by Vernon Loder
‘And suppose you really are; how am I to know that you will answer truthfully the next question I am going to ask? Perjury is a serious business, and you may later have to answer an oath.’
‘I’ll tell you the truth, sir, whatever it is,’ replied the other desperately.
‘Very well. Did you see Mr Peden-Hythe inside this store on last Sunday night—in any part of the store, or in the lifts?’
‘No, sir. I never did. I’ll swear to that. What would he be doing here?’
‘We are aware that he rang at the outer bell of Mr Mander’s flat that night. Think again! Did you see him or did you not?’
The watchman’s look was either startled or frightened. It was hard to tell which. ‘I did not, sir,’ he cried vehemently; ‘I swear I didn’t! Mr Peden-Hythe wouldn’t murder anyone. He’s a good man though he does take a glass too much. Why, I’d sooner be charged with murder myself.’
‘No one is charging him with murder,’ replied Devenish, seeing that the sottish Jameson must have some good qualities hidden under his affectation of raffish cynicism to have inspired such devotion in his batman, but reflecting too that a murderer may be an angel to those he likes. ‘That is your considered answer?’
‘It is, sir. I can’t say anything else.’
Devenish dismissed him, and walked out, and so home. By nine the next morning he was at the house of the doctor, on whose panel the watchman was, and putting some questions to the middle-aged medico.
‘Is it possible that the wound in his head could cause such symptoms as he described to me?’ he asked, after he had stated his case.
‘The insomnia, yes,’ replied the other, ‘but very few of my patients who suffer from that complaint complain that they are very drowsy at night.’
‘Still, if the man is night watchman—’
‘He has not been one very long,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘Habits once formed are very persistent, and the human being has for centuries been used to sleeping at night. Automatically, we weary as night comes on, partly because we have worked during the day, but partly, I contend, because nature and habit have made us sub-consciously regard night as the time for sleep.’
Devenish nodded. ‘I see your point.’
‘Then I need not labour it, inspector. The habit of a lifetime of sleeping by day and being awake at night might correct the bias, but if a man only became a night watchman fairly recently, I think the inherited habit would make his insomnia that of the normal man. In other words, if he could not sleep, it would be at night that he could not sleep. As insomnia is largely a nervous complaint, he would be more likely too to sleep during the day, since it was not the time his subconscious mind dictated as the wakeful period.’
Devenish was interested in the theory, but he had to get on with his job. ‘I think you are right, sir, but now I want to know if the man complained to you of insomnia?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No.’
‘But he has visited you on occasion?’
‘About twice. On both occasions he was suffering from what most of my panel complain of—indigestion. To the working classes indigestion appears to be cancer, or heart, or anything but what it is.’
‘I wondered,’ said Devenish thoughtfully.
‘But, wait a moment,’ said the doctor, as the detective rose, ‘I would not swear that the man has not had insomnia. You must remember that men like him rather regard our class as banded together, and likely to confide in each other. Knowing that he was a watchman, he may have been afraid my conscience would prick me, and lead to my telling his employer.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Devenish, thanked his informant, and went off to see Mrs Mann, the watchman’s wife. He found her a thin but energetic looking woman, who appeared to be the soul of respectability. She was very well dressed for her class at that time of the morning, and her rooms were furnished very comfortably. In some respects she and her husband seemed to have comforts that did not fit in very well with the pay of a mere night watchman.
‘Now, Mrs Mann,’ said Devenish, ‘I have seen your husband, and he complains that he suffers from insomnia—that is, sleeplessness. It is rather important in the case I am working on to prove that Mann was awake and alert that night.’
‘If it wasn’t for the sleep he gets during the day,’ said Mrs Mann earnestly, ‘he couldn’t carry on, sir. Honestly he couldn’t! They was bombed at night, and he used to worry me before he got this job, what with him sitting up in a chair when I was in bed, or walking about the floor. Dreadful bad insomnia he had, and that’s the truth.’
