Find the Innocent

by Roy Vickers

  “No!”

  Before she could make any comment he went on:

  “You’re puzzled—because you’ve never been arrested. I can tell you—once a policeman grabs you, if only by mistake, it gives you a different slant on yourself.”

  “So that you no longer wish to clear yourself of whatever the policeman grabbed you for?”

  “As it is, I don’t have to clear myself, so I can afford to think of others.” He walked to the side window and looked out as if everything had been explained. His words implied, Jill noted, that he was the innocent man—no doubt intentionally. When he turned round he shattered her calculations.

  “As one of the guilty men, I can clear myself only by handing over two men to destruction, one of them wholly innocent.”

  Had it slipped out by inadvertence, she wondered. Seconds passed and he did not correct himself.

  “As one of the guilty men?” she repeated.

  “Turn it round, if you like. As the innocent man, I buy myself out of the scandal by destroying two men whose crime I might have committed myself, had I been there. By the way, another thing the policeman takes away from you is your pharisaism. You see your own nearness to every man who has been grabbed.”

  “So that’s how you dress up the ugly truth that you are shielding a murderer!” she said, rising to go.

  “I’ve done much worse than that!” He strode from the window and faced her. “I have seduced an honourable and delightful girl to a shameful bargain—and I’ve got her cheque in my pocket.”

  A one-sided truth but it hurt her and she could not conceal the hurt.

  “Because you have told yourself that I am trying to snatch Veronica’s money!” she blurted out. “WillyBee to you is already an abstract problem. To me he is a person—a very dear person—something between an overgrown brother and an honorary parent.”

  The tough looking face twitched, then resumed its illusory toughness.

  “Your affection for him inspires you to—what?”

  “To a restlessness—to a need to know all about the way he was—thrust out of living. I can’t fold my hands, sigh a little and then thank heavens he has left me some money. He has—even if your chambermaid failed to pick up that bit.”

  “So it’s not the money!” He was excited. “It’s just affection for WillyBee that makes you determined to drag his wife through the mud.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

  “And you come here to play the policeman so that you may lay two lives on the altar of your family affection. That, sweet child, is called vengeance! I agree that it’s horrible—but only by the standards that you and I have abandoned. By those standards we are both horrible. Let’s console each other, Jill. You attract me more than Veronica ever could.”

  She perceived his intention before his arms imprisoned hers. He was holding her firmly enough to hurt her a little, but she was unconvinced. His kiss was clumsily placed, though she had made no effort to evade it.

  She remained motionless until he released her.

  “Thank you, Arthur!” she said breezily. “I’m afraid I got more fun out of it than you did.”

  “And you’re getting more fun at this moment!” He had accepted defeat. “You haven’t even pretended to be frightened or insulted.”

  “Why should I? That sort of thing is flattering, even if one doesn’t want it to happen.”

  “You’re thinking me a clown and you’re right.”

  “Nonsense!” she smiled. “You’re a difficult man to label. I must not think of you as the innocent man—nor as the guilty. So I have to think of half of you as a kindly companionable man who conceals a reserve of considerable courage. And half of you as a guilty man who feels very sorry for himself and a little sorry for his victim. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Splendid!” he cried. “Don’t run away. Stop and have lunch with me.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t be sure which half I was lunching with. Goodbye!”

  He did not follow her. Outside the house, she forgot him as a person and fixed her thoughts on Veronica. The wedding ring story was true—whichever of the three men had been her companion. She could no longer fool herself with the hope that, by some thousand to one chance, Veronica had been telling the lies to cover up something else.

  She had gained nothing. The proof was proof for herself alone—she could take no action about it. If she were to report to the police, they would assume that she had herself given Stranack the wording engraved on the ring—in order to fabricate evidence for the annulment of Veronica’s marriage settlement. Nothing had been changed—except that she had lost her own sense of direction. She had conceived it her duty to WillyBee to do all she could to hound down the men who had killed him. She had not thought of it as vengeance, until Stranack had used the word.

  At the top of the ramp she came upon Lyle Canvey lounging on the grass verge, his parcel of laundry beside him.

  “No bread van!” he explained. “I’m hoping you will offer me a lift back to Renchester.”

  “Of course!” she answered, accepting the footing he offered of casual acquaintanceship, hating herself for her disappointment.

  “My solicitor,” he said, as he sat beside her in the car, “has given me the advice I wanted—that there’s nothing whatever I can do. I told him about you—and he said the same applied to you.”

  “So let’s pretend that nothing has happened!” She had spoken bitterly and added: “I feel I ought to tell you that I have satisfied myself that the wedding ring story is true. Does that make any difference?”

  “Meaning that on that point you have satisfied yourself that I was telling the truth.” He laughed.

  “I never doubted that you were telling the truth in our talk the other day.”

  “And now you are more sure than ever! Isn’t that because you’ve had a good look at Stranack and decided that he’s more obviously a scoundrel than I am? It may be true—but don’t you mistrust judgements based on a chap’s manner?”

  They were half way to Renchester before either spoke again.

