Find the Innocent

by Roy Vickers

  “Hullo!”

  The voice had come from the open window behind him, which faced the lock. Curwen turned and saw the upper part of a young man with wet hair.

  “Are you Mr. Stranack?”

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “Meet Detective Inspector Curwen of New Scotland Yard,” cried Eddis. “WillyBee has been murdered, It’ll be all right now. Marchmont and the others are on our side.”

  “Don’t spoil it. Keep it until I get some clothes on. Shan’t be a minute!”

  “Hi!” shouted Eddis. “Mr. Curwen is asking me official questions. He won’t want an audience. You’d better stay out until I call you.”

  Curwen was pleased. He knew now, he thought, where he stood. One of these men, if not both, had been involved in the murder. One, if not both, must be putting on an act. Give them all the rope they asked.

  “An unfortunate interruption!” Eddis was apologetic. “I had just assured you that I was not one of the two persons who went in the car to Renchester last night.”

  “Do you know why they—the other two—went into Renchester at that time?”

  “Oh yes! To fulfil a common purpose. It was chance alone that kept me here. We tossed odd man out for which of us should stay here and keep the lock. I was odd man.”

  “What was the common purpose?”

  Eddis looked alarmed.

  “You’re letting yourself in for something, Inspector! A professional matter which could not possibly concern you as a detective in search of a murderer.”

  When Curwen pressed for an answer Eddis gave a clear summary of the air conditioner, the pressure cooker and the case for payment of royalties. “So we decided to remove our work, consisting of a considerable bulk of notes and records. That, you will admit, does not concern you.”

  Curwen admitted it and asked:

  “So you stayed here! Give me a couple of witnesses, and that lets you out.”

  “I have no witnesses.”

  “Surely someone must have seen or spoken to you between, say, eight-thirty and when the others came home?”

  “You don’t know Peasebarrow! The gentry and nobility do not visit at a lockhouse, and local beauty regards us with nun-like detachment.”

  The wrong answer! This man did not know that a girl had called a car from the lockhouse around two in the morning. Good!

  “What time did—the other two—get home?”

  “I was asleep. If you like, I’ll ask Stranack.”

  “I’m asking you. Asleep or not, you must have heard the Ford backing into that cowshed.”

  “Ah! You’ve been reading Waenhart. When we’re asleep, we hear every sound that impacts with a minimum potency of—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Eddis!” Curwen got up and examined the book that looked like a ledger.

  “Here’s your signature for barges passing through—”

  “Yes, and I did operate the lock at those times, but my signature doesn’t prove it. That log is a farce. We sometimes fill in two or three days in a block.”

  “Think again,” invited Curwen. “If you can’t produce any supporting evidence I shall have to ask you to come to headquarters for further questioning.”

  “Certainly!” Eddis was gravely courteous. “If you feel I can help you, give me a ring at any time.”

  “I mean now!”

  “A euphemism for arrest!” exclaimed Eddis. “How very delicate of you, Inspector! What do I do?”

  Curwen walked with him to the bridge and signed to Benjoy, who was waiting at the top of the ramp.

  “I want you to meet my assistant, Detective-Constable Benjoy—Mr. Eddis. Benjoy will show you the ropes,” said Curwen and turned back muttering: “That’ll teach him to tell me what I’ve been reading!”

  Stranack was waiting for him in the doorway.

  “I’ve been trying to guess how Scotland Yard comes into this, Inspector. I suppose some Spaniard knifed or bombed him—”

  “He was killed by two Englishmen in Renchester last night.”

  “Meaning Eddis and Canvey? The local police have sold you a pup! Brengast is in Madrid and today he is having a new factory opened by a minister, and lunching with the Caudillo. There’s a cutting from The Times lying about somewhere—”

  Curwen repeated his explanation.

  “Did you drive in the Ford to Renchester last night, Mr. Stranack?”

