A Lover Too Many

by Roy Lewis

  ‘I didn’t cut the blasted wires!’

  ‘A suspicious man might suggest that you did it and then left open the door to lie in wait as Sneed entered, expecting to meet you and eager to get in out of the rain. On the other hand you might have done it to make it appear that a prowler had entered and made sure that he wouldn’t be disturbed by sudden lights.’

  ‘That’s nonsense! I didn’t cut—’

  ‘All right.’ Crow suddenly became more brusque, dropping his sadly careful pose. ‘Let’s put some of your assumptions to the test. Let us suppose that your — er — assailant had a key and got to the house first, cut the wires, killed Sneed and then knocked you out and placed the weapon in your hand. That’s what you want me to suppose, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was he when you entered the house?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘I suppose he could easily have waited for me downstairs and hit me as I came in, instead of—’

  ‘How did he know Sneed would come there?’

  ‘I told you. He could have followed—’

  ‘And got there first?’ Crow pondered for a moment. ‘Where were you the night your wife died, Mr Marlin?’

  ‘Jeannette—? What the hell’s that got to do with it?’

  Crow’s thin, lined face had saddened again.

  ‘Miss Shaw paid me a visit yesterday afternoon. It would seem that she was not in the office that night. She did not see you there. There is no corroboration of your story, therefore.’

  Peter sat up, angry and puzzled.

  ‘But why should she say this — I don’t understand—’

  Crow’s voice was slow and measured.

  ‘It would seem that she has been — ah, involved with Mr Daly at your office.’ Peter remembered fleetingly the looks on the faces of Joan and Daly when he entered the office the other day.

  ‘But he’s married!’

  ‘Precisely. On the night in question she was with Mr Daly. There are obvious reasons why he did not come forward to say that Miss Shaw was not telling the truth when she said she had seen you at the office that night. He knew she couldn’t have seen you — but he could not say so for fear of exposing himself to the risk of his wife discovering his infidelity.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why Joan—’

  ‘In spite of her playing around with Daly,’ commented Crow smoothly, ‘it would seem she yet nursed a certain — ah — affection for you. I would imagine that she felt she was helping you. It is just possible that she thought that you might have killed your wife. Perhaps she then assumed that after it had all blown over, with your wife dead, you and she might—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter slowly. ‘Yes, that day in the office . . .’

  ‘Something then happened to make her realise that her daydreams were just that, nothing more than daydreams and she realised that you and she were never going to — well, something happened to make her wish to tell the truth. She came to me yesterday.’

  ‘She’d been to my house the previous night,’ said Peter harshly. ‘She saw Shirley Walker there.’

  ‘Ah . . . and realised,’ mused Crow, ‘that she would never be more than third best, if that — I’m sorry, Mr Marlin. I should not have said that.’

  Peter shrugged. He had other things to worry about than the implications of that remark.

  Crow stood up and clasped his thin hands behind his back; it had the effect of making him stoop slightly and when he walked across to the window and stood staring out, with his back to the room, Peter had the fanciful thought that the man looked like some hunched, evil bird of prey, with his great skull gleaming in the grey morning light.

  ‘This is rather an unusual position in which I find myself,’ murmured Crow. ‘You are a solicitor; yours is not a criminal practice, but you are aware of the mechanics as well as I. You need make no statement to me, of course, and this you well know. But I would strongly suggest that you engage a solicitor for yourself — don’t try to handle the matter on your own. One’s objectivity is difficult to maintain when one is personally involved . . . facts get twisted, ideas, theories remain unformed.’

  ‘Are you trying to say that you’re thinking of charging me?’

  Crow didn’t turn round. His hands were quiet.

  ‘Look at the situation as it stands, Mr Marlin. You say you were at the office when your wife died. That is now unsubstantiated. You discovered her body. What motive could you have had for killing her? She had taken a lover. You had discovered this, and killed her. You think yourself relatively safe, but the pressure builds up and so you “rediscover“ the letters, which you had in fact found some time before, engage Sneed, frighten Lavender, then stage this situation last night . . .’

