by J F Straker
‘How did you make out?’ he asked.
The other shrugged. ‘Jobs aren’t easy to get at fifty, Inspector. Alan had to give up his hopes of Oxfordit hit him hard, poor lad — and with the little money I’d put by he and I started this factory.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘So-so. No luxuries, but it keeps us. With more capital it could be a winner, I fancy. But money’s tight these days.’
Pitt nodded vaguely. He was trying to assess the value of what the other had told him — that the Torrecks, father and son, had good cause to hate Charlotte Lane, that they needed money to develop their business. How much money? What did ‘more capital’ amount to? Could they have expected to find that amount at The Elms? They might have known that the woman had cashed a cheque for her visit to London, but could they have known for what sum?
He was suddenly reminded of a thought that had occurred to puzzle him during the night. As Charlotte Lane’s keys were missing, the murderer must have taken them; if he had killed her before tackling the safe why had he tried to force it, why hadn’t he used the keys? If, on the other hand, the intruder had been trying to force the safe and the woman had surprised him, why had he not returned to the safe with the keys after he had killed her?
For a moment, forgetful of the immediate problem, he allowed his thoughts to dwell on this. Then he smiled. How did he know the murderer had not used the keys? Until the safe was opened there was no way of telling whether it had been rifled or not.
That; then, was the way of it. Odd that he should have wasted sleep over something so obvious.
‘When do I start giving myself an alibi for Thursday?’ Henry Torreck asked.
Startled out of his reverie, Pitt smiled. ‘Any time you like,’ he said.
‘Well, we knocked off at the factory at five-thirty as usual, but I stayed behind for an hour. I often do. Then I drove over to see a friend the other side of Cosmeston. I’d expected to be home by eight, but I didn’t make it.’ He explained how he had met Elizabeth and taken her home. ‘It was after half-past nine by the time I got back here.’
‘You didn’t go into the house?’
‘No. She didn’t even want me to walk up the drive with her, but I insisted.’
Pitt pricked up his ears. ‘Didn’t want you near the house, eh? Why?’
But Torreck had already regretted the information he had inadvertently given. ‘She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. No doubt she merely wanted to save me the trouble.’
‘But you insisted. Why?’
Torreck told him of the footsteps he had heard. ‘But I could have been mistaken, Inspector. Miss Messager heard nothing. Neither did I when I stopped to listen.’
‘Did your son also stay late at the factory that evening?’ asked Pitt, reluctantly abandoning what had seemed a promising inquiry.
‘No. He came home at the usual time.’
‘Was he here all the evening?’
‘I think so. He had talked of going out to Wendingham — that’s a village about two miles from here — but . . .’ He paused. ‘Why not ask him yourself? He’s in the kitchen.’
Cooking the Sunday lunch, presumably, thought Pitt, as the other left him. The smells of hot food came wafting into the room.
With the smells came Alan Torreck, wiping his hands on a dish-cloth. ‘I’m cook for today,’ he announced unnecessarily. ‘We take it in turns.’
‘Do you like cooking?’ Pitt asked.
‘I don’t like it, but I’d rather eat my own concoctions than Dad’s. He’s absolute murder in the kitchen. No feeling for food at all.’
Pitt liked him on sight, and was immediately on guard against that liking. But his voice was more brusque than he intended when he said, ‘You didn’t like Mrs Lane, did you, Mr Torreck?’
‘No. What is more, you try to find some one who did.’
Pitt nodded, acknowledging the thrust. ‘Were you at home all Thursday evening?’
The young man hesitated. Then he said, ‘Until nine o’clock, yes. I went for a stroll across the common then, just for a breath of air.’
‘Meet anyone?’
‘No.’ Alan grinned. ‘They never do, do they? Must make it difficult for you chaps.’
Against his will, Pitt found himself returning the grin.
The telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ Alan said, and picked up the receiver. ‘Yes,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, he’s here. Hold on.’ He turned to Pitt. ‘It’s Ted Williams, Inspector. He wants to speak to you.’
