave access to the back premises, gestured to the two men, who came out to the hall and faced him as he stood over his package.
"Did either of you speak to the other?" he asked.
"Not one word, sir," said Wells, and Jeffries shook his head.
"What did you hear?"
"Hear, Mr. Head?" Wells looked puzzled as he asked it.
"Cultivate a bit more of a poker face, sergeant," Head advised, and smiled. "If you were questioning a suspect, that expression of yours would almost give away the question after the next. What did you hear, in the matter of sounds from this side of that door?"
"Why, nothing, Mr. Head."
"You, Jeffries?" Head turned to the man with the question.
Jeffries shook his head again. "Might have been a car on the road outside the entrance," he answered. "I half-fancied I heard some noise which might have been that, sir, but nothing else."
"Evidently," Head observed, "the first name of the man who built this house wasn't Jerry—as mine is, by the way. Now I want you two to take that bundle up to the top of the stairs—it's heavy, you'll find—and let it fall just as Madison's body seems to have fallen, while I go outside and listen. As soon as you've dropped it, you can call me back."
He went out and shut the door. As he waited, he saw a light in a doorway at the far end of the passage, and, as it became partially obscured, felt as much as heard a faint, quivering rumble. But then, he had been waiting for it, while Wells and Jeffries had not known why they had been sent out here: if he himself had not been anticipating the sound, he knew, it would have passed unnoticed by him.
Hallam looked out from the doorway. "Did you want me, sir?"
"Not nearly as much as I did five minutes ago," Head answered. "No, Hallam"—as the man stepped out into the passage—"I don't want you at all, thank you. But we're leaving a certain amount of dust for you and Susan to see about in the morning."
"That's all right, sir. We'll attend to it."
"Thank you. Good night, Hallam. Oh, you will be wanted at the inquest to-morrow, though. You'd better ring Westingborough police on the telephone upstairs about half-past ten to-morrow morning, and they'll tell you place and time. Good night, Hallam."
"Very good, sir. Good night, sir."
The door leading to the hall was opened, now, and Jeffries, as Head could see, held the handle. He went out, and faced a girl with lovely eyes, cold and angered in their expression, now, and with a mane of golden hair. She was hatless and coatless, clad in a striped blouse and navy serge skirt, with a little knitted coatee over the blouse.
"Inspector Head?" she asked, very coldly indeed.
"I am," he answered. "You, I take it, are Miss Madison?"
"I am. Mr. Brown's car is standing outside. I want it."
He shook his head. "It is not my car, and so I can't give you permission to take it away," he said. "Besides, it has not been examined, yet. I may want to detain it here."
"Excuse me, sir"—Jeffries interposed—"while the sergeant and you were busy in here, I took the liberty of going over that car with the big flashlight. To save time, I thought. Unless you want to fingerprint it with the outfit—entirely negative."
"Good man, Jeffries," Head approved. "No, I don't see any use in fingerprinting it, but, Miss Madison—"
"I could have taken it," she interrupted, "and none of you three in here would have been in time to stop me—and I know perfectly well you couldn't catch it. But I heard at the Carden Arms only half an hour ago that Mr. Brown had been arrested and charged with having murdered my father—and taken to Westingborough, too. Now I want that car to take me to Westingborough to see him. At once, too."
"Then, if I may ask, Miss Madison, why didn't you take it as you said you could, instead of coming in here to us?" Head inquired.
"Because I want to know how I can get to see him, and policemen will be able to tell me," she answered. "You will be able to tell me."
"I don't know if it's possible, as late as this," he said doubtfully.
"It's got to be possible!" she exclaimed rather than replied. "A man in this country ranks as innocent until he's proved guilty, and neither you nor any other policeman has a right to prevent me from interviewing an innocent man—one not proved guilty. I insist on seeing Mr. Brown, and you, responsible for his arrest, must tell me how to do it. And I insist on taking that car of his, too."
Because he sensed tragic sorrow behind her stormy imperiousness, he did not resent the insistence. He returned her steady, angry gaze, and perhaps she saw compassion for herself in his eyes, for her own softened, and after a few seconds she lowered them.
"I am not responsible for the arrest, Miss Madison," he said. "In fact, I would have prevented it or any other arrest at this stage of the case, if it had been possible. As things are, I will help you all I can, though that does not necessarily mean your seeing Mr. Brown to-night. Do you mind waiting while I use the telephone here?"
"Thank you, inspector," she answered, and he marked the quiver in her musical voice as he turned to ascend the staircase. Glancing down from the top, he saw that she had seated herself with her face averted from his two men. Madison's death—perhaps Brown's arrest, too—had dealt her a hard blow, it was easy to see.
He dialled Wadden's home number, feeling sure the Superintendent would have left the police station by this time—Wells' photography and vain search for fingerprints had been neither hasty nor brief. Wadden answered the call after only a slight delay.
"Head speaking, chief. Miss Madison wants to see Brown to-night."
"Tell her to wait till to-morrow, and let me get back to my steak and tomatoes. It's not done, man—I don't mean the steak, but that."
"For this once, chief, I want it done," Head told him.
"You mean you want me to turn out again to-night? Because—"
"Chief, Miss Madison is downstairs while I talk—from Madison's house—and I'm a long way from my steak, don't forget, while you'll have had yours before she can get there. Call it a favour to me."
"Damn you, Head—all right, then. Now let me get back to the steak before it gets cold, and I'll be there to see her when she arrives."
"Thank—" but the "Bonk!" of the replaced receiver curtailed his thanks, and he went down the stairs again and faced the girl.
"All right, Miss Madison," he said, as she rose to face him. "Go to Westingborough police station and ask for Superintendent Wadden. He'll arrange for the interview you want—be there waiting for you."
Voicelessly, she gazed up at him through a long pause.
"Do you mind coming out to the car with me?" she asked at last.
He followed her out, waited while she settled herself at the wheel of Jim Brown's casserole. Then, with the engine running, she turned her head toward him, and even in the darkness he could see the glint of tears in her eyes as she reached out her hand.
"I—I couldn't talk any more in the light," she said chokingly. "My—my daddy—it's all new, and I can't get used to—used to it, inspector. And I wanted to—wanted to thank you for—for being—being good to me. I—I didn't expect it."
"Mind how you go, Miss Madison," he answered, and for a second held her hand in both his own. "It's a fast car, I know—take the bends gently till you get to the road at Carden. And—are you staying at the Carden Arms, since you mentioned it?"
"Ye-yes. Why?" She was almost sobbing, as he could hear.
"I'll come and see you there to-morrow. Now dry your eyes, or else you won't be able to see the road properly. Good night, Miss Madison."
He turned away, and had gained the doorstep of the house before the car began to move. By that time, probably, she had dried her eyes.
The clock over the archway through which cars went in and out at Parham's big garage in Westingborough stated the time as half-past nine when Avril Madison passed it as she drove along Market Street—and Parham's clock was the Big Ben of the district, impeccably correct. The girl drove on, to pull in before the police station, and, descending from the open four-seater, she entered by way of the open—ever-open—door to a flagged, colour-washed-walled, not-too-well-lighted passage, in the rather ominous length of which she saw another open doorway on the right, not far ahead of her. Reaching it, she faced a bare room in which a grave-looking, youngish police sergeant sat behind a high-fronted desk that had the look of a fortification—Sergeant Harrison, deputising here in the charge-room in the absence of Wells, who combined the post of fingerprint detecting specialist with his ordinary duties, when required. Harrison stood up as the girl entered.
"I was told to ask for Superintendent Wadden," she said.
"Yes, miss, he's waiting for you. I'll take you along."
Emerging from behind the desk, he conducted her along the corridor into a transverse way and to a door that he opened to announce her—
"Miss Madison, sir."
She saw a very big, fat, red-faced man move a chair at the end of a flat-topped desk. His eyes—petty offenders said those eyes were gimlets that could bore into a man's soul—turned on her, fiercely.
"Sit down, won't you, Miss Madison," he offered, in a voice which by its gentle kindness contrasted oddly with his eyes.
She seated herself, and he went to his own swivel chair behind the desk, but did not sit down. She gazed up at him. Here was a different type of man from the inspector who had smoothed her way here, she knew.
"Superintendent—Mr. Wadden—I don't know what I ought to call you, but I must see Mr. Brown," she said without preface.
"You are going to see him," he answered. "Inspector Head rang me about it, and asked me to come back here and arrange it, so—well, so here I am. But tell me first, Miss Madison—did Inspector Head ask you any questions before you started to come here?"
"Questions? No—why should he?" She looked puzzled.
"If he didn't, I won't," he answered. "I'll leave it to him. Now I want to tell you, Miss Madison, before taking you along—I'm going to give you just fifteen minutes in the cell where we've put Brown, and inform you in advance that there's a spyhole in the cell door. I'm going to wait outside that door myself, and use the spyhole just when I feel like it, because all this is highly irregular and I'm responsible for everything that goes on in here. So"—he smiled slightly—"I want you to promise to be good and consider fifteen minutes the limit."
She stared at him, and abruptly began to laugh, a high-pitched, discordant laugh, utterly at variance with her voice. Then she bent forward as she sat, covering her face with her hands, and the laughter gave place to stormy, hysterical sobbing, while Wadden stood over her helplessly, tears in his own eyes. It was such a situation as he had never faced in his life, though he realised it as utter breakdown under strain. At last he bent over her, placed a hand under each arm and lifted her bodily from the chair to hold her against himself, as if she might have been his own daughter.
"Quiet, now—quiet!" he bade huskily. "My dear, that's no way to come and see a man and cheer him up. Stop it, now—quiet!"
Her sobs shook her body less and less, ceased, and eventually she drew away from his hold and took the handkerchief he offered to dry her eyes.
"I—I'm so sorry," she gasped out. "My—my daddy dead, and I—I travelled all day to get—get back to him. And—and policemen all kind to me like—like this—different—not what—what I thought they were at all. And—and I've made your handkerchief all wet. Superintendent—he's not guilty!" She held the handkerchief out to him and, suddenly purposeful and controlled again, spoke with intense earnestness. "He—he couldn't do anything like that—he's not guilty!"
Wadden went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, lifted its lid, and disclosed a wash-basin. Then he turned to her again.
"Miss Madison," he said, "here's a clean towel hanging at the side, and soap if you want it. Likewise brush and comb—you've only to look at my head to see they don't get much use. If I leave you to yourself in here for five minutes, will that be enough to straighten yourself before I take you along to see the man you came here to see?"
She shook her head. "Don't—don't say any more," she almost whispered. "If you do, I shall have to borrow your handkerchief again. I think"—she laughed shakily—"I shall love policemen all my life."
"Don't tell my old lady that, if you ever meet her," he urged. "Five minutes, Miss Madison, and then I'll come and take you along."
He left her and, with a glance at his wrist-watch, went to the entrance of the police station and stood gazing at the car by the kerb. The constable on duty in Market Street, seeing his chief eyeing the car, paused to take mental note of its number plates and general appearance.
"All right, Blake," Wadden said, "I've an appointment here with the driver of that car. You needn't worry yourself about it. Just stroll along as far as the Brass Gridiron, and make sure they observe knocking out on the tick. That chap's getting a bit slack, and I'd hate to have any trouble with him—or anyone else, for that matter."
"Very good, sir," and Blake saluted and passed on.
"The evil that men do!" Wadden whispered to himself as, with another glance at his wrist watch, he turned back along the corridor.
With a preliminary knock and pause, he opened the door of his room and saw Avril Madison standing by his desk, nearly all traces of her recent breakdown eradicated—her eyes still betrayed emotion, to one who regarded them closely. Wadden's were fierce as ever as he looked at her, but she knew what that fierceness hid, now.
"Quite ready, superintendent, thanks to your kindness," she said.
"I haven't told him," he answered. "If he's in bed—well, we'll have to arrange about that if it is so. I've only just thought of it."
She went with him along other corridors, until he paused before a heavy door and, uncovering a peep-hole through which he looked, let the cover fall and unlocked the door.
"All right, Miss Madison," he said, and pushed the door open. "Mr. Brown, a visitor to see you. Fifteen minutes—highly irregular, this time of night, and that's all I can allow."
The girl entered the bare cell, and looked up into Jim Brown's staring eyes. He faced her, unable to believe what he saw.
"It's—quite all right, Jim," she said. "He—the superintendent told me there's a spyhole in the door, and I saw it. He's waiting outside himself, chaperoning us. Jim—Jim—I know you didn't!"
"Thank God!" Jim Brown whispered. "Avril!"
"I know, Jim. It'll all come right."
"Those blasted fools of police!" he exclaimed harshly.
"Jim—don't! They've been so good to me. A mistake—some one of them made a mistake, but I came here—I expected all sorts of difficulties, and they've just made me cry, they've been so kind. Jim—only fifteen minutes—I want you to write a letter for me."
"Some chance!" he retorted bitterly. "Seeing they took away everything I possess. What will I write on—the wall, with my nails?"
She held up her handbag. "Here's paper, and a fountain pen—you know I always carry them. To write to Harry, and tell him I'm to take charge of the garage for you till—till you're let out."
"I—you—what are you talking about, Avril?"
"I mean it, Jim. You've made that business, built it up from nothing, and I've been so proud of—of my cousin. The only relative I have, now, you see. And Harry's a good mechanic, I know, but it ought to have somebody responsible in charge till—till you come back to see to things. And—and I must do something, Jim. Because I—I shall miss daddy so, and to do nothing in that house without him would drive me mad. And it'll be helping you—please let me, Jim!"
He stood silent for awhile.
"And supposing I don't come back, Avril?" he said grimly.
"Jim!" It was a fearful whisper. "I—no, I don't believe—"
"Bless you, darling, you know I couldn't have done it, but I'm arrested for doing it, don't you see? Accused of it, and now I've got to prove I didn't do it. The last man to see him, the door left open as I left it, Hallam knowing of my quarrel with him—you don't know any of this, of course, but I've been thinking it over, and when you read it as it'll be reported when they bring me up in court, it might shake even your belief in my innocence, unless they get the right man."
"Jim"—she put her hand on his arm—"it's only just—he must have been alive this morning. All—they can't know anything, yet, except—you say they know you quarrelled with him, as you told me when you met me at the station. And there are two of them I met to-night, not the sort who'd see an innocent man suffer, I feel quite sure. Good men, Jim—not a bit like policemen as I thought they were. I know you'll come back, probably quite soon." She opened her handbag. "Now here's the pen and here's the paper. Sit down and write to Harry, Jim, and tell him you put me in charge till you come back."
He took the pen and paper, and looked down at her.
"Why do you want to do this, Avril?" he asked.
"I—didn't I tell you? Because I daren't spend my time doing nothing. Because I ache and ache for daddy—you never knew him, never knew how one could love him. All you saw was the worst of him, but he loved me because of mother, and—and—Jim—it's going to be such a terrible thing to go back to that house. I daren't go back there to live, yet. Not till I've grown used to doing without him. And another thing, Jim. If you let me do this, be at the garage and manage it for you, as long as you are away it will show everybody that his daughter believes you innocent—don't you see? So—please write it."
"And then, if I can't prove—"
"Please write it, Jim," she interrupted. "If you don't, I shall know you haven't faith in me—don't care for me as you said you did."
"Avril"—his eyes lighted as he gazed at her—"do you mean—"
"Not that"—again she interrupted him—"this is neither time nor place even to think of it. I said perhaps, remember, and this—this may help you to understand what my verse really means—the one I quoted to you so long ago—so long ago, though not in time! When you come back we may talk about it, if—if you write the letter for me, now."
He sat down on the narrow plank bed, then, and wrote, while she waited, and ever and again glanced at the spyhole in the door. At last he handed the paper and pen back to her, and stood up again.
"On your own head," he said, half-smiling.
"It's good to see you look like that, Jim. Now tell me—have you thought about getting a first-class lawyer to clear you?"
His face went grim again. "It's rather fresh—being arrested, I mean," he said. "I was just beginning to think of it when you came in."
"Yes. Well, leave that to me too, will you?"
"But why should I, Avril? It's not your—"
"Because"—another interruption—"to put it brutally, I'm outside and you're not, and I want to help you. Also, I'm in touch with men who know the very best lawyers for anything like this, and I've got faith they'll help me if I ask it. I'm sure of that, Jim. So will you leave that for me to arrange, too?"
"Avril, what's happened to you?" he demanded, puzzledly. "What's made you go all practical instead of being dreamy and half out of the world as I've always known you? Thinking of things like this?"
"Danger, Jim—danger to the only near relative I've got left. I want to do this, want you to let me do it. Please, Jim!"
"Yes, then, I'll leave it to you, Avril. Avril!"
"And—and if I don't come to see you often till you're able to come and see me again, you'll understand I'm managing the garage and—"
"Fifteen minutes, Miss Madison," Wadden's voice interrupted her as the door was thrust inward six inches or so.
"Yes—we've just finished all we wanted to say, superintendent. Good-bye for now, Jim, and I shall be at the garage in the morning to see that Harry and Josh do their work as if you were there."
He held both her hands and glanced at the door. Wadden could not see them, he knew, except by looking through the spyhole.
"Avril—my dear—"
She shook her head. "Time and place, Jim," she reminded him, smiling, "and it was only a perhaps, I told you. But keep in your mind I'm going to work—to work for you. Good-bye, Jim."
She withdrew her hands and, the bag with the letter in it tucked under her arm, pulled the door open and faced the superintendent.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Wadden," she said.
"Nearer twenty minutes than fifteen," he answered. "Come along to my office for a minute before you go, if you don't mind."
She waited while he locked the cell door, and then accompanied him to take the chair he had offered her before. He pointed to a heavy uniform coat laid across his desk.
"An open car, and it'll be cold driving, to-night," he remarked. "That's my coat—it'll go round you about three times, I judge, and the lining's cuddly. You can hand it back to Inspector Head when he comes along to ask you questions."
"But—superintendent, I feel much happier about things. But you shouldn't—you'll want the coat yourself, surely?"
"Two steps and a hop, and I'm back home," he assured her, "and my old lady'll have the kettle on the hob and a drop of something short on the table—with lemon. And sugar. You've got the best part of ten miles to go, between here and the Carden Arms."
"And how do you know I'm staying there?" she asked.
"Well, Miss Madison, we silly country coppers get to know lots of things. In fact, you'd be surprised. And for your ear only—don't so much as whisper it, because this is most irregular—that young man you came to see is going to slip through our fingers, before long—"
"Superintendent! You don't mean—?"
He seated himself on the edge of the desk. "When a man is charged with murder, warned that anything he may say can be used in evidence, and just says, 'Oh, don't be such a blasted fool!' Further to that, when Inspector Head gets his nose down, and asks me to let you see the accused man at this time of night—turn out from my nice fire and risk my raking his liver with a toasting fork over being dragged out like this—well, I can't help drawing conclusions. Y'see, Miss Madison, Head is my bright lad—I brought him up, as you might say, and he don't make many mistakes. If he did"—Wadden blew, but fairly softly—"there'd be smuts in the air to mark where I'd been talking to him for his good. Now can I do anything more for you before you go?"
"Why do you do all you have done?" she countered.
Again he blew, softly and reflectively, rather than as a protest.
"I can't stop here all night to tell you that," he said, "nor half to-morrow morning, either. Y'see, Miss Madison, ours may be an ugly job in some ways—bringing us up against the worst in people, I mean. But it also brings us up against the best in them, more often than you'd think. Sacrifices good women make for the sake of drunken husbands—things that make me thank God for the good there is in people and keep me believing in 'em, so when I see anyone in the position you're in just now—and Head rings me up and asks me to lend a hand—well, I just try to pay back some of the good that's come to me in my lifetime. D'ye see? Not that I hope to balance the account—I'm not quite such a fool as that. Pay back a bit, call it. But as I said, I can't stop here talking all night, so is there anything else before you go?"
"There is, superintendent. A good lawyer to defend Jim—Mr. Brown."
"Umm-m! D'you want to get him off at any cost?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because—there's a counsel named Calloway—he'd put the devil back in heaven, if he were retained for the job and dead sure of getting his price. It's most irregular my telling you anything of this sort, seeing one of my own men made the arrest."
'I don't want this Calloway," she said. "I want honourable acquittal, nothing short of that. Proof of innocence."
"Yes—I see. Well, Miss Madison, Brown will come before the magistrates in the morning. There'll be evidence of arrest—no more than that, and a remand for a week. So if you start worrying about a defending counsel—to-day is Wednesday—if you start thinking about it next Monday, say, that'll be time enough, unless something turns up in the meantime. Another arrest, say—Head's pretty swift when he gets his nose down. If it should run through police court proceedings to an assize trial, that means a reserved defence, and the time between now and Monday makes no difference at all—and in that case, you'd better see if you can get hold of Sir Herbert Eustace before he's retained for the Crown, since you want Brown to come out with lilies on his shield, as you might say. Mind, my advising you like this is highly irregular. All of it is—I'm stretching a point to the size of a football field."
"You're one of the kindest men I ever met," she said impulsively.
"I wish Potts could hear you say that—just as you said it then," he remarked pensively. "He's our prize poacher, Miss Madison, and we managed to catch him not long ago. Tell him I'm kind, and—oh, Lord! I'd love to see his face when he heard it."
Wadden's own face made her laugh, in spite of herself.
"Now, Miss Madison, d'you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to escort you out to that car, see you have this coat properly lashed and stowed so you can't catch cold, and then going home to my old lady to tell her I've met the loveliest pair of eyes I've seen for years, and risk what she's got to say about it. Also, I know the kettle is on the hob. If you don't mind, we'll move along."
THE supe, as he was called when out of hearing, sighed his regret as he opened a drawer in his desk, placed certain pamphlets and sheets of advertising matter inside it, and closed it. He locked it and put his keys back in his pocket, and sighed again: only the afternoon before, he had been reasonably—perhaps unreasonably—certain of acquiring that house and ground on the Carden—Crandon marsh road, and foremost in his mental picture-gallery had been a row—perhaps two or three rows—of glasshouses reeking with caloric values, and ruddy from roof to floor with pendent, ripening tomatoes. Now, he faced the supervision of an inquest, and after that the routine work of a case: if it turned out that Plender had made a really ghastly mistake, and Brown were not the guilty man, one hell of a case!
Head walked in on him as he pulled back his chair to seat himself and deal with reports, indent forms, and the like, and he pushed the papers away to make room for his elbows before sitting down.
"Park," he bade briefly. "Late back, weren't you?"
"Fairly. I looked in, and Harrison told me Miss Madison got here."
"And went, with my coat. Open car, no coat of her own. How they go on living beats me. When you go to the Carden Arms to put her through the hoop, remind her about the coat if she doesn't get in first with it. What I saw of her, though, she probably will get in first, or come down to see you with it over her arm. Collect it, anyhow."
"Umm-m! So she captured your affection, eh?"
"Went off with my coat," Wadden retorted, rather testily. "I'd do the same for—for a Minister of Transport, to take an extreme case. Now what about it, Head? Do we turn Brown loose and sack Plender?"
"Neither, as yet. I had a hope of arresting the man Hallam before I left Madison's place last night, but had to acquit him."
"As how? It's not your habit to jump before the fruit's ripe—Plender's the man for that, blast him! Why Hallam, though?"
"Well, the evidence points to Madison having been tumbled down a staircase from the first to ground floor after he'd been strangled, and Hallam owned to being not more than thirty feet away at the time, and hearing nothing of the fall—said he heard nothing whatever."
"Then why isn't he inside—or under observation in a padded ward?"
"Because he wouldn't hear, that's all. I went upstairs, tied about ten stone of books and things in a rug, strapped them in, and tumbled the bundle down the stairs. I put Wells and Jeffries quite as near as Hallam must have been when the body was tumbled down the stairs, and they heard nothing. Then I took their place and got them to tumble the bundle down, and I could hear nothing—nothing like a fall, that is."
"But—but what is this place? A house, or a coal mine?"
"This way, chief. Madison, I gather, detested noise by his servants and sound-proofed the doorway between their quarters and the front part of the house. Moreover the servants' part is a later addition to the main structure—I could see that as soon as I went out to listen—and when that house was built they put up walls for the exteriors. The wall that sound-proof door is set in is two feet thick, and you cannot hear through it."
"Well, that's that. And it clears Hallam?"
"On that point. He's been there nearly twenty years, and apparently had real affection for Madison. Physically, he was capable of the crime, but I don't see any possible motive. A stonewaller—one of the old class of trusted serving man, rather the butler type, wooden-faced and unemotional in his way of talking. Difficult to catch out, too, if we had need to catch him out, though I don't think we have. I tried him with one or two tricky ones, to no purpose—as placing the crime on the ground floor, when he instantly moved it upstairs again, corrected me quite respectfully and really very nicely. No, I don't see any motive, there—and he also accounted for not coming to close the front door and not discovering the body before Brown got there."
"Then—was Plender right over Brown's guilt?"
"It's doubtful, chief—the arrest ought not to have been made. With that sound-proof door between Hallam and the front of the house, a procession might have gone in by that front door and come out again unnoticed. On the other hand, Brown did quarrel with Madison, and so far I've got nobody else as having been there after him. Which doesn't mean that there wasn't anyone, by a long way. I've hardly begun inquiring, yet, and I've only got two persons' views of Madison to make up my portrait of him. Both, it seems, very much attached to him."
"You'll find the daughter still more so," Wadden observed. "Also, attached to Brown, though to what degree I don't quite know."
"She's not first on my list," Head said. "I'm regarding Brown as, say, a doubtful probable, and looking for others. As a beginning, the bank manager here—you saw Madison at the bank yesterday morning—"
"Idleburn Valley Bank, not the Midland," Wadden interposed.
"Yes. That'll be Hagger—he's about due to retire from managership, too. Good thing it's a long-service man like him—I may get useful particulars concerning Madison from him—"
"A bank," Wadden interposed again, didactically, "cannot be compelled to disclose anything concerning its customers—"
"Quite so, chief," Head interrupted in turn, "but I wasn't talking about the Idleburn Valley Bank or any other. I'm going to see Hagger."
"Threaten to withdraw your overdraft if he won't talk," Wadden advised. "I've got to go to court and hear Plender give evidence of arrest and apply for a remand, and then hell-and-all. It's a 'ard life, Head. Did you notice what wonderful eyes that girl's got?"
"I will now go and see Hagger," Head answered, and rose as he spoke.
"Ah! No soul—that's your trouble. That girl—she broke down in here last night, alone with me—"
"Wasn't that enough to make her?" Head interrupted.
"Here, you get off and see Hagger, before I bite you in half," Wadden advised, and blew at his inspector before he laughed. "All right, Head, I asked for that one, damn you! We've got to be busy, now."
"And I'll look in sometime this afternoon," Head promised. "I want a man named Imminger, manager of the brush factory, and a few others I may think of as things develop. Miss Madison, some time."
"I'd have thought you'd put her high on the list."
"Why should I? I looked in on Mr. Hawk at Carden on my way back, and she's been away six weeks, and only went back to Madison's place with Brown when he discovered the body. Also, she's got four close admirers, including Brown, and I know all about the Madison household."
"Which is why you're now going to find out some more," Wadden suggested. "Wonderful man, Hawk—useful at times, too. If he'd put as much energy into his work as he does into other people's affairs, he'd be traffic superintendent to the whole system, by this time."
"He's quite sure it's what he ought to be," Head remarked, "but—"
"Half a shake, before you go," Wadden interrupted. "Your dragging me out last night to fix an interview between Miss Madison and this Brown—you wouldn't have done that if you hadn't felt sure of his innocence in the back of what you call your mind, would you?"
"His innocence or guilt had nothing to do with it," Head dissented. "I saw that girl in the deepest distress, and even a plain-clothes slop like me has some humanity about him, chief. She believes Brown is innocent, or she wouldn't have wanted to see him—Madison's death has hit her hard, and she wanted to see Brown to make absolutely certain he's not the murderer, as I see it. And I wanted to set her mind at rest."
"Passed as read," Wadden commented. "Well, Head, when you so rudely interrupted me a while back, what I was going to say was that the girl broke down here with me, and I could see what Madison's death means to her. After that, she spent just on twenty minutes with Brown, and she wouldn't have done that if he'd been guilty, surely. A man who has committed murder—apart from habitual criminals, of course—surely couldn't fake innocence for that length of time to the daughter—or adopted daughter, if you like—of the murdered man."
"It doesn't follow, chief," Head disagreed. "As you say, if Brown is guilty, this is not the act of a habitual criminal, but of a man goaded past all self-control by the bitter tongue of the man he killed. Brown knows that Madison ignored his mother—Madison's sister—when she probably needed help and had a hard time of it. Madison had told him his father was a rotter, or something like that, and that his own blood was tainted, since he was his father's son—that was some while ago. Yesterday he called him a poverty-stricken motor mechanic, and probably a good many other names as well—I deduce because Brown is in love with the girl and wants to marry her. It's quite within the possibilities of psychology that Brown feels himself fully justified in wiping Madison off the earth—does not feel guilt over it, and so is able to meet the girl he loves—no real relation to the murdered man, remember, as he would remember it all the time—able to meet her and make her feel that he is innocent. And with that feeling about it, he might—I don't say he would, but he might get an acquittal from a jury, unless we can get a sounder case against him than the few facts on which Plender felt sure enough of his guilt to arrest him."
"Counsel for the defence, not having put his man in the witness-box, will now rise to reply," Wadden observed, glancing at his watch. "Head, I've got so much to do that I shall catch fire by friction with the atmosphere before the morning is out. Buzz off and see Hagger—see anyone you like, but buzz off and leave me to get on with it."
"See you later, chief," Head replied as he made for the doorway.
Extended as two sides of a triangle over what had originally been quite a small shop frontage half-way along Carden Street, a double sign bore the legend—BROWN'S GARAGE—in super-bold lettering. Under this main title, and like it in brilliant crimson paint on a white ground, was the announcement:
COURTESY, INTELLIGENT SERVICE, WATER, AND AIR ARE ALL FREE HERE
WE GIVE THE SAME SERVICE WITH HALF A PINT OF OIL AS WITH A NEW CAR
BROWN MAKES MOTORISTS HAPPY: TRY HIM AND SEE FOR YOURSELF
"An' it looks," said a brilliantly red-headed, youngish, middle-sized man who paused before the frontage to look up at the signboard, "as if they was goin' to try 'im, too. Blimey! What'll Josh say?
He entered, passed through the shop by a side door to a double-doored workshop and, glancing round, shied his old cap neatly across to the far wall, where it landed on a nail and hung. Then he took off his coat and, crossing the workshop, hung it on another nail, took a dungaree union suit off a third nail, and donned it. He had almost finished buttoning himself in when a door at the back of the workshop opened, and a tall, lanky, melancholy-looking youngster in shirt and trousers looked out, and then emerged to reveal the fact that his shoes were still unlaced. The red-headed one regarded him sourly.
"Afternoon, Josh. Did the butler forget your shavin' water?"
"What the 'ell's the use?" Josh responded bitterly. "D'you reckon you're gettin' your pay to-morrer, or me mine?"
"When you come 'ere—on my say-so," red-head told him severely, "your contract was to sleep in that palace of ease there an' see these doors open every mornin' at eight o'clock, if no happy motorist come along an' rousted you out at seven for free air an' water—an' courtesy an' intelligent service. See? An' it's gone nine."
"When the bloke what pays you is jugged on a murder charge," Josh retorted doggedly, "I don't see no sense in goin' on workin'. I only slep' 'ere last night because there wasn't nowhere else to go."
"Conspeef!" the other ejaculated, as if stunned by Josh's view of things. "I see 'ow it is," he went on, brightening. "You got up early an' went to see the execution. Well, I'm waitin' till after the funeral before I chuck the job. Get them blinkin' doors open, Josh, an' then go an' finish your toilet—an' do not forget the pomatum on the 'air, because we are in for a busy day, little man."
"Look 'ere, 'Arry, you persuaded me to come 'ere on this job," Josh pointed out with some heat. "Are you goin' to pay me me wages to-morrer an' see I 'ave me fare back to London Saturday mornin'?"
"My name is Harry, an' do not forget the haspirate on it," red-head admonished severely. "An' I am not goin' to pay neither your wages nor your fare, but if them doors ain't open inside two minutes, I am goin' to rub your blinkin' nose in used-up engine oil, an' even then you won't be a worse-lookin' gump than what you are now. Mister Brown is run in for murder, I know, an' so'll I be if you don't come on deck an' get a move on—there's that tractor due out, decoked an' valves all ground in, by 'ar-past twelve, an' the doors not open yet! If you don't want me practisin' courtesy an' intelligent service on what passes for a face with you, get them doors opened an' yourself decoked an' adjusted for runnin' in top gear. 'Op to it, Josh. I'm shoutin', an' this show runs as usual if I 'ave to bust meself to keep it in gear."
"But Mr. Brown—" Josh began, sullenly.
"MISTER BROWN AIN'T DEAD YET!" Harry roared at him. "You'll wish you was, if them doors ain't open in ONE minute! Brown's garage carries on as usual, an' Gord send Mr. Brown back to keep it carryin' on."
"Harry?" He jumped about as he heard the voice. "He will come back, soon, and I'll see that he knows how loyal you are before he comes back, too—unless they let him out to-day."
"Blimey—good mornin', Miss Madison, I mean," he answered sheepishly. "Sorry them doors ain't open. You—you got a car want servicin', or—or—I mean—what can we do for you?"
"I saw Mr. Brown last night, and he's put me in charge here for the present," she answered. "I have a letter from him if you wish to see it, authorising me to manage the garage, pay wages, and—"
"Put it back, Miss Madison," he interrupted, as she began taking the letter from her handbag. "When I don't take the word of a lady like you, it's me for a brain specialist. Josh, you worm, hear that? What about them blinkin' doors—an' tuck your shirt in a bit more at the back! Disgraceful, that's what you are! Carm on, man—get a move on! I'm 'appy again now, Miss Madison—happy, I mean. They larf at you about haspirates, round 'ere—here—if you miss your step on one. An' you—blimey, we gotter work like 'ell—I'm very sorry, Miss Madison! I didn't mean it, really I didn't!"
"I hope you did, though," she said, and laughed—his flaring red hair and the face under it had won a laugh from more than one customer. "Now I want to tell you—I'm using the car Mr. Brown calls his casserole, and you must tell me if you want me to run round outside—call on anyone, or anything at all. And then, seeing people here—" She broke off, regarding him doubtfully—sure of him, but not of herself.
He scratched his head thoughtfully. "I guess I can give 'em all the courtesy an' intelligent service they want, Miss Madison," he said, "an' also keep behind Josh here an' jab him in the—see he does his whack, I mean. But—but we got a tractor—farm tractor, you know—to finish decokin' this mornin', an' there should be some "acksaws an' a wheel-drawer or two waitin' at Carden station to be picked up by now—we ain't got a 'acksaw left that'd make a dent in 'alf-a-pound o' butter, so if you could run up as far as the station while we get on with the tractor, I'd be workin' with a pure 'eart an' 'umble mind—sorry, I mean we'd be gettin' on with the job, Miss Madison."
"I'll go at once," she answered, and went out by the doors which Josh had thrown open, by this time.
"Clarss, that's what it is, Josh," Harry remarked complacently, as he heard the self-starter on the casserole and then the purr of the engine. "That sort, they'd even talk to a worm like you as if you was clarss yourself, like she did to me. An' now we gotter just hum."
"Well, you 'um a little less about worms an' things," Josh retorted sullenly, an' don't go puttin' on airs as if you was lord mayor an' me no more'n a whelk, else you can do the blasted tractor on your own."
"Ho, like that, is it?" Harry inquired. "Well, Josh, I apologise most 'umbly to you for 'urtin' of your feelin's, an' to all the worms there is for callin' you one. An' for Gord's sake go an' finish dressin' an' come an get on with the job. Quarter past nine an' you not up!"
"What about me breakfast?" Josh inquired.
"Eat the coke off the tractor piston 'eads," Harry advised, "for that's all you'll blasted-well get if you want to keep a job 'ere. You stop in your luxurious repose till nine in the mornin', an' then reckon to take time off for breakfast! Ho, waiter, bring in the grape fruit, an' the gentleman'll miss 'is porridge an' go straight on to 'am an' eggs, with sausages round the plate! Likewise do not forget the toast an' marmalade! 'Ere, there's a bloke pulled up at the pumps outside—get on grindin' in them valves while I fill 'im up. An' 'op to it!"
He returned, a little later, to where the tractor stood, and ceased whistling as he saw Josh at work on a valve in its seating.
"If that's 'ow you 'op to it," he said sourly, "then all the frogs there is 'as got rheumatoid arthritis. 'Ere, gimme that screwdriver, an' get on with the cylinder 'ead block! An' don't you 'urry yourself, whatever you do. We might get the job finished in time, if you did."
"Well, well, well, well, Miss Madison!" Mr. Hawk observed, as he placed the heavy wheel-drawers carefully in the back of the casserole. "Stirring times—stirring times—I'm sorry—forgot what this must mean to you, for the moment. But—but if you don't mind my asking, you don't consider Mr. Brown—you don't think he—I mean, taking charge of his garage as you say you're doing—well—I'm very sorry!"
"If you will confine your remarks to your duties, Mr. Hawk, I will attend to my own business," she answered cuttingly. "Thank you very much for bringing these things to the car for me. Good morning."
EMERGING from the police station, Inspector Head returned toward the end of London Road and made his way along Market Street, passing Parham's garage entrance and, a block beyond it, coming to the double doors which gave access to the Westingborough branch of the Idleburn Valley Bank, one of the most important of that old-established banking firm's places of business. He ascended the three stone steps, only to halt as one of the swing doors was thrust outward, rather violently, by a tall, black-coated and striped-trousered man in his thirties, who with scarcely a glance at the police inspector almost blundered down the steps and, as Head waited to see, disappeared in Parham's big archway. But the man's momentary half-glance in passing told Head that he had made no mistake over having seen eyes like Hallam's before: for this man, one of the two cashiers in the bank, had very similar eyes, both as to their pale grey colour and their setting and expression. There, however, the likeness ended: Hallam was rather short and sturdily built, while the cashier was tall and weedy—stooped a bit, too; Hallam's rather attractive face varied very little in its expression, and had strength about it; the cashier's features were mobile, revealing—until to-day, Head had regarded him as a pleasant, efficient sort of bank official, in facing him across the counter inside here. Now, however, he was obviously worried about something, and in too much of a hurry even to accord a customer of the bank the usual greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Head." Hagger, the manager, shook hands. "Want to see me, eh? Well, wise of you to look in early, before the farmers come in to know how much more they can overdraw. Come in, do."
He ushered Head into his own sanctum, and seated himself at his desk, a smallish, middle-aged, white-moustached, rather prim man on whose over-large nose a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez appeared to sit insecurely. Facing Head who sat in the other clients' chair, he smiled.
"Not that you want an overdraft, I expect," he added.
"Not for the moment," Head answered, and accepted a cigarette from the presentation silver box on the manager's desk. He flicked a lighter, and gave Hagger a light too. "No. Quite apart from the object of my call, I saw one of your cashiers going out in a terrible hurry just now, and can't recall his name for the moment."
"Lacy, you mean, I expect." Hagger stood up momentarily to glance through the unfrosted upper part of his glass partition, and so assure himself that the other cashier was in his place. "Yes, Lacy. In fact, Mr. Head, you have arrived at a rather painful moment, for me. Lacy, apart from possibly coming in to fetch any belongings he may have left here, has gone through those doors for the last time."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," Head commented.
"I'm very sorry to say it," Hagger responded gravely, "but—well, it had to be. Any employee of the bank who makes a practice of betting ceases to be an employee, as soon as the habit is discovered. That rule is quite inflexible—and Lacy knew it as well as I know it. Not that we are—well, impossibly puritanical. We have our little sweep among ourselves on Derby day, and know headquarters would close its eyes to things of that sort, but—well, you will understand that when a man turns gambler and lets it get hold of him, we cannot afford to keep him in a post where he is handling money all his working hours."
"Obviously," Head agreed perforce.
"Not that Lacy was dishonest or anything of that sort," the manager hastened to assure him. "Oh, no! And I told him I should not stand in his light in the matter of other employment. I shall be only too glad to recommend him if he applies to me, but he has broken one of our most rigid rules, and I should get in trouble myself if I kept him on after discovering—well, what I happened to discover, and cross-examining our local bookmaker, who banks with us here. All this, of course, is in strictest confidence, Mr. Head—I am merely telling you because rumours may get about in consequence of Lacy's sudden dismissal, and you will be able to contradict anything that may be said to cast reflection on the man's honesty. Your word carries weight in the town, I know."
