The Attic Murder

by S. Fowler Wright

  “Haven’t you found out who they are?”

  “Not much yet, but of course we shall. There’ll be someone else digging that up now. I have to concentrate here.”

  “It doesn’t sound very circumspect to have criminals crawling over the roofs.”

  “No? It would be easy to think of other ways more likely to be observed, and not so difficult for us to prove. But I wasn’t thinking of that. Most people who make money in criminal ways give themselves away by how they let it slip through their hands. There’s not much fun in risking your liberty or your neck for money you never spend, and it’s astonishing how little use it is, even if you risk throwing it round. There isn’t much that people of bad character can buy, especially in a quiet way, that’s much satisfaction to them, and they daren’t get drunk for fear of what they might let out.

  “But Mr. Rabone lives a quiet frugal life, except for his one annual spree, and this habit I’ve told you about, which may be the only one he’s been able to think of in which he can make his money buy what he wants, without behaving in a way that might come to the bank’s ears.”

  Francis had been sufficiently interested in Miss Jones’s narrative to forget, as it had proceeded, the passage of time, and the urgency of his own position; but, as she came to this point, his eyes fell on the clock, and the process of simple mental arithmetic necessitated by Mrs. Benson’s explanation of its eccentricity enabled him to see that the question of visiting the bank had answered itself so far as that afternoon was concerned; and this realization brought his mind sharply back to consider how far, if at all, Mr. Rabone’s character affected his own precarious security.

  “I don’t quite see why his being a rotter should make him anxious for me to clear out, even though he may believe that I was one of the Welch lot.”

  “No?” she said, “but don’t you see that if he’s in with any criminal gang, the last thing he would wish would be to draw enquiry upon himself, as one who appeared to have been associating with you?

  “You know how you walked in through an open door, but the police don’t, and they’ll do some lively guessing if they find you’ve been harboured here. There may be more in it even than that. These gangs are often more or less in touch with one another, and we don’t know how closely Tony Welch’s arrest may have come to some of Mr. Rabone’s own associates—that is, of course, if we’re right in our suspicions about himself.

  “The fact that he knew your assumed name, and recognized you so quickly, makes that rather more likely than not.

  “It’s easy to see, without bringing me into the picture, that he might prefer you a good distance away; but it doesn’t follow that he’d put the police on to you. If we’re right as to what he is, it’s about the last thing he’d be likely to try.”

  “Well, the question I’ve got to decide is whether I’m to clear out as I’m told, or to risk staying another night.”

  “And you want to get hold of some money first? It’s because of that that I’ve been explaining all this about why I’m here. I wanted you to understand that if you can trust me enough, I really could help you, and in a better way than taking a cheque to the bank counter, though it mightn’t be quite so quick. But I might manage even that.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Half an hour later, Francis sat alone again with his own thoughts. He had small occasion for lively spirits, but he was conscious, beyond reason, of the lightening of heart and hope.

  It was not only that he now had a confident expectation of the money that was his most vital need, and that by a method which involved no risk of immediate detection. He was aware that he had found a friend, when his need was greatest, and the probability had been next to none; and though Miss Jones (if such were her real name, which it was easy to doubt) might not be likely to give him the docile companionship and service which had foolishly entered his mind during the earlier day, yet she was likely to be a friend of a better kind than the timid, workless girl he had first thought her to be.

  She had now taken a cheque for £20 to her own firm, on the stipulation, willingly agreed, that if the cash resources of the till should not rise to that total, she should bring what she could, and arrange to let him have the balance on a later day.

  She had promised to be back before six, and the question of his remaining for a. further night had been left for decision then.

  It was evident that, apart from Mr. Rabone’s opposition, there could be no more than a precarious safety in a house where his identity was suspected both by his own landlady and a next-door neighbour whose mouth would not be permanently closed. But he was aware that he would go to nothing better than change of perils if he should walk out into the streets to find the shelter of other lodgings where he would be open to the same suspicions, which might become more quickly vocal.

  Against that argument, he reminded himself of his resolution to seek proof of his own innocence, toward which he could do nothing while he remained hidden within Mrs. Benson’s doors. When he had money at command, he could have little excuse should he delay to use the hours of uncertain liberty to further his one hope of re-establishing himself securely in the respect of his fellowmen.

  So reason urged, against a strong reluctance to go. In the few hours that he had known these dingy rooms, they had become hiding-place, and, in a sense, home. But would that feeling have been equally strong if Miss Jones had not been there? Asking himself this, he saw where the greatest source of his hesitation lay. To leave her with that cad—and with the programme to which she had so lightly referred—and not knowing when, nor even if, he would ever see her again—

  His mind began to invent a score of reasons why it would be safer to remain until the next morning. He would have more time to look round for such a lodging as he could safely take. He would have time to get much farther away, to some place where suspicion would not be so quickly aroused. He would be able to purchase the luggage which it was so essential to have. To walk in anywhere late at night, and with empty hands, would be to ask for the trouble which he would be almost certain to find!

