Then there was the fact that Peter was a left-handed man. Surely a most unlikely coincidence that he and the murderer who made midnight use of his rooms should both have this somewhat unusual peculiarity!
Finally, there was the fact that he had gone into hiding when he became suspicious that his movements were under the observation of the police. Was that the act of an innocent man, who, as he had sworn, had no idea that he could be held to have had any connection with the crime? And what, except a knowledge of his own guilt, could have been the force which had drawn him to that court when another man had stood in the dock, charged with the same offence?
It was a rearguard action, in which he was not discredited. But it was common realization among the legal gentlemen who surrounded him that his cause was lost.
Mr. Garrison, silently reviewing the evidence of the police witnesses, who had been so much less numerous than their names (he had thought of a good joke on that, which he had restrained with difficulty, but he made it a rule—in which he showed better manners than some High Court judges—that he would never jest when a prisoner stood before him on the capital charge), observed that there was only that of Miss Weston, supported in one detail by John Bigland, which threw direct suspicion upon the accused, and she was unable to identify the man she had followed.
As it stood, it was a case of suspicion rather than proof, and with the alibi in the other scale—! He could not commit a prisoner for trial with the certainty in his own mind that no jury would convict. He said: “I have decided that the evidence is not sufficient to justify a committal. The prisoner will be discharged.”
He saw the three heads of Mr. Huddleston, K.C., Mr. Augustus Pippin, and Mr. Richard Middleton, Junior, very closely together. He overheard words from which he judged correctly that they were debating whether they should have the temerity to ask for costs against the police. He saved them the trouble of further words by saying: “I should add that it was a case in which I consider the police were fully justified in the arrest they made. I am satisfied that Peter Entwistle could assist the police, if he were of a mind to do so, and that the position in which he found himself was the result of his own conduct, which was not such as should be expected from a good citizen, or an entirely innocent man.”
Inspector Combridge must take what comfort he could from this magisterial exculpation. It did not alter the fact that he had put two men successively into the dock, and that the murderer was still unfound.
Could it be possible that Miss Weston’s tale, if it were not entirely concocted, yet withheld some essential facts, perhaps out of sympathy with the murderer, even if she had not shared or connived in the crime?
As he sat in court during that last hour in which he had seen beyond doubt how the case would end, he had gone minutely over Francis Hammerton’s evidence, to observe, from that angle, how far it corroborated her own, and at what point he must regard her account of the night’s events as being unsupported by any independent testimony.
Might she not have committed the crime herself, urged by the hatred which she had no care to conceal, and seeing Rabone to be contemptuous of being caught in the meshes of the criminal law, as she had hoped that, by her instrumentality, he was destined to be?
Her account of the offer he had made to her that evening, the long discussion that followed, her pretence of agreement, the quarrel on the upper floor—all of them might be no more than inventions of her own mind. Only one man could have denied her tale, and he was dead, by whatever hand.
It might be accepted as facts that, at some time before the murder, she had lain down on her bed, but had not taken off her clothes, and that she had left her room by the window within a few minutes of Rabone’s death.
But why should he not have died by her own hand, and she fled, to gain the street by means of the other house, and then appear next day with this plausible, invented tale?
Might she not have known that Entwistle would be away, and that she could enter No. 11, and descend into the street, with little fear that anyone would obstruct her way?
Bigland’s testimony, so far as it went, was consistent with such an interpretation of the crime. A woman’s feet—and no more.
What was there against it?
In the first place, the murder appeared lo be the work of a tall, left-handed man. (How exactly Entwistle fitted that part! How exasperating that alibi was!) In the second, the windows in both rooms had been open.
That was a smaller point, but it supported the first, and inclined him to think that the crime was the work of another hand, though she might have stood by, or assisted the murderer to escape unseen.
He decided that she knew more than she had disclosed, and that a talk with Mr. Banks would be useful. And, better still, there was Sir Reginald Crowe. Perhaps their combined influences might persuade her to a fuller frankness.
As he left the court with these thoughts in his mind, alternating with visions of himself reduced, for incompetence, to the ignominy of a uniformed beat, he observed Francis Hammerton in the corridor. Francis, who had been waiting for him, came up to ask: “I wonder whether you would do me a favour for a few hours?”
“Hadn’t you got something to tell me when I saw you this morning?”
“No. I said I hoped to have something tomorrow.”
“About Rabone, or your own case?”
“I don’t know yet. It may be nothing. It’s just a chance. I want to ask you to promise me that I shan’t be followed about tonight.”
“You mean you’ve heard from Miss Garten?”
“I didn’t say so. I only say I don’t want to be followed about tonight, as I know I am; and if you’ll do that for me, I’ll find out anything I can about the Rabone murder.”
Inspector Combridge may be excused some hesitation in his reply.
“I don’t know,” he said, “whether you’ve thought that you may be safer wherever you’re meaning to go—I’m not asking you where it is—if one of our men has you in sight?”
“I’ll risk that. I’ve got so much at stake that.”
