The Attic Murder

by S. Fowler Wright

  “So he has. But in this case you can take it from me that it’s what he really believes. I may say he’s sure. Anyhow, he’s willing to give you some facts that you wouldn’t be likely to get so easily or completely in other ways.”

  “Of course, I’ll listen.... I know you wouldn’t lead me up the wrong path.... He’ll have to say what he thinks wise at his own risk.... We’ve found out a few things ourselves.”

  “Traced Miss Jones?”

  “Not yet. But we soon shall. It seems probable that she was one of the gang, even if she didn’t have any part in the actual crime. From her description, it’s practically certain that it was she who got the cheque-book from the bank that we found in Vaughan’s pocket. She used a note that’s certainly forged, though we haven’t had time to follow that up yet. I’ve sent a man to interview a Mr. Hammerton, in whose name it was obtained, and I shall know more about that before the day’s over.”

  Sir Reginald looked amused. He controlled an expression the Inspector did not enjoy, to ask: “You think that Vaughan and the girl were both members of a forging gang?”

  “That’s how it looks. We know something about Vaughan’s character and associates from the conviction we’ve obtained against him already. We don’t know anything about the girl yet, except this cheque-book business, and the way she escaped.... By the way, there was one cheque gone from the book. If it’s been used, we may get some help from that.”

  Sir Reginald smiled openly. “I think you’ll find that it has.... You say you know how the girl escaped, if that’s the right word to use?”

  Inspector Combridge, being very far from a fool, saw that Sir Reginald must know more of these matters than he had yet said; but he suppressed a slight and not unnatural feeling of annoyance. It was his business to get at the truth, from whatever source, and whatever it might prove to be. He did not doubt that the banker would give him all the help he could, in his own way. But he was human enough to wish to show that he had his own sources of information, and that he had already learnt some things of which Sir Reginald might not be aware.

  “Yes,” he answered. “We know how she got away, or, at least, we’re practically sure; and it’s that that seems to show what she really is.

  “There’s a house nearby—four doors away—where there’s a lodger in whom we’ve been interested for a long time past, and by scratches on the roof and windows, and other signs, it’s evident that people have been in and out between the two places, probably more than once.

  “You’ll probably find, before we’ve finished, that that’s why Rabone chose to lodge in an attic room.... But you’ll see that, if the girl knew the way to escape to that house, it’s a black mark against her.”

  “Have you any proof that she did?”

  “There’s the open window in her room, and the fact that she must have gone by the roof, because there was no other way. And—beyond that—there’s another lodger—not the man we’re after—one on a lower floor—who heard footsteps going down the stairs during the night that sounded to him too light for those of a man.”

  “I can see you haven’t been losing time.... Inspector, we’re going to help each other quite a lot in this matter.

  “...I’ve got a witness for you myself, a Miss Weston, with a tale you’ll be quite interested to hear.... But Jellipot may be at the door any moment now, and before he comes I’ve got something to show you that bears on the crime—if such it were—from another angle.”

  Sir Reginald took a letter from his desk, and passed it over to the Inspector.

  “That,” he said, “appears to have been written by Rabone less than two days ago. It was received by our General Manager yesterday. It isn’t conclusive, of course. But read in the light of the investigation we were making, and of his death or suicide a few hours after it was written—”

  “It wasn’t suicide. That’s certain.”

  “Very well. Murder.”

  The Inspector’s attention was already concentrated upon the letter. He read:

  DEAR SIR,

  In reference to the recent forgeries which have caused, and are still causing, so much loss to the Bank, I should be obliged if you would grant me a private interview, at which I could place certain facts before you.

  Yours faithfully,

  WILLIAM RABONE

  Inspector Combridge considered this document carefully.

  “As it reads,” he asked, “might it not be the letter of an honest man, who had made certain discoveries in the course of his work, by which his suspicions had been aroused?”

  “Yes, on the face of it, so it might. No doubt, that is intended to read. But he would hardly have asked for a private interview with the General Manager under such circumstances. He would have included it in his ordinary report, or perhaps communicated direct with the Committee which has this investigation in hand. Or, had it been a case of urgency, he would not have proceeded by letter at all. He would have come here at once.”

  Before the Inspector could discuss these aspects of the matter, Mr. Jellipot was announced.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Jellipot shook hands with a quiet cordiality. He felt confident both in the strength of his own case and in the goodwill of those to whom he proposed to state it. He observed, without resentment, the slight official constraint in the Inspector’s manner which it must be his part to dispel.

  He said: “I’m glad you’ve brought us together, Sir Reginald. It seems to me that this is a case where we’ve got to pool all that we know, if the guilt is to be laid at the right door. And so long as we’re all wasting our wits over the question of Francis Hammerton’s complicity in a crime with which he had nothing to do, beyond—”

  “Who did you say?” the Inspector asked sharply. He remembered the name in which the cheque had been drawn.

  “I said Francis Hammerton. That’s my client’s true name, as he ought to have had the sense to tell you before.”

  The Inspector was quick to see the implications of the new fact. He said: “Then the order for the cheque-book which his accomplice secured was signed in his true name?”