  ‘In the meanwhile bashing myself over the head.’

  Crow looked back at him, seriously. ‘There are holes, obviously, but the general thesis sounds rather convincing particularly when you would seem to have re-engaged the attentions of Miss Walker. You will appreciate that I am being very frank.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Your injuries, of course, could have been unforeseen by you in the planning stage perhaps they were caused in the struggle with Sneed. You could conceivably then have deliberately knocked yourself out against the door — there is some of your blood there.’

  ‘And my motive?’

  ‘To place the guilt for the death of your wife on another — and to be free to move on . . . to other fields.’

  Peter’s lip curled at Crow’s delicacy. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t charged me already!’ he snapped.

  Crow smiled again, turning from the window. ‘I’m an experienced police officer. I don’t jump before I’m pushed. If I don’t have a strong enough case, you know more than enough law to have me in the dock, and I have no doubt that your professional colleagues would be quick to lend a hand. No, it seems to me that—’

  ‘The key,’ said Peter flatly.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘The key. In my jacket pocket, look quickly!’

  Crow wasted no time in arguing. He moved to the wardrobe, took out Peter’s jacket, and went through the pockets.

  ‘This it?’

  ‘No, that’s the key to Jeannette’s desk. There should be another there.’

  ‘There isn’t.’ Crow stared at the key lying in his hand.

  Peter lay back, thinking furiously. Crow watched him narrowly for a moment, then came across to the bed.

  ‘What about this missing key?’

  ‘I found it — or rather, Shirley did. In the sugar tin. It must be why Lavender was in the house before Sneed. He was looking for that key!’

  ‘You will forgive me, but I am particularly obtuse this morning.’

  ‘Don’t you see? When Lavender killed Jeannette he found some of his letters to her and took them, having forced open the drawer of her desk to do so. They didn’t comprise all the letters, but they were all he could find. When he learned that I had three, he knew there must be others still in the house so he had to come back again, to look for them. That was why he broke in . . . all right, got in somehow, searching for the letters. Or even the key itself. Perhaps he knew she’d keep them in a deposit box. But Sneed arrived, and Lavender killed him. Then I came. That was why he was upstairs . . . he was still looking. He didn’t know I’d already got the key. So after he attacked me he thought he’d plant Sneed’s murder on me. He went through my pockets, found the key, and knew he had everything going smoothly at last.’

  Peter took a deep triumphant breath.

  ‘He could have Jeannette’s murder pinned on me, and Sneed’s, and he had his letters back.’

  Crow regarded him thoughtfully. Some of Peter’s exuberance died.

  ‘For a lawyer,’ commented Crow, ‘you are singularly un-preoccupied with detail. I repeat, there was no sign of a break-in. Moreover, if you had three letters in your possession, what was the p
oint of searching for the others? Wouldn’t the three, in your thesis, be enough to damn him? And in any case, you’re wrong about Mr Lavender.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We already knew,’ said Crow tiredly, ‘from our earlier inquiries, all about his affair with your wife, about his alibi, about the fact that on the night Mrs Marlin died he was really with . . . another lady, not his wife, who can testify to that effect—’

  ‘And you’d believe her?’

  ‘We have to believe somebody,’ said Crow mildly. ‘The point is he had nothing to gain in breaking in, or letting himself in with a key or what have you. Even so . . .’

  ‘You can check on the key. I had it when I left Shirley.’

  ‘That’s easy to confirm. She’s outside now.’

  ‘Shirley—’

  ‘What was the number of the key? Describe its appearance.’

  Peter did so. Crow turned to the constable.

  ‘Wilson, get it checked. I want to know if it is a deposit box.’

  The constable left. Peter was staring at Crow with cold eyes.

  ‘You’re convinced of Lavender’s innocence.’