“Yes. I suppose you have. Well, it’s a deal. I’ll trust you not to let Sir Reginald down. You know you mean two thousand to him.”
“You’ll see me at Scotland Yard at 10:30 tomorrow morning, if I’m alive.”
“Very well. I’ll call Beddoes off.”
He watched Francis as he disappeared rapidly up Alderman Street. “I wonder,” he asked himself, “whether I’m being a bigger fool than before?” Suppose they had all been in it together? He imagined a little supper of celebration. Peter Entwistle in the chair, with Mary Weston and Francis on either hand, and perhaps the two Timmins brothers farther away, and the tearful Jean at the foot of the table. Obviously Francis would not wish the police to observe him on such an occasion!
“I wonder,” he thought again, “whether it’s just ordinary imbecility that’s got me, or premature senile decay?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When Francis Hammerton left Inspector Combridge, he had three hours to waste before the time of his appointment in Deal Street, but he was too restless to return to his own room, or he would have got the letter which afterwards fell into the Inspector’s hands, and many things might have happened differently.
He spent an hour in a tea-shop, and then wandered up and down Piccadilly in a state of increasing anxiety as to what, if anything, would be the result of his interview with Augusta Garten.
He remembered that her promise had not been unconditional, a point which had not previously impressed his mind as much as, perhaps, it should. But, as the hour approached, the doubt grew, and patience became proportionately difficult.
Yet he had sufficient sense not to attempt to keep the appointment before the time she had fixed, and to see that, as she had made so strict a condition of secrecy, there would be no wisdom in walking up and down outside the restaurant for the hour before he was due to enter. He kept away from the immediate neighbourhood of Deal Street until a few
minutes to seven, and then walked quickly to it, and through the ground-floor restaurant without haste, but as one who knows where he is going, and in a manner least likely to draw the attention of others upon himself.
As he passed through he observed, with his eyes rather than his mind, two men who occupied a seat by the door, whose faces were vaguely familiar, but he was too preoccupied by the doubt of whether he might be going up to find no more than an empty room to give attention to them.
What had she said? “I may be there, or I mayn’t. It depends.” Those, if his memory did not fail, were her exact words. There was no promise in them.
But by now he was up the narrow twisting stairs, and saw that it was at least sure that he was not approaching an unoccupied room, for a waiter was in the act of leaving the second door on the right, with an empty tray in his hand.
He went up to the door, knocked, and entered.
Augusta Garten was on a couch against the farther wall, her blonde head lying back, a half-smoked cigarette between carmined lips, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling in frowning thought.
Her glance turned lazily toward him, and then changed to a look of terror.
“Why,” she said in a tone of equal anger and fear, “did you come, when I told you not? You must go at once! I’m in danger enough through you, without this.”
But Francis was in no mood to retreat from an angry word, even had he understood her reproach.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You told me to come.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Yes. You know I did. That was why I rang you up this morning.”
“Don’t waste time! I mean the second one. But don’t stay talking now. You must go.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a very dangerous place.” He looked round the quiet, comfortable room, in the centre of which a table was laid for three, with a smile which declined to respond to the note of panic in her voice.
“Don’t be an utter fool!” she said sharply. “It isn’t only danger for you. I’ve been suspected ever since you advertised to half London that you were looking everywhere for me.” Her words came rapidly, as though talking against time, as she added: “Tell Inspector Combridge to arrest me tonight at 14 Linfield Street. When I’m safe, I’ll tell him all that he wants to know.
“You’ve seen me in the street and followed me here, and I’ve told you to clear out. I don’t want to see you again as long as I live.”
As she spoke these last words, there was a sound of voices in the corridor, as a waiter directed someone to the room he required. Her voice sank, as she added hurriedly: “You’ve done it now! Don’t believe anything I say, or anyone else. And don’t let yourself be persuaded to stay....” She raised her voice to add: “I’ve told you I don’t want to see you again as long as I live, and you might have the decency to leave a room where no one asked you to come.”
At the same moment, the door opened, and Mr. Jesse Banks entered the room.
Francis looked at him in a natural surprise, but had sufficient presence of mind not to show that he knew him for whom he was. He had, in fact, only seen him casually in court, when he had been pointed out to him as Miss Weston’s employer. Now he wondered, in one instant of doubt, whether Augusta Garten could know him, or in what name or guise he might have penetrated into the counsels of the gang to whom she belonged.
He did not think it singular that he had not heard before that the enquiry agent was so closely upon their track, for it was only from Mr. Jellipot that he received any real confidence. Inspector Combridge might doubt whether he were suffering from imbecility or senile decay, but he would have diagnosed his condition as beyond question or remedy had he become confidential with the convict whose innocence was still one of the uncertain problems that vexed his mind.
Actually, if he would not have been as surprised as Francis Hammerton to see Mr. Banks enter that room, it was only because he was aware of the jealousy which divides the official from the private investigator. Mr. Banks was instructed by the London & Northern Bank. It was to them that his loyalty was due, and to whom his first report should be made. He would be very unlikely to inform Inspector Combridge of the details of what he did, or of the line of enquiry on which he was engaged until its result should appear.
