by Vernon Loder
Jameson was all smiles. For the first time since Devenish had met him he looked buoyant, almost virile. He had a little colour in his face, and his eyes were clearer, his manner less languid.
‘Hello, inspector, you’re the very man I wanted to see,’ he remarked. ‘Old Hay is getting busy, and he wants to know when the bally Stores can be opened again. He wrote to my mother about it this morning.’
Devenish reflected. ‘That I cannot say. I hope soon.’
‘Soon, eh? Getting on the track at last, I suppose. By the way, what about a coffee? There’s a bun-shop close by.’
He grinned a little as he said that, and Devenish also smiled.
‘Thank you.’
‘Fact is,’ remarked Peden-Hythe, confidentially, ‘I am one of the neck-or-nothing kind. Got to cut it right out, or swim in it, don’t you know. But I’m getting used gradually to soft drinks; though cocoa has me beat before the race starts. By the way, did I tell you you might congratulate me?’
Devenish shook his head, as they turned into the fashionable tea-shop in Jameson’s wake. ‘No,’ he said, scenting the origin of the new radiance and that spirited attempt to ‘put a padlock on it’. ‘I hadn’t heard, sir.’
Jameson led the way to a quiet corner and ordered two coffees. ‘Have a cigar,’ he said, and added: ‘I don’t take much stock of proverbial philosophy, inspector, but, by Jove, patience is rewarded this time. Funniest thing in the world, you know. I mean me getting a bit tight and camping in Sir William’s house for simply hours.’
‘You think that produced an impression, sir?’ said Devenish, laughing as he lit his cigar.
‘Must have done,’ said Jameson, also lighting up. ‘Sort of thing I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing in my sober senses, but it worked. I thought I would tell you, since you knew what an ass I had made of myself.’
Devenish nodded. ‘Same lady, sir?’
‘Absolutely. Fact is, I wrote to her, and did a crawl. I owed her that. So the thing is arranged; witness this coffee. I’m a damned lucky man, inspector!’
Devenish congratulated him heartily. There was, he saw, something fundamentally decent and attractive in his companion; something that helped to explain Mann’s loyalty to his former officer.
‘Sir William’s been very decent about it too,’ resumed Jameson, ‘though I don’t know that he would have taken a fancy to me in a neat prison suiting, as the tailors call it—I suppose I am definitely off your list, inspector?’
‘I think I can reassure you on that point, sir. I imagine you will be able to have the usual “morning-coat and striped”. But, talking about Mann, there are just one or two little points that I would like cleared up.’
Jameson narrowed his eyes a little, then nodded. ‘Carry on.’
‘I want to know the time when you actually spoke to Mann at the back door of the Stores—as near as you can make it.’
Jameson told him. ‘Anything else?’
‘How long were you there talking, do you think?’
‘Ten minutes to a quarter of an hour, I should say. It is difficult to say exactly.’
‘Then did he leave you, lock the door, and not come out again?’
‘He went in, and I heard him lock the door, but I can’t say if he came out again. He may have done later, for all I know.’
‘He didn’t ask you to take anything for him? I do not suppose for a moment that he did, but I must ask.’
‘No. You can be bally well sure of that. I hate carrying beastly parcels, even if they are no bigger than a bee’s knee, and Mann would certainly not have thought of handing me one.’
Devenish nodded. ‘While you were in the lane you did not hear a shot, or a cry?’
‘None at all. I say, you are still dithering on about old Mann. It seems to me sheer waste of time. He wouldn’t do it; he had no reason to do it, and wouldn’t have done if he had had a reason.’
Devenish finished his coffee, took a pull at his cigar, and fixed his eyes on Jameson’s rather indignant face.
‘Did it ever occur to you, sir, that you had a grudge against the dead man, that the watchman knew of it, and may have exaggerated its bitterness?’
‘Mann? Well, by Jove, he may. I used some pretty hot language about the bounder.’
‘Then he knew that you were in the lane when he locked up again, and that you were within a few yards of Mander’s private staircase. He might have said to himself that you had got in, and, not being in your sober senses, committed the crime.’