"I shall be glad to deny any unjust statements, Mr. Hagger."
"I'm sure you will. And now—well, you brought it on yourself by asking about the man, so I won't apologise over wasting your time. But what can I do for you, Mr. Head?" Hagger inquired, smiling friendlily.
"Mr. Henry Madison paid you a visit yesterday morning, I understand," Head told him. "Without violating your rule about secrecy over customers' business, can you tell me anything about that visit—the time he left here, and anything else that might be of use to me?"
"Ah! A terrible thing, this," Hagger said sympathetically. "One of our oldest and most respected customers, and the man Brown—well! Let me say first, Mr. Head—Brown has been arrested, I know, or else I would not say this. I know, though he does not bank here, he has extended that business of his at Carden at considerable cost during the past year or two, and—well, capital is difficult to raise at short notice, unless one has proved assets. Mr. Madison left this bank at about twelve o'clock yesterday morning, carrying four hundred and twenty pounds in pound and ten shilling notes, apart from ten pounds in silver. He draws that sum—did draw it, I should say—in that form at the end of every month, as wages and some of the salaries for the brush factory. Drives himself over here from Todlington in that old Metallurgique car of his, some day during the last week of each month, and drives away with the money—I should say drove, but it's difficult to realise that he will not enter the bank again."
The empty, open drawer of the bureau in Madison's room at Todlington recurred to Head's mind, and for some seconds he remained silent.
"Could you trace any of those notes, Mr. Hagger?" he asked at last.
"Just a moment, and I'll answer that question," Hagger said.
He rose and went out to the main office, and Head waited until he returned and, seating himself, shook his head.
"As I thought, we can't trace them," he said. "Once in a while, we get new packages of notes—they're banded in five hundreds—but when we do, we usually keep them for special customers. Ladies who like nice clean notes that have not been folded, and people of that sort. Mr. Madison, I find, took no new notes away yesterday, for the simple reason that we have had none in the bank for the last fortnight. What he took had been paid in by other customers and bundled ready for paying out again, the numbers are not consecutive on them nor could we identify any of them. There are hundreds of millions of pound and ten shilling notes in circulation, as probably you know, and we do not take the numbers of any of them. The only possibility was that part of a package of new notes might have been here, and Mr. Madison might have taken the rest, in which case we could have given you the numbering and lettering of that particular package. But he took used notes."
"I see," Head said. "Did he often come into the bank?"
"Once a month, and no more," Hagger answered. "Most of the paying in to his account—the factory is a personal business, and he had only the one account—was by cheque, and either Imminger or some employee came over and paid in every Monday morning or afternoon."
"Then, with his death and the account closed, the factory will be unable to get any money till his will is proved," Head suggested.
"Oh, no! I took the liberty of pointing that out to him when I took over this branch, and he told me then that there is a deed of gift in favour of Miss Madison in possession of Barham, the solicitor here, you know, to take effect the day before his death. Why the day before, I don't know, not being well up in that sort of legal arrangement, but he told me Miss Madison is his heiress, and he had that done to prevent complications, as soon as she was of age."
"Miss Madison inherits everything, then?" Head suggested, Madison told me she was his heiress. Whether he made other bequests, I don't know. You'd think young Lewinson—his father invented the process that made the Madison brush what it is, but—well, Imminger, the manager at the factory, could tell you more about that than I can, if you want particulars. And young Lewinson—well, some people have been heard to say his father ought to have got more out of his invention than he did, since it brought so much prosperity to the business, but—well, Mr. Madison always seemed a just man, to me."
"Without exception?" Head inquired, remembering Madison's injustice over Jim Brown, and how he had ignored his own sister.
"I would say, without exception," Hagger asserted gravely. "In fact, Mr. Head, in connection with him I would use a word that has gone out of fashion through misuse, a word I hardly ever use, because—well, because it is misused nowadays. Mr. Madison was a gentleman."
"It's a pity that word has become almost impossible," Head reflected. "But, in his case, you wouldn't separate the 'gentle' from the 'man' as description, I think. More man than gentle, eh?"
"I knew him only as a customer of the bank," Hagger hedged.
"It was not—well, hardly a personal acquaintance, if you understand me."
"Naturally—you have so many customers, of course. Thank you very much for all you have been good enough to tell me, Mr. Hagger."
"Don't mention it, sir—don't mention it. Any assistance I can give you, though—well, you already have your criminal under lock and key, of course. Smart work, Mr. Head, smart work, that. But then—well, we all know that when you get to work on a case, it's—well, the guilty party might as well give himself up. Well, don't fail to look me up if there's anything more you wish to know. Good morning, Mr. Head—good morning, and—well, if you do hear rumours about Lacy—"
"I'll certainly bear what you say in mind," Head promised.
Emerging from the bank, he went back to the police station and bade Jeffries turn out the car that he used when making calls alone in the district, and see that it faced towards the end of London Road, and then pursued his way along Market Street until he came to the sombre windows and dingy doorway behind which Lucas Barham, solicitor, conducted his mellow, old-established business—and signed his letters with a quill pen as emphasis of his respect for old customs. It was not the first time by many that Head had entered the office, and he had had more than one breezy altercation with the rather ponderous and pompous solicitor, who among other things was reputed to possess the finest cellar of wines in the district. Now, Barham kept him waiting ten minutes or more, and when finally shown into the holy of holies Head noted that no other visitor emerged, though the room had but the one entrance.
"Ah, inspector!" Barham greeted him solemnly. "I regret having been compelled to keep you waiting, but it was unavoidable. Will you sit down? I presume—this terrible occurrence—Mr. Madison—I presume it is over that you wish to see me. Though I fail to see, at this stage, any way in which I could be of assistance in police inquiries."
"Particulars of Mr. Madison's will," Head said bluntly.
Barham let his eyebrows ascend as he gazed at his cellar. "But that, surely—until probate has been granted—" he began, and left it as a protest while he went on gazing.
Head refrained from sitting down. "The bench is sitting this morning, I recollect," he said calmly. "I'll just run round and get an order compelling you to disclose the contents of the will to me, as I think I can do without much trouble, since this is a murder case—"
"No, wait a minute, Mr. Head—don't be so hasty," Barham argued, with patent irritation. "I was merely pointing out the unusual nature of your request, not refusing to—what is it you wish to know?"
"Particulars of Mr. Madison's will," Head repeated.
"I can tell you without even referring to the document," Barham said. "Twenty pounds for each year of service to his two domestics, Gregory Hallam and Susan Allbright. One pound for each year of service to every worker in the brush factory. One shilling to Percy Lewinson, who has been heard to declare that old Madison had forgotten what he owed to Lewinson's father, and as proof that the testator has not forgotten, and the residue unconditionally to his adopted daughter, Avril Prima Madison. I took the will out and read it over myself this morning."
"No other bequests whatever?"
"None. I trust you will admit, inspector, that I have done nothing to hinder any inquiries you may be prosecuting—though, since you have already arrested the murderer, I fail to see what interest you can find in the way in which Mr. Madison willed his estate."
"Your legal caution seems to have deserted you for once, Mr. Barham," Head retorted coolly. "The man charged with the murder, surely."
"We have no witnesses in here," Barham pointed out with a faint and supercilious smile, "and surely Inspector Head would not arrest a man on the day of the crime unless that man's guilt were beyond doubt."
"But I did not arrest him," Head said, and smiled in turn. "Many thanks for your information, Mr. Barham. Good morning."
The tang of autumn was in the day, he noted as he emerged to the street again: the air was softly hazed, the distances bluish-tinted, and, where Market Street ran out to open country beyond the Maggs Lane end, elms and chestnuts made a patchwork of yellowing glory in the sunlight. No, it was not worth while to go into the station and get his overcoat—but then, reaching the car by the kerb, he saw that Jeffries had put the coat on the driving seat in readiness for him. He lifted it on to the other seat, took his place at the wheel, and went away.
"One shilling to Percy Lewinson... as proof that he has not forgotten." Madison might have been a gentleman as Hagger had asserted, but there was nothing gentle about that bequest. And this Percy Lewinson would bear looking up: he had been one of the callers at the Madison residence the day before, Head remembered, after Madison had returned from the bank, and, though his motor cycle had vanished, later, he had not been seen to leave. One of Miss Madison's admirers...
And that empty, open drawer in the bureau...
Four hundred and twenty pounds, in pound and ten shilling notes, apart from ten pounds in silver. The drawer was big enough to take all the notes...
Madison had been dead by four o'clock—Jim Brown had left the house in time to meet the four-fifteen at Westingborough station—but that car of his was fast. Had left the front door wide open...
Miss Madison believed Brown innocent. But was he?
Because there might be a grain or two of informative corn in the bushel or more of inconsequent chaff which Mr. Hawk was always ready to spill, Head drew his little car gently to a standstill as he saw the stationmaster in the outer doorway of Carden station.
"Morning, Mr. Head—morning!" Mr. Hawk hurried forward, needing no more definite invitation to unburden himself. "Lovely weather—I always say an autumn like this makes you ready to face the winter when it comes, though we don't get the seasons we used, do we?"
"Good morning. We don't," Head responded.
"Wonderful, I call it," Mr. Hawk enthused. "I've got the last of my main crop taters out dryin' in the garden, and a wonderful lot they are, too. But there, I always say it takes skill to raise a tater crop, though I did raise 'em myself. Skill, an' real knowledge, to make the best of—why, only yesterday the wife said to me—'Samuel,' she said, 'I lay nobody else could make the real use of that bit o' ground that you do. Genius, I call it,' she says—though it's not for me to call it that or advertise myself. But it really is an uncommon fine crop o' taters—an' my earlies! Well, if you'd seen my Eureka kidneys!"
"Genius, undoubtedly," Head assented with becoming gravity.
"Plender took first prize, of course, but that—" Mr. Hawk broke off rather uncomfortably, for it would not do to accuse a police sergeant of having secured first prize through favouritism, when talking to a police inspector—"Well, they wasn't so bad," he ended vaguely. "But this here murder, Mr. Head. I s'pose you've got it all in shape now, with the man arrested and everything? All over but the trial, eh?"
"The case is shaping," Head told him, uninformatively.
"Ah! Not much chance for a man when you get on his track—an' it was smart, that ketchin' him pretty much red-handed, as you might say. Not but what it's what we've got to expect of you, Mr. Head, if you don't mind my puttin' it like that. But that Miss Madison—Hullo!" He broke off to stare at a motor-cyclist who shot past the station toward Todlington. "Goin' all out—he's doin' a good fifty, I'd say. An' this time of day, too. Wonder whether Mrs. Lacy's ill, or what?"
Head, faced towards the stationmaster, had not seen the motor-cyclist's face, but he knew as he gazed along the road and heard Mr. Hawk's last sentence that illness was not the cause of Lacy's being here at this time of day. He felt a sudden interest in that receding rider.
"You mean—who was he, then?" he asked.
"That young Mr. Lacy—he's in the Idleburn Valley Bank at Westingborough—I don't know if you bank there, Mr. Head, but if you do you must have seen him back of the counter sometimes. And I was thinking only yesterday evenin', when I see him go by—he'll soon have to give that up for the winter, though the weather's holdin' out remarkable this year. One o' the finest autumns I ever remember."
"Well, what will he have to give up?" Head persisted.
"Livin' at home an' riding to work every mornin'—must be all of fourteen miles, from their place to the bank. He's done this ever since they took him on there—motorcycled there an' home to Todlington mornin' an' night all the summer, an' then took a room in Westingborough for the winter an' only come over week-ends. His mother thinks all the world of him—as well she may, seein' he's all she's got."
"Lives at Todlington, eh?" Head apparently reflected aloud.
"It's the first house the other side the Feathers, same side of the road," Mr. Hawk amplified for him. "Nice little place—it's her own property. They say her husband left her that an' about a hundred a year when he died, just about the time this son was born—years ago, before I come to Carden or knew anything about the place, that was. A standoffish sort of woman, she is—he was only a cattle-dealer, when farmin' was a bit livelier round here than it is now. Bedridden the last part of his life, though, I did hear, arthritis an' what not. She couldn't have had too easy a time makin' both ends meet till she got the son into the bank, but now they must be a bit better off. That's a new machine he got from Brown's place not more'n three months back, an' I looked up the price of 'em as soon as I see him on it. Forty-two pound it cost him, if a penny. Instalments, though, I reckon."
"Even so—" Head began and broke off, realising that he was incautiously speaking aloud a thought better kept to himself.
"Ah, you're right, Mr. Head! I worked it out, an' twelve instalments come to three pound ten a month—seventeen an' six a week, say. I dunno what he'd be gettin' in the bank, but—" He shook his head dubiously as indication of the hole in Lacy's salary.
"Rich relations, perhaps," Head suggested. He felt enough interest in Lacy to encourage Mr. Hawk in his revelations.
"Who? Them? Why, Mrs. Lacy's got a sister in service at Condor Grange, an' don't have anything to do with her. She was nobody, though she do live there all independent. An' I never heard that her husband had any relations round here—I'd have heard if they'd ever looked her up or been seen round these parts, nearly certainly."
"You would," Head confirmed him. There was little concerning his neighbours that Mr. Hawk did not manage to ferret out.
"Well, she may have had a stroke, or somethin'—he ain't comin' home like that at this time of day for nothing, I'm sure. I wonder—but I expect I'll hear all about it before I'm much older."
"You will," Head confirmed him again, confidently.
"Yes. Public-spirited as I'm proud to call myself, Mr. Head, even in a place like this, I always say you can't know too much about people. I reckon to be chairman of the ratepayers' association next year, an' I want to know all about my feller ratepayers for that, know who we can depend on to stand firm an' who is likely to truckle to—to constituted authority instead of goin' all out for their rights as they ought. An' what with that an' the philharmonic, it'll be a busy winter. In fact, the wife don't seem to like my bein' away too much, an' said that to me only the other day, but I said—'Henrietta,' I said, 'since the company don't see fit to recognise my ability an' promote me to a place where I can show 'em what a man I am—which they don't—I'd better use my talents for the betterment of this here place, an' not let 'em rust,' I said. An' I think she saw the wisdom of it, though she never said. Women are like that—if I want the wife to do a thing, I try to persuade her not to do it—an' she goes an' does it! They're like that, all of 'em, though they seem to be different."
"Possibly," Head conceded, and glanced at the clock on his dash.
"Which reminds me—that Miss Madison," Mr. Hawk pursued. "I was just goin' to tell you about that when young Mr. Lacy come thunderin' past like that an' put it out of my mind. Mr. Head, there's not the slightest doubt she's tryin' to get Brown off, somehow."
"You don't say so!" Head commented gravely.
"Not the slightest. Tryin' to get up a wave of public opinion in his favour, though she must know he's guilty as well as you or I do."
"Of course she does," Head agreed unhesitatingly. "But why—"
"Well, I'll tell you—in confidence," Mr. Hawk interrupted, eager to unload this piece of gossip. "Along she comes to me this mornin' at somewhere around half-past nine or so, in Brown's car which he generally drives—the one he was drivin' yesterday when he took her home after murderin' Mr. Madison, for which you very properly arrested him right off—an' then drove her back to the Carden Arms, where she put up rather than stay in the house where her father was lyin' in his gore—though Mr. Madison wasn't rightly her father, as I expect you know, her mother being a widow with that one child when Mr. Madison married her. Well, as I was saying, along comes Miss Madison to me, an' she says—'Mr. Hawk,' she says, 'I've took over to manage Mr. Brown's garage for him till he's released'—till he's released, mind you, Mr. Head—'an',' she says, 'there should be a parcel come by train.' 'There is,' I says. 'If you don't mind gettin' it,' she says, 'I'll sign for it an' take it to the garage, as the two mechanics are too busy to fetch it.' Well, I took her word about takin' over the garage, though it struck me afterward I ought to asked her for some proof she had a right to ask for it—but then, I can't imagine her wantin' a bundle of hacksaws an' three or four heavy iron things for herself, so I expect it was all right. But as I was puttin' the things in the car for her after she'd signed for 'em, I said in a sort of casual way—'it's quite easy to see you don't look on Mr. Brown as guilty, Miss Madison.' An' d'you know, Mr. Head, she reglar flared up an' just about snapped my head off, as if I'd said I did think him guilty. Obviously tryin' to persuade me he isn't—shieldin' of him, Mr. Head—that's what she's doing. Shieldin' of him. Tryin' to rouse public opinion in his favour, so as to influence the jury at his trial. Miss Madison may be quite all right in her way, an' I don't say she ain't quite a nice young lady over most things, but you can lay your life she'll need watchin' over this, Mr. Head."
"You think so?" Head inquired sympathetically.
"Think so? Why, where women are concerned, specially when they're in love as she is with this Brown—else, why did she go to manage his garage, an' why did she let him drive her home yesterday, an' then back to put up at the Carden Arms—when you cherchay the fem, as the French say, especially when they're shieldin' anyone as she is him, you've got to watch 'em. Why only last night I said to the wife—'Henrietta,' I said—excuse me, Mr. Head, that's my buzzer, an' I've got to answer it. But—well, I expect you'll know how to deal with her."
"I'll do my best," Head promised, as he engaged first gear.
DRIVING slowly as he passed the Feathers Inn, Todlington's only licensed house, Head returned the salute of Sergeant Plender, who was then emerging from the inn after, as Head deduced, making arrangements for the afternoon's inquest. He did not stop to speak to Plender, but slowed still more, and was no more than crawling along the road when he came to the first house beyond the Feathers, and saw a nearly new motor-cycle leaned against the fence outside the gate.
Beyond the fence he could see a small square of garden untidily filled with mauve-flowering Michaelmas daisies; the crowded stems and dwarfed blooms pointed to lack of care, as did the bit of vegetable garden showing beyond the red-brick house that the daisies failed to adorn. For in that bit at the back showed lettuces run up to seeding stalks, lank cabbages that testified to poverty of soil, and a big, rusty-looking, ripened head of dock seed flanked by tall and ripened thistle stalks. Someone had gardened a little in the spring or early summer, and then had left the results of that labour untended, evidently.
The house, of red brick with a slate roof, was of late Victorian or Edwardian type; the top third of the front door was filled in by a crazy-patchwork of stained glass, amid which was set in white porcelain or glass letters the word—HOLMBURN. Whoever had given the place that name, Head decided, had mislaid his sense of humour and had also failed to consider the view an insurance company might take of the omen. On either side of the door was a bay window, white-lace-curtained, and that on the left, as one looked at the house, displayed an aspidistra framed in the inverted V of the middle pair of curtains. Over these bays were bedroom windows, also lace-curtained, but not embayed. "Two reception, four bed, kitchen and scullery and usual offices," would be a house-agent's description of the place—and no bathroom, almost certainly. By the type of curtains and the aspidistra Head was able to form a mental picture of Mrs. Lacy; the garden gave him a little more insight to the character of her son, who lived here all summer and came home for weekends all winter. He saw no sign of either of them, except for the motor-cycle by the gate—which latter needed painting.
"To round it off, they ought to keep hens," he told himself as he depressed the accelerator, and saw the Madison Brush factory ahead.
A doorkeeper at the main entrance to the factory took his card, and lifted an intercommunicating telephone instrument to announce—"Inspector Head of Westingborough would like to see you, sir." Replacing the instrument, he turned to Head, and nodded along the corridor in which his little, glass-panelled box afforded checking-in facilities for employees as well as an inquiry office for callers.
"First door on the other side along there, sir," he said. "You'll see the name on the door—Mr. Herbert Imminger, it is."
The owner of that name stood in the doorway as Head advanced toward it, and drew back to receive his caller. He was tall, bluish-chinned, with deeply-set dark brown eyes and a big nose with thin, firm lips under it, and wore the conventional black lounge coat and striped cashmere trousers of a business man. He offered his hand, gravely.
"I half expected you, Mr. Head," he remarked as they shook hands, "though with your man already inside—well, you know your own methods, of course. Working up the case, I believe it's called."
"By our own methods, as you say," Head concurred. "Thank you"—he took a cigarette from the offered case and moved to the chair Imminger placed for him. With the cigarette alight, he seated himself.
"Now what can I tell you?" Imminger inquired, seating himself too.
"Four hundred and twenty pounds, ten pounds in silver, and the rest in pound and ten shilling notes," Head answered. "I didn't trouble to ascertain the proportion of ten-shilling to pound notes."
"It would be one hundred in ten shilling notes, and three hundred and ten in pounds," Imminger answered. "It always has been that, since he used to draw three-fifty a month. But do you mean he has actually drawn that sum from the bank, Mr. Head?"
"Yesterday morning," Head answered. "He left the bank at about midday—a little before twelve, probably, since he seems to have been interviewing Mr. Percy Lewinson at his house between half-past twelve and one, and drives a Metallurgique. Unless I'm very much mistaken, that car would be so old that it would have to drop to first gear to get to the top of Condor Hill from the Westingborough side."
"You are not mistaken," Imminger assented. "And—yesterday was Wednesday"—he glanced at a calendar on the wall—"yes, to-morrow week will be the first of October. A bit soon for him to draw it out, but he knew Miss Madison was coming home after her six weeks abroad, and probably felt he didn't want to go to Westingborough again for her first week at home. You are looking for that money, I take it?"
"Say, rather, that I have not begun to look for it, yet. Can you tell me the usual routine—whether it comes to you here?"
"To the safe in the counting house—Mr. Madison always brought it over on Saturday morning himself, after drawing it from the bank. Every day except Saturday, I went to see him at eleven o'clock, to keep him in touch with the business, and on Saturdays he used to come here and see me. Yesterday, he rang through to tell me he was going to Westingborough, and I went over to the house before he started—at about a quarter past ten, that would be. He said nothing of cashing the monthly cheque, nor did I ask him about it. As a matter of fact, it was—well, not wise to ask Mr. Madison about obvious things."
"Have you any idea where he would keep that money until he brought it here?" Head asked. "I need not ask you if it is already here."
"He kept it in one of the little drawers of that bureau in the room at the top of the staircase in his house, where he kept all his books and business papers," Imminger answered. "Not one of the big drawers under the flap, but one of the little ones inside it—the under one of the two wide middle drawers. Because, more than once, when I've been to see him on the last Friday of a month, I've seen him open that drawer and look at the notes, as if to remind himself that he must bring them over on the Saturday. And if that's why this horrible tragedy has happened, Mr. Head, I may as well tell you that I tried once to tell him it wasn't safe to keep that amount of money there. Only once, though."
"Like that, was he?" Head suggested.
"A very difficult man to describe," Imminger said, frowning as he tried to find means of description. "If I tell you that Mr. Madison had the kindest heart and at the same time most venomous tongue of any man I ever knew, will that convey anything to you?"
"It will confirm much that I have already learned of his character."
"But you want to find what has become of that money, of course," Imminger said, frowning still more. "Have you searched the bureau, yet?"
"In company with our most efficient man at that sort of thing," Head assured him, "and the drawer you describe was opened ready for searching when I first looked at the bureau. Empty, I needn't tell you."
"Else, you wouldn't be asking about the money. All I can tell you is that it is not here—was not due here till Saturday morning."
"Let me use your telephone, Mr. Imminger."
"Why, certainly! Ask our switchboard for a line—wait, though, and I'll get the line for you, so the girl will think I'm calling myself. She knows it's as much as her place is worth to listen in if I ask for a line instead of getting her to get the number."
He asked for an exchange line, and handed over the receiver.
"We have three exchange lines, and a private one to Mr. Madison's house," he explained, after Head had dialled and sat waiting.
"Westingborough police?" Head asked. "Ah, Wells! Is Superintendent Wadden in?... Well, tell him when he does come in, in case he wants me at the inquest, I shall be at Mr. Madison's house."
He listened to the reply, said, "That's all," and hung up.
"Search while neither Hallam nor Susan is there," Imminger observed.
"Unfortunately, we don't take men into the force when they're over twenty-five, and like them even younger," Head told him.
He smiled, faintly and for the first time. "Judging by what you've made of it, I might have done worse," he said. "That is, if I'd had your type of brain, which I haven't, I'm afraid. And I'm sorry I'm quite unable to help you, since that money never reached here."
"Some other small points, now I see you—if you'll be so good," Head suggested after a brief silence. "I am slightly interested—not in connection with what we have been talking about—in people by the name of Lacy. Do you know that name in this district?"
"Lacy?" Imminger frowned and shook his head. "There's someone of that name living along toward Todlington, I believe—I've heard the name mentioned. Lacy's house—no, Mrs. Lacy's house, I think—but that's all. I don't know anything about her. I live in the other direction from here, as do most of the employees of the firm."
"What are your employees like, in the main, Mr. Imminger?"
"Like? A dozen highly-skilled men, and the rest girls, semi-skilled or not at all, if that's what you mean. Rather—well, rather superior to the big-town factory hand, even the unskilled ones. In spite of our flamboyant announcement about painting the world, Mr. Head, this is and always will be a small business, because of the prices in our catalogue and foreign competition. But the Madison brush—you know it, though?"
"I use one if I need to do any painting at home," Head answered.
"Ah! And how long have you had the one brush, may I ask?"
"That's a difficult one. Nine or ten years, probably."
"Yes," Imminger remarked complacently. "What length of bristles is there left? Half the original length, or more?"
"Less," Head told him. "About a third, probably. I have only that one brush, and clean off one colour paint before using it for another."
"And I don't know if you've noticed," Imminger said, "that every other make of paint brush you may buy has a metal binding where the bristles are set on the handle, a strip of tinned metal put there as protection for the setting, and to give added strength. Which means that, by the time the bristles of that ordinary brush are worn down as far as yours are now, you have to throw it away and buy another, eh?"
"That would be so," Head agreed reflectively. "Yes, of course."
"And on your Madison brush, you can see the bristles set in that flexible, indestructible pad into which the brush handle is fitted, and though you have only one-third of the original length of bristle, the brush is as flexible as ever it was, and as good as new, in use."
"Better," Head assented. "Or else I've got used to it."
"It is better," Imminger asserted. "Any brush needs rubbing down and settling to the hand of the user—for paintwork, that is. The Madison brush, though, will retain its flexibility and actually go on improving in use until there isn't enough length of bristle left to hold paint—till it's no more than a semi-bald stub instead of a brush. But since it costs quite twice as much as a good average brush of ordinary type to produce, and therefore must be sold at twice as much, it will never be a really popular product. It's very difficult to convince the average man that you may save money by buying an article with a high original cost: he'll look at the two articles he can get, each of half that cost—and buy one of them."
"And you cannot reduce your cost?" Head asked.
Imminger shook his head. "That pad—Mr. Madison bought the secret from a man named Lewinson, and only four of us here know the actual composition to this day—that pad cannot be produced, even if we increased our output a hundredfold, at a rate that would enable us to lower our wholesale prices by more than ten per cent. Negligibly, that is."
"And Lewinson is one of the four who know the secret," Head suggested.
"He would be the fifth, if he were still alive," Imminger said. "No. Mr. Madison gave him one thousand pounds for his discovery, and with that he left the firm to go and discover other things—invent them, perhaps. Went to London. I believe he made money out of some device in connection with an electrical gramophone pick-up, and I know he sold a vibration-damping contrivance for cars at a good figure. I hadn't joined this firm when he left, so I never saw him. He came back to the district and settled somewhere the other side of Westingborough five or six years ago, retired, with a son and daughter—the daughter married someone from Birmingham, I heard, and the son is still in the district, and not much good, from what I can hear of him."
"In what way?" Head inquired.
"This way," Imminger said, and closed his lips so that they thinned to a very slender line indeed, momentarily. "I'm glad to be able to tell you about it, Mr. Head, because it may give you some more idea of the sort of man Mr. Madison was. Lewinson retired on the strength of certain investments of what he'd made out of his inventions, and among them he had a considerable holding in 'Emmies,' which he'd bought at five pounds or more. When the big slump came, and 'Emmies' fell to somewhere about ten shillings, he probably began to wish he hadn't retired. Then United Molasses dropped from—between six and eight pounds, I believe it was, though it may have been less—to about five shillings. They've recovered since, but at the time Lewinson considered himself a ruined man, and ended his son's education with public school, instead of sending him on to Oxford. Also, he went to see Mr. Madison, and reminded him that he—Lewinson—was responsible for the excellence of every Madison brush that went out from here. Madison pointed out to him that in buying the process he'd offered Lewinson either five hundred down and a royalty on every brush, or the thousand pounds for outright purchase, and Lewinson had elected to take the thousand. I don't know what you'd think of that, Mr. Head. Would you say Lewinson had any further claim after being bought out like that?"
"None whatever, legally, morally, or in any way," Head said promptly.
"Mr. Madison wrote him a cheque for another five hundred pounds," Imminger told him, "and sent it to him with a covering letter to the effect that he sent the money as a gift, and in sympathy with the man in his misfortune—although at that time, the worst of the slump, this factory was kept running at a loss. He reminded Lewinson he had bought the process honestly and at what they had agreed was a fair price, and hoped the five hundred would tide him over his lean time until his son was placed in the world and on the way to an assured position."
"And after that?" Head asked.
"After that," Imminger said, "Lewinson died, leaving the son about three hundred a year. And would you believe me, Mr. Head, that son has never done a thing from that day to this? He's now twenty-seven or eight, I happen to know, and says he's reading for the bar. Also says he ought to have twice the income he has, and without saying actually that Mr. Madison defrauded his father, so that we can sue him for slander, implies it whenever he gets the chance. A plausible young wastrel, and has managed to keep himself in Miss Madison's good graces to a certain extent, I'm sorry to say. In the knowledge that Mr. Madison meant to make her his heiress, I'm afraid, and shows her his best side."
"Interesting," Head remarked thoughtfully.
"Damnable, I call it," Imminger retorted with some heat. "Because in addition to all this, Mr. Head—in spite of slandering Mr. Madison as he has done, the young rat has come whining to him more than once, and actually wheedled money out of him! Mr. Madison had a soft spot for the son of the man who sold that secret to the firm—to him, since he was the firm—and actually gave him money!"
"That sounds bad," Head commented.
"Sounds no worse than it is," Imminger almost snorted. "Bad in principle, too. Young Lewinson is always desperately in debt, though I heard he's lucky over betting, and he will not do a thing to make himself a position of any sort. A thorough waster, with a plausible manner—capable of slandering a good man and then going to him for money!"
Head reflected over it. Percy Lewinson had gone to see Madison the day before. Had he known of that four hundred and twenty pounds—seen Madison put the notes in the drawer, perhaps? And had he then—
"But all this is nothing to do with your inquiry, Mr. Head," Imminger broke in on his reflections. "It makes me so angry when I think of it"—again he smiled faintly—"that I'm glad to be able to tell a man like you the actual truth, in case you ever hear young Lewinson insinuating that he'd be a rich man if Mr. Madison had done what he ought."
"I hope to have a word with Lewinson," Head said gently.
"I'm delighted to hear you say it! If you do get a chance to kick him, give him an extra one for me, and I'll be endlessly indebted to you. He knows better than to come near me, unfortunately."
"Common assault—fine and costs," Head reminded him.
"It'd be an uncommon assault if I got my hands on him. But that's not helping you to find this money, Mr. Head."
"Would you consider Hallam a possibility?" Head asked abruptly.
"Hallam? Good Lord, no! He's been absolutely devoted to Mr. Madison for the best part of twenty years, and he's as honest as the day. Susan too—you can rule both of them out of your inquiries, Mr. Head."
"Thanks very much for the assurance—it simplifies things for me. I think I'll get along, Mr. Imminger, with many thanks for the way you've done your best to help me. I think—yes"—he looked at his watch—"if I run back as far as the Carden Arms, Cortazzi will make ze lunch especial. I expect you know that phrase of his."
For the third time during the interview, Imminger smiled.
"Nobody's ever had a meal there without hearing it," he said.
Passing the Lacys' house on his way back to Carden, Head noted that the motor-cycle no longer leaned against the fence, nor was it anywhere in sight. Lacy, however, would keep: there was nothing, except for the colour and setting of his eyes, to call him to mind in connection with Madison's death, and almost certainly he had been in Westingborough when it had occurred. For, had he returned home at any other than his usual time, it was a hundred to one chance that Mr. Hawk would have remarked the fact and commented on it during his dissertation on Lacy and his motor-cycle. No, Lacy had not been near Madison's place at the time—but Percy Lewinson, spendthrift, heavily in debt, had been there when Madison had returned with four hundred and twenty pounds.
And Susan Allbright had not been able to tell when Lewinson had left, had not heard him go.
ALTHOUGH Inspector Head drove along the road which he now traversed on his way to Carden at least once a month as a matter of routine work, he had never found it necessary to study his surroundings with a view to connecting any or all of them with a crime of any importance, and thus, as he passed through the scattered village of Todlington—little more than a hamlet, though like other villages of the district it had supported a far larger population in the days of agricultural prosperity—he took special note of its shops and houses, anticipating possible need to identify them in his mind if any new names were mentioned in this case of Madison's death. Marks, grocer; Allday, butcher; Allbright, baker, all near the Feathers Inn. An interval of cottages, and then came Instone, newsagent and tobacconist, followed by James Ebbutt, Boots and Shoes Made to Order, Repairs Neatly Executed, Moderate Charges and Personal Attention Guaranteed. All this according to the large signboard in a garden occupied by gooseberry bushes, rhubarb leaves two rows of eschalots, and one of Michaelmas daises against the wall of the cottage, a smallish, plaster-fronted, aged-looking structure, to which the garden belonged. On its right as one faced it stood a weatherboard shed, felt-roofed, with a large window faced toward the road, and here evidently James Ebbutt repaired much footwear and probably, in these days of machine production, made little or none.
He stood in the doorway of the shed as Head drove past, a white-aproned greybeard wearing steel-framed spectacles and looking most benign and patriarchal. At least, Head concluded he was the cobbler, for obviously there was nobody else inside the shed. An apple-cheeked little old woman stood in the doorway of the cottage and eyed Head and his car as they went by. Mrs. Ebbutt, Head deduced, unless the cobbler were living in sin; her garb and attitude declared that she belonged here.
Well, Ebbutt would keep for the present, as would young Lacy and his mother: quite possibly it would be as unnecessary to interview the cobbler in connection with the case as to seek out either of the other two. Head saw his immediate programme of action as quite clear: lunch at the Carden Arms would provide an opportunity for a talk with Miss Madison—the garage, too, might yield some light on Jim Brown's habits and character; then a search, while the inquest was in progress, of Madison's house for those pound and ten shilling notes—a futile search, Head felt sure, but he dared not forgo it—and, after that, straight on to any trail Percy Lewinson might have left between, say, half-past twelve and four o'clock the preceding afternoon.
Ignoring Mr. Hawk, who stood in the doorway of the station building as if inviting more interchange of news and views, Head drove on and turned left on emerging to Carden Street, which, since the new road had been cut over Condor Hill, was merely a section of the Westingborough-Crandon-London road along both sides of which Carden straggled. He drew in beside the petrol pumps of Brown's garage, and almost instantly Harry's flaming red head appeared beside his car.
"Mornin', sir. Lovely weather. How much petrol'd you like?"
"I haven't said yet that I'd like any," Head answered friendlily. Harry's cheery haste to serve him, and with it a spice of the courtesy advertised on the signboard, made him like the man on sight.
"Quite right, sir—but you drew up alongside the pump. If it's water or air, just as 'appy to supply, an' 'ope you'll call again when you parss this way. Our job is to make you 'appy, like ourselves."
"Shell, four gallons," Head bade briefly. He switched off his engine and got out from the car while Harry, with a cheerful—"Much obliged, sir," took down the hose from the electrically driven pump and went to the back of the car to remove the tank cap and fill in the required quantity. Head followed him, and watched him at his task.
"Good old bus, this, sir," Harry observed.
"It does its work," Head admitted, "and keeps speed limits."
"Ar! They never was fast, this make, an' this'll be six—seven years old, so she's not got even the speed she had four or five years back. But wear! Big ends like a traction engine, an' light cast-iron pistons—she been rebored lately, sir—cylinders?"
"Not yet," Head answered, "and still a gallon of oil lasts two thousand miles, unless I have to do long runs without stops."
"Which means she's been drove, not made to climb trees an' play tiddleywinks with cart wheel hubs. Conspeef! A quart to five hundred mile, at seven year old! Good car, an' good driver, if you don't mind my sayin' so, sir." He replaced the petrol tank cap, went to the pump and hung up the hose, and returned. Thank you, sir—I got change in me sky, somewhere"—and he sought in the trouser pocket inside his dungarees—"an' if you was to think of changin' this for somethin' more up-to-date, a bit more speed an' not quite so many calls at the pump, say, we would be most 'appy to give you trial runs on anything you might fancy till you got sick of the sight of new radiators."
"Thank you." Head took the offered change, selected a sixpence, and returned it. "And you're quite sure you'll be here, under the same management, if I come looking for a new car in place of this?"
"Thank you, sir—wish there was more like you on the road. I get what you mean, an' p'raps you ain't the stranger to this district I thought you was, though I s'pose the news got a long way past Crandon by now. Without tellin' you 'ow I know, I'll tell you we 'opes to see Mr. Brown back 'ere in the course of a day or two—in time to take you on trial runs for that new car, any'ow."
"You are a stranger to the district yourself, I think?"
"It's them haspirates," Harry said with a hint of irritation. "Perish me if I c'n remember 'em all the time! I ham a stranger 'ere—blimey, got it dead wrong that time! Never mind. I was leadin' mechanic, sir, to the only firm of lady motor dealers what ever 'ad showrooms in Bond Street. Stella Limited, it was. An' a peach she was, too!"
"And why did you leave that post for a small place like this?"
"Mainly on account of you carn't 'ave twins an' run a motor business both at once, sir," Harry answered. "Which was what she went an' did, besides which 'er 'usband kep' 'er busy bein' 'appy—happy, I mean. Was you wantin' anything else, sir? Because Josh—he's my staff 'ere, till Mr. Brown comes back—Josh'll be back from 'is lunch in a few minutes, an' then it's me for mine. An' I'd like you to take all your courtesy an' intelligent service from me, because Josh's stock is on order an' ain't been delivered yet. Tyres well up, sir? Air's free."
"They're pumped to pressure once a week," Head assured him. "Why this excessive desire to load me with benefits."
"In case I might 'ave the pleasure o' takin' you out on them trial runs, sir," Harry confessed unblushingly. "She's seven year old, an' a gentleman like you should oughter drive a car to match."
"I see." Head almost laughed, but not quite. "What do you take me to be, then? What trade or profession, I mean?"
"Well, you ain't got the manners of a commercial, sir—they mostly save up their nice ways for when they're after orders, an' they do not 'and sixpences to blokes like me, let alone talk like you're talkin' to me. You ain't a farmer, because when them cows was drove past just now you didn't so much as turn your 'ead to look at 'em—"
"Being able to see them reflected in your window," Head interposed.
"Conspeef! I ain't the detective I thought I was," Harry lamented. "Still, if you 'ad been a farmer, you'd looked at the cows, not at the window. You ain't in the buildin' trade, by your shoe soles, an' you ain't in the Army, else it'd be a newer car, nor yet the Air Force, else it'd be a faster one. I dunno. Own land round here, maybe."
Head took a card from his pocket and held it out. Harry gave it a glance, and then transferred his gaze, straight and stern, now, to Head.
"Was it you arrested 'im?" he asked, in a changed voice.
"It was not," Head answered quickly. "I am sorry he was arrested."
"In.. spec...tor 'Ead—Head, I mean. An' me talkin' to you as if you was—" He broke off, and stared straight into Head's eyes.
"A possible buyer of a new car," Head completed for him.
Harry shook his head, "Not that," he said, rather bitterly. "Oh, 'ell! But I ain't said nuthin' that might do 'im any 'arm. Look 'ere, Inspector 'Ead! When Miss Burne got married, an' Stella Limited turned into 'ats an' frocks, I reckoned I'd never like another job like that. But I come 'ere—Mr. Brown advertised, an' chose me—I come 'ere, an' see 'im puttin' 'is 'eart into this place—Oh, blast the haspirates, any'ow!—puttin' 'is 'eart into it, an' I put mine in too. A bloke like 'im, I says to meself, is worth it—an' it was me got Josh 'ere, because 'e's straight, even if I do 'ave to keep be'ind 'im to stop 'im turnin' into a moanin' shirker. An' then you pleece goes an' arrests Mr. Brown. I ain't goin' to say 'e wouldn't 'urt a fly, because I pity the fly which 'appened to be there if 'e swiped at it, but I do say you might as well arrest me for wringin' that old swine's neck. Better, because I've 'eard 'ow 'e treated Mr. Brown's mother, an' I'd wrung 'is neck an' 'eld a thanksgivin' service for doin' it, if I'd 'ad the chance. Mr. Brown ain't no neck-wringer, an' that's my larst word, Inspector 'Ead. I will now go an' get on with me job."