Devenish now had what he wanted to know, but he was anxious that the woman should not tell her husband exactly what she had said.
‘A nasty thing,’ he agreed, ‘but I think the new surroundings may help him at night. I gather that he feels drowsy then. A change of atmosphere does help us all, you know.’
As he walked off, he was rather pleased with the new facts he had elicited, though they were opposed to his judgment of the character of the man concerned. A lying statement in a murder case does not prove that the liar is a murderer, or even that he is shielding the murderer.
But one thing was fairly proved, that Mann did not sleep at night, but did—though he denied it—get some refreshing sleep by day. The man who suffers from insomnia is lucky if he gets three or four hours sleep in the twenty-four. If he has those hours by day, his wakefulness by night is likely to be accentuated.
‘The inference,’ said Devenish to himself, ‘is that he was wide awake, that he saw or heard something, but is afraid to tell. If he was not concerned in the murder himself, the inference is that he saw someone in the store who was guilty of it, or whom he now suspects of being guilty. The man who may have been here, and to whom he is devoted, is Mr Jameson Peden-Hythe!’
CHAPTER XIV
SERGEANT DAVIS sat listening to what the inspector had to tell him of his recent discoveries. When Devenish had finished, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, and remarked that it looked fishy.
‘Though it may be merely fowl or flesh,’ replied Devenish, ‘the fact is that I consider there must be some sort of connection between Peden-Hythe and Mann other than the five pound notes at Christmas. The ex-officer would send those in memory of old times, the ex-soldier would naturally call to thank him for getting the job. But why should he visit Peden-Hythe several times since at his club to tell him how he was getting on? What would he have to tell him?’
The sergeant was a trained observer, and a notable man in his rank. ‘At a venture, sir, since Mr Peden-Hythe suspected that Mander was going to do his mother down, could he have sent in Mann as a spy?’
‘That is what I was wondering,’ replied Devenish. ‘I saw that Mann’s rooms looked pretty comfortable ones, and I suspected a subsidy. But there is a puzzle even in that. What would a night watchman know about money affairs, even if he had a chance to hear of them? And what chance would he have at night, in any case?’
‘None at all, sir. You might say a trained accountant, who could be there at night and could get at the office safes and books, would be able to look things over. But then Mr Mander wouldn’t put wrong entries in the official books. I hear he had a private set upstairs in his flat.’
‘Quite so. That is out of the question. Still, here we have a man who does get some sleep by day but not at night, but who says he cannot sleep by day but does sleep at night when he ought not to. Have you interrogated the watchmen in the other parts of the building?’
‘I have, sir. There are three altogether, counting Mann, and I have questioned the other two. As you know, this building for greater safety at night is cut into three sections, with fire-proof doors between. If anyone could open the doors and there was a fire, it would be useless to have them at all. But, as it is, the partitions automatically close when the shop is shut, and not even the watchmen could communicate with each other.’
‘I know. Well, what is the explanation of Mann’s twisting, unless Pede
n-Hythe planted him here for some purpose? If it comes to the worst, I must frighten the man a bit. I could find a theory to account for this business, only that evidence we have, of a kind, rules against it.’
‘May I hear, sir, what you think could account for it?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you. I had an impression at first that Mrs Peden-Hythe might be in love, or have been in love, with Mander. It is easier to screw money out of a middle-aged woman when there is some passion on her side as well as the mere hope of profit. We get cases every other day of women being made fools of like that. Mrs Peden-Hythe, on the other hand, gave me the impression of being very keen about money and very little else.’
Davis screwed up his eyes. ‘Take it that she wasn’t, sir, but really had made love to the man, how does that work in?’
‘More or less easily,’ replied Devenish, ‘If Jameson, the son, suspected not only that his mother was financially backing a man he hated, and regarded as a sharper, but also that she was in love and likely to make a fool of herself over him, he would naturally want to break the connection.’
‘That’s true, sir. He wouldn’t want Mander as a father-in-law.’