Jameson rubbed his head. ‘He really is a bit of a bonehead, but surely he doesn’t think I go Woolly West-wise round London, armed with a gun, or gat, or whatever the pictures call it? I don’t say he wouldn’t go a good length to shield me, if he took me for an amateur gunman, for he’s the most embarrassingly grateful fella I ever met. But if he thought I did kill the man, why did he imagine I stuck the girl up in the window? Did he think I was a disappointed lover too, like that fella Kephim?’
Devenish laughed. ‘You are interested in him, sir?’
‘I have to be, my dear chap. He insists on it! Gelert’s faithful hound is nothing to Mann when he’s on the job. Seriously, though, I should be very sorry if anything happened to him.’
He looked earnestly and inquiringly at Devenish as he said that, and the detective shrugged.
‘He is in very considerable danger of being arrested at this moment, sir, and I was wondering if you would have any influence with him.’
Jameson stared. ‘Don’t be an ass! Arrested, what for?’
‘He knows more than he has told,’ said Devenish sternly. ‘If he had the sense of a blind mouse, he would come out with it.’
‘But it’s a waste of time to go at him. What about all the evidence, all those clues you fellows found?’
‘What about his still being in the Stores that morning at nine, when his turn of duty is over and he usually goes off at eight?’
‘What about it? He would not hang about if he was guilty?’
‘He would not run away if he was guilty.’
‘And give himself away, no. But he would go home at the usual time.’
Devenish shook his head. ‘And stay at home wondering if he was suspected? That type of man would want to know the worst. If he is as nervous as you and other people make out, that is what he would do.’
‘That may be. But what about the clues?’
The inspector replied slowly. ‘Those confused and confusing bits of evidence suggest to me a man who did not contemplate murder, but was eventually determined that the issue should be fogged, and the suspicion so diffused, that we should not get at the real criminal.’
Jameson looked interested. ‘Surely a murderer’s idea is to get away safely? If he leaves faked evidence, it must be to involve somebody else, and remove the suspicion from his own shoulders. A callous fellow like that wouldn’t care who got in for it.’
‘Quite so, sir, if he had committed a murder and was callous.’
‘But you talk of arresting him for murder.’
‘I did not say for murder, sir. The fact is that one or two puzzling bits of evidence have been cleared away. I know that there was no landing of a gyrocopter on the roof that Sunday night. I know why Miss Tumour called to see Mander, and I am of opinion that there was only one murder.’
‘My dear fella!’
‘And two bodies,’ added Devenish grimly. ‘Well, perhaps that is a bit too much to say. I mean I am convinced that there was only one murder.’
‘Murder and suicide. I see what you mean.’
‘Not exactly. But I must not say anything more at present.’
Jameson nodded. ‘Right. Will you have another coffee?’
‘No, thank you. But I shall be glad if you can make it convenient to go with me to see Mann. I want to assure him that you are in no danger of being implicated, and I want you, if you will be so good, to convince Mann that he had better tell the truth.’
Jameson beckoned to the waitress, and
got up. ‘Righto! We’ll get a taxi outside, and tootle over at once. I should feel no end of a swine if I let that chap in. His wife is a very decent little woman too. But I doubt if I can make the dumb speak.’
They left the café and took a taxi to Mann’s. He was just getting up, his wife said, and they sat in the little parlour and waited for five minutes when Mann came down and greeted Jameson with great pleasure. Devenish he greeted respectfully, but with no great cordiality.
‘Have a gasper, Mann,’ said Jameson, holding out his cigarette-case. ‘The inspector here and I have come round to hold a sort of inquest on you, and we begin with the joyful news that my own inquest is over, and the verdict, “Not proven”. I am still a free man, as my friend here will tell you.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mann, nervously looking at the stolid detective, ‘but no one could have thought you capable of it, Mr Jameson.’