The detective took the receiver from him. ‘Inspector Pitt here. What is it, Williams?’
‘Divisional Headquarters have just been on the phone, sir,’ came Williams’ precise voice over the wire. ‘They’ve traced that taxi. Burke’s Garage, Tanbury. I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Yes. Any further information?’
‘The Superintendent wants to see you, sir. But he told me to tell you the taxi was never sent. It was cancelled two days before, on the Tuesday.’
Pitt replaced the receiver and stood staring at it, unmindful of Alan Torreck’s curious gaze. So that was it. Not unpremeditated, as he had come to suppose, but a cold, calculated murder, carefully planned. What better choice of time than when the woman was known to be going away, when her absence would not be questioned? The taxi cancelled, the niece inveigled out of the house by a trick, the . . .
What about the gardener and his wife? The killer must have known they also would be out? He had known, too, where to cancel the taxi. But the girl had said . . .
Elizabeth Messager!
Pitt was suddenly impatient to be gone. Refusing the Torrecks’ invitation to stay to lunch (though not because he doubted the cook’s skill; the Inspector was no connoisseur of food), he hurried back to the prim villa that housed Ted Williams and Milford Cross Police Station.
Sergeant Watkins had already returned from Cosmeston, and was awaiting him. ‘A very pleasant little assignment,’ he told Pitt. ‘Who said crime doesn’t pay?’
‘Any luck?’ Pitt asked.
‘I made an impression,’ Watkins said modestly. ‘No more.’ And then, becoming serious. ‘No doubt about the girl being there on Thursday; but it’s a mighty fishy set-up.’
‘How?’
‘Mrs French thought she seemed upset; nervy and fidgety, as though something momentous had happened or was about to happen. That could have been due to discovering that the phone call was a hoax. But I doubt it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she refused to let Mrs French inform the police. Said she could make a good guess at who was responsible, and tried to brush it off as a harmless joke.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Plenty. Mrs French being her friend, I had to take it easy, of course; she wasn’t going to give anything away which she thought might be hurtful to the girl. But I kept on about the aunt, saying what an old devil she must have been, and why had the girl put up with it for so long; and eventually she let slip that, to her way of thinking, our Lizzie would have pulled out long ago if it hadn’t been for the aunt’s money. She comes into the lot, it seems.’
‘Does she, though! Tell me more.’
‘Well, it seems Lizzie was reluctant to talk about the aunt while she was there. That could indicate a guilty conscience, couldn’t it? And Mrs French confirmed that she had not previously been allowed a latch-key; the girl told her the aunt had given it to her that afternoon.’ The Sergeant grimaced. ‘Doesn’t look too good for our Liz, does it?’
‘It looks worse than you think,’ Pitt told him. ‘Come on, we’re going into Tanbury. I have to see a man about a taxi. I’ll explain on the way.’
‘How about lunch? Don’t we get any?’
‘No time. We’ll grab a sandwich in Tanbury.’
‘Sandwich!’ Jim Watkins groaned. ‘And to think I turned down the offer of a cut off the joint and two veg. And don’t misunderstand me, either.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Pitt said.
> In the car he tried to sort out the case against Elizabeth Messager. Motive was clear — money, her hatred of her aunt. She was one of the few people who had known that her aunt was going away — date, time, circumstance. She had admitted hearing her aunt ordering the taxi; and, although she had denied hearing the name of the firm, the taxi had certainly been cancelled, and by some one who knew where to phone. Who more likely than Elizabeth Messager to have that knowledge? She, too, would know that the Greens were going out that afternoon; might even have arranged that they should. And, having killed her aunt, she departed for Cosmeston on the strength of an imaginary telephone call.
‘Why?’ asked Watkins. ‘It doesn’t give her an alibi for the whole afternoon, which is what she needed.’
‘No. But she had to be out of the house at the time her aunt had been due to leave. She must have known the body would be found eventually, that inquiries would be made about the taxi; and she had to be able to plead ignorance. Not only that. Unless she was away from the house for some time during that afternoon there could be no doubt of her guilt.’ He frowned. ‘It is difficult to see why she should have tampered with the safe, unless it was done to mislead, to make the crime appear as the work of an outsider. That could also have been the reason for the note found by Mrs Green.’
