The Blind Side: An Ernest Lamb Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  He shook her a little.

  “It’s true, isn’t it? You did go to bed and sleep all night, and that’s all you know.”

  She kept her eyes on his face.

  “Peter—” Her voice went away to just a breath. “Peter—weren’t there any—footprints—inside that door?”

  If he had thought there was the slightest chance of persuading her that the whole thing was a dream, and that there never had been any footprints, Peter might have grasped at this serviceable lie, but as he saw no chance of getting Lee to believe in it he let it go. He said,

  “That’s all right—I smudged them out.”

  “How? Oh, Peter!”

  “Well, I was waiting for Peterson. I rather banked on his doing just what he did do, tearing off downstairs to get Rush and leaving the door open, so I was all ready with some damp paper. If there were footprints, I knew I shouldn’t have time to get rid of them altogether, but I thought I could bank on being able to mess them up so that they couldn’t possibly be identified. I’d plenty of time to do it, get back, get rid of the paper, wash my hands, and run out in my dressing-gown to join Peterson when he came back with Rush.”

  “It was very clever of you.” Lee’s lashes fell for a moment and then rose again. “Peter, do you think I did it?” she said in an exhausted voice.

  She startled him horribly. He said,

  “What do you mean?” And then, on a quick note of anger, “Don’t be a damned little fool!”

  Lee stepped back from him, her gaze mournful and steady.

  “No, Peter—please—I can’t bear it. It’s all shut up inside me, and if I can’t talk about it—oh, don’t you see?”

  He saw, and the anger went out of him. He said,

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to tell you. I’m so afraid. It’s no good just bottling it up, and I can’t tell anyone else. You see, it was rather horrid about those Merville people. I don’t know whether she ever meant to sail. I’ve begun to think perhaps she didn’t. Anyhow at the last minute they had a row, and she walked out and took the child. I don’t know if it was a real row. It may have been, because he was awfully worked up. And he didn’t want to let me go—yes, I know—you said so all along, and we quarrelled about it. And you were perfectly right, which is lovely for you but not quite so much fun for me. But that doesn’t matter now. What does matter is this. That Merville man was just slime—he really was. And when he took hold of me I saw scarlet, and, Peter, if I could have got my hands on a pistol I’d have shot him. I would, and I’d have liked doing it.” The colour came into her face just for a moment and then ebbed again.

  Peter controlled his voice to a careless tone.

  “A good riddance, but possibly a bit awkward. On the whole, just as well that there wasn’t a pistol.”

  Lee nodded.

  “I know. And I got away all right. I threw the big inkstand at him and the ink went into his eyes. I didn’t wait after that.” There was a faint satisfaction in her tone, but the strained note came back again. “I got here, and I was most awfully tired, but I didn’t feel like going to sleep. I rummaged round for a book, and I found a stupid murder story. It really was stupid, and I didn’t get very far with it, because I went to sleep, and the last bit I remember was about a man creeping down a long passage in the dark, and when he’d got about half way he found a pistol, and all at once a door opened at the other end and he saw the most dreadful face looking at him, and he fired at it with the pistol he had just picked up. As if anyone would!”

  “What has all this got to do with Ross?”

  “It might have started me off dreaming. I did dream, you know, and I did walk in my sleep, and I did go into Ross’s flat. If my footprints were there, it proves that I went in.” Her voice dropped wretchedly. “If I could only remember what the dream was about. But suppose—just suppose I got that murder story all mixed up in a dream with René Merville. I might—have taken—Ross’s pistol—and if he caught hold of me, I might have—thought he was René—and I might—have shot him—” The last word scarcely sounded. She put out a hand to steady herself against the back of the chair.

  Peter pushed his hands deep into his pockets where he could clench them unseen, and remarked,

  “My child, you’ll have to take to writing thrillers yourself. That’s a marvellous effort of the imagination. But I don’t think I should produce it for the Inspector. Nobody admires the police more than I do, but imagination just isn’t their strong suit. They have an earthy preference for facts, you know—things like—”

  “Footprints,” said Lee.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Detective Abbott ushered in Mr. Peter Renshaw.

  He gave his name as Peter Craddock Renshaw, and admitted to eight years’ service in the Westshire regiment, at present stationed at Lahore in Northern India. He was at home on leave, and was occupying the flat of his late cousin, Miss Mary Craddock, whose executor he was.

  “Now, Mr. Renshaw,” said the Inspector, “I believe you are Mr. Craddock’s next of kin. Do you happen to know whether he made a will?”

  Peter did a stupid thing. He said at once and without thinking,

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

  “And what makes you think that, Mr. Renshaw?”

  He was in for it now. It would be the worst possible folly to hesitate.

  “Well, it was something he said. I can’t remember how it came up, but it was something to do with my being my cousin’s executor—something on the lines of he hadn’t made a will and he wasn’t going to, because he didn’t give a damn who had his money when he was gone.”

  “And there was a good deal of money?”

  “Quite a piece,” said Mr. Renshaw soberly.

  The Inspector leaned forward.

  “You’re telling me Mr. Craddock was a wealthy man—and he lived in a little flat like this?”

