by Roy Vickers
“Look where motivation landed you with Claudia. You gape at Fenchurch’s picture and kid yourself that she’s a saint and a devil and a nice girl and an arch humbug all done up in one parcel. You then assume that she scuppered Watlington in order to make sure of being able to nurse the young man for life. True or not, that motivation has petered out. At this moment she says she believes Ralph is guilty—because he described to her so vividly how he struck Watlington through his wig!”
Benscombe had been waiting to get a word in edgeways.
“Yes, sir. Because the part of the original plan that did not go wrong is the bit where the two innocent persons—Ralph and Querk—let us know that the Fenchurch letters were enclosed with the Will. The murderer had an answer ready for that one.”
As Crisp made no comment, Benscombe continued:
“The murderer’s answer was given by Claudia, when she said that Watlington had changed his mind about the marriage—with the inference that he destroyed the letters himself. Querk’s evidence comes very close to a denial of that. When Claudia tells Fenchurch that ‘the pace is getting hot’—Fenchurch’s own words—we find a piece of brown paper which leads to Fenchurch counteracting Querk’s statement and himself coming very close to confirming Claudia’s statement. And now we find that Claudia believes in Ralph’s guilt! Does she believe it, sir, or is she ‘cutting her loss and getting clear’?”
“I don’t know. But one can be too clever at this game of guessing what people are thinking. Because a person appears to be transparently honest, it doesn’t follow that that person is a crook. Unless we can unearth some solid fact about Fenchurch—”
He broke off as the telephone rang.
“Take that call, will you,” he ordered.
Benscombe picked up the receiver. A couple of seconds later he caught his breath.
“Yes, hold on a minute, please. I’ll put you through to the Chief Constable.”
He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and then:
“Sir! Have this call traced while I stall him,” he whispered.
Crisp slid noiselessly to the instrument on Benscombe’s desk, while the latter embarked on the stalling process.
“Hullo? I’m afraid I shall have to keep you waiting a minute or so. The Chief Constable is himself speaking on the telephone. I’m his aide—his secretary, you know. Is there anything I can do for you?”
The answer was a still greater surprise to Benscombe.
“D’you mean you’re the young man who was with him in my flat this morning?”
“Yes,” gasped Benscombe. “Who are you, please?”
“I’m Mrs. Cornboise, of course. Now, you know what you did at the Goat-in-Flames this morning!”
“Yes, Mrs. Cornboise!“ Benscombe had passed the news to Crisp.
“Well, I’ve been round there and they wouldn’t let me into his room. They didn’t mind for themselves, but they said you’d sealed the room up.”
“Quite correct, Mrs. Cornboise.”
“I’m not so sure it’s all that correct. You’ve sealed up something of mine I left there when I went to see him. I want it.”
“I’ll see what can be done if you’ll tell me what it is … Hullo! Are you there?”
“Of course I’m there! I was only collecting my thoughts. It’s a bag, not my ordinary one, because I brought that back. Now I come to remember, it must be the small handbag with a handle.”
With soothing remarks, Benscombe cut off.
Crisp looked up.
“Are you sure it’s the same voice, Benscombe?”
“Yes, sir. It’s two tones lower on the telephone. I thought it was a man at first.”
“As you are sure—come along.”
The way to Kilburn lay past Watlington Lodge. Ahead of them as they approached, a car came through the Lodge gates and turned on to the London road.
“That’s Querk’s car, sir. He may be going there too. Shall we race him?”
“No. You could only beat him by a few minutes. Trail him.”
Chapter Seventeen
Led by Querk’s car, they took the main London Road. Benscombe closed up to within fifty yards.
“There’s someone beside him sir.” Benscombe drew out, to get an angle on his view through the back window of Querk’s car. “A girl!”
“Claudia?”
“Can’t tell. I don’t think they’re Claudia’s shoulders.”
In time, Querk turned north to Kilburn. Near the corner of Acacia Road, Benscombe stopped. Crisp took out his watch.
