by Roy Vickers
Maenton waited until she had sat down.
“My man on the spot believes that Roach has told the police that you were the lady he drove from the lockhouse at two in the morning.”
Veronica was prepared.
“How odd!” she said indifferently. “The police didn’t mention it when they were practically accusing me of being the ‘Mystery Girl’. And they haven’t said anything since, or of course I would have told you. Need we take any notice of it?”
“We have no means of taking notice of it,” answered Maenton. “We’re not supposed to know. That man of mine is a little secret between you and me. The driver did not recognise you when you were seen at Renchester going in and out of the hotel. He saw his passenger only in the dark and his statement that you were that passenger seems to have been an afterthought. Such evidence would be destroyed by counsel without difficulty.”
“Then we’ve nothing to worry about, have we?”
“The statement of Driver Roach would count for little or nothing in the witness box.” Maenton was deliberately ponderous about it. “But it would be sufficient to justify the police in asking for a sub-poena—meaning an order of the court to you to attend as witness. They could put you in the witness box on that statement. And once you are in that box you can be cross-examined on a great many things.”
Veronica gazed at him in dumb misery.
“When you see your sister tomorrow afternoon,” continued Maenton, “it would be as well to warn her.”
“What do I have to warn her about?”
“If you were called as witness it might well be necessary for your sister to support you with her evidence. She, too, would have to face cross-examination about the time you arrived at her flat and this-that-and-the-other. The judge never interferes in such a cross-examination if he can help it.”
“That wretched man!” exclaimed Veronica. “I shall feel awful about letting my sister in for all that. What can we do about Roach?”
“Nothing. A sub-poena has to be obeyed.” He added: “I am not saying that all this will happen. I am saying only that it would probably happen so if the police were to take that line.”
He let a silence hang. When he spoke again Veronica thought he had changed the subject and did her best to attend.
“At dinner tonight you were good enough to praise the cooking. I hope you were not saying so out of consideration for me.”
“I meant it,” faltered Veronica, her mind on Roach. “It is very good.”
“The proprietor, like the chef, is a Frenchman, though he resides in London. I have transacted business with him. He owns a similar hotel, with an equally good restaurant, at a delightful village, some thirty kilometres from Le Havre. I have stayed there. I think you would like it.”
“We went to Paris several times,” Veronica was stalling. She had not perceived the connection with the Roach situation and she thought this talk about a French hotel might mean almost anything, from the way he was looking at her. “I didn’t know one stayed in villages in France.”
“There are drawbacks,” admitted Maenton. “But there are also drawbacks to being cross-examined, however innocent one may be.”
“O—oh! You mean I ought to stay there until all this business is over?”
“The only thing that prevents me from advising that course,” said Maenton, “is that I think the police would try to prevent you from leaving the country. They would again have to apply to the court. And we would have to enter an appearance, and it might be rather difficult to give your reasons for wishing to go abroad.”
She was frightened now, which was what he wanted. She was a bold fighter. And she would presently see the way out which he must not suggest to her. There was a young airman whom WillyBee had taken up—and dropped like a hot coal when the R.A.F. had turned him out. That young man was hacking his own airplane.
“It’s just possible that someone I know slightly—”
“Don’t tell me!” interrupted Maenton. “As a solicitor I am what is called an ‘officer of the court’ and I cannot touch anything which is remotely contrary to law—even a perfectly honest and innocent enterprise like this. But if you write to me from France I have no duty to inquire how you arrived there.”
“How shall I manage about money?” she asked.
“You can leave that to me. The—er—journey may be expensive. I will arrange with the bank to let you overdraw. And I can fix it so that you have no hotel bill.”
“I think it will be rather fun!” Her spirits rose. “The worst will be that I don’t speak French—at least not well enough for people to understand it.”
Maenton rose from the settee.
“I may be able to squeeze in a short holiday in a week or two,” he said. “If I can, I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on you—and showing you some of the sights.”
“That would be lovely!” said Veronica. “If I can manage to get my friend—”
“Sh!” warned Maenton. “Not a word to me about it. Goodnight, my dear!”
The following day a man from the private detective agency was waiting by the box office when Veronica bought the two tickets. He noted the numbers and when she had gone bought his own ticket. He was sitting behind Veronica when the curtain rose.
His report delivered that afternoon was somewhat disappointing to the client.
The man took his seat shortly after curtain rise and immediately began to whisper instead of waiting for the interval as expected. He raised his voice during the laughs but it was impossible to pick up the thread: Fragments were: By man: “Jill has started work on me.” By Mrs. B.: “Driver Roach … a fiver for his expenses.” Reference to a flat in darkness, with (?) some light. By man: “Your lies to the police” (repeated twice). By Mrs. B.: Mention of a photograph which someone had torn up. This seemed to annoy man who presently left the theatre, having been in his seat for less than ten minutes. I could not follow him up the aisle, as this would have revealed to both parties that he was being shadowed. I did not see his face and cannot identify him.
