The Unfinished Clue

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "From what I know of Dinah, and from what I can see of the rest of you , always excepting Stephen, of course , I should imagine that she is," replied Francis. "Perhaps she will be able to tell me whether I condole with Fay or just tactfully say nothing. It is so awkward, isn't it? I'll go and find her." With which affable speech he walked into the house leaving Camilla to exclaim that thought his manner quite odd, and Geoffrey to break forth into a bitterly expressed opinion of his persona, impudence, and conceit.

  Miss Fawcett was not far to seek. As Francis strolled into the hall she was standing at the foot of the staircase conferring with Finch.

  "Well, beloved?" said Francis. "I hear you have a perfect alibi. I should have guessed it anyway, from your face of conscious rectitude."

  "Hullo, Francis!" said Dinah casually. "But, Fin. I'm what sort of a person?"

  "A Hebrew person, miss, to my way of thinking. He states that Miss de Silva asked him to call."

  "It sounds to me like a reporter," said Dinah. "Where have you put him?"

  "In the morning-room, miss. Shall I take his card to Miss de Silva's room, or would you wish to see him yourself?"

  "I don't know. What do you think, Francis? Finch says a man has turned up asking for Lola. Only we're having such a god-forsaken time keeping the press out that I feel a bit suspicious."

  "Who is he?" asked Francis, picking the visiting-card up from the tray Finch held. "Mr. Samuel Lewis. Unknown to me, I fear."

  "Permit me to introduce myself!" said a rich and cheerful voice. "Samuel Lewis, always at your service!"

  They looked quickly round. A stout gentleman in a navy blue suit and a satin tie had come out of the morning-room, and was advancing upon them. He had a somewhat Jewish cast of countenance, several gold sloppings in his teeth, which made his wide smile quite dazzling, a handsome ring on his finger, and a pearl pin in his tie. He held out his hand to Dinah, and clasped hers with reverent fervour. "Lady Billington-Smith, I presume. Allow a stranger to offer you his deepest sympathy, madam! And Mr. Billington-Smith! A sad loss, sir: believe me, I feel for you."

  "Thank you so much," said Francis. "But I'm not the man you think me. Nor, to be strictly accurate, is this Lady Billington-Smith. We are, alas, quite insignificant persons."

  "I'm happy to meet you, sir," said Mr. Lewis. "This is a terrible business. When I got Lola's letter I said to myself at once: This won't do. Definitely No. That is my view, and I don't fancy I shall change it. So you need have no fear of me at all. You'll set your minds at rest right now. Your interests are mine." He turned, and laid a hand on the outraged Finch's shoulder. "Now, you'll trot straight up to Miss de Silva's room, my man, and you'll say to her that Sam Lewis is right here."

  "I think perhaps you'd better, Finch," said Dinah chokingly.

  Mr. Lewis regarded her with sympathy. "On your nerves a little? I understand. A loving husband and a fond father done to death under his own roof while at hand the light-hearted guests, all unthinking of the great tragedy being enacted, pursue their innocent amusments. What a story! Double columns, I give you my word, and pictures on the front page. But it must not be. That is my verdict. Now I'll tell you something, and believe me what Sam Lewis doesn't know about the publicity racket you can-put into a match-box and throw into the incinerator." He drew closer to Francis, and tapped him on the chest with one stubby forefinger. "Get a hold on this," he said impressively. "What will make you a top-liner in France, with your name in electric signs six foot high, may land you into the first turn in a third-rate music-hall show in England, with people getting into their seats, and fumbling for sixpence for the programme while you're doing your stuff. Take it from me, sir, that's the solid truth. I know what you're going to say. And I tell you, me, Sam Lewis, that you're wrong. Definitely wrong. Glamour's O.K. I'm not saying it isn't. But the public's a ticklish thing. You want to get your fingers on its pulse. That's where mine is, and that's where I'm keeping it. Right on the Public Pulse. And this is what I'm telling you: what the English Public wants is, Sentiment. It sees La Lola in her Apache Dance with Greg Lamley. It's a riot. But God bless you, do you suppose the Public wants to think of Lola as the Girl in the last Murder Case? No, sir! Wash that right out. You've got the Public wrong. It wants to think of Lola being a Wife and Mother off the stage, just the same ar you or I might be."

