by Bruce, Leo
He watched the effect of that magic word. Yes. It worked. Miss Shapely smiled.
“I see,” she said. It was not effusive, but it was enough.
“We are organizing a programme. We need your assistance, Miss Shapely.”
“It depends. I couldn’t allow anything of that sort in my bar, of course.”
“No. It was your personal co-operation I was hoping to obtain.”
“I do not often have an opportunity of seeing television programmes,” said Miss Shapely, “but such as I have seen have been most interesting.”
“May I ask you a few questions? Then I can get an idea of how to arrange the programme. I feel it should be built round you.”
“Certainly,” beamed Miss Shapely.
“I understand that Charles Carew comes here?”
Miss Shapely sighed.
“He is not exactly the type of customer I seek to encourage,” she said. “I never allow any language in my bar and have had to Speak To Mr Carew more than once. But he certainly comes in here.”
“Will I see him this evening?”
“He usually comes in at about seven and again at nine.”
“Not in the mornings?”
“Very seldom. The last occasion on which he came in during the morning was about a week before the murders. I remember it because I had some Trouble that day.”
“Really? With Carew?”
“Oh no. I should never have any trouble with him. He would be Asked To Leave at once. No. This was with a farmer named Raydell. Usually a very quiet and respectful man. On that occasion he abused his position.”
“How?”
“He took a liberty which I could never permit.”
“No!”
“A quite unforgivable liberty. I had to be firm.”
“I hope he didn’t …”
“He brought a wild animal into my bar.”
“A wild animal?”
“Yes. A creature resembling a small leopard. He called it an ocelot.”
“Good heavens!”
“You may well say that. It wasn’t only the impudence of it, it was the sly way he did it. He waited till my back was turned. Nobody saw it as he led it in on a chain. The first to see it was old Mr Sawyer, one of my very best customers. He suddenly found the thing sniffing at him. He does like a drop of gin, I won’t deny, and just recently has been a little liberal with himself. When this creature appeared to him he thought … it seems he occasionally suffered from delusions after spells of over-indulgence. He dropped his glass and fell into convulsions. When I glanced over and saw what had caused it I … fortunately I did not quite swoon, but I was not myself. For the first time in the fifteen years I have been in charge of this bar I was unnerved. A lady in the corner began to scream. It was a most scandalous scene. Nothing like it had ever taken place while I have been here.
“Then Mr Raydell instead of instantly taking the creature out began to explain that it was quite harmless and slept on his bed. ‘Mr Raydell,’ I said, ‘you will please remove that beast at once and never bring it into my bar again. I’m surprised at you doing such a thing.’ ‘It’s only an ocelot,’ he said. ‘Only an ocelot—that’s quite enough, I should think,’ I told him. ‘If you don’t take it away immediately I shall call the police. I won’t have ocelots in my bar!’ ‘There’s only one,’ said Mr Raydell. ‘I don’t care if there is one or fifty,’ I told him. ‘It’s the principle of the thing. Now take it away at once, please. Suppose it went for anybody? It might kill some poor old lady before you could stop it.’ ”
“Who was in the bar at the time?”
“Oh, a number of people. It was my busy time. Mr and Mrs Baxeter were present. They do not often come in and never have anything but Lemon Barley, but they happened to be here. Then Mr Bickley who worked for Mrs Westmacott. As I say, Mr Carew. There was Mr Gilling who looks after the car-park at the Granodeon Cinema, a very quiet respectable person; also a chauffeur from the Royal Hydro named Wright.”
“Splendid collection. Anyone else?”
“Yes, unfortunately. One of my Crosses. Mr Ben Johnson, an artist. There was the lady who screamed, with her husband, but they were just passing through and staying in the hotel.”
“And they all heard you say that about killing an old lady?”
“When I mean my voice to be heard it is heard.”
“So Mr Raydell went off?”
“At once. Yes. But I was upset. I didn’t show it, but I was very upset indeed.”
“I’m not surprised. Mr Raydell is a familiar figure in the town?”
