‘Yes. How long were you out of the hall, Brown?’
‘Maybe ten minutes, sir. Say from abaht five minutes before the ’alf-hour till abaht five minutes after.’
‘I see. Had you seen Mr Lorn just before that? Any time after a quarter past seven, say?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Can’t swear ter it, but I don’t remember seein’ ’im then.’
‘And when did you next see him?’
Brown frowned again. ‘The perlice arst me that, sir. ’E came inter the ’all just abaht five ter eight, as near as I can remember. And the Brigadier came and sat down beside ’im a couple o’ minutes later. And then you and Mrs ’Eldar came in.’
‘Thank you very much, Brown. That’s all, I think. I’m much obliged to you.’
‘Not at all, sir. Call you a cab, sir?’
‘Please,’ said Johnny.
He scarcely spoke in the taxi. It was like their homecoming after Morningside’s death. When they were back in the drawing room Sally knelt down on the hearthrug and woke up the drowsy fire with the bellows. Then she turned to Johnny, who was standing staring down at the rising flames.
‘Sit down and talk, darling,’ she said.
Johnny shivered a little and smiled faintly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and sat down on the sofa. ‘I was thinking about Peter.’
Sally knew he meant Peter Lorn. She picked up his tumbler, got him a neat whisky, and put it into his hand. He thanked her and drank.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘You’re right. We’ve got to work it out. He could have done it, Sally. Wait a minute; we want the timetable.’
He pulled out his wallet, took out the table they had made, and unfolded it. Then he began to talk in an almost expressionless voice.
‘When he left the canteen, about seven-twenty, he went straight up to Peex by the back lift, which has no operator. He entered Peex by the back way at seven-twenty-five — one minute after Selina had left it by the front way. Now, Camberley agreed that he’d asked Morningside for a Reflector cutting, but he couldn’t remember if he’d asked him in the afternoon or while they were in the canteen. It was Toby who said he didn’t remember his asking for it in the canteen. In fact he did remember, and he used it as a pretext to get Morningside out of Peex. He told Morningside that Camberley was in a hurry for it — just as Morningside told Miss Quimper a few minutes later. His leg would slow him down a bit’ — Johnny’s voice was suddenly harsh — ‘but I think he could rig the trap in six minutes.
‘Two or three minutes after the half-hour it was all over. And the moment it was over, Toby got through the hatch — difficult for him, but not impossible — and rang me up from his own office. A line was plugged in to his telephone from the Archives switchboard; he could get through without delay, and there was no one to listen in and remember where he had spoken from. It was unlikely that anyone would come into Peex; Camberley was about the only possible person, and Toby had arranged to meet him downstairs at eight.
‘As soon as Toby had talked to me, he went down and saw someone on the Echo. He told us himself a couple of days ago that just before he met us at eight, he was gossiping with someone on the Echo, when Knox’s friend Wilson was sent off on a job.
‘Very well, then. He had his alibi for the canteen period. But he had provided for the post-canteen period too. If he could only persuade everyone that he had telephoned to me from outside Echo House — and Camberley’s evidence would support his statement — he would be perfectly safe. He had established a quite sound reason for not telephoning from the entrance hall, which might have given him just enough time to rig the trap. But it would be quite obvious that he couldn’t have gone up to Peex, rigged the trap and got through the hatch, come down again, gone out into Fleet Street and found a telephone, and got through to me, between seven-twenty and about seven-thirty-three. He didn’t know, of course, that Brown hadn’t been in the entrance hall round about half past seven; that was a piece of luck for him. He would expect Brown to say that he hadn’t noticed Mr Lorn going out or coming in about that time. But there’s a good deal of coming and going, and Brown’s evidence wouldn’t seem very conclusive. No one, again, would have seen Toby telephoning from the pub of his choice, but pubs are busy places, and that wouldn’t seem very conclusive either.