‘No. Well, he might also suspect or have information to the effect that his enemy was a bit of a libertine. Elderly women are sometimes over-passionate, but they are always exceedingly jealous when they do fall in love, knowing they are up against youth. Suppose Jameson Peden-Hythe put Mann here to let him know of any goings on in the flat above? It was only at night that Mander cut off access to his part of the flat from his household staff, and it was at night that Miss Tumour visited him—and she may not have been the first!’
Davis beamed. ‘That does fit, sir, only for the difficulty of anyone outside the flat hearing or getting to know of what was going on there. It would be a hard nut to crack.’
Devenish agreed. ‘Yes, but we know that men who were in the R.E. are often skilled craftsmen. I don’t say he was capable of it, or did do it, but suppose Mann went up secretly one night and got a “squeeze” of the key-wards or found out the secret of the lock. If he had a duplicate key made he might get in and spy.’
Davis nodded. ‘Yes, he could, sir. Mr Peden-Hythe might have told him Mander was up to some hanky-panky.’
‘There is one thing makes me pretty sure that there was more than money in this connection between Mander and Mrs Peden-Hythe,’ said Devenish, nodding. ‘The son I have been told is a kind of snob. His generosity to Mann here does not affect that point; for a man of that type is naturally disposed to be nice to those who do not, and cannot, claim equality. But he hated Mander on his own showing, and that makes me think part of it came from a fear that his mother—who had already climbed to a certain position by marrying his father—was going to lower the family by marrying the “bounder”, as he calls him.’
Davis agreed. ‘There is something I can’t understand about Mann. He looks a sound, honest sort of fellow, but he was taking pay for a job that he didn’t do.’
Devenish smiled. ‘But who was his paymaster? Nominally, of course, he was Mander’s servant, and owed duty to him. But we know now that Mrs Peden-Hythe was the real person behind these stores, and that is the way her son Jameson would look at it. I can imagine him telling the watchman that he needn’t bother about conscientious scruples. If anything went wrong when he was spying, the loss would fall on Mrs Peden-Hythe, and he would be responsible.’
‘You mean Mr Jameson?’
‘Of course. And it would be true. The man who pays ought to call the tune, even if there is a figurehead in between.’
‘But if stock was stolen, the insurance companies would have to pay, sir.’
‘Of course, but do you think a chap like Jameson would think of that? I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him.’
There was silence for a few moments. Both men were thinking, and neither of them was now concentrating on the young man. Davis spoke first.
‘Where are the girl’s coat and hat and glove, sir?’
Devenish shrugged. ‘Ever since the case opened I have been thinking of that. I have no idea whatever. If I had, I should feel well on my way to getting to the core of the case. But now that you have brought it up, what about looking?’
‘Where, sir?’
‘In this Store, of course. But we shall have to ring up Mr Kephim to see what the girl wore in the way of a coat and hat.’
Davis managed to get through to Mr Kephim, and handed the receiver to the inspector. Devenish put two questions, then listened gravely for a minute. Then he said: ‘Thank you, sir, I am much obliged,’ and rang off.
‘Bit of luck for us, Davis,’ he said with a pleased look to his assistant. ‘Kephim says she was wearing a smart new coat of Cumberland tweed, which he described to me. She bought it here in the—but wait a moment. Is that department in this section?’
‘I think it is, sir. I saw one that sold ladies’ tweed coats.’
‘Well, it was the first time she had worn it, Davis, and she had a new hat to match—also bought here.’
Davis stared: ‘I say, sir, if the hat and coat were left here after the murder, surely we should have found them?’
‘If we had looked in the right place, yes. But wait a moment. You got a list on the first day giving the names and addresses of the heads of the various departments.’
‘I have them in my note-book.’
‘Right. Get that of the head of the department where they sell these tweed coats, and also of the hat shop. See if they are on the telephone, and ask them to come here. If either is not on, get a taxi and bring them round at once.’