“Oh yes. He’s a farmer in quite a big way. Everyone knows him and until this occasion he had never given me any cause for offence. His farm is well known, because he has some successful dairy cattle, or something of the sort. I understand they have taken prizes for the quantity of milk they have given. Someone explained it one evening, but I had to discourage the topic. It did not sound very nice …”
“Now tell me about Mr Ben Johnson, Miss Shapely. Do you think he would fit into the programme?”
“Not if I’m in it. I couldn’t possibly appear with Mr Johnson. He is a most violent and self-assertive man. His Language is dreadful. He drinks more than is good for him. I have heard things about his private life which are shameful. Quite shameful. I have begged him not to come here, but it’s no use. On more than one occasion I have had to put him in his place for familiarity.”
“I gather he wasn’t fond of the Westmacotts?”
“He spoke disgracefully about them. I’ve heard him call Mrs Westmacott awful names.”
“No. Really?”
“Yes. He didn’t know her, but it seems she had wished to befriend him. ‘The old …’ (you know what I mean), he shouted. For a long time Mr Johnson was unsuccessful as an artist. No one was prepared to buy the pictures he painted and I must say I wasn’t surprised. I don’t know much about art, but I do like a picture to look like what it says it is. Years ago, before Mr Johnson had been taken up, he brought one of his paintings in here. He wanted me to hang it up and try to sell it. It was a most peculiar picture which I thought represented a tropical bird in a cage. I asked him what he called it and he said it did not matter much. ‘Fresh herrings,’ he said. ‘No, call it Nude Figure. They like that better.’ Of course as soon as he said that I told him to take the thing away. But you see the kind of artist he is. While he was unable to sell his pictures he did not come to the notice of Mrs Westmacott, but after people began to buy them and he became known, Mrs Westmacott wished to meet him. He spoke in the most dreadful way of her. He said he would never so-and-so well meet her …”
“So-and-so?”
“Beginning with B,” explained Miss Shapely. “Oh he never went farther than that. I had to speak to him. ‘Language, Mr Johnson, language!’ I said to warn him. Then I pointed out that he did not even know Mrs Westmacott. ‘Never set eyes on the old …’ ”
“Yes?”
“He used a disgraceful word.”
“Beginning with B?”
“Certainly not! Not in my bar. He called her … I scarcely like to say it … he actually called her a cow. ‘Never set eyes on her, nor she on me. And never likely to.’ You see the kind of man he is? He had no consideration for the family. Spoke most disrespectfully of Mr Gabriel Westmacott.”
“Why?”
“Mr Gabriel Westmacott is a well known lecturer.”
“I must say I had never heard of him.”
“Oh yes. Only a fortnight ago the Buddington Courier published an announcement that he was going up to Lancashire to lecture on the following Thursday. We all read that.”
“All?”
“All my regulars. It was handed round. I particularly remembered it afterwards, because the lecture was on the night his poor mother was murdered. Mr Johnson was quite violent about it. The school of art on which Mr Gabriel Westmacott lectured was not at all one he liked, it seemed.”
At this moment the first of Miss Shapely’s
regular customers arrived, an elderly gentleman who stumped in and asked for a double gin and soda. Miss Shapely served him herself with a queenly smile.
“There you are, Mr Sawyer. You well this evening?”
“As well as can be expected after that shock,” said Mr Sawyer.
“There! That’s weeks ago now, you know. You should forget it.”
“What did he call it?”
“An ocelot.”
Mr Sawyer turned to Carolus.
“What would you say to an ocelot attacking you in a bar in England?” he asked stertorously.
“I shouldn’t speak to it,” said Carolus.
“Um,” said Mr Sawyer and swallowed his gin.
“Why, what did you say?”
“Um,” repeated Mr Sawyer, then turning to Miss Shapely demanded another gin.
“One thing,” said Miss Shapely, “you’ll never see it again. Mr Raydell knows better than that. Not in my bar, anyway.” Suddenly the richness left her voice and the brightness went from her eyes as another customer entered. “Good evening,” she murmured disagreeably in answer to his greeting. “Fred will serve you, Mr Carew.”
