Yes, he was in; if Monsieur would follow the staircase he would find the door on the left-hand side. It had a number three upon it.
W.T. went up. The staircase was at the far end of the room, and as he came to the top of it he heard a sound that had not been audible in the café. It was an extraordinary noise, a sort of high-pitched howling, very thin and peculiarly suggestive to the listener. W.T. recognized it at once. It was a man swearing and crying with rage while someone held him by the throat.
The old man sprinted down the passage and kicked open the door of room No. 3.
The whining stopped as he entered, and a deep gasping breathing took its place. The room was in confusion. The bed, which took up the greater part of the floor space, had collapsed, the head and foot rails meeting together, forming a tent under which was a tousled mass of bedclothes, feathers and blood.
‘Jerry,’ said W.T. sharply.
‘That you, Dad?’ The boy’s voice sounded cheerfully from the debris. ‘This little swine got at me with a razor, so we had a dust-up. I’ve got him by the neck, but I’ve lost so much blood I haven’t the strength to get out of this darned ironmongery. Give us a hand, will you?’
The detective came forward, and without exerting himself unduly, forced open the ironwork and extricated the two beneath.
Jerry was drenched in blood from a razor-slash that followed the line of his cheek-bone, but he was in good spirits and apparently very pleased with himself. Clarry Gale, on the other hand, was not so happy. He had had practically all the breath choked out of his body. As soon as he could breathe again he began to swear.
‘Shut up!’ said Jerry, turning on him.
W.T. looked at his son.
‘What’s the idea?’ he said.
Jerry, who was staunching his face as best he could with a towel and cold water, spoke eagerly.
‘I’ve got it, anyway,’ he said.
‘Got what?’
‘Why, the thing this little swine here has been trying to sell to Mrs Christensen – some old love-letter, I think. Norah sent you on here, I suppose?’
W.T. nodded, and Jerry went on blithely:
‘She came round to me,’ he said. ‘This little rat had been making her sister’s life a hell. I guessed it was blackmail, so I came here. He was out, so I waited for him. When he came along I charged him with it, and he got offensive and accused me of coming here to get some letter or other for you without paying for it. That put me on to the scent at once, of course. I got hold of the letter, or whatever it is, and the little swab suddenly let out at me with the razor, and we finished up as you found us.’
‘Oh,’ said W.T. dryly. ‘Where’s the letter?’
Jerry produced a crumpled paper from his inside pocket and handed it to W.T. As it passed him, Clarry Gale dashed forward, snarling with impotent fury. Jerry hauled him back by the collar without speaking.
The detective unfolded the sheet of notepaper, and Jerry returned to the dressing of his wound.
For several minutes there was silence in the room save for the mutterings of Mr Gale, and eventually Jerry turned round.
‘Well …’ he began, and added as he caught sight of the detective’s face, ‘Hello – what’s up?’
The old man was staring at the letter in his hand, his face flushed with astonishment.
‘Well, that don’t surprise you, do it?’ said Mr Gale from his corner, some of his indignation vanishing before his interest in the situation. ‘I’ve known that all along I have – that’s been my theory from the very fust.’
‘Here, what’s all this about?’ Jerry came forward, the towel still held up to his face. He crossed round behind the detective to read the letter over his shoulder; but the old man folded it hastily. Jerry stared at him.
‘What’s the idea?’ he demanded.
Clarry Gale laughed.
‘Go on, let ’im see it – ’e’s sweet on ’er, ain’t ’e? Do ’im good – teach ’im to keep ‘is fice out of other people’s business.’
Jerry glanced from Gale to his father, a sudden apprehension in his eyes.
‘What was in that letter?’ he said.
W.T. sighed and handed it back to him without a word.
Jerry read it through, and as he read his face changed.
Dear Mr Crowther [it ran.] Please leave me alone. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you, and I resent your attentions. I send back the shawl – naturally I can’t take it. Please let this be final. Your continued efforts to make love to me on every possible occasion annoy me to the point of madness. If you don’t leave me alone I shall do something really desperate – I warn you. You don’t realize that you haven’t a timid Victorian miss to deal with.
Nora Bayliss.
