Murder of a Martinet

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” rejoined Mr. Waiting. “I’ve always been on good terms with the police and never had any trouble or complaints.”

  “So I’ve heard,” rejoined Macdonald as they went into the landlord’s parlour and Mr. Waiting closed the door firmly.

  “Well, you heard those chaps talking about the inquiries at Colonel Farrington’s house,” went on Macdonald. “I’ve come to you to ask a bit about the men’s characters, if you’re willing to give me a line on them. I mean the regular crowd—the darts players. They’ve formed a club, I gather.”

  “That’s right, sir, and I’m willing to tell you all I know about them, and welcome. A very decent lot of men they are, and very particular about their club. Now, this evening there was the six of ’em—regular as clockwork they come in of a Friday. Charlie Evans, he’s a railway man, on the old L.M.S. at the Chalk Farm depot. Bob Higgins, he’s a lorry driver for Pattersons. Jack Harrison’s a bus driver. Will Robinson, he’s got a business of his own, hardware and that. Fred Clark’s a mechanic in the London Transport garage, and Dick Brown’s a conductor on the Tube. All very decent chaps. Clark’s a Communist, but not one of the agitators. You’ll not find much wrong in that lot, sir.”

  “Right. Who’s this chap Bill they were talking about?”

  “Bill? Oh, that’d be Bill Preston. He’s an old chap. He was a house painter, but he’s not too good on ladders these days and he docs odd jobs on his own. Any bit of inside painting, or fixing a window sash or other small repairs. A very respectable kindly old chap. Lost his wife not so long ago, and the Colonel was uncommonly kind to him. I’ve seen them digging together on the Colonel’s allotment. ‘He misses his wife and a bit of company’s good for him,’ sez the Colonel to me.”

  “Have you any idea if any of these chaps has ever done any odd jobs at the Colonel’s house?”

  The landlord scratched his head, looking rather worried. “I won’t pretend I don’t see what you’re getting at, sir, seeing what was said in the bar, but if Bill Preston did some inside jobs for the Colonel—and I’m not saying he did, mark you—he’d never have touched aught that didn’t belong to him. I’ll lay all I’ve got that Bill is honest. Never heard a word against him all the years I’ve known him.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, landlord. I only asked if he’d ever done any inside job for the Colonel. Now, can you tell me this. Is he a talker? Would he have been likely to tell anybody else that Mrs. Farrington had some valuable jewellery, for instance?”

  “I shouldn’t have thought so. sir. Bill’s a quiet old chap, and as for jewellery, I don’t think he’d know diamonds from cut glass. Not in his line at all. Now, a good job of cabinetmaking would interest him. He knows that when he sees it—but he’s no chatterbox.”

  The landlord scratched his grizzled head thoughtfully. “If you’re agreeable, I could ask my missis to come in and tell you about Bill Preston, sir,” he said. “She knows him better than I do, always has him in to do small repairs and odd painting jobs and suchlike.”

  “I should be very glad if you would,” rejoined Macdonald. “She’ll probably be able to tell me just what I want to know.” A moment or so later Mrs. Waiting came into the parlour. She was a massive body, heavily corseted, and her black satin blouse with its lace collar and choker necklace of large pearls were in the best tradition of the respectable publican’s wife. Her husband explained what Macdonald wanted to know, and she replied without hesitation. “Old Preston’s as trustworthy a fellow as I’ve ever met,” she declared. “I always say he’s useful to me because I can trust him. He knows this house, and I just tell him what I want done and let him get on with it without ever thinking of having to keep an eye on him. He’s honest all right, you take it from me.”

  On the subject of Bill Preston’s liability to gossip, she was equally emphatic. “Keeps himself to himself and never forgets himself, neither.” she said. “In a licensed house you can’t do with gossips. Not that we’ve anything to hide, but there’s big takings some days and the locking up’s important. We know there’s plenty of these gangs about, ready to hold up anybody if they think they can get away with it, and I wouldn’t have nobody doing odd jobs in this house if I couldn’t trust their tongues as well as their fingers.”