Mr. Banks might not suppose himself to be known to Francis, but he showed at once that Francis was known to him.
“I was not aware,” he said smoothly, “that you would have been a visitor here. Mr. Vaughan, is it not?”
“Mr. Vaughan,” Augusta replied, “has come uninvited into my private room, and I have just told him to clear out.”
“Oh,” Mr. Banks replied, “but I don’t see why you should take that line. Mr. Vaughan’s in an awkward mess. We ought to give him any help that we can. Now he’s here, you might ask him to stay.”
The words were no more than a request, but the tone was that of one who assumed that his wishes would be obeyed.
“Of course,” Augusta replied, “he can stay if you wish.”
“I’ll ring for another place to be laid.”
Francis hesitated. She had warned him that it would be dangerous for him to remain: that he was to disregard anything that anyone, including herself, might say. She had told him to ask Inspector Combridge to find some pretext for her arrest, so that, he must presume, she could betray those who had ceased to trust her, within the safety of prison walls. She was to be found that night at 14 Pinfold Street? No, it was not that. Linford Street? That seemed nearer, but he did not think it was right. There are so many streets in London! It would be useless to give the Inspector an uncertain name.... Probably in a few minutes it would come back to his mind.
In the meantime, he would not go. Everything might depend upon getting that name correctly. It was maddening to think that it could so quickly have left his mind! But it had all been so hurriedly said.... And the risk might be much less than Miss Garten feared, not knowing Mr. Banks for the friend of order and law.... And Mr. Banks had made it clear that he wished him to stay. He might even be relying upon him for some form of support.... He would remain, at the least, until he had recollected that name. Linford—Linton—it had been something like that. Or perhaps he would have an opportunity of asking Augusta again.
These were the thoughts of the fifteen seconds while Augusta rose lazily from the couch, and moved to the bell, and his reply paused. Then he said:
“I don’t want to intrude, but if you’re sure that I shan’t be in the way?”
If Miss Garten wished him to go she gave no sign. She said: “Of course, we can’t let you go at this hour without some dinner. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but I’m frightened of everything since you and Tony got caught.... Colonel Driver ought to be here any minute now. You’ve met him before,” And as she spoke the last member of the little party, a rather heavily-built, middle-aged man, of almost too pronounced a military aspect, entered the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The meal commenced quietly. Under an outward suavity, it might be that each of the four who sat round the small square table was watchful, suspicious, anxious for others to show their hands, as they were careful to hide their own.
Colonel Driver looked alternately at Francis and Mr. Banks, as though seeking the answer to a riddle that he was too cautious to ask. Mr. Banks may have intended to give that answer when he said: “I expect Mr. Vaughan feels a bit sore over the way things went. But he’s done the right thing in looking us up.” He spoke directly to Francis as he concluded: “You might tell us how matters stand, and we’ll put our heads together to see what we can do.”
Augusta added: “We’ve heard you got bail, and that there’s an appeal coming on, but we’ve no idea how you managed that, or how you got mixed up in the Rabone murder. You must have a lot to tell us, and I’m just dying to hear.”
Francis was not slow to take a lead which came from two whom he had reason to think his friends, even though they might each suppose
themselves to be the only one there. He saw that, if he could obtain an admission that he had been Tony Welch’s dupe, with Mr. Banks for witness, would have the additional evidence upon which Mr. Jellipot had insisted as the only legal weapon that would be sufficient to set him free.
He replied by narrating his experiences from the moment when he had walked out of the detention room at the Central Criminal Court, and stating as frankly as though he had been talking to Augusta Garten alone, the errand on which he came. He was silent only concerning his promise to Inspector Combridge that he would seek also for information bearing on the Rabone murder, judging that he would be more likely to learn anything in that company if it were not suspected that he would pass it on to the police.
He did this with few interruptions, for Mr. Banks, having given his cue, had relapsed into his habitual silence, and only Colonel Driver asked an occasional question with the veneer of good-humoured geniality which hid, at least to casual or unpractised eyes, the hard lines of cruelty and sensuality into which his face would settle at unguarded times.
If, as Francis thought, Mr. Banks had deliberately led the conversation in such a way that he might become a witness to the admission that he had been an innocent dupe rather than an active participant in the conspiracy for which he had been convicted, the result must have been all that either of them desired.
Colonel Driver did not question the fact. He admitted that it was natural that Francis should feel a grievance when he had found himself in the dock on a criminal charge. But that had not been an anticipated result. The more probable termination of the incident would have been that he would have received a substantial sum of money as part of the profit of the coup in which he had taken a useful though unconscious part. After that, he might have been willing to engage in other adventures in a more deliberate manner.
The Colonel mentioned that Miss Garten had been an unconscious decoy in her first introduction to the methods of livelihood to which she was now accustomed.
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