“I know,” said Wharton, feelingly. “And what did you do then?”
“Went back home,” Kenray said. “The secretary, so he told me this morning, got in touch with the Pangley police and they, I believe, got in touch with you.”
Wharton heaved a sigh and then pursed his lips.
“Just one little thing,” he said, and after what had apparently been due reflection. “Your own movements last night. You went home to Hurstham and then on to Pangley later?”
“I didn’t,” Kenray told him promptly. “My eyes aren’t any too good, nor my heart either, for that matter.”
I’d been wondering about that purple colouring of his and if he lifted his elbow, but that mention of a heart put me right.
“What I mean is this,” he was going on. “I could have had a car from my own place to the station and another from Pangley station to Sir William’s place, but I was doing the job for nothing and I didn’t see why I should be out of pocket. As a matter of fact Sir William did arrange to have a taxi waiting for me. He walked always. It’s about five minutes, as I was telling you. One of these unspoilt country lanes his way.”
“But what about that train he ’phoned he was coming by? The four-fifty? It would have been pitch-dark when he got to Pangley by that. What I mean is this. He had a taxi to meet you. Why didn’t he order one to meet himself? Or did he?”
“Not so far as I know,” Kenray said. Then the dry smile came again. “He had the car for me because I insisted on it. He said the walk would do me good and I told him bluntly that I wasn’t giving it a chance.”
Wharton simulated a chuckle.
“Well,” he said, “it certainly looks as if he didn’t order any taxi to meet himself. But about you, Mr. Kenray. I gather your whole arrangements for the evening were disturbed.”
“Not too much,” Kenray said, and with the same mildness. “I usually go home by the four-fifty, though if it’s a wet, dark night I make it the four-five. What I actually did was this. I had some arrears of work to clear off at the shop. My sister runs that, by the way. I got in at about five and I was a bit tired. Had the whole day at a sale and wasn’t feeling any too good. My sister had tea ready for me and then I had a little nap in the office. Then we had a bit of dinner at about half-past six and then my sister—she’s got eyes like a cat—went with me to Charing Cross where I caught the seven-twenty, as I’d arranged with Sir William.”
“I get you,” Wharton said. “You had only the one journey instead of two, so to speak, and a very sensible arrangement too, if I may say so. But your sister. She travelled with you?”
“Travelled?” said Kenray, rather perplexed.
“Doesn’t she live at Hurstham with you?”
“No, no, no,” Kenray told him. “She did for a time during the blitz but normally she lives at the shop. There’s a nice little flat above it. My man has a cubby-hole there too. Useful for fire-watching.”
There didn’t seem anything else to ask or say and Wharton heaved another sigh.
“Well, as I told the India Office this very morning, Mr. Kenray, there’s nothing we can do in addition to what’s being done. The whole machinery’s been set in motion and if he’s to be found, then you can take it from me that he’ll be found.” He leaned forward. “But strictly between ourselves. You’re a man of the world, like myself, and what passes between us is nobody’s business.”
A pause for effect and he put his question.
“Sir William couldn’t possibly have hopped it— skedaddled or whatever you like to call it—with that nice little collection of jewellery?”
“Out of the question,” Kenray said bluntly.
“But why?” insisted Wharton.
“Well, he’d been an important public servant in India. The authorities wouldn’t have asked him to take over this particular branch of the Bengal Appeal Fund if they hadn’t had a pretty high regard for him.” Then he thought of something else. “Besides, where could he go to? Take myself. I go occasionally to the States, but it’s under strict Government licence and priority, and only because I’m selling stones and jewellery to bring dollars to the Treasury.”
“I’d overlooked that,” Wharton told him. “But loss of memory. What about that?”
“I couldn’t say. Certainly he was a very nervy man. I think I mentioned that before.”
“Wealthy, was he?”
“Hard to judge,” Kenray told him. “I’d say he had enough and no more. He’s got a nice little place at Pangley, but nothing out of the way. I gathered he’d been hard hit by the war.”
