by Vernon Loder
‘Mrs Peden-Hythe, you mean? No, I suppose not, inspector. But let me get on. I signed on for this job, and after a great deal of trouble finding a suitable place, I made a flight in the machine and satisfied Mander that it was O.K. Then he got to work having the designs and drawings done over by an expert, and world-wide patents taken out in his name. He told me that my name would not have the same weight as his. After that he made a contract for a firm to manufacture the planes, and began a press campaign. The Stores opened, and I took over my job. I knew Mander had spent a good deal in booming my gyrocopter, but once it was bought, and proved practical, it practically sold itself. I rubbed my hands, for I knew that it was going to be the plane of the future, and I saw myself making money hand over fist.’
‘You hadn’t got your second agreement, I suppose?’
Cane scowled. ‘What do you think! The trial which had convinced Mander of the value of my invention was conducted by me in his presence. There was only one other witness, that man Webley, and he looked a very stupid fellow, though I was told that he was a mechanic.’
‘But what about the men who helped you make the first model, sir?’
‘The model? My dear chap, I made it myself, I was so afraid of a steal. That’s the damned irony of the affair, spending two years by myself working like a dog to keep it dark, and then giving it away with a pound of tea! Of course I had my screw, but I was earning that as well as any man in the place. Well, about ten days ago, I thought I would see Mander and ask him about getting my agreement put ship-shape. I told him he might as well give me my copy.’
‘And did he?’
‘Did he? The ruffian laughed, and then looked very hard at me. He asked me what I meant by my agreement. Surely I had had one, and if I would point out the clause I referred to, he would be glad to examine it. Of course I thought he had forgotten, and explained what I meant. He shook his head, and said it was the first he had heard of it. Naturally I saw he meant to do me, and went in off the deep-end. I told him he was not going to sell any more of my machines, and he had the nerve to tell me that Webley was the inventor, and the sooner I got it into my head the better.’
Devenish smiled faintly. ‘But that’s absurd! You could have gone to law surely?’
‘I thought so, and said so. Now that the machine had proved itself, I felt I could get a lawyer to take up my case on spec., and I told the beggar so.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He challenged me to do it. He said I had no witnesses, and no papers. I could go to any lawyer I liked. He said I ought to be damned glad to be where I was, being on my uppers when I came to him—I was fool enough to tell him that at our first interview. At any rate he made my law case look like a ha’penny a pound, and I went round to a solicitor and asked his opinion; giving no names, but just putting the case as that of a friend. The lawyer agreed with Mander. He said I was an ass if I expected to prove anything without a witness, and without a signed contract from the man who was doing the exploiting.’
He drew a deep breath, and Devenish looked at him sympathetically.
‘What did you do then?’
‘Well, I saw Mander two or three times, and tried every means to make him do the honest thing. He had wanted to pose as the inventor himself at first, and started tinkering in a workshop upstairs, but he couldn’t master the technique of aerodynamics, and when he began to negotiate foreign concessions he saw that he couldn’t explain the theory of the machine he was supposed to have designed. So he hit on Webley, who is the devil of a clever fellow at machines, but at nothing else.
‘It was last Friday that he told me Webley was the inventor of the machine, and he laughed as he said it. I didn’t go off the deep-end that time, though I felt like it, for the simple reason that I did not know of any other job I could get at my present figure. He saw that, of course, and said if I was not a fool I would stay where I was and keep my mouth shut. Then it began to dawn upon me that he might only be bluffing. It was to call his bluff that I went down to Gelover on Sunday.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this, sir?’
Cane looked surprised. ‘Well naturally it seemed to provide me with a motive for revenging myself on Mander. I didn’t want to get into trouble.’
‘But you are telling me now, sir, and the trouble is not over yet.’
‘Quite. Only if Webley said—’ he stopped, changed colour, and stared at the inspector. ‘You don’t mean to say he never told your man?’