  It was twenty to six when he heard Miss Jones enter, with her own latchkey, at the street-door; and by this time he had arrived at a definite resolution that he would not leave till the next day.

  She came in with a smile indicative of the success which she demonstrated next moment by drawing a bundle of notes from her handbag, which she laid on the table, with five shillings in silver.

  “By good luck,” she said, “there was lots of cash in the till. Mr. Banks made no trouble about changing it. He took my word for it being all right. But he charged five shillings. He’s that sort. He won’t do anything without being paid.”

  “I don’t mind that.”

  “No. I didn’t suppose you would. Besides, it’s a good thing in a way. It makes it a matter of business, and so it’s confidential to the firm.”

  Francis picked up the money. It gave him a sense of freedom and power, to an extent of which he might not have been conscious had he not had those previous penniless hours. He said: “I can’t thank you enough. Taking me on trust, in the way you have, and in spite of the things you know—”

  “Never mind that,” she replied. “There’s no time. Mr. Rabone may be in any minute now. The question is, if you’re going to leave, how I can get in touch with you again.”

  “You mean that? It is more than I had a right to ask or expect.”

  “Well, I thought, if you want to get even with Tony Welch’s gang, I might give you some help. We might arrange to meet at the office. There shouldn’t be any special risk about that, unless you want to get out of London.”

  “I don’t know that I do.... Anyway, I don’t mean to leave here tonight. We’ll talk it over tomorrow, when there won’t be any pressure of time.”

  He was pleased to see an expression of satisfaction on her face as he said this. She answered: “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay the night. I’d been thinking that it might be the safer way. And if we go
out together in the morning, the police will be less likely to give you a second look while you’ve got a companion, and we’re talking like friends together.... But if I were you, I should get upstairs before Mr. Rabone comes. It’ll save friction, if nothing else. And, if you like, I’ll tell Mrs. Benson that I’ve got some money for you, and I know that you’re going to settle with her in the morning.”

  It was advice which had the tone of a request also, and was of an obvious wisdom. Reluctant though he might be, he had sense enough to go without argument or delay. He would miss the evening meal, but, placed as he was, it would be folly to weigh that against larger issues. He said: “You might tell Mrs. Benson that I’m not very well, and I’ve gone to bed.”

  He went upstairs, hearing Mr. Rabone’s heavy step in the hall as he closed his own door.

  There was a clothes closet in his room, at the back of which a pile of old books had been pushed away. Among less readable matter, he found a soiled copy of Vanity Fair, with which he tried to divert his mind from wondering what might be going on in the room below.

  He listened at times, but there were no sounds that came through his closed door. By the stillness, he might have been the sole occupant of the house.

  After a time, he became chilly, and, having no other means of obtaining warmth, got into bed.

  He read stubbornly, finding it hard to hold his mind to the words that passed under his eyes. He stopped at times to listen and wonder what might be going on in the room below, at others, his mind wandered to regret the follies of the unchangeable past, or to speculate upon the unpromising future.... And then, unexpectedly, sleep came.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Francis waked suddenly. He was conscious that he had been sharply disturbed, though he could not tell how. Were the police at the door?

  The single electric light was still burning, as it had been when he fell asleep. The book had fallen on to the floor. Was it possible that he had been waked by that?

  He listened, and heard nothing. He got up to put out the light. He told himself that it was natural that he should be disturbed by a slight cause, if not none, being the hunted man that he was.

  As he got back into bed, he heard light quick footsteps on the floor above. That was in the room which Miss Jones occupied. He had reckoned before this that it must it be over his own. So she was still awake, and up. He heard her door closed and locked. She crossed the floor again with the same quick firm tread. Probably she had just gone up to bed, and it was no more than that which had waked him so thoroughly. It came from going to sleep at so unusually early an hour.

  Then what time was it now? He got out again. The only electric switch which the room contained was by the door. He put the light on again, and looked at his watch. The time was 2:17 a.m. A late hour for girls placed in Miss Jones’s position to be retiring to bed!

  Had she been downstairs with Rabone till now? It was more than nine hours since he had come upstairs as the bank inspector had entered the house. What could she have been doing with him for so endless a time?

  But it appeared that whatever might have happened was over now. Certainly, there was nothing that he could do. His interference would be absurd, and would be little likely to be welcomed by her.

  Besides, did she not deserve that he should give her a better trust than his doubts implied? Or was that the right word? Jealous he might be, but there was no loyalty that she owed to him.

  There were still slight noises over his head. He thought, but was not sure, that he heard her open her window. After that, the sounds ceased entirely. Doubtless, she was in bed. Probably already asleep, as he would be if he had not come up at so confoundedly early an hour....

  Horribly through the silence there came the sound of a human scream. It ceased abruptly, as though cut off before it had come to a natural end.

