by Cyril Hare
“Obviously a very conceited man,” answered the sergeant.
“Conceited? H’m, yes, and a good deal more than that. But you’re right, Frant. He is a very vain man indeed. Prison life hurt his vanity more than anything else, obviously. Has it ever occurred to you, Frant, that all murderers are exceptionally vain? You have to be, to think that your own interests or convenience are sufficiently important to justify killing a man.”
“Then do you think——?”
“No, I don’t. Not yet, anyway. There’s not a thing he’s told us which isn’t consistent with perfect innocence, and not a jury in England would convict on it. So anyway, our private beliefs don’t matter.”
“My own private belief, for what it’s worth,” said Frant, “is that Fanshawe was in league with James. I look at it this way: James, for some reason or another, disguises himself as—James. He lives in that disguise, very likely from August onwards—certainly for a month. He scrapes acquaintance with Ballantine—that may be presumed from the letter to the bank. All this time, he is waiting for Fanshawe’s release from prison. He engages a house through an old friend of Fanshawe’s and has for his sole servant a man formerly employed by that old friend. Then immediately Fanshawe is free, he decoys Ballantine to the house——”
“Having first got rid of the dependable servant,” interrupted Mallett. “Why?”
“That’s natural enough. He didn’t want a third person to be involved in the murder. I dare say he could trust him up to a point and not to give away his disguise, but letting him have a share in the crime is another thing.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Where was I? He decoys Ballantine to his house, where Fanshawe is already concealed. Together they kill him, leave the place separately, and travel over to France by the same boat but, for safety’s sake, by different classes.”
“If your theory is right,” the inspector objected, “it doesn’t account for one rather odd fact. Why did Fanshawe, who was in league with James to kill Ballantine in Daylesford Gardens, bother to go to Lothbury on Friday morning and draw attention to himself by threatening him in his own office?”
“Perhaps,” said Frant, “he didn’t then know of James’s plans. Communication with a prisoner isn’t easy, and it may be that it wasn’t until later in the day that he got into touch with James and knew of the preparations that had been made.”
“That doesn’t seem very plausible to me,” the inspector answered. “I think we’re agreed that everything we have discovered so far points to a carefully arranged crime. James wouldn’t have laid his plans so thoroughly and left himself such a small margin of time, if he’d thought that Fanshawe wasn’t going to do his part properly. Don’t forget that the lease of the house was nearly up, and the tickets for France bought already. It seems to me more likely that the two were in touch with each other while Fanshawe was still in Maidstone.”
“Then what’s your explanation of Fanshawe’s behaviour on Friday morning—assuming my theory is right?”
“Assuming that your theory is right—and after all we are only dealing in assumptions—don’t you think it possible that Fanshawe’s visit to Ballantine was all part of the plan?”
“In what way?”
“You have suggested that James decoyed Ballantine to his house in Daylesford Gardens. You haven’t suggested how he managed it.”
“No, that’s a weak spot in the theory, I admit.”
“That is one weak spot, and the threat to Ballantine on Friday morning is another. Let’s see if the two can’t cancel each other out. Suppose James sent Fanshawe to frighten Ballantine? We know, and very likely he knew, that Ballantine was on the verge of financial ruin, and contemplating flight. He would therefore be in a particularly nervous state. James meets Ballantine after the interview, is told of the incident, expresses his sympathy, and then says: ‘My poor fellow, your life is in danger if you go home. Come to my place for the night and you will be safe enough’, Ballantine falls into the trap, goes to Daylesford Gardens, and there meets Fanshawe—and his death. How does that strike you?”
Frant rubbed his hands appreciatively.
“Magnificent!” he said. “That’s just how it would have happened! I’m sure that’s just how it did happen!”
“Quite,” rejoined Mallett drily, “and how do we set about proving it?”
“There’s only one way to do that,” replied Frant, “and that’s to find James.”
Mallett smacked his desk in irritation.
“James, James, James!” he cried. “The crux of this whole case, and not a shred of evidence about him, except that his name is not James, that he hasn’t got a beard, and is probably as thin as a rake!”
“You can add another probability to that,” remarked Frant, “and that is that he is probably still in France.”
“True. We haven’t any proof whatsoever that he came back, although we know that his accomplice did, supposing our theory to be true. Well, there it is, Frant. We can only waste time discussing it further, until we get some fresh facts, which may or may not fit into the theory. Now about that question we were discussing this morning, I think I shall get on to the Sussex police and see if they can help us.”
At that moment the house telephone rang. The inspector answered it. “Send him up,” he said into the instrument.
“The Chief Constable of Dover,” he said to Frant. “Now what on earth can he have to tell us?”
The head of the Dover police was an old friend of Mallett, who had collaborated with him more than once before. The inspector knew him for a capable, businesslike officer who was not likely to waste his time on trivialities. He came briskly into the room, shook hands with Mallett, nodded to the sergeant and came to business at once.
“Had to come up to see the Commissioner this afternoon,” he said briefly, “and thought I might as well bring this with me. Safer than the post, anyway.”
