Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “You will hardly be able to grasp the relevance of my story unless I begin at the beginning,” Mrs. Daymer informed him scathingly. She looked for confirmation to Gerry, who had followed her in and was seated beside her.

  “I admit it all sounds batty, Inspector,” he said uneasily; “but there is a connection, I promise you.”

  Mrs. Daymer proceeded with her narrative and got through it with some difficulty, overwhelming the inspector’s protests again and again and forcing him to admit that at least she had done her job thoroughly, and that he could obtain confirmation from the two women, Mrs. Maud Birtle and her sister, Dollie Smithers, whose addresses she supplied.

  Inspector Caird regarded her quizzically. He could hardly doubt that she and Gerry had spent their time in Coventry as she described. He wished he could doubt it; he wished he could believe that she had been engaged in some nefarious occupation for which he might order her arrest. If he could really establish a connection between Joseph Slocomb, the late Miss Pongleton’s valued friend, and Jonah Sokam who strangled a dog and embezzled young women’s savings in Coventry some thirty years ago, it might be useful, though it wasn’t exactly evidence. But was Mrs. Daymer giving away an accomplice or had she really made a discovery?

  He sent for a constable and instructed him to ring up Scotland Yard with a request for information about Joseph Slocomb, or Jonah Sokam, formerly of Coventry, especially with regard to shady financial dealings. He turned again to Mrs. Daymer.

  “You realize that it is a serious matter to accuse anyone—even by implication—of murder, without a shred of real evidence?”

  “I make no accusation,” replied Mrs. Daymer with dignity. “I merely report facts which have come to my notice. The rest seems to me to be the business of the police, and I will leave you to deal with it. Good evening!”

  Mrs. Daymer rose and stalked out of the room. Inspector Caird sniffed the air suspiciously and resettled himself in his chair.

  “Hope you don’t think I put the woman up to it, Inspector. I was as wax in her hands. Dunno what to make of the affair, but I can tell you I’ve been feeling like a blithering idiot, trailing after her round Coventry all day.”

  “I can sympathize with you, Mr. Plasher,” said Inspector Caird gravely. He proceeded to question Gerry, who was engagingly confidential and did not seem to be concealing anything. The conspiracy theory was not working out very well.

  Meanwhile Betty had arrived at the police-station with Cissie and Nellie, all out of breath. The constable who met the three of them at the door groaned almost audibly.

  “We must see Inspector Caird immediately,” Betty told him imperatively. “These two ladies have some entirely new and valuable information.”

  “We’ll ’ave the ’ole of ’Ampstead ’ere with hinformation before the night is out,” the constable muttered as he stumped along the passage.

  In the room where Betty and her protégées were asked to wait sat Mrs. Daymer, exhaling a damp odour of the natural grease of the sheep.

  “You!” exclaimed Betty, in not very polite surprise. She had hoped to see Basil.

  Mrs. Daymer smiled at them grimly. “You have some valuable information, I heard you say. To avoid disappointment you had better accustom your mind at once to the idea that its value will not be clear to the police. I have been giving them some valuable information, but they have not received it in a very grateful spirit.”

  “What——” burst out Cissie.

  “I expect we’d better not ask,” said Betty sagely.

  “I don’t think I’ll wait,” said Mrs. Daymer, rising. “Mr. Plasher is in with the inspector now. You will perhaps tell him from me that I have gone home, with a hope, unfounded on former experience, that I may get something to eat.”

  “You may get my supper!” suggested Cissie gloomily, as Mrs. Daymer stalked away.

  But Gerry was wondering hungrily in a room by himself why he was still not allowed to go home. The inspector couldn’t quite make up his mind to lose sight of him again, and he was meditating on some information he had extracted from Gerry to confirm his own memory. Yes, Slocomb was rather under middle height and of slim build; his feet were small; he wore a dark suit and overcoat and a bowler hat.

  The man who had been sent to test the time needed for what the inspector now believed were Mr. Slocomb’s movements on Friday morning came to report: “Half an hour, and a fair wait for one train. They run more frequent in the mornings, if that’s what you’re thinking of.”

  “Half an hour! And our friend had thirty-five minutes.”

