The Hunter and the Trapped

by Josephine Bell

  “Naturally.”

  “I understand that a Mr. Nelson undertook to …”

  “Oh, some of the others were always out when she did their rooms. I am tied by my hip. I seldom go out. Too painful and too tiring. No. I was always in when she came.”

  “Like Mr. Nelson?”

  “Like Mr. Nelson.”

  Mont thanked her and left. Her opposite neighbour had nothing to contribute. A middle-aged bachelor clerk at a bank he was one of those who never saw Mrs. Morris and paid her through Mr. Nelson. He had no complaints to make about her work. He had never missed any of his possessions. Looking round his very poorly furnished room this did not surprise the Inspector. The Morrises were both knowledgeable and discriminating. They stole for profit, not for the hell of it.

  Mont continued up the stairs. He found Mr. Nelson’s card on the second floor, opposite that of a Mr. Fawcett. Deciding to speak to Nelson later he rang the other bell but got no response. After all, he couldn’t expect to find them all in, he decided, turning away. He went on up the stairs.

  The third floor was totally unprofitable. Both tenants were business girls, who did their own cleaning. On the fourth floor there lived another clerk who also employed Mrs. Morris without seeing her at work and Miss Draper, the school teacher who kept her bicycle in the yard.

  She was the only one so far who showed any feeling for the murdered woman, Mont decided. As soon as he explained who he was she said, “It’s so horrible I can’t bear to think about it and I can’t stop. Poor thing, attacked in the yard, with no one to hear a cry for help.”

  “How d’you know all that? How d’you know there was no one to hear?”

  Miss Draper was startled.

  “Didn’t it happen on Saturday? When the Wilsons were out? I thought that was why …”

  She broke off, looking miserable and frightened.

  “We are still trying to establish the time,” Mont said. “Did you go into the yard yourself at any time on Saturday?”

  “Yes. To get out my bicycle. I ride it to school and back every day.”

  “Is there school on Saturdays?”

  Miss Draper blushed.

  “Not official lessons. But we are trying to establish a small games club. One of the other teachers takes the boys and I take the girls. Netball. We’ve nearly got a full team now.”

  “So you took your bicycle out on Saturday morning. At the usual time? When would that be?”

  “Oh, no. The usual time is eight fifteen. On Saturdays I don’t start from here till nine. The children drift in any time after ten.”

  “And when did you bring it back – the bicycle?”

  “About two in the afternoon.” She blushed again. “I had lunch out – with the other teacher.”

  “Did you see anyone at all in the yard on Saturday?”

  “No. The Wilsons were just going out by the front door when I came down. I don’t know what time they came back.”

  “But the yard was unlocked?”

  “Yes. They unlock it every morning, early. They shut it at night, though.”

  “Aren’t you afraid your bike might be pinched?”

  “Oh, no. I keep it in the Wilson’s coal shed. They let me have a duplicate key of the door.”

  Mont decided that he now had the full description of Miss Draper’s habits in respect of her bicycle and that he had not so far progressed a fraction of an inch in his inquiries. He went down to the second floor and rang Mr. Nelson’s bell.

  It was answered immediately. With disarming frankness Nelson said, “I was expecting you. Please come in,” and waved his hand in the direction of an empty armchair set ready on the hearthrug opposite his own. The Chief-inspector walked over to it and Sergeant Clay, ignored by Mr. Nelson, found himself a small upright chair near the door.

  “So you were expecting me,” said Mont, pleasantly, when he had settled himself. “Any particular reason?”

  “Only the one that must have struck you at once. That I was probably the last person to see her alive.” He struck a match to light a cigarette, offered the packet to the Inspector, who refused, and added in the same tone of voice, “Except the murderer, of course.”

  “Of course,” echoed Mont.

  He waited for a few seconds, considering carefully the man before him. Tall, thin, with a grey lined face and silver-grey hair, very light blue eyes, a mouth drawn down at the corners. A shabby dark grey suit, a crumpled shirt and stringy tie. Not a prosperous or even a clean appearance. But the man spoke in a quiet cultivated voice, without hesitation or embarrassment.