It was unsatisfactory, but it made sufficiently clear that Veronica was at that lockhouse and that events were closing in on her.
Still, there was not enough evidence for extradition. If she could get that airman to fly her to France, he himself could still have his little holiday with Veronica.
Chapter Eleven
On her third trip to Peasebarrow Jill saw the lockhouse as the centre of a maze from which she could find no escape. Its Victorian shoddiness was seeping into her, debasing her scale of values. In time she would lose the power to perceive its ugliness. She would drift away from her friends—her career would slip away from her.
She no more believed all this than she believed that the ghost of WillyBee was urging her to involve herself. It was less than a superstition—being indeed a sensation of aftermath. The newspapers had ceased to headline the case—Inspector Curwen was said to have returned to Scotland Yard. The guard had been taken off the lockhouse, creating the illusion that no one now cared that WillyBee had been murdered.
Stranack, she supposed, would receive her in much the same way as the other two. There would be the inescapable ritual of a drink and she would accept because it would be too bothersome to say that she preferred coffee. Nothing that Stranack might tell her could undermine her belief that Lyle Canvey was the innocent man, whether there was any evidence in support or not.
Round the house by the asphalt path. As she turned the corner she came face to face with Lyle Canvey.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. Under his arm he was carrying a bundle. “I’m off duty. Just come to collect my laundry—I’m getting a lift back on the bread van. Stranack is in charge. You don’t want to see him, do you?”
“And why the hell not!” Stranack’s face appeared at the upper half of the open sash-window. “I think we agreed that we should not interfere with each other’s arrangements.”
“I didn’t know it was an arrangement. Sorry!”
He included Jill in the apology and walked onto the ramp. He had given no sign of resentment. No sign of special interest.
Stranack came out of the house to meet her. He was wearing a suit of white linen in characteristic defiance of the lock and the lockhouse.
“Thanks awf’ly for coming!” he said, the tough-looking face softening with a boyish smile. “Our Canvey is a brilliant metallurgist—I couldn’t have made the air-conditioner without him—but a trifle self-centred. It’s too hot to sit outside. What about a drink?”
“I’d love a gin and orange,” said Jill in ritual response. When the ritual movements had been performed he began to tell her about the lock and the bargees. She discounted his self-assurance as that of a bouncy salesman cultivating personality. Yet his position at WillyBee Products guaranteed that he was good at his job, which demanded originality and extensive knowledge. He alone of the three men would have the hardihood to kill and to brazen it out.
He was trying to break the ice between them—was starting on the fishing, when her expression dried him up.
“I’m ready when you are,” she said,
“Good! The first thing is to see where we stand. Both of us. I’m broke. I generally am, but this is something special. Being a suspected man comes quite expensive. The Red Lion have fired a villainous bill at me. I’ve got to pay it. And then there’s my solicitor. A quaint old bird but remarkably efficient.”
This unexpected approach threw her off balance.
“Am I being invited to pay your bills?”
“We’ll come to that presently. This is only the opening,” he said, reproachfully. “The bills anyway are merely an immediate nuisance. A hundred would take care of them. The difficult bit is the future.”
“Are we talking about your future or mine?” she asked, at random.
“Both. Yours on the one hand. And that of the team on the other—meaning Eddis and Canvey and myself. We’ve always hated each other, but that doesn’t prevent our working together much better than we could work apart. I can’t explain how and why but there it is and I want you to grasp it.”
“I do!” said Jill fervently. “And now that we’ve finished the opening—”
“We arrive at two simple questions. What can I do for you? What can you do for me?”
“Your turn first,” invited Jill.
“I offer you direct, complete and irrefutable proof that Veronica was the one and only girl who was here in this house on that night.”
“Proof you forgot to offer to the police?”
“I forgot nothing. Are you interested? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” said Jill, discovering that he could be forceful.
“Come back to your cutting little remark about my forgetting to tell the police. I am offering you proof that Veronica was here. I am not offering proof that I was here with her. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear!” said Jill. “And now let’s have the proof.”
Stranack looked pained, almost embarrassed as if she had made a remark in deplorable taste and he were waiting for her to correct it.
“Jill dear, you’ve forgotten.” He spoke with the gentleness of an elderly brother. “I’ve told you what I can do for you. It’s now your turn to tell me what you can do for me.”
“D’you mean you want me to pay you for it?”
“Of course!”
Of course. Why be shocked about it? She had come to the lockhouse of her own free will, ready to accept the lockhouse scale of values.
“How much do you want?”
“I don’t know. I meant to consult you about that.” He was speaking in earnest and with obvious anxiety. “I know I can satisfy you personally with my proof, because of your personal knowledge of Veronica. But the proof I shall give you will not have the slightest value as legal evidence. It won’t help you to collect.”
“Collect what?”
“Veronica’s marriage settlement.”
Why should she be angry? Maenton had said the same thing in a roundabout way. Self-control triumphed.
“The evidence need not be legal provided it convinces me. How much?”
“Do you think, say, five hundred would be fair to both?”