  “Well, that’s clear enough,” said Macdonald. “I’ll take your word for it about the man’s character, because I don’t think you’re likely to be mistaken there. Now. bearing in mind that I have said I’ll take your word for it, Mrs. Wailing, can you tell me this? Was Preston ever employed by Colonel Farrington to do any odd jobs?”

  “Yes, he was,” she replied without hesitation. “The shed on the Colonel’s allotment started it. You’ve got to have somewhere to keep your gardening tools and that, and the Borough’s particular about what’s put up. Anyway, Preston put up the Colonel’s shed, and just lately there was some question about him doing some work on the window catches at Windermere House. It was the Colonel himself who mentioned it to me. Said he wanted to have the new safety catches put on before he and Mrs. Farrington took their holidays. I believe Preston was going to the house to see about it someday quite soon, but I’m not sure if he’d started on the job or not.”

  “Thanks very much. That’s just what I wanted to know/ replied Macdonald. “I shall have to see Preston sometime, so can you tell me where he lives?”

  “He lives just over in Camden Town somewhere, but I can’t tell you his address,” replied Mrs. Waiting. “It seems funny, maybe, having known him for years, but I know he’s sure to come in sometime during the week, and if I want him I just wait until I see him.”

  “Has he been here this week?” asked Macdonald, and the landlord put in:

  “Yes. He was in one evening. Tuesday or Wednesday, it was. I know we’d just heard of Mrs. Farrington’s death, and Preston was quite upset. Now I come to think of it, I believe he was talking about going up to see his brother. He was Lancanshire born, and his folks live up north.”

  “He’s been talking about going to see his brother for months,” said Mrs. Waiting. “I’ll believe he’s gone when I hear he’s really been seen off on the train. Anyone might think it was like going to the North Pole, the fuss he makes about going a journey. But then he’s an old chap now’, and set in his ways. He’s lived in Camden Town for all of thirty years, and London’s home to him, same’s it is to us.”

  The landlord spoke again, not sounding very happy: ‘‘Begging your pardon, sir. but can we get this clear? There’s been a theft of some valuables from the Colonel’s house. Is that right?”

  Macdonald nodded. “Some valuables are missing.” he said, “and nobody in the house knows anything about them. We found some fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom that were not made by anybody in the house, and we want to trace them.”

  “And if so be you find they’re Bill Preston’s, will you reckon he was the thief, sir?”

  “Not unless we get further evidence. But if he was in the house recently, we want to know all about the time he was there and what he was doing. You have been straight with me. landlord, and told me all that you know about Preston, so I am being straight with you, but I advise you not to repeat anything I’ve been telling you. You have enough common sense to know that an innocent man’s got nothing to fear from the police.”

  “I believe you there, sir. and I’m quite sure Bill Preston’s not done anything he oughtn’t. But I’m thinking back to what some of the chaps in the bar said about police inquiries. Is it right you was asking about anybody seen waiting around outside Windermere House on Monday evening?”

  “Yes. We’ve had reports of a man who was seen standing outside the house between nine and half-past—an old chap, the witnesses agree.”

  “Well, maybe we can help you there, sir. That might have been Preston. You heard some of the fellows talking about this debate they’d been plan n in a—pacifism or summat. Well, the Colonel wasn’t in on Monday evening, of course, and there’s a chance
Preston might’ve walked round to Windermere House on the off-chance of seeing the Colonel. He wouldn’t have gone to the front door or anything of that kind, wouldn’t Bill, but I do believe the Colonel does sometimes go out for a walk after the nine o’clock news, and Bill might’ve thought there was a chance of seeing him to get things fixed up. And if that’s so. sir. then I’ll make held to say it was next door to having a policeman on the doorstep, because Bill he’d’ve noticed if there was anyone else hanging around.”

  “Then the obvious thing for me to do is to find Preston and ask him if he did see anything of the kind.” rejoined Macdonald equably, and the landlord nodded.

