by John Rhode
‘I hope you’ll stop for a cup of tea, Inspector, and meet Gavin and Winifred. I’m sure you’d like them both. Gavin’s a very clever artist. Paints pictures, you know, and very good they are. But his luck’s been against him since quite a lad, poor boy. He sends his work up to the Academy every year, but somehow the hanging committee don’t appreciate it. Gavin himself says it’s because he won’t pander to their ideas. I don’t know, for I’m not an expert in the sort of figures he paints. The only figures I know anything about are the ones you write down in books.’
Mr Slater chuckled at his very mild joke and Jimmy followed his example. To the latter it seemed that they were getting on excellently. He was not greatly interested in Gavin and his art, but eventually, he thought, the conversation must take a more informative turn.
‘Gavin always wanted to be a sailor,’ Mr Slater went on reminiscently. ‘But when he was nine he had a terrible accident. He was thrown out of a dog-cart and the wheel passed over him and broke both his legs. The fool of a doctor who attended him bungled things, with the result that he was lamed for life. It nearly broke my wife’s heart. He was our only child and naturally she was devoted to him.’
Jimmy uttered a sympathetic murmur, but Mr Slater hardly heeded him, so set was he on his subject. ‘Of course, that put an end of all Gavin’s prospects of going to sea. In fact, for a long time it was doubtful whether he would ever be able to use his legs again. It was a terrible blow to the poor boy, and for years we found it very difficult to interest him in anything. However, he used to amuse himself with a pencil and paper, and a friend of mine who happened to watch him one day said that he had a definite gift for sketching. So he went to an art school and since then he seems to have found a definite occupation in painting. I don’t mind telling you in confidence, Inspector, that his efforts have not hitherto proved very remunerative. That’s why I want to leave as much money as possible behind me when I die.’
Mr Slater paused. When he continued, it was plain that he was talking rather to himself than to Jimmy. ‘Yes, it was a good move to buy this house. It suited all of us. You see, there’s the studio for Gavin to play about in, and plenty of nice people in the town for Winifred to know; I’m happy enough with them. As happy as I should be anywhere, going blind and with nothing to do. And they’re very good to the old man. He lives with them and pays the bills. No, no, it isn’t that. They’re good children, good children. But it’ll be a relief to them when the old man breathes his last. I know that though they’ve never dropped a hint in word or deed …’
Rather to Jimmy’s relief, Mr Slater’s musings were interrupred by the opening of the door and the entrance of a hard-featured and expensively-dressed woman. She glanced rather haughtily at Jimmy. Mere policemen were obviously beneath her notice.
‘Tea’s ready, father,’ she exclaimed sharply.
‘Thank you, my dear, thank you,’ Mr Slater replied. ‘Let me introduce you to Inspector Waghorn of Scotland Yard. This is my daughter-in-law, Winifred, Inspector.’
Winifred Slater acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod. Mr Slater continued.
‘We were just having a little chat, my dear. About poor Victor Harleston, you know. You remember reading to me Knott’s letter about him? A very sad affair, very sad indeed.’
‘Well, you’d better come along and have your tea now,’ she said. And without wasting any more words, she went out, leaving the door open behind her.
‘I think we’d better go in to tea,’ said Mr Slater, rising laboriously from his chair. ‘Winifred doesn’t like to be kept waiting. We always have tea in the studio and you’ll have an opportunity of seeing Gavin’s work.’
Jimmy hesitated. He was not particularly anxious to see Gavin or to inspect the masterpieces so consistently rejected by the Academy. But his train back to London did not leave for another hour and he thought that he might as well remain as far as possible in Mr Slater’s good graces. He might have need of him again on some future occasion.
So, Mr Slater leading the way with those peculiar groping gestures of his, they passed through the house into the studio. Here they found Winifred Slater already seated at the tea-table. Standing before an easel under the north light was a heavy, thick-set man, whom Mr Slater introduced with evident pride as ‘My son, Gavin.’ Jimmy glanced at him curiously. He was wearing an apron, much bedaubed with paint. His features had a malicious cast about them, Jimmy thought, as though he had a grievance against the world. Rather a bad-tempered looking chap, but then his infirmity and his constant disappointments might account for that.