  “No. We had to fetch some things from the factory. It was a two-man job. We tossed odd man out and I lost—or won, if you like. I was odd man out and stayed here to mind the lock.”

  “Got a witness, Mr. Stranack?”

  Stranack hesitated.

  “I had two ‘customers’ during the night—meaning barges for the lock. But I don’t suppose they noticed which of us was working the sluices. We didn’t speak—bargees are very exclusive.”

  “If they didn’t know you were there, they aren’t witnesses. Did anybody come to the house?”

  There was a long pause before Stranack answered:

  “A girl spent part of the night here.”

  “That’s the sort of thing I want. Name and address.”

  “Nothing doing, Inspector. You can check that she left here a bit after two in a car from The Hollow Tree Garage.”

  “So I’d know that a girl used this telephone for a car. It wouldn’t tell me you were here with her.” As Stranack made no answer. “We shall have to ask you to come to headquarters while we clear this up.”

  “Of my own free will, Inspector?”

  “That’s right,” commended Curwen. “Saves unpleasantness on both sides.”

  Curwen’s complacency was returning. Two men, each claiming to be the one who had stayed behind at the lockhouse. They hadn’t even cooked up a tale. See what the third had to say.

  He found Lyle Canvey in the cowshed-garage, cobbling up the exhaust manifold of the Ford with asbestos. He decided to try a different approach.

  He introduced himself and added: “I am on a routine investigation. There was a murder in Renchester last night.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’m no use,” smiled Canvey. “The only man I ever wanted to murder is my own boss and he happens to be in Madrid.”

  Curwen didn’t want to be offered the cutting from The Times all over again. He chose a flanking movement.

  “That Ford was in Renchester last night. Were you in it?”

  “That’s easy. We were moving some papers and oddments of our work from the new depot of WillyBee Products. We’re all three in the research department. Those boxes and parcels inside the car!”

  “And were you and the other two in Renchester last night getting all that stuff together?”

  “No. One of us had to stay at home and keep the lock. We tossed odd man out—and I was odd man.”

  Curwen had expected that answer but was nevertheless surprised when it came. These men were not village idiots. Mentally they belonged to the highest class of professional men engaged in industry. Two of the three were putting up an alibi which would have been an insult to a young schoolboy’s intelligence.

  “Can you produce a witness that it was you who stayed in the lockhouse and not one of the others?”

  “Surely there’s no need! If you ask the other two they’ll tell you.”

  That, thought Curwen, was a tall one.

  He revealed the identity of the corpse and was himself put through the routine of Madrid, the minister, lunch with the Caudillo and the cutting from The Times. In a few minutes he had worked back to the main line.

  “Did anyone come to the lockhouse while the other two were away?”

  “Yes. A woman. She turned up a little while after the others had driven off. She was stranded—I don’t know how or why and she told me nothing at all about herself. She wanted to telephone for a car. I persuaded her to take it easy. She finally did ring for a car, a bit after two in the morning.”

  Perhaps this really was the one who had stayed behind, thought Curwen.

  But Stra
nack had known about the woman telephoning.

  “Name and address of the lady, Mr. Canvey?”

  “I don’t know her real name.”

  “Then let’s have a full description.”

  “I don’t see any need to drag her into it.”

  “This is a murder case, Mr. Canvey.”

  Canvey scowled. The police, he supposed, could not help talking like that.

  “Rightho! What time was he murdered?”

  “In a police investigation, the police ask the questions.”

  “The reddest of red tape, Inspector! The time is bound to be published today, if it’s not so already.”

  “Call it around midnight.”

  “Good enough! She was here before sunset and she stayed—you’ve probably found out the exact time her car did leave—the car she called from Weston’s Garage. After two, anyhow. So she can’t possibly be involved. And I can’t possibly be obstructing the police.”

  “We know a woman was here,” said Curwen. “And we know the time she left. But we don’t know that you were here with her. She can tell us.” He hurried on: “It doesn’t matter what the other two say. The statements of all of you have to be checked—you’re all under suspicion.”