  “That’s it. sir. but you take it from me that you won’t find anything questionable about Bill Preston’s dealings. If ever a chap was straight, it’s Bill.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Mrs. Waiting.

  CHAPTER XVII

  IT WAS shortly after nine o’clock the next morning that Macdonald arrived again at Windermere House and rang the front-door bell. The steps had not been cleaned, neither was there any sign of Mrs. Pinks. It was Madge who opened the front door; she was dressed, as usual, in a clean white coat, her dark hair brushed back smooth and hard from her face, as trim a figure as a hospital ever turned out. Her face was bloodless, her dark eves sunk in their shadowed hollows, but her stance was as steady, her voice as deliberate, as ever.

  She said, “Good morning.” with composed and unwavering calm, stood aside to admit Macdonald, and then led him to the drawing room, closing the door quietly when they had entered it. She stood before him in her habitual nurse’s attitude: very erect, hands clasped lightly in front of her at waist level.

  “You will have heard that my father has gone to see Peter in hospital? They phoned saying that pneumonia had set in. It takes these drug cases like that occasionally.”

  Her voice was quite emotionless, and Macdonald replied: “Yes. I had the report. They did not think that he was in any immediate danger, but that as he was fretting, it would be better for him to see his father.”

  She nodded. “They’ll kill the pneumonia with M. and B., and then pet him back to health again. Peter’s always been the same. When life goes against him he uses illness as a defence mechanism and gets away with it. I’ve often thought it must be rather useful to be made like that.” Her dark eyes challenged Macdonald with a lustreless stare and then she went on: “I suppose you could say the same about my sleep walking. I’m sorry I gave everybody so much trouble last night. I used to do it as a child, but I’d no idea I’d started it again.” She paused, but before Macdonald had time to reply, she went on calmly: “So when Anne said she heard me on the stairs on Monday night, she was probably telling the truth.”

  “Quite probably.” replied Macdonald, his voice as expressionless as her own. “But as you know, even better than I do, the injection given to Mrs. Farrington was not given at two o’clock in the morning. By that time she was probably beyond human aid.”

  Madge stood very still, her dark eyes gazing beyond Macdonald into the distance. “I’ve tried to remember,” she said, and this time, for all the control of her voice, her throat was dry. “I don’t dream as a rule. I thought I did dream, that night. I was worrying. I suppose I went down to see . . . that it was all right. I don’t know. . . .”

  Macdonald replied in a perfectly equable voice: “You remember that you told me that you went for a walk round the Inner Circle on Monday evening, between eight o’clock and nine. I thought you might be interested to know that I have corroboration of that fact. A taxi driver, who had just set down a fare, noticed you and described you.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference,” she snapped back. “I was home here before the nine o’clock news was finished. I was in the house when Father went out. We were all in the house, except Father. It was then it was done. You know that. I know it.” She broke off and then added tartly: “How-one does run on. The thing is an absolute obsession. It goes round and round, like a corkscrew. I didn’t mean to bore you. going on talking about it. I asked you in here to make a request. You know Mrs. Pinks lost her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s being buried today. I want to know if you’ll let me go to the funeral. She wants me to be there. It may sound funny to you, but she asked me to go.”

  “It doesn’t sound funny at all,” answered Macdonald quietly. “You have been very kind to her. and to her husband as well. It’s perfectly natural that she should ask you to be with her.”

  “And may I go?”

  “Certainly. I shall do nothing to prevent you going.”

  “Thank you.” Her dry voice was abrupt, almost scornful. “They set such store by funerals.” she went on. “1 often used to think that the one good thing about the blitz was that it might short-circuit one’s own funeral. Just tidy you up without any bother to anybody. But Mrs. Pinks wants me to put on my new black coat and be a credit to her; so I’ll do my best. She’s the most generous-minded human being I’ve ever known.” She broke off and stared at Macdonald again, as though she were trying to get him into focus, and when she spoke again it was in her usual curt voice, without the faint quiver and breathlessness of her last speech. “I suppose you came here to ask about something, not to hear me babbling. What is it this time?”