  “Yes, he did. But there were reasons. His father had a lot, but the depression hit them very hard indeed. My uncle had to economize, cut everything to the bone. He died about four years ago. But the reason I said there was quite a piece of money is that a lot of leasehold property fell in this year. I’ve no idea of the amount, but it was something pretty considerable.”

  “And if there’s no will—you’re next of kin and heir at law, I take it.”

  “I suppose I am—if there’s no will.” Peter went on looking at the Inspector for a moment, then he turned and looked at Detective Abbott.

  Detective Abbott was looking at the ceiling. Something ran a sharp pin into Peter’s memory and jogged it. He said to himself, “Fug Abbott, or I’m a Dutchman!” He very nearly said it aloud.

  The Inspector’s voice recalled him to the fact that he was undergoing an official examination, and that he had just said several things that could very easily be used against him.

  “Mr. Craddock’s solicitor has informed us that Mr. Craddock was very much opposed to the idea of making a will. As far as he knows, no will exists. Would you say that this was common knowledge in the family?”

  “It might be.”

  “Other relatives might expect to benefit by Mr. Craddock’s death if he died intestate?”

  Peter didn’t like the way that this was tending. He said quickly,

  “I don’t know, but some of the property is entailed. Didn’t old Pettigrew tell you so?”

  The Inspector did not answer this question.

  “Entailed upon you, Mr. Renshaw?”

  “I am quite sure Mr. Pettigrew must have told you that. It’s all down in old David Craddock’s will.”

  “You seem very well informed as to the provisions of this will.”

  Peter felt a certain anger, but he kept his voice quiet.

  “I told you I was acting as executor to my old cousin. I have had to look up the provisions of my great-grandfather’s will. There was some small trust, and there was a question as to whether her share went to her surviving sister, or whether it would
have to be shared with a niece.”

  “The niece’s name?”

  “Mavis Grey.”

  “Seems to me, Mr. Renshaw, there’s a lot of you in this—all relations. Now I’d like to get those relationships clear, if you don’t mind.”

  Peter slewed round to the table.

  “If I can have a bit of paper, I’ll put them down for you.”

  He had his bit of paper and the scarlet pen offered him gravely by Detective Abbott. He wrote, drew lines, and handed the result to the Inspector.

  “The Craddock family tree. We’re all there, I think.”

  The Inspector studied it with a good deal of concentration.

  “You and Mr. Craddock were first cousins then, and the young lady, Miss Fenton, a bit further afield. Mr. Craddock wasn’t married, I take it.”

  “I never heard of a wife.”

  As Detective Abbott wrote this down, it occurred to him to wonder whether there had been something that wasn’t quite an emphasis on the last word.

  “Well, now that we’ve got all that quite clear, Mr. Renshaw, may I trouble you for your account of what happened last night?”

  “Certainly. I came home just before twelve o’clock—”

  “Just a moment. You’d been dining out?”

  “At the Luxe.”

  “And you spent the evening at the Luxe?”

  “No—I went on to a night-club to meet some friends—a Mr. and Mrs. Nelson.”

  “I’d just like the name of the club.”

  “The Ducks and Drakes.”

  “Ah! Go on, Mr. Renshaw.”

  Peter went on.

  “I got back here a little before twelve.”

  “That was rather early.”

  “It was very hot. The party broke up.”

  “No unpleasantness?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “No unpleasantness with Mr. Craddock?”

  “Look here, Inspector—”

  “I’d like an answer to that question, Mr. Renshaw.”

  Peter smiled disarmingly.

  “Well, the answer is in the negative.”

  “You didn’t see your cousin?”

  “Certainly I saw him.”

  “And where did you see Mr. Craddock?”

  “I saw him at the Ducks and Drakes. I didn’t speak to him.”

  “Sure of that?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Now why didn’t you speak to him? Were you on bad terms?”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  “I was with my party, and he was with his. We didn’t meet, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. I asked if you were on bad terms with him.”

  “Not bad, not good. We hadn’t much in common, that’s all.”

  “I see,” said the Inspector. “Who was Mr. Craddock with?”

  He had seen the question coming and known that he would be bound to answer it. Anyone at the Ducks and Drakes could put a name to Mavis. It would be fatal to hesitate. He said at once,

  “Oh, he was with Miss Grey.”

  “Miss Grey—she was an intimate friend of Mr. Craddock’s?”

  Again it would not do to hang back.

  “A cousin,” he said carelessly.

  “Miss Mavis Grey?”

  “Miss Mavis Grey.”

  “Ah! Were Mr. Craddock and Miss Grey still at the Ducks and Drakes when you came away?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Go on, Mr. Renshaw.”

  “I came home, I went to bed, and I went to sleep. I was roused by Peterson’s yell. I got on my dressing-gown and came out on to the landing. I followed him and Rush into this room, and saw my cousin lying dead.”

  The Inspector leaned forward and raised his voice.

  “And you picked up the revolver. I want to know what you did that for, Mr. Renshaw.”

  “I know,” said Peter in a candid tone. “I oughtn’t to have touched it. Rush ticked me off like anything.”