“They’ve had two minutes—that’s long enough. We’ll join the party.”
Having rounded the corner, Benscombe suddenly put on speed.
“He’s left the girl in the car.” A moment later: “It’s Glenda Parsons—Fenchurch’s girl. And she didn’t look up—hasn’t seen us.”
A couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a side street.
“You stay in the car,” ordered Crisp. “Trail Querk when he comes out. I’ll take a taxi back.”
Crisp walked along. About to enter the building, he turned to Querk’s car.
“Good afternoon, Miss Parsons.”
“Oo!” wailed Glenda. “Good afternoon.”
“Is this your car?”
“No—it belongs to a gentleman friend who’s giving me a lift.” She added: “If we oughtn’t to have parked here, I’m ever so sorry, and I’m sure he won’t be long.”
So she thought that a Chief Constable would go on the prowl for parking offences! Anyhow, she had given him an idea.
“I shall have to send your gentleman friend a caution. What’s his name and address?”
“Well, he’s a Mr. Harris, as a matter of fact,” said Glenda. “I’m not sure of his address, as he moved the other day. If it’s only a caution, you can send it care of me and I’ll see that he gets it and tells you he’s sorry. My address—”
“We have your address,” said Crisp. Under her eye, he turned into the building, having learnt that she was up to some little racket with Querk in which his name was not to be mentioned.
After some delay, Crisp’s knock was answered, not by the teen aged maid, but by Mrs. Cornboise herself.
“What again!” she exclaimed. “I expect it’s my fault for bothering you about that bag. I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure.”
She held out her hand as if she expected him to produce the bag from his person. She was still wearing the black satin dress, but her appearance had changed. With something approaching awe, Crisp became aware that her face had been made up—apparently by her own inexpert hand. There were uneven smears of rouge on her cheeks: incredibly, too, she had toyed with lipstick. With her incongruously youthful-looking eyes, the total effect was one of rather gross disreputability.
“You’ll excuse me not asking you to step in, as I have company,” she added. She was waiting for that bag.
“You shall have your bag, Mrs. Cornboise, as soon as we’ve found it—and examined the contents.”
Crisp had pitched his voice to carry into the flat. As he expected, the door of the sitting-room was opened by Querk.
“My dear Mrs. Cornboise! Colonel Crisp and I are already acquainted. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of inconveniencing either yourself or the Chief Constable. Won’t you ask the Colonel to join us?”
Behind the gush, Crisp perceived the challenge. Querk had taken charge of this witness and intended to keep charge. That meant he was running a little racket with Mrs. Cornboise, as well as with Glenda.
“Well of course he can come in, if he wants to!” said Mrs. Cornboise in manifest disappointment. She was not good at taking a lead. He did not envy Querk his task.
“It is most fortunate that you happened to call at this time,” Querk was intoning as they drifted into the stage-property kitchen. “Mrs. Cornboise was saying only yesterday that her position as a most reluctant witness is a somewhat unenviable one—even, in certain contingencies, an ambiguous one. For th
at reason, we agreed that, in any future interview desired by the police, it would be in the interests of—er—both sides, if Mrs. Cornboise were represented by—ah—myself.”
“Did we!” Mrs. Cornboise, sitting upright in the wheel-backed chair, looked so astonished that Querk was forced to add:
“Not in those words, perhaps. But I think that was the burden of our little talk. As the Chief Constable is doubtless aware, I happen to be a qualified solicitor, though I have not sought regular practice. So if you feel you have sufficient confidence in my poor abilities, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—”
“You don’t need to ask me that, Mr. Querk. You know I have all the confidence in you anybody could possibly have in anybody else!”
The harsh, deep-toned voice had softened to a simper. The mis-decorated face puckered into a smile. In fact, the suspicion entertained by Benscombe was justified. Boy meets girl. Or, at least, Girl Meets Boy! But what the devil was Querk up to, he wondered.