The walls of the studio were covered with large canvases, no doubt the work of Gavin’s brush. Jimmy was no art expert. He liked pictures or disliked them because they did or did not appeal to him. But he felt in agreement with the judgment of the Hanging Committee. Gavin seemed to excel in the portrayal of people of unusual shape in impossible positions. And his sense of colour made even Jimmy blink.
Gavin came across the room and greeted him superciliously. As soon as the man moved his lameness became apparent. But apart from that he seemed fit enough. In fact, he was a powerful sort of chap, Jimmy thought. An ugly customer to tackle, in spite of his game leg. He was not greatly taken by either him or his wife. It flashed through his mind that Mr Slater’s life with them was probably not quite so contented as he tried to make out.
Tea was rather an uncomfortable meal. Neither Gavin nor Winifred seemed to have anything particular to say. It was left to Mr Slater to drone on about the amenities of Torquay and its neighbourhood. Nothing further of any possible interest to Jimmy transpired. He was relieved when the time came for him to leave the house and make his way to the station.
On his way back to London he made notes of his conversation with Mr Slater. On reading them through he resigned himself to the conviction that he had wasted his day. He had learnt nothing of any interest. Mr Slater had merely confirmed what everybody else had said. Victor Harleston had been an unpleasant sort of person and would not be greatly missed. But, under modern conditions, people don’t get murdered just because they are unpopular. In his search for an alternative motive, Jimmy felt that he had drawn completely blank. It was discouraging. But Jimmy had learnt that the detective must explore many blind alleys before he finds the true thoroughfare.
His final thought was one of sympathy for Mr Slater. ‘Poor old chap,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t live with that couple for anything you could offer me.’
3
It was not until next morning that Jimmy and Hanslet met again. The superintendent listened to Jimmy’s account of his visit to Torquay with obvious impatience. At the end of it he snorted disdainfully.
‘I could have told you before you started that you wouldn’t learn anything,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to learn. We know the whole story. All we want now is proof, and that I mean to find before I’m very many days older. Look here, this is Friday, the day on which they are going to bury Victor Harleston. Philip and Janet will attend the funeral, of course. You’d better go too, and keep an eye on them.’
‘You’re not expecting the coffin to sweat drops of blood in their presence, are you?’ Jimmy asked.
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ replied the superintendent, whose knowledge of ancient superstitions was not so extensive as Jimmy’s. ‘I want you to keep an eye on those two young people. Detain them for an hour or so after the funeral on any pretext you like. I don’t want them back again at Lassingford too soon. I’m going down there myself, while they’re both out of the way, to have a look over that cottage of theirs. There’s just a chance that I may find something which will give us what we want.’
So Jimmy took up his position outside the cemetery. He saw the procession arrive and noticed that there were only four mourners. Janet, Philip, Mr Mowbray and a fourth, whom Jimmy recognised as the young clerk, Davies, to whom he had spoken in Mr Knott’s office. The latter obviously was representing the firm of Slater & Knott. Jimmy waite
d until the mourners should return. He had no desire to be present at the graveside.
He had not very long to wait before they came out. He stepped forward and Janet immediately recognised him.
‘Why, there’s Inspector Waghorn!’ she exclaimed.
The others looked at him with varying degrees of interest. Philip seemed fairly surprised. The lawyer glanced at him shrewdly, but made no remark. Davies nodded towards him as if in recognition of their acquaintance.
Janet, however, approached him impulsively and drew him aside.
‘Why are you here, Mr Waghorn?’ she asked with something like terror in her voice.
‘Merely out of curiosity, Miss Harleston,’ Jimmy replied as gently as he could.
She shook her head impatiently. ‘It’s something more than that, I know,’ she said. ‘Listen, Superintendent Hanslet came down to see us yesterday. He suspects Philip of—of having something to do with Victor’s death.’