"Who told you how he treated Mr. Brown's mother?" Head asked.
"Never you mind—it wasn't Mr. Brown, you bet your sweet life. Excuse me—I got work waitin', an'— Oh, 'arf a mo'." He faced about to go, but now he returned and held out the sixpence which Head had given him. "That's yours—I got no use for it, thankin' you all the same, Inspector 'Ead." Then, as Head made no move to take the coin, he dropped it on the ground. "Please yourself—an' good arfternoon," he concluded, and turned again to enter the workshop.
Drawn in between the double-doored entrance to the workshop and the pumps, Head had not seen into the adjoining shop, the window of which was screened chin-high for him by an exhibit of tyres, sparking plugs, and other accessories grouped round a motor-cycle. Now, leaving the sixpence where it lay, he went round the front of his car, and so came into view through the shop doorway—and Avril Madison, hatless and with a pen in her hand, sighted him and instantly came out.
"My chance to thank you, Mr. Head," she said. "For smoothing the way for me last night, I mean. Oh, and the superintendent's overcoat is at the Carden Arms—he lent it to me to drive back after seeing Mr. Brown. If you could be so good as to wait and take it back for him—I'm just going there for lunch. I work here now, you know."
"I know it now, Miss Madison," he answered, shaking her offered hand while Harry looked out from the workshop, his face a study in conflicting emotions. "The superintendent told me about your visit, and—if you're just going to lunch, you say, perhaps I could have a word or two a little later. I thought of lunching at the Carden Arms, too."
"Then why shouldn't we talk over it?" she suggested—with a thought that, if she could get Inspector Head to be seen lunching with her, it would indicate that the police approved her action in taking over the garage in its owner's absence, and so perhaps benefit him as far as public opinion was concerned. Harry, by the workshop door, scratched his poll thoughtfully, and did not move out of hearing.
"For one reason," Head answered, smiling at her, "your position, and mine, Miss Madison. It's very good of you to suggest such a—"
"Mr. Head," she interrupted him, "after the way in which you and the superintendent helped me last night, the real kindness of both of you, I should be the worst sort of snob if I let that reason count with me. Therefore, the manageress of Brown's garage invites you to lunch."
"Then I'll wait for the pleasure of driving you to the Carden Arms," he answered, "and I appreciate both your kindness and the motive for it."
She gave him an intent look. "Appreciate the motive?" she asked.
"Why, certainly," he assured her. "You have a fine courage."
She shook her head. "I won't be a minute getting ready," she said, and turned back into the shop.
Then Harry came out, slowly, to the pumps, and picked up the sixpence. Holding it up, he turned to Head.
"One pint, at the Grey'ound, to go with my lunch," he said. "I'm sorry I was mistook, Mister 'Ead. I will drink your 'ealth with this."
"Good luck to you," Head answered, and laughed.
Avril emerged from the shop door, hatted and ready. Head saw her seated in the car, and went round to take the wheel.
Potts, district reporter on the staff of the Westingborough Sentinel and District Recorder, cycling toward the garage in the hope of securing an interview with Miss Madison, stared so hard at sight of her being driven by Head that he ran his front wheel up against the kerb outside the grocer's shop and fell off his machine. Word had already reached him that she was managing the business of the man who had been arrested and charged with the murder of her father, and, now, by the look of things, the police had got a line on her and Head was arresting her too. Recovering himself and his cycle, Potts went on to the garage, and there dismounted to face Harry, who knew him by sight and was still waiting for Josh to finish his lunch; Josh's being ten minutes late rather spoilt Harry's courtesy and will to intelligent service.
"I—er—Miss Madison," Potts said. "I saw her just now."
"Well, I ain't accused you of bad eyesight yet," Harry retorted.
"Yes, but—it was a police car—Inspector Head driving," Potts pointed out. "I—er—there's nothing wrong, is there?"
"One 'ell of a lot," Harry assured him grimly. "With Mister Potts, though. Seein' a gentleman drivin' a lady, 'e's gone all peculiar about it. 'Ere, if you want anything, arsk for it. If you don't, 'op it. An' I'm tellin' my secretary to cancel me subscription to your rag at once—right off. Reason—I do not like your face. 'Op it' scribe!"
"I make ze lunch especial for ze lady an' you, Mister 'Ead, an' I 'ope she laik ze flowers on ze table. Eet is ze automm-m, an' so zere is not so mooch flower in ze garden. I 'ope she laik."
"Very nice indeed," Avril Madison assured him. "Beautiful."
"Ze honour is to me." He bowed at her as only men of Latin race know how to bow. "An' Mister 'Ead, some while ago I tell you of ze claret I 'ave—so good as ze Lafitte, but ze price she is not so big, an' I make it especial for you. I put ze bottle to make her not chill—yaas?"
"What do you think, Miss Madison?" Head asked the girl.
She nodded. "Not chill, certainly. Yes, Cortazzi, we will."
"I make it especial, madame," he said, and left them.
"Everything especial, apparently," she remarked. "You must be a favourite of his, Mr. Head. The best table—the flowers—"
"Merely because it pays him to keep in with the police," he assured her. "He has some merry parties here, summer week-ends, and hopes we may stretch a point if the merriment lasts beyond bar closing time."
"And evidently you do. I have been at some of those parties."
"Cortazzi is an institution," Head observed, "and his management of this place has helped Carden tradesmen a good deal. I remember it as a country inn, not too well run, instead of a good hotel."
"And now"—she spoke again after the waiter had left them—"what have you to tell me, Mr. Head, about—well, your reason for seeing me?"
"Rather," he countered, "what have you to tell me?"
"Concerning—?" she asked, without looking at him.
"Two men," he answered. "The two most concerned—so far."
"Yes—I see." She reflected over it. "First, though, the police sergeant came to the garage while I was there this morning, and told me I should have to give evidence at the inquest—at the Feathers Inn at Todlington—at three-thirty this afternoon. Must I go, Mr. Head? I know nothing, and—and Mr. Brown said I needn't."
"How do you mean—know nothing?" he asked.
"Mr. Brown met me at Westingborough station to drive me home yesterday afternoon," she explained. "I went only as far as the door—I didn't see—see what had happened to my father. Mr. Brown saw, and drove me straight back here. I didn't go inside the house—I hadn't seen my father for six weeks—I know nothing at all. Must I go?"
He reflected over it while the waiter changed plates and poured the claret. For a certainty, Wadden would see that the inquest was adjourned: until they had more evidence against Brown, or had put someone else in his place, even an inquest verdict with him as the murderer was too damaging to be admitted. And, if she had to give evidence, it could be taken at the resumed inquiry. He pushed back his chair and stood up.
"Excuse me for a minute or two over that, Miss Madison."
One-thirty already—there was none too much time. Dialling Westingborough police station from the box in the entrance lounge, he caught Wadden, returned from an early lunch and not yet started for Todlington.
"Head speaking, chief. I want you to excuse Miss Madison from appearing at the inquest to-day. Let Hallam identify the body."
"And when does your wife start divorce proceedings?" Wadden rasped.
"I'm lunching at the Carden Arms with Miss Madison—I've already got a fairly good picture of Madison, and she's going to fill in some details, I hope. I've hardly started on Brown—got a charcoal sketch, as you might call it, at the garage, and expect her to shade the picture considerably. Let her alone for to-day—you've got to make it an adjourned inquiry, and her evidence will amount to practically nothing if Payne-Garland insists on her being called later. Can you fix it?"
"Can do. Anything else? Don't be bashful—I've got a kind heart."
"Yes. See that both Hallam and Susan Allbright appear at the inquest, and hold them as long as you can. I want Madison's house to myself for a thorough search. Also, see if any of our men happened to be at the station yesterday afternoon in time to see what time Brown got there. He met the four-fifteen, but what time did he get there? If possible. And that's all, chief—I must hurry back to Miss Madison."
"Hallam and Allbright—four-fifteen station—leave it to me."
Head replaced the receiver and went back to the dining room.
"You will not be required to give evidence to-day, Miss Madison," he told her as he seated himself. "At the adjournment, possibly, and—" but there he checked himself. There would be no possibility of sparing her if Brown came up for trial, he knew.
"I'm so grateful to you," she said sincerely, "just as I am to the superintendent. And do remind me about his coat, before you go."
"I'll try to remember it." He held his glass up to the light. "And now—health and an end to your anxiety, Miss Madison."
"Thank you for the thought. And I"—she took up her glass, and her voice grew a little unsteady—"to his memory. I loved him."
She put the glass down again and smiled at him.
"The last time came here—it was one of Susan's afternoons out," she said, "and he and I walked here for dinner. An evening not long before I went away. I don't know why I can talk of it to you, but I feel I can—perhaps it was your understanding kindness last night, when I came for Jim's car—Mr. Brown's car. And as we walked back—it was a beautiful evening—he quoted some lines I love."
"Poetry appealed to him, then," Head suggested.
"Very much. Does it to you?"
"Most of it. I bar Wordsworth, no others. May I hear the lines?"
She spoke them, tremulously:
"O Evening,
For a little while draw on
Thy hood, until sun, moon and thou are gone:
A little while remember how one came
To stroke thy hair, and call thee by thy name;
A little while,
O Evening!"
"I am beginning to see him," Head said, after a silence.
"And I to see you," she reflected aloud. "Much more than a policeman, yet never forgetting that you are one. All you have done for me, every question you have asked or remark you have made—even when you asked me to quote that verse—all part of your determination to get to the truth about my father's death. Isn't that so?"
"You are convinced of Brown's innocence," he countered.
"I spent most of the morning with his account books."
"The reply is worthy of you, Miss Madison."
"Now, having gilded the pill, present it," she bade. "What is it that you want me to tell you?"
"Anything you choose about the man you went to see last night," he said frankly. "You see, since he has been arrested I cannot question him—which is why he ought not to have been arrested. Now I talk to you, your belief in him counts for a good deal with me. Will you answer one straight question about his affairs quite frankly?"
"About his affairs? You mean—yes, quite frankly, if I can."
"You say you spent a morning with his account books. In what state is the business? Flourishing, or in need of more capital?"
"Easily answered," she said, and smiled. "At the end of last month, there was a credit balance of over six hundred pounds to his banking account. This month, I see, he paid cash for a new car which he sold on the instalment system, which reduces the credit by over two hundred, but I know as well as he does that the instalments will be paid regularly, and he gets the interest on the deferred payments as well as the profit on selling the car. The business is a success. May I ask why?"
"Because I intend to turn Mr. Madison's house upside down this afternoon, while the two servants are at the inquest, with very little hope of finding over four hundred pounds in notes," Head told her. "If you like, I trust you so far as to say you may come and help me."
"Turn— Oh, yes, I see, though! Mr. Head, if that money would have saved his life, let alone his business, he would not have taken it."
"Someone else might, to save less than life," he pointed out.
"Of course I'll come and help you. The cheque for the month—yes. The money will be in a drawer of the bureau—I can show you."
"I know. The drawer was empty yesterday, when I went to telephone Superintendent Wadden about your going to Westingborough. Mind, the theft, if it were that, may not bear on your father's death at all. It may be quite a separate crime, and we must not overlook the possibility of his having secreted the money somewhere else—"
"Never!" she interrupted. "If—if you'd known him, you wouldn't think that. For years—as long as I can remember—he always laughed at the possibility of the money being taken. Always put it there."
He refilled her glass, and then his own. "Cortazzi is right," he observed. "This comes very near Lafitte. Would you call Mr. Brown a hasty-tempered man, one likely to give way to irritation?"
"Yes, I think I should," she answered thoughtfully. "Very—almost too practical. Not one to fly into a rage over anything, but—can you understand?—I think he'd remember a grievance, and hurl it back at the giver when it was least expected. Not at the time—he'd appear not in the least upset until perhaps long after. And then he'd look all round and over and under whatever it was, and repay carefully, but very thoroughly. More thoroughly because carefully. The same if anyone had been good to him. I know a certain man—Percy Lewinson—I don't mind telling you his name. It was through him that Jim sold his first car—the first after he began this business, I mean—and he gave Lewinson three-quarters of the commission instead of half, and now I see by the books he's lent him money as well. Which I know will not be repaid."
"Revealing your opinion of this Lewinson," he observed.
"I should describe him as a persistent nuisance," she said, and frowned. "Rather like—well, mistletoe, say."
"I don't quite get that," he remarked, after thinking over it.
"Don't you? If you'd loved country things as—as my father did—you would. Mistletoe lives on the sap of other trees."
"Of course! Dense of me, Miss Madison. A sweeping judgment, which is why I didn't see the analogy. I saw something quite different."
"I'd rather a mongrel dog licked my face," she declared with energy. "To put it quite plainly, I regard Percy Lewinson as a useless parasite, with two very good reasons for giving him the title."
"And Brown does not," he suggested.
"Say that he regards himself as indebted to Percy Lewinson, and you'll be nearer the truth," she advised. "Just as—I know my father has always been bitterly unjust to him, but because of me he forgave it and always would, no matter how much he resented it inwardly, or complained of it to me as he did—was it only yesterday? I seem to myself to have lived so long since then—since he met me at the station."
"And thus you assume his innocence," Head commented.
"Know it," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, Mr. Head, he's utterly incapable of—of injuring an old man, especially one I loved. They quarrelled—you know it, I expect, for I talked to Hallam on the telephone this morning, and he owned that he told the police sergeant about it. But as for Jim so much as touching him—it's utterly unthinkable, if you know Jim. No matter what the provocation might be, and Jim told me some of it when he was driving me home. Contrasted his position with mine—a poverty-stricken mechanic, my father called him—he wants to marry me, as he told me yesterday, and knowing my love for my father he'd never have set up that barrier. He's a reasoning man, a practical one, not the cowardly fool an act like that would make him. I want to convince you of what I know myself, set you working for him, not against him. Set you looking for the one who did it—" She broke off, looking at him with intent earnestness, as the waiter changed plates again.
"I am neither for nor against any man, Miss Madison," Head said when the waiter had got beyond hearing. "Look on me as part of a machine that protects people like you—and myself too—by enforcing the law under which we live. I may and do rely on instinct, intuition, if you choose to call it that—Wadden says I rely on it far too much, at times—but if I admitted bias over any individual, it would be time for me to resign. So far, I have learned enough to convince me—as I saw probable from the start—that that arrest ought not to have been made, because it robs me of one important source of information. Not for any other reason. It is not for me to believe anyone either guilty or innocent, but to get facts that will prove either guilt or innocence."
"And I've none to give you," she remarked regretfully.
"Say no more to give me, perhaps," he dissented, and smiled at her. "This has been the most profitable as well as the most pleasant time I have spent or am likely to spend on this case. I can't recall having interviewed a single witness who didn't begin to be useful by declaring he or she was quite sure there was nothing to tell me, if the point were raised. You have taken me two distinct steps along my way."
"May I know what they are?" she asked.
"One of them. The state of Brown's banking account indicates that I need not investigate it to find out whether he emptied that bureau drawer—though if anyone but you had supplied the information, I should have gone to his bank to check it. Miss Madison, if you had the slightest doubt—the very slightest!—of his innocence, would you attempt to save him from the consequences of what he had done?"
"I would not," she answered. "For if I did try, and succeeded, I might be directing suspicion at someone entirely innocent."
"I wonder how many women would think of that," he observed pensively. "Now—coffee? You'd like some, wouldn't you?"
"I'd rather not, thank you. And—you are lunching with me."
"Oh, no!" he dissented. "I couldn't allow it. For your private ear, we are lunching at the expense of the county. You say you'll come along while I make my search for those missing notes, so—do you mind if I don't drive you there? I have pressmen in mind, and one of them has already seen me driving you here from the garage."
"I'll drive myself there," she promised. "Three-thirty, say?"
"Yes, or a few minutes after. I'm very grateful to you for all the help you're giving me, Miss Madison. No, waiter, no coffee, thank you. Just bring me the bill, and add on a three-minute call to Westingborough!"
"Mr. Head? Oh, Mr. Head!"
Braking to a standstill outside Carden station in response to the call, Head saw the stationmaster come running to impart some piece of news. He was in no hurry to get to Madison's house: the inquest would not have been opened, yet, and he wanted the two servants out of the way before appearing there to begin his search.
"It's"—Mr. Hawk laid his hand on the edge of the car door, and spoke rather breathlessly—"Bugg of Gunwell."
"Bugg of Gunwell—yes?" Head encouraged him.
"Gunwell bein' under my charge, as well as Woodney Halt the Westingborough side, as probably you know, Mr. Head. To-day is my day for goin' there to collect the precious little takin's from the booking office till, for trarnsmission to Westingborough, an' Bugg is as you might say a noticin' sort of man. If ever the company should recognise my abilities, I should recommend him to be promoted here. Not that I've much hope since they offered me Crandon an' the wife wouldn't hear of livin' in quarters where every express makes the floors darnce an' shakes the clock off the mantelpiece, small blame to her. But I went to Gunwell by the one-ten and only just got back, and seeing you goin' along to the inquest in your car"—Head refrained from contradiction as to his destination—"I thought I ought to tell you what Bugg said."
"Very good indeed of you, Mr. Hawk," Head assured him, unhopefully.
"Not a tall, Mr. Head. Not a tall. You see, Gunwell being only five mile from here—in fact, quite as many passengers for Todlington go on and get off there, though as you can see by that board, 'Carden for Todlington,' they should get off here—coming from Westingborough, I mean—well, the news of yesterday's gharstly tragedy is all over Gunwell, which makes Bugg keep his eyes open more'n ever."
"Most creditable on Bugg's part," said Head, and, not too ostentatiously, reached out and wound the clock on his dash-board.
"Bugg—I think your clock's a bit on the fast side, Mr. Head. Yes, it is"—he consulted his own watch—"two minutes fast by my time, which I took off the wireless last night, though I'm afraid this watch of mine is beginnin' to want cleaning. It stopped about nine this morning, and I had to put it on again by the station clock, which is generally only a minute or two either fast or slow—temperature affects—"
"About this Bugg, now," Head interrupted, gently but firmly.
"Oh, yes! Sorry if I'm keepin' you, Mr. Head. But Bugg told me there was a dark, mysterious-lookin' stranger, a tall man with a soft black felt hat an' a fawn raincoat over his arm—or it might be a waterproof, Bugg said—Oh, yes, an' a black sort of suitcase, leather it was—got off the nine-fifteen down this morning at his station, an' walked out without a word. Utter stranger, Bugg said, but he didn't arsk his way nor anything—just handed over his ticket—single from Westingborough it was—and walked out without a word."
"And what do you deduce from that?" Head inquired.
"Well, I—er—I thought I'd better pass the information on to you, Mr. Head, with this murder only happened yesterday afternoon."
"Do you think, then, that by travelling from Westingborough to Gunwell this morning, the mysterious stranger could have committed it?"
"Well, no," Mr. Hawk admitted sheepishly. "Besides"—brightening—"you got the man inside that committed it, ain't you? But when dark mysterious strangers get about, givin' no hint of what they're about nor speaking to nobody—well, you can draw conclusions, can't you?"
"I mustn't be late," Head said, without answering the question. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Hawk. I'll let you know if it leads to anything at all."
He engaged gear and drove on.
WITH a final glance round the room to assure himself that all Hallam's belongings were in place, and that no trace remained of the thorough overhaul to which they had been subjected, Head went out, closing the door of the room after him, and descended the back stairs of the house to emerge to the corridor opposite the kitchen door. Avril Madison, standing by the stove at the far side of the room, turned as she heard his footfalls and nodded at him.
"Just about to boil," she remarked. "That was why I left you to finish on your own. You would like a cup before you go, wouldn't you?"
"Loading me with benefits," he answered. "It's very good of you. May we have it in here, to save carrying things about?"
"Picnic tea—of course, if you don't mind. Wait—it boils!"
She filled the teapot, and put it on top of the stove.
"Now if you'll tell me where to find things, I'll lend a hand," he offered. "I often make it by myself, at home."
"Yes, but you know where things are, there— Oh, I forgot, though! Why should I tell you where to find things, after what I've seen you do with them? You know where everything is, now."
Already she herself had got cups down and on the tray set ready as she spoke. Head procured white metal spoons from a drawer.
"I ought to have said, tell me what to get out," he amended. "Cake tin? Not for me—I had too good a lunch, and the fluid is all I'd like for this present. And a cigarette. Will you have one?"
"Thank you. I too don't wish to eat." She took a cigarette and a light. "Now—strong, or weak? Do I let it stand longer?"
"Not for me. Perhaps you like it strong, though."
"Abominate it. Did you ever stay at a hotel where the tea wasn't too strong, and you got enough hot water with it?"
"Not yet," he admitted, "and I've stayed at a few. I keep hoping."
"If you realise the hope, let me have the name of the hotel. Cortazzi is no exception to the rule, I find." She poured two cups and indicated the milk and sugar on the tray. "Will you secure your own accessories, Mr. Head? And I'm still lost in wonder at you."
"Because I don't like strong tea?" he inquired.
She shook her head. "I didn't see what you did in Susan's or Hallam's room, but the rest of the house. I'd never have believed one man could do so much in so short a time, miss nothing at all and yet seem to fly over the rooms. It was an absolute miracle, and the more I think of it the more I wonder how on earth you do it."
"Long training, say," he explained. "And those notes are not in the house—unless they're under some floorboard or other."
"I assure you neither Hallam nor Susan would hide them."
"I didn't expect to find them here, as a matter of fact," he confessed, "but had to make certain they were not here, as nearly as I could. This is very good tea, Miss Madison. Ah! Who's that, now?"
For a bell rang sharply near his ear. Avril looked up at the indicators as he moved toward the kitchen door and swung it wide.
"Front door," she said. "Hallam and Susan both have keys."
"I'll go," he said. "Hawker won't answer it, if I don't."
He went along the corridor and through to the entrance hall, where Constable Hawker, Wadden's man of weight, stood regarding the closed front door curiously—Plender had sent the man to guard the house and see that nothing in it was removed until Wadden gave permission.
"Quite right, Hawker," Head observed. "Take no notice of callers."
Then he went to the door and opened it. On the step stood a tall, dark man wearing a soft black felt hat, with a rainproof slung over his arm and a black case pendent from his hand.
"I have called, sir," he said rapidly before Head could begin, "in the certainty that you will be interested in the Encyclopædia of Agriculture, Horticulture, and Allied Pursuits, six handsome volumes which will be delivered to you here on receipt of an almost microscopical initial payment, and if you are in any way dissatisfied with the work, you have only to return it carriage forward and the first payment will be instantly refunded, but I am absolutely certain you will be so pleased with this magnificent compendium that you will thank me—"
"I will, for letting me get a word in," Head interrupted to assure him. "I am a police officer, and the proprietor of this house is dead. I am investigating the circumstances of his death."
The canvasser's jaw dropped wide as he stared, and took in the full meaning of the interruption. Then with—"Oh, my God!" he faced about and went away so rapidly that his thin legs appeared to be twinkling. Head closed the door and went back to the kitchen.
"A canvasser, Miss Madison," he said. "A mysterious stranger in a soft tall hat—no, a soft stranger... a tall stranger in a—well, never mind. I was trying to quote Mr. Hawk the stationmaster. No, thank you, I won't have another cup. I want to get away before Hallam and Susan get back, and that search has taken some time—longer than I hoped. So if you'll excuse me now, and accept my thanks for everything I'll follow along the lines indicated by the absence of those notes."
"You mean—?" she asked, and left it at that.
"Nothing definite, yet," he said. "The moment I have any news that may interest you, I promise to let you know. Good-bye, Miss Madison."
Again Harry came out from the workshop as Head drew in alongside Brown's garage and got out from the car. He pointed at the spare wheel.
"Punctured, on the way from Todlington," he said. "If you could—"
"At once, sir. Oh, Josh?" Harry turned and called into the dimness of the workshop. "Carm outer that penny dreadful an' get the tyre levers. Puncture 'ere." Already he was at the running board getting the wheel down. Glad you stopped again, sir—I wanted a word with you."
Josh emerged, and Harry took the wheel down from its rests and trundled it at him. "Make it slippy, now," he urged. "Gentleman ain't got all the arfternoon to waste. An' I see you changed the wheels yourself, Mr. 'Ead. If you'll come along with me—our bathroom ain't exactly marble-panelled, in fact it ain't no more'n a scrub-'ole, but you'll like to wear the family nail-brush down a bit, I guess."
"Very good of you," Head assented, and followed to a lavatory at the back, where Harry pointed out towel and soap and a tin of grease-removing composition, and left him. When he emerged, Josh was already cleaning a section of the inner tube for solutioning.
Harry held up a three-inch wire nail for inspection.
"I'd like to advertise for the bloke what lost it," he remarked, "but I ain't tellin' you what I'd do to him if he come to claim it, because the first offenders' ack wouldn't clear me. D'you mind comin' outside while that melancholy bean-pole there gets on with the job, Mr. 'Ead?" He moved toward the doorway as he spoke.
Head followed him out. "What is it?" he asked, outside the doorway.
"Miss Madison changed me mind about you," Harry confessed frankly, "an' I apologise about that sixpence, which is now in the Grey'ound till. An' I draws me own conclusions—about Mr. Brown bein' jugged so swift. You might of made a mistake for once—ain't that so?"
"I have only just begun investigating the case," Head said.
"Preecisely, Mr. 'Ead. I ain't arskin' you to give anything away to me, nor to nobody—I 'ad a cousin in the pleece, an' larst I see of 'im 'e'd got the traffic in one 'ell of a mess down at the Elephant, which is a bad crossin' any'ow. But I thought a bit—whatever 'appened 'appened yesterday arfternoon, didn't it, now?"
"And you said you were not asking me to give anything away," Head reminded him, gazing back into the workshop where Josh laboured.
"All right, Mr. 'Ead," Harry said, and smiled as he took a cigarette from behind his ear and a box of matches from his dungarees' pocket. "I arsks no more. But whatever 'appened, 'appened at a 'ouse a bit of a way parst the brush factory. I 'ave captured the affections of a tasty bird at Todlington, an' me an' 'er sometimes views the moon together—on that 'ead I will say no more. But what I meantersay, I know the ins an' outs of Todlington, specially the in of the Feathers, which is a inn, too—an' I ain't bein' funny, neither. What I meantersay, Mr. 'Ead, there's an ancient joker with a long white beard—shoemaker, 'e is, name of Ebbutt. I dunno if you know 'im, by any chance?"
"I've seen him," Head admitted. "Saw him to-day, in fact."
"Ar! Two 'arf pints is 'is limit, every night in the Feathers, Mr. 'Ead, an' as far as gossip goes 'e's the leakiest tank that ever filled up on 'is neighbours' business. Maybe Mr. Brown wasn't the only man what 'appened along that way yesterday afternoon—arsk old Ebbutt, an' 'e'll know. Maybe somebody got a big enough grouch on old Madison to snuff 'im out—if old Ebbutt don't know all about it, I'll sign the pledge, an' I carn't say fairer'n that. What I meantersay, there ain't a thing 'appened in Todlington—nor yet in Carden nor yet in Gunwell, but what old Ebbutt got it all taped, for the larst forty year."
"I had him in mind, already," Head owned, with a thought that his original reason for interviewing Ebbutt had almost disappeared, in view of the direction in which the case appeared to be leading him.
"Ain't 'ad a talk to 'im, though, I reckon?" Harry suggested.
"Not yet," Head admitted, thoughtfully.
"Well, you'll find 'im a complete newspaper, an' a cyclopædia, an' a atlas of the district, an' a damned old scandalmonger, all rolled into one," Harry declared with conviction. "I thought I'd just tell you, now you stopped 'ere again an' give me the chance."
"That's very good of you," Head told him.
"Ain't it?" Harry observed, with a hint of irony. "I want Mr. Brown back 'ere, an' the sooner you gets on the tail of the bloke what did it, the sooner I'll 'ave 'im back, which is why. Josh?" He directed the last word inside the workshop. "You ain't repaintin' that wheel in there, are you? Or 'ave you gold-plated the spokes?"
The thuttering of an electrically driven air-pump answered him.
"All right, Mr. 'Ead," he said complacently. "'E's got the cover back on. Our Josh ain't too bad, though I never met anyone like 'im for moanin' and lookin' on the dark side. I like a bit o' joy, I do."
He reflected over it, while the air pump did its work on the tyre.
"Specially when its mother don't know it's out with me," he added.
"Yes. Oh, yes!" Having listened to Head's recital of his day's adventures, Superintendent Wadden leaned back in his chair and looked at the far wall of the room. "And you deduce, apparently, that Brown did not choke the life out of old Madison and tumble him downstairs?"
"I didn't say anything of the sort," Head dissented. "I have been in touch with two people, Miss Madison and that red-headed man at the garage—I didn't ask his name, I remember, but it's Harry something-or-other—who appear absolutely convinced of the man's innocence and want to convince me. They haven't succeeded, though."
"Miss Madison is in love with him?" Wadden questioned.
"I'm not sure. I'd say not, on the whole—too much grieved over her father's death to think of love for a man, at present. And yet—a very unusual character, chief, that girl—intensely eager that Brown shall not suffer for what she believes he did not do. Won't spare herself in any way—tried to work on my emotional side, and succeeded far more than anyone else has done since Nell succeeded without trying. A clever girl, but admirably clever, not the other sort."
"Yes, I fell for her, too," Wadden reflected. "She's dead sure Brown didn't do it, and of course that's had its effect on you. But don't forget—you weren't at the inquest, of course—don't forget that quarrel of his with Madison is absolutely damning if Crown counsel gets to working it up. Payne-Garland—but let's finish your bag of trouble first. This chap Harry, now. Is he convinced Brown is innocent, or merely afraid of losing his job if his boss doesn't get off?"
"Certain of it," Head declared, remembering the incident of the sixpence. "Anxious to make me certain of it, too. I liked Harry."
"Umm-m! Head, in a place like this, it ought not to be so difficult to find what became of four hundred and ten currency notes."
"No? With the man holding them knowing he may be accused of having murdered Madison? Accused of it, whether Brown is guilty or no, if the notes are traced to him. I'd say it's going to be extremely difficult, unless Brown is sent for trial and the guilty man gets careless in the belief that his theft of the notes is not known. I warned Miss Madison to say nothing about them, and Imminger won't talk, I feel sure. Also I told Miss Madison to weigh in the equivalent amount to Imminger to-morrow as if nothing had happened, and she said she would."
"What d'you make of him?" Wadden asked after a thoughtful pause.
"As a suspect, I rule him out entirely," Head said. "Absolutely straight, and absolutely frank. No more use as far as the case goes."
"This young Lacy—you'll follow him up now?"
"When I'd learned he lived at Todlington, chief, I put a call through to the bank, and Hagger told me Lacy was behind the counter all the hours the bank was open yesterday, and didn't leave till five-thirty. I'm going to look into his history and activities if other lines fail me, naturally, but at present I don't see how he could have got hold of the notes or scragged Madison. And as cause of a crime, we've got to regard those notes as very secondary to the murder of Madison, I think. If Brown should prove to be innocent, every day we fail to find the real murderer is a blot in our copy-book. Not but what I shall keep an eye lifting for those notes, especially when I go after this Percy Lewinson."
"Leofwinsson—it was Wells told me about that bit of snobbery, a good while ago. Wells went to a lecture in the corn hall about discoveries in these parts bearing on the history of the district, and there was a bit of a discussion afterward. This Percy Lewinson got up and spilled about tracing his family back to Leofwin, one of the earls of Mercia before big Bill from Normandy broke up the old aristocracy."
"And by all I've heard to-day, Leofwin would ache to kick him in the pants if he could get near enough," Head remarked. "An idle rotter who went whining to Madison and had enough of a plausible manner to get money out of the old man—that's Imminger. A parasitic nuisance who borrowed money from Brown—that's Miss Madison, and on an accidental implication of mine that Lewinson might have tried to kiss her, she looked utterly disgusted and said she'd prefer her face licked by a mongrel dog. He does not smell sweet, to me, chief."
"Nor to me, on that. After the heiress's money, for a certainty. Now for some information you want, Head. Bragg was on duty yesterday afternoon and covered the area including the railway station. He does not know Brown by sight, but recognised the description of the car. He does know Lewinson by sight. Brown drove hell-for-leather into the station yard no later than five minutes past four, and maybe a bit earlier. Fourish, say. Lewinson came out of the booking hall in time to speak to Brown just within hearing of Bragg, and Brown said something about a wash and went inside—and Bragg said his hands were filthy with grease and muck, and he needed that wash. On what you say now, I suggest that Lewinson had come to the station to welcome Miss Madison home and so keep in her good graces, but as soon as he saw Brown, whom he couldn't afford to offend, he left the field to Brown—"
"Or did he know Brown would be able to identify him as having been there at that time—alibi over the murder of Madison?" Head interposed.
"Worth bearing in mind—yes," Wadden admitted, "and in that case Lewinson has got those notes hidden till after Brown has been hanged for the murder. He went off before the four-fifteen came in—this is Bragg's report—and got on a twin-cylinder motor-cycle outside the station yard, and rode off—Bragg didn't see where. But mark the wisdom of training men to observe, Head. A twin-cylinder motor-cycle! Not many of them about, except with sidecars attached. Six or eight horse-power, a V-twin, Bragg says, and that sort of machine ridden solo can tear the earth up. Lewinson could have got from Todlington to Westingborough station in fifteen minutes or less, if he let that thing out."
"Brown was going all out too, you say."
"He was—to get cleaned up in time to shake hands with Miss Madison, which he couldn't till after a wash," Wadden assented. "But even with that car he couldn't make as good time as Lewinson's motor-cycle, which means that Lewinson may—I don't say he did, but may have gone to Madison's house after Brown left it, to get those notes and scrag Madison for catching him at it, and still get to Westingborough station ahead of Brown. Brown's hands seem to point to car trouble of some sort on the way—changing a wheel, engine trouble—anything."
"Otherwise," Head agreed thoughtfully, "he'd have washed them before starting out to meet Miss Madison—yes. Not at the station."
"Bragg's report ends with the train coming in practically on time, Brown tipping the porter for putting Miss Madison's baggage in the back of his car, and then driving off with her toward London Road."
"Useful, all this, chief—I'll get after Percy Lewinson first thing in the morning. Not tonight—I want to digest all I've swallowed to-day, and if Lewinson leaves the place that virtually makes a case against him. Planting the notes elsewhere, I mean. I've got all I can, I think, concerning Brown."
"And whaddye make of him?" Wadden asked.
"Doubtful—still doubtful," Head admitted. "He might have done it, but not for the sake of the notes. That's one possible motive gone, but the stronger one, Madison's neglect of Brown's mother and what Imminger described as his venomous tongue, still remains. Yes, doubtful."
"Lies between the two of 'em' eh?" Wadden suggested reflectively.
"And twenty or thirty other people, identities as yet undetermined, who may have gone in and out of that open doorway between Brown's leaving it open and the moment when Madison died," Head observed. "Now, chief, the inquest. You haven't told me a thing about it, yet."
"Why should I? You know a damned sight more than was said there. Payne-Garland snorted some over adjourning it, snorted some more when I told him it was no use calling Miss Madison, because she wouldn't be there, and literally tore Plender to pieces when the good sergeant told how he'd made the arrest. Oh, and that man Hallam! The poor old chap nearly broke down while he was giving evidence, and the woman Allbright wept aloud. Madison knew how to make his people fond of him, it appears. I knew you wouldn't want anything said about the notes, so beyond Hallam's testifying that Madison drove himself to Westingborough and back in the morning, nothing was said about his visit to the bank. We took Brown over in custody, but Payne-Garland adjourned without any sign of calling him. Barham was there to represent Miss Madison, but as she wasn't called he'll charge up the time for doing nothing at all."
"And is that all, chief?"
"Ask me some more before you start after Lewinson in the morning. You'll have shaped your views on things a bit more by then, and I may be able to think of some more to tell you. D'you know what I suddenly remembered, Head?"
"It's not my day for thought-reading, chief."
"About how we used to go across the road for one at the end of the day, when Nell was there, and never go in the Duke of York now. I wonder—she'll never come back here, though."
"No," Head agreed. "But there'll be a fire alight in that little back parlour of the Black Lion, which is on your way home—"
"Half a minute while I get my hat," Wadden interrupted. "Here, though, what about the coat I lent Miss Madison?"
"Clean forgot it, chief—and she asked me to remind her to give it me, too. Never mind—I'll be over there again to-morrow or the next day, probably, and fetch it then. Tie a knot in my handkerchief."
"Tie it in your—yes, Wells?" to the sergeant in the doorway. "I was just starting for home—what is it?"
"Miss Madison would like to see you for a minute, sir."
"All right." Wadden put his uniform cap back on its peg. "Show her in here."
Presently she entered, with Wadden's coat over her arm.
"I've brought it back, superintendent"—she smiled and nodded at Head as she spoke—"because both Mr. Head and I forgot it, and I know you may want it. And—and could I see Mr. Brown for just five minutes, please?"
"You run along and wait for me where you said, Head," Wadden adjured. "I won't be more than a quarter of an hour behind you—probably."
AT a little before nine o'clock on Friday morning Constable Bragg, stolidly patrolling along Market Street from the London Road end toward Maggs Lane, saluted Inspector Head respectfully, and halted rather trepidantly at a gesture from his superior. Head noted his expression, and smiled as he too halted to face the man.
"No, you're not for a wigging this time, Bragg," he remarked. "I want all you know about young Lewinson—not your seeing him at the station on Wednesday afternoon, because I got all that from the superintendent yesterday evening, but I understand you know the man. What is he like, what does he do, and where does he live? All you can tell me."
"Well, sir, to take the last first, he's got a flat—two rooms, I think, in the building just ahead of you the way you're going—the one where Mr. Denham the architect has his office. Mr. Lewinson is on the next floor or next but one up, you'll find. As to what he does, I'd say somewhere about nothing. He's got an income, I believe. Bets a bit, and is pretty lucky, I have heard—that is, I've heard it said as far as the big races go, if you follow him you can't go far wrong. Not that I go in for that sort of thing myself, except me and the missus generally have a go at the Derby, like most people. But he don't work, if that's what you mean, sir. Got a big V-twin motor-cycle, and speeds a bit on it."
"Girls?" Head asked, and let the one word stand alone.
"All sorts, sir," Bragg confirmed his surmise, and shook his head. "That new barmaid at the Duke of York—Fanny, her name is. He hangs about in the long bar there and takes her out for her time off, lately. Then he runs over to Carden a lot—they say he's after what money old Mr. Madison was likely to leave Miss Madison. Lots of others. Farmers' daughters, Quade the trainer's wife—she's a bit of a highflyer, sir, as I expect you've heard, and it was said Quade warned him off from hanging round his place for other things beside stable information. I don't know if there's any truth in it, only that he's not been seen about with Mrs. Quade when she comes into the town for an afternoon, not lately, though he used to go to teashops with her quite a lot. Oh, any amount of girls and women—got all his time on his hands, you see."
"I don't think I like Percy Lewinson overmuch, Bragg," Head observed, and looked at his wrist watch to check it with the clock over Parham's garage archway, just then telling all Market Street that it was nine o'clock. "Now describe the man, as nearly as you can."
"Always wears a soft black felt hat with a rather wide brim, sir, and he's got straight, yellowish hair, and fairly prominent brown eyes which with that colour hair make him unmistakable—"
"I know him, Bragg," Head interrupted. "I've seen him about the town quite a lot, and you needn't describe any more. It was only that I'd never had need to investigate him, and so didn't connect the man with his name. Now, if you see him about, he's worth watching. A report on the people he makes contact with—don't go to any special trouble over him, but put in your day's report anything you see about him until either the superintendent or I countermand that instruction."
"I understand, sir. Anything I see or hear, goes down."
"Thank you, Bragg. You needn't include in your report that I'm on my way to call on Mr. Lewinson now, because I already know it."