Devenish shook his head. ‘Not what you have told me, sir. I am glad you were so frank, but I must say that it does not improve your position—By the way, you are not on very good terms with Kephim?’
‘That’s not altogether my fault, inspector. I dare say he thinks I’m a snob. I don’t think I am. The trouble with Kephim, who is a very decent sort otherwise, I believe, is that he has an inferiority complex. When he heard I had been to a public school, and then in the army, he imagined I looked down on him, and that sort of thing.’
‘Can you explain those wheel-tracks on the flat roof? You have heard of those from me,’ said Devenish, nodding comprehension.
Cane bit his lip. ‘No. Can you? I don’t know anything about sleuth work, and am one of the few people who don’t profess to understand it. But it strikes me there is something odd about this case.’
‘Very,’ Devenish agreed dryly, ‘but what in particular?’
‘Too many clues,’ said Cane. ‘If the murderer did old Mander in, why should he leave so many signs? Wheel-tracks on the roof, though I bet no pilot could land at night there; automatic out of the sports department, blood in two lifts, more on the roof, a dagger out of the flat—why, it is a regular mix-up!’
‘Does that fact suggest anything to you, sir?’ asked Devenish regarding him thoughtfully.
‘Nothing at all, except that the man had a fine confused mind. And sticking the bodies in the window was the last idiocy.’
Devenish nodded again, and rose. ‘Well, sir, I can’t keep you any longer. I shall go carefully into what you have told me. Meantime, I have another job in hand.’
CHAPTER XIX
WHEN Devenish left Cane, he was inclined to believe that he had extracted the truth at last. Unless Cane was a consummate actor, his version was correct, and it only remained to interview the man Webley and discover the exact nature of the proposition Mr Mander had made to him.
He took train at once to Gelover and walked to the Manor. He found Webley cleaning one of the gyrocopters. The man was ill-pleased to see him, but his look of resentment gave way to one of alarm when the detective gave him a grim look and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Now, Webley,’ he said peremptorily, ‘I want the truth from you, and I have come down to get it. What you told me about Mr Cane’s visit here last Sunday evening is a pack of lies.’
‘It isn’t!’ muttered Webley sullenly.
‘Oh, yes it is, and if you don’t come straight out with it now, I shall subpoena you as a witness at the inquest, and that will be unpleasant for you. I have seen Mr Cane, and he tells me that the late Mr Mander didn’t invent the gyrocopter here. Is that true?’
Webley nodded sulkily. ‘Him? He was only a fool at engines.’
‘Did you invent it?’
Webley looked cunning now. He was evidently wondering if it would be safe to bluff it out, and suddenly decided that it wouldn’t.
‘No, I didn’t, sir,’ he mumbled, taking out a packet of cigarettes and withdrawing one.
‘Put that away, and give me your attention!’ said Devenish sharply. ‘Did Mr Mander ever mention to you anything about the man who did invent it?’
‘He said I did.’
Devenish shrugged. ‘He said you were to pretend that you did.’
‘That’s it.’
‘And what were you to get out of that?’
‘Two hundred and fifty quid.’
‘Had you any idea who did invent the machine?’
Webley grunted. ‘That there M
r Cane said he did, but I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you know that Mr Cane came down here to see you about it, and was very angry because Mr Mander had tried to cheat him out of the rights?’
‘That’s what he said. I couldn’t tell.’
‘Could you tell me more exactly what he said?’
‘Well, I remember he said Mr Mander had stolen his machine, and was trying to chouse him out of it, and he wanted to know what you wanted to know just now, if Mr Mander had asked me to say I had invented it.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘He said—’
‘No, I want what you said.’
Webley looked malevolent. ‘I said Mr Mander had, and so I had. Then he cursed and swore, and said he would make it hot for me.’
‘What did you take that to mean?’
‘I don’t know at the time, but it seems to me he was trying to put this murder on me. I see in the papers there were tracks of a machine on the roof.’
There was something sneakingly repellent about the man’s manner, and Devenish believed that the last phrase was an afterthought. Of the two men he preferred to believe Cane.