  Constable Potts followed on the man’s heels to announce stolidly: “There’s three ladies from the Frampton, sir, to see you, with vall-you-bull hinformation. One of ’em’s Miss Watson.”

  “Three of ’em?” demanded the inspector incredulously. “How many ladies are left at the Frampton, Potts?”

  An unofficial grin upset the constable’s orderly countenance, but he deemed this to be a rhetorical question rather than a request for information.

  “I do want to see Miss Watson,” Inspector Caird admitted. “You can bring her in. Mr. Pongleton can remain with Constable Waterton until I send for him, but let me know if he asks to see me at any time. Mr. Plasher must also wait. Jones not here yet, I suppose?”

  “No, sir, but the car ought to be here with him soon, unless he’s not at home.”

  The telephone shrilly demanded the inspector’s attention.

  “Bring the ladies in as soon as I’ve finished with this call,” Inspector Caird instructed Constable Potts before he picked up the ear-piece to learn that Scotland Yard was calling him.

  “Jonah Sokam—yes; identical, I have reason to believe, with Joseph Slocomb of the Frampton Private Hotel and Slocomb’s Business Agency. You know Sokam?”

  Inspector Caird’s eyebrows rose higher and higher as he pencilled rapid notes.

  “No, I had nothing against Slocomb until half an hour ago; I have a good deal against him now. We’re just getting a warrant for his arrest for the Pongleton murder. Motive and opportunity; a few gaps in the chain of evidence, but I think we’re linking it up. You hadn’t a suspicion of any connection between Sokam and Slocomb, you mean? Oh, not at all”—the inspector became very modest—“quite an accident put us on the track—and the usual carelessness, over a detail here and there, by an unusually careful criminal. You’ll investigate that business agency immediately? But he’s an artful customer. You’ll probably find it all O.K. That’s the respectable side of his life. You’ll look into the Coventry business, of course? Got the addresses of those two women? Other connections in Coventry?—Ah! Large sums! I gather you’re quite pleased that we’ve identified him for you? Yes, I’ve evidence that he was after Miss Pongleton’s money while she was alive, got her to leave him a substantial legacy and probably hoped to get a good deal more out of her silly young nephew.”

  “Confound that Daymer woman!” he muttered as he replaced the receiver. “There’ll be no holding her! She was on the right track, and I don’t know how we should have hit upon the connection between Slocomb and his shady double if she hadn’t blundered on that evidence in Coventry. Odd that he should have worked under a name so like his own, but he may have thought that its very similarity was a shield!”

  Constable Potts entered with a report from the fingerprint expert. “Nothing on the pearls, sir; but the envelope had been opened, it seems, and sealed down again, very expert; but there is a print on the dokkyment inside—made, it seems, by whoever opened the envelope, with a damp finger. Not identified yet; doesn’t belong to the nephew; they’ll send a full report later.”

  “Good. I’m ready for the ladies now.”

  Inspector Caird reviewed the evidence in his mind. “I’d like a few more facts, but it seems to hang together pretty well,” he concluded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MR. SLOCOMB IS SURPRISED

  “WELL, Miss Watson, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have this elu
cidated; if only you could have persuaded this young man a little earlier in the proceedings that it would have been better for him to come out into the open, it would have saved us a lot of trouble. Probably you both feel happier now that you have got it off your chests! I have sent men up to the Frampton to keep watch, and at all costs to prevent the escape of a certain gentleman, but I don’t think he has the wind up at all, so he’s not likely to try to bolt. Keep quiet when you get there and keep those others quiet too, if you can, and I hope to goodness Mrs. Daymer hasn’t been making a song about her little expedition! We shan’t be long. And remember, don’t tell any more tarradiddles!”

  Inspector Caird smiled at Betty and Basil in a fatherly way. He had admitted handsomely that Betty had extracted from Nellie and from Cissie vital information which he himself had failed to elicit. But he felt such a glow of human satisfaction at being able to restore a chastened young man, completely vindicated of criminal misdeeds, to the “nice little girl”, that he was not unduly downcast by these blows to his professional pride.

