by Vernon Loder
‘It couldn’t have been another woman, I suppose?’ she asked.
‘Carried them down and put them in the window? But what do you think? If it was Webley who did it, as I think, what motive could he have?’
Mrs Hoe thought silently for a few minutes. ‘Unless he was afraid he had been seen by Effie. She was in the flat, I suppose?’
He bit his lip. ‘Yes. We can be sure of that. Curse Mander! He would get anything he coveted by hook or crook.’
‘Does that idea help?’
He nodded. ‘It seems simple, but I never thought of that. You mean that an eye-witness would have to be made away with?’
She looked at him narrowly. ‘That is what I think. It’s happened a good many times before. I suppose people think they may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’
He made a gesture of distaste. ‘Don’t talk about it.’
She looked sympathetic again. ‘I was deceived about Effie,’ she observed. ‘Really, I never thought her capable of it. It makes one wonder why she accepted you.’
Kephim frowned. ‘That is in my mind all the time. Was it rank cruelty or what? Now I remember, she asked me not to tell Mander at once. She said she would tell him later. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time.’
Mrs Hoe pursed her lips. ‘I can’t explain it.’
‘Look at the Stores—still shut up,’ he said suddenly. ‘There is some trouble. The auditor and Mr Hay were down. There’s a rumour that Mander had made a tremendous bloomer and intended to bolt.’
Mrs Hoe started. ‘That’s funny. I remember now—I don’t suppose it has anything to do with it—’
‘What has?’
‘A little while ago she asked me if I knew anything about South America,’ she said softly. ‘I thought it was just curiosity.’
‘He was going there on a business trip,’ said Kephim. ‘South America! It’s the place they do bolt to.’
‘I couldn’t believe that,’ said Mrs Hoe.
‘That’s it,’ he said, rather shrilly. ‘I had got her to half promise to marry me a year ago. She hadn’t met Mander then. Naturally I was keen and eager. I wanted her to fix it up. I suppose she just did it to keep me quiet at last.’
‘You really think she would have gone with him to South America?’
He looked convinced. ‘What can I think? But if anything was wrong, and he was going out there, I do believe it. I expect they were both laughing in their sleeves at me.’
He scowled into vacancy, and then mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Mrs Hoe spoke soothingly.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much. It can’t affect you. After all, you were in Regent’s Park that night. It’s a pity you can’t get a witness, of course, but in any case, how could you have got in? I am thinking now of what the police would say to themselves.’
He nodded. ‘I suppose one could have got in, but I didn’t.’
‘How?’
He reflected. ‘Mander must have had the flat all to himself. If anyone rang, eh? He would have to ignore it, or come down. Say it was an important telegram. And there are no people living in the buildings at either side of the back lane where we load.’
‘But he wouldn’t let anyone in who was dangerous,’ she said, her eyes fixed curiously on his face.
‘Well, what could he say if it had been me?’ Kephim asked. ‘I’m not supposed to be dangerous. I’m not dangerous, if it comes to that. Or, if it was a dangerous man, he might threaten.’
She nodded. ‘What are you going to say if you are questioned at an inquiry?’
‘I can only tell them what I did. It wasn’t my fault that I saw no one.’
She leaned closer. ‘It was lucky that Mr Mander never invited you to the flat. I mean if you had been known to go there—’
‘I’ve never been in it until I went in with that inspector.’
‘I thought you knew all about it?’
‘I did in a way,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Cane told me, and I had heard something about it when the place was building. ‘It is all second-hand my information, I can assure you.’
Mrs Hoe looked relieved. ‘I hope you will come and see me whenever you feel hipped,’ she said.
‘If I stay in town, I shall be glad to,’ he replied, ‘but no one knows what will turn up next. If there is anything wrong, they may make a change. I suppose Mander’s death breaks contracts. Mine was with him, not with a backer, and, as you know, there was no company.’
‘What would you do in that case?’
‘I might go abroad,’ he said. ‘I had an offer to go to Hildred’s in Buenos Ayres before I got the offer from Mander.’
