“Recognised is the operative word in this schemozzle,” said Reeves, “but though we may see sense, we’ve got a long way to go yet. All the same, the thing that’s suddenly struck both of us is sense—common sense—and none of your psychic bids. But there’s a lot of cluttering up. You remember I told you that Lewis had got a threatening letter in his pocket? ‘Keep out, damn you, or it’s coming to you. You know why.’ Short and sweet. It’s written in a back-sloping hand, and looks as though the writer didn’t know much about the business end of a pen. Left-handed, the writing wallahs say. I showed it to the Rosing girl, and she swore she recognised the handwriting—said it come from another of the Reading boys who’d done Bert Lewis out of his rake-off. And maybe the girl’s telling the truth. Not that truthtelling’s a habit of hers, but she’s so het up she’d split on anybody. So that’s another bit to tidy up.”
“Fingerprints?” queried Macdonald.
“Lewis’s—all over it. No others. No envelope.”
“Well—I leave that one to you,” said Macdonald. “If my idea’s got any substance, there’s enough work to keep the whole department busy.”
Reeves nodded. “Unless it short-circuits. There’s one thing which you haven’t got yet—the other passenger.”
“The writing lady,” said Macdonald. “The Exeter chaps are doing their best, but it’s what you might call a wide field. All they have arrived at yet is the fact that she didn’t arrive at the station by any of the Exeter taxis. I’ve put out enquiries among the bookish folk—literary agents, clubs, and so forth—but we’re only guessing when we assume she’s a writer. It occurred to me she might have been an inspector and was writing her report while things were fresh in her mind.”
Reeves grunted. “It’s an idea—but doesn’t she read the papers or listen in? You’ve had reports enough from other people on the train—all quite useless, I know, but this dame seems to have done a vanishing trick.”
Macdonald nodded. “Yes. Field has interrogated over twenty people who arrived on that train. They all made for the tube, incidentally. The fog was so thick that it was obvious no taxis would be moving, so there was a stream of people walking across to the Bakerloo and Metropolitan. They would all have been worried and anxious and not likely to notice other people. She didn’t go to the hotel, she wasn’t noticed on the underground stations, and she certainly didn’t leave by car. She could have walked—anyone who really knew their way might have decided to walk—and no one would have noticed her.”
“She wouldn’t have walked unless she lived fairly close to Paddington,” mused Reeves, “and the local chaps will have been doing their stuff on their own beats. Makes one wonder a bit. We want her. She was in that compartment all the time. The Dillon girl wasn’t—and Weldon went to sleep.”
“I’ll have to issue a description,” said Macdonald, “and we shall be overwhelmed with reports of large ladies in navy-blue coats. If there’s one thing that’s more heartbreaking than another it’s following up sundry persons who prove to have not the remotest resemblance to the party described.”
“You’re telling me . . .” said Reeves.
2
It was at half-past five that another “consultation” was held in Dr. Garstang’s consulting room. This time it was Macdonald who sat in the consultant’s chair, behind the table: Sally Dillon and William Weldon sat opposite him. Garstang sat in the window seat, Brian Salcombe by the fire, and the industrious Jenkins by the door. Sally was called in immediately Weldon arrived, and the two looked at each other, face to face. Weldon smiled—he’d got a pleasant smile.
“Yes. This is the young lady who was in a corner seat of the compartment I travelled in from Reading on Monday evening. I’ve told you I was half asleep, Chief Inspector, but I remember her, all right.”
“And I remember you, though you were half asleep,” said Sally.
Weldon looked round the room at the others, first at Salcombe. “No. Never seen you in my life.” Then at Jenkins. “Well . . . I’m not so sure. I don’t know your face, but there’s something about the cut of your jib reminds me of one of the blokes in the corridor of that train.”
“Well, that might be helpful, though this is one of my own colleagues,” rejoined Macdonald. “Inspector Jenkins: Mr. Weldon.”
Weldon laughed. “So much for my powers of observation. Discredited in one.”