  “You three men have at least one thing in common. Each of you is offended by the suggestion of his innocence.”

  “Not offended! Disconcerted. One winces at being called innocent. I mean, if we agree that I spent that night at the lockhouse, what degree of innocence am I entitled to claim? Did WillyBee love Veronica?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “There you are! I think of myself in the witness box, oozing injured innocence, while I procure the conviction of the other two. Suppose WillyBee had lived and found out? It isn’t too far from the truth to say that when you kill a man’s love, you inflict a mild form of death.”

  “‘A mild form of death!’” she echoed scornfully. “What about the law?”

  “Yes, of course! Vengeance of society on the wrongdoer! Very necessary! I’m all for it. But it’s rather beastly, isn’t it? The sort of thing you feel others ought to do but you’d hate to do yourself.”

  “Would you rather live the rest of your life under a cloud?”

  “Good Lord, no!” He added: “Fortunately, I have not the power to choose.”

  Again the shrinking from the very idea of vengeance.

  She decided to go at once to Veronica and try her luck.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jill did not telephone—Veronica might refuse to see her. She arrived at the Bayswater flat shortly after seven that evening. She rang the bell and knocked, without result.

  This was an unexpected check. Veronica could hardly have started gadding about already. Jill decided to wait. The block, by way of living up to its label of “luxury flats”, provided a divan on every landing. Jill sat down—possibly the first person to do so since the block had been opened. She had an oblique view of the door. She would wait until Veronica had let herself in.

  At the end of twenty minutes there was no sign of Veronica but ample evidence of Sir Edward Maenton.

  Jill
waited until he abandoned the routine with bell push and knocker.

  “Good evening. Sir Edward! I don’t know where Veronica is. If you have come to see her professionally I’ll clear off.”

  “Miss Aspland!” Maenton conveyed surprised delight. “You must certainly not run away on my account. Perhaps she has left word with the porter. Come with me and help me intimidate him.”

  He bowed her into the lift, chattering. The porter said that Mrs. Brengast had left no message.

  Maenton gave his name and profession.

  “I had an appointment with Mrs. Brengast and I feel sure she would be grateful if you would give me any information you can.”

  “None to give, sir. Mrs. Brengast went out about four this afternoon. I carried down a couple o’ suitcases and put ’em in a taxi—for Victoria, it was. Mrs. Brengast didn’t say when she’d be back.”

  Maenton tipped him, with the air of paying for a valuable service. Jill observed that he was neither surprised nor annoyed that his appointment had been cut. In the hall he beamed at her.

  “Miss Aspland, you are wondering where she has gone. I am not,” he said. “Will you give me the pleasure of dining with me?”

  “That would be very nice,” said Jill. She would have to consult someone. Better Maenton than the police. He had called himself a professional friend. She would give him every chance to befriend Veronica.

  At the same restaurant, at the same table he gazed at Jill with deep approval. He could not flit from flower to flower. By temperament he was monogamous—on a short term basis. But he enjoyed dining with an attractive woman. This one was of a very different type, possessing the special charm of being able to follow his conversation at any level—further, she had an accurate appreciation of his professional standing. The story of his early success was given a more sophisticated background. She asked the right questions at the right points—which brought them to the coffee stage.

  “I do not know precisely where Veronica has gone,” he said without preliminaries. “But I do know why she has gone. I think it will emerge that she has gone abroad.”

  “Really! I’d have thought the police would have headed her off.”

  Intelligent girls always knew too much … You couldn’t have it both ways.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “You’d be surprised at the amount of things clients refrain from telling their solicitor. Sometimes, of course, it has its advantages.”

  “Victoria, the porter said. That means Newhaven to Dieppe.”

  “Conceivably! That is, if she is using—surface transport.”

  “If she pulls it off could they bring her back on an extradition order?”

  “I should say not, but I can’t be certain. It would depend whether any new evidence crops up.” His tone made the last words a question.

  Jill had chose a frontal attack.

  “Let’s get rid of the mystery of me, first, Sir Edward.” She smiled as she said it and he responded.

  “I am so glad you said that, Miss Aspland. I felt sure we could work together.”

  “I hope so. It may depend on whether we can clear up this wretched business about that marriage settlement and my being residuary legatee. I don’t want Veronica’s money. Can we go on from there?”

  “We can’t go anywhere,” said Maenton. “However benevolently you feel towards her, you cannot cancel the terms of the settlement. In certain circumstances the capital sum passes to the estate. You cannot interfere with that process.”

  “But I can promise to give it back to her afterwards?”

  “Thereby defeating your uncle’s intention?” Maenton went on: “You have in mind to say to her ‘Tell the truth—say which was the innocent man—and I’ll give you back your settlement money after it has reverted to the estate’.” He chuckled. “Do you think for one moment that Veronica would believe you would keep that promise?”

  “I intended to try this evening. Couldn’t you make the promise legally binding?”

  “No!” That was emphatic and final. “I don’t mean that I personally refuse. Such a document would be invalid.” He added: “Since I saw you last you have obtained proof that she was at that lockhouse.”