He put a sealed packet into Mallett’s hands. Mallett opened it and drew out a limp, discoloured blue booklet. He examined it in silence, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. Then he uttered a long whistle.
“Where on earth did you get this?” he asked.
“Fisherman brought it in this morning. Found it just below high-water mark a hundred yards or so east of the harbour last night. Tide sets that way, y’know. Got his statement for what it’s worth”—he pulled a folded sheet of official paper from his pocket—“but nothing in it beyond that. May have been in the water days, a week perhaps, impossible to say. High tides all this week and a sou’-westerly gale to help ’em along.”
“I’m very much obliged to you,” said the inspector. “This may be really valuable. You’ll stay for a cup of tea, won’t you?”
The Chief Constable shook his head. “Got to be getting along,” he said. “Hope it’ll help you a bit. You’ve got a sticky job, I’m afraid. So long.”
As the door closed behind him, Mallett tossed the object in his hand to the impatient Frant.
“Exhibit No. 1!” he exclaimed. “What do you think of it?”
Frant looked at it. “A passport?” he said. Then, opening its discoloured cover: “Colin James’s passport!”
“No less,” said the inspector. “The identical one that our friend of this morning had stolen from him three months ago. It’s in pretty bad order, but the name is still legible, thank goodness. Now just turn to page seven.”
Frant did so.
“The pages have stuck together,” he observed, “and the inside here is quite unspoilt by the water.”
“Exactly—luckily for us. What do you find there?”
“The stamp of the authorities at Dieppe and the date—13th November.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes—there’s something here. Boulogne, and a date in August—that must be the real Mr. James’s trip.”
“Anything else?”
Frant scanned the passport closely.
“Nothing else,” he announced.
&nbs
p; “Nothing else,” Mallett repeated meditatively. “Just what does that indicate to you, Frant?”
“That James went to France, as we knew already, and didn’t come back—as James.”
“Yes.”
“He came back under his own name, or at any rate another one, for which he had another passport.”
“Of course, he may be a professional passport stealer, for all we know.”
“Then”, went on Frant, “having no further use for the James identity, he threw the passport overboard just as the boat reached harbour. He may have been afraid of being searched at Dover, and wanted to make sure it shouldn’t be found on him.”
“In short,” said Mallett, “James is in England. His trip to France was nothing but a blind. As soon as it had accomplished its purpose, back he came. But when, Frant, when? As the Chief Constable says, this passport may have been in the water for days—or for a few hours only.”
“Perhaps Fanshawe knows the answer,” suggested the sergeant.
“But we have no particular reason to think that they crossed together this time. It is a possibility, of course.”
“There is another possibility. James may not have returned from France at all, but given his passport to Fanshawe or to some other confederate, with instructions to plant it on us, just to make us think he had come back.”
Mallett shook his head.
“No,” he said. “If he had done that, then he would have taken care to see that we did find the passport—left it on board, for example, where a steward would be sure to see it. As it is, it was only by the merest chance that it was discovered. I repeat, James is in England. There can be no more unloading responsibility on to the police in Paris. It’s up to us to find him.” He pulled at his moustache, and then added: “But I shan’t feel a bit like doing it if they don’t bring me some tea. I’m famishing!”
17
SEEING A DOG ABOUT A MAN
* * *
* * *
Saturday, November 21st
“What’s all this nonsense about?”
Susan Jenkinson, her delicate tongue poised on the flap of an envelope which she had just addressed, looked up from her writing-table.
“About what, Father?” she asked. “And do come in, instead of glowering in the door like that. There’s a horrible draught. I’m sure it will give Gandhi a chill.”
Major-General James Jenkinson, C.B., C.I.E. (Rtd.), in spite of his fiery complexion and parade-ground voice, was a well-trained parent. He meekly entered the room and closed the door behind him.
“I can’t think what you wanted to give that dog such an imbecile name for,” he complained, pointing to a nondescript mongrel which was dozing in front of the fire.
“It does sound a bit silly now that he’s all shaggy,” admitted his daughter. “But he was so dreadfully bare and naked at first, it seemed the only name for the poor darling. And it’s a good name to shout, too. I’ll try calling him Winston, if you really insist, but I don’t think he’d answer to it.”
The general made no answer to this suggestion, but contented himself with clearing his throat very loudly and fiercely.
“Well; what is it?” persisted Susan, as he remained silent. “You didn’t just come in to complain about poor Gandhi, I suppose?”
“As a matter of fact I have come to talk to you about Ga—about that dog of yours,” answered her parent. “He’s been getting into trouble.”
“Trouble? Gandhi? Father, whatever do you mean?”
“Sheep-killing.”
“But that’s absurd!” cried Susan, thoroughly aroused. “You know he wouldn’t dream of it! He has chased a few old hens now and then just for the fun of it, I admit, but he won’t even so much as look at a sheep. How could you think of such a thing?”
“It isn’t what I think at all,” said the general. “It’s what the police think.”
“D’you mean to say the police are after my poor old Gandhi?”