  The Inspector banged with his fist on the table.

  “You took hold of it by the butt, and you took hold of it by the muzzle, and if there were fingermarks on either, you took very good care to destroy them—and I want to know why.”

  Peter gazed at him earnestly.

  “Of course I knew the minute I’d done it that I ought to have left the damned thing alone.”

  The Inspector banged again.

  “And I’m asking you why you didn’t leave it alone.”

  Peter knitted his brows.

  “Well, I suppose it was the shock. The first thing I knew I’d picked the thing up.”

  “And the next thing you knew you were handling it all over!”

  “Well, it’s no good going on ticking me off. I mean—well is it? I must have done a bit of—what do they call it—unconscious cerebration, or I wouldn’t have done it, would I? I’ve apologized, and I don’t quite see what more I can do. I mean, it’s no good crying over spilt milk, is it, Inspector?”

  “I should like to know why the milk was spilt,” said Inspector Lamb in a most unpleasant tone of voice.

  Peter nodded thoughtfully.

  “You know,” he said, “when there’s an emergency you don’t think, you just do things. Afterwards someone comes along and asks why you did them, just like you’re doing now, and you haven’t a single earthly notion. It’s natural you should come over all suspicious, but don’t you see, if I was a calculating criminal I should know exactly why I’d done everything, because I should have had it all mapped out, so that really, instead of getting suspicious because I can’t give you even the most silly-ass explanation, you ought to regard it as a proof of my innocence.”

  The Inspector took a good hard look at him. Peter sustained the look.

  He had to sustain the thrust of a sudden question.

  “What time did you hear the shot?”

  Without batting an eyelid he said,

  “I didn’t hear it.”

  The Inspector squared up to him.

  “Now look here, Mr. Renshaw, I’ve seen your flat. That wall you’re sitting with your back to at this minute is the wall of the bedroom in which you slept last night. Do you mean to tell me that you slept with your head right up against that wall and didn’t hear the shot that killed your cousin?”

  “I’m not telling you anything of the sort. You see, I didn’t sleep in there last night. I went to bed there, but—well, it was a hot night and I thought I’d be cooler in the other room—the breeze was that way—so I slept on the sofa in the sitting-room.”

  The Inspector looked him straight in the eye.

  “Are you going to swear at the inquest that you didn’t hear that shot?”

  “Without a tremor. You see, it happens to be true. After all, you know, Inspector, there’s quite a lot of traffic along here at night, and one gets used to it. There’s not a lot to choose between a backfire and a revolver shot. My first night or two here I couldn’t sleep. Now it’s got me the other way round and I can’t wake up.”

  “And you didn’t wake up last night? Are you going to swear that you didn’t get up and go into your cousin’s flat and quarrel with him?”

  “I am.”

  “Well then, Mr. Renshaw, I think that will be all for the moment. Have you any objection to letting us take your fingerprints?”

  Peter smiled broadly.

  “Oh, no objection at all. But you’ve got them already, haven’t you? The—er—weapon must have been fairly well plastered.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Peter walked up and down in Lucy Craddock’s sitting-room and waited for Lee to come back.

  They didn’t keep her long, but they kept her long enough for a young man in a state of strain to have several kinds of nightmares about what they might be asking her behind those two closed doors and what she might be answering. When she did come he thought she looked relieved.

  “What did they ask you?”

  “Not very much.” She sat down
in the biggest chair and leaned back. Her brief white linen dress left her arms bare right up to the shoulder. She stretched them out on the big padded arms of the chair and closed her eyes.

  “What do you mean by not very much?”

  The soft lashes lay on her cheek.

  “Just what you said. They wanted to know when I got here, and when I went to bed, and when I got up, and whether I heard the shot.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I told them I didn’t. They asked me whether I was friends with Ross.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  The lashes flickered.

  “I said not particularly. And then they asked about Mavis—whether she was a friend of mine, whether she was a friend of yours, and whether she was a friend of Ross’s.”

  “And you said?”

  “That she wasn’t particularly my friend or yours, but that she and Ross were friendly. It wasn’t any good my saying they weren’t, because Miss Bingham would be quite sure to give that away. She was going in as I came out.” Lee’s eyes opened suddenly and wide. “Oh, Peter—do you suppose she heard anything? It’s a frightful thought!”

  “We can’t do anything about it if she did,” said Peter gloomily.

  He came and sat down on the floor in front of the big chair and laid his cheek against her hand.

  “Don’t let’s bother about all these beastly people. Are you glad you didn’t go to South America?”

  The hand just moved against his cheek.

  “I don’t know—there wouldn’t be any policemen—”

  “If you were in South America with that fellow you might be very glad to see a policeman.”

  She tried to pull away her hand, but he caught it just in time. He began to kiss the palm.

  “You want someone to look after you, my girl—that’s what you do.”

  Just at the moment it sounded rather nice. She sighed, and Peter said,

  “I’m going to marry you out of hand, you know.”

  The lashes were down again. There was more colour in the cheek on which they rested.

  “Are you?”

  “I think it can be done in about three days.”

  “Don’t I have anything to say about it?” She spoke in a soft, sleepy voice.