He went on to within fifty yards or less of the corner of London Road, and entered a big, four-storeyed, red-brick building to ascend a wide stone stairway that took him past Hugh Denham's brass-plated office door on the first floor, and up to the second and then the third, where, at the end of a bare, flagged corridor, he found a door bearing another brass plate, about the size of a lady's visiting card, engraved in copperplate script—"Mr. Percy Lewinson," and under the actual name, in small block capitals enclosed in brackets—"Leofwinsson." Smiling, Head put his thumb on the bell-push beside the door.
Opened within a few seconds, the door revealed Mrs. Flather, an elderly charwoman who, in Nell Cummins' time as manageress of the Duke of York, had been chambermaid there until she grew too fond of the bottles behind the bar, and now subsisted on casual employment.
"Morning, Mrs. Flather," said Head. "I want to see Mr. Lewinson."
"Sorry, Mr. Head—he's gone to London to-day."
"Has he got a telephone in here?" Head demanded instantly, and reviled himself inwardly for not setting a watch on Lewinson the night before. "First, though—do you know if he's gone by train, or on his motor-cycle?"
"By train, Mr. Head, but—but what—?"
For, waiting for no permission, Head advanced on her, and she had to draw back into the tiny corridor of the flat or be pushed aside. Ignoring her altogether, he went to the two doorways, opposite each other half-way along the corridor and both open, and saw that Lewinson's bedroom was on the left and a microphone telephone instrument stood on a small bedside table pushed back from the unmade bed. He lifted the receiver and dialled trunks. Past nine o'clock, but he might yet catch his cousin, Detective-Inspector Byrne of the London force, unless Byrne were out on some case that prevented his making the usual morning call at his office. Prior association gave Head knowledge of his cousin's habits, and he waited impatiently, for every moment diminished his chance of retrieving last night's omission without making an official business of it. Byrne would see him through, he felt sure, if in his office when the call came through to him. Otherwise, there would be formalities of all sorts to be faced.
He gave Lewinson's number from the dial, and the number he wanted, and then shouted for Mrs. Flather, who already stood just outside the doorway, listening, by the rapidity of her entry.
"Do you know what train Mr. Lewinson caught?" he asked her, and before she could reply, spoke to the operator—"No, I'm not going to replace the receiver and wait to be called—this is police, and urgent at that. Clear me a line to London and get that number at once. Now, Mrs. Flather, what train did Mr. Lewinson catch this morning?"
"I dunno, sir. He left here about twenty minutes ago—"
"Right. Now stop what you're doing here, go along to the police station at once, and tell them I want Jeffries to turn my car out"—it was the first errand that came to his mind, to get rid of her while he talked—if possible—to Byrne—"all ready for me. Don't wait a second for anything—go at once—Hullo! Inspector Byrne in?"
Mrs. Flather's footfalls clacked out to the corridor as the voice at the other end asked who was speaking, and less than thirty seconds later, to his intense relief, Head heard Byrne's solemn tones.
"Detective-inspector Byrne speaking. Is that you, Jerry?"
"It is, Terry. Look here, I'm rather in a hole through my own neglect, and want your help to get me out of it."
"What is it, old son? Somebody been thieving from a wurzel-clamp?"
"You ought to know all farm labourers are honest, Terry. No—I expect you've seen something about the murder of an old chap named Madison, who owns a brush factory near here?"
"Have I not! Jerry, when are you going to quench that thirst for berlud round your part of the world, and keep Westingborough out of the news? It's getting monotonous, and every time you have to come to me to solve the mystery for you—or next to it, anyhow. What's the trouble this time? I thought you'd got your man inside?"
"One man, Terry. Another got away this morning by the eight-fifty-eight express to London, and if he gets clear I'm so deep in the soup that you'd have to fish for me with a scaffold pole. Terry, find me a man to meet that train and keep track of Mr. Percy Lewinson. Else, I'll have to make application through the usual channels, and by the time I get sanction that train will be gone to the sheds for cleaning and Lewinson may be on a Continental express from Victoria."
"Uh-huh! Eight-fifty-eight—gets in what time, do you know?"
"Twelvish—you'll have time to get a man to the terminus to meet it, if you can fix this for me. Take the description?"
"All right, for this once, seeing as how we both suffered from the same grandfather. Percy Lewinson, you said. Palestine?"
"Percy Lewinson. Five feet eleven or six, between twenty-five and thirty, by his looks. Will be well-dressed, and wearing a soft black felt hat, rather wide-brimmed, almost certainly. This is on the assumption that he does not attempt to disguise himself. Clean-shaven, and—mark this, Terry, for it identifies him in spite of any possible disguise—rather prominent brown eyes with black brows and long lashes, and straight, silky, yellowish hair—on the pale side of golden, with a faint trace of mud in it."
"And supposing he's dyed the hair?" Byrne asked.
"How long are you going to be in your office?" Head asked in reply.
"Ten minutes—quarter of an hour. I shall have to find a tracker for you and give him his instructions—dern your eyes, Jerry!—as well as getting through my own office graft before I go out."
"Very well, then. If he has dyed his hair, or I have anything to add or alter in that description, I'll ring you again in ten minutes."
"Can do, Jerry. You don't want him arrested, I hope?"
"No, unless he attempts to leave London in any direction but returning here. In that case—continental or coastwise, especially, detain him and I'll come along with the warrant. Otherwise, merely follow, and I want to know wherever he goes, whom he contacts—everything, until tonight. Or this afternoon, if your man reports earlier—I shall come up by the next express, which will bring me in at three-ten, and ring you as soon as the train arrives. Leave me a message if you're out."
"Three-ten, eh? I'll probably look in for tea. Nobody's been kind enough to do in a brush-factory owner at this end, so I'm sitting pretty and waiting for a smash-and-grab or another fire-insurance stunt."
"Good man, Terry. I'll ring again if the description needs altering, but I've not much fear of that. He's not a habitual criminal."
"Not more than fifty-per-cent of murderers are. All right, Jerry—leave it to me, and you'll buy the drinks when we meet. So long."
Head hung up, and gazed round the untidy bedroom. Short of chartering a gyroscopic plane and alighting somewhere near Euston, he knew, he had no means of being at the other end himself in time to meet that train. And, with time to spare before catching the next express, he could make a search of Percy Lewinson's rooms—a quite unauthorised search, but he had no intention of applying for a warrant. It was a fifty-fifty chance that Lewinson would return here in custody: if he did not, Head was prepared to face the consequences of searching the rooms without waiting to get a search-warrant, engaged as he was on a murder case and with little more than two hours in hand before catching his train. But, first, Mrs. Flather and what she might reveal—
Her clattering footfalls, and noisy breathing after the ascent of the staircase, interrupted that reflection. Head went out into the corridor and saw her standing with her hand pressed over her heart—or where, with only elementary knowledge of anatomy, she erroneously believed her heart was situated. She gave him a reproachful look.
"Which it's 'ard on me, at my time o' life, Mr. Head," she said sorrowfully and rather gaspingly. "Me 'eart ain't what it useter be. I told 'em, an' they said all right. It was the sergint I—"
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Flather." He produced a sixpence, and as she took it, releasing her hold on her amplitude for the purpose, her breathing grew quite normal. "Now tell me—did you see Mr. Lewinson leave to catch the train this morning?"
"I did, Mr. Head. I gets here quarter past eight every mornin', an' cooks his breakfast an' cleans up the kitchen while he's havin' of it, because generly he's in his dressin' gownd an' want to come in here to dress after breakfast, so it ain't no use cleanin' up this room—"
"I see. And I expect he was in a hurry this morning. Hair all untidy and all that sort of thing, when he went off?"
"Oh, no, sir. He was most petickler. Lovely soft yeller hair he got, just like my Edie what died, only I thought 's'mornin' it wasn't quite so flossy as Edie's useter be—but then, Mr. Lewinson's a man, an' she wasn't. There is a difference between the sects' hair, ain't there, Mr. Head? But I thought 'ow well his looked under that black 'at which he always wear—it suit him, that 'at. But black always look well, which is why I wear it for best meself, though at my age—"
"Yes—well, Mrs. Flather, I've got to look over these rooms for something Mr. Lewinson may have forgotten, and I've none too much time."
"I see, Mr. Head. Did he call the pleece in about it, then?"
"Well, he didn't exactly call us in," he said, with an air of mystery. "You understand, I know, Mrs. Flather, and I'm quite sure he'd be very displeased if it got about that I'd even as much as asked you anything about him, let alone had to search for this missing article. In fact, I may tell you in strict confidence that it will pay you best to say nothing to anyone about my having been here at all."
"You leave it to me, Mr. Head," and she achieved a ponderous wink. "Wild elephants, let alone hosses, shan't drag a word outer me."
"I knew I could trust you to keep Mr. Lewinson's affairs to yourself," he told her, with every appearance of friendly gratitude. Now, as I've very little time to spare, I'll get on with what I have to do, and you can carry on with your work just as if I were not here."
"Right you are, Mr. Head. I'll finish in the lounge-dinin'-room."
"Why, how many rooms are there, then?" he asked, rather surprised.
"Only that an' the bedroom, 'ceptin' of the kitchen an' the bathroom," she answered. "He will have me call it that, though."
"He would," Head remarked gravely. "All right—you finish there, and I'll just have a look round the bedroom, as a beginning."
He returned there to begin his search. The room was rather tawdrily furnished with an old-fashioned satin walnut suite of poor quality, and an armchair with sagging seat and stained cord fabric upholstery by the gas-stove-filled fireplace. Over a dozen unframed portraits of girls and women occupied the mantel, all signed—"Love from—" " Sincerely yours—" "In happy remembrance from—" or some equally revealing phrase. The top drawer of the dressing-table yielded a pile of nauseous postcards of the type which involved instant prosecution of any detected trafficker, and a portrait of a woman of which Head took possession, since he recognised the original and knew that, if any copy came to her husband's knowledge, Westingborough would rejoice in another meaty scandal. At the back of the drawer was a pile of account statements headed "Arthur Kidham, Commission Agent," whom Head knew as the town's only credit bookmakers. He spared a few minutes to study the statements, and found them rather illuminating.
Each covered a part of a week, usually in consecutive days. Lewinson had started each week with a "to win" bet of five shillings, and had doubled his stake until he won—except for one week early in the year, when he had won ten shillings with the first bet. In every case the odds were small, and one week, Head noted, he had had to double up to thirty-two pounds before winning at three to two. Each statement showed two bets and no more for each day that Lewinson had done business with Kidham, and each ended with a win at small odds—three to one, with the bet at two pounds, was the longest odds.
And the statement for the week preceding this was not there, although to-day was Friday, and that statement would have been rendered unless Lewinson had given up betting. Since all the preceding weeks of the flat-racing season were covered, Head did not think abandonment of what was obviously a system was probable.
Supposing Lewinson had been unlucky, the ultimate destination of four hundred and ten pounds in pound and ten shilling notes was fairly obvious—unless, of course, those notes were now being used to facilitate flight from the vicinity of Madison murdered. Head gave but a very little while to doubling up twelve times from an initial bet of five shillings, to cover the six days of the week, and reached the sum of five hundred and twelve pounds as the final stake, and close on a thousand pounds total loss. Replacing the statements in the drawer, he went on with his search, and trusted that Byrne's man would pick up Lewinson and keep him in sight until he, Head, arrived to take the trail and, as he began to feel was probable, connect Lewinson definitely with the theft of the notes from Madison's house—and the murder there too!
A pile of love letters reposed in another drawer, and proved to be signed by a variety of feminine names. Head glanced at a few—Lewinson had not kept the envelopes—and then replaced the elastic band on the whole and put them back. It was strange, he thought, with a woman like Mrs. Flather free of this room, that Lewinson had locked none of the drawers of this dressing table. Possibly he had bought the suite second-hand, and had not received the keys with the furniture.
There was nothing more of interest in the room from the point of view of this search: the letters, the postcards and portraits—especially the one that Head had pocketed—and the betting statements were highly illuminating of their owner's character. Head crossed to the "lounge-dining-room," where Mrs. Flather was languidly dusting.
"If you don't mind getting on with the bedroom now, Mrs. Flather, I'll just have a look round in here," he remarked.
"Right you are, Mr. Head. I've as good as done, in here."
"As good as" was an accurate way of expressing it, he decided as he made a cursory initial survey of the room and her work in it. Yet she was not to be blamed overmuch, for here, as in the bedroom, the furniture was of the cheapest hire-purchase type, in bad taste in the matter of choice as well as of quality, and dingily shabby after probably years of wear. Of two armchairs, one obviously had broken seat springs and the other had had its cover clumsily darned in three different places—darned with maroon thread, while the cover was crimson! Pegamoid or some probably cheaper equivalent had been used for covering the pseudo-antique dining-room suite, and the seats of the chairs had so far worn as to show the canvas backing of the stuff, in places. There were finger-marks on the wallpaper, grease spots on the carpet—if Mrs. Flather had spent the whole day over the room, she could not have made it other than shabbily uninviting, though she might—Head looked at his fingers after pulling open a sideboard drawer—have dusted it.
All he found, other than bottles, racing tips such as small newsagents sell, and a stack of sporting papers, to declare the character of the occupant of this flat, was a half-dozen paper-covered volumes which no decent bookseller would risk keeping under his counter, let alone displaying for sale. Like the postcards in the dressing table drawer, they would be subject to confiscation and render any purveyor liable to prosecution if found in his possession. Neither Avril Madison nor anyone else had said enough, let alone too much, about the utter worthlessness of Percy Lewinson, Head decided as he finished his search in the room and, facing about, saw Mrs. Flather in the doorway.
"I won't trouble to examine the kitchen, Mrs. Flather," he told her. "When Mr. Lewinson comes back"—he thought it exceedingly unlikely that Percy would ever see these rooms again—"he will find everything exactly as it was before I came into the place"—which was not strictly true, since a photograph would be missing—"and in fact won't realise that I've ever been here at all. You understand, I hope?"
"Leave it to me, Mr. Head. Mum's the word—lor bless yer, Mr. Head, I ain't lived all these years for nuthin'. An' you may be a pleeceman, but you're a gentleman, an' all Westingborough knows it. I 'opes you found what you was lookin' for, though, whatever it might be. Not that I'm curious about it, for if there was ever anyone which knows how to mind her own business, it's me. Pore Miss Cummins said to me, many a time—'Mrs. Flather,' she said, 'what I appreciate about you is the way you don't never go pokin' an' pryin', like some as I could name." Said it many a time, she did, as she could tell you 'erself if she was here. It's the gord's truth, Mr. Head, an' I don't never tell nuthin' but the truth, not never. What'll I tell Mr. Lewinson if he asks me whether you have been here or no? Shall I say you ain't?"
"He won't ask you, unless you talk," Head pointed out.
"Mum's the word, Mr. Head—mum's the word. Wishermaydie if I say anything to anybody. In fack, Mr. Head"—a wicked twinkle showed in her eye—"I left the door on the jar, an' somebody got in all unbeknown an' didn't do no 'arm to anythink. No, that won't do, though, because I'd lose the job. I'll think of somethink, don't you fret, Mr. Head, if he should ask me, an' you ain't been here, not to my knowin'."
"You are the only person who can say I have been here," he reminded her. "As long as you say nothing, I might have been anywhere in this building—in Mr. Denham's office, for all anyone can tell."
"Not a word passes these lips, Mr. Head. I respecks your confidence."
"Then that's all, Mrs. Flather. I must get away, now."
He got away, feeling no compunction at all over having arranged with the harridan to delude Lewinson if the need should arise. As with most of her type, he knew, her fear of the power of the police would keep her quiet, though probably it would be a severe strain on her, refraining from spreading the news of a police search of Lewinson's rooms. The almost-certainty that Lewinson would not return to them was in Head's mind as he went down the stairs, and then another thought came to him. If Lewinson took Brown's place as having murdered Madison, would Avril Madison marry Jim Brown? With only the one glimpse of Brown that Head had had, when he had met Plender at the Carden Arms and seen Brown handcuffed to Constable Williams, he hoped she would never do anything of the sort. She was too fine for such a man—that verse she had quoted—
"...remember how one came
To stroke thy hair, and call thee by thy name:
A little while,
O Evening!"
The tremulous, cadenced music of her voice!
"London, chief," he announced as, returning to the police station, he faced Wadden across the superintendent's desk. "Lewinson's gone."
"Ah! Lost him, have you?" Wadden inquired gravely.
"Oh, no! He went by the eight fifty-eight this morning, and Byrne is putting a man on to meet the train and sit on Lewinson's tail unless he tries to get right away. In that case—arrest."
"On the murder charge?" Wadden inquired.
"For being in possession of this"—Head displayed for a moment the photograph of a nude woman he had abstracted from Lewinson's dressing table drawer—"and other things of the sort, though this is the only one relating to anyone in Westingborough. The others—I'll get out of him where he got them, or the court will when he's brought up."
"Uh-huh—foul-minded swine!" Wadden observed. "Took it himself, a pound to a penny on it. Did you find a half-plate camera?"
"Thornton-Pickard, with focal plane shutter as well as the ordinary one on the lens—an expensive thing," Head answered. "Probably she gave it to him. There were about a dozen glass plate negatives in a box, too—I didn't examine them, or take anything but this."
"Well, a cousin who can pull strings for you in London is useful," Wadden commented. "Give Byrne my love if you see him—you'll take the eleven-ten, eh? And fetch his nibs back in custody."
"I think so." Head reflected over it. "There's enough in his flat over Denham's office to justify it, and I expect those negatives will throw light on the very private lives of some Westingborough people's wives, and possibly daughters. Now I'll hie away home and pack a small suit case, though I don't expect to take more than to-day over the trip. Then I shall just have time for one more call before catching the train. See you tonight, I hope, chief."
"If Brown has to be let out, the big noise is pretty sure to demand Plender's dismissal," Wadden reflected.
"Brown isn't let out, yet, chief."
"As soon as you're through with this," Wadden declared resolutely, "I'm going to hand in my resignation and see about growing tomatoes under glass—"
But there he broke off, for Head had gone.
A TALL, slenderly-built, dark-eyed woman entered the dressing-room in which Head was packing his suit case, and shook her head as he looked up at her for a second or less.
"Where this time, Jeremy?" she asked.
"London, as usual," he answered, and closed the case. "I expect to be back to-night, but I'm taking a few odds and ends in case I'm not."
"What train are you catching—are you starting at once?"
"I've a little over half an hour, and a call I want to make before going to the station. Why, dear—is there anything I can do for you?"
"Just—five minutes, say." She seated herself on the divan bed as he put his suit case down on the floor. "Something to tell you, Jeremy."
"Nothing very serious, I hope?"
"I'm not sure. Sit down and put your arms round me, dear. I—it's been coming on for a long time—six months since I first felt it. Just here"—she took his arm that had gone round her waist, and lifted it to a point under her left breast—"and I took very little notice of it at first. I wouldn't tell you, because I thought it was just indigestion or something of that sort, but now—and there's a swelling, too—"
"Clare, Bennett will be here to see you this morning," he interrupted her. "You should have—not that it's likely to be really serious. At your age—in the late thirties or early forties, anyhow, nine women out of ten get something of the sort. Still, you'll have to be examined. My dear, why did you let it go so long without telling me?"
"I thought it would go away, and didn't want to worry you," she explained. "But—you remember Mary—"
"Ah, not that!" he interrupted again. "You've never had a day's illness since we married, except for that dose of 'flu last winter. No—it's probably something Bennett can put right in a week or less."
She took his arm away and stood up. "It's better now I've told you, Jeremy, already," she said, and smiled at him. "And if you want to make a call on someone and catch the train, you mustn't stay talking to me. Do manage to come back to-night, though, won't you?"
"Somehow," he assented, "and the more I can get through before I start, the sooner I can be back with you. I'll see about Bennett for you. Just rest till he's seen you, and"—he took her close in his arms—"don't worry over it, Clare. Mary's was quite different."
But, as he hurried back to the police station, he recalled with fear how his wife's sister had died of cancer. The two sisters had owned a preparatory school at Crandon until Head had married this younger one, and after that Mary had carried on until, at the age which Clare had now reached, she had died. He almost ran into the police station and along to his own room, where he asked Wells for an exchange line and dialled Doctor Bennett—it was surgery hour, Head knew.
"Ah, doctor—Head speaking. I want you to make time to go and examine my wife—this morning, if possible. Some sort of swelling and pain under the breast that she's kept quiet longer than she ought—"
"I'll be there in half an hour," Bennett interrupted to promise. "My God, is there any way of making women realise what they risk by delay in these cases? Not that I want to frighten you, Head, for it may be nothing at all—nothing to worry over, that is. Will you be home for lunch—how shall I get at you to let you know?"
"You can't—I'm just off to London. And—doctor—you remember her sister, I expect. In case—who's the very best specialist for this sort of thing? The very best there is, she must have."
"Quite possibly I can deal with it myself—I'm not altogether a fool, Head, whatever you think. If I'm not satisfied about her, leave me to get the best man there is—God save us, you've got enough on your hands just now, I know! Leave it all to me."
"I will, doctor. Where will you be at about three this afternoon?"
"Cottage hospital—I'm operating there at three-thirty."
"Right. I'll ring you at as near three o'clock as possible from London. And don't forget—spare nothing, if you see need."
"That's all right, Head—leave it all to me, as I said."
Going out again, Head recalled his thoughts to the tasks before him. However great his fear for his wife, he could do nothing more for her, and by forcing his mind to his work he might lessen the dread her announcement had wakened in him. She had not been quite herself for months past, he realised, and all their married life she had maintained a certain reserve that had troubled him: they had never been completely one in their interests, he knew, yet he had no doubt of her love for him. Some things—his work, for instance—she had always seen as from behind a wall that she could not break down or pass over...
In this fear for the future, she had been nearer to him than ever before, he felt. Clung to him, in spirit—and Clare was not one to cling, normally. This might bring them together.
Opposite the Idleburn Valley Bank building, he entered a doorway not unlike that which gave access to Denham's office and Lewinson's flat, and mounted to the second floor to knock on a door labelled in black-painted block letters—ARTHUR KIDHAM, COMMISSION AGENT. After a few seconds of waiting the door was opened by Arthur Kidham himself, a tubby little man, middle aged, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, and sporting on his vest the ribbon of the distinguished conduct medal. He was as proud of the decoration—which, by the way, had been awarded for a deed that might well have gained him a V.C.—as he was of the fact that for ten years he had been first to enter the long bar of the Duke of York at morning opening time on week days.
"Come in, Mr. Head," he invited genially. "A double on the Cambridgeshire and Cesarewitch, eh? I can recommend you a likely double."
There was just a spice of anxiety in his tone as he made the offer. Although, as far as he knew, he had done nothing to bring him to notice of the police, the illegal legality of his business gave grounds for uncertainty, and he wanted to placate the well-known inspector, if he could.
"I think I'll leave it alone, thank you, Kidham," Head answered, entering the barely furnished room and eyeing the row of telephone instruments on a long table in the middle. "No, just an inquiry."
"Anything I can tell you, I shall be only too happy. Cigarette? Ah, you've got a lighter. Come through to my own loose-box, Mr. Head. My fellers'll be in about now— Ah, half a tick, please."
He took off one of the telephone receivers in answer to a ring, and listened, drawing a pad of paper toward him and then taking out a pencil. "Mr. Crane—yes, sir?..." He scribbled on the pad. "Ten shillings each way Larrikin's Joy—ten shillings each way Pink Purity. That all, Mr. Crane? Right. Ten shillings each way Larrikin's Joy, ten shillings each way Pink Purity—two pounds invested. Thank you, sir."
He put back the receiver. "We'll go through, Mr. Head—if anyone else rings before my fellers get here, let 'em ring again."
Another ring sounded as he opened the door of a smaller, inner room, but he disregarded it and ushered Head into the room, closing the door as Head put down his suit case, and then pointing to a chair.
"Put it there, Mr. Head," he invited. "Now how can I help you?"
"Information about a client of yours, Percy Lewinson," Head answered as he seated himself, while Kidham stood with his hands in his pockets and his short legs wide apart.
"Ye-es?" There was a slightly dubious note in the query. "Why—what's he been doing, Mr. Head?"
"Betting with you pretty consistently, on some sort of system, it seems," Head answered. "As a beginning, now, did he have any bets with you last week?"
"He did," Kidham answered decidedly, and with a hint of anger, now. "The final one was a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, and he went down on that. Altogether, two hundred and fifty-five pounds, fifteen shillings, is the amount he owes me—due last Wednesday, at latest."
"And what is the total he has had off you this year?" Head asked.
"Over two hundred—I'll look it up, if you like."
"No—don't trouble. But his system—what was it?"
"Simple enough—a good many of the big firms wouldn't take it on, but I knew I'd win in the end—we always do, else how would a man like me keep a home together and pay two clerks and a typist? To put that frankly, Mr. Head, I make my living out of mugs, and it's one long gamble all the time. Beginning of this flat season, I had close on four thousand pounds salted away, but it's been a bad season for my profession, and unless the Cambridgeshire and Cesarewitch—and the Manchester November, perhaps—pull things up, I'll be lucky to get to the sticks and a bit of football business with five hundred to my credit. And no overdraft for me—the bank wouldn't hear of it unless I could put down gilt-edged stuff for security, which I ain't got. Not that I grumble, as long as I can keep afloat. I've been lower than this, and stand to be shot at—I may be worth ten thousand again by the end of the flat season, so I don't have to lay off the big bets and share the profit."
"Do you mean to say this district will bet ten thousand pounds between now and the end of the year?" Head demanded incredulously.
"Lord love you, Mr. Head, if I was to let you go through my books—well, there's a lot of men—and women, too—who'll go a long way past what they can afford in the hope of something for nothing. I guess you come up against a good deal of people's weaknesses in your profession, but I'll lay odds I see more—long odds, too, and take your money. Now this Lewinson—rot him for a bilker! Though I'll have it out of him, make it a court case, as I'm entitled to do. He'd got what he thought was an infallible system. Start with a five bob stake, second favourite in the first race and the last every day of the week—no other bets—and double up till he won. It looked a stonewaller, too."
"But wasn't," Head suggested.
"No system is—there ain't an absolutely unbeatable system. Else, all the bookies there are'd be broke and the tote'd take all the bets. The tote is unbreakable, as you can see if you think it out. Lewinson won every week till last, and had sense enough to stop for the week after a win, even if it was with the first bet, and then start again with his five bob stake the week after. Sound enough, you'd say. But even if he'd backed first favourite, there'd come a week when no favourite'd win, and he'd be sunk, just as he is now. It's got to happen, and I knew it would happen, sooner or later. I let him run to the hundred and twenty-eight pound bet, and then told him I wouldn't take his double on that without seeing some money first—it'd have been over five hundred, if I had, and if he'd won at three to one it'd have put me in queer street. And I didn't see Mr. Percy Lewinson able to find five hundred if it didn't win—it didn't, either. He'd have had to go all the way, and he'd have come home on the five hundred and twelve pound bet at five to two—twelve hundred and eighty-eight pounds less his previous losses I'd have had to pay out—seven hundred and seventy-two pounds five, I make it. But I couldn't see Mr. Lewinson able to stump up more than the two fifty-five fifteen he owed me after the hundred and twenty-eight pound bet, and so I closed down on him—as I've a perfect right to do with any backer if I don't care for his bet."
"That's all I wanted to ask you, Kidham," Head said, and, rising, he took up his suit case. "I want the next London train—much obliged for your information. I'll wish you good morning."
"If I can help at any time," Kidham told him, "put odds on my doing all I can. Just one bit of advice—go on leaving the hosses alone. The bookie wins in the long run—good luck to you, Mr. Head."
As a lightning calculator, Head reflected as he went down the stairs and out, Arthur Kidham would take some beating.
"That you, Doctor Bennett? Head speaking, from London. What news?"
"Ah, Head. Neither good nor bad, so far, but I think good on the whole. There is a growth, and it may involve an operation, but the general health doesn't point to anything that might make you afraid. I'm getting Sir Lancelot Staniforth down to see her to-morrow—didn't want to frighten her by suggesting she should go and see him, and it won't make a very great difference to his fee. He owes me a good turn, and this is to be it. Meanwhile I'm making the usual tests to find whether it's benign or no—"
"How soon can you let me know that?" Head interrupted.
"After Staniforth has seen her. Don't worry, man—she'll be all right, you'll see. Those operations are nothing, nowadays."
"I'll call and see you when I get back to-night, doctor."
"Yes, look in—though I shan't be able to tell you any more than I've said now. But there's a decanter and syphon—good-bye, Head."
Depressing the receiver hook, Head let it come up again and inserted two pennies in the coin-box slot. He dialled, and listened.
"I want to speak to Inspector Byrne, please. Inspector Head of Westingborough speaking. Put me through to him, will you?"
Then Byrne's voice, gently derisive.
"Byrne speaking—and it's you, Jerry! Now do you turn round and go straight back, or do you wait till they open and buy me one?"
"Terry, I'm in no mood for fun—frightened about my wife. What have you to tell me about Lewinson?"
"Gone back to Westingborough by the three-ten—he came up on a return ticket and my man saw him back on to the train and rang me only a minute or two ago. Why, what's wrong with your wife?"
"I don't know, yet—some sort of growth, and you may remember how her sister died. Bennett is getting a specialist—"
"Jerry, old chap, I am sorry to hear this! Look here—I've got a fortnight's leave I can get at any time. Shall I come down to Westingborough and take over this case for you—Bulgy'd let me, I know? Set you free to be with her all you like?"
"No, thanks, Terry—I'm better working. It would only frighten her if I did that, too, and there may be nothing to fear, for all I can tell yet. Tell me about Lewinson—went back by the three-ten?"
"Yes. It doesn't stop before Crandon, as I expect you know, and then Westingborough next. He made one call while he was in London, and only one—came up for that, apparently. Went at a quarter to one to see Lewis Forester, Financier, on the third floor of Bevis House, Cavendish Square. If I tell you Forester's original name was Levi Gershom"—he spelt out the surname after speaking it—"you can draw any conclusion you like. Lewinson left him at twenty minutes past one, drifted down to the Piccadilly Corner House for lunch, and then went straight to the station to catch the three-ten—by tube. Caught it, too."
"Hold on a moment, Terry, while I think that out."
Only a few seconds' reflection convinced him that he had to go and see the "financier." Lewinson, probably, had borrowed money from him and had been unable to repay, and—Head could guess how overdue repayment to a moneylender would pile up additional interest—had come to London to make payment with the notes that he dared not send or let out of his own keeping except in such a way as this. He might even have gone to Forester to exchange enough of the notes for a cheque with which to pay Kidham, though this latter was unlikely. Settlement of a far more pressing and even ruinous debt—with Madison's notes—than the bookmaker's was the most feasible explanation of his visit to London, and, since he had gone back to Westingborough, he would keep there till the morrow.
"You there, Terry? I'll go and see this financier."
"Good! Look for me when you come out—I'd like a word with you now you are in town. About Clare—if there's anything I can do."
"You can't, but I shall be glad to see you, Terry. So long for now."
A taxi took him to Cavendish Square, and he found Forester's office entrance without difficulty. The typist who took his card and admitted that Mr. Forester was in—indiscreet of her, Head thought, but perhaps she was a little in awe of a police inspector—was young and pretty in a rather flashy way, like her clothes. She left him in a tiny waiting room just inside the suite while she entered the room next the one in which she evidently worked, and, returning, ushered him into the presence of a smallish, very well dressed, cheerful and alert man, who very politely placed a chair for his visitor and then extended a hand which Head rather reluctantly shook.
"Pleased to meet you, inspector," he said. "Your name is not unknown to me. Do sit down, please." He went to his own seat on the far side of his magnificent rosewood desk as Head complied with the invitation. "Not often gentlemen of your profession come to do business with one of mine. By—er—by recommendation, I presume?
"No," Head answered coolly, "nor to do business in the way you assume. To make inquiries about—a previous visitor here to-day."
"Oh!" All Forester's appearance of geniality vanished: his face hardened, became mask-like. "I am afraid, inspector, I can do nothing for you, in that case. My visitors' affairs are inviolable—quite inviolable, I assure you. Therefore—" He stood up, indicating dismissal.
"One moment," Head said, and did not rise. "This office is in either the Marylebone or Marlborough Street district, as far as applying to a stipendiary magistrate is concerned. I can easily ascertain which court covers it, go there, and make application to a magistrate—stating my reason for making it. Within an hour, I assure you, I can be back here with enough uniformed men to make this handsome office look like a second-hand furniture shop after an earthquake."
"I see-e." Forester sat down again. "And neither stipendiaries nor any other people on the bench are exactly effusive to gentlemen of my profession. Well"—he sighed, rather sadly—"what do you want to know, inspector? I gather it concerns a gentleman from your part of the world who called on me a short time ago, eh?"
"Named Percy Lewinson," Head agreed. "And his call to-day was not the first you have had from him."
"It was not the first," Forester admitted, and shut his lips in a way that indicated his distaste for furnishing information.
"When did he first do business with you?" Head demanded sharply.
"I—er—I am not refusing you information, inspector," Forester said, in pained reproof. "On looking up my books for Mr. Lewinson's benefit to-day, I found that he first did business with me nearly two years ago. Two years next December, in fact. Mr. Lewinson met his obligations in connection with that transaction honourably."
"Particulars of the transaction?" Head inquired inexorably.
"A loan of fifty pounds on note of hand and post-dated cheques, ten of them, one each month, to a total of seventy-five pounds."
"Fifty per cent interest, and the loan and interest repaid within ten months," Head observed. "An illegal transaction, Mr. Forester."
"Oh, no! Oh, no! Clients of mine who borrow money in this way sign to say that they have received full particulars, and agree the rate of interest—a rate of one hundred and nine per cent per annum—as equitable in view of the risks involved to me in lending. They do it with their eyes open, and I take the risk with my eyes open. I sell money, inspector, to any who choose to pay my price—that's all. And I take very good care that the sale is a perfectly legal transaction."
"What happens if a client fails to make payments to date?"
"The interest goes on mounting up, of course—and the whole sum becomes immediately recoverable, too. If I think there is a chance of recovering, I take legal action. If it merely means throwing good money after bad, I write it off as a bad debt—and I have many bad debts in this note of hand business. You may regard the rate of interest as iniquitous, but I tell you frankly, inspector, I'd far sooner lend money on reversions and other good securities at four or five per cent. I do a good deal of that class off business, too. You, I can see, look on me as an unjust extortioner, but neither you nor anyone else can accuse me of dishonesty in my profession. As I told you, I sell money."
"Has Mr. Lewinson had any other transactions with you, prior to to-day's visit here?" Head asked after a pause.
"Only the one of which I have told you," Forester answered.
"But"—he frowned, puzzled over it—"what was his object in calling here at twelve forty-five to-day?"
"Did you follow him to the door?" Forester inquired ironically. "Never mind, though—I have the highest respect for police thoroughness. His object—the usual one, as you may have guessed."
"Put that more plainly, please."
"Mr. Lewinson telephoned me from Westingborough yesterday and asked if I could oblige him as on the last occasion," Forester said with patient precision. "He called on me at twelve forty-five to-day, as you have noted, for a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds. He obtained a loan of two hundred, on the same terms as before—that is, to repay three hundred in ten monthly instalments, the first to be paid a month from to-day—and took the two hundred pounds with him, in bank notes."
"Why not the two hundred and fifty?" Head asked, after a pause in which he realised that his theory regarding Lewinson's call here was no longer tenable, and that the money had been borrowed, probably, to settle Kidham's account, for which Lewinson had wanted two hundred and fifty, after payment of which he would resume his betting.
"Because"—with even more of obvious patience—"his income is only three hundred and ten pounds per annum, and he cannot touch the capital from which it is derived, inspector. In fact, I am taking a considerable risk in advancing even that sum."
"Advancing it on his note of hand alone?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no, inspector! His note of hand, together with ten post-dated cheques, each for thirty pounds and extending over the ten months in which three hundred pounds is to be repaid to me—also a letter which he wrote to the manager of the Idleburn Valley Bank at Westingborough and signed before I gave him the bank notes, to the effect that provision is to be made for meeting these cheques before any other drafts on his account are paid. Because, you see, his income is paid quarterly by that bank—I made certain of this by a telephone talk with the manager in the course of my interview with Mr. Lewinson."
"Tied him, in fact, hand and foot," Head suggested.
Forester smiled faintly. "Would you trust him, under any less stringent conditions?" he asked quietly.
"I am not a moneylender," Head retorted.
"A despised profession—yes," Forester said. "If I chose, inspector, I could show you names on my books, names among the highest in the land, and the holders of those names are glad to come begging to me and to accede to my terms—despising me all the time as the human shark who bleeds them. As you too, I can see, despise me. As Shylock was despised. Well, so be it, and let God judge me, for I care for no man's judgment. Is there anything else you wish to know, inspector?"
"Has Lewinson had any other transaction with you, of any kind?"
"None whatever, inspector. No other transaction at all."
"Thank you," and Head stood up to go.
Forester too rose, and went to the door to open it.
"I will not offer you my hand again, inspector," he said. "Your dislike for taking it before convinces me I had better not, but if ever you are in need of money on equitable terms, I am at your service."
"I will bear it in mind," Head told him. "Good afternoon."
Outside the building, he saw Byrne standing at the pavement edge, pensively smoking a cigarette and waiting.
"Oh, Jerry, glad to see you. Any other calls to make?"
"My train"—he looked at his watch—"and I've thirty-five minutes in which to catch it."
Byrne took him by the arm. "I'll come along with you and see you off," he promised, "and you can tell me as much or as little as you like. If there's anything I can do to help you, shout it loud. Anything at all, old son, and you know I mean it."
THE superintendent blew his nose, and a window rattled.
"It's nothing, laddie—stop worrying. You say Bennett told you it was probably nothing to worry about, except for the operation, and they do them to-day without thinking about it. Modern surgery and all that. When my old lady was about your wife's age or a bit more, she had to go and be all carved up—and look at her now! Fit for ten rounds and come up at the gong every time. Stop worrying, Head."
Head looked up at him as he stood beside the desk, and made no reply.
"See here, now, I'll take over this Madison case myself—set you loose till everything's all—till you've got her back convalescent."
"No, chief—it's good of you, but—don't you see? If I did anything of that sort, it would only frighten her, and she's got the fear of her sister's end in her mind already. I've just got to carry on as if I fully believed—what I'm trying to believe. And for me too—sink myself in work all I can, because I'm helpless, can't do anything to help her. It's for this specialist who comes down to-day—Bennett got him to put off his Saturday golf—put off his golf! My God!"
"Well, he's going to back up Bennett, laddie—now let's get on with the job, since you say you want to stick to it—and I'll postpone all thought of growing tomatoes under glass till you've got her back and on her feet again, if it can't be cured without operating."
Head achieved a smile. "Put off your golf, eh? Though it's different—I didn't mean that. You're the best friend I've ever had, and—yes, let's get on with it. Bragg—I saw him last night, and Lewinson did come back. And Bragg passed the word on to Blake to report on Lewinson—by Blake's report he was in the long bar of the Duke of York till closing time, and then went along Market Street to his flat over Denham's office and didn't come out again. There yet, I expect—I'll see Bragg on my way to the place and make sure—take Harrison and pick up Bragg so they can fetch him along here after I've collected his beastly postcards and books—and those negatives. Wells can take prints off them to make court exhibits, and I think we'd better exclude press and public when he's brought up, because there's one Westingborough woman in it before we get any prints from the negatives. The nastiest case I've come against in all my time under you, chief."
"Not the type to do a murder, eh?" Wadden suggested.
"I don't know. Although he borrowed that two hundred from the moneylender, it doesn't mean he didn't get Madison's notes as well—he may have them stowed away somewhere and be afraid to use them for the time. And as for the murder, if Madison caught him at it he'd be as dangerous as any other cornered rat. When we've got him safely away from there and secured his filthy property, I'll see how much he paid Kidham, if any. He might have added fifty of Madison's notes to the two hundred he got yesterday, and thinks he can get away with it."
"You'll do it in your own way, of course," Wadden said encouragingly. "Meanwhile, about Brown. I went over Plender's report while you were away yesterday, and before Plender arrested him, Brown alleged that he called at the garage on Wednesday afternoon, and also stopped to change a wheel, before arriving to meet Miss Madison. If that's true, it puts him a long way behind Lewinson over leaving Madison's house. He was away in plenty of time for Lewinson to commit the crime—or crimes, perhaps—and then get to the station ahead of him."
