It Might Lead Anywhere

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It Might Lead Anywhere Page 25

by E. R. Punshon


  “I don’t know anything about all that,” Langley Long said, a faint sneer in his voice. “I daresay it’s possible Brown didn’t worry so much about a spot of swindling in the abstract, if you see what I mean, but didn’t like it so much when the chap who had been done down came along—brought it home to him perhaps. That’s the way Theresa put it once when I was telling her about Denis. But Denis wouldn’t have it when I told him.”

  “It’s all so difficult and muddling, isn’t it?” Theresa said with a little sigh, and still she constantly watched Bobby and he saw her hands were moving now beneath the embroidery lying on her knees.

  “There was a large sum in gold found in Brown’s possession after his murder,” Bobby said. “Mr. Long, how does that square with your idea that Mr. Goodman was paying Brown blackmail to hold his tongue?”

  “Oh, very likely Goodman thought it was safer stored there than in his own house,” Langley Long suggested. “Brown was living alone. Goodman had servants and servants get to know a lot. I expect Brown was allowed to help himself in reason. Goodman could check up when he wanted to make sure Brown wasn’t taking too much.”

  “Rather a trustful spirit on Mr. Goodman’s part if it was like that,” Bobby said, and Goodman snorted contempt to such an idea. “I must say,” Bobby continued, “that both Mr. Spencer and I felt quite satisfied that Mr. Goodman was utterly and completely surprised when we told him.”

  “I certainly was,” agreed Goodman, and now it was his turn to look complacent and relieved. “I couldn’t believe my own ears. I hope that disposes of the absurd suggestion that I killed Brown for the sake of getting hold of something I had no idea even existed.”

  “It wasn’t that at all,” Theresa said very quietly, as if she were asking someone if they took sugar in their tea. “The gold was what old Mr. Kayes had been getting together because he thought there wasn’t anything else you could trust, what with invasions and revolutions and all that. But poor Brown got hold of it after his death without your knowing; and then Mr. Duke Dell got hold of him, and so you were afraid of his telling and telling about you, too, and so you killed him.”

  “Sit down,” Bobby ordered Mr. Goodman who had jumped angrily to his feet but who obeyed Bobby’s sharp command. “All very interesting,” Bobby continued. “We’ve heard what Mr. Goodman and Mr. Langley Long and Miss Foote have to say and it’s all been most—enlightening. Now we’ll hear what Mr. Denis Kayes can tell us and that may be more enlightening still.”

  As he spoke he crossed to the door and opened it and Denis Kayes came in; still pale from his recent experiences, availing himself of the support of a walking-stick to help legs still a trifle unsteady, but otherwise little the worse for what he had gone through.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  AN ARREST

  For a moment following Denis Kayes’s abrupt appearance, there was in that room a strange and utter silence, such as is seldom known, a silence in which it was as though all things hung in a void where nothing moved or happened or ever could. It was broken by Theresa who said softly:

  “All dodged up to get us talking. You dirty trickster.”

  “Meaning me?” asked Bobby amiably; and his inspector he had stationed by Theresa’s side stooped suddenly and snatched away the embroidery on her lap and with the same movement seized what that embroidery had hidden.

  “You were quite right, sir,” he said to Bobby. “It’s a point three-two automatic the young lady had.” Then as he looked at it he added in a slightly disappointed tone: “It’s not loaded.” With even more evident surprise and disappointment, he went on: “It couldn’t be. It’s a dud.” He took it across to Bobby to show him, and said: “Looks to me as if the magazine chamber had been filled up with melted lead or something.”

  “That was me,” Langley Long said. “So as not to have to bother about a licence. Nothing illegal about having a dud in your pocket, is there?”

  Bobby, without answering this, said to Denis:

  “You heard it all. You might give us your side of it now. The side you were never meant to tell.”