‘South America too?’ murmured Mrs Hoe.
He looked at her uneasily. ‘Don’t say anything about that. I see what you mean. But, hang it all, I am not going to bolt. When I go, everyone will know about it.’
‘Of course it’s quite different,’ she agreed, as he got up, ‘but don’t forget your promise.’
‘You have helped me a lot,’ he said, smiling again as he shook hands. ‘I must remember what you said about a possible eye-witness. Ought I to put it to Devenish too that I never suspected what was going on? You have no cause for jealousy if you don’t know.’
She pressed his hand warmly. ‘Of course you should. But it is absurd—to think that they would suspect you, in any case.’
Kephim nodded. She seemed to have cheered him up. ‘That’s what I think. Well, au revoir.’
Mrs Hoe showed him out, then came back to sit down. She looked a little puzzled, and a little worried at first. Then her face cleared, and she smiled.
CHAPTER XII
MRS PEDEN-HYTHE arrived at the Stores on the afternoon of the day Melis and Devenish had their first conference. The auditor had come and gone again, but Mr Hay was there, and he vouched for the lady to the policeman on the door, and led her into Mr Mander’s private room.
‘Another conference, Devenish,’ said Melis, who had again been helping Devenish attack the problem of the roof. ‘I really should be back to deal with the work which is my job, but this is too attractive.’
‘What do you think she wants here, sir?’ the inspector asked as they took a lift down.
Melis laughed and shrugged. ‘She may be anxious about her precious son, or, as you hinted lately, about her money. We’ll tell her, I think, the tip we got from the passport office today.’
With Mr Hay, a dry anxious little man, at the head of the table, and Mr Melis at the other, Devenish modestly faced the wealthy woman across Mander’s expensive piece of furniture. Melis languished a little, as was his habit. Devenish waited for a lead. Mr Hay, after a glance at all the faces, gave a dry cough.
‘I am afraid we have established the fact that Mr Mander was—ahem—speculating outrageously,’ he said. ‘There is quite a considerable sum that we cannot account for.’
Melis woke up. ‘We hear today that Mr Mander recently procured two passports. The first was quite in order. I mean it was said openly—announced that he was going on a business trip to South America.’
‘He told me so,’ said Mrs Peden-Hythe. ‘He made it rather clear that there was a profitable opening there for another Store.’
‘Too clear,’ said Melis, leaning forward, ‘but, as I say, that was all right. The second passport was made out in the name of Miss Linkton, his secretary—’
‘But Mr Schofield—’ she began.
‘Absolutely,’ said Melis. ‘Mr Schofield is his secretary, and there is no Miss Linkton employed here.’
‘But surely he wouldn’t have dared do that?’ cried Mrs Peden-Hythe.
‘I don’t know that there was much daring required—only a certain amount of expedition. Our passport office, though from the passport formulæ one would imagine it almost fatherly, is not much interested in us as travellers. I cannot believe them aware, for example, that Miss Tumour, a buyer here, might go as Miss Linkton—a secretary.’
Mrs Peden-Hythe reddened. ‘Then it was that woman?’
Melis nodded. ‘A really satisfactory passport photograph for once. One could have recognised her from it. There does not seem much doubt that Mr Mander had arranged to vanish—and not unconsoled.’
Mr Hay nodded. ‘Fortunately for us, I think we may be able to trace and recover most of the money. I hope so indeed. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good,’ he added, with his best bromidic manner.
For the last minute Mrs Peden-Hythe had been looking at Devenish. ‘The inspector here,’ she said with slight acerbity, ‘has been worrying my son, Jameson.’
‘As little as possible, I am sure,’ remarked Melis blandly. ‘Devenish is one of my most respected aides, I assure you.’
‘But why at all?’
Melis smiled. ‘We put everything in our show down to “information received”. We hear that Mr Peden-Hythe has a strong dislike for the dead man. That’s nothing out of the way, of course. A dozen people may have hated him. But having set on foot a modest inquiry, Mr Jameson Peden-Hythe appears to have forgotten where he went last Sunday night. I hope you don’t think that we attach too great a significance to the fact?’