"Quite so, chief. I'll check up on that. Now one other thing, Lewinson comes inside on this charge till he can get bail, which we don't oppose, on that charge, obviously, since I shall have all the evidence I want from his flat—stop and pick it up with Harrison as witness before he's marched over here. And we can't question him on that, after having arrested and charged him with possession of obscene books and pictures. But we can question him over his meeting with Brown at the station, and his own whereabouts between two and four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, and that I propose to do, here."
"Sound enough. And being not yet nine o'clock, you'll probably get him at breakfast, by all you've told me of his habits."
It was a few minutes after nine when Mrs. Flather opened the door of Lewinson's flat in response to a ring, and Lewinson looked out from his bedroom doorway as Head, followed by Sergeant Harrison and Constable Bragg, entered without ceremony and filled the narrow passageway, while Mrs. Flather reeled back into the "lounge-dining-room" and stood in the doorway with bulging eyes as Head advanced on his man.
"Percy Lewinson, I arrest you for being in possession of obscene literature and photographs, and warn you that anything you may say may be taken down and used as evidence against you," Head said quietly, and, taking Lewinson by the wrist, drew him out from the bedroom.
"I—it's a lie!" Lewinson stammered fearfully.
"Yes. Harrison, collect all papers of every kind from the drawers of that dressing table, in presence of the accused—come inside the room, Lewinson, while he does it. Then, Harrison, collect all papers of every kind, and a box of photographic negatives, from the right-hand cupboard of the sideboard in that other room. Let's get it done quickly. The charge in proper form will be read over to you at the police station, Lewinson, where we are conducting you after fully searching the flat in your presence. Take the top drawer first, Harrison."
In cringing, fearful silence Lewinson watched while Harrison not only collected the contents of dressing table drawers and sideboard cupboard, but turned out every possible hiding place in the flat with the thoroughness of a practised searcher.
Later, at the police station, Superintendent Wadden read the formal charge and caution, while Jeffries waited to take down anything the accused man might say in reply.
"I—I want bail," was all he said.
"We do not oppose the application," Wadden told him. "You are permitted, if you choose, to make a statement as to how these things came into your possession. Whether such a statement will advantage you or otherwise, though, is more than I can tell you."
"I got them from Quade, the trainer," Lewinson said.
"Got them from Quade, the trainer," Wadden repeated, while Jeffries' pencil recorded the words. "Picture Postcards, books, and box of photographic negatives—he got them from Quade the trainer."
"Not the negatives," Lewinson said hastily.
Wadden gazed thoughtfully at the Thornton-Pickard camera which Harrison had brought, by Head's order.
"Not the negatives," he repeated.
"I bought the—the other things from Quade, three to six months ago," Lewinson amplified. "Not all at once. Bought them from him."
"Is that all you wish to say in answer to the charge?" Wadden asked.
Lewinson nodded. "I want bail," he said.
"We will see about it," Wadden promised. "First, though, we have no right to ask you any questions concerning this charge, Percy Lewinson, but do want to know if you can give us any information over another matter altogether, in connection with which no charge has been made against you, so that anything you may tell us cannot be used as evidence against you. Jeffries, you can get along and type his statement for signature. Lewinson, we want to know anything you can tell us, first, about your meeting with James Brown at Westingborough station on Wednesday afternoon last, between four and four-fifteen p.m."
"Between"—for a few seconds, Lewinson looked puzzled. Then—"Yes, I remember. I was coming out of the booking office—"
"At what time, can you remember?" Wadden asked.
"Just after four—two or three minutes past, and he drove into the yard and got out as I came out of the booking office. I spoke to him."
"Can you remember any of the conversation?" Head put in.
"I—something about his uncle. Of course, I see now—this is about the murder. I joked him about his uncle—about seeing him, because I knew Madison wouldn't see Jeehim at any price, and he said something about touching the old man for a tenner, made a joke of it that I can't exactly remember, and said he was going to get a wash. That would be before he saw whether Miss Madison was coming off the four-fifteen."
"Did you think him in need of a wash?" Head asked.
"In need of one? His hands were filthy—all grease and muck. I think he'd been doing something to his car, by the look of them."
"I see." Head sounded encouraging, almost friendly. "And what time did you get to Westingborough station that afternoon?"
"Just before him. I had an idea of meeting Miss Madison myself—Mr. Madison had told me he expected her that afternoon, and wasn't going to the station to meet her, because his old car had given him trouble in the morning—I'd seen him just after he got home in it. But when I saw Jeehim—Brown, that is—drive into the yard with his car, and I've only got a motor-cycle, I left, because I knew he'd drive her home and be irritated if I hung around."
"And where had you been before you went to the station?" Wadden took up the interrogation. "Since, say, two-thirty that afternoon?"
"Between two-thirty and four—where were you?" Head amplified.
A stubborn look came on Lewinson's face. "I'm not going to answer that," he said. "I've told you enough already."
"What time did you leave Mr. Madison's house?" Head asked evenly.
"What time? Why, not long after one o'clock. Why?"
"One-five—one-fifteen—one-thirty?" Head insisted.
"Nearer one-five than one-thirty," Lewinson said sullenly.
"Have you any evidence that you left Mr. Madison's house at that time—that you did not see him after James Brown had left the house?" Head asked again. "Because, if you have, it will be very much to your advantage to furnish us with it, I had better tell you."
Staring at him with a new fear in his brown eyes, Lewinson digested the warning in a dead silence. Then he spoke, hoarsely—
"I was in—in my flat by a quarter to two."
"Have you any evidence of that?" Head persisted relentlessly.
"I—yes—no," Lewinson almost gasped.
"That is to say, you can produce no evidence as to your whereabouts between James Brown's call on Mr. Madison, and your appearance at Westingborough station at or near four o'clock—and you habitually drive a motor-cycle at speeds up to sixty miles an hour?" Head asked.
"I—but Jeehim Brown murdered the old man!" Lewinson exclaimed.
"Can you produce evidence of that, then?" Head inquired gently.
"I—no, of course I can't! I wasn't there when—what do you want out of me? What are you badgering me like this for?"
"To get evidence, apart from your own words, that you did not see Mr. Madison after James Brown left his house. To locate you beyond question between the hours of three and four on Wednesday afternoon. You have said that you were in your flat by a quarter to two. Did you remain in it until you went to the station at about four o'clock, and were seen there talking to James Brown before you motor-cycled away?"
"I did. You don't mean to tell me you think—"
"Never mind what we think," Head interrupted. "We are trying to get facts as to your whereabouts that afternoon, Percy Lewinson—and unless we do get them, you stand very little chance of getting bail on the initial charge preferred against you, for you may have to answer to a far graver one. What evidence have you that you were in that flat at the time you say, between a quarter to two and four on Wednesday afternoon?"
"I was there," Lewinson insisted, with dogged sullenness.
"We need more than your own word for that," Wadden pointed out.
Glancing at him, then at Head, and then averting his gaze from both of them, Lewinson stood silent.
"I take it that you were alone in the flat?" Head suggested at last.
"No—I—I wasn't." The words were dragged out, very slowly.
"Then you can produce evidence in support of your statement," Wadden said. "Just tell us who can corroborate it, and clear you of any suspicion over being concerned in Mr. Madison's death."
Another long pause, and then—no more than a whisper—
"Mrs. Quade."
Instantly Head remembered Bragg's telling him that Mrs. Quade had not been seen in Lewinson's company lately.
"And how, other than by the front entrance, does Mrs. Quade find a way into that flat of yours, Lewinson?" he asked cuttingly.
"Oh, well, it's got to all come out, now," Lewinson retorted with a sort of angry recklessness. "There's a passageway from London Road behind that side of Market Street—it only goes as far as Parham's place, and it's the way the dustbins are collected for emptying. And there's a door in the board fence that lets her in and out to my building, since you must know everything. She got there at two that day, and I left her there to go out alone when I got out my bike to go to the station. I'd run it into Parham's because the Bowden wire—my God!"
He had just realised, Head knew, that the presence of the motor-cycle in Parham's garage during that time might have saved him from betraying Mrs. Quade. Wadden shrugged, and spat on the clean floor of the charge room as Jeffries entered with the statement in typescript.
"Sorry, Jeffries," he said. "I've got such a foul taste in my mouth. Head—Quade, for trafficking in these, and probably we'll get at his source of supply, if we're lucky. Gosh, man, you've uncovered a packet! Get Mrs. Quade's corroboration of what Lewinson has told us about the essential time, and then get him. Better take Harrison with you, he's our best searcher, I think, next to yourself. All right, Jeffries—send Sergeant Wells in and go and turn out the saloon for the run to fetch Quade in. Six months for manslaughter over killing Miss Bell with that car of his, and now he's not satisfied. I'll see to everything here, Head, fix this bird's bail and all the rest."
Head went out, and looked at his watch. Sir Lancelot Staniforth was not due to arrive for another two hours, yet.
"Well, what do you want?"
Quade stood in his front doorway with the door-handle grasped, an insignificant figure of a man wearing a hunting stock in place of a collar, a rather dirty tweed coat, dirtier breeches, and surprisingly glossy leggings and boots, to growl the question at Head. Since he had served a term of imprisonment for manslaughter and had his driving licence suspended for two years, he had no love for the police. But then, as he took in the significance of the two uniformed figures behind Head on his garden path, his normally ruddy cheeks paled, and his jaw dropped wide.
"To arrest you, Horace William Quade, and charge you with trafficking in obscene pictures and obscene literature," Head answered, and took the man by the wrist as he had taken Lewinson, "and to warn you that anything you may say in answer to the charge may be taken down and used as evidence against you." And he drew Quade across the doorstep.
"Let go, you ruddy fool!" was all Quade answered.
"Handcuffs, Harrison," Head remarked quietly. "His hands behind his back, while you search for evidence. Come along in and witness the search, Quade—" He parried a vicious blow that the trainer aimed at his stomach, and returned it with one to the point of the chin that lifted Quade clean off his feet and laid him senseless, while Harrison, handcuffs ready, grinned widely. "I hate to hit a smaller man than myself, in a general way," he added, "but—yes, handcuffs, certainly."
They waited until the man had recovered his senses, and then Harrison and the constable helped him into what was evidently his dining-room and seated him in an armchair. Harrison opened a bureau, and Quade croaked a defiant protest—
"Where's your search-warrant? You've no right to search without a warrant, and I'll sting you if you haven't got one."
"Carry on, Harrison," Head bade, "while I look into this sideboard. On a charge like this, Quade, I'll risk all your stinging when I face the bench, rather than give you or anyone time to destroy evidence. A key—the keys for this sideboard? Or do I break it open?"
"And the lower drawers of this bureau, Mr. Head," Harrison added.
They waited. Quade, eyeing his furniture, sat mulishly silent.
"Go and get the two biggest screwdrivers out of the car, Harrison," Head bade at last, "and witness that he did not produce keys."
"They're on the ring in my trouser pocket—how can I give you keys with these things on?" Quade growled. "Take 'em, damn you—and if I don't make you sweat for this, my name ain't Quade!"
"Thank you, Quade," Head said, as he pulled on a fine steel chain, and detached the key ring from its end as the keys came to light.
He had unlocked the bureau drawers and turned to the sideboard when a fearful cry from the doorway made him face about.
"Harry! What is all this? Oh-h-h!"
"Merely a search, Mrs. Quade," Head answered, seeing her in dressing gown and mules over night garb, but with her hair done and lipstick generously used as well as face powder. Inches taller than her rather diminutive husband, she leaned against the lintel of the doorway for support, and stared fearfully into the room.
"But—but what has he done now?" she got out, difficultly.
"We're searching to find that out," Head answered. "Harrison, take this sideboard next. Come in, please, Mrs. Quade, and tell me where you were between two and four o'clock on last Wednesday afternoon."
"I—Wednesday—Oh-h-h! What has he been saying?"
The "he" did not refer to Quade, Head divined. Without speaking, he drew an elbow chair from the centre table, half turned it toward her as she stood, and waited. She made no move, but stared at him helplessly while Harrison went methodically on with his search. Then Head took from his pocket the photograph he had found in Lewinson's drawer the day before, and held it up so that she could see it, but Quade could not.
"Come and sit down, Mrs. Quade," he repeated, and made a sharp command of it. "I see you recognise this. Come and sit down!"
She tottered forward to the chair and slumped down in it, while Quade watched her anxiously. "Helen—" he said, and no more.
"Now, Mrs. Quade," Head repeated, "where were you between two and four o'clock last Wednesday afternoon?"
"Oh, spare me—spare me! For heaven's sake, spare me!" she gasped.
"I will no more spare you than I will your husband," he told her with harsh incisiveness. "This photograph may tell you why. Answer my question—where were you at that time?"
"In—in Westingborough," she whispered.
"Whereabouts in Westingborough?"
She stared up at him, awfully. "Must—must I?" she asked.
"Whereabouts in Westingborough?" he repeated.
"In—in—you know, though. He told you."
"I haven't told him a thing, blast him!" Quade exclaimed, not yet comprehending even the reason for this inquisition of her.
"Quite right," Head admitted, "but I ask you. Where?"
"In—in his flat," she whispered, and no longer stared at him.
"Whose flat?" Head insisted stonily.
"By God, Helen!" Quade tried to get up, fury in his eyes as in his voice, but the constable standing over him held him down, while Harrison went methodically on with his work as if he were alone in the room. "I told you I'd murder you if ever you went near that swine again!"
"Whose flat?" Head repeated in harsh command.
"Percy's—Percy Lewinson's," she whispered. "Oh!" A sudden scream of agony, and she fled out from the room, stumbling to leave one of her mules in the doorway while Quade mouthed oaths beyond belief at her.
"Nothing here, Mr. Head," Harrison reported, having finished with the sideboard. "Shall I try that thing there?" He pointed at a mahogany wine-cooler, obviously a valuable antique piece.
"There's nothing in it but bottles," Quade put in eagerly.
"By all means try it, Harrison," Head bade.
It was not locked, and Harrison lifted the lid and took out bottles of whisky, brandy, and wine. He gazed into the cooler and shook his head, and then looked round the room in quest of other hiding-places.
"Just measure one of those bottles against the outside, and see how it compares with the total depth of the thing," Head advised, and another oath from Quade convinced him that they were on the right track.
Measuring, Harrison found that the apparent bottom of the cooler was a good eight inches short of the floor of the room. He laid it on its side to get light into it, and then looked up at Head.
"Quite right, sir," he said. "False bottom and a keyhole in it. I expect one of these keys'll fit," and he tried four in vain, but the fifth fitted, and he withdrew the false bottom by means of it.
Head knelt beside him to look in, and withdrew a brown-paper-wrapped package to which was pinned an invoice for five pounds sixteen shillings, with the name of a North London firm described as "Continental and American druggists and agents" at its top. Other packages, and a few loose postcards of the type taken from Lewinson's flat, followed the first find, and Head stacked them neatly on the floor until he had retrieved everything, while Quade sat staring fearfully.
"You swine—you blasted swine—you swine!" he kept on whispering.
"Now"—Head stood up—"you can take Mr. Quade out to our travelling pen, Harrison, and I'll bring these. Then, after the formal charge and everything, get the superintendent to furnish you with a proper search warrant, and get back here to use it before Mr. Quade's bail lets him loose to destroy any other evidence. Though we have enough here to interest other people beside ourselves—London will be pleased to see this invoice."
From an upstair window, Mrs. Quade watched the little procession along the garden path, and out to the car beyond the gate.
SUPERINTENDENT WADDEN, seated in Head's room, frowned thoughtfully.
"Leaves you just where you were, Head," he remarked. "That is, if you can believe Mrs. Quade, and I don't see why you shouldn't."
"The way her husband took it is pretty convincing," Head pointed out. "I didn't question her closely as to actual time spent at the flat, but I can get that by questioning her again. And if Lewinson went there to meet her at a quarter to two, as he did—it's a thousand to one against his going back to Madison's and then getting to the station by four o'clock, even with his motor-cycle. Also—I haven't seen Kidham again yet, but there would have been some trace of the notes in his flat, I think—he wouldn't have hidden them outside it. And Harrison searched that flat pretty exhaustively, let me tell you."
"It's his long suit," Wadden reflected. "And so Lewinson walks out from under, as far as the theft and murder go. What do you do next?"
"Check up on Brown's alleging a call at the garage—we've got a fairly good check on his having changed a wheel as he said he did—the state of his hands according to Lewinson, when he got to the station. Bennett, remember, estimates Madison's death as taking place at nearer four than three, so if Brown left there about three—"
"Someone in that procession you talked about went in and out a bit later," Wadden finished for him, "and you've all the way to go."
"There's a cobbler—" Head began, and broke off to lift his telephone receiver and hear the voice of Sergeant Wells—
"Doctor Bennett to see you, sir."
"Tell him to come through, Wells," Head bade, and put the receiver back. Then he looked at his watch. "Bennett, chief—and the specialist's train isn't due yet. I wonder—something else—"
"Anyhow, I'll leave you to see him alone," Wadden said, and went out, passing Bennett, who stood back for him before entering the room.
Before a word was spoken, Head knew what he had to face. He had stood up for the doctor's entry, but now, momentarily pointing to the chair Wadden had vacated, he seated himself again.
"I almost knew it, as soon as she told me," he said, dully. "Better to know than to anticipate, eh, doctor? And you didn't wait for your specialist, even, before coming—"
"He came down from London by road," Bennett told him. "Head, I had no hope, yesterday, but I thought if there were the shadow of a chance. And thought it over all last night, after you'd called when you got back from London. Best to be honest with you—you're strong enough to stand it. I came to that decision—I didn't sleep because of it."
"And—will he operate?"
Bennett shook his head. "Too near the heart—not a shadow of a chance. I wouldn't get you to come and see him, because I didn't want her to think—I want to lay a heavy load on you, Head."
"Can you—any heavier?" Head covered his face with his hands as he sat, and questioned indistinctly, unsteadily.
"She doesn't know," Bennett said. "I want—can you keep her from knowing, till very near the end? It's got to be, and I know I'm hitting hard, but—can you play up and keep her from knowing?"
"How long, doctor?"
"Difficult to tell you that. Sometimes these things remain stationary for awhile, and then leap forward. I think this has leaped quite lately. If you can't stand any more, tell me to stop."
"No—say it all. I'm listening. Six months—a year?"
"Perhaps six months, but Staniforth thinks less. I shall give her sedatives to mask the pain, and this is a case in which the end will be merciful. So near the heart already that operation is impossible—"
"Ah-h!" The whisper of agony stopped him.
After a little while Head dropped his hands from his face and sat erect at his desk. "And you want me to keep it from her?" he asked.
"It won't be—the sedatives will make a certain difference, you'll find. Except through you, she won't realise. Won't realise for a long time if you carry on normally with your work and home life, come and go as usual and be as usual. Can you do it, or is she to know?"
"I—yes. In a little while—I mustn't go back home till to-night. To—to get a little used to the idea. But what has she ever done—why is God so damnably cruel to a woman like her?"
"Head"—Bennett moved close to him and put his hand on his shoulder—"it's not God, but human error to blame—"
"Because she—because it wasn't treated before?" Head interrupted.
"I wasn't thinking of that. You know, I had a son, once, and he died. Even then I didn't accuse God of cruelty, because I knew it was human error—away back, perhaps generations back. Some deviation from normal life, very probably quite innocent, that sowed a seed—nature always exacts a penalty for man's mistakes, sooner or later. So here—we don't know enough about this yet even to say what was the error, or who was responsible for it, but you see, Head, the God you're blaming unjustly so arranges things that nature works in cycles, not in single lifetimes, and my son and your wife, innocent in themselves, pay for the mistakes of someone who begot—her father and the one who begot me, perhaps. There is no telling when the seed was sown, but it was sown by a human being, not by God. And nature sees that a human being reaps the harvest of a human being's sowing. In time, we shall learn not to sow, and then sons and wives too—the normal span."
Head tried to take it in, but could not.
"And you want me to—?" he asked after a long silence.
"Please yourself," Bennett answered, in a precise, almost formal way that he knew would rouse the man before him to realisation of all that he had asked. "If you choose to break it to her because you can't—"
"But I can—I will!" Head interrupted. "And—this case—I'll finish it, live in it, and not let her see—anything.'"
"Good man! It's the best way, I know, and I know you can do it."
But, seated in his car at the top of Condor Hill before going down to Carden and Brown's garage, Head questioned his ability to mask his feelings to the extent Bennett had asked of him. Six months, perhaps, to live beside his wife, waiting for what Staniforth had told him he must expect—after Bennett had broken the news in his own way. No hope, no possibility of other than the one end. And for himself—"Carry on normally with your work and home life, come and go as usual and be as usual," Bennett had said. Even now, he had come straight from that talk with Staniforth, to whom this was a little thing, to check Brown's allegation that he had called at the garage on his way to Westingborough, rather than go and face Clare, deviate even that much from the normal—for she would think it strange if he came home before noon, while engaged on such a case as this.
He had to do it. There was no other way. For Clare's sake.
This view from the top of Condor Hill—the ache in it, now! When he had gone to Crandon to visit Clare, before their marriage, this road had not been cut, and he had cycled and walked by the old coach road, a little-used way, now. There was an ache in that memory, too. He looked down on Carden's red roofs, mellowed by the faint blue haze of the perfect September day, and embowered in autumn foliage at its splendid best. There to the right a line of larches with, among them, the different green of cedars here and there: beyond, copper beeches over the Carden Arms, the red-gold splendour of chestnut and elm, a crimson creeper hiding a garden wall, tall yellow-leaved poplars—he shook his head to clear the sudden blurring of the picture: Clare had so little time left, and she must not know. He must so live that she would not know.
An open car shot up the slope from Carden toward him, and he saw Avril Madison driving, dressed all in black. She swung Jim Brown's casserole to a standstill beside his car, got out, and came to stand beside his running board and looked in at him.
"Morning, Mr. Head. Are you releasing Jim to-day?"
"No, not yet, Miss Madison."
Something in his tone made her look at him more closely—the sombre set of his face, too, perhaps drew her attention.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I ought not to have asked, of course."
"It's not that," he told her. "Nothing—not my work."
"Then"—she smiled at him—"still less ought I to have asked. I can't be any use to you, I suppose?"
He looked straight into her eyes. "My wife has six months or less to live," he said baldly. "I learned not more than an hour ago."
"Oh!"—she breathed it softly after a long pause—"if only I could comfort you, Mr. Head! If only"—he saw the tears start to her eyes—"somebody could comfort you. But I know."
He made no reply. After another pause she drew back a step.
"I'll go," she said. "You won't wish—"
"Don't go," he said. "Perhaps—I don't know—perhaps you were sent. Because—real sympathy like yours is very rare."
For a long time she stood silent beside his car, and he did not move. Normally, it would have been discourteous of him to sit thus, but not now.
"Do you mind—may I say something?" she asked at last, timidly.
"Anything you wish," he answered.
"I—I came up here after the funeral. Straight here, because I wanted—wanted for a little while to hold the Hand that painted all this, before facing life again. You—you are facing your loss. Mine is complete—past, the worst of it. Soon, I shall be able to take up life again, and if—if I could see Mrs. Head, do anything—it's so difficult to express, but I know you'll understand."
"I do," he said, "and I told you—sympathy like yours is very rare. But—they have told me—she is not to know. Everything must go on as if—as if—"
He ceased speaking, and turned his face away from her.
"There is no comfort," she said after another long silence. "There can be no comfort, I know. May I say something else?"
Again he turned his face toward her. "I don't think you have it in you to say anything I shouldn't wish to hear, even to-day, Miss Madison!"
"Then—once, when he drove me to Westingborough, my father pointed you out to me. He used to follow your cases, too, and I laughed at him over it. And over one of the cases he said you were a great man, because only a great man could be so patient. I wonder—will you forgive me for telling you that, now?"
"I thank you for it," he answered. "Yes. And the Hand that painted this—and you come from his grave to tell me—comfort me. You have comforted me. I wish—but no. I was going to say I wish you could go and see my wife, but she mustn't—if you did, she might suspect why."
"But can nothing be done?" she asked.
"Nothing. It is too late—impossible to operate. And her sister died from—from the same cause. That's all, Miss Madison. Now, with the help you've given me, I'll turn to work again."
"I wish it were real help, for both of you." She held out her hand to him and smiled. "I want to stay up here alone a little while, Mr. Head, and—I shall see you again, I know."
With no other word of parting she turned away, and he released his hand-brake and went down the hill. He knew, now, that he could carry the load Bennett had laid on him. It would not be easy, but he could carry it, face Clare and keep from her the knowledge that she had so little time left, carry on normally with work and home life...
Harry emerged from the garage workshop as Head got out from his car, so far beyond the petrol pumps that any other customer could draw in for filling. From within the workshop came a horrid noise as Josh hacksawed the head off a bolt at the bench.
"Not juice this time, Mr. 'Ead?" Harry asked cheerfully.
"Not juice," Head confirmed his surmise. "Merely an inquiry about last Wednesday afternoon. Can you remember what you were doing then?"
"'Arf a mo'," Harry reflected. "Yerss—Wednesday. The day Mr. Brown got jugged—an' still 'e ain't back! You ain't got him cased in the dickey there, 'ave you, Mr. 'Ead? Because 'e's overdue."
"He was remanded for a week, last Thursday morning," Head told him, "and failing something which I don't expect to happen in the time, he will appear before the Westingborough bench again next Thursday morning. And that's all I can tell you about him. Now about you, last Wednesday afternoon. Where were you, and what were you doing?"
"I was 'ere," Harry answered, "puttin' the wind up that perisher inside there because Mr. Brown wasn't—you got to drive Josh all the time, an', conspeef! There's another 'acksaw blade gorn! Oy, you 'alf-baked plumber's mate!" He directed the reproach into the workshop. "Whatcher think you're doin'? Cuttin' sandwiches? That's the second blade outer that new lot gorn! Are you workin' with your 'ands, or your blinkin' feet to get the 'ead off a cast-iron three-eighth bolt?"
"Ah, run away an' blow bubbles!" Josh's exasperated retort came back. "They ain't 'acksaw blades at all—they're daisy stalks, case-'ardened. Come an' finish the blinkin' thing yourself, gnore it through with yer ruddy teeth! It was you told Mr. Brown to try these cheap blades, too!"
"All right, Josh—all right! Bust the blinkin' lot on one three-eighth bolt, an' then we'll put the expensive sort on order. I ain't parsimonious, let alone mean. Now what was we a-sayin', Mr. 'Ead?"
"Do I put another blade in the frame, or do I not?" Josh demanded.
"Put a cigarette card in—put yer blinkin' self in!" Harry roared at him. "An' put a sock in that hole in your face what keep on makin' noises, too! Carn't you see I'm interviewin' a customer? Do we want the 'ead to stop on that bolt, or don't we? I'm sorry, Mr. 'Ead. 'Is manners is astrocious, but 'e's a good man at 'is job. Maybe I did make a mistake persuadin' Mr. Brown to buy cheap blades. An' you was arskin' me—yerss, I was 'ere Wednesday afternoon, an' it was all over the place about Mr. Brown bein' jugged for the murder afore I left."
"Earlier than that, though," Head suggested. "Between three and four o'clock, say. Can you recollect if anyone called here?"
"Well, there'd be the usual lot droppin' along for juice an' odds an' ends. Yerss, an' that was when the tractor come in from Adams—he drove it 'ere hisself, Adams did, an' Josh an' me got the base off the crank case an' took out some shims, because the big ends was on the wobbly side an' 'e said do that if the piston 'eads showed any play when we got the cylinder 'ead block off. I'd 'ave 'ad new white metal run in an' scraped off if it'd been mine, but Farmer Adams'd sooner save tuppence than get a quid's worth of running for ten bob. Yerss, we got the top block off, an' the base off the crank case, an' I took the shims out, an' we'd got the split pins back in the big end bolts an' everything ready to put the base back by knock-off, because 'e wanted it all decoked an' valves ground by midday Thursday, as 'e told Mr. Brown."
"When did he tell Mr. Brown this?" Head asked.
"Why, Wednesday afternoon. Because Mr. Brown come back 'ere lookin' like thunder an' mutterin' to 'isself without carin' whether me an' Josh 'eard 'im or no. 'For two pins,' I 'eard 'im say, 'I'd go back there now an' make the old devil sorry for 'isself.' It wasn't till after 'e was jugged I knew 'e meant old Madison. An' 'e did not go back there, Mr. 'Ead. 'E stopped an' 'eard all Farmer Adams 'ad to say about the tractor, an' 'e says to me—'If there was time,' 'e said, 'because I got to be at Westingborough station at four-fifteen.' An' 'e was there too, because I was at the inquest an' 'eard that perisher Plender give 'is evidence, an' the pleeceman what was at the station when Mr. Brown got there, too. Fidgetin' about 'ere like a cat on 'ot ash, 'e was, an' went off about 'alf-past three or a little after, when it don't take 'im more'n twenty minutes to make Westingborough in the casserole."
"Can you remember what time he got here—before Farmer Adams came in with his tractor?" Head inquired after digesting what he had heard.
Harry shook his head. "Arfter I got back from my lunch," he said, "an' I went late, because Josh got back from 'is late, as usual. I got back about 'ar past two, an' 'e might of been 'arf a hour later."
"Ho, no, 'Arry! Don't climb it!" came from out the workshop, where the noise of hacksawing had begun and ceased again while Harry talked. "Twenty minutes to three it was when you got back 'ere Wednesday arfternoon, an' not more'n two minutes over 'ar parst one was it when you went, you perishin' skulker, you! An' if I take one minute more'n me lawful time, you tune up a 'ole orchestra to play me back in."
"Ar!" said Harry, calmly. "It must of been one of your own socks you put in that 'ole in your face, Josh, an' you couldn't keep it there no longer. But there's' a thunderstorm due when Mr. 'Ead 'as finished interviewin' me, an' you're the one what's goin' to get struck by lightnin'. Mr. Brown got 'ere somewhere about three, Mr. 'Ead, an' I carn't say no nearer, because I don't know. An' you can see 'ow much use it'd be arskin' that cribbin' Ananias in there, because 'e'd make 'is tale good if 'e 'ad to say 'e was broke up by overwork an' 'ad to be carried back 'ere Wednesday afternoon, to do it. Somewhere about three, it was."
"An' it wasn't 'ar past three when 'e left," came out from the workshop. "It was twenty to four, because 'e started the casserole just as I was takin' me wrist watch off afore gettin' the nuts off the crank case base bolts which I'd put right by the church clock when I come back from me lunch at 'ar parst one or a minute later, mayber."
"That was the watch your grandfather got left in his grandfather's will, wasn't it?" Harry inquired caustically. "You 'ang your stockin' up for Christmas, Josh, an maybe santy Claus'll drop a real watch in, an' then you'll get back from lunch at 'ar parst one instead o' that minute o' yours later. Conspeef! What a minute!"
"Well, thank you very much, Harry," Head remarked. "Between the two of you, I'm convinced that Mr. Brown did call at this garage between three and three-thirty, more or less—and that's all I wanted."
"Righto, Mr. 'Ead—always 'appy to oblige. Shove Mr. Brown back, an' do not forget to give us a call about that new car as soon as 'e's let out. We'll make you a 'andsome allowance on this one."
He turned back into the workshop as Head drove off.
"Y'know, Josh, if I was to so much as breathe on you, you'd be a 'orspital case, so I'll 'old me breath. But do not put your spoke in between me an' a gentleman again when we 'appen to be discussin' affairs of a confidential sort. Because, if you do, I shall 'ave to 'old you down an' sandpaper you where it 'urts most, an' it's outer pure kindness of 'eart I'm 'andin' you this warnin', just once."
Meanwhile Head drove on, past Carden station and toward Todlington until he reached the board in Ebbutt's garden and saw the apple-cheeked little old woman standing in the open doorway of the house as if she had not moved since he had last driven along this road. He got out from the car and, opening the garden gate, advanced to face her. The shed which served as Ebbutt's workshop, he saw, was closed and untenanted.
"Could I see Mr. Ebbutt, please?" he asked the little woman.
She shook her head. "Not to-day, you can't, mister," she said. "He's gone to London to see his sister, an' 'on't be back till Tuesday. Every year about this time he go to London to see his sister, once a year he go to see her. Tuesday mornin'"—she looked down at his feet—"an' it's boots, ain't it? Though he don't do your boots reg'lar, I know."
"No, he doesn't," Head admitted. "Any time Tuesday morning?"
"Not afore nine, mister—he don't begin work afore nine. He get back here Monday night, but too late to do any work."
"I'll call Tuesday morning, then, probably," he told her. "Good afternoon, thank you."
"'D'you like a napple, mister?" she inquired surprisingly.
"I don't think I would just now, thank you," he answered, concealing any surprise the query may have occasioned him. "Why do you ask?"
"'Cause, if you'd like one, I'd give you one. 'Cause you got good manners, mister. You say 'thank you,' an' take your hat off to an old woman like me, as if I was a lady."
"Do you know what that word 'lady' means?" he asked her.
"Well, it means a gentleman's wife or daughter, as I reckon you know quite well," she answered. "What made you ask me that?"
"It means, in old English, loaf giver," he explained.
"Giver of food, that is—any sort of food. And I would like an apple, please."
She looked puzzled over it. "All right, mister. I'll get you one," she promised, and disappeared into the house.
"Two, mister," she said, holding them out, "an' now I see what you meant when you told me that. Meant you reckoned me one, else you would never took off your hat like you did. When Mr. Ebbutt get back Monday, I shall tell him there's a gentleman comin' to see him, I shall."
"Thank you—and for the apples. Some time Tuesday."
"I shall tell him your name," she amplified her original intent, "because we often see you drive past, an' I shall tell him first it's a gentleman, because that's the truth. There ain't many nowadays."
"Such as Mr. Madison, perhaps," he suggested.
"I didn't never speak to him," she said, in a tone that suggested little wish to accord the title to such a one, "an' I have heard that if young Mr. Lewinson got his rights over what his father did, p'raps Mr. Madison might sleep quieter in his grave. Not that it's for me to say anything against the dead, but there it is, mister."
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Ebbutt," he observed. "I'll make a point of calling on Tuesday to see your husband. Good afternoon."
Pocketing the apples, he went back to his car, and reflected as he drove away that Percy Lewinson had published his slander pretty effectively here in Todlington. "If young Mr. Lewinson got his rights!"
Mrs. Ebbutt, Head decided, was as fond of a bit of gossip as, according to Harry, was her husband. If she were a reader of the Westingborough Sentinel, as was probable, the next issue of that paper would dispel her illusions concerning Percy Lewinson.
IN mid-afternoon of that last Saturday in September Head entered Wadden's room at the police station and dropped into the chair at the end of the desk, while the supe eyed him rather anxiously. Head had told him nothing of Bennett's and the specialist's verdict, nor had he asked any questions over it: he knew, without asking.
"Don't overdo it, lad," he urged. "What's the news, or don't you feel like talking? Jeffries will be along with tea presently."
"That's good, but don't tell him to bring any scone for me. I've just remembered I forgot all about lunch. Chief, I saw that Miss Madison again to-day, and she's one of God's good gifts."
"Uh-huh! Lovely eyes. Maybe you're right, too. And Brown?"
"Called at the garage, as he said. With that, and changing a wheel, and being ten minutes ahead of the four-fifteen at the station, there's not much doubt he was well away from Madison's place before three. It looks as if we offer no evidence when he comes up next Thursday, and let him go, though it'll automatically put Plender out of the force."
"Having broken the egg, Plender'll have to eat his omelette," Wadden observed unsympathetically, "and if I were in Brown's place I'd consider he hit that egg a mighty whack. Head, Guddle's been ringing me up."
"Why? Has somebody broken into his office and stolen an estate?"
"Nope—left one on his hands. That is, asked him to make inquiries about selling the place early in the new year—they're not leaving it till Christmas or the end of January, according to what happens in the way of buyers. They'd sell now, but possession then."
"And where is this health resort?" Head inquired caustically.
"Next to the Reverend Ollyer's vicarage at Carden—you've passed it thousands of times. Two old ladies by the name of Thornton have had it—their father built it—and now one's up and died, and the other's got her daughter there till Christmas, when she marries—the daughter, I mean—and goes out to Kenya. And the old trout don't want it any more after that, so she's going to sell. Guddle's let me in on it as a sort of apology for swindling me out of the one Ednam bought."
"Next to the vicarage, eh?" Head reflected. "A white house, this side, is it? Because, if so, I think I know the place."
"The very one." He put his thumb on his desk bellpush. "One up on Ednam's prize, too, because it's got main drainage and water—and Guddle says it's fitted regardless, hot and cold in the two front bedrooms, tiled walls, kitchen and bath, and all fittings at valuation. Four bed, two reception, and three acres of good ground in the most sheltered spot round here for miles, and I've only got to whistle over the garden wall and Ollyer'll come and pray over my tomatoes."
"All of which means you've made up your mind to have it?"
"There's no harm in going and having a look at it, is there? Yes, Jeffries, we both want tea, and Mr. Head doesn't want any scone. So bring two as usual, and if he don't eat his I will. Y'see, Head, if I don't say snap and hand in my resignation to take effect from the end of the year, someone else'll get done in and you'll start another case, and this sort of thing can go on till I'm too old to see through the side of one of my own glasshouses, let alone spot green fly on young plants. You'll be forty-five next month, and I'm just over fifteen years up on you. And if I can't grow tomatoes under glass in a place like that, I'd better spend my declinin' years playing snakes and ladders and get my old lady to shake the dice for me."
"I've no doubt she'd shake sixes every time," Head remarked.
"Doesn't tempt me. The place next the vicarage does—I'll get the odour of sanctity when the wind is right. That's my main piece of news. Next is that London loves us like prodigal sons. I'd rung through and given 'em the address at the top of that invoice before Quade could arrange bail and get back home to murder his wife or thereabouts, and I asked 'em to let me know how they got on—ring through and tell me. And Superintendent High Muckamuck—I forget his other name—called me up about ten minutes before you came in and embraced me warmly over the wire. They've raked in a lorry load of stuff of the sort you found at Quade's and Lewinson's, and collected two blokes and a woman as traders in it—the woman gave the blokes away, as she naturally would. And we are cock angels deservin' of every felicity, with champagne to wash it down. I told 'em all about Quade, and he's going to be in the London papers as on trial for traffic with the firm. Nation-wide celebrity. Won't the Sunday gutter rags wallow in it, too!"
"Universal Agency will send Percy Butters down here," Head prophesied. "I thought he'd have been down over Miss Madison running Brown's garage for him, but they've let Potts cover that as special correspondent, by the look of it, and used what he writes for the Sentinel. He'll be down for this, though. Dirt is a more paying line than straight crime for the kind of paper that keeps Universal going."
"Blame the public, not the papers," Wadden suggested. "Ah, thank you, Jeffries. Plant the bigger of the two scones in front of Mr. Head, and I'll watch him woffle it while I deal gently with mine. Also, Head, Percy Butters will observe that Percy Lewinson is a disgrace to the good old British name of Percy, and make him mud in the organs of national opinion, too. And then I shall turn war horse and cry Aha!"
"Unless—I haven't seen Kidham again yet," Head observed.
"Why?" Having bitten a generous half-moon out of his scone, Wadden put the question rather indistinctly. "He can't get Lewinson off?"
"If Lewinson paid him anything over two hundred, I want to know how he got hold of the extra," Head explained. "Saturday afternoon—Kidham will be at his place, since there is racing to-day. Then there's a cobbler at Todlington I want to see, but he's unavailable till Tuesday morning. Judging by a remark of his wife's, they keep count of everyone who goes along the road in front of their house, and I'm pretty sure they've talked enough about the murder of Madison to remember who did and who didn't go past in either direction on Wednesday afternoon."
"The village gossip is one of the most useful products of civilisation, from our point of view," Wadden observed gravely, and watched how, absent-mindedly, Head got on with the scone Jeffries had put down for him. It was essential, the superintendent felt, to keep Head's attention on other things, or else he would say that he did not feel like eating. "Then, if you fall down altogether on Brown, and fall down finally on Lewinson, the said village gossip will provide you with another line to follow?"
"Somebody must," Head asserted, and took a generous second bite.
"In other words, no evidence will be offered about Brown when he comes up next Thursday—but we'll get him again for murdering Plender."