‘If it comes into court, are you prepared to swear that the late Mr Mander made this offer to you, and asked you to pose as the inventor?’
‘If I have to, I suppose I must.’
‘Will you put it on paper now, make a statement and sign it? It can do you no harm and may help you in a way.’
Webley thought it over, then agreed. He went back with the detective to the cottage, wrote out a statement of the facts in connection with the gyrocopter, and signed it. Devenish bid him good-day very dryly, folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he walked back to the station and took the next train to town.
On his return to Scotland Yard, he had an interview with the superintendent, then was called for by Mr Melis and entered the assistant-commissioner’s room.
Mr Melis was smoking and drawing diagrams on his blotting-pad. At the moment of the inspector’s entry, he had just completed a very bad sketch of an automatic pistol.
‘Sit down, inspector,’ he said lightly. ‘My mind is full of arms today. I see pistols for two, if not coffee for one. I suppose you have not come on any signs of that other pistol yet?’
Devenish shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
Mr Melis directed his cigarette pistol-wise at the inspector. ‘I have been very energetic myself today; toddled round to see the watchman. He’s a funny fellow, don’t you think? Is he a lath painted to look like iron, or iron inside and out?’
Devenish looked interested. ‘What I was asking myself, sir. On the surface, and even when I saw him after the murder, he looked a stolid sort of chap, but Mr Peden-Hythe says he is a funk, and nervous as a cat. Some nervous people do put on a pose of grimness.’
‘Like that species of fly which is got up to look like a wasp,’ agreed Melis, smiling, ‘but we can’t say in this case. Some day the psychologists will have perfected a mechanical apparatus for testing character. They will attach you to an electric machine and discover, infallibly, if you are a brave man or a funk, a steady man or a loose ’un. Lacking that, we must do the best we can with the old routine. What I want to know is this—can we connect Mann with the purchase of a pistol?’
‘If we could connect him with a motive, sir, it would be even better. But the thought did cross my mind that Mann, if he is nervous, might have been provided with a pistol when he went on duty.’
Mr Melis took up his telephone. ‘Mr Kephim’s number, please.’
Devenish gave him the number and he rang up. In a minute he was through and asking Mr Kephim if the management provided the watchman with a weapon at night. ‘A revolver or automatic,’ he added.
‘No,’ said Kephim, in a tone of surprise. ‘If he had had a pistol, I should have informed the inspector. But Mann, in any case, would have no motive for murdering the—’
‘Oh, quite. Thank you very much,’ Mr Melis interrupted and rang off, to turn again to Devenish.
‘If Kephim is the guilty man he shows few of the usual signs. For one thing, he does not appear anxious to have other people charged.’
Devenish smiled. ‘No, sir. I asked him about Cane, to whom he bears a grudge. But he was quite indignant at the idea. He said Cane was a snob, but not a murderer.’
Melis agreed. ‘Well, we must make an extensive inquiry to discover if Mann did purchase a gun. In “Signals” he would not, I think, be supplied with small arms, but there is always the chance that he found a war souvenir, or bought a pistol from a soldier who had.’
‘Like all the others who might come under suspicion, he was searched when he left on Monday morning, sir. It is true that he had means of getting out during the night.’
‘By that back door you mentioned? I know. That is the trouble. See his wife, or have her seen by someone, and ask her if she ever saw a weapon in his possession. My own faint impression is that he is shielding someone—I won’t mention any names—but you never can tell.’
Devenish assented. ‘Very well, sir. Now I thought of seeing that Mrs Hoe. If I can’t get something out of her, it is a strange thing. If she had nothing to do with the murder, then she may be glad to explain the circumstances.’
Mr Melis nodded. ‘Get that done right away. Thank you, inspector.’
Mr Melis had ideas at times, as the inspector was the first to admit, but quite commonly they turned out to be of seminal rather than direct value, providing the germ from which his more practical subordinates produced workable theories.