‘They did, my dear fella, they did! But now we are improving, and want to see you with an equally clean bill of health, if you get me. Fact is, Mann, you’ve been a bit too much of the modest violet in this business, and the inspector isn’t fond of violets of that kind. If there is anything you would like to get off your chest, now is the time. The inspector is ready to give you credit for every sort of virtue but loquacity—what about it?’
Mann bit his lip. ‘I don’t see what more I can say, sir.’
Jameson looked at him hard. ‘Think again! This is a nice, informal little party, but you might have to face one of those almighty cross counsel, who would rasp your skin off as soon as look at you. The inspector thought you might be shielding me, but as I have convinced him that I was not in the last nasty little show, you need not be afraid to speak out.’
Mann looked rather piteously at Jameson, opened his mouth, shut it again, and shook his head.
Jameson’s chaffing mood turned to anger. ‘Don’t be a damn fool, Mann! I tell you this looks serious for you. Are you trying to shield someone outside? You’re a double fool if you are, and will get no thanks for it. Do you want to be arrested and put through it at Scotland Yard?’
Mann turned his frightened eyes on Devenish, who met them sternly with his own, and nodded.
‘If you are wise, you will do as Mr Peden-Hythe tells you.’
But Mann remained silent, looking from one face to the other in desperate anxiety. Jameson tried again.
‘Are you trying to shield someone?’
Mann stammered. ‘No, sir.’
Devenish shrugged impatiently. ‘Now, sir, you have had a shot at it, but without success, I am sorry to say. I must see what I can do.’ He turned his eyes on Mann, and went on: ‘Now then, we have been making inquiries about you, and there are one or two things we want to know. Give me your attention!’
‘I’m listening, sir.’
‘In the first place why didn’t you tell me you had a pistol?’
Mann’s face lost all its colour. ‘What pistol, sir?’ he asked hesitatingly.
Devenish saw that he was going to carry his bluff. He had, of course, the advantage that all detectives have; the person he was questioning did not know how much he knew. ‘The pistol you bought when you took over this job.’
‘But the pistol was one from the sports department, sir—I mean the one the police found.’
‘Don’t tell me what we found! Confine yourself to replying to my questions. I know you had a pistol, but I am prepared to admit that you merely bought it for your own protection—a .32 calibre automatic, wasn’t it?’
Mann was no actor, and had prepared no defences against this sort of examination. He had bought a pistol from a chauffeur, who had been touring in the Balkan States with his master, and he felt sure that the police must have got hold of this man. As he hesitated, Jameson spoke up.
‘Out with it, Mann! Inspector Devenish doesn’t blame you for buying a pistol. Most of the night watchmen are supplied with them. I don’t know why the dickens you weren’t.’
Devenish cut in again. ‘That’s right. Now then?’
‘Yes,’ said Mann, dismally. ‘I had a pistol,’ and he told them from whom he had bought it. ‘But I didn’t murder anyone, sir. Really, I didn’t.’
Devenish nodded. ‘Very well. You had a pistol, a .32 automatic. Will you let me have a look at it, and the ammunition you use in it? That won’t do you any harm, and it may clear you completely. A weapon would make you feel more self-confident at night—but I must see it.’
The blank stare of Mann made them both regard him gravely. He gulped once, then gasped: ‘I haven’t got it now, sir.’
‘Haven’t got it? When did you dispose of it?’
‘The day of the murder, sir.’
Devenish frowned. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘Threw it in the river, sir, from a bridge, when no one was looking.’
‘For what reason?’
Mann was sweating now, and looked a haggard shadow of himself.
‘You see, sir, after the murder being discovered, and me being alone in the Store, I was afraid someone might blame me.’
‘For being alone in the Store, where you were on duty? Come now,’ Devenish shot a rapid question at him: ‘Where did you conceal this automatic as you went out? I want an answer at once!’
‘In my waistbelt, sir,’ stammered Mann, holding on to his chair with both hands in an extremity of nervous fear.
‘And you were searched as you went out. You forgot that!’ said Devenish, scathingly. He turned to Jameson, and added: ‘I am afraid it is no go, sir. He won’t tell the truth. I had better take him to the Yard, I think—I don’t require a warrant in a murder case.’