“Who hasn’t?” asked Wharton feelingly. “Married, was he?”
“A widower,” Kenray said. “One son, now out East. In the Indian Civil, I believe.”
That seemed all, at least Wharton leaned well back in his chair. I thought he was getting to his feet to indicate that the interview was over, but suddenly he leaned forward again.
“Just a couple of questions, Mr. Kenray, and I hope you won’t take offence. Just why should you, personally, who seem to be only indirectly involved, have decided to come to me?”
Kenray made never a movement. There was such a silence in the room that, when he spoke, his voice sounded unnaturally loud.
“One’s a personal reason, and I’d rather it wasn’t mentioned. My sister—stepsister, really—is a widow. A year or so ago her only son, my nephew, was killed over Dieppe, and she contributed, anonymously, a rather valuable piece of jewellery to this Bengal Fund as a tribute to his memory. There was a proviso that the proceeds of its sale were to be devoted to something special in my nephew’s name.”
“A valuable piece of jewellery, then?”
“I think it would have made a thousand pounds,” Kenray said calmly. “My sister’s more than a knowledgeable woman. She picked it up years ago and was holding it for the boy’s wife—I mean, if and when he married.”
“A fine young fellow, was he?”
“They don’t make many like him,” Kenray told him quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Wharton said lamely. “And you’re married yourself, Mr. Kenray?”
“I’m a widower,” Kenray said. “My wife died a year ago. But about that second reason I had for coming here. I’d like to lay my cards on the table.”
“Why not?” asked Wharton, and spread his palms in a generous gesture.
“Well then,” went on Kenray. “Not only was I naturally anxious about this gift of my sister’s, but last night, when I got to thinking over things, I decided they didn’t look any too good for me. I had to look at everything from every angle. Frankly, what I had in mind was that Sir William might have been murdered for the sake of the jewellery.”
“Yes?” said Wharton, and waited.
“Well, from what I might call my end, I was the only one who knew he was going home last night with the jewellery in that attaché-case of his.”
Wharton chuckled hugely.
“But my dear sir! Suppose things are as bad as you thought, why in heaven’s name should a man of your standing be suspected of being implicated?”
“Why not?” Kenray asked him bluntly. “Surely you’d have had to question everybody, however remotely concerned. And as far as I’m concerned, to put it very mildly, I have to spend the whole of to-day at Christie’s. It’s, an important sale of jewellery and I mustn’t miss it. I want to be there, not here being questioned by you. Very nicely questioned, I ought to say in fairness to yourself.”
“Very generous of you,” Wharton told him, but I could tell from his tone that Kenray’s frankness had been very much of a facer. “Another five minutes, Mr. Kenray, and you can be on your way. And I’m very grateful that you came. But about no one knowing from your end. This stepsister of yours. Did you mention anything to her?”
“She knew practically everything,” Kenray said, and, to me, very surprisingly. “She’s my partner in the business and, to tell the truth, there’s branches of it she knows more about than I do.”
“Ex
actly. But what did you tell her?”
. “Well, she knew I’d been called in as adviser and she knew, of course, that I was going to Pangley to see Sir William last night. But she didn’t necessarily know the essential thing—that he was bringing all that stuff along in his attaché-case.”
“Ah!” said Wharton. “That clears that then. But what about Sir William’s end. Garrulous, was he?”
“Well . . . yes,” admitted Kenray dryly.
“To whom would he be likely to talk? At his office, for instance?”
And then, before Kenray could reply, the buzzer went.
Chapter II
NEW ASSIGNMENT
I couldn’t gather anything of what Wharton was saying, for his voice at the very outset gave a dramatic hush, though that at least should have told me that he was listening to what he called One of the Big Bugs. No sooner had he finished than he was confirming at least that much. Back in his chair he leaned and heaved a sigh as if the cares of the world were suddenly on his already stooping shoulders.