“As you please,” said Crisp. “You gave me certain information, Mrs. Cornboise, as to what you observed from that seat in the garden. This morning you added information about the car. Have you any other information to give us which you, for your own reasons, have held back?”
“I think, Chief Constable,” cut in Querk, “that we are entitled to ask that questions should be of a specific nature.”
Querk, of course, knew that the power of the police was limited to the power of arrest on suspicion, which had to be justified—that in no circumstances could he demand an answer to his questions. Crisp perceived that he would find out nothing about Mrs. Cornboise that Querk wished to be concealed. The point of interest was—what did Querk wish to conceal?
“Specifically, Mrs. Cornboise, did you leave the garden at any time and enter the house?”
“Do not answer that question!”
Querk had almost shouted. Crisp grinned.
“Mr. Querk, I’m wondering what an innocent person could possibly lose by answering that question?”
“Innocent!” Querk registered surprise. “My dear Colonel, can you believe that I am concerned with the innocence of Mrs. Cornboise in the matter of the murder? Surely that is too obvious to merit our attention! I am concerned with the difficult question of molestation. If Mrs. Cornboise had entered that house uninvited, her entry might well be construed by the trustees as an act of molestation. Under the terms of the Trust she would then be in danger of losing her income.”
Crisp, amused, wondered what the next excuse would be.
“On that afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise, did you see Lord Watlington—whether alive or dead, did you see him?”
“By connotation,” cut in Querk, “that is the same question, since it would have been impossible to see my poor friend—living or dead—from the garden.”
“My next question is not the same,” said Crisp. He noted that Mrs. Cornboise was looking aggressive. Querk maintained the outward serenity of a cat at a mousehole. “At about seven o’clock on that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise—” Crisp dragged out the question, then finished with a rush—“did you telephone the police that Lord Watlington had been murdered?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Mrs. Cornboise had spoken before Querk could stop her.
“Ex-cellent!” ejaculated Querk. “If she did, why should she not have done so? A rhetorical question which, for our purposes, Chief Constable, is tantamount to saying that Mrs. Cornboise will neither deny nor affirm that she gave that information to the police.”
“Tantamount,” echoed Crisp, “to a refusal to answer. The negatives are mounting up, Mr. Querk. Did she enter the house? Did she see Watlington? Alive or dead? Was she aware of the fact of murder at seven—before anybody else? Answers refused on all points, each of which closely touches the murder.”
“Each point closely touches the murder!” repeated Querk. “And. you wonder why I object to a palpably innocent woman giving you a simple, straightforward yes or no on each point. Have you forgotten, Chief Constable, that the defence will be entitled to treat Mrs. Cornboise as a hostile witness? Imagine depositions containing those straightforward answers—that simple yes or that equally simple no. It would not matter which. On any statement made by Mrs. Cornboise, counsel would subject her to a devastating cross-examination, barbed with innuendo. You and I both know how an innocent person can suffer in health through the suggestion of guilt, dishonesty, evasion, reiterated endlessly in open court. Moreover—”
“If they said all that about me, I’d answer them back.”
“Moreover—”
“You’re ignoring that she can be cross-examined on the statements already made to us.”
“Moreover, Mrs. Cornboise is anxious to observe the wish of her late husband—unwarranted and even cruel though it may be—to avoid courting publicity for the circumstances of her marriage.”
“That will come out on her identity,” Crisp reminded him.
“The fact of marriage will come out, but not the circumstances of their separation,” asserted Querk. “Cross-examination on an assertion—or a denial—that she had entered the house would drag out the full story of their relationship—a story which is necessarily painful to a lady of sensitiveness, who—if I may say so, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—has a very proper pride in her own womanhood.”
He was orating exclusively at Mrs. Cornboise, and Crisp noted that the oratory was effective. She had been frightened enough to keep her mouth shut and flattered enough to make her glad to obey Querk and refuse to talk to the police in future.
