“Meaning you want me to talk,” snarled Coop. “Well, I’m not. See?”
“Just as you like,” Bobby answered amiably, and Coop scowled at him and went towards the door.
He opened it and then turned back.
“If you ask me,” he said, “the bloke who did the old hermit in is Mr blooming Sir Alfred Rawdon. You take my tip. That’s my theory.’’
With that he gave Bobby a significant nod, repeated, evidently a little proud of the expression, that that was his “theory”, and went out, banging the door behind him. They watched him walk away and Dick said angrily:
“Cheeky brute. Why don’t you run him in? Isn’t that face of his good enough proof?”
“Well, for one thing,” Bobby answered, “I haven’t heard yet what Sir Alfred has to say. Just possible he won’t be able to identify him. Or even that he may not want to.”
Dick looked slightly disconcerted at this last suggestion and then said:
“I don’t see why you think Smith started what’s been happening? I don’t see what he has to do with it.”
“Well, he started everyone thinking and talking about the missing El Grecos, didn’t he?”
“We’ve always known about them,” Dick said. “There was always an idea they might turn up somewhere.”
“Did anyone else know the story or at any rate think of it as anything more than an old story?” Bobby asked. “Smith set everyone talking by the way he has been nosing around. He made inquiries in likely shops in Midwych. He called on you. He called on Dr Maskell to ask if he knew of anything like them in the house of any patient he visited. He talked about them at the ‘Rawdon Arms’ too, and very probably made other inquiries I haven’t heard about. People know old paintings are valuable. Have exaggerated ideas, very often. And it did look as if these El Grecos were just there for anyone who could pick them up—a small fortune for the finding, and not so small either. You agreed—didn’t you?—that if they were found, it wouldn’t be too easy for you to prove your title against a possessor. Smith certainly knew something about the hermit, for he visited the hut. He may even have got hold of something to show who the old man really was—either your great-uncle or Crayfoot’s grandfather.”
“I suppose he’s on your list of suspects, then?” Dick asked.
“Oh, yes,” Bobby agreed. “No more than others, though.” He turned to Mary: “There’s another thing I want to ask you,” he said. “Do you think it likely Peter had a sort of second habitation in the forest where he could go when he wasn’t at the hut—a secret home, so to say? I feel fairly certain he had. He used to buy oil. At the hut he had an outside fireplace and an old stove indoors. He used wood for fuel—picked it up free under the trees. No sign of an oil stove or anything of the sort. So I expect he had some other place somewhere he went to sometimes and that there he used oil for heating and lighting. An oil stove wouldn’t show, whereas a fire could be seen at night and its smoke by day. Or perhaps he used candles for light and that’s why he wanted the Diabolic Candelabra.”
As he spoke he was watching Dick more closely than he watched Mary but Dick’s expression showed nothing beyond surprise and a lively interest.
“That’s an idea,” he said, and added, half reluctantly: “You do spot things, don’t you? I knew about the buying oil, but I never thought what it meant. If he has another hut somewhere no one knew about, then that is where the El Grecos may be and the candelabra?”
“It seems possible,” Bobby agreed. “What do you think?” he asked Mary.
“Loo told me once,” she answered, “that he had somewhere else to go besides the hut.”
“Did she tell you where it was?”
Mary shook her head.
“Do you think you can get her to tell you now?”
“I’ll ask her,” Mary answered, “but she said she had promised she never would.”
“But he is dead now,” Dick said. “A promise doesn’t matter now.”
Mary looked doubtful but said nothing.
“Well, if you’ll ask her,” Bobby said. “Oh, you might ask her at the same time why she took that loaf of bread you told me about.”
“I’ve wondered about that,” Mary said and now with a touch of unease in her generally tranquil manner.
“She took some potatoes, too,” Mrs Coop remarked. “At least, I think she did.”
“Well, the kid would want something to eat, wouldn’t she?” Dick asked.
“Oh, no, not in the forest,” Mary answered. “She always says the forest is full of things to eat.”
“Oh, well, now then,” Dick said, looking very puzzled.
Bobby got to his feet.
“I think that’s all I had to ask,” he said. “I’ll be going now. Plenty to see about.”