‘And the footsteps Torreck heard?’ Watkins said. ‘Where do they fit in?’
‘They don’t. He must have imagined them. But the girl’s reluctance to allow him near the house was probably because she could not be sure that no incriminating evidence still remained.’
‘On top of which we have Mrs French’s evidence,’ Watkins said. ‘Looks solid, doesn’t it? What about the telegram? The first one?’
‘That beats me. Mrs Donelly didn’t send it; the Purley police have confirmed that. But who did? Not the murderer, surely. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to the fact that his victim hadn’t arrived at her destination.’
‘Which brings us to the assumption that it was unconnected with the murder,’ Watkins said. ‘Somebody being funny, perhaps. Some one who knew nothing of the murder, but who did know that the old girl was going away.’
‘Might be. A damned stupid joke, though. And heartless.’
‘It would have to be some one who knew the destination,’ the Sergeant said thoughtfully. ‘It was signed ‘Donelly,’ wasn’t it? That narrows the field a bit.’
‘It does indeed,’ Pitt agreed.
Ten minutes later, the Divisional Superintendent in attendance, they were inspecting a ledger at Burke’s Garage. ‘There you are, Inspector,’ the manager said, running his finger down the entries for the 18th. ‘Lane, The Elms, Milford Cross. 6.10 P.M. To catch 6.45 train.’ The finger moved across to the adjoining column. ‘Cancelled 16th.’
‘Any idea how it was cancelled?’ Pitt asked.
The manager looked inquiringly at one of the two girl clerks who were hovering excitedly around the desk. ‘That’s your writing, Rosemary, isn’t it? How about it?’
‘They cancelled it by phone,’ the girl said decisively. ‘I remember ‘specially because the person had such a funny voice. You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. I said so to my friend. Didn’t I, Doris?’
The other girl nodded. ‘Like Herbert Marshall, you said.’
‘Not Herbert Marshall, dear — Arthur Marshall. Herbert Marshall’s the film actor. You know — he walks sort of stiff. He’s got a wooden leg, I think. It’s Arthur Marshall I meant. Usually he impersonates a schoolmistress — haven’t you heard him on the wireless? I don’t think he’s been on lately, but I used to —’
‘Have you sent taxis to The Elms before?’ Pitt asked.
The two girls looked at each other, uncertain. ‘It’d be in the ledger,’ Doris said, and began thumbing back the pages.
Pitt did not wait for the answer. He left the two girls to their task. Out in the street he said, ‘Not much from that, eh?’
‘It’s another point against Lizzie,’ Watkins said. ‘She’s got a deep voice for a girl. It could have been her who spoke to Rosemary on the phone.’
The Superintendent said, ‘Would it interest you to know that this cancellation was phoned through to other garages besides Burke’s?’
Startled, Pitt stopped dead to stare at him. A woman bumped into him from behind and then swept round him, glaring at him as she passed. Apologizing, Pitt moved on.
‘If you mean what I think you mean it would indeed. Tell me more, sir.’
‘When I sent my chaps out to trace this booking for you Burke’s wasn’t the first garage they tried. At two of the others they were told that some one had rung up to cancel a taxi for Lane at Milford Cross. And in each of these two cases, after the attendant had checked and informed them that there was no such booking, the caller apologized, said he — or she must have made a mistake, and rang off.’
‘He or she?’
The Superintendent nodded. ‘In neither case could the attendant say with certainty whether it was a man or a woman.’
On the way back to Milford Cross Pitt said, ‘Here’s an odd thing, Jim. With one exception every one I have spoken to, the girl included, stresses that Charlotte Lane treated her niece badly; and, since the aunt didn’t go visiting or invite the local people to her house, it follows that this information must have been disseminated by the girl. The exception is Mrs Green, who should be in a position to know, and who insists that the Lane woman doted on her niece. So either Elizabeth Messager is inventing a motive for murder against herself, or Mrs Green, who wishes the girl nothing but ill, is denying the motive. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ He sighed heavily. ‘I wish I knew exactly what did go on in that damned house.’