  “Mrs. Morris worked for you as usual on Saturday, did she?” Mont asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you paid her as usual?”

  “I did. For myself and the other three. It used to be two, but Miss Draper goes out in the morning on Saturday now, so instead of coming down to my flat to pay Mrs. Morris herself at twelve noon, Miss Draper has been giving me the money for her, too.”

  “So that would be four sums you gave her. Two hours each at … ?”

  “Five bob an hour. Two pounds.”

  “I wonder she thought it worth her while to work here. Six days a week, counting your opposite neighbour, Mr. Fawcett, and Mrs. Hyde, and only two hours each day, ten to twelve.”

  Mr. Nelson took a little while to answer. Then he said, “She cleaned some offices just up the road from eight to ten or thereabouts, every day. It filled her morning to come here. I have no idea what she did with her afternoons.”

  Mont was not prepared to make any suggestions. Instead he asked, “Did Mr. Fawcett get you to pay for him or did he pay her himself?”

  “In term time he was at the college on Friday and paid through me on that day. In the vacations he was usually in when she came, unless he was on holiday away from the flat altogether. I don’t know what arrangement he made then. The caretaker let her in, I think. Or he may have given her a key.”

  “Wouldn’t that be rather unusual?”

  “Possibly. But Mr. Fawcett is an unusual man.”

  “Are you never out when she comes?”

  “No.” Mr. Nelson ground out the stub of his cigarette. “I am a retired man,” he finished. “My time is my own.”

  “May I ask from what profession?”

  “Business.”

  Mont waited but Mr. Nelson did not elaborate. Instead he lit another cigarette. Bankruptcy, Mont speculated, or something worse?

  “As far as you know, then, Mrs. Morris left these flats at twelve noon with wages amounting to two pounds in her handbag?”

  It was at this moment that Mr. Nelson’s composure cracked most unexpectedly. His hands trembled, his voice rose as he exclaimed violently, “How do I know what money she had in her handbag? You don’t imagine I looked into it, do you? Or asked her? It was no business of mine what she chose to carry about with her!”

  “I was not suggesting that it was,” said Mont, quietly. “I was not suggesting anything about the contents of her handbag, for the very good reason that we have not yet come across it.”

  Mr. Nelson’s face flamed red with anger and then faded to an even more sickly grey than before.

  “But it occurs to me that you may know precisely what you so unnecessarily denied,” went on Mont. “Look here, Mr. Nelson. Mrs. Morris was not entirely unknown to us. I’m sure you know as much about the criminal habits of her husband as Mrs. Hyde does, and probably the rest of you, including the Wilsons. I’m going to ask you a straight question which you need not answer. But it might help us materially if you will.”

  “I need not answer any of your questions,” said Mr. Nelson, now thoroughly roused. “But you will not be put off, so say what you want to.”

  “Was Mrs. Morris blackmailing you?”

  “No.”

  “Has she ever made any attempt to blackmail you?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you know, or think you know, that she had a considerable sum of money in her handbag when she lef
t here on Saturday morning?”

  “I have not said so.”

  “You have implied it.”

  “I’m not responsible for the interpretation you put on my words.”

  “Very well. You realise you will be called to the inquest. If you really were the last person to see Mrs. Morris alive.”

  “Except the murderer.”

  Chief-inspector Mont was irritated but he saw that he would get nothing more from Nelson at this interview, though he had gathered one or two impressions that needed following up.

  As he stepped out on to the landing, followed by Sergeant Clay, he found Simon Fawcett there in the act of unlocking his door.

  “Mr. Fawcett?” he asked, stepping forward.

  “That’s me. You’re the cops, aren’t you? Mrs. Hyde told me you were on the prowl. Come on in.”

  The two police officers exchanged glances, but said nothing. Simon went ahead into his room, putting down the parcels he was carrying on the table and turning back to close the door behind the others.

  “Been needling poor old Nelson, have you?” he asked, handing round a packet of cigarettes, which this time, feeling curiously relaxed, both the other men accepted. “He must have been about the last to see Mrs. Morris, wasn’t he?”