“Well, you’re lucky being able to get out, Mr. Kenray,” he said with a kind of jocular plaintiveness. “I look like being tied to this desk till something happens.” His tone changed subtly. “That was the India Office. They seem to know all about you.”
“I’ve had dealings with them before,” said Kenray unconcernedly.
“I said you’d been good enough to come along,” Wharton went on. “And, by the way, all this is very hush-hush. Whatever happens, not a word is to get out. They don’t want any scandal. I know nothing. You know nothing. Nobody knows anything. You get me?”
I could imagine the leer that accompanied the question. Kenray merely remarked in his non-committal way that he understood.
“Well,” went on George, evidently finding him a tricky one to handle. “I think that’s about all.”
“You were asking about his office,” Kenray reminded him.
“Of course. What sort of a place is it?”
“Just a couple or three rooms,” Kenray said. “Almost an accommodation address, if you know what I mean. There’s a sort of young lady secretary—name of . . .”
He produced a notebook and turned the pages.
“Oh, yes. A Miss Chaddon. Lent, I think, by one of the Ministries. That’s all there seemed to be.”
“Then if he did chatter at the office, she’s the only one he could have chattered to.”
“Looks like it.”
Wharton grunted; grunted again, and, finding himself at a loss for ideas, got to his feet, hand held out.
“Well, I mustn’t detain you any longer.”
I drew back from the fanlight for Kenray was facing me as he rose, but soon I heard the voices moving away. The door opened and closed and the voices ceased, so I gathered up my belongings and prepared to wait for Wharton. It was five minutes before he was back and he was carrying a small clip of papers.
“Shan’t keep you a minute,” he said and began looking them through. I caught sight of the Who’s Who on his desk and reached for it.
There was a goodish bit about Sir William Pelle—a third of a column perhaps, and I haven’t the least intention to bother you with all that. Besides, I want to put down only what was of subsequent importance, and you might do worse than take a tip from me and regard the following extracts in that light.
SIR WILLIAM HENRY PELLE. Born 1881, Father. Claudius Pelle of the firm of Pelle and Letouret, Fine Art Dealers, Rue de Rivoli, Paris. Educated Winchester, and Balliol Coll. Oxford. Indian Civil Service 1907. Member Malanagram Commission, 1917. Chairman Mysore Inquiry, 1926. K.C.S.I., 1928. Author of Peasant Proprietorship, 1934. Problems of Legislature, 1937. Married, 1912, Eleanor, daughter of Sir Leyland Frame, Administrator Tajnore Province. Son. William Leyland Pelle, born 1913.
I didn’t know then, of course, what was important and what was not, but I do remember that I thought that Kenray, like myself, must have gathered some at least of his information about Pelle from a volume of Who’s Who. Wharton wasn’t particularly interested, and I was pretty sure he’d already looked him up. What he was interested in was Pelle’s description as just furnished by the Chief Inspector who was handling the inquiry. That secretary, Miss Chaddon, had provided most of it and that other secretary, a Roger Mavin, at the Pangley end, had furnished the rest.
“Why a Pangley secretary?” I wanted to know.
“Because he was writing his autobiography,” Wharton told me none too patiently. “Never mind about secretaries. You get that description clear.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why, but I thought it better not to. Pelle, the description said, was aged sixty-four and five-foot six in his shoes. Thin grey hair, complexion pink, moustache white, and clipped. Very sparely built and weight only about eight stone and a half. Eyes blue. Slightly receding chin. When left office was wearing warm brown tweed suit, heavy dark-grey overcoat, brown felt hat and brown shoes. His attaché-case bore his initials and though worn was stout and in good order. No stick or gloves. No glasses, but carried a monocle, rarely used, in breast pocket with narrow black ribbon round neck.
“By the way,” George said when I handed that description back. “It wasn’t a bad move, was it, on the part of the Old Gent to have you listening in there?”
By the Old Gent he meant himself. That’s one of his little deprecatory tricks for patting—or should I say thumping—himself on the back.