"We will not get him for murdering Madison," Head stated decidedly. "Even if he did, I don't see any way of pinning it on him. Assume that he did, and Hallam can't say what time he left the place, while at this length of time no other witness's declaration over the time he drove away would hold up under cross-examination by any good counsel. And no finger-prints—it's not a finger-print case. Put Brown in an assize court dock, and he gets a verdict of 'Not Guilty' inevitably."
"And both you and I get it in the neck," Wadden concluded for him. "Not that it would make much difference to me, for I shall be growing tomatoes under glass if that place is all Guddle cracks it up to be—or half what he made out it is. And they can't touch my pension."
"And then, even if innocent, Brown would travel through the rest of his life under a cloud," Head reflected. "It would be equivalent to 'Not Proven.' I can't let that happen, chief."
"Wherefore, we let him out on Thursday, eh?"
"I was thinking that I've got to find the right mam," Head said.
"In other words, the famous Inspector Head declares that Brown did not do it. Very well. I expect Miss Madison will be along here to see him either tomorrow or Monday, and she'll ask me about getting hold of Eustace or some other defending counsel, and I'll tell her not to bother. I thought you said you didn't want any scone?"
Head gazed at the empty plate before him. "I think I feel better for it," he admitted. "Now I'll go and see Kidham."
He gained admittance as before, but now two sallow youths sat at the bare table in the bookmaker's outer office, and snatched up one telephone instrument apiece almost before putting another down, repeating bets of all sizes monotonously. Kidham hurried Head through to his own loose-box, as he called it, and himself looked in from the doorway.
"Not supposed to let you in while racin's on, Mr. Head," he observed. "Half a mo' and I'll be with you. It's the last race but one, and I've got to lay a bit off to even my book on it. Shan't be a tick."
Left alone, Head went to the window and looked down on the frontage of the Idleburn Valley bank. The doors had closed for the day, and the clerks were smoking cigarettes and taking things easily as they finished their work: Hagger brooded over a big account book in his private office. From this height, Head could see them all at work, and if they looked up, he knew, they could see him, and probably talk among themselves and question what he was doing in the town bookmaker's office.
But none of them looked up. Head's thoughts went to Clare, and he had an inconsequent thought of how Byrne always called her "Emily," as her sister had done, too, while her mother had always referred to her as "Emmy," a contraction that had made Head shudder. Clare Emily—he leaned against the window frame with a sudden stab of realisation. "Clare Emily Head"—and Kidham entered the room and closed the door.
"Sorry to keep you waitin' like this, Mr. Head, but it meant more risk than I can stand just now. I had to lay off. Now what can I do for you? But before that, I hope there's nothing wrong at your place. Comin' past this morning, I spotted Bennett's car and a Rolls outside, an' a well-dressed stranger come out to the Rolls with Bennett—"
"Nothing whatever wrong," Head interrupted. "Thank you all the same, Kidham. But I called to ask you a trifle more about Lewinson and his debt to you. I had an idea he might have paid it by now."
"One hundred and eighty, he paid last night, Mr. Head," Kidham admitted. "Come here with it, well after racing hours—I was just closing down for the day. Wanted to go on with his system an' get the rest back instead of paying up, but I wasn't having any. I told him, payment in full before I'd take another bet of his, and sent him off."
"Do you mind telling me in what form he paid?" Head inquired.
"Not a bit. Five twenties, and eight tens. I took the numbers, if you want 'em, before paying in this morning, because I don't know where he got 'em, and I had an idea you might be askin' about him again, hearing he got marched to the station this morning with you in the procession. Shall I get the numbers for you, Mr. Head?"
"No, thank you. The march was over something entirely different, and Lewinson will appear in court over it on Monday morning. I'm very much obliged to you, Kidham, and don't think I shall have to trouble you any more." He moved toward the door as he spoke.
"Glad if can do anything any time," Kidham assured him, "an' glad to know there's nothing wrong at home. Look in any time if you think I can tell you anything that might be useful."
"Thank you very much. I'll remember it."
Going back to the police station, he reflected that Lewinson would not have parted with so much of the loan he had raised the day before if he had known of all that to-day would bring him. He had twenty pounds left—the fact of his keeping that sum back went to show that he had very little more, though, with the end of the quarter at hand, his allowance from the bank was nearly due. But then, provision had to be made out of it for repayment of the loan and interest by monthly instalments: with the letter Lewinson had written at the moneylender's dictation, Hagger would not release any of Lewinson's income until he saw a ninety pound credit balance. Which meant that, failing other sources of income, Lewinson had just twenty pounds to last him until he had paid off three hundred pounds in ten monthly instalments—on three hundred and ten pounds a year! And, unless he chose to plead guilty, all the expense of a defence for his forthcoming trial in the near future.
"No," Head reported to the superintendent, "Lewinson did not pay over any of Madison's notes, and kept back some of what he got yesterday. I have nothing that connects him with Madison's death."
"Which is a pity," Wadden unlocked a drawer of his desk and took out an envelope. "I'd sooner see him in Brown's place than anyone else. Just glance at these"—and he handed over the envelope. "Wells printed 'em off the negatives you took from Lewinson's flat."
In silence Head withdrew the contents of the envelope and glanced at each print in turn. Then he put them back, and handed the envelope back to Wadden, who locked it away again.
"Laddie, the bench won't try either him or Quade. They're both jury cases, and Westingborough is going to hum as never before."
"Not only Mrs. Quade—three others as well," Head commented.
"And they're all exhibits!" Wadden exclaimed. "No mercy on any one of the four, say I. Three divorce cases to follow, for certain—Quade won't sue, I'd say. But that'll be three barristers blessing us as agents of Providence—and another thing, Head! It'll put this Madison case so far in the background that you'll get no press on it unless you get your man. You'll be able to work on it without the drawback of publicity, for this is going to be the biggest scandal the district has ever known. Parkinson's wife! What do we do if he turns up on Monday to sit with the other justices? I don't want to hold back any evidence against Lewinson, and won't hold back any, but—"
"Parkinson's got to know sometime," Head pointed out, "and he's not the type of man that ought to be a justice of the peace, chief. Like you, I don't feel inclined to spare anybody concerned with Lewinson in the case, nor have I any great sympathy with Mrs. Parkinson's husband."
"And it's your case. You uncovered it all."
"Chief"—Head got up from his chair—"I'm going home. Can't do any more to-day—can't think any more. I'm going home."
"Good idea. Leave everything till Monday. I'll look in tomorrow and attend to anything that may crop up. You get along and forget it all for awhile, and you'll find Madison's murderer all the more easily. Don't bother about a thing till you're due in court Monday morning."
He brooded alone after Head had gone.
"Hell's own torture, watching and waiting—it's that that's got him down. He ought not to have married her—not the wife for him, even without this. But then, what woman—oh, I dunno!"
"Well, Clare, what had Bennett's great man to tell you?"
"Oh, the same as Bennett himself, Jeremy." She smiled as she answered. "At my time of life—my time of life!—I must expect some trouble of the sort, and do what Doctor Bennett tells me."
"Yes. I was so sure he'd say it that I didn't trouble to come back at midday. I was over at Carden, and knew I'd get in early this afternoon!"
"But if you were so sure, why go to the expense of a specialist? From London, too! His fee must have been very high."
"No, not very high. He's a friend of Bennett's, you see. And—well, we know Bennett so well that I thought you might not feel like taking his unsupported word about there being nothing radically wrong. I know you've always had Mary's death at the back of your mind, whatever I might say to persuade you that you needn't fear anything of the sort. And a leading man like Staniforth, confirming Bennett's verdict, was necessary to convince you, I thought. Bennett's prescribing, I suppose?"
"The bottle is there, on the mantelpiece."
Head took it down and looked at the label. "When did this arrive, Clare?" he asked, replacing it.
"Just before I had my lunch."
"Well, you are instructed to take it three times a day, after meals, and you haven't uncorked the bottle yet, by the look of it."
"I forgot, Jeremy. I'll take a dose after we've had our dinner. It's not so very important, is it, by what they both said? Let's talk about something else. I didn't expect you back so soon."
"Well, I've nothing more to do till Monday. Wadden has some work he can't neglect, so he'll be in at the station tomorrow, and I needn't."
"Until he rings you up and tells you another murder is waiting."
"I haven't finished with the current one, yet. But—Clare—on the way to Carden this morning I noticed how wonderful the autumn colours are this year, and the weather is almost like midsummer. What do you say to turning the car out and making a day of it tomorrow? Pack a lunch and go by the old coach road to have a look at the woods?"
"Oh, that would be lovely! Yes, let's." She turned her back on him abruptly and went to the window of the room to look out.
"Nothing wrong, is there, Clare?" he asked anxiously, as he noted the change in her voice and saw her sudden shudder.
"Wrong?" she echoed, almost with irritation. "Why, what could be wrong, Jeremy? I shall hardly sleep tonight for thinking of tomorrow. Why, we haven't had a whole day out together like that since you took your fortnight in June! It will be lovely, I know."
She faced about and came close to him, her eyes downcast.
"Jeremy, I want to ask you something. Would you very much mind sleeping in your dressing-room for a few nights? I—I'm sleeping rather badly just now, and the slightest sound or movement disturbs me."
"Of course I won't mind, if you wish it," he said.
"Then that's all right. And I'll pack the lunch and glasses tomorrow morning, and you attend to the bottle part of it."
"Trust me for that," he assured her.
Parkinson, J.P., and a woman justice, a tousled, elderly harridan of great wealth who annoyed the male members of the Westingborough bench by sucking peppermints when she attended, represented the blindfolded goddess with the scales on Monday morning, and obeyed the whispered promptings of Lucas Barham, clerk to the court, while they disposed of four drunk-and-disorderlies and three peccant motorists. Then Lewinson, who had surrendered to his bail, appeared in the dock.
Superintendent Wadden stood up after the charge had been read out.
"Your worships," he said, "I ask for an adjournment of this case. Inspector Head, the principal witness against the accused, is unable to attend and give evidence."
"And what excuse has Inspector Head to offer for his absence?" the peppermint-sucking harridan on the bench demanded acidly.
"The discovery of his wife's dead body this morning, madam," Wadden answered.
Dear Jeremy,
When you said a few minutes ago that you wanted to go and see Superintendent Wadden, and bade me good-night, I knew you really meant that you wanted a breathing space before going on with the pretence. Not that one word or look has told me it is a pretence. You are as clever over this as over your cases. Perhaps cleverer, because, I flatter myself, it touches you more deeply. Poor Jeremy! To-day must have been terrible for you, having to pretend I was going to get well—even taking the bottle of medicine and insisting I should take a dose after our lunch under the trees. But that dose is among the tree roots, because I know what the stuff contains, having been with Mary in the last fortnight of her life. I want to keep my brain as clear as this suddenly grown pain will let it be, until the end.
It was not Bennett who let me see the truth, but his specialist. I will not tell you how I learned it from him, lest anyone else condemned to death as I am should fail to learn from him. I think we who suffer in this way, without hope as I am, should be told, given choice as I am. I believe most firmly that I have a perfect right to take my life, knowing as I do that every day I live is either a period of greater pain than I endured the day before, or else a drugged horror, until I have to face such undruggable agony as made Mary glad to die. I have a right to end my life rather than endure what she was forced to endure, and to end it before they drug me past the power to decide—as I have decided. You will think, because of my enjoyment of the sheer beauty of all we saw together to-day, that I ought at least to have deferred a little longer over what I am about to do. But I might have deferred too long, had to endure the alternative. And that I will not risk.
Lest you or anyone should be blamed about prohibited drugs, I want it made quite clear, and write here, that while I was with my sister during the last fortnight of her life I stole and hid a tube of morphine tablets, which I have kept ever since without your knowledge because of my fear—you knew of that—of this disease, and my constant determination to take my own life if ever I learned, as I have now, that it had grown beyond cure. I bought the hypodermic syringe and needles yesterday afternoon at Randall's.
If, before saying good-bye, I tried to tell you how good to me you have always been, I should fail utterly. I think our picnic in the woods to-day was the crown of it all. Your absolute unselfishness, your care for me, your perfect concealment of the knowledge that I was doomed to the worst of deaths—I had to stop writing there, lest the tears should drip on the paper, Jeremy. I hate to think of what it will mean to you when—tomorrow morning, but believe me it is better this way for you as well as for me. The other way, you would have had to watch as I watched Mary die, and that, as Superintendent Wadden would say—give my love to his old lady—is no sort of tomato for any man's taste. Puff-f-f!
Jeremy, I have asked you not to come into my room when you return, lest you should waken me. You will come in in the morning, I know, but I shall not waken then. I hope you will find someone, a little later, whom you can make as happy as you have always made me—happier, perhaps, because I know there were some sides of your life I have not shared. Your real love of nature, and the—to me—strange belief in other worlds existing in the one we see with our physical eyes—I wonder if you remember how you once tried to tell me that belief, soon after we were married, and I ridiculed it. I wish I hadn't, now. I was always a town mouse, Jeremy, worse luck for you. I feel almost flippant enough to advise—no, though.
No, because of the last request I have to make of you, and there is not time to write a separate letter—you will be back, soon, and I must put my purpose beyond your power of altering, before then. My last request, as solemn and earnest as my marriage vows, that you will let this letter be read at the inquest on me. I beg it of you, my husband, that other sufferers may know of one who, doomed like them, does not fear to face God and answer for having taken this way out from all my sister suffered in the last months of her life. I am not afraid. I, and all placed in my position, have the right to do what I am about to do.
Now, as good-bye, Jeremy—copied from your volume of Browning:
What did I fear?
Thy love shall hold me fast
Until the little minute's sleep is past
And I wake saved.—And yet it will not be!
Now I am going to sleep. Good-bye, Jeremy.
Clare.
"See if you can arrange the inquest for this afternoon, chief. And you might read this before handing it on to Payne-Garland. I'm going to comply with her request about having it read at the inquest—you'll find in it a reference to yourself and Mrs. Wadden."
"You'll go on leave, after, laddie?"
"Not I! Could there be a worse hell than idle brooding on it? No, face my work, finish the Madison case if it can be finished, and know she'd think far more of me for taking that course than any other."
"Yes, she would. So do I, laddie."
"I HAVE read you such portions of the letter left by the deceased lady as bear directly on this distressing occurrence," Payne-Garland told the eight men and women who composed his jury, "and you have heard all the available evidence. Except that I offer my deepest sympathy to Mr. Head, whom I have long known and respected, I make no comment on what has been stated in evidence, but leave you to state your verdict."
A whispered conference, and then Ednam the grocer, foreman not for the first time of a coroner's jury, requested permission to retire for a few minutes. His few amounted to five, and then in answer to Payne-Garland's question he stated the verdict.
"We find, sir, that the deceased died by her own act, but are unable to agree as to the state of her mind at the time."
"And you want me to reduce that to an official verdict?" Payne-Garland rasped out, eyeing Ednam unfriendlily through his thick-lensed pince-nez, while Wadden, too, stared fiercely at the man who had overbid him for that nice little place on the Carden—Crandon marsh road.
"Like you, sir," Ednam said stoutly, "we've all known Mr. Head long enough to feel that we don't wish to distress him by expressing any opinion as to whether the deceased was justified in what she did. For myself, after hearing the parts of that letter you read us, I think she was, but if we all said so it'd be a verdict of felo-de-se. And that—well, it wouldn't be what any one of us wished."
"That she died by her own hand, but the available evidence is not sufficient for you to come to any conclusion as to her state of mind at the time," Payne-Garland suggested. "I see no objection to stretching the point."
"That's it, sir," Ednam agreed gratefully, "and we wish to assure Mr. Head of our very deep sympathy—I should say to join with you in offering it."
On Tuesday morning Head set out for his interview with the Todlington cobbler: his wife's funeral was to take place at three that afternoon, and Mrs. Wadden, who in the absence of any relative had offered to take charge of Head's house until he returned, was already beginning to wonder about transport for the wreaths which arrived in monotonous succession. Wadden, emerging from the police station for a breather, as he termed it, crossed the road to the Duke of York entrance, for he saw Percy Butters, representing the Universal Press Agency and sent here from London after Quade's and Lewinson's names had appeared in the news in connection with the north London arrests, standing in the doorway and gazing wistfully at the police station. And, sore over Head's bitter grief, Wadden felt savagely communicative about the objects of Butters' mission here. He held out a friendly hand, and the pressman managed to conceal his amazement at the gesture as he grasped it.
"In the news again, ain't we?" Wadden said. "If you can remember to put 'alleged' in often enough, I can give you quite a packet."
"Superintendent, you're a godsend!" Butters averred almost reverently. "I'm staying in this hotel, as usual, and I helped to prop up the long bar yesterday evening while I listened to the locals. There ought to have been about ten scraps, over whether Mrs. Head ought to have done it or no, and another ten to make the first ten shut up about it in case the arguments got to the inspector's ears. Your lime-squash man—I always call him that, because he makes one lime-squash last him the whole evening in there—Ednam, his name is—he turned out rather a brick, I thought. Said it didn't matter whether Mr. Head got to know or no, it was indecent of 'em all to talk as they did about the lady."
"Did he, though? I'll forgive him about that little place, then."
"What little place is that, superintendent?" Butters asked interestedly, and wondering if he might put yet another story on the wires.
"Never mind, young feller," Wadden said severely. "But—yes, just on opening time. I never go into this place now, except on business, but if you care to come along as far as the Black Lion they've got a little parlour at the back where I can a tale unfold, as long as you don't forget the 'alleged' and don't say where you got it. I'm out to scarify the innards of the two unspeakable bits of dirt I believe you to be here to write up, and for this once you're personum bonum or whatever it is with the police in this town. All hatchets are buried between us, so come along and I'll buy the first two."
He was buying them when Head, at Todlington, replaced his hat after greeting the little old woman who stood in the doorway as usual—she vacated it, he decided, to go to bed, but appeared to occupy it all her waking hours—and turned toward the shed where Ebbutt, hammering mightily at a piece of sole leather supported on a block of some sort on his knees, managed to miss his long beard with every blow. He laid both hammer and leather aside as Head appeared in his doorway.
"Mornin', mister. Come in, du. My missus towd me you was comin', an' said it was about boots. But it ain't, is it?"
"It is not about boots." Head advanced and stood beside the cobbler's low bench and seat combined. "In fact, I always wear shoes."
"Tens." Ebbutt glanced down at them. "Not about them, neether. I know. Yu goo about, pickin' up a word heere an' another theere, an' piece it all together like—like buildin' a good pair o' uppers an' stitchin' the soles on the welts. An' then yu git yure man. I know. But"—he peered up at Head through his spectacles—"yu got him arriddy, this time, so I caan't see what yu want wi' me."
"Oh, I thought I'd like a talk with you about things in general, Mr. Ebbutt," Head told him. "Mustn't stick too closely to work, you know."
"An' that's what I allus say. Du yu set down, mister—that stule's pretty comforable, an' yu c'n lean back agin the wall, if yu like. An' I c'n unnerstand, mister. 'Ithout upsettin' yu by sayin' a lot, I wur real sorry when I read about it. Yu don't wanter talk about that, I know, an' I on't say no more. Things in general—aye."
"You've been here some years, eh?" Head suggested.
"All me life, mister. It'll be nigh on fifty year ago I fust set down alongside me father on this here bench, an' he leathered me proper for spilin' a bit o' box calf. Expensive stuff it wur in them days, an' he useter make as many boots as he repaired—folk like yu, mister, hadn't took to wearin' shoes steddy boots, like they du now. Farmin' was better'n what it is now, an' there worn't none o' this eight-hour day foolery to ruin it. Yu caan't farm on an eight-hour day, mister, any more'n yu c'n maake a cow believe in daylight saavin'. Aye, nigh on fifty year, an' I seen some changes, I have. No makin' boots nowadays. Them machines killed it all. I ain't made a pair sence the war—not sence Mr. Lacy died, I ain't."
"Mr. Lacy?" Head inquired. "Who might he have been?"
"Built that house this side the Feathers," Ebbutt explained. "The real owd-fashioned sort, he wur. Cattle dealer, wi' odd feet—took a ten right foot an' eleven left, so he allus had to have his boots maade steddy buyin' 'em outer a shop. My father maade 'em, an' then me. Gret big man, he wur, wi' eyes as near black as iver I see—an' mister, if ever yu git towd somebody got black eyes, don't yu believe it. There's allus a difference betwixt the middle an' the ring round it—the part that go big an' small accordin' to the light yu're in. Maybe only a little difference i' the colours, but it's theer all the saame. Noobery ever got all black eyes, so don't yu believe it if yu hear it said."
"And this Mr. Lacy's were nearly black, then?"
"Aye, as near as any I iver see. Reglar owd-fashioned, he wur. He useter have a pound an a haaf o' steak for his breakfast, linin' f'r the day, he called it, an' then he'd turn out wi' his owd hoss an' cart an' niver eat no more till he got back at night, though he'd drink wi' anyone, an' more'n most, too. Beer nowadays ain't what it wur then, but Mr. Lacy never asked for no less'n a pint, an' mostly, if he went in any wheer wi' anyone to do a deal, he'd have tu pints or happen three afore the deal was done. Because, yu see, mister, he had a strong head, an' happen t'other man's worn't so strong, so Mr. Lacy'd git the best o' him over the deal, whativer it might be. Ah, a real old-fashioned sort, he wur, an' the bullocks 'at passed through his hands, an' young stock, too! He useter 'tend all the sales at Crandon, Westingborough too—Westingborough worn't no more'n a small town, them days, 'pendin' more on the farmers what come in market days 'n what it du now. Now, 'pears like it's all Nevile's dye works, an' not much else. Yu don't see them owd farmers drivin' in an' puttin' up at the Duke o' York, like they useter when my father was alive. An' Mr. Lacy wur what yu might call king o' the sale yard, both theer an' at Crandon, market days. Had things his own way, mostly, because noobery c'd tell what he'd du. He'd run fat stock up to noobery know what price, as if he meant to have it if it cost him ivery penny he got—an' then drop it on some poor fule at pounds more'n it was worth, stop biddin' when they thought he wur goin' on. A bit o' that, an' as soon as he bid iveryone else stopped. Tell the weight o' a fat bullock as soon as he see it, too, he could. A rare owd-fashioned sort, he wur."
"An interesting character," Head agreed. "Has he been dead long?"
"Dead long? Why, he died afore the war! Died the week afore his son wur born, too—young Mr. Lacy what just give up his job at the bank i' Westingborough. Died i' King Edward's time, afore King George come to the throne—the owd King Edward, Victoria's son, I mean. There bin so many changes yu got to explain when yu talk about Edwards an' Georges. This one seems the right sort, though. Aye, Mr. Lacy bin dead all them yeers—bedridden, too, he wur, the laast tu yeers o' his life, an' I have heerd said—but that's neether heer nor theer, as the sayin' is. But they du say she worn't none tu sorry when he did die."
"His wife, you mean?" Head encouraged the old man to continue. "It can hardly be wondered at—two years' bedridden. A release for him too, I should think. What was wrong with him, then?"
"Arthritis, it wur," Ebbutt answered. "What c'd he expect? A pound an' a haaf o' steak mornin's, beer by the pint all day, out all weathers wi' that owd horse an' cart o' his, an' if he got wet through he useter say clean rain never hurt noobery, an' he'd never had a cowd an' it wur all fancy as long as yu had enough beer inside yu to keep yu warm. Fulish over that, he wur, an' paid for it at the finish. Two year, bedridden, till he died. Niver see the boy, he didn't."
"And Mrs. Lacy—is she dead too?" Head inquired.
"What, her? No, she's still a-livin' i' that house he built—own it, she du. She wur a lot younger'n what he wur. He'd had a housekeeper afore he married an' had a son by her—one what went for a sowger an' got killed somewhere in foreign parts. But she stole from him—the housekeeper, I mean—so he turned her out an' married this one—Mrs. Lacy what is now. She wur noobery when he married her. In service up at Tolston Hall—Squire Hastings' place on the coach road over Condor Hall, but she'd no sooner got to be Mrs. Lacy when she started puttin' on airs. Got a sister, cook at Condor Grange she is, but don't never speak to her or see her, Mrs. Lacy don't. Too proud. Useter cripple her feet wi' fives till the boy wur born, but she's took sixes ever since. I know, because they come here for repair. The boy had to be eddicated an' put i' the bank at Westingborough, an' now it seem as if even that ain't good enough for him. Anyhow, he's left, an' now he go runnin' about on that motor-bike o' his interviewin' possible employers. That's what Mrs. Lacy told the woman what go in to do the rough work there. Tu genteel to say lookin' f'r a job, I reckon."
"You don't seem to care much for Mrs. Lacy," Head encouraged him.
"Keer for her?" Ebbutt almost snorted, and took off his spectacles to wipe them on the corner of his apron. "I don't keer for anyone what get stuck-up an' ashamed o' their relations, mister. An' that sister o' hers at Condor Grange, noobery niver had a word to say against her character, which is more'n c'n be said about some people."
"I don't quite understand that," Head observed.
"Well, if I wur bedridden, an' had been bedridden for more'n a year, all crippled wi' arthritis an' rheumatics, an' I had a young wife what come an' towd me what I s' pose she had to tell him some time, I'd git outer that there bed somehow to go lookin' f'r somebody," Ebbutt declared with conviction. "Not that he could git outer bed. He wur tu far gone—died the week afore the baby wur born, like I said."
Since Head made no comment, he picked up the piece of leather he had hammered, adjusted his spectacles on his nose with his disengaged hand, apparently to study the effects of the hammering, and then threw the leather into a big galvanised basin of water standing at the end of his bench. Then he folded his hands over his apron, apparently content and in no hurry to resume work.
"I suppose you've heard a good deal about the murder?" Head suggested, concluding that, as subjects for conversation Mr. and Mrs. Lacy were exhausted.
"We have an' we hain't," Ebbutt answered perplexingly. "I mean," he explained, "theer's f'r everlastin' o' talk about it, but it don't seem to git nowheer. No doubt Brown done it. One o' them i' the Feathers laast night wur sayin' that young Mr. Lewinson got more cause to do it, account o' not gittin' his rights from owd Madison over what his father invented, but I towd him straight out that wur fulish talk, an' dangerous f'r him too, if it got about. 'Cause my missus see young Mr. Lewinson ride paast on his motor-bike, comin' t'other way—away from owd Madison's place, I mean—afore iver this chap Brown drove there i' that car o' his to do the murder, which wur afore he drove Miss Madison theer an' fetched her away agin, like it wur said at the inquest by Sergint Plender. Yu got a good man theer, mister. Sergint Plender know his job, an' he didn't lose no time about it."
"None whatever," Head agreed. "And were they the only two along this road that afternoon? It's not as deserted as all that, surely?"
"Theer wur folk along it, but noobery else what'd a-murdered owd Madison," Ebbutt declared firmly. "I hain't got no likin' f'r Mrs. Lacy, which went along on foot goin' t'ords the factory arter I'd had my tea, but I'd not say she done it, all the same. I'd not say the Reverend Ollyer from Carden done it, though he did drive along that way afore this Brown fetched Miss Madison to the house an' took her away agin. An' I'd not say any o' the chaps wi' lorries an' the like what drove that way, ner yit any cicylists what rode paast heer, went an' done it. Theer worn't noobery went paast heer, 'ceptin' that Brown, which coulda done it, to my thinkin'. Young Mr. Lewinson worn' t the one, 'cause he'd rode back Carden way afore that Brown drove to owd Madison's the first time he drove hisself theer. I'd only got back from my dinner an' set down when young Mr. Lewinson went back t'ords Carden—long afore two o'clock, it wur. Pleasant-spoken young gentleman that young Mr. Lewinson is—not like that Brown Sergint Plender took up f'r doin' it. Not that I iver see anything o' this Brown to speak to."
"But people talk, eh?" Head suggested.
"Aye, an' I listen, mostly, an' learn a lot that way. They say owd Madison wouldn't niver have anything to du wi' this Brown, which was his nevvy an' wanted his money, as well as wantin' to marry Miss Madison. Unless it wur for the money he wanted to marry her. It'll all come out when he's tried an' hung for it, I reckon. It generly du, in them cases."
"Do you get much work from the factory?" Head asked abruptly.
"A few pair—not many, mister. Most o' the gals that work there come from Gunwell, an' they don't git paid bad, an' they buy them cheap shoes which it pay better to throw 'em away an' git a new pair rather'n waste good leather on repairin' of 'em. Wooden Looey heels—I git a pair now an' then to tip, but the stuff ain't worth resolin', an' they know it, mostly. Buy new. New an' cheap. I sole an' heel f'r Mr. Imminger—tens, he takes, like them yu wear, an' walk on the outsides o' his feet somethin' awfl, he du. Wore down to the welts on the outsides, they are, while the insides is like new. Bunions, maybe."
"And Miss Madison and the servants there—you do their work?"
"Not a lot f'r Miss Madison—fours, she taake. Good stuff, what I see of it. High-priced stuff—yu'd think it wur handmade, to look at it, but theer's next to no handmade nowheer, nowadays. That Susan, she taake sixes wi' low heels, sensible footwear. Hallam taake eights, an' owd Madison used to taake eights, which wur nice f'r Hallam."
"That sort of man, is he?" Head suggested.
"What I don't know, I caan't say," Ebbutt responded darkly. "But noobery ain't goin' to stop me from thinkin' what I like. I recollect when Hallam first come theer—groom over at Condor Grange, he'd been till then, an' theer wur a fuss about a housemaid—owd Mr. Bell sent 'em both packin', an' the gal married a man what drove a brewer's dray not long arter. In time, anyhow. An' Hallam come to Madison's, smart young chap, he wur then. My missis's sister wur in service theer at that time, an' she towd my missis owd Madison had Hallam in the first week an' towd him, no goin's on theer like he'd done at Condor Grange, else out he'd go an' he might sue f'r his pay if he liked. An' so if Hallam went arter any gals i' Todlington, he done it so on the quiet that noobery ever got to talkin' about it. But owd Madison give him that warnin' 'count o' his bein' known heer afore iver he left Condor Grange. Useter ride heer on a bicycle, he did, f'r awhile, long afore he come to Madison's, an' it wur said 'at Mr. Lacy'd warmed his jacket f'r him if he worn't bedridden at the time. An' theer wur Flower's gal, too, but arter Hallam come to Madison's he kep' away from all of 'em."
"Reformed, as you might say," Head commented.
"It wur that or luse the job," Ebbutt explained. "'Cause owd Madison wur allus strict over anything like that. They du say Mr. Imminger got towd off somethin' cruel by the owd man more'n once, 'cause he kep' it secret from him if gals at the factory worn't quite straight. Out they got to go, if owd Madison got to know anything. No mercy. An' same wi' Hallam. Him an' owd Madison got on well together, but if iver Madison'd got to know he wur carryin' on wi' any gal i' the plaace, out he'd a-gone, that minute. An' they du say he got to think all the world o' owd Madison arter he'd been theer awhile, an' it'd a broke his heart if he lost the job. Look like it, too, the way he took on at the inquest. Near as bad as Susan wur, he wur, grievin' so."
"Was this Mrs. Lacy at the inquest, do you know?" Head asked.
"Aye. Pretty much iverybody in Todlington what could git off f'r it wur theer," Ebbutt told him. "A lot from Gunwell, too."
"You said, a little while back," Head reminded him, "that Mrs. Lacy went walking toward the factory on Wednesday afternoon, after you'd had your tea. But with her house nearer the factory than yours, how do you happen to know this? Were you out to see her go?"
Ebbutt gazed out from his window as he reflected over the query.
"In a place like this, mister, people talk," he said at last, "an' that Mrs. Lacy been a bit of a highflyer, as iverybody know, though she's paast gittin' inter mischief now, I reckon. Still, people will talk. It wur just afore her son got back on his motor-bike. Fred Billinger, which live at the next house, he wur turnin' up the laast o' his tater crop to dry in his garden afore storin' of 'em f'r the winter, arter he'd got back from work f'r the day, an' he seen her go paast from her house t'ords the factory an' thought young Mr. Lacy'd have to git his own tea, if so be as he wanted any afore he had his supper. Fred went on a-turnin' out his taters till it wur tu dark to see which wur taters an' which wur clods, an' she niver come back afore he went in an' had his supper an' then come along to the Feathers f'r his haaf-pint o' mild an' bitter. An it was that what maade me mention her when I wur sayin' about who went paast. She didn't go paast heer, it's true, but I heerd about it from Fred Billinger i' the Feathers."
"And young Lacy didn't go to look for her?" Head suggested.
"Why, how'd he know wheer she'd gone, seein' she'd gone arriddy when he got back on his motor-bike?" Ebbutt queried in reply. "I reckon he jest set tu an' biled the kittle an' got his own tea."
A small girl child, appearing in the doorway, looked at Head in a rather frightened way until his smile reassured her, when she transferred her attention to the cobbler, who had got on his feet.
"Come for mother's shoes, my dear?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Ebbutt," she answered. "And I brought the one and six."
He handed her a package and took the money from her hand. "Thank you, Daisy," he said. "Tell her they'll go another six months, now."
"Yes, Mr. Ebbutt. Thank you, Mr. Ebbutt," and she turned and ran out from the garden, the package under her arm.
"Two bob, if it'd been yu, mister," Ebbutt observed, "but they got a ailin' daughter, somethin' wrong wi' her spine. You ain't goin', though, surely?" For Head had risen and moved toward the door.
"I must, now, Mr. Ebbutt. Thank you very much for this very interesting talk, and"—he stooped and turned back to put a two-shilling piece down on the corner of the bench—"I hope you won't be above drinking my health when you go to the Feathers to-night."
"Since yu put it like that, mister, I'll do it wi' pleasure, an'—an' a happy issue outer yu're sore affliction, I'm sure. Which you wouldn't want me to talk about, but I mean it all the same."
Driving slowly back toward Carden, Head reflected over all that Ebbutt had told him, and settled to consideration of Mrs. Lacy's evening walk, "past the factory." Since this Fred Billinger lived next door to her, the windings of the road would prevent him from seeing whether she passed the factory or stopped short of it, but he seemed pretty certain that she had not returned while he had a chance of seeing her, and he had kept at work on his potatoes as long as the light would let him. Plender, returning to Carden to go on to Westingborough with his prisoner, might have seen the woman: Head himself felt certain that he had seen no woman walking alone between the Feathers and Madison's house, either on his journey there or when returning. Such a one would be conspicuous enough for him to remark her, but, he reflected, there was plenty of cover to either side of the road behind which she might have hidden from his sight, osiers growing in clumps on the wide grass verge, wild rose bushes still leafy—all the foliage one might expect along such a country road, not yet widened to more than two-vehicle width and little troubled by motor traffic. Not much more than a lane, in fact, in spite of the existence of the brush factory beside it.
Yet why should Mrs. Lacy, if out for a walk, need to hide herself? Had she passed Billinger's garden on the way back to her own house when he had been too intent on that potato crop of his to notice?...
The blare of an ultra-raucous klaxon in rear of him startled Head from his reflections, and he pulled close in to the grass verge to make way for someone apparently in a hurry. Jim Brown's casserole shot past with Avril Madison at the wheel, and she took no notice whatever of Head, but kept her gaze on the road ahead of her. Travelling at fully twice his pace, she was abreast of him only for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for him to see the heads of a big cluster of white carnations just emergent from a wrapping of florists' tissue inside brown paper. Carnations, he was almost sure: no other flowers of the autumn looked quite like that... Rather odd that she had given no sign of recognition: she must have known whom she was passing, or had she, like himself, been lost in such deep thought as to drive with little notice of anyone she might pass? Yet she had had to hoot for clear way, and surely must have recognised him.
He saw Sergeant Plender glooming in Carden Street, not far from the Carden Arms, and stopped, whereupon the sergeant came alongside him.
"Good morning, sir," and Plender saluted. "Sorry to say Superintendent Wadden wouldn't let me off to go to Mrs. Head's funeral, sir. He let Hawker off, and told me by 'phone to stop on duty here."
The sort of thing Wadden would do, Head reflected.
"All right, Plender—it's the will that counts. I want to ask you, though—when Brown drove you to Madison's house on Wednesday afternoon, or when you were fetching him away before I met you here at the Carden Arms, did you see a middle-aged or elderly woman, a Mrs. Lacy of Todlington, walking along that road in either direction?"
"No, sir. I know Mrs. Lacy by sight, and I'm quite sure if I'd seen her walking along the road I should have remembered it."
"Did you see anything of her anywhere that afternoon?"
"No, sir. Nothing whatever."
"Did you see anyone else worth remark near Madison's place?"
Plender thought it over. "Nobody at all, sir. That is, a couple of lorries, Mr. Hawk keeping an eye out at the station, and that chap who lives next to the Lacys digging in his garden—I don't know his name. But taking it all round, the road was very quiet, I remember."
"That's all, thank you, Plender."
Detective-Inspector Byrne, mournful-looking at the best of times—it had been remarked of him that he looked far more like a poet out of a job than a detective—had arrived for the funeral by the time Head got back to Westingborough. He was the only relative either of Head or of his wife to be present, and, waiting on the doorstep when Head reached his home, he expressed his sympathy by a silent handgrip, after which the two of them went inside.
"They're lovely." Looking into the dining-room, in which wreaths and sheaves of flowers were stacked endlessly, Byrne pointed to a great bunch of white carnations, tied with white silk ribbon, and having also round their long stems a length of silver cord, wound loosely thrice and with its ends thrust under the ribbon to hold it in place, but not tied.
At a thought, Head went into the room and looked more closely at these flowers. No card had been pinned to the ribbon, nor was there any sign to denote who had sent them, except—
—Or ever the silver cord be loosed—
He backed to where Byrne stood. "Very lovely," he said.
"A boy brought them," Byrne observed. "Mrs. Wadden tried to get out of him where they came from, but he didn't know. She said he came from Randall's, which it appears is a chemist's shop here, and all she could get out of him was that Mr. Randall had told him he was to bring them. But Randall and his wife had already sent a wreath—it was one of the first to arrive, Mrs. Wadden says."
"The silver cord, loosed," Head said. "No—nothing, Terry. I wish—how much longer is there to wait? This Madison case—I'm beginning to see my way in it, and I know it'll please Clare to know I'm carrying on."
"You think she does know, then?" Byrne asked.
"Don't be such a mug, Terry! of course she does!"
NEVER, Superintendent Wadden decided, had he seen Head's face quite so mask-like as on the morning after Clare's funeral. For a minute or two the pair of friends faced each other in Wadden's room.
"This Madison case, chief. It may take a few days, yet—I'm not sure. I'm beginning what I see as the last stage of it to-day, and you can let Brown out to-morrow. Offer no evidence, that is."
"Which automatically discharges Plender," Wadden commented. "A pity, with only two years to go for pension, but I've got to report the facts, and don't see how I can save him. Don't forget you'll have to attend court to-morrow to give evidence against Lewinson and Quade."
"That won't take long," Head observed. "They'll both be committed for trial. Whom do you propose to promote in place of Plender?"
"Jeffries, obviously. We shall miss him badly for office work, but I'll take Blake in here in his place. He can drive the saloon, and he's got both shorthand and typing—a bit rusty on them, but he'll soon polish 'em up. By the way, London is subpoenaing Quade on their case."
"And they're almost certain to send for me, too. All the more reason for putting the right criminal in place of Brown as quickly as I can. I shall look in toward the end of the day, chief."
He attended first to his own affairs by visiting the offices of Messrs. Putter and Snow, the local auctioneers and house agents, where he put things in train for transferring the lease of his home and selling all its contents by auction. For, he knew, he could not go on living there: rooms somewhere in the town—a flat like the one Lewinson would, almost certainly, be compelled to vacate after serving his sentence, but not in that same building. Somewhere handy for the police station, unless Wadden actually put his threat of resignation into effect: in that case, Head felt, his resignation would go in too, for he would neither take Wadden's place nor work under any other in it.
Let time and Wadden decide: for the present, the case in hand.
Leaving the auctioneers' offices, he drew up his car inside Parham's big garage, and Parham himself came out from his glass-walled office and to the side of the car, gravely attentive.
"Good morning, Mr. Head. Petrol or oil, or shall I call a mechanic?"
"Merely an inquiry," Head answered. "Until last week, I believe, one of the counter clerks in the Idleburn Valley Bank garaged a motor-cycle somewhere in the town during his working hours. Here, was it?"
"It was," Parham assented. "I bank with the Idleburn Valley, and let him run it in here without charge. Oiling the wheels, you know."
"Not his wheels, without charge, surely?"