  “Naturally so. But I don’t know that you should describe the young lady in that way. If,” he smiled, “I am correctly instructed, she may turn out to be Sir Reginald’s accomplice rather than his. But,” he added cautiously, “I am not acting for her, nor am I directly concerned for the veracity of the explanation which she appears to have given of her acquaintance with Rabone.”

  Inspector Combridge, while still warily conscious that he must not allow either friendship or respect for Mr. Jellipot to warp his official judgement, was sufficiently well acquainted with him to know that he would not be likely to speak as he did without a solid basis of fact to support his words. He saw also that there was information to be gained, probably from both of his present companions, beyond anything he could have anticipated a few moments before, and which it might be vital for him to have. But even now he did not overlook the importance of maintaining an independent position.

  “If you think,” he said, “it to be to your client’s interest to disclose the line of defence which he intends to set up, of course I shall be glad to listen.”

  “His defence is that he discovered the murder exactly as he told you when he was first asked. Beyond that, I propose to show that he is an absolutely respectable young man, who was foolish enough to make some undesirable friends, and lacked the moral courage to give his true name when he found himself in a particularly distasteful mess.”

  The Inspector considered this. He observed a possibility—no more—that it might be true; but even if that might be, it seemed a good deal to attempt to demonstrate in the present position. And there were some awkward facts which might excuse doubt of Vaughan’s—or Hammerton’s—absolute innocence in a less sceptical mind than that of an inspector of the Metropolitan Police.

  “You’re putting it rather high,” he said. “After all, he’s a convicted criminal. I don’t see how you get ove
r that.”

  “There’s the Court of Appeal.”

  The Inspector did not dispute the fact, but was doubtful of its use in the present case. “You know,” he said, “they won’t listen to fresh evidence, if the accused himself withheld it at the trial. They’ll say it’s too late for that now.”

  “It is a difficulty,” Mr. Jellipot admitted, “which I have already observed. But I hope that we may find a way through.”

  The Inspector did not fail to notice that Mr. Jellipot used the plural “we” as though alluding to his present company, and being confident of their co-operation. He said: “Well, of course, if you can convince me of Hammerton’s innocence, I’ll do all that I can. But you won’t find it an easy job. What about his pocket being full of Rabone’s money when he was arrested half an hour afterwards?”

  “The reply is that it wasn’t. It was full of his own. You’ll find that the blank counterfoil in the cheque-book is a sufficient explanation of that.”

  Sir Reginald interposed for the first time. “Yes, Inspector, I think you’ll find that he succeeded in cashing the cheque. I’ve had confirmation of that.”

  “But two of the notes have been traced to Rabone’s possession.”

  Mr. Jellipot replied by narrating the circumstances under which they had passed into his client’s hands.

  “It is an explanation,” the Inspector said dryly, “which would have been more convincing had he told me at first.”

  Mr. Jellipot conceded that. “So it would. The fact is he forgot.”

  The explanation reduced the Inspector to a silent consideration of its plausibility, and in the resulting pause Sir Reginald said: “Gentlemen, I don’t know how you feel, but it’s about the time when I begin to have a decided inclination for a good lunch.

  “I can’t let you go yet, because I want you to meet Mr. Banks of the Texall Enquiry Agency, and a Miss Weston—a charming girl—who’ll both have some things to tell you that you’ll find it worth while to hear.

  “I’ve asked them to come at two o’clock, and as I thought the Inspector mightn’t like to be seen lunching publicly with the solicitor on the other side, I’ve ordered a little meal to be brought in here.”

  Neither of the gentlemen concerned making any objection to this hospitable arrangement, they lunched together accordingly, Sir Reginald leading the conversation skilfully backward to a time when they had been allied in the pursuit of a common foe, until Mr. Banks and Miss Weston were shown into the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It is a commonplace of the fiction of crime that the brilliant amateur will discover elusive murderers whose identity will be hidden from the slower-witted officers of the law. But in this inferiority of truthful narrative it may appear, at this stage at least, that the official mind of Inspector Combridge, and the civilian one of the Head of the Texall Enquiry Agency, were of a close equality, whether of dullness or perspicuity; for it appeared, when they met in Sir Reginald’s office, with no excess of cordiality on either side, that they had come to the same decision as to the identity of the wanted man.

  In arriving at this conclusion it was already evident that Mr. Banks had had the benefit of the knowledge of some circumstances of the crime of which the Inspector had not been equally well informed, but if we regard the matter with an entire impartiality we must observe also that Mr. Banks had not had the benefit of hearing Sir Lionel Tipshift’s opinion that the crime had been the work of a left-handed man.

  It was after Miss Weston had completed a narrative which may be conveniently deferred, as it was given with greater precision in the witness-box on a later day, that Mr. Banks said, “Well, I don’t know what you think, Inspector, but I should say that you won’t have to look farther than the top floor of number seven to find the man that you want.”

  “Meaning Entwistle?”

  “Meaning Long Pete, of course. That’s what he’s mostly called in his own crowd.”