9
CAROLUS examined the much-discussed Charlie Carew, police suspect number one, beneficiary from the will of Sophia Carew, bankrupt reprobate with a motive for murdering his aunt. He saw a man such as one expects to see
on most nights of the week in the hotel bar of any provincial town. Carew looked good-natured, waggish, not very intelligent and given to regular but not extreme over-indulgence. He would talk, one knew before hearing him, of cricket in the summer and football in the winter or, all the year round, of greyhound racing, television, horse-racing, what happened to him that morning, what he had dreamt last night, what somebody had said to him, the weather, football pools, the intelligence of his dog if he had one, the number of cigarettes he smoked and any ailments from which he might be suffering.
Miss Shapely, so far from effecting an introduction, seemed determined to ignore Carew’s presence and became closely interested in Mr Symonds. But no introduction was necessary.
“Good evening,” said Carew. “What did you think of the fight last night?”
For one moment Carolus wondered whether Miss Shapely had had more Trouble in her bar. But he remembered in time that another white hope of British boxing had faded.
“Tough,” said Carolus. “Your name’s Carew, isn’t it? I have been asked by Miss Tissot to try to clear up the double murder.”
Carew smiled.
“I’m your man,” he said. “The odds are about three to one on. My Aunt Sophia left me her money. I haven’t an alibi for that evening. I’m obviously a desperate sort of villain, anyway.”
“Have a drink?” asked Carolus.
“I won’t say no. Mine’s a rum and Coca-Cola.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Rum and coke. Nice drink. Refreshing and potent…. Cheerio.”
“Where were you that night, Mr Carew?”
“Looked in here about seven. I wasn’t here long. Just to wet my whistle. It was a dull sort of a day and I felt bloody tired.”
“Language, Mr Carew!” called Miss Shapely imperiously.
“Then I came back as usual, didn’t I, Miss Shapely? Night of the murder, remember?”
“Rather later than usual. It wasn’t far short of closing time when you got back.”
“Where had you been in the meantime?”
“Home, old man. Back to my little place for a snack. I always make a point of that. Doesn’t do to drink unless you eat something.”
“Where is your house?”
“Know the Granodeon? Not far from there. Up the back. Number 7 Quincey Street.”
“You live there alone?”
“Yes, thank God. Wife and I agreed to differ some years ago and I look after myself. I don’t like digs.”
“Pity, though, from one point of view. It means you have no alibi for your aunt’s murder.”
“I know. Awkward, isn’t it? But do they know what time poor old Sophia was done for? Because I may have an alibi. I was here about this time and don’t suppose I left till nearly eight. Then I was back at half-past nine. It doesn’t leave a lot of time.”
“It didn’t need a lot of time.”
“But listen … what did you say your name was? But listen, Deene, does anyone seriously think I murdered Sophia? It’s so far-fetched that I can’t believe I’m really suspected.”
“I should think the police have serious suspicions.”
“It’s quite absurd. Sophia was a dear, really. Helped me out no end of times.”
“She was popular?”
“She didn’t mix much here. She had friends in London. Cosmopolitan crowd—you know, talked a sort of bastard English …”
“Mr Carew!” called Miss Shapely. “Please be careful of your Language. I won’t have words like that used in my bar as well you know.”
“What words?” asked Carew innocently.
“You know very well. Begins with a B.”
“Yes, Sophia knew any amount of foreigners. I didn’t see many of them. People who had read her books. Germans, Swiss, that sort of thing. I remember there was a Doctor Fuchs …”
“I’m listening, Mr Carew,” said Miss Shapely ominously.
“But to return to yourself,” said Carolus. “Can’t you produce any sort of an alibi for that hour and a half?”
“How can I have one? I was in my house frying myself a bit of steak and eating it. I’m there every evening at that time. If I had known I’d need an alibi I’d have called on the neighbours or something. But no one saw me come in or go out to the best of my knowledge.”