  “What they’ve been saying is all rot,” Denis said. “All mixed up. I don’t really know what happened on Quarry Hill. All I remember is taking a header through the air and feeling awfully surprised, and awfully curious and excited about what was going to happen when I came down, and that’s all. I had a message on the phone that morning. It didn’t say who it was but to cycle over by Quarry Hill and there would be someone waiting who would tell me a lot of things about Brown and Mr. Goodman and what they had been up to together, and who really killed Brown. Only I wasn’t to tell anyone and I was to come alone or there would be nothing doing. I thought I might as well see if there was anything in it, though I didn’t much expect there was, only you never know, and as I was starting off Miss Foote came with a letter she said to give to the man I was going to meet, because then I could check up, only I wasn’t to open it before. So I didn’t. I have now. It makes out to be my will, only it isn’t. It’s faked. A forgery. I suppose the idea was to have it found in my pocket, so as to make it seem all right. It leaves everything to this chap Langley Long, I never knew a thing about till now. I might have guessed though if I had seen that walking-stick. It must be the one father sent Uncle Stephen. Father thought it was about time they made it up after their row, so he sent Uncle Stephen some curios, including a walking-stick that must be the one Mr. Owen told me about. We never even got any acknowledgment, so father never tried again. We took it Uncle Stephen didn’t feel the same way. If it’s true that Uncle Stephen left all he had to this Langley Long chap, then I take it that’ll be how he got hold of the stick. After father’s death, when I knew there was a good chance I might get posted to a home job, I wrote again to Uncle Stephen. I said father always thought there was something crooked about Uncle Alfred’s estate being so small and there was an old letter of uncle’s with a sort of hint about having taken his precautions—he didn’t say what they were—and how he wouldn’t quit the gold standard, whatever anyone else did. Gold was always gold, he said, and so it is. I said if I did get home, I would try to do something. I never got any reply to that either. Very likely my letter got into this Langley chap’s hands, too, and that’s what started him off, trying to get in ahead, and if there was anything in the idea he would see if he couldn’t land it for himself. He may have thought he had as good a right to it as anyone.”

  “Well, I had, hadn’t I?” Langley Long asked sullenly. “I’m a nephew just the same as you.”

  “Please go on with your story,” Bobby said to Denis, checking the heated retort Denis was about to make.

  Denis continued:

  “The phone message this morning said I would be shown a letter to prove good faith. I asked what letter but the phone went dead. Hung up at the other end. I thought it might be this letter. It all seemed rummy, but I thought I might as well try to get to the bottom of it. I nearly got to the bottom of the quarry instead, only luckily for me Mr. Owen turned up on time. Rather a bit of a habit of his. Turning up in time, I mean.”

  “Then there hasn’t been any accident at all?” Mr. Childs asked with a very surprised and somewhat bewildered air.

  “No,” agreed Bobby, “only an attempted murder.”

  “Murder?” exclaimed Theresa. “Mr. Goodman again? Trying to hide one murder by another? Is that it?”

  “Well, we have found some Balkan cigarette ends of the kind Mr. Goodman smokes,” Bobby agreed, “and some book match-stalks. We may find his dabs on them. I don’t know yet.”

  “That’s a lie,” Mr. Goodman shouted. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.” He was on his feet, shouting, gesticulating violently. “If you did you put them there, planted them, it’s a fake.”

  “Sit down,” Bobby said; and when Goodman showed no disposition to comply, enforced obedience by a vigorous thrust that sent the shouting, excited, gesticulating man back into his chair. “We found what I told you,” Bobby said, “but there’s no proof
of identity there. We also found a faked notice-board put up to cover a danger sign, so Mr. Kayes should not see it. There are finger-prints on it we have been able to identify—”

  “Not mine,” Mr. Goodman screamed. “They couldn’t be.”

  “Mr. Langley Long’s,” Bobby said.

  Theresa sitting quietly in her chair said in her soft voice:

  “You fool, Langley, you’ve finished us, you blundering fool. You said you saw him go over the quarry edge.”

  “So I did,” Langley muttered sullenly. “Motor bike and all. I made sure he was dead. He ought to be. How could I tell? I didn’t dare look. I was sure. It wasn’t possible.”

  “And you left your finger-prints as well? I told you to burn everything. Why didn’t you? That’s finished it,” Theresa said as softly as before, and all her face was one still mask of hate.