He sat down and lighted a cigarette, smoking gustily and excitedly, as his sergeant took up the receiver. Five minutes later, and the business was done. Both the employees asked for were on their way to the Stores.
The policeman at the main door was told to show them when they arrived into the tweed coat department, and twenty minutes later a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman came in, and announced herself as Miss Gay.
‘This is your department, Miss Gay?’ said Devenish, when he had given her a seat.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember Miss Tumour buying a coat of Cumberland tweed in this department—or would you not know?’
Miss Gay nodded. ‘I would not have known, perhaps, with an ordinary customer, but Miss Tumour came to me, and I went with her while she chose the coat—I could tell her which was the best value,’ she added blandly.
‘No doubt,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are the articles in your department exclusive, or shall I say standardised?’
She smiled too now. ‘She paid twelve guineas for it, and at that price in this tweed it would not be exclusive. Wait a moment, I think I had six of those, or was it only four? I can look it up.’
Devenish accompanied her to the little panelled room that was her office, and she consulted some books, then looked up.
‘Half a dozen. Just a moment till I see how many we sold.’
But it was ten minutes before she was able to say, and then she announced that three had been sold, including the one bought by Miss Tumour.
‘And the date when the last was sold?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It may. You see your assistant might count them or notice what was the date?’
Miss Gay looked puzzled by his remark. ‘Miss Tumour bought hers last. That was on Friday. The second sale was on Thursday.’
‘Are these coats on stands in the department?’
‘Not those in question. They are on hangers hung on a rail in a panelled cupboard. Do you want to see it?’
‘That is the only thing I do want to see,’ replied Devenish.
Miss Gay nodded and led them down the department to where a long line of cupboards, panelled in stainwood, formed a sort of seven-foot partition. The panelled doors were sliding ones, and she pushed back one and then slid it to again.
‘Those are the Narbet tweeds. I am sorry. Here we are.’
&nbs
p; She slid back a panel further down, and disclosed a line of closely packed coats.
‘These are the Cumberlands in that range of colour,’ she began, and then stared, and gasped.
‘Which?’ asked he, watching her closely.
‘The—these four!’ she cried excitedly.
Davis suppressed an exclamation of delight. Devenish smiled in mild triumph.
‘Sure of that, Miss Gay?’
‘Of course,’ she gulped. ‘Look! I’ll take them out for you.’
‘Stick them on that counter over there,’ said Devenish.
The four coats were taken to the counter and laid out at a little distance apart.
‘Now, Miss Gay,’ said the inspector, ‘I hope you can tell one from the other, or is that too much for you?’
She seemed rather astonished at that. ‘Of course. That is quite easy. If one was Miss Tumour’s, she wouldn’t wear it with the ticket on it.’
Devenish turned to Davis. ‘Nice bloomer for one of us, Davis! Of course you are right, Miss Gay. Well?’
Her fingers were trembling as she examined the coats in turn. When she picked up the third in the line, she dropped it again as if it had burnt her fingers. Obviously she had a feeling against touching anything that belonged to a murdered woman, perhaps some superstition.
‘This is it! Good Heavens! What a filthy idea to put it here.’
‘A very good idea, from one point of view,’ said he. ‘It might, if the assistant had been hurried or careless, have been sold to someone else and the evidence disposed of—Hello, constable, what now?’
‘Miss Doren to see you, sir.’
A constable had just appeared, bringing in a thin, dark woman of about forty. Miss Gay told the inspector that it was her colleague from the millinery.
Devenish explained what had been found, and the newcomer bit her lip.’
‘I call that very clever of you,’ she said alertly, ‘and I can tell you about that hat at once. It was a model quite unique in its way, though a man might not see anything in it beyond a bit of straw and a ribbon. It may be there now, if it was put back like this coat, for I am sure we were all far too excited and upset last Monday morning to look at the stock. And, of course, we were not allowed to touch anything, once your people took charge.’