“No, you’re not, because I know what you mean,” said Sally. “The one I call the respectable man did look a bit like Inspector Jenkins. He was substantial—I don’t mean that rudely—and his coat was rather like that one, and he’d got a face which was good-tempered and pleased with itself—except that we all looked dirty and disgruntled that night because of the fog.”
Macdonald turned to Salcombe. “Did Inspector Jenkins remind you of anybody you know?” he asked.
“Only that if he were a bit more weather-beaten and wearing gaiters and breeches and a tweed coat, he’d pass as a farmer in any cattle market anywhere,” rejoined Brian unexpectedly.
Weldon was looking at Garstang. “Have we met before . . . or not?” he enquired uncertainly.
“Not to my knowledge,” rejoined Garstang.
“Oh well—I’d better keep quiet. Remembering faces doesn’t seem to be my long suit,” said Weldon.
They all sat down, Macdonald indicating their places, and the latter said: “I’ve asked you all to come here to see if we can arrive at anything more precise about the movements of people observed in the train. I think I’d better tell you what’s befallen some of them, but first, let’s run through a few facts about identifications. Salcombe has identified Richard Greville, who was knocked out shortly after leaving the train. Mr. Weldon has also seen Greville and is satisfied that he is the lad who was in the train with Miss Dillon and the ‘writing lady.’ Miss Dillon has identified Mr. Weldon—and vice versa. Mr. Weldon has been to the mortuary and is of opinion that the dead man he saw there—Bert Lewis—was the fifth occupant of the compartment Greville and Miss Dillon travelled in.”
“I’d put it more strongly than that, Chief Inspector,” said Weldon. “I couldn’t recognise his face, but I’m sure of his hands. He’d got curious hands, white and puffy. You see, I expected those hands to investigate my pockets, and I kept my eyes on them for a minute or two. And I recognised his clothes.”
“Then we’ll accept that, for Bert Lewis was known to have been on the train. Finally, I have a photograph. Miss Dillon, will you look at it first, please?”
Sally took the photograph: her face was paler than usual and very serious, but she had herself well in hand.
“It’s so difficult to say if I recognise this,” she said. “It’s not like . . . a real person. It might be one of the men I saw in the corridor, but I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
“All right, Miss Dillon: don’t worry about it,” said Macdonald. “You’ve given a sensible answer. ‘It might be’ was all I wanted. Now, Mr. Weldon.”
Weldon put on his glasses, held the photograph in the beam of the desk lamp, and studied it intently. “I think it is the man in the corridor—the one who made signs to Lewis,” he said. “I saw his face, because he was peering through the window: it was a heavily jowled face, like this one, and I remember now the nose was crooked—broken, I suppose. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I believe I’m right.”
“Thanks,” said Macdonald. “It seems probable enough that you are, because this man was known to Lewis—and this man’s body was found in a mews between Westbourne Park and Paddington on Tuesday night. He’d been run over by a lorry. Lewis was found on the permanent way, also between Paddington and Westbourne Park, on Wednesday morning, having presumably fallen out of a train.”
“Well, it’s the sort of story which ordinary decent folk don’t often happen across—and thank God they don’t,” said Weldon, “but given the type of characters you’ve got in Lewis and this chap, it’s not so very surprising that the other young fellow—Greville—got
knocked over the head. These two who are dead can’t be counted as a great loss——”
“But why should Greville have been attacked?” burst out Salcombe. “That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Where do you come in in all this?” asked Weldon. “Were you on that train too?”
“No . . . I wasn’t. Greville’s my friend.”
“Well, I can only tell you that your friend got talking to this chap, Lewis. My own impression was that he recognised Lewis as a fellow he’d known in the Army, That’s only a guess, because I didn’t really take in what was said. Lewis didn’t answer, but just as we were all getting out at Paddington, Greville spoke to Lewis again and went up the platform with him.” Weldon turned to Sally. “Is that your recollection too?”