The date of the letter was September 2nd – three days before the murder.
‘My God!’ said Jerry weakly, and sat down on the one deal chair the room possessed.
Mr Gale began to laugh.
‘That’s wot you’ve bin fightin’ for, me lad,’ he said. ‘That’s slung you up proper, ain’t it? … Found out your precious ladylove ain’t all she might be – ‘He got no further. W.T. made a dive to stop Jerry, but he was too late. The boy leapt from his chair, and a single blow sent Mr Gale to the floor where he lay weeping and threatening. Jerry sat down again.
‘This is absurd, of course,’ he said, holding out the letter – ‘absurd as evidence, I mean. She must have written it in a temper, not realizing how it sounds.’
W.T. nodded.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course; but this must be looked into, Jerry. If Gale was using this letter to blackmail Mrs Christensen it raises a very interesting question. Come here, Gale.’
The ex-burglar rose to his feet, grumbling and muttering to himself.
‘Call this a noliday?’ he said bitterly, standing there in the ruins of his bright blue suit, his face more pallid than ever and his unattractive, wispy hair standing on end on his narrow head. ‘Call this a noliday? … Is this the way to treat a pore bloke wot’s come to the Souf of France for ’is ’ealth? A proper picnic I’ve ‘ad, ain’t I? Ain’t a man safe anywhere from the interference of the police?’
‘That all depends on the man’s habits,’ said W.T. pleasantly. ‘Now sit down – there’s a piece of the bed over there that looks fairly safe – I want to talk to you.’
‘I ain’t goin’ to say nothink,’ said Mr Gale, in a tone that was partly sulky and partly defiant. ‘You can’t force me. You ain’t got nothink agin’ me, I shall prosercute that young feller for assault.’
‘I shouldn’t do that, Gale, and if I were you I should talk.’ W.T. spoke quietly, but there was an underlying forcefulness in his tone that made the old lag glance up sharply.
‘Wot yer mean?’ he demanded suspiciously.
W.T. looked at him steadily.
‘I am out here investigating a murder case, as you know, Gale,’ he said, ‘but that does not mean that I am blind to all other crimes that I may run into in the course of my inquiries. The penalty for blackmail is a heavy one, you know.’
‘I don’t foller anythink you’re sayin’,’ said Mr Gale in the same semi-peevish tone.
W.T.’s eyes narrowed.
‘Gale,’ he said, ‘you’re going to talk – for your own sake as well as for anyone else’s. Now out with it. Tell all you know about that letter.’
‘I ain’t goin’ to … ’old ’ard, guv’nor. You ain’t got no right to question me like this. I’ve gorn straight for ten years, I ’ave. You ain’t got no right to force me to say nothink.’
‘That ten years’ honesty seems to have turned your head,’ said W.T., not unpleasantly. ‘It may be a miracle, but you shouldn’t let it dazzle you. Where did you get that letter?’
‘I found it.’
‘Where?’
‘Guv’nor, I ain’t–’
‘Where?’ There was something in W.T.’s tone that brooked no argument, and Mr Gale weakened before it.
; ‘In Crowther’s desk.’
‘After he was dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘You realized it might be valuable, and so you followed Mrs Christensen and Miss Bayliss out here to blackmail them?’
‘Not so fast, guv’nor – not so fast – no putting of words into my mouth, if you please,’ said the little man, some of his spirit returning.
W.T. shrugged.
‘You may as well be honest now, Gale – it’ll save a lot of time,’ he said meaningly. ‘You followed Mrs Christensen and Norah to Mentone simply because you thought there might be money in that letter. You may as well admit it.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Gale at last, ‘I thought she might like to ’ave it, you know – wouldn’t do to ’ave a letter like that lying about when the lawyers was clearin’ up, now, would it?’
W.T. smiled contemptuously.
‘And so you came all the way out here just to return that letter – that was nice of you, Gale.’
The little man shifted nervously.
‘I knew the lady wouldn’t see me out of pocket over it,’ he murmured.
‘Exactly,’ said W.T. ‘And you’ve called on her constantly these last two or three days to arrange about your expenses, I suppose?’