  As Basil walked arm in arm with Betty up to the Frampton, he told her those parts of the story which he had at last been induced to reveal to Inspector Caird.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Betty? I’m an utter worm. But I was desperately hard up when Aunt Phemia handed over those pearls to me, and it seemed a good idea to raise a bit of cash on them. I made sure that I’d get all that and more for my story, Pearls Before Swine. I called it that to make it a good omen, but it seems to have been a bad one, for the story was an utter dud. Never tamper with the omens!”

  “Nor with the heirlooms!” Betty added.

  “When I realized that Aunt Phemia was dead and those pearls sitting in the pawnshop, my one idea was to get them out. Mamie had helped me put ’em in—took me to the shop and all that—and I thought she’d help me get ’em out again, as she did. She’s a real good sort, Betty. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “What I can’t understand is why you should have gone to her—to that sort of girl—when you might have come to me. You know I would have helped you, Basil.”

  “But can’t you see, you wouldn’t know about pawnshops and I couldn’t ask you to lend me money? And I didn’t want to mix you up in the business!”

  Betty’s sudden laugh startled Cissie and Nellie, who were walking a little way ahead. She felt so absurdly happy that she simply couldn’t bother about Mamie just now. She was so thankful to have Basil safe that she could have swallowed half a dozen Mamies and still have laughed. A delirious kind of feeling, backed by a confidence, perhaps a rash one, that there would be no Mamies in the future.

  “There’s quite a lot I don’t understand, Basil dear, but I don’t think you’d better explain it now. I can’t take in any more.”

  “I don’t know when I’ve been in such an explaining mood,” Basil told her. “And I don’t know when I shall be again. Hadn’t I better go on with it?”

  “No, here’s Church Lane and there’s not time. I’ll come to supper with you to-morrow. Oh dear, this is going to be rather horrible.”

  Basil squeezed her hand. Nellie was dithering at the door of the Frampton. She was in a confused state of mind, especially as Cissie had been elaborating the situation as they walked up the hill; but she gathered that Mr. Slocomb, Mrs. Bliss’s most valued boarder, was deeply involved in some dirty work.

  “Reelly I don’t ’ardly like goin’ into the ’ouse where ’e is,” she complained. “Gives me the shudders like, an’ ’oo’d’ve thought it?”

  Betty took her firmly by the arm. “Go straight into the kitchen, Nellie,” she commanded, “and get yourself some supper and don’t talk to cook or Mrs. Bliss. You can say you had to give some more information about the leash and you can’t tell them any more now. They’ll know soon enough.”

  “And Miss Fain’s supper?” Nellie enquired.

  “Golly!” wailed Cissie. “My middle’s caving in so that I can hardly stand upright.”

  “You must wait!” Betty declared. “And you too, Basil; if you missed your dinner it’s your own fault.”

  He was installed in one of the wicker chairs of the lounge hall, and Betty and Cissie entered the drawing-room.

  The scene struck them as curiously peaceful and normal. It was difficult to believe that something startling and horrible was about to happen.

  Mr. Slocomb sat in the chair that had been Miss Pongleton’s, with a crossword puzzle before him. Mrs. Daymer sat in the opposite chair with a strip of linen in her hands through which she jabbed a long embroidery needle ferociously, looking up now and then to shoot a suspicious glance at Mr. Slocomb. Mr. Blend was at his table in the far corner, happily pencilling the Evening News, and Mr. Grange sat meekly on the sofa near Mrs. Daymer, occasionally obeying her commands to reach the scissors or a skein of silk.

  Betty and Cissie took their seats on the sofa, disregarding Mrs. Daymer’s enquiring look.

  “Is your headache better, Miss Watson?” asked Mr. Grange solicitously.

  Betty jumped. Did she have a headache? Yes, of course, years ago at about six o’clock this evening. “Much better, thanks,” she told him.

  Mr. Blend got up and shuffled about the room, picking up a paper here and there and rattling the pages. In the course of his tiresome pottering and rustling he worked a devious way towards Mrs. Daymer.

  “Restless old fellow, aren’t I?” he mumbled aimiably. “Don’t seem able to settle this evening! Did you get all the local colour you wanted, Mrs. Daymer? Not much colour there—grey old place!”