Before Crisp reached the corner of the road, Querk drove past him, Glenda turning her back to the pathway. A couple of hundred yards behind came Benscombe, on Querk’s trail.
Crisp walked on to the High Road, where he took a taxi to the Goat-in-Flames. In the room that had been occupied by Ralph, the only personal belongings were the books on insanity. He found Mrs. Cornboise’s bag in one of the drawers—a small brief bag of the kind commonly carried by business men forty years ago.
Back in his own headquarters, after fumbling with the complicated catches, he opened the bag. Inside was a package of plain white paper.
“That woman must have a starvation phobia,” he mused. “A fifteen minute bus ride—and she carries sandwiches.” There was a litter of picture postcards, a hymn book and a pencil and pencil-sharpener.
Protruding from a slit in the lining was a limp card, of the kind used in an index.
“Here we are!” he ejaculated. On the card, which served as a memo slip, had been typed five questions, numbered:
‘(1) Where did the car stop? (2) For how long? (3) Did R. leave the car? (4) Any witnesses while car was stationary? (5) Did R. proceed straight to Three Witches?’
When Benscombe came in he was invited to inspect the card.
“I don’t think Mrs. Cornboise can use a typewriter,” he remarked.
“And I don’t think she would use the word ‘stationary’,” supplemented Crisp. “In fact, our Mr. Querk is running his own private C.I.D. With your passion for motivation, you can get your teeth into that one. What did he do with Glenda?”
“Took her to a block in Westminster, where he has a small office. He kept her there for half an hour. She came out without him. I didn’t trail her.”
“What’s the office like?”
“Two rooms in an expensive block. Very small nameplate—just ‘Mr. A. Querk.’ The porter told me it’s unoccupied most of the year. Querk turns up for two or three days at a time, bringing his typist with him. That’s all I got, sir. I went up and listened outside the door, but couldn’t hear anything except the typewriter—sounded as if the typist were taking direct dictation.”
“He was probably taking a statement from Glenda. Can’t do much with him until he shows his hand. If he has a hand! He’s certainly running Mrs. Cornboise. Advised her not to answer my questions.”
Benscombe went to his desk, surveyed the arrears with dismay.
“D’you think,
sir, he’s working with Claudia?”
“Working for what?”
“I’m thinking of what you said about motivation changing once we get on the trail. To start with, both of ’em seemed to be working overtime to get Ralph out of it. Now they both seem to be helping to push him in.”
“Ingenious, except that we aren’t on the trail, but clean off it,” grunted Crisp. “We’re where we were when Ralph dished out his confession.” He added, meditatively: “We haven’t dug out a single fact of major importance. The tracks have been confused, so that they all lead back to the starting point.”
The house telephone buzzed on Benscombe’s desk. As he picked up the receiver, he said: “And who confused the tracks, sir? … Hullo.”
“Mr. Fenchurch,” said Sergeant Willocks, “is in the waiting-room asking for the Chief.”
“Tell them to send him up, Benscombe,” ordered Crisp. “If he hands out any lies, I shall see if I can frighten him. The experts who looked at those pictures agreed that he is an artist. That may explain his manner, but it doesn’t explain his tale—which you think is a plant to prop up Claudia, don’t you?”
“Well, sir, we have to take his word that Watlington himself opened that envelope and gave him the letters. Whenever we ask for a spot of proof, all we get is some more artistic temperament.”
Fenchurch at police headquarters was something without precedent. Suspicion was excited by his too imaginative sports coat, the dun coloured glove on his left hand, his air of not understanding the nature of a police force. His escort showed a tendency to hover.
“Well, Mr. Fenchurch!” Crisp’s tone was frigid. “You’ve brought me some information, I hope?”
“About the murder? Why, I thought that was all over! Claudia told me that you had arrested Ralph and that he accepted full responsibility, poor devil! Doesn’t that wash out the brown paper and all those other things we got gummed up with?”