  “He saw her leave his flat at twelve noon,” said Mont, slowly. “Did you see her yourself that morning, sir?”

  “No. Actually, I was away for the weekend. Shall we sit down?”

  They settled themselves and Simon waited, turning a polite, interested face to the Chief-inspector.

  “Did you leave here on the Friday or the Saturday?”

  “Saturday. About half-past nine, I think it was. But I was downstairs before that. To tell the Wilsons I wouldn’t be back till this morning.”

  “You saw the Wilsons? I understand they went out very early on Saturday. At nine, he told me.”

  Simon gave him his warm smile.

  “Then it must have been nine when I went down. Miss Draper was on the stairs. She passed me. You’d better ask her. Or Mrs. Hyde. She was taking in her milk as I went up again. Either of them is better at knowing the exact time than I am.”

  “So you did not see Mrs. Morris at all on Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “May I know where you spent the weekend?”

  “Of course. Old friends in Sussex. Shall I give you their address?”

  “Please.”

  This was all very straightforward, Mont decided. Not in the least helpful.

  “Did you drive down to your friends in Sussex?”

  Again Simon smiled broadly.

  “Oh, no. I don’t run to a car. I went by train from Victoria.”

  Deciding that he was getting too far away from the business in hand, Mont switched back quickly.

  “Mrs. Morris used to work for you on Fridays, didn’t she?” he asked.

  “Yes. But I turned her off last Friday. I’m afraid I found her less than satisfactory.”

  “Oh. In what way?”

  “Does it matter now the poor old girl has paid for it?”

  “What d’you mean, paid for it?”

  Simon, not at all put out, laughed deprecatingly.

  “Not the right way to put it. But one can’t help wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “Well, she had her peculiarities, you know. I don’t want to be indiscreet, because I don’t know what the others have told you.”

  “Meaning – who?”

  Simon opened his fine eyes very wide.

  “The other flats, of course. Mrs. Hyde …”

  “Yes?”

  “She had a spot of bother with the Morris,” Simon said, slowly. “But Morris didn’t get any change out of that old lady and I’m not surprised. Are you?”

  “Did Mrs. Hyde confide in you?”

  “People,” said Simon, softly, “have an unfortunate habit of confiding in me.”

  Chief-inspector Mont felt an instant slight repulsion, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. “And Mr. Nelson?” he asked.

  “Oh, Nelson thought she was pathological. But then he’s a doctor. Was, I mean.”

  “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Fawcett?”

  “I mean before he was struck off, or whatever they call it. Oh, didn’t you know that? Now I really have dropped a clanger!”

  Mont’s feeling of repulsion came back and remained. His mouth tightened.

  “Another confidence?” he asked, grimly.

  “Why, no.” Simon was all cheerful candour. “No. It was one time when I was starting a go of flu. I felt frightful and my temperature was soaring and I thought I might just die in my bed with no one knowing. So I crawled to the door and across the landing to ask Nelson to get hold of a doctor for me. I’m bad at arranging things and almost never ill, so I hadn’t got a doctor, you see. Nelson took me back to bed and examined me straight away. He told me he’d been in general practice but was out of it and couldn’t prescribe. But he gave me some stuff he’d got by him and said if it didn’t work in a few hours’ time he’d get me his own doctor. It did work, so that was that.”

  “Did he tell you why he’d been struck off?”

  “Eventually. But you’ll have to look that one up for yourself.”

  Simon was grinning at him cheerfully. Mont pulled himself together.

  “You implied just now that Mrs. Morris had enemies.”

  “Did I?”

  “You said she’d ‘paid for it.’ For what, Mr. Fawcett? Blackmail?”

  “That was in my mind.”

  “In relation to whom?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Simon, gently, “you’ll have to do your own research, Inspector.”

  “Was she blackmailing you?” Simon laughed.

  “A university lecturer? That would be a very unprofitable business.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  “The short answer is no. Like Mrs. Hyde I am not the sort of person who can be blackmailed.”

  Which was a thoroughly ambiguous answer, Chief-inspector Mont decided, driving back to Scotland Yard.