She looked at Devenish. ‘You saw him at his club, he tells me. I think he gave you a reason.’
‘Yes, madam,’ said Devenish.
‘I should like to know myself where he went, but the idea that it could have any connection with Mr Mander’s death is too preposterous,’ she cried.
Tidings had come into the place that day, and Melis gently unfolded a part of them, while the inspector remained silent.
‘We have an idea that Mr Jameson Peden-Hythe was in the laneway at the back of this place on Sunday night,’ he said. ‘That is of no importance in itself. But—’ he felt in his waistcoat pocket and produced a silver match-box—‘the initials are “J.P-H”.’
She took the box, her lips tightening. ‘I don’t recognise this. Where did you say it was found?’
‘In the laneway, where they load the vans.’
‘And from which there is a stairway to Mr Mander’s flat,’ added the inspector.
She stared at him angrily. ‘Even if this is my son’s, it may be that he called, or thought of calling, to see Mr Mander.’
‘May merely have thought of calling,’ murmured Melis. ‘That is my impression, but you see where this find leads us. Routine and general inquiries with us are like eggs-and-bacon at breakfast. We hardly take notice of them, as long as they remain routine. But whenever we come to the particular, much as we regret it, we have to take some action.’
She had courage, and did not wince. ‘I am sure it can be explained.’
‘I am sure it can. But you see our difficulty. Mr Jameson Peden-Hythe cannot remember where he went. I rather hope that you—knowing him so well, shall we say?—might help.’
Mrs Peden-Hythe got up. ‘I shall see him at once. Will you come with me, Mr Hay? I think it could be put more strongly to him by you.’
‘Certainly, if you wish it,’ said the lawyer, rising.
Mrs Peden-Hythe returned the box to Melis, who pocketed it. She was pale now, but she put the best face she could on the situation and gave nothing away.
‘Plucky woman!’ said Melis when she had gone.
Devenish assented. ‘She may get more out of Jameson than I could. It shows you how much he hated Mander, if she gets the wind up like that.’
‘I wanted to see if she would,’ said Melis, preparing to go. ‘She had no reason to drag him in, but she did. Do you think, Devenish, that he really went up to the flat that night?’
‘I couldn’t say. He may have done,’ replied the inspector.
When the assistant-commissioner had gone, he wandered down to the department where the sporting arms were kept. One thing had struck him from the very beginning: the fact that the Mauser pistol found below was only loaded with one shell, the one which had been fired. It suggested a man who was a crack shot, and very sure of his shooting, but even that could not be taken as proven.
Sergeant Davis joined him there presently, and found him hunting assiduously among boxes of sporting ammunition and taking the greatest care to replace everything exactly as he found it. Beneath a heap of other boxes and cardboard containers, he presently came upon a small flat case.
‘This looks like it, Davis,’ he said cheerfully as he withdrew the object. ‘You can see there was not much sale for Mauser ammunition—dust of ages on it, what?’
‘There’s a box of cartridges under it has been broken,’ said the sergeant.
‘Oh, good! So it has. These are twelve-bore cartridges loaded with No. 6. They have sold a loose two dozen or so.’
‘Twelve-bore wouldn’t fit the pistol, sir.’
‘No. And Mr Mander wasn’t killed with a charge of small shot. You’ve made a find all the same, sergeant. If cartridges were sold out of the box below, how did they get out the box without knocking the dust off this pistol ammunition?’
Davis looked pleased. ‘Never thought of that, sir. But surely that case is as sold by the manufacturers—unbroken?’
Devenish had been weighing the box on his palm, now he lifted it above his head, and pointed.
‘Just room for one shell to slip out,’ he said. ‘It would be put down at the next stock-taking as damaged in transit, I expect. But that little hole was made by someone who knew the way the shells would lie in the box.’
‘Then he must have put dust on the box,’ said the sergeant admiringly. ‘He seems to have thought of everything.’