Jimmy felt a sharp stab of pity at the sound of her voice. He could guess what lay beneath this rather obvious statement. Hanslet might suspect her brother. That was his affair. What tortured her was that she did not know whether to suspect him herself or not.
‘He found some nicotine missing from Philip’s store,’ she continued. ‘You don’t believe he had anything to do with it, do you, Mr Waghorn?’
Jimmy could find no answer to this appeal. He felt an insane desire to comfort her. It was on his lips to say, ‘My dear, I know well enough that you had nothing to do with it and I don’t see that anything else matters.’ But such a speech would be unpardonable on the part of an Inspector of Police. His official reply sounded bald and unconvincing.
‘I am sure you will understand, Miss Harleston,’ he said. ‘Until your brother’s death is satisfactorily explained everybody connected with him must be, to some extent, under suspicion.’
A look of profound discouragement came into her eyes. It was clear that she had hoped for something, no matter what, which would have helped to set her own doubts at rest. She turned away as though to rejoin the others. But Jimmy had been told to detain her and for once his duty coincided with his inclination.
‘Are you going back to Lassingford at once, Miss Harleston?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘not until the six o’clock train. Mr Mowbray wants us to go back to his office with him. There are lots of things to be settled.’
Jimmy felt strangely disappointed. If she and Philip were going to the lawyer’s office, Hanslet’s requirements would be satisfied. The lawyer would have the pleasure of her company instead of himself, that was all. And Jimmy had thought out all manner of schemes for spending an hour or so with her. She interested him, it was no good pretending that she didn’t. In a professional way, of course. A most instructive type to study. Well, the opportunity had been deferred. He went back to Scotland Yard feeling that the day was somehow less bright than it had been. And once there he plunged with unusual energy into a mass of routine work.
Hanslet returned from Lassingford also disappointed, but for quite another reason. He had searched the cottage from attic to cellar but had found nothing that could possibly throw any light upon Victor Harleston’s death. He had half hoped that he might have found the remains of the tin of nicotine hidden away in some obscure corner. But this hope had failed him and he was proportionately irritated. He seemed to think that Jimmy ought to have confronted Philip at the funeral, and extorted some sort of statement from him.
‘You’re a damned sight too gentle with these folk,’ he grumbled. ‘The velvet glove is no use in a case like this. What you want is the iron hand. Show them that you know that one or the other of them did it and that you don’t mean to give them any peace until you can prove which it was. Make their lives a burden to them till they give in in sheer desperation. That’s the way to handle them, my lad. You watch me and I’ll show you. I’ll give that young rogue a few yards more rope and then I’ll go for him properly.’
Hanslet’s irritation caused Jimmy no surprise, for he fully understood the reason of it. It is one thing for a police officer to suspect a given individual of a crime, but quite another for him to bully the suspect into a confession. English judges, rightly or wrongly, look upon an extorted confession with grave dislike. They may even refuse to allow such a statement to be given in evidence. Hanslet counted upon a confession to secure conviction. But that confession, to be of any use, must be made voluntarily. He felt that, sooner or later, Philip’s resistance would break down. But it galled him to have to wait. His temperament was not that of the cat which waits patiently for hours at the mousehole. It was rather that of the ferret who goes into the burrow after the rabbit.
The weekend passed without any further development. But on Monday morning at about eleven o’clock, a messenger brought Jimmy a card. It bore the name of Mr Fred Davies of Slater & Knott, accountants.
Jimmy wondered what on earth Davies could want with him. However, that was soon discovered. ‘Show him in,’ he said.
Davies entered the room rather diffidently. ‘Er—good-morning, Inspector,’ he said nervously.
‘Good-morning, Mr Davies,’ Jimmy replied heartily. ‘I saw you on the day of Mr Harleston’s funeral, I think. Sit down. You’ll find that chair pretty comfortable.’
He asked no question as to his visitor’s errand, thinking it best that he should explain it himself. Davies sat down and fidgeted uneasily. The rather chilling air of Scotland Yard seemed to depress him. ‘Have a cigarette,’ said Jimmy carelessly, handing him his open case.