"No, the wheels of commerce, Mr. Head—the wheels of commerce. That young man might have become manager of the bank some day, and he might have remembered storing his motor-cycle here every day for six months of the year without charge when I went to ask for an overdraft. Merely laying up treasure, you might call it."
"Yes, I see. Did he buy the motor-cycle from you?"
"No—we don't touch 'em, except for such repairs as come in to us in a casual way. I happen to know Tom Cosway supplied the machine."
"Thank you, Mr. Parham. I just wondered, that's all."
Circling the floor of the big garage, he drove out and, turning out of Market Street into London Road, drew up again outside Tom Cosway's motor-cycle and cycle dealing establishment, where a row of second-hand machines for sale, each ticketed with its price, stood outside the shop frontage, while new stock occupied the window. A perky youth with a cigarette pendent from his lower lip came out to the car.
"C'n I help you, Mr. Head?"
"You can unstick that cigarette from your lip," Head told him, "and then serve me by telling your employer I want to speak to him."
Considerably less perky, the lad removed the cigarette and went back into the shop. Presently Tom Cosway, youthful, competent-looking, in shirt-sleeves and with badly soiled hands, appeared beside the car.
"Sorry to come out like this, Mr. Head," he apologised. "I was just timing a mag. What is it I can do for you, sir?"
"A simple inquiry, Tom, over which I wish you to say nothing to anyone. That must be understood first." He had known that the caution was unnecessary with Parham but was not sure here.
"That's understood, Mr. Head. Absolutely," Tom assured him.
"Yes. You sold a motor-cycle to a man named Lacy recently."
"Beginning of June, it was," Tom assented. "Took his old one in exchange—allowed him three pound on it, and he was lucky to get that, even in exchange. Forty-five, was the price of the new one."
"I understood it was forty-two," Head suggested.
"Ah, but that's the cash price, Mr. Head. It comes out forty-five spread over twelve months. But—Mr. Head—Stanley Lacy ain't in any trouble, is he? You don't mean—why, there's seven or eight more instalments on the machine to go, yet!"
"And you're afraid of losing them—is that it?"
"No—oh, no, it wouldn't hit me that way. I can't afford to lock up all the capital it would take to pay the makers cash and rely on twelve months of instalments to get it back. I should say not one in a hundred in my position in the trade can. No, we hand the whole thing over to a finance corporation that does that sort of business, but if any customer of mine should fall down on his payments, it'd be a black mark against me with the finance corporation. And I heard already Stan Lacy resigned his position in the bank. He's not in trouble of the sort that'd put you on his track, is he, Mr. Head?"
"I don't know," Head answered, truthfully enough, "but he might be, and so might you, Tom, if any word got out as to my making this inquiry."
"I give you my solemn word, Mr. Head, nobody shall hear."
"Thank you, Tom. And thank you very much for the wreath yesterday."
"It was—well, I can't tell you how I felt about it, Mr. Head."
"Don't try—I understand and appreciate it. Thank you again, Tom."
He engaged gear, and the car went on over the Idleburn bridge and along the valley through which the river flowed, until, bearing to the right, he passed the end of the old coach road diverging on his left and began the ascent that gradually steepened to a one in seven gradient, which was the best that the makers of the new road over Condor Hill had been able to achieve without resorting to hairpin bends. Up through the cutting, and Carden lay before and beneath him, with Todlington's heather and pines and Gunwell's fertile lands beyond—the Madison brush factory a set of greyish boxes in the middle distance. The concreted plateau or widening of the road that served as a parking place for sightseers was empty, to-day, and Head drove close by its railings to get the best of the view, but did not stop his car. Then down, and at sight of casserole in the forecourt of the Carden Arms he turned in and drew up before the entrance. Entering the lounge, he saw Cortazzi get up from the reception desk cubbyhole, and cross to face him in the doorway of that tiny office.
"I want you to ask—never mind, though, Cortazzi," and he turned away, for Avril Madison was descending the staircase.
"To thank you for the silver cord, Miss Madison," he said as he faced her, "and to tell you—you only, though—that Mr. Brown will be discharged to-morrow. The only thing I can do in return for that most beautiful thought of yours in sending the flowers."
"You saw them in the car when I passed you, then," she asserted. "I couldn't put them on the floor, and I had to get to Westingborough with them before you. I hoped the side of the car would hide them."
"But why?" he asked. "Why was I not to know they came from you?"
"I—you might think—but you do know," she almost stammered.
"I should have known without seeing them in the car," he said. "Nobody else that I know would have sent such a message as that silver cord which meant so much more than the flowers. And so I tell you, understanding that you will tell nobody else, that Mr. Brown comes back to-morrow. So if you care to drive over to Westingborough in the morning, the court sits at ten, and he'll be out by about a quarter past."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Head. But then—who—?" She did not end the query, except with her eyes as she gazed full at him.
"Nobody, as yet," he answered, "nor do I wish that question asked anywhere, Miss Madison. In fact, if I could, I'd hold Mr. Brown another week to prevent it from being asked, but it wouldn't be fair to him."
"Will you be able to prove his innocence absolutely, Mr. Head?"
"Even that much I can't tell you, yet," he answered gravely. "I believe I promised to let you know this about Mr. Brown as soon as I knew it myself, and short of telephoning you from Westingborough this morning—well, consider that promise as holding good for all the rest of the case. As soon as I reach certainty, you shall know."
She looked long and intently into his eyes, as if she sought to discover there all that he already knew. Then she shook her head.
"I've never met anyone quite like you, Mr. Head," she said. "Some day, when this is all finished and we've both had time to forget as much as life will let us, I'd like a long talk with you."
"You shall make the appointment, and I'll keep it," he promised. "Now I must go and see about getting it all finished—good-bye."
For a moment he held her hand, and then went out to his car.
Having turned on to the gravelled stretch between the frontage of the Feathers Inn and the road, Head pulled on his hand brake and got out from the car after switching off the engine, to stand for a minute or so gazing thoughtfully at the two closed doors which declared that licensed hours for the consumption of stimulants had not yet begun. Not that he was interested, just then, in the doors, or in anything else within his range of vision: he was striving to drive into the background the persistent thought of Clare's end, and to force into its present place all that he saw as his way to the remote possibility of arresting someone whose fingers had closed round Madison's throat and strangled the life from the old man—someone to take Brown's place.
Avril Madison had not appeared enthused by the prospect of Brown's release. She had not said she would meet him on his emergence from the court at Westingborough. She would, of course...
Would she?
"That's not my business!" Head told himself aloud, with considerable emphasis, and turned his back on the inn to begin his business.
During a previous investigation in this part of the Westingborough police district, he had driven Wadden along this road, and the supe. had remarked that its twists and wriggles were enough to break a snake's back. An exaggeration, but a mapless stranger to the district, on his way along the road toward Gunwell, might have been forgiven for deciding that he was travelling northward, southward, or even at one point that he had to get to the east, though his average direction from Carden was in fact due west. Here, as Head turned his back on the inn and looked along the way he meant to go, he gazed southwest, and a hundred yards or less beyond the Lacys' house the road curved toward the brush factory and thus became a north-and-south way. Beyond the factory it turned west, north-west, and north to pass Madison's house, and then veered to west and south again. Crow-flight to Gunwell from the Feathers, assuming that the crow were interested only in getting to Gunwell, was just over three miles: by the road, just on five miles. Students of local history explained the windings as marking the division between two feudal seigniories, both feudal lords having refused right-of-way across their lands: modern-minded hustlers called them a damned nuisance, and local pedestrians had footpaths as short cuts.
Leaving his car in front of the inn, and keeping a lookout for any short cuts, Head went slowly along the road toward the brush factory. As he passed the Lacys' house, he gave it enough survey to assure himself that the only sign of life about it was the thin line of smoke issuing from the chimney on the left, and the way in which the smoke ascended would have been proof, had any been needed, that the almost perfect autumn weather still held. A similar survey of the next house, a cottage standing in a generous area of garden, showed that Fred Billinger had finished harvesting his crop of potatoes, and also that he was a tidy-minded and capable gardener. Both these houses stood to left of the road as Head advanced along it: there were no dwellings on the right-hand side until one reached Madison's gateway, coming from the Feathers. Hedges of varying heights, set at the back of the wide strip of grass bordering that side of the road, bounded rather weedy pasture lands, on which yellowing grass declared a need of rain. In these meadows stood solitary trees and small copses, radiant in the noon sunlight with the yellow and gold and red of the year's decline.
Still rounding the southerning curve of the road, Head came within sight of the factory, and at the same time noted a stile and pathway which, apparently forming a short cut across the base of the mile or more of loop which the road followed from here, was visible as a little-used way alongside a hawthorn hedge as far as another stile, beyond which it was invisible from the road. Crossing over to the stile, Head looked back and saw that the curve of the road hid both Fred Billinger's cottage and the Lacys' house, as well as all of Todlington that was situated between them and Carden. He stepped over the stile and followed the footpath, alert for any sign of other travellers along it. But the grass underfoot was short and dry: his own footfalls left no tracks, nor had those of others who might have preceded him.
He went on, and got over the second stile. Before him now was a large copse or small wood of oak and elm and beech, through which the path led him. Shade had permitted a certain amount of moisture to remain here, and at some points the ground was capable of receiving and retaining footprints. He kept off from any that appeared, blurred and broken though they were for some time, and then, halfway through the wood, saw one impression as perfect as if it had been designedly left there: portions of it had appeared before, only one of them overtrodden by a later print, and this complete impression was undamaged in any way. Gazing down at it, Head reflected that Mrs. Lacy had taken fives until the birth of her son, and since then had so far eschewed vanities as to wear sixes. This looked like a six, with a fairly low and broad-based heel.
He took from his coat pocket a pair of nail scissors and removed the cork stuck protectively on their points. From the breast pocket of the coat he took an envelope containing a double sheet of paper on Squire Hastings of Tolston Hall had written his condolences. It was a pity to use the squire's letter for such a purpose, Head reflected as he seated himself on the damp ground beside the footprint, but he had nothing else that would serve his purpose.
Using the scissors very carefully, he cut the condolences, blank side up, to the exact size of the footprint: it would just and only just drop in below the level of the surrounding ground, and all the edges made contact with those of the print. Then, taking up his paper, he got out a pencil and sketched on its blank side what was obviously a semi-circle of repair on the outer side of the shoe sole, and another which marked renewal at the toe. The inner edge of the heel formed a concave curve, he noted, and he marked that too on his paper. A faint line in the mould, forward of the instep, seemed to state that the shoe had been half-soled prior to its later repairs, and Head reproduced the line as a light pencilling. He could find no other identifying marks.
He got on his feet, stowed away both the paper on which he had been working and the portions he had cut off it, and restored scissors and pencil to their places. Then he went on, but found no more footprints in entirety. All that he saw were incomplete, jumbled with others, useless from his point of view. The one he had copied might be useless too, he knew, but he would follow this line of inquiry to its end and neglect nothing that appeared along it as even possibly relevant.
Just as he followed this footpath, which took him out from the little wood to another meadow that he crossed, to reach another stile. Beyond it, high masses of briar and blackberry bushes, untrimmed for years, by the look of them, hid all but six or seven yards of the path, as well as whatever came next along its length. Head got over the stile, took eight steps, and found himself back at the edge of the road and no more than fifty yards from Madison's front gate and its laurels. The footpath had reduced the distance by road between this point and the Feathers by anything between a half and two-thirds.
Advancing toward Madison's gateway, Head noted a small wicket gate which evidently gave access to a tradesmen's way to the back of the house, and he observed it carefully in passing. For, like the footpath and some other things, it had become important since he had formulated or been driven to the theory of the crime on which he was proceeding now. That tradesmen's way to the back of the house was masked by evergreen shrubs from all the windows on that side, until it turned sharply to the left toward some door and became invisible from the road. Nobody in the house could see the approach of any who might use this entry: as nearly as Head could tell, nobody could hear them from within the house, either. Anyone might have followed that path, crept round to the front of the house, stooping in passing windows, and who inside could have detected such an approach? Or, otherwise...
He broke off his conjectures until he should have more facts on which to base them, and, passing this minor entrance, went openly through the main gateway to the front door and rang the bell. A pause, and Hallam in sober black opened the door and gazed at him.
"Morning, Hallam. Could Miss Madison see me for a minute?"
"Miss Madison, sir? Why—why—she's not here, sir, I believe you'll find her at that garage in Carden, if you want to see her."
"Oh! Well, I'd better go back there, I suppose. I'll come in for a minute, though." He stepped forward as he spoke, and Hallam held the door wide open for him and then closed it before turning to face him in the comparative dimness of the dark-panelled entrance hall.
"Could I—can I get you anything, sir? I mean, is there anything you want of me?" Hallam asked respectfully and rather confusedly.
"Nothing, I think, thank you—for the present, that is. Mr. Madison's letters, Hallam—what becomes of them now?"
"Miss Avril comes and takes them every morning, sir. I believe she takes the business ones for Mr. Imminger to deal with—at the factory, you know, sir. And the others she answers herself, I suppose."
"Yes, she would," Head half-reflected. "Any callers, Hallam?"
"We have had lots, sir. Newspaper men, and photographers, but not any either to-day or yesterday. They seem to have... I mean, sir, the excitement over it seems to be dying down, I'm glad to say."
"Naturally. And do you see Miss Madison except over the letters?"
"No, sir. I expect she finds the familiar sights too painful. She was very fond of the master. Comes in about half-past nine in the morning, and only stays a few minutes—just a word with me and Susan."
"And what about your future? Are you both staying on?"
"Miss Avril hasn't said anything yet about it, sir, and I don't like to ask her. I expect she'll let us know soon."
"And Susan—where is she?"
"In the kitchen, sir. I always answer the door, since these strangers come questioning us. She—well, they rather frighten her, I think, the ones who pestered about flashlight photographing and that sort of thing. Wouldn't take no, so now I answer all rings."
"Do you expect to stay on here—permanently, I mean?"
"I don't know about Susan, sir, but I don't think of staying myself. Not—not now the master isn't here any more."
"I see. Have you made any plans as to where you will go?
"None at all, sir."
"No, I suppose it's difficult. Well, thank you, Hallam, that's all. I must go back to the garage at Carden and see if I can find Miss Madison there. You needn't say anything to her about my having called here to ask for her. I'd rather you didn't, in fact."
"Very good, sir. If not at the garage, I expect you'll find her at the Carden Arms. She's staying there, I know."
"Ah! Thank you—I'll remember it. Good morning, Hallam."
Very nearly the perfect manservant, he reflected as he went away from the house and looked for the entry to the footpath again. A very nearly expressionless face, and those pale grey eyes were stonily unwavering in their regard. A different man altogether, he must be now, from the young groom whom Randall Bell had turned out from Condor Grange over that maid who had subsequently married a brewer's dray man. Madison had trained him, of course, and that accounted for this present Hallam: Madison was one who would shape his servants to his will or get rid of them, a master hard though obviously lovable, a tyrant, just in the main, though sometimes abominably unjust. Over Jim Brown, now—
Something, a cross between a whistle and a hooter, sounded into the little wood from the direction of the factory as Head made his thoughtful way along the path. Looking at his watch, he saw that it declared the time as half-past twelve, and quickened his pace, a quarter to one he was in his car, and five minutes later got out of it by Ebbutt's gate to see Mrs. Ebbutt posed as before. Would she eventually drop dead in that doorway? he asked himself as he greeted her and passed to the doorway of Ebbutt's workshop, where the bearded ancient was busily engaged in stitching a sole on a woman's shoe.
"Come in, mister, du. I'm about done wi' this. But I didn't reckon yu'd happen along to see me agin so sune as this."
Head stood beside him and watched while he made his last half-dozen deft thrusts with his awl, passed the hog-bristled ends of his waxed threads through the holes, and snapped them taut in a way that indicated determination to break them. Eventually a nick with a knife ended the work, and Ebbutt put the shoe down and laid his threads carefully aside before looking up at his visitor and pointing to his "stule."
"Set ye down, mister. Come to hear the owd man mardle agin?"
"Not exactly." Head took out the piece of paper he had cut to shape in the little wood. "To see if you recognise this as any sole of a shoe or boot you may have worked to make those marks. A patch here at the side, I make it, another at the toe, and it looks as if the shoe had been soled before these last repairs were done—that line I've pencilled across here. I cut and copied it from a print in soft earth."
"Look like yu made a good job on it too, mister." Ebbutt reached for a foot-measuring rule and, placing the paper on it, slid the adjustable end along until it touched. "Jest to maake sure," he added, as he took the paper in his hand and laid the rule aside, "though I wur sure afore. A six. Aye, an' it's my work on it, mister." He looked up at Head with a cunning, impish expression on his face.
"A six—yes," Head assented. "I think you said she took fives until after the boy was born, when we talked here—yes, yesterday." He had to make the pause for calculation, for so much had happened to him in the last few days that time had lost its significance.
"Aye," said Ebbutt. "That wur pride, that wur—an' pride goeth afore a fall, it wur said. Look like the fall's come at last."
"What makes you think that?" Head demanded.
"Well, wheer'd yu git this foot, mister?" Ebbutt sounded a little trepidant, fearful lest he were being accused of having assumed too much.
"I got it as check on information you yourself gave me," Head told him severely. "I should be sorry"—he took up the paper and pocketed it—"if this were even so much as mentioned in the Feathers or anywhere else—but I think you'd be sorrier."
"Mister, no word'll pass my lips about it. If so be she's overstepped the mark any way, 't'aint f'r me to tell about it, an' I 'on't, neether. Yu kin count on me to howd me tongue."
"I'm glad to hear it. And in case you should feel like going to the Feathers to-night—" he put down a two-shilling piece as end to the remark.
"Thankye, mister," and Ebbutt took up the coin and spat on it for luck before pocketing it.
"TWO bits of news for you, laddie," Wadden remarked as Head entered his room on returning from Todlington. "First is, I've had a talk to the big noise, and he's inclined to be lenient over Plender's hustle to arrest Brown. Says Hallam's disclosing the fact that Brown had a row with Madison, and used the words he did—also the provocation Madison gave by talking the way he did—makes a reprimand enough punishment for our sergeant. And as nearly as I can remember he's already had that. I told our chief constable I'd already decided to move Plender back here from Carden and keep him under my own eye—until I retire and start growing tomatoes under glass, that is—and he patted me on the back and said it was a sound idea—over the telephone, I mean."
"Did you say anything about your retirement?"
"Oh, no, laddie! Not till I've had a chance to run over to Carden and look over the place there. My old lady'll have to see it, too."
"And your second piece of news?" Head inquired.
"Parkinson, J.P., is a wife short. Bragg tells me she went off by the eight fifty-eight for London this morning with one hell of a lot of trunks and things. Lewinson has warned her about the confiscation of his negatives, obviously. And Mrs. Quade has gone over to Crandon to stay with her mother—to save herself from getting beaten up, I mean."
"Interesting, but not material to the case," Head observed.
"And now what have you got?" Wadden asked, friendly-wise.
"One footprint, taken from an entirely inconclusive spot," Head answered. "I've identified it, and know it may mean nothing at all."
"On the other hand—well, do it your own way. Though there's no need to hand out that piece of advice, I know. What comes next?"
"Bread and cheese and beer in the parlour of the Black Lion, and then another call on Arthur Kidham, for further information."
"My old lady's got lots of bread and cheese, and I always have beer in the house," Wadden suggested. "I haven't been to lunch yet, either."
"Thank you all the same, chief. I want to brood alone."
"Bad for you, you know," Wadden said kindly. "Much better to—"
"Brood over the case—nothing else," Head interrupted. "Some details are not yet clear in my mind, chief."
"Sorry, Head. I ought to have known better. Get on with the brooding, and hatch us someone to put in Brown's place."
"Two, I think," Head remarked thoughtfully...
"Eh?" Wadden stared up at him incredulously.
"That's how it begins to appear to me. But I've got to see Kidham and make another call before I can justify my belief."
"And you're keeping it all under your own hat, as usual?"
"Not very much longer, I hope. Three or four days, at the most."
Wadden blew, very softly. "All right," he said. "As usual."
Kidham's two young men were far too busy with their battery of telephone instruments to accord Head any notice when he passed them on his way to the inner room: Kidham himself, as on the last occasion, requested "half a tick" while he went to even his book on the next race of the day by laying off, and then he returned and closed the door.
"I suppose you want to know some more about Lewinson, Mr. Head," he conjectured before Head could speak, "but first of all I'd like to tell you—my young fellers out there came and asked me about all of us going in on a wreath. I didn't have to ask them. I know you don't want me to talk about—about what's happened. You've got the sympathy of the whole town, though—and I belong in it."
"Thank you very much," Head answered sincerely. "As to my object in troubling you again, it is not about Lewinson this time, but someone I believe to be another client of yours. Mr. Stanley Lacy."
"Well, well!" Kidham half-mused, his short legs wide apart as he stood, and his hands in his trouser pockets—his usual posture. "I don't know if you're blaming me over his getting chucked out of the bank for betting, Mr. Head. We both know bank clerks are not supposed to bet, but if I started sorting out the people who for lots of reasons ought to leave it alone, and taking bets only from the ones who can afford to risk what they do, I might as well close down."
"Quite so, and I'm not going into the ethical side of your business, Kidham," Head told him. "I'd like you to give me particulars of all Lacy's transactions with you, just as you did with Lewinson."
"Well, Mr. Head, that's easy enough. Lewinson must have got hold of Lacy and told him about the easy way of making money, because Lacy started to work the very identical system Lewinson was running, only a fortnight later. And like Lewinson he took two hundred pounds off me before the system bust him—somewhere about two hundred, that is. I can look up the figures for you, if you like."
"The same system. That is, second favourites in the first and last race of the day, until he won, doubling up each time he lost and leaving it alone for the rest of the week after winning. The same initial stake?"
"Just the same," Kidham assented. "Five bob to win—no each way."
"At second favourite odds, each way would be rather futile," Head observed. "One thing, though—was it arranged between you and him that the bet should be doubled each time he lost, and stopped when he won? Had you any agreement with him to that effect?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Head! You couldn't expect me to cut my own throat to that extent. He had to let me know after each race whether to go on or stop, just as Lewinson did. I wouldn't punt for them."
"But how did Lacy let you know he wanted to double his preceding bet on the second favourite for the last race of the day, if he lost in the first race?" Head inquired. "I can understand Lewinson getting to know the result of the first race in time, but Lacy was at the bank counter, surely, beyond reach of sporting news till he left off work?"
"I went so far as to fix that for him," Kidham explained. Advancing to his desk, he took from a drawer two squares of cardboard, on one of which was painted a large black L, while the other displayed an equally black W. "If he lost, I put this in the window there," he said, nodding across at the window through which Head had looked down into the interior of the bank, and displaying the L cardboard. "The same way, if he won, the W went in the window, and he'd only to look up as soon as the first race was over to see how he stood. And five minutes after putting that card in the window, I'd go and look down at him at his counter—I only had to do it for the first race, for if he lost the last of the day as well, he could post the bet for the first race next day after he got home. He kept a card down there to show me—kept it in his pocket. And if he wanted to go on after losing, as he always did till the system beat him, he'd show that card. 'D.S.F. 4.30,' or five, or whatever the time of the last race might be, was on it, one side, and the other had just 'No' on it. I made that arrangement with him—and then Hagger sent for me and asked me about it, and I had to tell him. No help for it. He fired Lacy the same morning."
"That's all clear," Head said. "Now you say the system beat Lacy at the finish. How much was he owing you, if anything, when he was fired out of the bank? What was his loss on the last week?"
"Two hundred and fifty-five pounds fifteen shillings, paid prompt on the Monday morning before he went to his work in the bank," Kidham answered at once. "All in pound notes. He explained that he daren't give me either a cheque, which would have had to go through his account and Hagger would have seen it, or bank notes which might be traced from him to me by the numbers, so he paid that way. If he'd paid it after going to work in the bank I might have felt dubious about how he got it, but I couldn't see him lifting that amount out of his till and keeping it over the week-end. Got it from his mother to save his job, I expect, because I happen to know her husband left her the house and everything else he had when he died."
"That is to say, you closed down on him when he got to the hundred and twenty-eight pound bet with his doubling up?" Head suggested.
"I didn't close down—he did," Kidham answered. "His nerve gave out with a loss of two-fifty-five fifteen, and he cut the loss for the week and started again with the five bob stake on the Monday morning. Won four pound gross off me with the last race on Tuesday, and stopped for the week as usual. Two pound fifteen net, I sent him in notes, because he didn't want my cheques going through his account, naturally. None ever did, either—I always paid him in notes. And the usual five bob bet to start Monday of this week. He's seven pound fifteen down, so far, with the last race of the day to go and eight pound to win on the second favourite. It'll lose, if I know anything at all."
One of the young fellers opened the door and put his head into the room to gaze appealingly at his employer, and with—"I won't be half a tick, Mr. Head," Kidham went out—at the right moment, from Head's point of view. For he wanted to think out the information he had received before adding to it in any way. It did not quite square with his theory of the murder of Madison.
Lacy had paid, all in pound notes, before going to the bank on the Monday morning. Had paid over two hundred and fifty-six pound notes, probably, and received five shillings change. Madison had not cashed the cheque of which the proceeds were missing until the Wednesday, so Lacy could not have paid the bookmaker with Madison's notes. His mother might have got the money from some source for him, to prevent Hagger from getting to know that a clerk in his branch had been betting, but it was in the last degree unlikely that she would keep such a quantity of pound notes by her. Query—where did she bank, and had she drawn out any such sum recently? That one week's loss exceeded Lacy's total winnings for the season, according to Kidham, whose accounting Head saw no reason to doubt. Therefore it was unlikely that Lacy had paid the notes out of any savings he might have accumulated: he might have drawn them from his own banking account, and, if that were so, Hagger would know of it, for Lacy would not have any other account than at the branch in which he worked, or with any other bank.
Kidham came back. "Sorry to interrupt like that, Mr. Head. One hoss was piling up on us, and I had to lay off. Only just in time, too. The blinkin' beast won, and I'd have been in the cart if I hadn't laid off."
"It's a tricky business, evidently," Head remarked. "Can you tell me how the manager across the road got to know of Lacy's betting?"
"Saw my L card up on the window Tuesday afternoon and Lacy looking up and showing his D.S.F.—that's 'double on second favourite'—four-forty-five, it was that day. Got Lacy on the carpet and taxed him with betting, and the young fool denied that he'd ever so much as had a bet with me. Then Hagger got me on his carpet Thursday morning—I bank there—and of course that was the finish for Lacy, for lying about it as much as for the actual betting, I'd say."
"And, so far, he's losing this week?" Head inquired.
"He'll be fifteen guineas down to-night," Kidham answered with no hesitation whatever. "Second favourite in the last race'll be Hotfoot, and they'll be looking behind the starting post with telescopes to find him after Southbrae's romped home with a couple of lengths to spare."
Head rose to go. "Since you know what's going to win, why don't you bet instead of taking bets?" he asked.
"I can prophesy, and I'm generally right, but I'd hate to put money on my opinion," Kidham answered. "Sure I've told you all you want to know from me, Mr. Head? Because you've only to say."
"All for the present, thank you. And—in confidence."
"Rely on me for that, Mr. Head. If it got about that I talked my clients' business to anyone, I could close down, you see."
"And supposing I had to call on you for evidence that involved disclosure of your clients' affairs?"
"What—against young Lacy, you mean?" Kidham looked grave over it.
"Not necessarily. Against any one of your clients?"
"Well, that'd be different, of course. Evidence in a court of law don't come out of the same stable as bar gossip, and if I was called I should have to testify. People'd understand that."
"Yes, I suppose they would. Thank you very much, Kidham."
After leaving the bookmaker's office, Head merely crossed the road to enter the bank and wait while Hagger showed one of his farmer customers out. Then he took the seat Hagger offered him in the managerial room, accepted a cigarette and a light, and felt grateful to the little man for refraining from mentioning of the tragedy that shadowed him.
"I want you to tell me a few things about the man Lacy you had employed here, Mr. Hagger," he explained in reply to the manager's questioning gaze. "I suppose he has an account here?"
"Had," Hagger amended, and let the one word stand alone.
"Could you give me any idea—in confidence, of course—of what went into and out from that account?"
"His pay, and certain sums this year which I take to have been his winnings on horse-racing," Hagger said frankly enough. "About a hundred and fifty pounds altogether, paid in in pound or ten shilling notes in varying sums every week. They made me suspect something at the finish, and I kept an eye on him and discovered he was signalling to Kidham across the road. He denied everything, but Kidham did not. I must say Kidham has a marvellous head for figures, and a marvellous memory, too."
"Lacy's account was well in credit, then?" Head suggested.
"Only for a day or two at a time. Lacy drew cheques on it as soon as he put money in. When he closed it on leaving, the credit was five and fourpence, I remember. Not a saving sort, Stanley Lacy."
"Was he quite satisfactory in other respects?"
"Otherwise"—Hagger smiled slightly—"he would not have been on the counter. We have to be careful of our men, Mr. Head."
"Yes, naturally. Now, Mr. Hagger, supposing a counter clerk felt like robbing you, what chance would he have of getting away with it?"
"I'd say, none at all. It is part of my duty to check the tills once every month, and I may do that any day from the first to the thirty-first—they can never be sure when I shall demand a check. I might do it on the last day of one month and the first of the next—and then come and make an extra check at any time if I felt like it. Added to that, we may have the inspectors in any day, and their first piece of work is a check of the tills. It would be very difficult to get away with a robbery—to get time for getting away."
"Do you mind telling me when you made your check for this month?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Head, though I own I can't see what you're driving at. I checked both tills on the tenth of the month, and again on the day Lacy left—I had to check his till when he handed it over, and called for the other one at the same time. Both in order, of course."
"I see. Well, supposing Lacy had borrowed—or the other counter clerk, say—a hundred pounds or so on the eleventh of the month, and paid it back on the morning Lacy left, before you made your check of both tills, would you know anything about it?"
"No-o," Hagger confessed, thoughtfully and reluctantly. "In that case, I should not know, but I don't think either of them would have taken that risk. With me making my monthly check on the tenth of the month, they'd both know, even if the inspectors didn't appear suddenly and unexpectedly as they always do—they'd both know that I should drop on them again for a casual check before the thirty-first—the thirtieth, I mean," he amended, glancing at his desk calendar. "I'd forgotten for the moment that there are only thirty days in this month."
"And so you think they wouldn't dare," Head observed.
"Not only that, but a man is not put on the counter until we know he can be trusted," Hagger pointed out. "Also, the bond his guarantor would have to forfeit, if the money were not recovered, would protect us from loss. No man enters our employ without that bond."
"And who gave it in Lacy's case?" Head asked.
"Must you know that?" Hagger frowned slightly as he put the question.
"I am afraid I must, Mr. Hagger, as part of what I see as my duty."
"Ah! Well, in strict confidence, my directors stretched a point over Lacy. His father had banked with us all his life, and his mother still lodges all her securities with us and banks here. They accepted a lien on those securities, which are her own property under her husband's will, to the amount of the guarantee."
"Does that involve all the securities, could you tell me?"
"No, not all. They bring her an income of just over a hundred a year free of tax—the dividends come here and go into her account as received. The guarantee is lapsed with Lacy's dismissal, of course."
"Yes. Could she have borrowed money on the strength of those securities at any time without your knowing it?"
Hagger shook his head. "We should have had to produce them to any lender," he said, "and that has not been asked of us."
"Could she have borrowed money on her house, do you think?"
"The title deeds of the house are in our safe downstairs, and without them she couldn't prove ownership. No, Mr. Head, she could not."
"In your opinion, would it be possible for Stanley Lacy to borrow two hundred pounds or thereabouts?"
"I don't know who would lend it to him. I can say almost certainly that all he had was what he earned here, apart from his winnings on horse-racing. And one in his position does not know friends able to lend a sum like that, as a rule. If he knew anyone capable of doing it, let alone willing, I know nothing about it. I should say he did not."
"Can you tell me the state of Mrs. Lacy's banking account during the last three months or thereabouts, Mr. Hagger?"
The bank manager shook his head gravely. "Must I?" he queried.
"As you like," Head said. "I can't compel you to answer any question. But it's probably a choice between telling me now and telling Crown counsel in court later. You must please yourself about it."
"Mrs. Lacy has had an overdraft varying between zero and fifty pounds for the whole of this year," Hagger said slowly. "Fully covered, of course, by the securities and title deeds of her house that we hold. Normally, the turnover on the account consists of her income, about a hundred a year. This year, it has increased by about half—at the rate of the last few months, it should amount to a hundred and fifty or sixty at the end of the year, and I attribute the increase to her son having handed to her some of his winnings, which she has used for various purposes, judging by the pass sheets. I looked up the account specially when Lacy lied to me about having betted with Kidham."
"There have been no large payments or withdrawals?"
"None. All the items are quite small—single figures, mostly."
"One other point, Mr. Hagger. You say you checked your tills on the tenth, and again just before dismissing Lacy. That would be on the morning of his dismissal—last Thursday morning, in fact?"
"Yes. I had just finished checking them both when you came in to see me. Lacy's first, and then the other—Robinson's."
"I see. Then at any time between the tenth and last Thursday morning, Lacy might have—or Robinson either might have—taken two or three hundred pounds out of his till, and put it back again? Is that the case?"
"I don't think either of them would risk it, Mr. Head."
"But for argument's sake, either of them could have done it?"
"Could—yes. But it would be terribly dangerous."
"Yes, I see that." He rose to go. "Many thanks, Mr. Hagger."
Hagger too stood up. "Your mention of Crown counsel just now, Mr. Head. Is that in connection with—well, you suspect Lacy?"
"Anyone can suspect anything or anybody, Mr. Hagger," Head told him with a slight smile. "My work consists mainly in getting proof of such things as crop up in the form of probabilities. And that's why I've made myself such a nuisance to you this afternoon."
"Not at all—not at all, Mr. Head. We both have our duty to do, and—well, part of it consists in helping each other as far as possible. Though I hope I shall never have to come to you for help over anything in connection with the bank's affairs."
When Head had gone out, the manager suspended all his other activities while he went and checked both the counter clerks' tills for the third time that month. Over which piece of what he considered sheer fussiness, Robinson made caustic comment to Lacy's successor—
"Old man's getting a bit childish, I think. Tomatoes under glass is somewhere about his mark, and the sooner the better."
Which went to show that Wadden's synonym for retirement was good currency in Westingborough.
"I want to know—yes, you have got a local telephone directory in here, chief. Let me have a look at it for a minute, please."
Taking the red-covered volume, Head turned its pages and ran his forefinger down a column until he reached the name he sought. Then he closed the directory and put it back in its place.
"Want to make the call on my 'phone?" Wadden inquired.
"I don't want to make one. Only to find out if Mrs. Lacy is on the 'phone. As she is. Oh, yes, though! I will take a call."
Removing the receiver, he asked for an exchange line and dialled.
"Inquiries? Yes, Detective-Inspector Head speaking. Can you tell me what telephone extension lines, if any, there are at Mr. Henry Madison's house at Todlington? Mr. Henry Madison's house, at Todlington."
"Hold on, please, Inspector. I'll find out for you."
With the receiver at his ear, Head waited, and the supe. gazed at him, blowing gently from time to time, till he stiffened to attention.
"One extension line to the kitchen—yes, thank you. Fitted, of course, for the servants to give tradesmen's orders without disturbing Mr. Madison—yes. Then in that case, it would be possible to get exchange and dial a number on the extension line, just as easily as on the main line into Mr. Madison's room, would it?"
He listened to an explanation of the working of the two lines.
"I see. Mr. Madison could switch it through, so that only the extension line bell would ring if a call were made, and whoever took the call on the extension would have to summon Mr. Madison to his instrument by pressing a separate buzzer button, if the call were for him. Have I got that right?"
Again he listened. Then—"Yes. Thank you very much. Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and met Wadden's steady gaze.
"But Lacy was at work at the bank when Madison was murdered, Head."
Head seated himself, and for a minute or so thought without replying, his gaze on the ceiling of Wadden's room. Then he looked straight at the superintendent, and nodded assent, slowly.
"Quite right, chief, he was. I've formed a theory, and with what I've learned to-day it appears..." He broke off and began again—"Getting evidence is going to be the difficulty."
"To support your theory," Wadden suggested after a pause.
"To put two people in Brown's place," Head said, "and make certain they don't walk out as Brown will to-morrow morning. I think—yes. I have to attend court to give evidence against Lewinson and Quade, which ought not to take long. Committed for trial, both of them, and bail allowed. Harrison will be the man for this. Chief, I want you to turn out Jeffries with the saloon, and Harrison inside it with him, to run over to Todlington and fetch Stanley Lacy back here for the purpose of giving us information we require. If he kicks about it, tell Harrison, he can choose between that and arrest over being concerned in the murder of Henry Madison—but I don't want that alternative put to him in his mother's hearing. You can tell Harrison—if he can bag Lacy without the mother knowing it, I shall be all the better pleased, and if he's not at home, get out of her where he is, and follow him there to get him and fetch him here. Not on his motor-cycle, but in the saloon, because I want time to interrogate Mrs. Lacy before he can get back to her to tell her what we've got out of him. That's clear, isn't it?"
"What you want Harrison to do is clear enough," Wadden agreed. "The rest of it, though—no, I don't grasp your theory."
"Based on something I saw as far back as last Thursday morning, chief, and have connected up, now. But it's going to be touch and go, the slenderest chance of getting proof that I've ever faced."
"Uh-huh! What's this about the telephone extension at Madison's?"
"Madison was almost intolerably fussy about the service in his house," Head explained. "Hated clatter and chatter, as he called it, and sound-proofed himself away from it as much as he could. Almost certainly, after he'd had that extension line to the kitchen fitted, he switched off his own line so that all incoming calls would be taken in the kitchen, and either Hallam or Susan could summon him to his instrument by a separate buzzer if he were wanted on the line. Otherwise, he would not be troubled by the call—and wouldn't have Susan running in and out of his room to telephone for meat or coals or anything else."
"And they could talk to their friends at Madison's expense," Wadden reflected. "Seems a wasteful way of doing things, to me. They could run him up pounds of calls every quarter without his knowing it."
"Not every quarter, chief. One quarter, perhaps, and then when he looked at his account and reckoned up the number of calls he'd had himself—well, Susan Allbright told me what it was like to go on the carpet with him in the chair. I should say they were reasonably economical over their calls."
"And—but Hallam was in the house the afternoon Madison was murdered, though."
"So he said. Why, what about it?"
"I thought you might be thinking, with that extension put through to the kitchen, someone might have rung him and got him away for the time Madison was murdered."
"Why should they? Hallam was sound-proofed from the front of the house."
"Yes, but an outsider wouldn't know, very likely. You didn't, till you found it out after the murder."
"My particular outsider knew a good many things," Head remarked.
"Oh, keep it, then!" Wadden blew one of the worst hurricanes his room had ever experienced. "I'm not asking you to tell me!"
He hugged himself as Head got up to go, for he had won the first real smile that had appeared on his friend's face since Doctor Bennett had come to the police station with his verdict on Clare.
TWO constables maintained a lane through the crowd about the entrance to the Westingborough magistrates' court on Thursday morning. A buzz of comment sounded among these onlookers, and a group of youngsters tried to raise a cheer and failed, as Jim Brown passed with his head held high to where Avril Madison sat waiting in his casserole—in the passenger's seat, not the driver's. Jim took the wheel and they went away.
The crowd did not disperse, for Brown's guilt or innocence was not the cause of this manifestation of interest. Within the court, the public part of which was packed to limit in anticipation of the appearances of Lewinson and Quade, Superintendent Wadden, at liberty to survey the court after Brown had gone, caught sight of one member of the audience, and instantly went to the door and beckoned Constable Blake, who was busy telling would-be entrants that they stood no chance at all.
"Has Jeffries gone off with the saloon yet?" Wadden inquired.
"Not to my knowledge, sir. I'd have seen it if he had, I think."
"All right. Get clear enough of this pack to signal him to stop, if he does come along with it before you can get to the police station and stop him from turning it out. Then get hold of Sergeant Harrison and tell him I want him here to keep an eye on Lacy and stop him from going back to Todlington. I've spotted him in court, tell Harrison."
"Very good, sir," and Blake saluted and went to obey.
Returning to the court, Wadden was in time to hear Percy Lewinson declare himself not guilty in answer to the charge against him. Then Head took the stand and the oath, and gave evidence of the arrest and the search of Lewinson's flat, with brief mention of what he had found there and production of the packages of pictures and books.