‘He talked to me until, say, seven-thirty-seven or seven-thirty-eight. His friend on the Echo gives him an alibi from, say, just after seven-forty till after seven-fifty, and Brown says he was in the entrance hall at seven-fifty-five. So he couldn’t possibly have done it.
‘And please note this. His plan didn’t depend on the opportunities Camberley gave him. If Camberley hadn’t asked him to come and have a drink, he’d have gone and had one himself. It was desirable to have an alibi for the pre-canteen period, because there would probably be no evidence that Morningside had been in his office between six o’clock and a quarter to seven, and we might ask ourselves if the trap hadn’t been rigged then. At that time of the evening Toby would have been quite likely to find an acquaintance in any Fleet Street pub, and if he didn’t, he could make one who would remember him. Again, if Camberley hadn’t invited him to the canteen — and hadn’t invited Morningside either — he would have invited Morningside himself. He’d chosen a Wednesday evening, when Morningside nearly always ate in the canteen in any case and went back to his office afterwards. Morningside wouldn’t be there to give him his canteen-period alibi, but it would be astonishing if no one else could. Again, if Camberley hadn’t mentioned the cutting, he could easily have found a pretext of his own to get Morningside out of Peex. After all, he was Morningside’s departmental chief. Finally, if Camberley hadn’t asked him to ring me up, he could have found some other reason for doing it, or he could have rung up someone else. But I was the most convenient person, because I was going to be questioned by the police anyway.’
‘Stop a minute,’ said Sally. ‘Would he have arranged a conference with you for eight o’clock if he’d been planning to kill Morningside?’
Johnny’s face lightened a little, and then darkened again.
‘I think he might,’ he said. ‘If Morningside’s body hadn’t been found till the next morning, the evidence as to time of death would probably have been very indefinite indeed. I should think Toby would have had to carry his alibi on to midnight or after, if he was to be quite safe. He may have thought it easier and safer to limit the thing by having the body found at eight, and his movements apparently cut and dried. As it was, he deliberately suggested that Morningside had died about twenty past seven and killed him about twelve minutes after that. But the discrepancy was very slight, and the medical evidence more than justified it; the doctors got nowhere near as close as that.’ Johnny thought for a moment, and then found his place in the argument.
‘The great advantage of Camberley’s intervention was that it shifted the initiative. Camberley organised the proceedings, not Toby, and Camberley’s reputation is so great that his word would be worth almost as much as the word of a High Court judge.’
Sally nodded. ‘Yes. But, Johnny, tell me this: if Toby wanted everyone to think he’d telephoned to you from a pub, why on earth didn’t he tell you so at the time?’
Johnny thought for a moment, and then turned a little white.
‘Because a pub means a penny-in-the-slot telephone,’ he said quietly, ‘and I hadn’t heard the pennies drop.’
‘Are you sure, darling?’
‘I’m quite sure. I didn’t hear any pennies drop. He was using an ordinary telephone. He couldn’t risk telling me a lie about it at the time. He could only hope that by the time it came up I’d have forgotten there had been no pennies.’
Sally heard herself saying without her own volition, ‘It can’t be Toby. It can’t be.’
‘Who else could have done it, Sally? It fits in far too well. And he’s very much in love with Selina. He may have realised that Morningside wanted to mend his engagement to her, and he may have had a sense of inferiority becau
se of his leg. His mind may have got twisted—’
‘Do you think he would really have killed Miss Quimper?’
‘Well, he’s got no alibi, and I think he’s quite strong enough.’
‘You didn’t ask Brown if he saw him go out on Friday evening. He said himself that he left about six, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. I didn’t ask Brown — I didn’t think of it at the time — but he could have come back, you know. He could have slipped in by Laxton’s door while Laxton was out on patrol, or he could even have got in and out by the coalhole. That would be difficult for him, again, but he can do almost anything if he makes up his mind to it. When he was a little younger, he used to do damn silly things with his leg just to prove to himself that he could.’
‘Stop,’ said Sally. ‘Stop, darling. Miss Quimper’s murder wasn’t premeditated. The murderer just happened to overhear her talking to me. He didn’t lay his plans in advance.’