“Look here,” Dick said. “I suppose you won’t take any notice of what Coop said—I mean, about it’s being uncle. I take it he was just talking for the sake of talking?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby answered, and Dick looked at him uneasily.
“You might as well start suspecting me,” he said, and when Bobby gave him a quick glance, he exclaimed, a sudden shrill note in his voice: “By God, I believe you do.”
Bobby said nothing, and Mary came across and stood by Dick’s side. Silent as ever, she did not speak, yet there was something confident and trustful in her very presence as she stood there. But Bobby as he went away was reminding himself how often women had put an utter faith in men in no way worthy. He found himself wondering if it could be like that this time.
CHAPTER XXXV
“SAMMY TO YOU”
THE INQUEST WAS held the next day. It was purely formal, an adjournment being at once granted ‘to enable the police to complete their inquiries’.
‘If they can,’ was Bobby’s unspoken comment as he left the court; and when he got back to his office he heard that Mr Samuel Stone was waiting to see him.
“That swine Weston been saying things about me, hasn’t he?” Mr Stone asked angrily; and Bobby learnt that Mr Weston had been dropping hints in various bars concerning the probable complicity of Mr Stone in recent events. “I’ll sue him for damages,” declared Mr Stone. “Defamation of character. What did he tell you?”
Bobby smiled and pointed out that communications made to the police were confidential. Besides, he felt that the more uneasy Mr Stone remained, the more likely he would be to come forward with statements that might be true, in which case they would be exceedingly useful, and might be false, in which case they would be more useful still. It is a paradox, and one useful to remember, that a liar is often a better guide to the truth than is the honest witness. Nor was Bobby much impressed by Mr Stone’s bluster and he began indeed to wonder whether it was not a case of ‘he doth protest too much’. Not that that was proof of guilt. People bluster when they are scared as well as when they are guilty. On the whole, he found the story Mr Stone was telling agreed fairly well with what Weston had said, except that in Mr Stone’s version Weston’s part diminished almost to vanishing point. According to Mr Stone (‘Sammy to you,’ he said once or twice, beaming on Bobby) Weston had done no more than remark in the presence of Mr Stone and many others, in a public bar, on the unusual flavour of some chocolates recently purchased by his wife.
“I don’t go about with my eyes shut,” declared Mr Stone, “and I happen to know the big confectionery firms are keen on finding new flavours. So I thought I would look into it. Weston hadn’t said where his missus got the things. But it didn’t take me long to find out they came from Walters’s, near where he lives. So I went along and bought a box and tried ’em out. Not bad at all. Might catch on, I thought. And believe it or not, on the back of the box there was a pencil note giving the address where they came from—Miss M. Floyd, Coop’s Cottage.”
Having been given his choice, Bobby decided not to believe it. Much more likely, he thought, that the address had been provided by Weston whose part in the affair Stone evidently wished to minimize as muc
h as possible. Not that that mattered much, as far as could be told at present.
“Mr Stone—” Bobby began.
“Sammy to you,” interrupted that gentleman and offered a cigar which was gently and firmly declined.
“Your business relations with Mr Weston,” Bobby continued, “don’t seem to concern us. I believe you visited Coop’s Cottage and Miss Floyd tells me—”
“That’s right,” interrupted Mr Stone hastily, evidently anxious to cut short whatever Mary might have said. “Gave her a pound note for a bottle of her flavouring. My word, was she pleased? Not so often a windfall like that comes her way. Take it from me,” said Mr Stone, chuckling richly, “I could have had a kiss or two into the bargain if I had felt like it. Married man, though,” and he concluded with a wink that made Bobby long to throw a paper-weight at his head.
“Miss Floyd informs me,” Bobby said coldly, “that you took the bottle of flavouring without her consent and against her wishes.”
“You surprise me,” declared Mr Stone, but not as though his astonishment were great. “Aren’t girls just the world’s champion liars? The little hussy. And after the way she thanked me for that pound note! Well, well, well!”
He shook his head sadly and was still shaking it as Bobby went on:
“Mrs Coop confirms Miss Floyd’s story.”