  Chapter Three

  On Tuesday morning Mrs. Morris’s handbag was brought into the nearest police station to the Kilburn flats by an estate agent’s assistant.

  This young man explained that he had been taking some prospective tenants into an empty house in the neighbourhood when he found the article lying just inside the front door. The house was an old-fashioned one which accounted for the fact that it had remained empty for a long time. It had a large letter box with a wide opening. The bag was not very big and seemed to be empty.

  “Did you look inside it?” asked the officer on duty at the inquiries desk.

  “Yes. Just a glance. The people I was showing round said it was an odd way of getting rid of an old bag and I’d better leave it where it was. But I didn’t like to do that.”

  “Quite right.”

  “My boss said bring it along and there might be something in it for me. I shouldn’t think so, myself. It can’t have been lost. It must have been got rid of deliberately.”

  The officer made no reply to this, but merely asked the young man for his name and address, after which he went back to his office.

  The bag appeared at first to be quite empty, but on shaking it upside down a small glass mirror fell out of its slot, followed by two scraps of paper that had been slipped in behind it. They were the two halves of a cheque for thirty pounds made out to Simon Fawcett and signed Penelope Dane.

  The name of Fawcett rang a bell with the local detective-inspector who got in touch with Chief-inspector Mont. The bag, belatedly covered from further contaminating fingers, was sent at once to Scotland Yard and minutely examined. The results were valuable.

  “The bag was Mrs. Morris’s all right,” Mont told Sergeant Clay, later. “Her daughter identifies it and we’re lucky enough to have a couple of Morris’s dabs on it. The man’s, himself, I mean, not hers.”

 
“That settles it, then?” Clay asked. “Only got to pick him up now.”

  “I wonder,” Mont answered.

  They were standing in the kitchen of Mrs. Morris’s house in Camden Town. Two of her sons, unemployed at the time, were lounging in the front room, smoking, turning their eyes to the tele from time to time, occasionally making signals to one another to indicate where the two rozzers had gone now. They were not seriously worried, but they resented the presence of the Law in the house. All the same, they were unusually subdued. Their mother’s death had shaken them. Such an extreme of violence went outside the limits of their experience. The publicity was confusing, too: rather dangerous. The Press had been altogether too nosey. Mum could have turned them off if she hadn’t got herself croaked. They resented her inability to preserve herself. They resented still more their father’s brief visit on the Friday before it happened. The usual row. The usual scene. Then he’d taken himself off. They’d had to tell the cops he’d been, but they denied the row. Not that it’d do him much good. They didn’t want to do him good. What’d he ever done for them?

  Mont and Clay had been through the house carefully. They had discovered nothing to connect Mrs. Morris with any form of criminal activity, nor had they expected to do so. But they had found in a drawer in her bedroom a strange little collection of boxes and tubes all containing tablets and pills of a sedative nature, all on the Dangerous Drug Act list and all produced by the same firm of pharmaceutical manufacturers and labelled ‘Sample’.

  They lay now in a neat row on the kitchen table. Mont picked them up and looked at them one by one.

  “Samples,” he said, frowning. In his mind an idea began to take shape, but it was too vague to formulate. So he swept the boxes together and took them back to Whitehall.

  Mrs. Morris’s two sons watched the coppers go. Then, without speaking, they left the tele to continue to entertain an empty room while they moved into the kitchen to brew tea. Their unwelcome visitors had left them with very dry mouths indeed.

  At Scotland Yard Mont asked for the Medical Directory of ten years ago and afterwards rang up the firm of pharmaceutical chemists whose products lay before him on his desk.

  “They do employ Nelson,” he explained later to Clay. “He touts their stuff to the doctors. You get an occasional failed doctor in that racket,” he added, seeing surprise in the sergeant’s face. “Drunks, bankrupts and so on. They understand the jargon they have to spout. All this lot,” he waved his hand over the little packets and tubes, “are samples, as you saw. He’s supposed to show them to the clients and issue a few now and then to doctors who show interest. For all these he’d have to get the doctor’s signature. So what easier than collecting signatures and issuing samples to himself?”