  Francis had dozed, but he was widely awake while the sound was still loud on the air. The light in his room still burned. He leapt up. The cry had surely come from the floor above, but not, he thought, from the room over his head.

  He had no doubt what he should do now. He must lose no instant to find the cause of that dreadful cry. Yet the tyranny of custom prevailed so far that he delayed to put on some clothes—the circumstances under which he came having left him without a sleeping-suit, so that he had lain down in his shirt—and while he hurriedly half-dressed he heard footsteps, light and quick, crossing the floor over his head, as he had heard them before.

  He opened his door to face a house that had become silent again. He switched on a landing-light. He looked down the dark well of the narrow stairs, from which there came no motion, nor light, nor sound. It seemed that the cry, loud and agonized as it was, had been insufficient to disturb Mrs. Benson’s rest.

  Could there be reason for him to hasten up, where it seemed that nothing was happening now? And what would it be to find?

  He looked up, and the silence became sinister. He lost the sense of urgency in that of fear—fear of that which the silence held.

  It was the thought of the girl who might be in peril above, or sick with fear in her locked room, that gave him courage to climb the stairs to encounter he knew not what. If, he thought, he had a weapon of any kind. Yet what danger could he expect to meet on the silent landing above?

  As he approached it, he became aware of a cold draught, and then had his first surprise on seeing that the bedroom door was open, which he believed that he had heard Miss Jones lock at so late an hour. The opposite door was closed.

  He called: “Miss Jones, are you all right?” in a low, and then in a louder voice.

  He approached the open door, pushing it wider. The light was switched on. The draught came from the window, which was open. Still getting no reply, he entered the room.

  The bed appeared to have been occupied. The clothes had been thrown back, and half on to the floor, as though it had been hurriedly or carelessly left. The room was clearly vacant.

  Had she been abducted by criminals who had come over the roofs, perhaps having guessed her to be a detective upon their tracks? Had they murdered her, and dragged her body away? Was it her death-cry that had roused him from sleep?

  He did not think that the voice had been hers, but perplexity was mingled with a great fear as he crossed the landing, and knocked upon Mr. Rabone’s door.

  There was no reply, though he called aloud, and his fear grew. He had no desire to wake the bank inspector without evident cause, and he had most urgent reason for avoiding anything which might involve him in a further publicity, but it had become a matter which he must pursue, at whatever cost.

  He tried the handle, and the door opened as it turned. The room was in darkness, and still no one answered his call. Had Rabone also gone in the night?

  There was no light on the upper landing. All that entered the room was from the open door opposite. He stepped a pace in, feeling along the wall for the switch which he had missed nearer the jamb, and as he did so he trod on a man’s hand, which moved slightly beneath his heel.

  He looked down with eyes sharpened by fear, and which were growing used to the gloom. A body sprawled largely over the floor.

  He stepped quickly back, and, as he did so, his hand touched the switch which he had avoided before.

  The light showed William Rabone lying face downward. If he had any flicker of life, it was yet evident that he was far beyond human aid. His throat was cut, and the dusty carpet was bright with blood.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Francis stood for some moments, his hand still on the switch. Only his brain moved. He would have had a greater horror of what he saw, had not his heart been cold with the quick instinct of a personal fear.

  Should he put out the light, and go back to bed, leaving it for others to discover what it was not his business to know? Who could say that he had been disturbed by a cry which seemed to have aroused no one except himself? But that would be of little avail unless he should have left the house before Mrs. Benson would get about, and
perhaps discover that which the attic held. And, if he should slip early away, would it not be like an admission of guilt, especially in the eyes of those who would not, at first, know that he might fly from another fear? Would it not rouse a double urgency of pursuit, before which he would have little chance of escape?

  And when he would be caught, it would be necessary to deny everything, to deny that he had ascended the stairs. And if the police, with their systematic, minute investigations, should be able to prove he had, then he would be lost beyond hope!

  But by what means could they do that? He looked down on the shoes into which he had thrust his feet without lacing them, in the hurry of his dressing, and he saw that the right one was wet with blood into which he had stepped while the room was dark. There would be enough evidence there to hang anyone who should be fool enough to deny having entered the room, or who should delay to give the alarm.

  But why did he assume that it was murder on which he gazed? He had read of men who cut their own throats. But would they give so terrible a cry, if it were an act of deliberate will? It was a question to which he could give no certain reply.

  But if it were William Rabone’s own act, the weapon with which he had done it could not be far. As to that, it lay near. An open razor. But would a man inflict so wide a wound with his own hand? Again, it was a question to which he could not reply.

  A new doubt troubled his mind. It seemed that Miss Jones had fled. Had he died by her hand? Perhaps when she found that the game she played was more difficult than she supposed, and her honour could be secured in no other way? If he should give the alarm, would it be to set pursuit on her track, so that she would not escape, as she might otherwise do? He would curse himself to his last hour, if he should do that, through cowardly fear lest suspicion should fall on him.