Johnny looked at her, and the first real gleam of hope appeared in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was being stupid. If he did leave Echo House about six, I think he’s in the clear.’ Johnny added almost violently, ‘I can’t wait for this. Be damned to the Echo switchboard.’
He reached for the Telephone Directory, found the Echo’s number, and dialled it. When he was answered he asked for the entrance hall.
After a moment Brown’s voice said, ‘Night-porter front ’all.’
‘Brown,’ said Johnny, ‘we had a talk this evening about the movements of a man we know. No names, please, but do you remember?’
‘Yes, I remember, sir. Is there somethink else?’
‘Yes, please. Can you remember when the man in question left on Friday evening?’
‘Yessir. ’Baht six o’clock, it was, when the young gent left. And ’e didn’t come back, neither.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
Brown was hurt by Johnny’s sharpness. ‘Quite sure, sir. It’s me job ter remember when they goes aht and in. Besides, I’ve been all over them times with the perlice, and they’re fresh in me memory, so ter speak. Father O’Flynn went off just before five-thirty, the marvellous girl rahnd abaht five-forty-five, the young gent abaht six, and the Big White Chief abaht ten ter seven.’
‘All right,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m sorry. God bless you, Brown.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Brown, a little taken aback, ‘and the same ter you, I’m sure.’
Chapter Thirteen
The inquest on Edith Quimper was held on the following morning. The doctors and Inspector Lindesay between them caused a sensation by making it clear — as far as the doctors were concerned, with a good deal of unpleasant detail — that the deceased had either fallen, thrown herself, or been thrown, from a sixth-floor window. Death might have taken place — again as far as the doctors were concerned — at any time between approximately four o’clock on Friday afternoon and ten o’clock on Friday night.
Evidence of identity was taken from Miss Quimper’s married sister, and Laxton described his discovery of the body. Then Sally was called and questioned about her telephone conversation with the deceased. This, of course, provided a later terminus a quo than the doctors had been able to give. It also suggested, at any rate to the Press, which lost no time in passing the suggestion on to the public, that Miss Quimper had been murdered, and that because she had possessed some dangerous knowledge of Morningside’s murderer. Again, and most unfortunately, it left no doubt in anyone’s mind that Johnny was investigating the case.
The Coroner, however, pointed out to his jury that the medical witnesses had made it clear that, so far as they were concerned, there was no conclusive evidence to show whether the deceased had met her death by misadventure, by her own act, or by some other person’s. If the jury felt, as they well might, that no other evidence they had heard could be considered conclusive in this respect, they must bring in an open verdict. They did so without retiring.
Sally and Johnny got through the reporters with some difficulty and went home for lunch; Camberley had been there with Silcutt, but they were evidently lunching à deux. When the Heldars had eaten Johnny went on to the shop, saying he would probably be late that evening.
Two reporters visited St Cross Square in the course of the afternoon. Sally had asked Nanny to answer the front door, and Nanny appeared to deal with them successfully, probably by the simple expedient of treating them as rude little boys. When Johnny came home, after half past six, he said they had been to the Charing Cross Road too, and one of them had caught him in the shop.
‘A tiresome afternoon,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t think I’ll have a drink, all the same. I’ve been pub-crawling again, and I’ve done myself quite well already.’
‘More barmaids?’ asked Sally resignedly.
‘Several,’ said Johnny with gusto. ‘Well — in point of fact — two. Or, to be strictly accurate, one and a landlord’s wife.’
‘That’s rather worse.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He grinned and paused to light a cigarette.