“Why?” I said.
“Why?” He stared, then tried to look pained. “This Kenray doesn’t know you, does he? Never seen you.”
“I still don’t see it.”
He clicked his tongue exasperatedly.
“One of these days you will see something and then I shall have a fit.”
“Something to look forward to, at any rate,” I said. “But why shouldn’t Kenray have met me in here? Have I signs of incipient measles on me, or what?”
“Why shouldn’t he have seen you!” He snorted derisively. “Nothing fishy about that yarn of his, was there? Comes here off his own bat and gives the excuse that he’d rather get the questioning done before we’ve had time to look round.”
“I see,” I said. “You think he’s decided that attack is the best form of defence. If so, I don’t agree. He seemed to me a likeable man and an honest one, and a man of standing and importance in his own profession.”
He was going to make some blazing retort and then, for some specious reason of his own, thought better of it. His gesture was almost a cringe.
“Never wash out a suspect till you’re dead plumb sure, and then give him another look over before you make up your mind.”
“If you like I’ll say the rest of your little piece for you.” I said. “You were doing this job when cradle marks still ornamented my backside. One of these days I may make a detective—”
“You will have your little joke,” he told me, and I was only just in time to dodge the nudge in the ribs. “But seriously,” and his face straightened accordingly, “I’d like you to look into one or two things.” A note of plaintiveness crept in. “I’m tied up here for a bit and Gawd knows when I’ll get out. You have a look round.”
“At what?”
In the presence of such dumbness he was finding it hard to keep himself in hand.
“At what? What a question to ask! Kenray’s at Christie’s, isn’t he? Who’s in charge of his shop? That stepsister of his. There’s your chance to find out a few things.”
It was an assignment that I hated like hell and my face must have shown it.
“Why not Pelle’s office?” I said.
His tone became a wheedle.
“You just humour the Old Gent for once. You’re the one man who can go into that shop and talk the lingo. Then you can go to Pelle’s office later. Ring me every now and again so that I can pass anything on.”
“Have it your own way,” I told him, and, I hope, graciously, though what George would pass on to me when I rang him up would be, as long experience
had taught me, absolutely damn-all. I was to ’phone so that George could learn what was happening to me, and not the other way round.
“That’s the spirit,” he said, and actually held my overcoat for me. “Might do worse than have you take over this case. It’s right up your alley.”
“That’s fine, George,” I said, and I didn’t even smile.
I had managed to get back to my old flat at St. Martin’s Chambers, and as I moved off that way I was in a rather cynical mood. The whole business of inquiry seemed to me to be so utterly footling. Sir William Pelle was missing and that was that. The full machinery for tracing missing persons was in operation and nothing else, it seemed to me, was needed or helpful. Why then should Wharton be diving off the deep end and foreseeing murder and sudden death? Any British citizen was entitled to the aid and protection of the law, but why this extra hullabaloo about Pelle? Still, as I told myself, maybe George, if he didn’t have prescience, did at least have some inside knowledge, which knowledge he was as usual, and for inscrutable purposes of his own, keeping for the moment to himself.
And, after all, what had I to grumble at? As I said when I left him, he was the boss and my job was to do what I was told. I told him that I’d do my best, and rounded my offer with a sly allusion that seemed to tickle his sense of humour. He chuckled like blazes at that questionable quip and said it was good and he’d have to remember it, but I still think the chuckles were stimulated and the point a bit too subtle.
And there’s one good thing about police work—there’s no clap-trap about loyalty to this and that. The only loyalty is to the job in hand. The last thing on earth I was likely to say was, “My God, I mustn’t let Wharton down!” My job, I repeat, was to find in the haystack of Kenray’s shop some clue to the needle of Pelle’s disappearance, and that job, nebulous enough in terms and scope, I would do my best to do. But I could tell myself with an inward chuckle that I was going to do it in my own way. Wharton isn’t the only one with a special stock and brand of humbug.
The Case of the Corporal's Leave: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 2