  Curwen added the little speech about waiting at headquarters.

  After the three men had left for Renchester, under a guard instructed to keep them apart, Curwen relaxed. Seating himself on a bollard on the lockside, he briefed the photographer and his assistant.

  “We know there was a woman in the house at around two this morning and that she used the telephone. That’s all we do know about her. You’re looking for her dabs and anything that sticks out, showing how long she was here.”

  To Benjoy he said: “When they’ve finished with the ’phone you can ask the Chief Constable’s department to send out a man to operate the lock—I don’t think those boys will be coming back. Then you can run about and see if you can start something.”

  He himself took out a pipe. The bollard—remembering it was a bollard—was not too uncomfortable: the water tumbling over the weir was soothing. His hair was greying: he had been called out of bed very early and—as he thought—unnecessarily: he was sleepy. No sense in fussing the men at their work! A pity bollards hadn’t any backs! That woman was becoming too important, though she was a side issue. Could not have been directly linked with the murder.

  Assuming these men had some sense, they would know that the moment the woman was found she would say which of the men was at the lockhouse—making the comic alibi stunt still sillier. It often happened that persons who were very clever at their jobs were fools at everything else. So there were three fools in a bunch. Lucky! Lucky, too, that they had used that conspicuous old crock of a car. Lucky the girl had spoken on the ’phone and the garage had noted the time.

  Young Benjoy came back grinning like a dog with a bone.

  “Bit o’ luck, sir!” Curwen winced. “They’ve left the washing up. A tray left over from last night: two cocktail glasses: one had orange juice in it. Bottle of orange juice newly opened for one tot only; very clear dabs on bottle and cellophane wrapper. More!”

  “Cheers!” groaned Curwen. “Everybody and everything joining in, even the cellophane! If they’re her dabs we’ve got a line on her, if she has a record. And if they’re his dabs we shall know which man stayed at the lockhouse. These crooks are working up the case for us. Blackleg labour, I call it. And you tell me there’s more. Go ahead!”

  “The telephone was wiped clean,” continued Benjoy, “as if he didn’t want us to know a girl had been here. But I found some face tissue in the fireplace.”

  “Cor! Meaning bits of somebody’s face?”

  “It’s paper tissue, sir. Women use it to wipe off the old make-up when they want to doll up afresh.”

  “Did she happen to write her name and a ’phone number on the back? … It’s all right, boy! I’m pulling your leg. Some jobs are as easy as they look—most of ’em, when you come to think of it. But when everybody is helping and it’s all laid on, you want to keep one eye open for a runaround.”

  “There’s the problem of the woman,” contributed Benjoy.

  “Problem!” echoed Curwen. “That’s newspaper stuff. As a budding policeman you have a right to be told that we don’t use problems. Only facts. Big and little facts, mostly little ones. Prove a crook drank stout when he’s said he drank bitter and you shake him. Do it three times and he starts cooking up a new tale and it’s not long before he solves the problems without you having to bother.

  “Take this case, fr’example! We don’t know which of ’em was in this lockhouse with the girl-friend. Crooks begin by telling the same tale and giving us something to break down and so start ’em contradicting each other. These educated men are contradicting each other flat before we’ve had time to break down anything.”

  “And that was what you meant by the runaround, sir?”

  Curwen blinked.

  “Shouldn’t be surprised!” he hedged, abandoning the bollard.

  The photographers were working in the kitchen. Curwen strolled into the general room, followed by Benjoy. He gazed at the overmantel, not without appreciation. He picked up one of the books lying against the skirting board and studied its title, which baffled him.

  “Eggheads!” he scoffed. “And what good does it do ’ em? Any schoolboy knows more about how to commit a crime than they do.” His eye was caught by The Prattler, lying on the sofa. “That looks a bit livelier.”

  “Anti-egghead, sir! Might have been brought by the girl.”