“Yes, I think so,” she said. “I didn’t see Richard Greville speak to Lewis the first time, because I was in the corridor, but he did say something while you were getting out. It was something like: ‘Aren’t you . . . ?’ as though he were asking a question.”
“Did you see them go up the platform together?” asked Weldon.
“No. I was the last to get out. You remember the writing lady got out first, then Lewis and you, then Richard Greville. By the time I’d collected my things and got out I couldn’t see any of you. The fog was so thick everybody vanished when they were only a few steps away.”
“Perfectly true,” agreed Weldon. “As you say, the other ladv got out first: then myself—I was in the corner seat and managed to prevent Lewis pushing past me, which he tried to do. As I got out, I stood still on the platform for a moment, getting my bearings. Lewis and Greville passed me, and the fat chap whose photograph we’ve just seen caught them up and the three of them disappeared into the fog together.” He turned to Macdonald. “Have you traced the other lady—the tall, stout one with the brief case?”
“No,” replied Macdonald. “A number of people who travelled on your train have reported to us, but none of them noticed her.”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit queer?” asked Weldon. “The press has given plenty of prominence to your requests for information: you’d think she’d have got in touch with you.”
“There are plenty of possible explanations,” said Macdonald. “The reason why she was not noted on the platform is fairly simple: your coach was just behind the restaurant car, the latter, of course, being empty. That means that nobody alighted on the platform for the whole length of the restaurant car. The two front coaches of the train were occupied by naval ratings on leave. The writing lady seems to have been in a hurry, according to your accounts. She plunged up the platform and disappeared into the fog as she passed the empty restaurant car.”
“That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” agreed Weldon, and Macdonald went on:
“We’ve been trying to find out if she was noticed on either of the underground stations: the fog had got into the tube enough to blur things a bit, I’m told, but it was easy enough to see along the platforms. Miss Dillon—you went home by tube, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I went to Maida Vale Station. A train came in just as I got off the escalator at Paddington and I had only to run a few steps on to the platform and got straight on to the train. I didn’t notice anybody—certainly not the writing lady.”
“And you, sir?” enquired Macdonald, turning to Weldon.
“I travelled in the opposite direction to Miss Dillon—south, to Oxford Circus. I think a train went out just before I got on to the platform: anyway, I seemed to wait for the deuce of a time for a train, and I wasn’t in a mood to notice anybody or anything. I was dog-tired and fed up, and I stood in what you might call a semi-trance, cursing myself for being fool enough to live in such a climate as this one.”
Garstang asked a question for the first time since the interview had started. “Does that imply that you haven’t always lived in England, Mr. Weldon?”
“I certainly haven’t. I was born in South Africa. My father was a civil engineer and most of his jobs were done overseas. If we get any more winters like this one, I shall pack up and go back where I was born. South Africa may have some drawbacks, but fog isn’t among them.” He turned back to Macdonald. “Any more questions, Chief Inspector? I don’t want to inconvenience you by hurrying off, but I’ve got to dine out, and polish a lot of work off in the course of the evening.”
“The only other point is about the second man in the corridor, mentioned by both you and Miss Dillon,” said Macdonald.
“Yes. The chap who had some resemblance to Inspector Jenkins,” said Weldon. “I noticed him pass down the corridor once, and I noticed him again when I got out of the train. Greville, Lewis, and the chap whose photograph you showed us, went up the platform together. This other chap stood beside me for a moment as though he were a bit flummoxed. I was feeling the same way myself. Then we both moved on and I can’t remember another thing about him.”
Macdonald turned to Sally, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say a thing which will help. I’ve told you about the people who were in our compartment, and you’ve got them sorted out—all except the writing lady. When I was in the corridor two men pushed past me once or twice, but I remember very little about them except that one of them was dirty and rather objectionable, and the other wasn’t unpleasant. As for when I got out on the platform, I didn’t notice a thing. I knew there were other people milling round me, but even if I’d seen somebody I know I shouldn’t have recognised them.” Her voice sounded as though tears weren’t very far away, and she spoke to Macdonald almost appealingly. “You see, the fog was thick enough to be frightening. It was hellish. I knew it was silly to be frightened, because I’d only got to walk straight on across the space beyond the platforms to the tube entrance, and I’ve done that dozens of times and I know it perfectly well—and I’d only got five minutes’ walk when I got out of the tube. But all the same, it was beastly, and I didn’t think of anything else at all but getting home just as soon as I could get home.”