* * *
Owing to the increased police activity at Milford Cross, a Sergeant had been drafted temporarily to the village to take charge. This had put Constable Williams’ nose out of joint; but it was a pleasant surprise for Elizabeth when she called at the police station late that Sunday afternoon to sign her statement. She had not been looking forward to meeting Ted Williams again so soon after her outburst.
As she read through the statement her mind was filled with doubt. The document was fair enough; they had not twisted what she had said, or added to it. It was she who had done the twisting, who had omitted so much. And now she must sign it. Or must she?
‘Why, no, miss, there’s no compulsion about it,’ the Sergeant said, when she put the question to him. ‘But it’s of no value else. Anything wrong with it, miss?’
She shook her head. ‘Signing it makes it seem so — so final,’ she said. ‘It would be awful if I’d made a mistake, or left out something important.’
He smiled. ‘It’s not as final as all that,’ he said. ‘You’re not on oath. Don’t let it worry you, miss. If you’ve forgotten something — well, it’s not as if you were misleading the police wilfully, is it?’
But it was. They were all misleading the police, had conspired from the beginning to do so. The whole statement was a mass of deliberate untruths or half-truths.
It did not look like her usual signature when she had written it; she had been too nervous for her hand to control the flow of the pen. But it seemed to satisfy the Sergeant.
It was already dark when she came out of the police station. A keen wind blew down the village street, and Elizabeth hesitated on the steps. Across the street lay the common, and beyond that the hotel; from where she stood she could see the lights in the upper windows. Should she go that way, or round by the road? It was lonely and desolate on the common, and she would catch the full force of the wind. But it was shorter — and would the road be less lonely?
She decided on the common, and set off briskly. She had no torch, but the track, being in constant use, was well defined. A few near stumbles, however, caused her to go more carefully; the common was a favourite parking-place for lovers and picnickers, and their cars had left the ground rutted and uneven. It was no better off the track, for here there were also bushes to co
ntend with.
She thought uneasily of the statement she had just signed. What was the penalty for misleading the police? In addition to making a false statement she had used a false name, she had written ‘Elizabeth Messager’ when it should have been ‘Elizabeth Farrel.’ Still more disturbing was the thought that now she had signed she could not deny what she had written. What if she had to deny it? What if the police arrested her for murder?
Elizabeth shivered, not entirely because of the wind. She tucked her handbag under one arm and wrapped her coat more closely about her. The track led through trees here, and the night seemed blacker and more threatening. She had a sudden vision of Aunt Charlotte’s body, huddled and broken, at the bottom of the well. She had had the same vision the previous evening, when she was talking to the Inspector. But now there was no quiet voice to steady her, to bring her back to reality. Now her thoughts could go on and on until . . .
Terrified, she peered fearfully at the tall trees that shut her in, expecting at any moment to be confronted with the accusing wraith of Aunt Charlotte. She wanted to hurry, to get back to the hotel; but the ground impeded her. It was more uneven here, for many of the tracks that criss-crossed the common were channelled through this gap in the trees.
What if they did arrest her? her thoughts went on. What could she say? That the statement was a lie? That she had known, for instance, about the telegram? That even if she had not known she would not have given it a second thought, because Aunt Charlotte could have disappeared into the unknown that day without causing her a pang, for she was going to be married on the morrow and . . .
It was fear of Aunt Charlotte, of her thoughts, that caused her to stop and look quickly over her shoulder. A few lights from the village pricked the darkness, the trees whined and creaked eerily, tossing their branches with abandon as the wind caught them. She was about to turn and go on when, so suddenly that it was upon her even as she screamed, a dark figure rose from the ground and sprang menacingly towards her. A hand grasped her arm, she felt herself pushed violently in the back —and then, still screaming, she fell.
Chapter Eight