  "Hardly, I feel," murmured Francis.

  "And that," said Mr. Lewis, paying no heed to this interruption, "is why I say we've got to hush this up. If it had happened in any other country I could have used it. But it's gone and happened in England, and it's no use crying over spilt milk: we can't use it."

  At this moment Finch came downstairs, and said rigidly: "Miss de Silva desires you to go up to her room, sir. This way, if you please."

  "I'll be right with you," said Mr. Lewis. He beamed upon Dinah, besought her to rely on him, and followed Finch up the stairs.

  Inspector Harding, entering the house three minutes later, found Miss Fawcett clinging to the banisters in a hopeless fit of giggles, while a slim and handsome young man, who was propping his shoulders against the wall, regarded her with a world-weary but tolerant eye.

  "You've g-got the Public wrong, F-Francis!" gasped Miss Fawcett.

  "Possibly, but I have hidden potentialities of a domestic nature, may I remind you?" He became aware of Inspector Harding, and turned his head. "How do you do? I regret that I don't know who you are, but pray come in."

  Dinah looked up. "Oh, hullo!" she said. "I'm not having hysterics: it's only Lola's manager, or whatever he is. He says we've got to hush it up."

  "I should think you'll have some difficulty in doing that," replied Harding. "If someone has arrived to see Miss de Silva, he's her press-agent, I imagine. She told me she had sent for him." He looked in his grave, considering way at Francis. "Captain Billington-Smith?"

  "The correct answer is, I believe, that you have the advantage of me," said Francis.

  Dinah pulled herself together. "This is Mr. Harding, Francis."

  "How nice!" said Francis, shaking hands. "Ought that to enlighten me?"

  "Inspector Harding of Scotland Yard," explained Dinah.

  "Really?" Francis's brows rose in surprise. "That certainly didn't occur to me."

  There was a light footfall on the stairs; Fay cane round the bend, and stood looking down into the hall. For the first time since the discovery of her husband's murder there was a tinge of colour in her face, some shadow of eagerness in her wide eyes. "Is that the Inspector? You've been to the bank? I — I was right wasn't I? Please tell me what they said!"

  "Of course I'll tell you, Lady Billington-Smith." Harding replied gently. "Will you come into the study for a moment?"

  She came down at once, and passed without hesitation into the study, where Mr. Tremlowe was packing the contents of the safe into a leather satchel. She hardy seemed to notice Francis; her attention was all for Harding. Almost before he had shut the door she repeated: "Wasn't I right?"

  "You were exactly right," answered Harding. "Your husband drew two hundred and fifty pounds out of thc bank on Monday morning."

  Mr. Tremlowe removed his spectacles, and carefully wiped them. "That is very interesting, Inspector," he said. "Two hundred and fifty pounds, you say. H'm!"

  Fay said quickly: "It proves it was robbery, doesn't it — if my husband didn't pay any bills that morning? Don't you think it does, Inspector?"

  "Not quite, I'm afraid. I am having the numbers of the missing notes circulated, but until they are traced -"

  "Forgive me," said Francis, "but do you think I might be told what has happened?"

  "Arthur drew two hundred and fifty pounds out on Monday, and there was only one hundred and twenty pounds found in the safe when Mr. Tremlowe opened it today," explained Dinah tersely.

  "Arithmetic is not my strongest point," said Francis. "Would somebody work it out for me?"

  "The difference," said Harding, "is one hundred and thirty pounds."

  "I tho
ught it was." Francis strolled over to the desk, and stubbed out the end of his cigarette in the brass ash-tray there. "I don't think you need bother to circulate the numbers, Inspector. I rather imagine I have the missing notes."

  Chapter Fifteen

  An astonished silence greeted this casual announcement. Only the Inspector continued to steadily to watch Francis, without betraying either surprise or suspicion.

  "Or, rather," added Francis, still in a conversational voice of unconcern, "I had them yesterday. Since then they have, to my regret, changed hands."

  "This is very extraordinary," pronounced Mr. Tremlowe.

  "Yes, that was what I thought," agreed Francis.

  "I must ask you to explain a little more fully, pleas. Captain Billington-Smith," said Harding.

  "Certainly," said Francis. "One hundred and thirty pounds was the precise sum I asked my uncle for on Monday morning." His glance flickered to Dinah's face. "No, my sweet, he did not give it to me. He was not in the mood. Geoffrey had been so tactless, hadn't he?"