Clarry Gale nodded.
‘Well, yes,’ he said; ‘in a way, yes.’
‘And in a way, no,’ snapped W.T. ‘What were you doing with the letter here after you had seen her so often?’
‘Why, guv’nor’ – Mr Gale’s expression was injured – ‘you didn’t expect me to part with the letter until we’d come to satisfactory terms?’
W.T. snorted.
‘In other words, you were blackmailing her,’ he said. ‘That’s a ten-year sentence nowadays, Gale.’
‘Gawd! ’Ave a ’eart!’ The old lag began to whimper again. ‘I’ve been goin’ straight for ten years, I have, and – ’
‘If I hear you mention that ten years again, Gale, I shall begin to suspect it,’ said W.T. ‘How about Mrs Phail in the Feering Park Crescent case?’
‘Guv’nor!’
Clarry Gale’s face was never an attractive sight, but at this moment it was ghastly. Always pallid, his flesh had now taken on a greenish tinge, and his little red-rimmed eyes goggled horribly. W.T. laughed shortly.
‘We won’t go into that,’ he said. ‘It’s a long time ago, and the past may as well bury the past; but I don’t think we’ll stir up any trouble between us, do you, Gale?’
The man moved his dry lips with a curious clucking sound.
‘All frien’s ‘ere,’ he murmured huskily, all the sulkiness vanishing from his tone and subservience creeping into his manner.
‘Well,’ said W.T. sharply, ‘how much has Mrs Christensen paid you already?’
‘Three ’undred quid.’
‘Three hundred pounds. And she hasn’t had the letter. Good heavens, man, how did you do it?’ ejaculated the detective.
Gale hesitated, but he was still trembling from the shock of the moment before.
‘Well – you see,’ he began breathily, ‘she thought the girl done it.’
‘What?’
Gale’s little round eyes flickered and he shot a vindictive glance at Jerry.
‘So do I,’ he said. ‘She went into the ’ouse just before ’im, didn’t she? She said she was upstairs, but ’oo’s to prove it? ’Er sister saw that at once.’
‘When you pointed it out?’ said W.T. swiftly.
Gale nodded. ‘I may ’ave just mentioned it,’ he said. ‘Just to clinch an argument, like.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ cut in Jerry from the background. ‘Both Gale and Mrs Christensen must be potty.’
‘Love is blind,’ said Mr Gale, and ducked. W.T. pressed his son back into his chair.
‘It’s no good hitting him,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve got to let him talk. Do you mean to say,’ he went on slowly, returning to Gale, ‘that Mrs Christensen actually believes that Miss Norah Bayliss killed Crowther?’
Gale nodded.
‘Of course she does,’ he said. ‘That’s why she forked out so ’andsome – money for nothink, it was – easy as kissin’ your ’and.’
W.T. frowned. His theories were falling to pieces before his eyes.
‘That first interview,’ he said. ‘Was she surprised? Did it come as a shock to her?’
‘It knocked ’er all of a ’eap,’ said Mr Gale. ‘An’ when she saw the letter … Coo! I felt almos’ sorry for ’er … Of course, I worked it up proper before I showed the letter,’ he added with a certain pride. ’Let ’er get all worked up wonderin’ what I was drivin’ at, and then shoved a copy of it at ’er sudden – mentioned you was in the town and told ’er wot was a-comin’ to ’er sister. My word, she paid like a lamb after that. Money jus’ chucked at me whenever I went near ’er.’
W.T. passed his long fingers through his white hair.
‘Why,’ he said at last – ‘why did you go to Mrs Christensen and not to her sister? Surely Miss Bayliss would be the most likely to be interested in the letter?’
‘I’m not barmy!’ Mr Gale looked reproachfully at the detective. ‘Mrs Christensen ’ad the money – interest wasn’t no good to me without money. Besides, I didn’t know if the girl ’ad done it – I thought she ’ad, but I didn’t know. And she was the type to send me packin’ if she was innercent by charnst, so I banked on the other sister – a little weak thing she is – not overmuch in the top storey, neither. I said to ’er, I said; “don’t go discussin’ this with your sister,” I said; “don’t even mention it, or she may get nerves and go confessin’,” I said. So she promised she wouldn’t say nothink.’