“You see, what makes your situation so tricky is the lack of any other suspect. The only other people to benefit from your aunt’s death are the Baxeters and Martha Tissot. She is physically incapable of it and the Baxeters scarcely seem …”
“The type? But I thought you investigators laughed at the idea of a murderous type.”
“We do. But there are limits. Have you got any suggestions to make?”
“Not really. Unless it could have been someone from outside. London or somewhere. As I’ve told you, she had a wide acquaintance.”
“You don’t want me to consider Sign of Four sort of possibilities, do you? Someone appearing from her past with a lust for revenge. A Tuareg, perhaps?”
“No. But it needn’t have been someone from Buddington. I see what you mean about the Baxeters. They don’t seem exactly bloodthirsty, do they? I had dinner there once. Christ! I shall never forget it!”
“Mr Carew—Language, please,” called Miss Shapely with exasperation.
“It was terrifying, old man. Positively terrifying. Beetroot and dandelion soup. Then a hors d’oeuvres …”
“Mr Carew, I shan’t speak to you again!”
“Consisting of grated raw carrot and figs, followed by mock duck and sweet potatoes with semolina and fruit juice as a sweet. It turned me up, old man. The frightful thing is that Mrs Baxeter was supposed to be a wonderful cook. How can people prostitute their talents …”
“I shall have to ask you to leave in a minute, Mr Carew.”
“Still, even offering a guest that sort of thing is not murder in the ordinary sense of the word. I had taken the trouble to buy Mrs Baxeter some flowers, too. Sorry, she said, we don’t have flowers in the house. Lovely bunch of Love-Lies-Bleeding …”
“That’s enough now, Mr Carew. You finish up your drink and leave, please. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times I will not have Language.”
“It was only the name of a flower.”
“I daresay, but there’s no need to use those words with it. Beginning with B, I mean. Well, I’ll give you one more chance.”
Carew looked towards the door.
“Here’s old Johnson,” he said. “He’ll shake her. He always does.”
Ben Johnson looked as though he might. His garb was an affect
ed version of the farm-labourer’s, corduroy trousers and a handkerchief knotted at the neck. He had not shaved for at least two days and whitish stubble showed on a face which looked otherwise rather young. His teeth were in urgent need of a skilled and ruthless dentist, and the hand in which he held his brandy and soda seemed a little uncertain.
“Hullo, Johnson,” said Carew. “This is Carolus Deene. He’s investigating the two murders.”
“Evening,” said the artist. “You’re wasting your time. Who cares who bumped off the old crows?”
Carew giggled.
“I do rather. One was my aunt.”
“Well, I know. But after a certain age what good are we to anyone? I hope when I get there someone will do me in.”
“Someone probably will, if you talk like that,” said Carolus. “Only a man scared of death would even do that kind of whistling in the dark.”
“What in hell do you mean?”
“Er … Mr Johnson …” called Miss Shapely, mildly for such a mild expletive.
“I mean that you talk like a fool. What difference does the age of people matter when they are murdered? A murderer is arrogating to himself the powers of God. It is damnable presumption and if we, the rest of humanity, let it pass we should be pusillanimous rats. Whoever killed those women is going to pay for it with his life or liberty, I can assure you of that.”
“Nice piece of tub-thumping,” said the artist.
“I admit it. I just don’t find murder funny, that’s all. Did you know Sophia Carew?”
“Just met her. Bit of a gorgon, I thought.”
“And Mrs Westmacott?”
“No, thank God. There I did draw the line. I never met that bitch …”
“Mr Johnson, will you please control your Language in my bar?” called Miss Shapely.
“What’s the matter? I was talking about a female dog. How would you refer to it?”
“You could quite easily say a lady-dog. There’s no need to use words beginning with B.”
“You don’t know the provocation I’ve had,” said Ben Johnson, then turning to Carolus, Carew and Priggley went on: “You ask if I knew her. I did not, but it has cost me a year’s work to say so. The woman was indefatigable. She’d been patted on the head as a child by Burne-Jones or someone, and it had turned her artist-mad for the rest of her life.”