  "Was your need of that exact sum urgent, Captain Billington-Smith?" interposed Harding.

  "Decidedly. A debt of honour. Isn't that delightfully old-world? But my cousin Geoffrey had been inconsiderate enough to enrage his father. It was stupid of me to approach him at that moment, of course. I quite thought that between us my cousin and I had queered the financial pitch for some little time to come. However, my uncle apparently relented sooner than I had expected. I received notes to the value of one hundred and thirty pounds yesterday morning."

  "How did you receive them, Captain Billington-Smith?"

  "Oh, most thankfully!" replied Francis.

  "I am afraid you don't understand me," said Harding, a hint of steel in his pleasant voice. "I will put it quite plainly. Through what medium did you receive the notes?"

  "The medium of the post," answered Francis.

  "Registered post?"

  "No, in a plain envelope."

  "Did it not strike you as strange that your uncle should send such a considerable sum to you in that manner?"

  "To tell you the truth, Inspector, I was too much taken up with the contents to think about the envelope."

  Fay spoke, in a queer, harsh voice. "Arthur would never have done such a thing! I know he wouldn't. I am positive that he wouldn't."

  "My very dear Fay," said Francis silkily, "you mustn't think I don't appreciate your motive, but in your anxiety to lead suspicion away from Stephen you mustn't overdo it, you know. You will only defeat your own ends."

  "I have no ends," Fay said breathlessly. "If Arthur had sent you the money you wanted it would have been by cheque. He would not have taken it out of the household expenses."

  Francis looked her over with bland contempt. "Don't let's beat about the bush, darling," he said. "And dont worry about my feelings either. Are you suggesting that I murdered Uncle for the sake of one hundred and thirty pounds?"

  "I didn't say that! But I know he wouldn't have sent the money like that."

  Harding moved over to the door, and opened it. "I think, Lady Billington-Smith, that it will be best if I talk to your nephew alone," he said.

  Mr. Tremlowe picked up his satchel, and once more removed his spectacles. "Come, my dear lady," he said "The Inspector will do better without us." Fay lingered for a moment, her eyes on Francis. "I'm sorry, Francis. I didn't mean that. But it wasn't Arther who sent you those notes."

  "Come on!" said Dinah briefly, and took her out.

  Francis lit another cigarette, and flicked the dead match into the grate. He gave a slight laugh. "Poor little Fay!" he remarked.

  Harding paid no heed to this, but said abruptly: "This plain envelope that you say the notes were sent in,

  Captain Billington-Smith: was it addressed to you in your uncle's handwriting?"

  "It was," said Francis.

  "Did it contain anything but the notes? Any letter that you can produce?"

  Francis inhaled a long breath of smoke before he answered. "Just a slip of paper telling me he had paid my debts for the last time. What an insight you must be getting into our family!"

  "Did you keep this note?"

  "I'm afraid I didn't. Thoughtless of me, but then I hadn't visualised the possibility of someone murdering the old man."

  "By what post did you receive the notes?"

  "By the first post. I imagine my uncle must have sent them off from Ralton when he went in to cash his cheque."

  "In which case," said Harding, "it is rather surprising that the letter didn't reach you by the last post on Monday, isn't it?"

  "Oh, is it?" replied Francis, mildly interested. "I expect you're right, but I've always found the post from Ralton wonderfully irregular."

  "You are probably more familiar with it than I am," said Harding. "When were you first aware of your uncle's death?"

  "Last night, when Tremlowe rang me up."

  "At what hour was that?"

  "I've no doubt he could tell you, if you really want to know. I should say it was at about half past ten but I may easily be wrong. Is it so important?"

  "It is not very important," explained Harding, "but I am wondering why you did not acknowledge receipt of the money?"

  Francis stretched out his hand towards the ash-tray and tapped his cigarette over it. "I said you were getting an insight into the family peculiarities," he said. "An inability to answer letters by return of post is one of them. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

  "Several things, Captain Billington-Smith. At what time did you leave this house on Monday morning?"

  "I'm led to wonder," said Francis reflectively, "whether you of the Police Force invariably time all your actions? I don't."

  "In fact, you don't know when you left the house?"