The complete absence of motive, as far as could be ascertained, put Mann out of the question in one sense, but Melis had said that he imagined the watchman was shielding someone, which might suggest that, while he had taken no active part, he knew someone who had.
That was the assistant-commissioner’s idea, and Devenish considered it, as he did every suggestion coming from that quarter. It might be a fact too, but at present Devenish thought not. As he went to Mrs Hoe’s flat he turned it over on every side, and finally evolved an adaptation which he thought fitted in better with the evidence in his possession.
What if Mann had not been shielding the murderer, but simply thought he had been doing so?
Every detective considers his evidence not only from the point of view of the would-be logician, but also from the standpoint of a practical observer. He might refuse to accept what appeared to be a plain, simple, logical statement from one witness, yet give credence to a stumbling and improbable story from another. Like counsel in court, he is bound to give due value to the demeanour and manner of a witness. If either is a bad hand at physiognomy, he makes mistakes.
Jameson Peden-Hythe would have seemed a twister to the man in the street. He had made lying statements, and disingenuous statements at first, but Devenish allowed for an equation other than the personal, and that was the influence of drink on a man who had taken for some years to overindulgence. Who, for instance, would have believed that a man in Jameson’s position would have forced himself into a house where he was not wanted, and remained there for hours in the hope that he might see the daughter of the house on her return? Yet that had proved to be true. Again, the murderer had taken pains to leave confusing false clues, which hinted at a degree of caution and cunning. Jameson had dropped a match-box with his name on it, or at least his initials, and had abandoned the search for it after a short hunt. The man who had left evidence that might involve three other people would have found the match-box before he left the lane at the back.
On the whole he was convinced that Jameson had spoken the truth—that is to say, he had been in the laneway on the Sunday night, had had a short interview with Mann at the back door, and had then rung the private bell of Mr Mander’s flat for some time without eliciting any reply. But he had seen the ex-soldier before he rang the bell, and it was quite possible that Mann, coming afterwards upon traces of the crime and unaware what Jameson had done after leaving him, b
elieved his old officer had murdered Mander.
If Devenish’s theory was correct, however, Mann had not actually seen Jameson inside the Stores, but postulated his presence there when he came on the body of Mr Mander, and reflected that Peden-Hythe had a feud against the dead man. On the other hand, surely his common sense should have told him that Jameson, even if willing to kill a man he thought his enemy, would hardly be likely to butcher a young woman in addition?
But here again Devenish had to face one of those little psychological problems that crop up in every case. If Mann had made this particular mistake, it went to prove that he was really the nervous, emotional fellow Jameson declared him to be. He must have lost his head altogether for a little. What had ultimately pulled him together later had been his devotion and loyalty to the man who had saved his life in the war. That is not improbable in a case of the kind, for the instinct of loyalty to an individual sometimes rises triumphant over the instinct of self-preservation.
Devenish did not make the mistake of believing all his theories to be solutions of the problem, but he was bound to formulate theories to fit every side of the case and then proceed by the method of trial and error to eliminate those that did not fit. He had as yet none to cover the case of Mrs Hoe, and did not attempt to construct one till he should have questioned her further.
All he knew was that she had been blackmailing or attempting to blackmail Mr Mander, either alone or in association with Effie Tumour. Fresh from easy victories over young and inexperienced society women, with reputations at stake, she had not found it so easy to bluff the astute and cunning Mander; though it was more than possible that Mander’s contemplated bolt with the funds was due to the pressure that vicious young woman was putting upon him. In that event either he did not know that Effie Tumour was allied with his tormentor, or it so happened that Mrs Hoe was working alone, using as a weapon some confidences given her as a friend by the dead woman.
Mrs Hoe’s complicity in the case, if only in its outer fringes, was not at all helpful to Devenish. His years of experience had taught him that while blackmailers are occasionally killed by their desperate victims, these who live on hush-money are not given to violence. They fade out when the goose ceases to lay the golden eggs.