“Oh, she would,” protested Mr Stone. “Mamma backs up her little girl. Never mentioned that pound note, I’ll be bound. Or did I leave it just for fun?”
Without answering this, Bobby continued:
“I believe you gave the bottle to Dr Maskell for an analysis?”
“That’s right,” agreed Mr Stone. “First thing any firm would do. And not too good for any chance of any more biz. with them if they spotted anything harmful in the stuff’s make-up. Can’t be too careful.”
“I think you asked Dr Maskell to lunch at the ‘Rawdon Arms’,” Bobby went on, “and asked him about mixing the ingredients and so on?”
“That’s right,” agreed Mr Stone again. “Paid him a whacking big fee and the price of a slap-up lunch as well and wanted value. Didn’t get it, though. Close-mouthed bloke, that doctor. If you ask me, knows more than he says. Not a man to trust,” said Mr Stone, shaking his head sadly, and obviously implying that was not the case with Mr Samuel Stone. “Keep an eye on him if I were you. Eh?”
Bobby ignored this counsel. He said:
“I think you know a Mr Smith?”
Stone regarded Bobby warily.
“Lots of Smiths,” he said. “Which one did you mean?”
“I mean the one who has been at your shop in Midwych making inquiries about El Greco paintings?”
Mr Stone hesitated, and Bobby knew perfectly well that he was considering whether to admit or deny knowledge. Deciding finally that admission would be safer since the extent and the nature of Bobby’s information were alike uncertain, he said:
“Oh, yes, couldn’t think for the moment. Smith, he calls himself, does he? Asked us to show prints of some old Greek paintings, didn’t he? Give you three to one in half-crowns Smith isn’t his real name.”
Bobby ignored this sporting offer, though inwardly he paid a tribute to Mr Stone’s persistent ingenuity in trying to turn the conversation. He said:
“Can you tell me anything about him or about the paintings he is trying to find?”
“Not a thing,” declared Mr Stone. “He may be on a good thing or he may not. Some of these old pictures are worth a pile. I picked up one by an old bloke they made a film about—Rem. something or another. Trade name apparently, not his own. Gave ten bob for it, took it to Christie’s. They said the frame might be worth a bob or two, after deducting what it cost to chop it up for firewood. I’ve got it still. You never know. Looks just the same to me as the ones in art galleries. I went special to have a look-see. No difference.”
“Did Mr Smith say anything about their probable value?” Bobby asked.
“Not likely. If you’re on a good thing, you don’t broadcast it, do you? May be a good thing all right. You can’t tell. All a toss-up.” Bobby was watching him closely as he talked. It seemed fairly certain Mr Stone did believe very thoroughly in the ‘good thing’, and even more certain that Mr Stone had an exceptionally keen nose for ‘good things’. Any suggestion of a ‘good thing’ would automatically set him scheming and planning for a share—or all. Another certainty was that Mr Stone meant to say as little as possible. The way he sat and beamed and his flow of chatter was sufficient evidence. Bobby decided to try a different line of questioning.
“Why did you choose the ‘Rawdon Arms’ for your lunch with Dr Maskell?” he asked.
“Oh, come, I say, Inspector, now then,” protested Mr Stone. “Had to go somewhere, hadn’t we?”
“Was it because you knew Smith had been there, making inquiries, and you didn’t want to lose any chance of hearing what was going on?”
“Lord, no,” protested Mr Stone. “Those pictures are Smith’s pigeon, not mine. And a wild goose-chase, if you ask me.”
Bobby paused for a moment to admire this happy mixture of ornithological metaphor. Mr Stone filled in the gap by muttering in reminiscent indignation:
“Frame worth a bob or two for firewood.”
“Did you expect to see Mr Weston at the ‘Rawdon Arms’?”
For the first time Mr Stone looked a trifle disconcerted.
“Not much you miss,” he grumbled. “No, I didn’t.”
“Do you think he had followed you or Mr Crayfoot?”
“Now that’s a thing,” answered Mr Stone candidly, “that’s been worrying me a lot.”
Bobby went on quickly, for already he had decided to risk a guess at how a man of Stone’s character would be likely to act in such circumstances:
“Weston went after Crayfoot into the forest and you followed them both. What happened?”