“I don’t know who or what they’re after,” replied the general testily. “But you know as well as I do that there has been a lot of trouble over sheep-worrying lately on the downs——”
“And nobody’s ever dreamt of saying it was Gandhi’s fault——”
“——And the police are making enquiries. And I think they are quite right too,” he added hastily, before he could be further interrupted.
“But how do you know they are enquiring about Gandhi?” asked Susan.
“That’s what I should have told you five minutes ago if you wouldn’t keep interrupting. They’ve just been on the telephone from Lewes.”
“Asking about my precious Gandhi?”
“Asking about a large dog belonging to me. I told them I hadn’t got a large dog, but that you had.”
“Father!”
“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” asked the general, instantly on the defensive before the accusing stare of his daughter’s blue eyes. “He is your dog, I suppose? You know I’ve never taken any responsibility for him—no responsibility at all.”
“Did you let them accuse Gandhi of worrying sheep and never say a single word for him?” demanded Susan menacingly.
“Certainly not, my dear girl,” her father reassured her. “Nothing of the sort. There isn’t any accusation. I tell you, they are simply making enquiries.”
“What sort of enquiries?”
“What sort of enquiries do the police make in a case like this? How should I know? They’re just—well, enquiring.”
“Over the telephone? Making all sorts of horrible accusations——”
“Not accusations.”
“Well, insinuations against a poor lamb of a dog they’ve never even seen?”
“I wish you wouldn’t run away with ideas like that,” said General Jenkinson plaintively. “They do want to see the dog—that’s just the point. A sergeant or somebody is on his way now to—well, to make enquiries, as I said.”
“And what are you going to tell him when he comes?” asked Susan.
“I’m not going to see him at all,” answered the general hastily. “I’m going out to the stables. He’s your dog, and you had much better deal with the matter yourself. I take no responsibility—no responsibility at all.”
Covering his retreat with his favourite catch-phrase when faced with a difficulty, the general cleared his throat in his most military manner, strode from the room and—since he was a man of his word—did in fact go to the stables, where he devoted a peaceful hour to the contemplation of animals which, whatever their faults, had never numbered sheep-killing among them.
Left to herself, Susan sat in silence for a while. Then she pulled Gandhi’s ears lovingly.
“It’s all a mistake, isn’t it, old boy?” she murmured.
Then she went upstairs to powder her nose. “If it’s that nice Sergeant Littleboy who came up when we had the burglary, I know it will be all right,” she murmured to herself. “But it’s best to take no chances.”
It was not the nice Sergeant Littleboy whom, some twenty minutes later, a nervous parlourmaid ushered into the morning-room. Instead, Susan found herself confronting a face which, though she could have sworn it was wholly unknown to her, nevertheless seemed to strike some vague association in her memory. She frowned involuntarily in the effort to identify it, and then, hastily remembering her good manners, assumed her most beguiling smile, and asked the sergeant to sit down.
The new-comer took a chair and as he did so Susan noticed with amusement that his uniform seemed a good deal too tight for him. His chest strained at the buttons of his tunic, and his breath came somewhat short, as though it were impeded by the neck-band. She longed to tell him to undo it, but feared to ruffle his dignity. “I expect he got a bit warm bicycling up from Lewes,” she thought, for her windows overlooked the drive and she had seen his arrival.
While these thoughts flitted through his mistress’s head, Gandhi conducted his own inspection. Rising in leisurely fashion to his long, ungainly legs, h
e submitted the stranger to a lengthy, searching sniff. It was some time before he was satisfied. The scent of the uniform trousers vaguely displeased him. Something about it grated on his canine consciousness. But presently he was reassured. Whatever the clothes, the man inside was all right. Quite unmistakably, his instinct passed him as a friend. With an almost imperceptible wag of the tail, he sauntered back to the hearthrug and lay down again, at peace with the world. Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The first crisis was safely over.
She caught the sergeant’s eye, and found that he was smiling. Involuntarily she smiled too. Absurdly enough the dog which was the cause of all the trouble seemed to have made them friends already.
“Is that the animal, Miss?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s Gandhi. Isn’t he rather sweet?” said Susan in her most appealing manner.
“He looks harmless enough,” was the guarded reply. Then, drawing some papers with an effort from the pocket of his close-fitting tunic, he went on: “I am sure, Miss, that to your mind it seems ridiculous that your dog could possibly be guilty of anything so dreadful as sheep-killing. But it is a serious matter, as you should know very well, living in a sheep-farming country, and we must consider this seriously. If it goes on, we shall have all the shepherds out with guns to protect their flocks, and it will end with the wrong animal killed as like as not. Now I have here some particulars of sheep-killing in this neighbourhood during the last few days. If you can account for your dog’s movements during the times in question, we can pass the word on, and he’ll be safe. I expect he’s pretty well known in this part of the world.”
Susan nodded, impressed in spite of herself.
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
“I’m sure you will, and you won’t mind my saying that it will be all to your advantage if you can supply the names of independent witnesses who can support your statements. We have to be careful in these things, you know.”
“Quite.”
“Very good. Now the first time is Monday, the 16th of this month, about four p.m.”