  The Inspector was aware of the name usually applied to Peter Entwistle in the criminal circles that were supposed to make use of his skill. But he dissented from the enquiry agent’s description.

  “His own crowd?” he said. “You can’t say there’s any to which he really belongs. That’s been what’s kept him clear of our hands for the last ten years, and he making a fortune the while, at a safe guess. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t mix with any of the gangs among whom we may have one or two who know how to give us the information we want at the right time; and so he’s kept out of our hands for more years than one of his kind probably ever did since we’ve been an organized force.”

  “The gentleman,” Sir Reginald interrupted, “seems to be an interesting character. Do you mind telling me what his occupation is supposed to be, and why you conclude that he’s the most likely man to have murdered a bank inspector four doors away?”

  Inspector Combridge answered: “It’s a matter of deduction, of course. I’m not sure that we’ve got evidence enough even to justify an arrest. But that’s been the difficulty with Mr. Entwistle since I heard of him first in connection with the Bradwell forgeries, nearly ten years ago.

  “He’s a handwriting expert, and an artist in more ways than one. He taught engraving for two years at a Municipal Technical School in North London, and since he gave that up he’s been doing landscape painting—actually sold one or two pictures, I believe, for moderate amounts.

  “But his main occupation, if he isn’t a greatly misjudged man, is that of forging cheques and other documents.

  “He does just that, and no more. He won’t mix himself up in procuring specimen signatures, or passing the documents, or—in fact, in anything but the actual use of his pen; and it’s said that he only asks a ten per cent commission on the face value of the cheques he forges, but he insists on that, cash down at the time, and won’t listen to other terms.

  “It follows that he only deals with those gangs that are well-established and well-financed, and you can see that if he does nothing to give himself away, he isn’t easy to catch.

  “We’ve laid traps for him more than once, but he’s been too wary to walk in; and we’ve tried, without any success, to get someone to give him away.

  “The curious thing about him is that he’s ambidextrous. He’s called left-handed, but that’s not exactly correct. He can imitate some signatures with his right hand, and some with his left; and, with one or other, he’ll sign your name so that you’ll swear it’s genuine yourself, though you can’t remember writing it.

  “He’s never made any secret of that capacity—boasts of it, in fact—and of course it’s no crime to be expert with a pen; and being so open about it is in his favour rather than not. But we’ve known what he’s done more than once, and only been just short of the legal proof which would have justified an arrest.”

  “You mean,” Sir Reginald replied, “the forging of cheques, such as those which have been causing such losses to us?”

  “Yes. It’s never been less than an even guess that they were his work, and it’s ten to one now.”

  “But how far does that connect him with Rabone’s death?”

  “It’s only inference, as I’ve said. But here’s a man leaving Rabone’s window immediately after he’s killed, and Miss Weston follows this man—though she can’t say who he was—to the window of the house where Entwistle lives. And there’s a man named Bigland on the floor below him, who was wide awake enough to hear her feet going down the stairs, when she escaped by the same way, but didn’t hear anyone who would have had a much heavier tread.

  “And there’s the fact that Rabone had visitors before who came to him over the roof, and from where else would they be? We can’t suppose that it was a general habit in that street to make midnight calls on Mr. Rabone over the slates.

  “When you add to that the conspiracy that Rabone was either engaged in himself or on the point of discovering—you can read this letter either way, but it’s got to be one of the two—and the occupation
by which we’ve no doubt that Entwistle lives, and you’ve got the kind of case with which we usually have to begin. We know the fact well enough, and we’ve just got to settle down on it till we’ve built up the formal proof that the law requires.

  “I don’t say that we’ve got it yet, by a long way, especially as there’s no legal evidence of motive of a kind that we should be allowed to mention in court; but there’s one point that helps a little, and that is that Sir Lionel’s almost sure that it was the work of a left-handed man, who attacked Rabone from behind.”

  “Well,” Mr. Banks commented on this somewhat lengthy statement of the official attitude, “if that isn’t enough to justify you in laying him by the heels, I must say you’re not easy to please.”

  “Perhaps I’m not. But it seems that we’ve got to own up to one mistake already, and that’s more than enough. We can’t risk an acquittal for lack of evidence, on the top of that, or perhaps even a discharge from the Magistrates’ Court.”

  “I thought,” Sir Reginald interposed again, “that it was a theory at the Yard that criminals always keep to their own type of offence. Is Mr. Entwistle supposed to be equally addicted to violent murder and forging cheques? The combination’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” the Inspector admitted frankly, “so we do; and so, no doubt, it is. And if this were a crime committed under rather different circumstances, I should say it would let Entwistle out. If it were a case of violent homicide in the course of a burglary, for instance, we shouldn’t give him a thought.

  “But you’ve got to consider the position of a very cautious and successful criminal who’s avoided all contact with the law, as very few criminals do, and who (we may suppose) suddenly finds himself in desperate peril because Rabone’s going to squeal, and he takes the one course that remains. It’s a crime that grows naturally, so to speak, from what he has done before, however different its kind.

  “He must be an exceptionally wily and cool-blooded character, or he wouldn’t have walked free as long as he has.”