“Oh, well, well, now then,” muttered Mr Stone, and this time looked very disconcerted indeed, hovered on the brink of denial, then decided denial would not be safe. He burst out abruptly: “How the devil do you know what I did?”
Bobby only answered by a faint smile and a vague wave of the hand designed to suggest a general omniscience.
“Well, I did,” Mr Stone admitted. “I saw him following Crayfoot and I guessed they might be up to something together—trying to do me down like as not. Weston’s that sort. You can’t trust men like Weston. A snake in the grass,” said Mr Stone regretfully, “a snake in the grass. That’s Weston and sorry I am to say it. Why, I slipped him a fiver for the hint he gave me without knowing it about those chocolates. Not so bad for saying something he hadn’t an idea in the world meant anything. What do you think, Inspector?”
“I think,” said Bobby firmly, “that what I want to know is what happened when you followed those two into the forest?”
“Precious little,” answered Stone, thus again brought back to the point he was so continually trying to wriggle away from—as under examination do all those with consciences not quite at ease. “I lost Weston almost at once. I’m no boy scout. Then I lost myself. Thought I was going to have to spend the night there. Then I caught sight of Crayfoot. At least, I think it was Crayfoot, but I couldn’t be sure. He was a good distance away. Anyhow it wasn’t Weston. Not his figure. Whoever it was, he was in a deuce of a hurry. He was almost running along a path that goes up alongside an old quarry.”
“Interesting,” said Bobby, remembering how he and Olive had looked down over the unfenced edge of that quarry into its dark and tangled depths where the trees and the bushes grew in such close profusion. “Did you follow him?”
“No. But it gave me an idea where I was. I went back the way he had come. I thought I might run across Weston. No sign of him, though.”
“Did you go as far as the hermit’s hut?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I don’t know rightly where it is. I gave up after a time and went back to where I had seen Crayfoot—if it was him. I guessed the
path would go somewhere and what I wanted was to find my way out of the wood.”
“You saw nothing of the hermit, nothing of Weston?” and when Stone shook his head, Bobby went on: “Apparently you are the last person to have seen Crayfoot. Doesn’t it strike you you ought to have come forward with that information before?”
Mr Stone looked more or less innocently surprised.
“I thought it was known he was last seen in the forest,” he protested. “Nothing more I could say. Even if I had been sure, which I wasn’t. You don’t think he did the murder, do you? Doesn’t make sense to me —not a respectable tradesman like Crayfoot. What’s happened to him is he’s running round the big firms, trying to wipe my eye, trying to get an offer for the new flavouring. That’s O.K. by me. When he’s done the work, he’ll find out I’ve got a provisional patent and then I’ll get my cut.” He chuckled richly. He said confidentially: “Easy meat, these big firms, if you’ve got anything of a case, and a provisional patent’s more than good. They know what law costs are, and they know, win or lose, they pay. So they pay sooner rather than later. See?”
Bobby began to wonder why Mr Stone was not a millionaire, he seemed to know so well how to transfer money from other people’s pockets to his own. Utterly without scruple, Bobby thought, and wondered how far that lack of scruple would take him. Mr Stone went on:
“I’ll give you a tip. If it’s anyone, what about Weston? He had picked up my idea that the new flavour was worth money—Weston,” explained Mr Stone, virtuous with indignation, “is a sort of picker-up of other people’s ideas. Suppose he tried to pump the old hermit who by all accounts had the devil of a temper. Result—a row with the hermit bloke reaching for his axe and Weston laying him out with it. Self-defence in a way, but murder, all the same. Eh? How’s that?”
“It may have happened like that,” Bobby agreed, “but nothing to show it was Weston rather than anyone else.”
“Who else?” demanded Stone. “It must have been someone on the spot and I don’t believe it was Crayfoot, not him, and it wasn’t me—I take it you don’t suspect me?” He paused, stared, caught a quick glance from Bobby, his voice grew suddenly loud and shrill, “Almighty God,” he almost screamed, “you don’t mean you do?”
Diabolic Candelabra Page 20