“Which was quite the most sensible thing you could have thought about,” said Macdonald. “You’ve helped us a lot, Miss Dillon, and I’m very grateful to you.”
He got up, adding: “Then I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Weldon, and thank you for your co-operation.”
“I’m only too glad to help,” rejoined Weldon. “It looks to me as though you’ve got the job taped, except for a few details, of which the ‘writing lady’ seems to be one—though I doubt if she’d tell you much more than Miss Dillon and I have told you. So I’ll say good evening.” He bowed to them all, a natural, easy gesture: his eyes rested on Garstang for a moment, and then he went to the door.
Sally got up and moved over to Brian Salcombe, who jumped to his feet. “I’m so sorry about Richard,” she said impulsively. “He told me his name was Richard when we were in the train, so it seems natural to call him that. It was such a horrible thing to happen, and I do hope he’ll get quite better. I liked him so much.”
She spoke with simple sincerity and Brian flushed a little as he shook hands with her. “It was nice of you to say that,” he said slowly, “but didn’t he tell you a single thing about what he was going to do in London, or who he expected to see?”
“Not a thing,” said Sally. “I could tell he was worried and unhappy, and I did have the feeling all the time he wanted to tell me something and couldn’t get it out.”
“I know . . . he’s been like that,” said Brian, “but did he really speak to that Lewis chap?”
“Yes, just as they got out,” replied Sally. “Richard almost jumped to the door, as though he were afraid the others would get out before he could speak to them. He didn’t even say good-bye to me, although we’d talked quite a lot on the journey. It was as though he’d forgotten I existed.”
“I can’t make that out,” said Brian. “It’s all so unlike him.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MACDONALD was joined by reeves, and they drove back to Scotland Yard together aft
er what Reeves called “the omnibus consultation.” Jenkins, with kindly, old-fashioned courtesy, had asked Sally if he might have “the honour of driving her home,” and she had gone off in Jenkins’s car with Brian Salcombe in the back. Reeves had been much pleased with this arrangement.
“Nice kids, both of them,” he said to Macdonald. “It will do them good to chat away without all you solemn-faced blokes doing the heavy-handed. It doesn’t seem fair to show pictures of stiffs to a bit of a girl like that.”
“No, it doesn’t—but the young of today have marvellous resilience,” said Macdonald. “Sally Dillon was nearly in tears just now, but what d’you bet me she’ll ask Brian Salcombe in for a drink when she gets home and open a tin for supper after that?”
“Of course she will,” agreed Reeves, “and for all you know they’ll think up something useful between them over the imported ham or what-have-you. From what you’ve told me I’d say Sally Dillon’s a pretty bright child. What was it that Garstang was asking you just before you left?”
“He wants to go to Cologne and try to find out if Richard Greville was there as a child and who his people were,” said Macdonald.
Reeves gave a long whistle. “Well . . . he’s an optimist—you’re not risking it, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” replied Macdonald, “not at this stage, anyhow. But it’s a job that’s got to be tackled. I think one of the M.I.5. chaps could follow that one up—they’ve got several fellows who not only speak German like their mother tongue, but who’ve got the topography and one-time residents of Cologne pretty well taped. They had to have, when they sorted out the war-crime fugitives.”
“Get James to take it on. It’ll be a nice change for him: he’s fed to the back of his uppers with his 1941 Yank. And James could go a bit further in checking the dope on Garstang, both from their own records and reports inside Germany. Rather him than me: I believe their records compare favourably with the British Museum Library so far as volume’s concerned.”
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