  Crow spread his bony hands. ‘The evidence—’

  ‘He’s a wealthy man. Influential.’

  Crow looked at him thoughtfully. ‘He can account for his movements on the night of your wife’s death.’

  ‘Who got on your back, Inspector Crow, and told you to call the bloodhounds off Lavender?’

  Inspector Crow stood still. His thin form seemed to impart more menace than ever; his long fingers were slightly crooked as they hung at his sides. But his voice was surprisingly mild in tone.

  ‘Arrogance seems out of character in your make-up, Mr Marlin. Would you like to see Miss Walker now?’

  * * *

  As they drove in the police car to the railway station, Crow was angry. It was not often that he permitted himself that luxury. Over the years he had come to accept that his feelings were wont to intrude upon, and perhaps to some extent affect, the efficiency of his work, but he made their effect minimal. They were, after all, simply problems that arose from sadness he sometimes felt for the foibles of human nature, or from the genuine respect or liking that he occasionally felt for people with whom he had to deal. So many of the individuals who crossed his path were criminal, but not in the basic sense: momentary aberration, weakness, background, intense provocation; these could all destroy a man who was inherently decent, and cause him to commit a criminal act. Crow knew this and had come to accept the feelings that sometimes arose in him when he was faced by such people.

  But anger was another matter entirely. Anger was something he could not afford.

  The other, unprofessional emotions did not impinge upon his duty too much: he could compensate for them, react against them. They did not affect his judgment, his clarity of thought. But anger was different: it muddied his brain, it was a slow mist that crept across his intellect, it thrust excitement into his veins when he needed to remain cool.

  And he was angry now.

  It had been wrong of Gray to telephone him. It had been wrong of Gray to put him in a completely false position. Gray had been using his own position, and the fact of his own friendship, to interfere in matters that were exclusively Crow’s problems. This was a murder investigation. Gray shouldn’t have phoned. He had, of course, prepared the ground well. He’d begun by discounting his rank, and had continued, talking in friendly vein, about the old days when they had worked together.

  ‘By the way, John,’ he had said offhandedly, ‘I gather you’ve set the local boys on to Max Lavender.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve managed to pick up a lead that tells us that the murdered woman spent some months in his company.’

  ‘You’re always so damned puritanically cagey, John. You mean Max Lavender had been sleeping with her, had a flat set up for her in town.’

  ‘If you like. Anyway, it’s worth following through. I heard that the story he gave us as to his whereabouts might well be false.’

  ‘It was.’ Bill Gray’s voice had been cool. ‘I’ve got the reports in front of me, John. He was in fact with one Sally Baxter, his latest light-o’-love. I’ve interviewed her myself. That’s where he was. So he’s not implicated in this Marlin woman’s death.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘John, take my word for it.’ Gray’s voice had hardened. ‘I’ll send the stuff on down to you now, so you can see for yourself. The fact is, there’s no point in pursuing inquiries in that direction.’

  ‘You’re telling me to stay away from Lavender?’

  ‘You could put it like that,’ Gray had replied suavely. ‘Need I spell it out for you? He’s not involved. You have my word.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘All right, and the word is that he’s been bothered enough. I presume you get the message, loud and clear.’

  Crystal clear. Crow bit his lip; the car sped through morning streets, but he saw nothing. Lavender had been cleared on a woman’s word, and the matter was to end there. Why? Because, as Marlin had said a few hours ago, Lavender was a wealthy and influential man. He moved in exalted City circles; rumour could damage his reputation, and stains of that nature affected many people in high places, people who had investments to think of, financial deals fluttering in the wind. Lavender had picked up a telephone and complained — and he’d got results. At the end of a few more, lesser lines had been Commander Bill Gray.

  And John Crow had done as he was told. Lavender must have been as mad as hell when he discovered that Marlin had engaged Billy Sneed to make further inquiries. Certainly mad enough to warn Marlin off personally. But mad enough to kill?