Mann almost collapsed. Then he made a tremendous effort to pull himself together, and appealed to the inspector desperately.
‘Don’t take me there, sir. I’ll tell you the truth.’
Devenish had half risen; he now sat down again. ‘Very well. When did you hide the pistol?’
‘In the night, sir.’
‘The night of the murder?’
‘Where did you hide it?’
‘If you give me two hours, sir, I’ll get it and show it to you.’
‘I said where is the pistol?’
‘Oh, Lord! Sir, I’m not a murderer!’ cried Mann.
‘You’re acting as if you were. But that’s enough. I mean to hear where it is, and now.’
Mann licked his lips again and again, and tried to speak. Jameson turned to the detective.
‘Wait a bit. He’s going to tell us. Come on, Mann. If you’re innocent it will help you, not do you any harm.’
Mann was trembling all over. ‘Well, I will tell you, sir, and show you where it is too. But you must hear my story, sir. You really must! I can explain. I’m going to explain.’
Devenish took out his note-book and pencil. ‘Are you now offering a voluntary statement? Do you realise that it may be used against you?’
‘I’ll make a free-will statement, and sign it, sir,’ said Mann wildly, ‘if you’ll only let me do it before I show you where the things are.’
CHAPTER XXV
THE tragic nature of the scene and the moving terror of Mann had an extraordinary effect on Jameson Peden-Hythe. He sat transfixed, his eyes staring at the wretched fellow, now doing his best to speak, while his expression had changed from one of impatience to one of pity and horror.
Devenish, more used to such scenes, was not really looking at Mann, or watching his attempts to compose himself. He was concentrating on an expression the witness had used, and not even so much on that as the stress he had put on one particular word in the phrase.
The stress on words is as important in criminal investigation as in reading poetry, or making it. Devenish’s practical experience of the psychology of witnesses had told him that stressing a single word may mean the whole difference between a whole lie and a white lie; an intention bluffly and recklessly to deceive, and an attempt to square the witness’s conscience (for even criminals have a conscience, if
a warped one) by an evasion.
While Mann was licking his dry lips, fidgeting in his chair, and trying to collect his thought, Devenish was repeating the phrase he had used.
‘I am not a murderer really!’ In a denial which was merely vehement, the stress would have been obviously laid on the word ‘not’. But it had not been stressed by Mann, who had cried: ‘I am not a murderer really!’ You may kill a man, and not be a murderer, as everyone knows very well; and in a detective’s mind the difference between manslaughter and murder is very clearly defined.
He waited a minute or two for Mann to begin, then looked at him encouragingly. ‘Now, don’t get excited. We’re not a judge and jury, you know, and you are not on trial. Just try to think that your evidence may be as helpful to you as to us. The law doesn’t exist to harry people for nothing, you see.’
Mann stared back at him, and gathered courage from the change in the detective’s tone. ‘I ought to have told at once, sir,’ he said. ‘It looks so black now.’
‘Not a bit of it. Get on with your story. I have an idea I could piece most of it together myself, and it hasn’t prejudiced me against you yet. Now then, I’ll give you a start. You went to the Stores at ten that night to begin your first round. What happened then?’
Mann found his voice at last, and as he went on he spoke more clearly and with fresh confidence.
‘I went round, sir, to see that all was right, and when I had done, I went to sit down. I turned on the microphone as usual, but I didn’t hear any louder sounds. I did my best to see what was wrong, but couldn’t make out what was the matter—’
‘Wait a moment,’ interrupted the inspector, ‘that is rather important. You are sure the gadget was off then?’
‘I am quite sure, sir.’
‘But you only fixed it when you came back from your round—I mean tried to put it on—not when you first arrived?’
Mann looked surprised. ‘No, sir, not till after I made my round.’
‘Did you put it on at once then? I want you to be very sure of that. It fixes the time for us more or less. Could you give me the approximate time at which you tried to fix it?’