‘Except the fact that Webley wouldn’t know his way about down here. It may be useful to fake one false clue, but it is overdoing it to fake two that don’t agree. Pack this up, and have it sent for examination by our people.’
There was packing paper and string in plenty at their disposal, and while Davis carefully packed the find, Devenish put a question.
‘Have you any news of Kephim?’
‘Well, sir, he has gone to Mrs Hoe’s flat again. I wonder if that woman is in love with him, sir?’
Devenish thought it over. ‘Maybe. Bit catty what she said about her dead friend when I saw her. Still, I can’t see her hand in this yet. Anything about the watchman?’
Davis tied the last knot. ‘He’s an old regular. He was apprenticed as a youth to a blacksmith, joined the Royal Engineers, and was in Signals when the war broke out. He was wounded in 1915, came home, went out later the same year, and had a good army record. There is only one thing about him that seems important—the nature of the wound he had. He was hit in the head by a bit of a bomb, and suffered from insomnia. From what I can gather he wouldn’t have stayed in hospital as long as he did only for that.’
Devenish nodded. ‘I see. It would be useful to get the opinion of his civilian doctor. Look that up, please. I can’t believe that someone came and went on the Sunday night without his hearing a sound. Unless the after-effects of that wound of his make him suffer from drowsiness. The cutting of the microphone connection, if he did it, would be an attempt to give him a chance for a snooze between rounds.’
‘Nice sort of watchman if he is like that, sir.’
‘Quite. But if you and I could see every watchman every night I bet we should discover a fair percentage taking forty winks! I only see one objection to that. The murderer would not have taken the risk of bringing the bodies down, if he had not known of the watchman’s weakness.’
‘I expect Mann is on the “panel”, and I’ll make inquiries,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Now what are we going to do about that sand upstairs?’
Devenish pondered. ‘I think tomorrow we’ll get Kephim and Cane and Webley here, and take them on the roof. You and the other fellows can uncover, but make it look as if you were just starting to work. A jog to the nerves sometimes helps to disclose things.’
Davis assented eagerly. ‘That’s a good idea, sir. Well, I’ll take this to the Yard, and then get on with the inquiry about the watchman.’
‘Do—but wait a moment. Any reports about Mr Peden-Hythe?’<
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‘Nothing important. He goes about town as usual, and paid one call. That was to Sir William Lefort’s. But he didn’t stay there a minute. He came out looking black.’
‘What is there at Sir William’s to produce this blackness?’ said the inspector, then: ‘All right, Davis. Run along!’
But Devenish did not leave the department when his sergeant went. He looked thoughtfully at the broken box of sporting cartridges, and wondered.
‘I don’t know much about buying and selling,’ he said to himself, ‘but it seems to me odd that they should break a box of a hundred cartridges, sell some, and then replace the box under some stock that is not often called for.
He carefully removed the box, and detached the lid; starting slightly when he saw that the ammunition lay higgledy-piggledy, not arranged as the manufacturer’s packers would have placed it. Taking it to a counter, he removed the cartridges and came suddenly on three sparking-plugs.
‘The beggar must have been born in gloves,’ he said, handling his find carefully. ‘Still, he may have made a slip somewhere.’
He fished out a pocket insufflator, and dusted the surfaces of the plugs. Then he went in search of a man who was still painstakingly photographing in the building, and brought him in to take shots.
‘N.G. I’m afraid,’ he said, when the man had done, ‘but develop those as quickly as you can, and we’ll make sure.’
He had done as much as he could in that department, and was going to the lift giving access to the passage outside Mander’s flat, when a policeman came up to say that a Mr Peden-Hythe wanted to see him.’
‘Bring him here, please,’ said Devenish, rather pleased with himself. ‘I expected him to call today.’
Jameson Peden-Hythe looked much more alive than when Devenish had last seen him. The expression on his face was not one of alarm, but a mixture of resentment and sulky suspicion.
‘Someone told me you’d got a match-box of mine,’ he said without ceremony, when the policeman had brought him up, and retired again.
‘At any rate a box with your initials, sir.’
‘Found behind this bally show, eh?’
‘Exactly, sir.’