W.T. looked at him steadily, a hint of wonderment in his eyes.
‘You are an old villain, aren’t you, Gale?’ he said at last. ‘So crooked a touch of genius flashes out sometimes by accident.’
Mr Gale said nothing. He was not certain whether the detective’s last remark was a reproach or a tribute, and was not anxious to go into it.
W.T. turned to Jerry.
‘You go back to the hotel and get cleaned up, my boy,’ he said. ‘Don’t let Norah see you if you can help it. I’ll follow you.’
Jerry rose to his feet. He was very pale from loss of blood, and the razor-slash was hurting him.
‘Right,’ he said, and added suddenly, ‘I say, Dad, you know that letter’s all darn rot, don’t you? I mean, you know there’s nothing to it?’
‘Of course I do.’ W.T. spoke reassuringly, and as the door closed behind the boy he murmured to himself. ‘It may be the truth – I don’t know.’ Then, the keen expression returning to his eyes, he looked again at Clarry Gale.
The little man was fidgeting nervously.
‘Wot jer want to say ter me now?’ he demanded. ‘W’y’ve you sent ’im away? You said let the parst bury the parst, you said – ’
W.T. nodded.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘and so it shall.’
‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, then – wot are we comin’ to?’ Mr Gale’s tone was still apprehensive.
W.T. hesitated.
‘A matter of curiosity,’ he said. ‘Did Crowther, alias Grant, see you – er – hit Mrs Phail?’
Gale nodded.
‘Yus,’ he said shortly. ‘A naxident, it was,’ he went on. ‘She was jest goin’ to screech, an’ I let out at ’er. A pure naxident – an’ ’e was watchin’ – ’eard the row and crept down unbeknownst – watching like a cat watches a manse.’ He paused and licked his dry lips. ‘An’ never a word did ’e say. Gawd! Wot I went through! Never a word did ’e say, but as I stepped out of chokey five years later there ’e was waitin’ for me, an’ I never ’ad a moment’s peace till the day ’e died.’
15 Where Were You?
W.T. walked back to his hotel, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes bent upon the pavement.
Half an hour ago he would have sworn regretfully that Mrs Christensen h
ad fired the shot, but now Gale’s revelation had made all the difference.
Even supposing that the story was an entire fabrication – which, to say the least of it, was not likely – Mrs Christensen herself had dropped hints that she was not thinking of herself, which although he had not understood at the time now came back to the detective’s mind very forcefully.
All things considered, therefore, the evidence against Mrs Christensen was practically cancelled out by this new evidence in her favour.
There remained – Norah.
Norah was, as Gale had said, not a weak type, but a highspirited young woman who might possibly have committed the crime had she first convinced herself that she was acting in a good cause. Ridding the world of a monster, or some other silly rubbish, as the old man put it gloomily.
There was the letter. W.T. looked at it again. It was certainly a dangerous little document in the present situation, and as he re-read it he saw anew how likely Gale’s story was – how easy it must have been to play upon the elder sister’s nerves when he had such a note to back him up.
W.T. sighed. Norah must be interviewed at once.
When he entered the hotel lounge he found that the girl had disappeared. He made inquiries about her, but no one seemed to have noticed her departure, and presently he went up to Jerry’s room to see how the boy was getting on. The first person he saw on opening the door was Norah, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
‘I sent for a doctor,’ she said. ‘He’s putting in some stitches, but it’s not so bad as it looks.’
A bearded French doctor in shirt-sleeves was bending over Jerry, who lay back in a chair by the window.
W.T. sat down meekly and waited. Norah and the doctor bustled about, and the detective, remembering his own youth, reflected that Jerry was probably enjoying the situation.
The irony of the whole case irritated him. It was all so simple, so natural, and yet so involved and unsatisfactory. This romance of Jerry’s with the girl was the last straw.
At last the doctor repacked his case, washed his hands, put on his coat, smiled, bowed, and departed. Norah cleared up the room and Jerry sat up and grinned as well as he could without hurting himself.
The White Cottage Mystery Page 11