  Mrs. Daymer scowled at him and he hurried back guiltily to his table. Mr. Slocomb’s dictionary slid off his knee and thumped on the floor. The three women started violently.

  “Tck! Tck! Tck!” he clucked in annoyance. “I believe I must have dropped off! At my age of course—and perhaps it is a little close in here?”

  “You should beware of dropping off, Mr. Slocomb,” Mrs. Daymer warned him. “It may become dangerous.”

  “Oh, surely not....” But now he seemed to be infected with the spirit of restlessness. He crossed, uncrossed, and recrossed his legs, drew his eyebrows together and pulled down the corners of his mouth, but made no progress with the crossword puzzle.

  “Awkward problem?” Cissie enquired suddenly.

  Before he could answer, the door opened and Basil entered. Betty, who had heard faint sounds from the hall and had been holding her breath in anxiety, gave a gasp. Cissie jumped up, shaking off Betty’s restraining hand. She could not resist the opportunity to create a scene, although Inspector Caird, in laying his plans, had done his best to avoid one.

  “Hullo, Basil!” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t that a queer thing that came out at the inquest on your aunt this morning—that the brooch was in Pongle’s bag, not in her pocket! I wanted to tell you about it because I know it wasn’t in her bag when she started. She upset it and I helped her to pick everything up. Too mysterious, don’t you think? Who could have put it there?”

  She looked straight at Mr. Slocomb, and the others, who had been looking at her, followed the direction of that enquiring gaze from her innocent blue eyes.

  They all noticed how queer Mr. Slocomb looked as he rose slowly from his chair.

  “Must fetch—er—another dictionary,” he mumbled as he moved towards the door.

  “I was just going to tell you, Mr. Slocomb,” said Basil, standing in the doorway, “there is someone in the hall to see you.”

  Mr. Slocomb stopped short and put his hand in his breast pocket; his movements, usually so precise, were feeble and uncertain. He drew out a small black notebook and threw it into the fire.

  “Done with—no necessity to carry it with me,” he muttered, and walked to the door which Basil was holding open.

  Basil, seeing Mr. Slocomb’s action, opened his mouth and raised his hand, but seemed unable to utter a word or make any further movement. Cissie, Mrs. Daymer, and Mr. Grange were all following Mr. Slocomb’s progress with thei
r eyes as if they were hypnotized, but Betty sprang into action. She was on her knees on the hearthrug in an instant and, without waiting to reach for the tongs, she had seized the notebook by a corner of its cover and flicked it on to the hearth, where she beat out the flames and sparks with the poker. Basil drew a breath of relief.

  Mr. Slocomb looked at him quickly, suspiciously; then walked deliberately into the hall. Basil shut himself and the others into the drawing-room.

  Inspector Caird and two constables in uniform faced Mr. Slocomb in the hall.

  “Joseph Slocomb, alias Jonah Sokam, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Euphemia Pongleton, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

  Mr. Slocomb swayed slightly and gripped the door-handle behind him.

  “There is some mistake. I can account for all my movements on the morning Miss Pongleton was murdered. Witnesses, who saw me enter the train at Hampstead...” His voice faded away.

  The inspector looked from Mr. Slocomb’s pallid face to his dapper feet and nodded thoughtfully. He made a sign to the policemen.

  As the car in which Mr. Slocomb sat, closely guarded, drew up outside the police-station, another car slowed down and stopped behind it. Under the two big blue lamps which proclaimed “Police” in yellow letters on either side of the gateway, the flagged path to the door glimmered strangely; it seemed to be swimming with water, though the rain had stopped some time ago. Mr. Slocomb could not avoid getting his shoes very wet, and he left several good footprints on the clean doorstep. The inspector paused to give instructions to a man who was waiting in the passage.

  “Photographs and measurements quickly, before they dry!” he commanded sharply.

  Meanwhile the two men from the second car were coming towards the door.

  “Hi! Look out!” the officer who had been left in charge of the footprints warned them. “Don’t step here!”

  The straight passage leading from the door was well lighted and Mr. Slocomb could be seen turning into a room at the far end of it. With its blue and white tiles it was suggestive of an underground railway station.