  “How could I guess he would come snooping round at once?” Langley asked, looking almost reproachfully at Bobby. “I hid it all. Behind bushes. I didn’t reckon on anyone looking so soon. Why should they? Just another accident. I didn’t want to stop there. I knew he was dead. He had to be. I saw it all just as we planned, I saw him go clean over. I knew he must be dead and he ought to be, but then I thought all the same he might come climbing back, dead and climbing back, and I didn’t dare wait to see. So I made off. But I meant to come back and burn it all, same as you said. How was I to know?” and again there was a touch of reproach, of indignation even, in his voice as he went on: “How could I tell that Owen would be snooping round so soon?”

  “My job, snooping round,” Bobby explained. “Or those who try once and fail might try again and succeed.”

  “You never will any more,” Theresa said; and suddenly there was another pistol in her hand.

  But Bobby had been watching and was ready. On the table near him, conveniently near, for he had shifted his position that it might be so, was a vase of flowers. With a sweep of his arm, he sent it flying through the air, well aimed, to strike Theresa’s pistol hand. At the same moment the inspector dived. Everyone was shouting now, on their feet, jostling each other. On the hearthrug before the fireplace was a kind of heap, composed of the inspector, Theresa, a chair, the flowers and the broken vase, all wrapped in the velvet cover dragged from the table. From it protruded Theresa’s hand, her fingers pulling the trigger of her pistol, the bullets flying at random here and there.

  “Not so fast,” Bobby said, and grabbed by the collar Langley Long who had seized the opportunity to make a dash for the door.

  “Ai-e-e,” said the inspector, “she’s bitten me.”

  But he had managed to wrest the pistol from her grasp and now he released her and held up his hand indignantly.

  “Bleeding,” he said. “Look. Calls herself a lady I suppose. Tried to scratch as well. Might have been my eyes.”

  “I tried,” Theresa said, “I tried.”

  The confusion began to subside. Langley Long was in the secure grip of Constable Morgan who had taken him over from Bobby. Theresa, flushed, fierce, dishevelled, but harmless now it had been made sure she had no other weapon—no other than her teeth and nails, that is, to her good use of both of which the unlucky inspector was able to show convincing testimony—was trying to tidy her hair and straighten her clothing. Duke Dell was standing by the door with his hands held hard and tight before him, for this scene of sudden violence had roused in him old memories and old instincts, so that it was all he could do not to plunge into the scrimmage. Mr. Childs had not stirred. He was still sitting in the chair he had occupied throughout, only now he was examining with puzzled interest a little round hole that had suddenly appeared in the wall close to his head—a few more inches to one side and the hole would have been not near, but through, his head. He said:

  “I don’t think I understand very well—all most unusual and disturbing,” and as he spoke he lifted a cautious finger to touch again that small round hole in the wall, as if to make sure it did really exist.

  Mr. Goodman came forward and held out a gravely congratulatory hand to Bobby.

  “Now you have brought this case to a successful conclusion,” he said, “and shown so clearly who did indeed murder Brown, may I say how much I admire your wonderfully expert handling of this most difficult and complicated case, so full of all kinds of contradictory cross currents?”

  “Thank you very much,” said Bobby. “Now I have to ask you to come with me to headquarters, where you will be charged with the murder of Brown.”

  “What? What do you mean?” demanded Goodman, for the moment more puzzled and surprised than uneasy.

  “It’s them.” He swung a hand at Theresa, still mechanically straightening her hair, at Langley Long in the grip of Constable Davies. “Them,” he repeated. “You’ve just said so.”

  “They will be charged with the attempted murder of Denis Kayes,” Bobby explained. “There was a conspiracy to make you seem guilty there, too, but no charge will be made against you in that connection.”

  “You can’t, you’re raving,” Mr. Goodman almost shouted. “You’ve no evidence, not a scrap. I’ve an alibi —an absolute alibi.”

  “You had better say no more at present,” Bobby told him quietly. “You can make later on any further statement you wish to. You had better wait till you know what the actual evidence is. If I did not believe it was sufficient, there would be no charge made. There may be more evidence if Mr. Langley Long and Miss Foote decide to tell it all.”