The gesture seemed to reassure Davies. The interview was not to be so formal as he had feared. He took a cigarette and lighted it at the match which Jimmy struck for him.
‘Thanks,’ he said gratefully. ‘Yes, I was at the funeral. The chaps at the office thought somebody ought to go and they chose me. And it’s the same today. They knew that I’d met you and as we’d made up our minds to speak to the police, they said that since I knew you, I’d better come and talk to you about it.’
This was not very explicit. ‘I’m very glad you came, Mr Davies,’ replied Jimmy. ‘If I can help you in any way, you’ve only got to ask me.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ said Davies. ‘I expect you’ll laugh at me when I tell you what it’s all about. We’re worried because Mr Knott hasn’t been to the office since Thursday and nobody seems to know where he is.’
‘What steps have you taken to find him, Mr Davies?’ asked Jimmy quietly.
‘I’d better tell you all about it from the beginning. Mr Knott left the office at lunch-time on Thursday, saying that he was going down to Torquay to see Mr Slater and would probably not be back until Friday afternoon. There’s nothing unusual about that. He often goes down to see Mr Slater, and stays the night.
‘However, Mr Knott did not come back on Friday. During the afternoon, some urgent correspondence came in which required his personal attention. The chief clerk thought that Mr Knott might have decided to spend the weekend at Torquay and sent a telegram to Mr Slater, and an answer came back that Mr Knott had left for London by the first train that morning.’
Jimmy nodded. He remembered that Mr Slater had told him that he expected Mr Knott on Thursday evening. ‘Where does Mr Knott live?’ he asked.
‘He has rooms in the Temple, at Crozier Court. The chief clerk went there as soon as he received Mr Slater’s telegram. But Mr Knott was not there and the rooms were shut up. And nobody had seen him since Thursday morning. Mr Knott is a bachelor and lives alone.’
It struck Jimmy that a bachelor might absent himself for the weekend without all this fuss being made.
‘Don’t you think it probable that he’ll turn up in the course of the day?’ he asked.
‘Well, I hope so,’ Davies replied. ‘But it’s most extraordinary that he should have kept away like this. He expected the arrival of this correspondence that I mentioned. Before he went away he told the chief clerk that he would be back without fail on Frid
ay afternoon. It’s most unlike him to stay away from the office without letting anybody know where he is. We are beginning to wonder if anything can have happened to him.’
‘You were quite right to come and see me, Mr Davies,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll set about making inquiries at once. To begin with, I shall want an accurate description of Mr Knott and if possible a photograph.’
‘There’s a very good photograph of him at the office,’ Davies replied. ‘It was taken last year at our annual dinner.’
‘Then I think I’ll go back with you and fetch it. By the time we get there there may be some news.’
Jimmy accompanied Davies to the offices of Messrs. Slater & Knott. He thought it as well to get some confirmation of the Davies’ story, and asked for an interview with the chief clerk, but this gentleman, whose name was Grant, had nothing to add to the account which Jimmy had already heard. Mr Knott had told him personally, just before his departure, that he would be back by Friday afternoon, without fail. Since then he had had no word from him.
Jimmy was shown the telegram which had been received from Mr Slater. It was brief and to the point. ‘Knott left here for London 7.20 yesterday morning.’
‘Mr Knott expected to have urgent affairs to attend to on his return, did he not?’ he asked.
‘That is so,’ replied Grant. ‘He expected the arrival of some very important correspondence on Friday morning. It concerned one of our most prominent clients and Mr Knott had made an appointment for that gentleman to come here at three o’clock that afternoon in order to discuss it. The gentleman arrived and waited for half an hour. But Mr Knott did not turn up nor have we heard anything of him since. It is extremely awkward, for the matter is one which must be settled without delay.’
Under these circumstances, Knott’s non-appearance seemed inexplicable. Jimmy examined the photograph which was produced for him, and recognised it as an excellent likeness. Grant and Davies between them gave him a detailed description of Knott’s appearance and of the clothes which he was wearing when he was last seen. Armed with these and the photograph he returned to Scotland Yard. Here he drafted a circular for distribution to all police stations.