  In the car mirror Crow could see the white swathed head of Peter Marlin. The man had said nothing during the long drive. The girl — Shirley Walker — had also remained quiet. Why had he allowed her to come along? One never knew about such things: his cold official explanation, the one he admitted to himself, was that it gave him an opportunity to observe them closely in each other’s company, to seek out the nuances, the inferences that might be obtained from a glance, a word, a movement when they were together. On the other hand it could be that it was because he felt that she had a right to be there, as Marlin did, when they reached the railway station. But Crow was conscious that there could be other, more human reasons for his allowing them to come.

  These he was not going to admit to himself, nor dwell upon them. It was enough for him to know that his weaknesses were his weaknesses.

  They swung at last into the broad approach to the station. It was two hours since Wilson had returned with the confirmation that the number of the key tallied with that of a deposit box at Cardington railway station. It would be one of a series of lockers, paid for on a time basis. They had waited only for Marlin to get dressed before they had left in the police car.

  Marlin seemed none the worse for the drive, though he remained a little pale. The hospital hadn’t made a great fuss about his release.

  The station master was waiting for them, pompously, at the station entrance. ‘Inspector Crow? Glad to meet you, sir. The lockers are this way.’

  He moved ahead of them chattering, a short, plump man in a regulation uniform that did nothing for his figure. Crow cut into his chatter.

  ‘Has no one been near the lockers yet? The one in question hasn’t been opened?’

  ‘No indeed, sir. I’ve had a man on duty there all morning, sir. No. C4976 I think you said it was. It will be just along here and Fred will be—’

  The long row of lockers faced them blankly, grey boxes lined six high, one line against the wall, another double line forming a narrow corridor. The station master was looking round into the corridor.

  ‘Fred! Fred Davis!’

  ‘Blast!’

  Crow pushed himself past the waddling station master with an angry exclamation. He moved quickly down the row of lockers. Then he stopped. The locker he stared at was number C4976. The key was
in the lock.

  He felt Peter Marlin thrust an arm past him to drag open the locker door. There was nothing inside.

  ‘Fred Davis!’ The station master’s voice echoed shrilly around the booking-hall.

  Crow looked at him coldly. ‘We’ll go to your office, if you don’t mind,’ he said quietly. ‘Wilson, I’ll want that key dusted for fingerprints. There won’t be any, but we’ll have to check.’

  ‘What the hell has happened?’ Peter Marlin blazed. Justifiably, in Crow’s eyes. Crow shrugged, and led the way to the station master’s office. The pompous little man was crushed.

  ‘Really, Inspector Crow, I don’t know what to say. I — Fred! There you are at last! What on earth—?’

  Fred was youthful, pimply and unabashed.

  ‘Look here, I been standing there all mornin’ just starin’ at them lockers and no one didn’t think of bringin’ me a cup of tea, did they? There I was, with me tongue hangin’ out by ten and no one—’

  ‘You left the lockers at ten o’clock?’ asked Crow quietly.

  Fred’s eyes grew round as he took in the sight of Inspector Crow.

  ‘Cor . . . you . . . yes, well, about ten-fifteen. I just went for a cup of tea and—’

  ‘It’s now eleven o’clock,’ snapped Marlin, standing just behind Crow.

  ‘Well,’ countered Fred with a defiant lurch of his shoulder, ‘you got to let it have time to go down, don’ yer?’

  ‘You saw no one approach that locker?’

  ‘Well, no, not while I was there, but—’

  ‘You couldn’t see it from the tea-trolley?’

  ‘Well, there’s a kind of sign which sort of juts out an’ —’

  ‘You couldn’t see.’

  ‘No. That’s right.’

  ‘Fred Davis—’

  The station master was rising menacingly.

  Crow silenced him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Davis.’ Fred left, still defiant. ‘That’s your staff problem,’ Crow continued addressing the station master, ‘From our point of view it’s too late now. What information can you give me about that locker?’