  “You’ll get nothing from me, you and your tricks,” Theresa said, suddenly and viciously.

  “For you to decide,” Bobby answered. “Just as you wish. Mr. Langley Long may not feel the same way. That’s for him to say. In any case you’ll both be charged with the attempted murder of Mr. Denis Kayes. I think there’s no doubt the case will go for trial. If so, it might make a difference if we could say you had done your best to help. I don’t know, of course. Entirely a matter for the judge.”

  “I’ll tell you all I know, everything,” Langley Long exclaimed eagerly. “It was all through her, all her from the start. I never wanted to myself. I never should but for her.”

  “You cur, you coward,” Theresa said. “You pretended it was all to get money, so we could marry,” and suddenly she began to cry, for now at last tears had become possible to her.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CONCLUSION

  Later on, talking it over with Olive, Bobby said reflectively:

  “What made the whole case so different—and because of that, so difficult—was the way in which it developed from a clear cut, straight-forward, almost routine murder investigation, into a kind of duel between the Theresa girl and myself. At first, it didn’t seem she counted for much. Just a little flirtatious, inquisitive, empty-headed bit of skirt in the background, and then gradually you became aware of her as the dark force behind all that happened. Yet she wasn’t the murderer. That was plain from the start. It wasn’t a woman’s crime for one thing. Too violent. Her alibi was sound as well. Mrs. Fuller confirmed and she was clearly a witness of truth. Oddly enough, it was while I was trying to see if I could find a flaw in it, that I spotted how Goodman had worked his dodge. I asked myself if Theresa could have played the stowaway in the car that took Mr. Childs back home. Only she couldn’t have known the big Rolls-Royce was going to be used. But Goodman might have fixed it that way. The small runabout had developed a defect. Of Goodman’s own making? Then there was the ostentatious banging of the front door. Mr. Childs heard it and took it to mean Goodman had gone indoors. Actually what happened was that Goodman showed himself for a moment against the lighted hall within, and then stepped back and slammed the door, leaving himself outside. Then in the dark he ran back to the Rolls-Royce where Mr. Childs was still busy settling himself in the front seat, and he dodged into the back where he had put the bicycle so as to make sure Childs would sit in front beside the chauffeur. Easy enough to slip away unseen when Mr. Childs stopped the car at the foot of the hill. It all fi
tted in once you saw the idea, but it worried me, because ‘could be’ doesn’t prove it actually ‘was’ that way. With the additional evidence we have now, it’s good enough. Of course, I was always sure from the start it must be Goodman. He managed to provide me very soon with three clear indications of his guilt. One might not have meant much. But three all pointing the same way simply had to.”

  “I know there was the one about the music,” Olive agreed. “There didn’t seem any way Mr. Goodman could have known it was a New York concert, playing Sibelius music, if he hadn’t been there. But you never told me there were three things like that.”

  “Oh yes, I did,” Bobby asserted. “I didn’t emphasize them, but I did mention them. The very first time I saw Goodman he talked about ‘killing.’ Why? Village rows don’t usually lead to people being killed. I wondered if that meant the idea of killing was already in Goodman’s mind. As in fact it was. And he mentioned Brown by name. But I was told in the village no name had been given. But it did suggest that ‘Brown’ and ‘killing’ were two ideas linked in his mind—in his subconscious they say nowadays. Three plain hints, but you can’t go into court on ‘hints,’ however plain. Any clever counsel would have thoroughly enjoyed himself making hay of them.”

  “I suppose,” reflected Olive, but with some regret in her tone, “I suppose there have to be clever counsel.”

  “I don’t know about ‘have,’” answered Bobby, reflectively, too, “but there jolly well are. Anyhow, those hints kept me on the right track, though no good for a jury. Too much like mere psychological stuff, and no jury would hang a cat on psychology. Then there was the religious element. That helped to make the case unusual and therefore difficult. Religion, I mean. You never know where you are with religion. Dangerous stuff. The strongest motive of all, once it gets you. And it gets every one, though often people don’t know it, and often it’s the wrong religion. Stock Exchange even. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Duke Dell or even Mr. Childs—”

 

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