"Your worships"—a tall, thin, melancholy-looking man stood up when his turn came, and addressed the bench—"I am John Wilkinson, of Wilkinson, Wilkinson, Wilkinson and Wilkinson, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and I appear on behalf of the accused. In view of the serious nature of the charge, the accused reserves his defence, I am instructed to inform your worships."
And, as had been inevitable, Percy Lewinson was committed for trial at the next assizes, bail being allowed. Then Quade appeared, and John Wilkinson repeated his formula again before the little trainer, too, was granted bail pending his appearance at the assizes.
On that, the rather dissatisfied audience of these brief proceedings dispersed, and while Sergeant Harrison, by that time present to carry out Wadden's orders, intercepted Lacy and told him what was required of him, Wadden had a word with Head.
"Nothing much else doing, but I'll have to stay and see it through," he said. "Did you notice how Quade is eating gall over this?"
"Wilkinson, you mean?" Head inquired.
"No doubt about it. Lewinson could never stand the cost of getting the firm that will brief Calloway to act for him. Quade's doing it for him in the hope of saving himself—if Lewinson were convicted, as he will be, Quade doesn't stand a shadow of a chance. So he's paying for the defence of the man he's got most cause to hate."
"Which doesn't matter to us, chief. I'll get along and begin on Lacy—in your room, I think, with Jeffries and Harrison present. If you finish here in time, look in. You might put in a word or two."
"With you telling me nothing whatever of your line of attack?"
"You'll see it, I think. Enough, that is, to put in a question or so if you think I'm missing any points. I'll be getting along."
He went out from the court. By that time Jim Brown, having sat almost silent beside Avril Madison while he roared the casserole all out to the top of Condor Hill, turned off the road to the parking place at the top and overlooking Carden, and stopped the car.
"I don't know anything," he said soberly. "It's as if I'd been out of the world for years, in spite of your coming to see me the way you did. I seem to have lost touch with everything. Who—who did it, Avril?"
"You mean—who killed him?" she asked in reply.
"Yes. They must have got the right one, to let me out."
"They have not," she answered. "Unless—no, I don't know."
"Do you mean to say they let me out before arresting anyone else?"
"As far as I know. Inspector Head said he would tell me as soon as there was anything to tell, and he stopped to speak to me while I was waiting for you, but said nothing. And I didn't ask him. Couldn't. His wife found she had cancer incurably, and committed suicide, all since you—so much seems to have happened, Jim, and I've only had to talk about the garage and your affairs when I've come to see you."
"His wife—I saw him in court, and he didn't look any different."
"He's—different from any man I have ever met," she said slowly.
"Just a policeman—and his people were farmers the other side of Westingborough, I've heard," Jim remarked. "Very clever, of course."
Avril made no reply. She was remembering how Head had taken her hand in both his own to bid her drive carefully on the way from Madison's house to Carden, the human sympathy of the man with her in that hour of realisation of her loss. Just a policeman!
"And you—you've been so wonderful, Avril," Jim went on. "Standing by me, identifying yourself with the garage—with me, while I had that hanging over my head. Avril, dear, when I tried to ask you there in the cell, you were right to say it was neither the time nor the place. But now, Avril—you've been so good to me. Now—will you tell me what I want to know? You know I love you—Avril."
For awhile she gazed at the autumn splendour before them, silent. Then, turning her head abruptly, she looked into his eyes.
"Then this—it is the time and place, Jim? Is that it?"
"As soon as I could get you to myself. This place—any place."
"Not this for its own sake, Jim?" There was a wistful note in the question that puzzled him.
"For its own sake—Avril, I'm asking you whether you'll marry me. I love you, dear, want to hear you say you love me. It's a fine view from here, but what does that matter now? Avril—you—" He broke off, wonderingly, incredulously, seeing how she shook her head slowly.
"Just that, Jim. Because of it I could never marry you."
"Because of—of what, Avril?" he persisted. "You told me—" Again he left the sentence incomplete, and gazed at her in incredulity.
"I think I told you 'perhaps,' Jim," she said, "because I wanted to see you hopeful in there—if it wasn't fair, you must try to forgive me. I wanted to fight for you because of the injustice of arresting you, wanted people to know that you couldn't possibly be guilty. Beyond that, not—not what you ask now. In a way you're dear to me, but not in that way. You've just told me quite plainly that you still don't understand the little verse I quoted to you, and so—and so I've got to say no."
He averted his gaze from her and sat silent awhile.
"Is there any chance of your changing your mind about it, Avril?"
"I think not," she answered, and he heard in the reply a far more definite negative than if she had uttered it with absolute finality.
"I see." He pressed the starter button and engaged gear. "I'll drive you home, and—and we'll keep good friends, shall we? I can't forget how wonderful you've been over the garage and—and all the rest of it. Coming to see me, and—can we keep good friends?"
"Why, yes, Jim. I'm so sorry—you're such a dear. Especially to take it like this. Not home, Jim—I'm still staying at the Carden Arms, so if you stop at the foot of the hill, please."
"Put you down at the door." He tried to speak quite cheerfully. "Then I'll get along and see how Harry is getting on at the garage."
After he had gone on, leaving her in the forecourt of the Carden Arms, she watched the casserole disappear, and then began to walk back the way they had come, up the hill again. Often, at all seasons of the year, she had taken that walk with Madison, and now she wanted to go alone, with the sense of his presence near her and the memory of his love for her, and for the beauty they had found at the top of the hill so many times, an ever-varying splendour they had shared. How he would have hated to hear the autumn glory of it dismissed as "a fine view"!
Head sat in Wadden's chair, and at the end of the desk sat Jeffries with his open note-book on the desk before him and his pencil laid on it. At the other end Lacy stood, having declined the seat Head had offered him when he entered the room, and beside him was Sergeant Harrison, in whom both Wadden and Head saw an efficient officer who would, if he maintained his keenness and good judgment, come some day to the seat Head was now occupying.
Fear was evident in Lacy's rather shallow, pale grey eyes, and, after stating that he would rather stand than sit, he refrained from questioning the object of this summons. He was a lank, unathletic, rather stooping figure of a man, with large feet and rather good hands, and a thin-lipped, loosely-controlled mouth under his straggly yellow moustache. His gaze went restlessly from Head to Jeffries, to the note-book on the desk, the window beyond—anywhere within the angle of easy vision—and back to Head as he heard himself addressed.
"You have been asked to come here," Head said deliberately, "that we may find out whether you are able to throw any light, either by direct or indirect information as far as the subject is concerned, on the murder of Mr. Henry Madison at his home during Wednesday afternoon of last week. Your name, I understand, is Stanley Lacy?"
"Stanley John Lacy." The reply was given steadily, evenly. Head's quiet, almost kindly way of speaking had reassurance in it.
"And you reside at Holmburn, Todlington?"
"That is so."
"Until Thursday morning of last week, you were employed as counter clerk at the Westingborough branch of the Idleburn Valley Bank, and you were dismissed from that employment, summarily, after it had been discovered that you habitually betted on horse races. Is that the case?"
"Yes." The answer was not quite so steadily spoken as that which had preceded it, and fear came back into Lacy's eyes.
"You had a system of betting which proved profitable until the week before last. By means of that system, and certain bets unconnected with it on such big races as the Derby and Ascot events, over which you seem to have been very lucky, you won altogether about two hundred pounds during the flat-racing season, up to the week before last. Is that so?"
"Yes," Lacy answered again.
"Were you given any information or advice as to what horses to back, either in connection with your system or over the independent bets?"
"Yes, by Mr. Percy Lewinson."
"Apart from your winnings, and your salary as an employee of the bank, what have been your sources of income, Mr. Lacy?"
"My sources of income? Well, none, except that my mother has independent means. I suppose I could go to her if I needed money."
"As you will, I take it, now your employment at the bank is ended?"
"I can get other work. I didn't leave the bank in disgrace, or anything of that sort. There's nothing wrong in betting, except that it's their rule that anyone employed by them gets sacked if he's caught."
"I was not suggesting that you couldn't get other employment, Mr. Lacy. So far, have you had to go to your mother for money?"
"No, I haven't." Lacy made a perceptible pause before replying.
"The week before last," Head said with deliberate impressiveness, "your system broke down, or rather, you appear to have broken down over it after making a final bet of one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, by which you raised your total loss for the week to two hundred and fifty-five pounds fifteen shillings. You paid your bookmaker that amount on Monday morning of last week, before going to your work at the bank. On your salary, and with total winnings for the season of about two hundred pounds, were you able to raise that amount without difficulty?"
"Yes, I was," Lacy answered.
"Did you draw it from your banking account?"
"Yes—I mean no." The correction was hastily made.
"Where did you get it?"
"I—I had it by me, out of my winnings and what I'd saved."
"All in pound notes, Mr. Lacy? You kept that amount by you?"
"I—yes. Kidham always paid me in pound notes."
"Did you draw your salary in pound notes?"
"No. It was paid monthly, by cheque, into my account at the bank."
"And you drew out pound notes, and added them to your winnings on racing, and kept them all to a total of two hundred and fifty-six pounds?"
"I've a right to keep money in any form I like, haven't I?"
"Certainly you have, and I'm not questioning it," Head assured him. "But, if you kept that sum by you, how do you explain payments in pound notes into your account throughout the racing season, corresponding to some extent with your winnings from Kidham, which he paid in pound notes because you didn't want the bank to see his cheques?"
"I—I drew it out again," Lacy stammered.
Head leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the frightened-eyed liar, sitting silent for nearly a minute.
"Shall I get a copy of your account from the bank, and go through it item by item with you, to convince you of the futility of that lie?" he asked at last. "None of what you are telling me now can be used in evidence against you, Stanley John Lacy, but I warn you that you stand in grave danger, terrible danger, in fact, and lying only increases it. You would do better to refuse to answer, rather than make obviously and foolishly false statements in reply to questions. Now shall I go on questioning you, or do you choose not to answer any more?"
"I can't see what you're getting at," Lacy replied, and moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "You said—said you wanted to question me about the Madison case. How can—how can what I paid Kidham have anything to do with that? How can my affairs—?" He broke off, helplessly, and looked anywhere rather than at Head.
"Since I am charged with the investigation of the Madison case," Head answered him, "it is for me to decide what is relevant to that case and what is not. Are you willing to answer any more questions?"
"It depends on what they are," Lacy answered rather indistinctly.
"Obviously. Now, having satisfied myself that you were lying when you told me you kept two hundred and fifty-six pound notes by you, and had them in readiness to pay Kidham in order to save your betting being discovered by the bank authorities, I ask you—where did you get that sum in pound notes with which to pay him?"
"I got them from my mother," Lacy said sullenly.
"But you told me a little while ago that you had not been to her for money?" Head pointed out.
"I meant since I lost my job at the bank—I haven't asked her for any because I'm out of employment. That's a different thing."
"Yes, of course it is. I see. I take it you went to her, told her you owed Kidham two hundred and fifty-five pounds fifteen shillings which you hadn't got, and if it were not paid when due—that is, on the Monday morning, it was likely that Kidham would make a fuss and you would be turned out of the bank for betting. Is that the case?"
"Yes, and she let me have it. Kidham told me when I started betting with him that he always paid on the nail, and expected to be paid without any delay if I happened to lose."
"Then the two hundred and fifty-six pounds you paid him in notes, to get five shillings change—when did you get them from your mother?"
"On—she handed them to me Sunday morning."
"To pay on the Monday—yes. Where did she get them?"
"Why, took it out of her banking account, of course."
"Oh, no, she did not! That's a clumsy lie, Stanley John Lacy, for I've had particulars of her banking account before asking you to come here and give me information. Where did Mrs. Lacy get that sum?"
"I concluded she'd got it out of her banking account," Lacy said desperately. "If she didn't, I suppose she must have borrowed it."
"From some friend or other? Mind, it is more than probable that all you tell me about this will be checked by the replies she will give when questioned, and if I see fit I shall detain you here until after she has been questioned. Did she borrow that sum from a friend?"
"No, from a moneylender."
"What is the name of this accommodating gentleman, Mr. Lacy?"
"How should I know? She didn't tell me."
"On what security did she borrow the money?"
"On the title deeds of her house."
"Those title deeds are in the safe of the Idleburn Valley Bank, and to my knowledge have not been taken out to be produced to any moneylender, Stanley John Lacy, let alone to be held by one as security for a loan," Head told him sternly. "You have lied to me enough. Are you quite sure you were dismissed from the bank only because of betting with Kidham, and signalling your bets to him through the window?"
The knowledge of everything Head revealed by that question set Lacy staring at him with dropped jaw in wide-eyed fright. He closed his mouth at last to swallow repeatedly and then moisten his lips.
"Wha-what else could it be for?" he gasped at last.
Head stood up. "Possibly, and as I see it," he said deliberately, "for taking out of the till in your charge, at some time during Saturday morning, the pound notes with which you paid Kidham on the Monday morning, and which you replaced by other pound notes before Mr. Hagger checked your till as part of the business of dismissing you on Thursday morning. Yes, do sit down"—for Lacy had dropped into the armchair at the end of the desk with a moaning noise like that of a hurt and almost stunned animal. "For the present, you are not under arrest, but you will be detained here for a few hours until we have ascertained whether we are justified in arresting you as an accessory after the murder of Mr. Henry Madison. Harrison, see that he's made comfortable and given anything he wants, and then—"
"Let me go! Let me go!" Lacy almost screamed, trying to rise—but Harrison's hand on his shoulder held him back in the chair.
"And then," Head went on evenly, "turn out in the saloon—you drive as usual, Jeffries—to where you had orders to go this morning. You'll find me there when you arrive, or else someone to tell you where I've gone, if I have to go on from there in search of what I'm after."
He went out, quickly, and met Wadden in the doorway of the police station. His small car stood by the kerb outside.
"Chief, I'm going to get Mrs. Lacy," he said. "I'm going first in that"—he pointed at the car—"and Harrison and Jeffries are to follow on with the saloon. I'm not quite sure, yet, whether to arrest young Lacy as accessory—hold him here till you hear from me."
"Gosh! You've been swift, haven't you?"
"I saw it a week ago, and shut my eyes to it while I went fooling after Lewinson." Head told him. "Give me ten minutes start of Harrison and Jeffries, and then turn them out after me—I've told them where to go. If—but no, Lacy won't want to say any more. See you later."
He went out to the car and drove away.
Avril Madison turned from the railing that guarded the parking place at the top of Condor Hill from the grassy steep toward which it jutted, and came to the side of Head's car as it braked it to a standstill.
"Good morning, Mr. Head. Any further news for me?"
"Not yet," he answered. "Soon, I think."
"I thought that might be why you stopped," she said, and smiled.
"There are two other good reasons," he said deliberately. "It's very seldom that I pass this spot without stopping for a minute or more. And to-day, I wish I could stay longer—or else gather it all up and take it with me. Though, for that matter, one always does take a certain amount away from such perfection of nature's creating as this."
"It's a fine view." She tried the sentence on him, and waited.
He frowned. "That doesn't sound like you, Miss Madison," he objected. "Not like your speaking of the Hand that painted it, I mean."
"I quoted it," she said, "and I'm glad you don't like it. Neither did I. In fact, hearing it confirmed me in a decision—an adverse one. But may I ask your other reason for stopping?"
"Yourself," he said. "As a third, to ask you—have you been to—to your home this morning? For letters as usual, I mean?"
"So you know I go for letters, then? No, I haven't been to-day, as yet. There wasn't time before going to Westingborough to fetch Jim away from the court. Thank you so much for telling me I could, Mr. Head."
"You have already thanked me quite enough over it," he assured her. "But now I want to ask you—do not go to your home till, say, three o'clock this afternoon, please."
"But why not?" Bewilderment at the request showed in her eyes as she gazed at him—then with sudden alarm she grasped at his hand as it lay along the side of the car. "Why—are you on your way there now?"
"I'm on my way to an entirely different destination," he answered evasively. "But I ask you—do not go there—to your home—before three o'clock. Never mind why. Will you keep away till then?"
"Yes. Yes, since you ask it like that."
"I cannot explain, yet, but you shall know all of it very soon, I promise you. Now I must hurry to that other destination, Miss Madison. But—not only don't go there—don't get into communication to ask about letters or anything. Can you promise me that too?"
"I've already rung them, and told Susan I'd look in later in the day," she answered. "Yes, I promise it—but you're putting a heavy strain on my natural woman's curiosity, Mr. Head."
"I know, and that makes your promise all the more worth having. Thank you for far more than that, Miss Madison—I must go, now."
After he had gone on, she turned back to the railings for yet another look at what Jim Brown had so easily dismissed as a fine view, and then began to walk down the hill to the Carden Arms. She had gone but a little way when a big saloon car passed her, with a uniformed policeman at the wheel and another one inside.
Probably patrolling this main road to keep an eye on motorists, she decided. It seemed rather unnecessary...
AFTER one glance at the card that Head held out for her to see, the woman in the doorway released her hold on the door handle and shrank back a couple of paces, to be brought to a standstill by the tall hat-stand in the narrow hallway. There, clutching at the stand for additional support, she leaned against the gaily-papered wall and stared at him for so long before speaking that he was able to study her and fix her likeness to her son in his mind.
Tall for a woman, and she had been very good-looking—not pretty, but very good-looking—in past years. Not in the least like Stanley Lacy as far as eyes went, for hers were deep, dark brown: they would be soft and appealing, normally, though now they were wide and over-prominent, staring with fear. The mouth was rather like her son's, though she had used lipstick and so had slightly thickened her lips, in addition to using rouge rather badly on her sallow cheeks. This latter, though, might not have been so evident if the natural colour of her face had not almost all receded through sudden fear. Fine, well-kept hands, showing little sign of housework, rather large feet under a skirt well on the short side for a woman of her age—she appeared to be sixty or thereabouts—and wearing a black skirt and maroon blouse with white lace at her wrists and throat, she was totally different from the normal village type, and in such a place as Todlington would challenge attention and probably invite dislike among the class that Ebbutt and his wife represented, especially since they knew her origin and that she had disowned her sister after marrying Lacy.
"What do you want here?" she half-whispered at last.
Leaving the door open, Head stepped past it. "Your name, I believe, is Adeline Mary Lacy," he half-questioned, in a quiet, measured way.
"Mrs. Lacy—yes," she got out with difficulty, and breathing hard.
"I suggest that you go somewhere where you can sit down," he said, a little less coldly. "Any room. Find a chair before you collapse."
She stared at him fearfully while the admonition sank in, and then, moving with an effort, stood erect from the wall and walked unsteadily through an open doorway. He followed her into a room in which the mantel and two occasional tables, as well as an old-fashioned whatnot in one corner, were crowded with bric-a-brac and photographs framed in tarnished silver or bevelled glass. There were, too, a nearly new radiogram with record-changing attachment showing under its opened lid, and a short grand piano, also quite new-looking. It appeared that Stanley had not been parsimonious over his winnings; perhaps he had had some idea of bringing a wife here, Head reflected as Mrs. Lacy half-fell into an armchair, from which she went on staring at him.
Through an interval that he did not try to measure he let her sit thus, gradually recovering from her initial fright. She did not know that he was listening for the approach of Harrison and Jeffries with the saloon: he had asked Wadden for ten minutes' start of them in anticipation of having to go to the Carden Arms to find Avril Madison and warn her not to go home yet; finding her at the top of Condor Hill, and staying there with her only two or three minutes, had brought him here too far ahead of the two men, he realised now.
"Have you been—where's Stan—where's my son?" Mrs. Lacy suddenly stiffened in her chair, as if anxiety over him had driven out all the fear for herself that she had evidenced until she remembered him.
"At present, he is at Westingborough police station," Head told her—and backed into the hallway to signal his two men to enter as he heard, from the road in front of the house, the slam of the police saloon door. He beckoned, and saw them both approach.
"But you've got no right!" Mrs. Lacy almost screamed at him. "Where are you going—you've got no right to arrest him! It was me—I got the money and gave it to him, and the bank can't do anything to him, because he put that back. I gave him the money to put back—gave him all of it, I tell you! You can't arrest him! Do what you like to me, but you can't arrest him! I got it for him, I keep on telling you!"
Head had entered the room again, and Mrs. Lacy went silent as she saw Harrison and Jeffries follow him in. He crossed the room to stand over her, and saw almost blank terror come back to her eyes.
"I advise you to say no more, for your own sake," he said gently. "Adeline Mary Lacy, I am as you know a police inspector, and I arrest you and charge you with having received the sum of four hundred and ten pounds in pound and ten shilling notes from Gregory Hallam, the father of your son, well knowing the said notes to have been stolen by the said Gregory Hallam. And I warn you that anything you may say in answer to the charge may be taken down in writing and used as evidence against you. I also warn you that a further charge or charges in connection with the murder of Mr. Henry Madison may later be preferred against you."
He took her by the wrist as Harrison moved so that she was between him and Head. For a few seconds her lips moved without sound, and then she spoke, gaspingly, terribly.
"He—he mustn't know. Stan mustn't... know. If you... if you tell him who—who his real father is, I—I call down a mother's—a mother's curse... the curse of God... on all of you."
Then, having risen as Head had impelled her, she collapsed toward Harrison, who supported her while Jeffries too came forward to help.
Then Head knew a sudden, utter loathing for his work, a sick revulsion against it such as he had never felt before. He could not go on with it—and yet he had to go on with it, end this case. Clare had had courage—if he failed to take this case to its end, he would be letting her down. Madison had once called him great because of his patience—Madison! Avril Madison had told him of it, the day when she had stood beside his car and wished she could comfort him!
Thought is timeless—not a second had elapsed while these emotions rather than thoughts had come and passed for him. Finish the case!
"Take her out to the car. I'll come with you as far as Carden, and then we can pick up either Hawker or Plender to go on in charge of her to Westingborough with you, Jeffries. Harrison, you'll stay with me—I want you for the other arrest, and the three of us must squeeze into my car somehow. Fortunately you're not stout, neither am I, overmuch."
Hallam, opening the door at Madison's, looked first at Head and then past him at Sergeant Harrison, who was gazing up at the roof of the porch with apparent lack of interest in it or in anything else.
"Miss Avril hasn't been here to-day yet, sir, if it's her you're looking for," he said staidly. "If you wish to come in—" He drew back, as if inviting entrance, and, with a turn of his finger as bidding to Harrison, Head entered the hall. The sergeant took off his helmet and followed, and Hallam faced the two of them.
"All the letters are here, sir." Hallam pointed at a pile of half a dozen or so unopened envelopes on the nearly black oak centre table. "If you wish to look them over, I expect she won't mind."
"I am not interested in them, Hallam," Head told him. "Rather curious about something else, though. There was ten pounds in silver, as well as four hundred and ten pounds in pound and ten shilling notes. I know what became of the notes, but the silver—no."
For nearly a minute Hallam stood silent. Then he gazed at Head, steadily—his pale grey eyes were like, so like, Stanley Lacy's!
"I'd have given myself up if—if it hadn't been for her," he said. "I—I haven't known a moment's peace since I saw him come to a stop at the foot of the stairs. He'd always been—always been such a good master, and—and the silver—buried in the garden—"
He broke off as Head's hand fell on his arm, and listened stilly to the formula of arrest for the murder of Henry Madison. When they searched him, he made no resistance, but, as they were about to take him out from the house, he spoke again.
"Just—just one more look round, sir—I won't give any trouble. Staircase by Giovanni Alfieri—yes, he made me get the name right. A good master, always, and always liked old things, though he had a bitter tongue at times. Not a moment's peace since—it's best like this, perhaps. I'll go quietly—I won't give you any trouble."
It was then a few minutes short of noon.
"Accessory both before and after—Head, if those charges stand, it's the Thompson-Bywaters trial over again, except for motive."
"Not quite, chief. I put in accessory before, but don't know if it will stand—accessory after, certainly, and I don't see how any defence can upset it. She had the whole four hundred and ten pounds, we know now, and though she might almost have got off by coming forward and clearing Brown by saying Hallam had given her the money, she kept silent. As for accessory before, she incited him to the theft. Everybody in Todlington knew what Madison was over moral irregularities. To save her son—Hallam's son too, mind!—to save him not merely from dismissal from the bank, but imprisonment for theft from the till of the money he paid Kidham, she got hold of Hallam. By telephone, I think, in the first instance. Met him by way of that footpath where I found the print of her shoe, and I should say told him—he'd got to find the money to save their son, or else she'd reveal to Madison the fact that Stanley Lacy is Hallam's son, and then Hallam would be thrown out from Madison's. Incited—almost compelled him to the theft—and it won't be a Thompson-Bywaters trial with both in the dock together. They'll be tried separately, as I see it."
"And you're letting Stanley Lacy go? Isn't he accessory too?"
"Chief, that's for the Crown people to say when they've got the particulars of the case against the other two. Stanley Lacy can't get far—we can see that he doesn't, until we know what to do about him."
"What with Quade and Lewinson as well, it looks as if you're going to monopolise most of the next assizes," Wadden reflected. "And Lacy's eyes being like Hallam's put you on to it, you say?"
"Yes, but I couldn't see the connection between Hallam and Lacy, till I'd had that talk with the old cobbler. Then—the elder Lacy's eyes were nearly black, and his wife's dark brown against Stanley's pale grey. Not conclusive—ground for presumption, say, when you look at Hallam's eyes and see how like to Lacy's they are. When I failed to connect Lewinson with either crime, I turned to investigate Lacy."
"And then the murder, a sudden impulse after Brown had gone."
"So I see it. I've got out of Susan that Madison generally took a nap early in the afternoon. Hallam waited till Brown had gone, and somehow got to know Madison had gone for his nap—I think, not know. Went up to that room at the top of the stairs to get the notes, Madison wakened in time to come at least as far as the doorway of the room and catch him, possibly watched him take the notes out of the drawer, and then used that hellishly venomous tongue of his to tell Hallam what he thought about it. Goaded him too far—but it was plain murder, chief, for Hallam held on till Madison was quite strangled before tumbling him down the stairs. Bennett can testify to that."
"Yes. Yessss." Wadden reflected over it. "And what next?"
"You'll stay on till after the assize trials?" Head asked, rather tiredly, and cupping his chin in his hands as he leaned his elbows on the edge of the superintendent's desk.
"Stay till after—whaddye mean, man?" A brief gust accompanied the question. "Have I said I wouldn't, damn you?"
"That's all right, then. And after all this is finished, you've got to hustle and get that place at Carden and weigh in your resignation if you mean to get it in before mine."
"Before—here, what in hell are you talking about, Head?"
"I mean it, chief. No, it's not just an impulse that I'll get over. I don't know what I'll do, after, or how I'll do it, but—finish."
"Man, you're all broken up by what's happened lately—all you need is a good rest, and you'll see straight again—"
"I'm seeing straight now, chief," Head interrupted. "I knew when I had to arrest Adeline Mary Lacy that this is the last case—if another should turn up I'll get leave, lose my pension—anything rather than undertake it. No more looking into hell in people's eyes while I start them on their way to the hangman. No—finished, all that."
"Gosh, laddie, I hate to hear you talk like that. After all the good work you've done, the name you've made for yourself, and—why, what other career is there for a man like you?"
"I'd make a passably efficient criminal, if I turned my energies that way," Head half-mused. "No, though—I know. You've always accused me of relying too much on intuition. The psychological aspects of crime. Write about it, try to hand on to others a little of what I know by instinct, though most of it won't go into words. A good deal may, if I put my mind to it. Do some good in the world that way—make it a sort of manual for guidance in detection. I don't want money—I shall have enough to keep me in as much comfort as I want. And all the experience I've had since you took me in hand and made a man of me, you wise old devil! Chief, I've just thought of something. I promised to let Miss Madison know as soon as I knew myself, and haven't done anything about it. I'll run over to Carden now we've finished with Mrs. Lacy and Hallam—"
"What's wrong with the telephone?" Wadden interrupted. "Haven't you done enough running about for one day?"
"It's not the sort of thing to telephone," Head dissented. "I asked her to keep away from her house till three, so if I make the best time my old wagon will do over Condor Hill, I shall catch her at the Carden Arms before she leaves to go and get those letters on the hall table. See you later, chief—we shan't get any instructions as to what to do about Stanley Lacy till to-morrow at the earliest."
He went out, and Wadden shook his head, and then blew a half-gale of angry disgust.
"Psychology of crime be damned!" he exclaimed, and blew again.
"Mees Madison? Yaas, Mr. 'Ead, but she go for ze walk ten—fifteen minutes she is gone. Zat way!" Cortazzi's finger shot out to point along Carden Street, toward the turning that led to the station.
"Thanks, Cortazzi. I think I know where to find her."
He set off again, and beyond Carden station—but not, he knew, beyond the ever-watchful eyes of Mr. Hawk—drew up beside Avril Madison.
"Can I take you the rest of your way, Miss Madison?" he asked.
"That's very good of you," she assented. "I've been spoilt by having the use of Mr. Brown's car for even a week, and now my feet don't like being made to work again. I must buy a car of my own." She got in and seated herself beside him. "You were going to my home, though?"
"To be perfectly honest, I was looking for you," he answered. "My promise to let you know who—well, who was taking Brown's place."
"Then you know now who will?" she demanded anxiously.
"Who has taken it, rather," he answered. "If you don't mind, Miss Madison, being out of sight of the stationmaster, now, I'd rather stop to tell you instead of driving on. Because it's going to be a bit of a shock for you, I'm afraid."
"Hallam!" She put certainty into the exclamation.
"Had you any reason for making that guess?" he asked as he stopped the car beside the road.
"I read it from your mind, I think," she said. "Guessed it, if you like, by your way of trying to break it to me, but—it wasn't altogether a guess. I—can you believe I saw it in your mind?"
"Very easily," he assented. "It happens sometimes with—with people who live as much by intuition as by reason. Not by what passes for wisdom in a material way, but—well, say, people who live with some little sight of the worlds that exist in and yet not of the world of material sight. That's very badly expressed, I know."
"Better than I could express it. And you sense those worlds too! Do you know, Mr. Head, it was because of Hallam I couldn't go back home to live? Not that I knew it myself, even, but I know now you have told me he is no longer there that I can go back, and needn't stay any longer at the Carden Arms. Does that sound foolish to you?"
"The sort of foolishness that is better than wisdom," he said.
She quoted—
"In the foolish country of the wise,
The hills lie flatly under the skies,
And even the sheep have tired eyes—
In the foolish country of the wise."
"It was a wise man who wrote that," Head commented.
"No—it was a woman," Avril dissented. "The one who wrote the invocation to evening you asked me to quote to you—the one my father loved. And I'm not shocked about Hallam, Mr. Head. I'm sorry for him, for I know he cared very much for my father, and yet—the notes, of course, the ones that were missing. He must have taken them, and then, because— Oh, I can hear what my father would have said to him! And more than once I've wondered if my father would say the word too much, make Hallam turn on him in some way. Sorry for him, and yet relieved, if you can understand that. Because I can go back, now, and feel my father about the place—do you know?"
"I have reason to know, through my own consciousness of— Miss Madison, shall I drive you there now? I've no other reason for going, since I've found you and kept my promise about telling you."
"But can you spare the time?" she asked.
"Easily. I've almost finished work, for to-day."
"Then—yes, please. Sometimes I love walking, but to-day my feet are mutinous. They won't realise that they've finished with the controls of the casserole."
"Not quite finished, surely," he suggested.
"Quite. Well, practically, say. No, though, quite. I might get a ride in it sometimes, but not drive it."
"I'll take you home, Miss Madison," he promised, and started his engine.
She turned to him and held out her hand after getting out before the porch of her home.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Head. And you remember—that long talk? You said if I made the appointment, you'd keep it."
"I haven't forgotten," he answered.
"That's all, and thank you again for bringing me home. Good-bye, Mr. Head."
RAIN lashed viciously on the two narrow windows, one on each side the doorway of the entrance hall. The flames of a big log fire in the wrought-iron grate, which with its dogs and hangers almost filled the big fireplace, reflected on the panelling, and in the shining darkness of the staircase Giovanni Alfieri had designed and made long ago. By the centre table of old oak stood Avril Madison, her back to the fire, and, so angled that the flames in relieving the dimness of the hall emphasised his profile, stood Inspector Head.
"You risked keeping the appointment in spite of the day," she observed. "I had an idea, after I had made it—but you did."
"Harrison drove me here," he explained. "Even if he hadn't, I should not have minded the walk from Carden station because of rain in spring."
"'White rain and wind among the tender trees,'" she quoted thoughtfully. "No, but—" She broke off, and gazed at the table laid for tea, with two cups and all else but the teapot.
"Swinburne did better work than that, but I don't like his gospel of negation," Head remarked. "I suppose it was fashionable, then."
"Yes, but"—she looked up at him—"I wasn't thinking of the rain at all. It's the first of April, you see."
"Well? Yes, I see, though. I hope, Miss Madison, that every first of April will bring me fooling as much to my liking as this."
"But you've only just got here, and I threatened a long talk, you may remember. And—to-day is my birthday."
"I wish I'd known that before. May every one that follows it bring you increasing happiness."
"Thank you for that wish, Mr. Head. I thought, if you don't mind, we'd have tea here—" She broke off as Susan appeared to put down the teapot, and waited till they were alone again. "It was here I first met you, you know. The night the superintendent was so good to me."
Recalling to mind all that had lain between that night and the morning when Hallam had taken the brief walk that ends in eternity, he did not reply. Surely it was not to talk of the tragedy that she had asked him to come and see her?
"You were good to me too," she went on. "Now tea—two lumps and no milk, I remember. And that chair by the fire—you can use the three-legged stool as a table." She handed him the filled cup. "I'll bring mine and take the other chair. Cakes, or anything—or a cigarette?"
He took a cigarette from the open box on the tea tray, and lighted the one she had taken for herself. "Nothing to eat, thank you," he said, and moved to the fire to wait for her.
"Yes, you were good to me too," she repeated, as she drew forward a second three-legged stool before seating herself by the fire. "Then, and all through that—that most painful time. But since—since the trial, say, you don't seem to have any time for me. I think we've met nearly a dozen times—ten, in actual fact—and you've made your escape every time in a way I don't understand, Mr. Head. Hurried to get away from me, it seemed. Don't explain it if you don't wish."
"I am a police inspector, Miss Madison," he said, quietly.
"I thought I knew the man," she retorted, and smiled at him.
"It—well, the social difference," he pointed out in a rather embarrassed way. "I couldn't take advantage of your kindness, presume on it. Forgive me—I don't know how else to tell you the reason."
"I see." Seated so that the firelight rayed on her face, she reflected over the explanation. "And to-day—I'm twenty-seven to-day."
"I'm in my forty-sixth year," he said, "and don't see how either of the open confessions affects the situation."
She looked full at him and smiled. "This long talk isn't proceeding very briskly, is it, Mr. Head?" she inquired.
"As a birthday treat, you must find it rather a failure," he agreed.
"Not in the least—and that's not politeness, either. I want to know, if it's not impertinent—the local paper was rather tearfully ecstatic over your retirement and the superintendent's, I thought—I want to know what you think of doing next. Is it impertinent?"
"On the other hand, I appreciate your interest. I want to settle to serious study of the psychology of crime. I know there's a whole library on the subject already, and I've read a good deal of it. But I plan something on what I think is a new line. A dispassionate study of human tendencies, motives and causes, lines of detection—illustrating it all the way by actual cases—something that may possibly be of real use not so much in detecting and punishing as in preventing crime."
"An equivalent to Havelock Ellis's Psychology of Sex, in fact?"
"I'd have said I mean to try for that, if I'd thought you knew his work," he admitted.
"It's going to be—yes, you'll do it. Not Inspector Head any more, but Specialist Head. But don't you regret ending this present career?"
"It's an intense relief to know I shall never have to make another arrest," he answered emphatically.
"And you'll do consulting work, like any other specialist," she suggested.
"I don't know. Probably, if there is any to be done."
"More tea? Yes. So will I."
She took his cup and her own, refilled them, and seated herself facing him again after putting them down. Then she leaned toward the fire, so that he could see only her profile, and for awhile sat silent.
"If the post of manager were offered you, would you consider it?" she asked at last, without turning her head toward him.
"You mean—if you offered it?" he queried.
"Yes. If I offered it."
"I've seen Imminger," he said. "Even if you hadn't got him, I should decline the offer, Miss Madison.
"Why?" She looked full at him to put the question.
"Well"—he hesitated—"because his post would bring me into contact with—no! If you won't realise, I can't explain, I find."
"Yet I want you to explain," she insisted, smiling.
"That you appear to forget—forgive me, but you asked me to explain it—you appear to forget the difference in our two positions—"
"Oh, no!" she interrupted. "That I have never done."
"But in reality I've no right to be here, talking to you like this," he insisted earnestly. "Miss Madison and ex-Inspector Head, talking as equals. Whatever I might think, whatever I might wish—and perhaps after this you'll realise why I refuse that offer of Imminger's place—because it would involve seeing too much of you for my own peace. It's out now, but I've got to make you see. We are not equals."
"We are not," she agreed decidedly. "And I didn't offer you Imminger's place."
"Not—I don't understand, Miss Madison."
"I see you don't. I'm going to make you understand, though." She spoke determinedly, and rose to her feet, at which he too stood up. "That night—when you came out to Jim Brown's car with me, you held my hand in both yours while you told me—'Mind how you go.' I was half-blind with tears, just beginning to realise—and I felt the strength and reassurance you had it in you to gave—when you held my hand like that. I have felt it ever since. No, not equals. But"—she moved quite close to him—"if you could hold all of me as you held my hand that night, I might—might reach up nearer equality."
"You—" He held her close. "Is this true?"
"As true as wonderful—for me. And you?"
"I love you, dear!"
"Ah! I needed that telling, dear—my dear! No—wait—I want to tell you. The loveliest birthday present I have ever had—your first kiss. And—to manage me, not the factory. Please."
"And two more down the other side—laddie, the Crystal Palace'll be a disappointment by the time I've finished here."
"It is already," Head observed, casting a judicial gaze along the sides of the two glasshouses which, end to end, reared up on the side of Wadden's ground next the Carden vicarage garden. "What does Ollyer say about having things like these just over his fence?"
"He's liberal-minded, and inclined to return thanks because they're not steam roundabouts. The furnace is going to be down the far end, there. Head, this blinkin' presentation business! I tried my dinner jacket on last night, and it split all down the back. What'll I do?"
"Turn up in a bathing suit, I expect."
"Bathing—" Wadden broke off to blow a hurricane protest at the gibe. "Squire Hastings going to be there, the lord lieutenant in the chair, Enthwaite—Nevile—all the high muckamucks for miles round—and me condemned to make a speech with my dinner jacket all split down the back! What'll I do, man?"
"I'll save the situation for you, chief. Give me the essential measurements, chest and length and all the rest, and I'll get a trunk call through to Byrne. He'll get you one sent down from one of those outfitting firms that stock everything up to pink silk knickers for elephants."
"Hence the trunk call," Wadden suggested. "Laddie, you're a real friend. God bless my soul—Miss Madison!"
She had found her way through the as yet unfurnished house next the vicarage—guided, probably, by a glimpse of the new glasshouses—and, approaching the two men, took Head's arm and nodded at Wadden.
"Your new home, I understand, superintendent," she remarked. "Are you and Mrs. Wadden very excited about it?"
"I'm—well, a trifle phased over something else," Wadden answered slowly. "I—I ought to say how-de-do and all that, but—but—"
"I haven't told him anything, Avril," Head explained
"Don't," Wadden advised. "I've still got eyes. But—well, bless my soul! Laddie, it was I first noticed Miss Madison's eyes. They're lovelier still, now. But—God bless the pair of you—it's a shock. I hope you'll both be as happy as I mean to be in my new home."
"We have no fear, superintendent—thank you for the wish," Avril said. "No fear at all, for we're both in the land of heart's desire. Jerry, are you driving me to Westingborough? If so, we must go."
"Yes—it's later than I thought. See you again soon, chief."
Wadden stood quite still to watch them go. He saw Avril's hand on Head's shoulder as she looked up, and his head leant toward her.
"Gosh!" he murmured. "My old lady'll throw a fit and then start singin' anthems. Lovely eyes—but she's the luckier of the two."
He faced about and eyed his glasshouses, and the spot where the furnace-shed would soon be erected—the pegs were already in the ground to mark its site.
"Heart's desire—certainly. Oh, yesss!" He breathed the softest of zephyrs. "Yess-ss-s! Tomatoes. Under glass."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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