‘I wanted to be quite sure about Toby,’ he said, ‘so I looked for an explanation of his telephone call. I tried the pubs nearest to Echo House, and I struck lucky with my second one — the Old Fleet. That was where I got off with the landlord’s wife. She’s nice and cosy, with a vein of pantomime humour, and she knows Toby. He was there with Camberley on Wednesday evening from about six till nearly a quarter to seven. But he came back about half past seven, and she saw him waiting for the penny-in-the-slot telephone off the bar, with two or three people ahead of him. He looked very tired, and was dragging his leg, and she was so sorry for him that she took him into her own sitting room, where there’s another telephone — not a penny-in-the-slot type. She left him alone with that, and when he came out, they had an argument about his paying for the call. He won and paid, and then went away. That was about twenty to eight. He can’t have reached his friend on the Echo before a quarter to, and he can’t possibly have stayed for a word with him and murdered Morningside as well. And that’s that.
‘Well, now. Knox didn’t kill Morningside. Teddy — didn’t kill Morningside. Miss Quimper didn’t kill Morningside and then commit suicide. Toby, praise God, didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure Selina didn’t.’
‘So what?’ asked Sally.
Johnny said slowly, ‘Sherlock Holmes said that when you had eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth.’
‘But no one remains,’ said Sally. Then she stared at him. ‘Johnny, that’s impossible, surely. I kept on remembering him at the beginning, and you kept on snubbing me.’
‘I know. I apologise. But it’s not impossible. He hasn’t got an alibi for either of the murders, and Brown told us last night that he’d left about ten to seven on Friday evening. The only thing that worries me is that he ought to have an alibi for the canteen period, and he says he just went home.’
‘Wait a minute!’ said Sally urgently. ‘Wait a minute!’
She put her hands over her eyes and thought. The picture took gradual shape. A busy street corner, and under a lighted lamp a magnificent man getting into a taxi, and giving the driver an address in a small, precise voice.
She looked up and said, ‘He didn’t go straight home. He hurried on ahead of me, but when I reached the corner of St Barnabas’ Lane he was getting into a taxi. I heard him tell the man to go to Merchant Hatters’ Buildings in Holborn, on the corner of Silk Street.’
‘Well done,’ said Johnny. ‘Damn it, we ought to have a Post Office Directory here. I think I’ll go and have a look at the place now.’
‘I’ll come with you. It’s Shepherd’s Pie for supper. Nanny can help herself and turn down the oven.’
They took a taxi to a point some way east of Kingsway, and then walked on to Silk Street. It was very near St Barnabas’ Lane, and Sally suspected that Silcutt had taken a taxi only in order to get well away from her. The ground floor of Merchant Hatt
ers’ Buildings consisted of two shops: a very ordinary chemist’s and an unoriginal stationer’s. They probably both shut at six or before, and in any case, it seemed unlikely that Silcutt had come off his usual beat to visit either. But the big door between them stood open, and beside it was a row of nameplates. Johnny took them from the bottom up.
‘Dentist. I hardly think so. I think he’d go to Harley Street, even if this man is open after six. Typing and duplicating — possibly. He may write, for all we know, and they may work late sometimes. Insurance brokers — possibly, again. Isaac Rothstein, Financier — unlikely. Dressmaker — no. Miss Désirée Molyneux, Teacher of Dancing. I wonder.’
They looked at each other, and Sally said, ‘You remember what Selina told Toby — that he couldn’t dance, but he was much more of a ladies’ man than you’d think. Do you think he’s learning to dance for Selina’s sake?’
‘Men have done more for less. Come on; we’ll go and see.’
They went into a narrow, stone-paved hall lined with sage-green tiles. An iron lift-cage rose in the well of the stone staircase, but they walked up. On the first-floor landing there were two doors, both with panels of frosted glass. No light showed behind either. On the second floor the insurance brokers’ office was in darkness, but Mr Rothstein’s was dimly lit.
Already they had begun to hear strains of music coming from above. When they reached the top of the last flight, they saw an open door — open, perhaps, to let some air into the lighted room beyond. A woman’s voice, agonisingly refined, was raised in a sort of ritual chant.
‘…And — forward side close and — forward side close and — one two three and — one two three and — turn two three and — back two three — back, Mr Rivington, please; you’ll have me into the wall — and — back two three and — back two three — very well, Mr Rivington; we’ll rest two three.’
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