  “Quite right, boy!” It had not been treated with powder. “They’ve missed it.”

  Benjoy knelt down beside it.

  “A page has been torn out.” Without touching the cover he inserted a pocket knife between the leaves and opened the journal.

  The left-hand page, opposite the page that had been torn out, showed William Brengast beside his helicopter.

  “Good boy!” said Curwen. “It’s all yours. Follow it up on your own.”

  Returning to Renchester, Curwen found enough desk work to occupy him until lunch time. An experienced detective learns to husband his own energy. Curwen husbanded his by choosing a comparatively obscure restaurant in a side street where no one would look for him. The food was adequate and he gave it his full attention.

  “Sorry to interrupt you at lunch, sir!” Benjoy had bobbed up. “Rongarth Draperies. The traveller who gave that girl a lift from Diddington is working this town for three days. I caught him at lunch—”

  “And you said you were sorry to interrupt his lunch!” said Curwen.

  “When I mentioned murder he came clean, in a panic. It seems he tried his luck with the girl, and she turned his ignition and got out, about a couple of miles, he said, the Diddington side of the lockhouse. More!”

  “I thought so!” groaned Curwen. “Go ahead.”

  “Deceased and deceased’s widow. The page torn out of that glossy is a full page photo in colour of Mrs. William Brengast. Could be Miss England if she felt that way.”

  “What’s the link-up with the traveller?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “But you’re guessing fit to bust. All right, boy! When you’ve had your lunch you can go out to the lockhouse and find which of ’em has pinned her on the wall.”

  Chapter Three

  “First lunches, please,” intoned the dining-car attendant.

  Jill Aspland folded the early edition of the evening paper with the front page innermost.

  Murdered Tycoon’s Secret Mission

  Wife’s Mystery Hitch-Hike

  That sort of thing would upset Veronica’s nerve, she decided.

  “D’you think you can face lunch, dear?”

  “I must!” said Veronica, looking up from a railway guide. “Whatever happens, it would be wrong to give way and neglect myself.”

  Jill nodded and suppressed a smile. She had noticed before that Veronica regarded h
er own well-being as a kind of Good Cause.

  Jill Aspland was twenty-five, daughter of William Brengast’s only sister, with whom he had quarrelled. When his sister and her husband were killed in an aircrash Brengast was conscience-stricken and anxious to “do something for Jill”—which was not easy. Her course was already set. She took a business B. Sc. and tactfully landed a good job before Brengast could press her to take one in his organisation.

  Secretly he had thought her a fool to go into business, when she could so easily have married without it. Like most of his kind, he tended to assess women on their physical appearance—thereby substantially under-estimating his niece. He would have described her as a middle-sized light-weight, well sprung, with superb finish. Being her uncle, he noted objectively that dark hair and violet eyes looked just right with a fair skin and a mouth that knew what it was talking about.

  The reports in the early editions of the evening papers ended at seven in the morning—before Peasebarrow Lock had become a focal point … Over lunch, Jill toned it all down to a broad outline without emphasising the “mystery hitch-hike”. Veronica had told her a rather confused tale about missing WillyBee at Diddington and being unable to hire a car.

  “Shall I run through it again?” offered Jill.

  “I couldn’t bear it, darling. I shall just tell the police what they want to know about WillyBee and put all the horrid details out of my mind.”

  So poor Veronica had already promised herself that everybody would be charming and considerate and shield her from all unpleasantness! She herself had already signed on as a cushion. Why? She was fond of Veronica but did not esteem her, nor envy her the sheltered life. She had already learnt through her business contacts that a rich husband may create as many problems as he solves … It would be very nice for a month every year, perhaps.

  At Renchester Jill booked a suite at the Red Lion while Veronica waited in the taxi. Jill helped her unpack. In the rush to catch the train, the dressing case with which Veronica had arrived from Salisbury was brought along unopened. There was a second one hastily packed with garments which Veronica believed to be more appropriate to a sudden bereavement.