  “Yes. I came here to ask you something,” replied Macdonald. “You know we found some unidentified fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom?”

  “Yes. Father told me. What does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot. It’s necessary to find the person who made those fingerprints and determine when he, or she, was in that room, and why they were in the room.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know. I didn’t order anybody to do anything in there. Mrs. Farrington may have got someone in to do something without telling me She was secretive over some things. For all I know, she may have had someone in on Monday morning when she came down to the kitchen to talk to me. If she was with me in here, she knew I wouldn’t be going upstairs poking around to see what she was having done. She always imagined I spied on her. while, actually, I couldn’t have cared less. But I can’t see why you’re fussing. Whoever was in the room has got nothing to do with what you’re getting at, and you know it hasn’t. Unless you’re still worrying about those diamonds you said were missin’.”

  “They’re not missing any longer. We found them in a very large tube of flake white among Peter’s painting things.”

  “I’m glad of that . . . in a way.” said Madge, and she spoke quite naturally. “You’ll never be able to prove who put them there, will you? It might have been Peter or Paula, or me, or Anne—any one of us. You don’t know that it was even the person who stole them who hid them in the tube.”

  “No. That’s quite true,” replied Macdonald. “Perhaps Paula herself will have something to say about it. She has been asking to see me, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes. I suppose Maddox told you that. I knew Maddox in hospital once. She’s a good nurse. She agreed with me that it was better for Paula not to see you yesterday. The kid doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s nearly frantic about Peter. When you see her, tell her it’s all right. She’s a mean little beast in some ways, but the sight of her now gets me down. She’s only a kid.”

  Macdonald had been listening to the undertones of Madge’s voice as much as to what she said. Something had happened to her. Her rigid self-control was slipping at last, and she tended to talk as a patient recovering from an anaesthetic talks—freely but not quite reasonably.

  “I know she’s only a youngster,” rejoined Macdonald. “You needn’t worry about her; I shan’t give too much heed to what she says, because she’s in no state to give evidence. Now, about this funeral. How are you going to the cemetery? Do you want a taxi?”

  “No. I never take taxis. I can’t afford them. I shall take a bus to Camden Town and then a trolley-bus out to Highgate. I’m not going with Mrs. Pinks. To follow a hearse would be about the la
st straw.”

  “I shouldn’t go by bus if I were you.” said Macdonald. “You’re tired and on edge. I’ll get you a taxi, and you can take it quietly.”

  She cried out at him: “Oh, for God’s sake, leave me alone. Let me do this thing by myself. I haven’t asked you for much, have I? Only to go to a funeral. Can’t you let me do that by myself?”

  “I haven’t said you couldn’t go by yourself,” replied Macdonald patiently. “I only said it wasn’t sensible to go by bus. You’re so tired you hardly know what you’re doing or saving, and you’re going to stand by an open graveside while the coffin is lowered and the words of committal spoken, and it’s not going to be easy. You’ve often told other people to have a little common sense, haven’t you? Take your own advice now.”

  His quiet voice brought the tears to her eyes, but she fought them back. “You know, don’t you?” she asked desperately.

  “I know you want to go to that funeral,” he replied. “Go and get it over. Leave the talking till afterwards.”

  A half-smile lighted the desolation of her eyes. “Mrs. Pinks says you’re too much like a human being to be a cop.”

  “It’s possible to be both.” replied Macdonald. “Now get this into your head. You’re going to that funeral, by yourself. as you wish to go. and nobody’s going to interfere with you. There arc some things. I won’t do—to quote what you said to me on the first occasion I met you. So put on your best coat as requested. Have you got a nice bunch of flowers? They do like a nice bunch of flowers.”

  Madge gasped—a gasp that was more laughter than astonishment. “You are the most unexpected person I ever met. . . . I sent a wreath—a big one. It cost all I’d got. For my own funeral, it’ll be no flowers by request.”

  And with that she turned and fled from the room.

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