  “Proof to myself alone. Not evidence—thank heavens!”

  He nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

  “I know, of course, that you have been tackling those three men on your own. Let me read between the lines. One of those men has convinced you personally—if no one else—that he is the innocent man?”

  “That’s near enough,” acknowledged Jill. “And I may be wrong. Anyhow, I’ve come to the end of my tether.”

  “And you’re very distressed about it!” Maenton stared at her while he developed his own thought. “You are not trying to possess yourself of the money. You are not, I imagine, pursuing an abstract vengeance. You have no great love for Veronica, but would like to protect her for your uncle’s sake. That leaves one explanation of your unease. You are determined to prove the innocent man’s innocence!”

  “Perhaps!” answered Jill. “But I didn’t know it until you said so.”

  “Human nature!” ejaculated Maenton and then, as if to clinch it: “Woman’s Intuition!” He seemed to be waiting for applause. As Jill looked blank, he went on: “They’re as real as statutes and precedents. Dammit, no man is a lawyer for twenty-four hours a day! I can’t give you any help as a solicitor—can’t really discuss the matter. But as a man—flesh and blood—I could possibly give you a tip. Take the human angle.”

  “You take it,” smiled Jill.

  “Your deep conviction that you know which is the innocent man! Admittedly, you may be wrong. But it’s a pretty safe bet that you’re right. Take the bet. Concentrate on the other two.”

  “I have,” said Jill. “Their tale is just as good.”

  “Ignore that!” he invited. “Your mistake was in proposing to bribe Veronica into telling the truth. Bribe the guilty men instead.”

  “To confess to a murder?”

  “That is not quite accurate—on an overall view. It was not a conspiracy to murder. One of them probably lost his temper and the other stood by his friend. He will be an accessory, if I am right. A comparatively short sentence. When he comes out of prison he’ll need money.”

  “But I haven’t any money!” As he did not answer she added: “Do you mean bribe him with Veronica’s money after she has lost it? You do!”

  “I do!” agreed Maenton smoothly. “The situation would be the same if you had made a brilliant success of your police work on those three men. As you hoped you would. Veronica would have lost her money just the same.”

  “I intended to give it back to her.”

  “You could still give it back to her. Less, say, ten thousand or so.” He gave her a little time and then went on: “I suggest—with great respect to yourself in every way—that you have rather muddled the morality of this business.”

  He was right, she thought. In the act of entering that lockhouse, she had committed herself to the lockhouse code.

  “I feel that I must at least try to take your advice,” she said, guardedly. “It must be in Veronica’s interest—or you would not have given it.”

  “That is true.” Maenton was weighing his words. “I have impressed on her that she will forfeit the settlement if I, as trustee, am presented with proof that she was at the lockhouse.”

  “But surely—”

  “I know what you are going to say, and you are wrong. What would your guilty man confess? That he was concerned in the murder. He cannot ‘confess’ the identity of the woman at the lockhouse. The question of the woman could not arise.”

  “Then Veronica would not lose her money?”

  Maenton smiled.

  “She would not forfeit her marriage settlement.”

  “Then how could I pay the ten thousand? Oh, but of course! I’ve actually inherited ten thousand—I forgot!”

  “That is a positively shocking suggestion!” Ma
enton really looked shocked. “It is immoral to pay for other people’s mistakes—apart from the fact that they always hate you for doing it.” When he had calmed himself he continued: “Veronica, in possession of her marriage settlement, would have ample security for a loan. She will ask me to arrange the loan, for a purpose which she will invent and which I shall pretend to believe. I can promise you that she will ask me.”

  Shortly after two on the following afternoon Jill arrived at Peasebarrow. The first unusual feature was a local policeman at the head of the ramp. On the Diddington side a car was parked on the verge. She got out and approached the policeman.

  “Am I allowed on the lock?” she asked.

  “That’s all right, miss. I’ve no orders to stop anybody going in.”

  She was probably wasting her time, she thought, but it would be foolish to drive back without making sure. On her way, she glanced through the open window and saw Eddis, who did not see her. She walked on, entered the house and knocked on the door of the sitting-room.

  Eddis did not answer but opened the door.

  “Hullo!” she said. “Have you relieved Mr. Stranack?”

  “No. I’m only a guest. He’s underneath the radio set, if you really want him. We are asked to believe that he is mending it.”

  “Hullo, Jill!” Stranack extricated himself. “You’ve come at an awkward moment.”

  “I’m sorry—I’ll go.”

  “You needn’t be sorry—”

  “And you can’t go,” put in Eddis. “I can’t go. Stranack can’t go. Anybody can come, but nobody can go until Inspector Curwen arrives and that cannot happen until he has finished his lunch. He is coming, I gather, to give us a lecture on police work, with lantern slides and attendant pressmen.”

  “I don’t particularly want to go, if you can put up with me,” said Jill, “but I would rather like to be told what it’s all about.”

  There was a silence which was broken by Stranack.

  “We don’t know. But it can’t be anything much.” He added, as if reluctantly. “There’s a rumour that Veronica has been arrested.”