“I do not. Your debts would be covered by a hundred.” From her bag she took out cheque book and pen.
“I don’t know how to cope with that kind of remark. You’ve had business training and I haven’t—”
“Do you want that hundred?”
“I’ve got to have it. I must go back to the Red Lion when I’m relieved.”
She wrote the cheque and handed it to him.
“Thanks!” He folded it and put it in his pocket. “Here goes! Carry your mind back to Veronica’s wedding ring.”
Jill groaned. “Surely not the wedding ring story again! And I’m to pay £100 for it.”
“Carry your mind back to Veronica’s wedding ring,” he repeated as if he had not been interrupted. “She was not wearing it when I came into your sitting-room that night. She was not wearing it when you met her in London; nor on the train; nor at dinner. No doubt she told you she had mislaid it.” He paused as if awaiting contradiction and then:
“Shortly after I left that sitting-room—and I’m guessing when I say ‘shortly’—she ‘found’ that wedding ring, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Jill. “What about it?”
“I gave it to her.”
“When?”
“In your presence. I’ll show you. You were holding the door open—by way of throwing me out. From where you were standing you could see only the back of her head. I came close up to her to deliver a bit of high falutin.” He produced a shilling. “This represents the wedding ring. I flashed it at Veronica—like this. My hat! You ought to have seen her face but luckily you couldn’t! I leant forward a bit, keeping the other hand in your line of vision, and I said: ‘You and I snatched a few hours of happiness. You are safe—and I am not.’ And when I said: ‘You are safe,’ I dropped the ring in her lap—like this!”
That made sense of Veronica’s behaviour over the ring. It was convincing and she hated him for it.
“What a nasty little schoolboyish trick!” she exclaimed.
“What does that matter! The point for you is—how could I have been in possession of her ring—?”
“How indeed!” interrupted Jill. “So far, you have merely stated that you were in possession of the ring. Am I expected to pay for an unsupported statement?”
Jill felt as if she were cheating. She wanted to believe he was lying and could not.
“My fault!” he apologised. “I’ve left out the important bit. I ought to have asked you whether you know what is engraved inside that wedding ring—the actual words?”
“I know the actual words,” answered Jill. He was staring at her with alarm. She added: “Do you?”
“Yes, but I’ve suddenly forgotten them. Nervous strain, I suppose. I need a holiday.”
“Most unfortunate!” said Jill as coldly as she could.
“Yes. If the Great Brain fails I’m sunk. Let’s get back to business.”
He took out a pocket diary and turned the pages.
“Here we are! The inscription reads: ‘Vevey stroke Piggy’ and then a date—presumably their wedding day.”
“Correct!” Jill was clutching at a straw. It did not prove he was the innocent man—but it brought him a step nearer.
“May I pour you another drink?”
“No, thanks. Why did you give it back to Veronica instead of handing it to the police?”
“Because I’m an ass!” he cried with sudden bitterness. “I wish now I had taken it to the police. At least, I think I do and the asinine mood comes back and I’m glad I didn’t. With your sane outlook and your business training and the rest of it, you’ll find it difficult to follow.”
“Try me,” said Jill. “You can help me over the hard parts.”
“That brawl we had that night at the Red Lion! I came into that room assuming she woul
d own up. I intended to give her back her ring as an act of courtesy. I was angry when she flatly denied that she had ever been here. Then I had another good look at her and I thought I might as well let her get away with it if she could.”
“That was a very generous act on your part,” said Jill, shocked to find that she meant it.
“It was not a generous act—it was a shamefaced act. Surely you can guess why a man wouldn’t want a woman to lose a lot of money in those circumstances?”
“So you were her lover?”
“I did not say that. Let’s try hard to leave love out of it.”
“What about throwing away your own safety?”
“You’re using hindsight. I didn’t know then that the police would get bogged down like this. Also, that ring would not have cleared me then any more than it will now. It would merely have proved that Veronica was at the lockhouse with one of us. There could be no sense in dragging Veronica in if it wouldn’t drag me out. Hence the nasty little schoolboyish trick.”
“I withdraw that, and apologise,” said Jill. “I believe you are the innocent man.”
“Oh no, you don’t!” he chuckled. “Line up the three of us. One of these men committed murder. Which? You’d pick on me and so would everybody else.”
Jill smiled. “True enough, I suppose. You’re the only one of the three who looks dangerous.” With it came the thought that he was the kind of man who would sweep Veronica off her feet. “But the ring changes all that.”
“Tell that to Curwen and he will tell you that when he arrived here the morning after, I was in the act of diving into the lock. I could have—as a matter of fact I did—recover that ring from the bottom. That doesn’t prove I was the man who threw it in.”
The bouncy salesman had vanished, leaving a likeable man. She liked him the more for insisting that it was still possible that Lyle Canvey could be the innocent man.
“I warn you,” he continued, “that if you run to Curwen with this ring story you will end by looking foolish.”
“Would it break your heart if I were to make a fool of myself? Don’t you want your innocence to be proved?”