  "I haven't an idea. Somewhere round about eleven. I should imagine."

  Harding stepped back to the the wall, and pressed the electric bell. Francis watched him with cynical amusement. "I admire your painstaking attention to detail Inspector."

  "Yes," said Harding. "We have to be painstaking in my profession." He sat down in the swivel-chair, and drew out his pocket-book, and made a note in it. When the butler came in answer to the bell, he looked up. "Finch. do you know at what time Captain Billington-Smith left this house on Monday morning?"

  Finch thought it over. "I sent Charles up to fetch down the Captain's suitcase," he mused. "That would have been at about half past ten. Now I come to think of it, it was half past ten, sir, for Charles was, as you might say, hanging around, waiting for the Captain, and he happened to pass the remark to me -" He stopped, and gave a deprecatory cough. "Well, sir, he drew my attention to the time, him having his regular work to get on with."

  Harding looked at Francis. "Do you agree with that estimate of the time, Captain Billington-Smith?"

  "I always agree on trivial points," replied Francis. "It saves trouble."

  "That's all, then, thank you," said Harding, nodding dismissal to Finch. "Now that we have succeeded in establishing that fact, I want to know when you arrived in London, please."

  "Hope seems to spring eternal in your breast. Inspector. I'm tempted to give you a probably erroneous but definite answer -just to please you."

  "I shouldn't," said Harding. "Was it before lunch or after?"

  "After. Early afternoon." He met the Sergeant's intent gaze, and raised one slender hand. "I know exactly what you are thinking, my very dear friend. We have met before, have we not? You are quite right: it would have been much more like me to have made London in time for lunch. Such was the general intention. Fate, however, one puncture, and one clogged jet decreed otherwise. The memory of that drive is still rather painful."

  "Did you stop for lunch on the road?" asked Harding.

  "I ate an extremely disgusting meal at the Stag, at Bramhurst."

  "Bramhurst!" ejaculated the Sergeant. "Bramhurst's no more than a matter of forty miles from here, sir!"

  "I am quite aware of that, thank you.
You will probably cover the distance much quicker than I did. The garage that had my distinguished patronage, by the way, is the big one on the right as you drive down the main street. Not the one on the left, remember; they won't know anything about me there."

  "How long did it take you to cover those forty miles?" inquired Harding.

  "Do I subtract the time spent changing a flat tyre, and tinkering with the plugs?"

  "From door to door, please."

  "Two hours," said Francis, putting out the stub of his cigarette.

  "Do you say that from conviction, Captain Billington-Smith, or to gratify me?"

  "My felicitations, Inspector: you are becoming quite human. From conviction. I had the curiosity to look at my watch. I arrived at Bramhurst at half past twelve. I can even tell you what I had for lunch."

  "I don't think I'll trouble you to do that, thank you. Are you staying here for the inquest, may I ask?"

  "Oh, I think so, certainly. I shouldn't like to miss anything," said Francis.

  "Then I won't keep you any longer now," said Harding, rising to his feet.

  The Sergeant opened the door for Francis to pass out, and shut it carefully behind him. He waited for several seconds before he spoke, as though to be sure that Francis was out of earshot, and then he said emphatically: "That's the queerest story we've heard yet, sir and we haven't half heard some fishy ones. Him take two hours to cover forty miles? Yes, I wish I may live to see it. That's all I say, sir, I wish I may live to see it!"

  "All right, Sergeant. We'll talk it over while we have lunch."

  "Yes, sir," said the Sergeant, still brooding. "What's more, I don't believe he had a puncture nor a dirty jet either."

  "Well, you'll be able to verify that," said Harding. "I'm going to send you off to Bramhurst this afternoon. Nor, let's go back to Ralton and have lunch."

  Lunch at the Grange was a somewhat constrained meal. The presence of Mr. Lewis, whom Lola had commanded to remain, made it impossible for Geoffrey to tell his cousin that he believed not one word of his story, and even prevented Camilla from indulging in her usual free-spoken recapitulation of all that she had felt since she had heard of poor Sir Arthur's murder. Fay did not appear in the dining-room at all; Dinah was wrestling with inward giggles; Mr. Tremlowe ate and drank in almost complete silence, occasionally casting a cold and disapproving glance at the voluble Mr. Lewis; Halliday confined his conversation to an exchange of views on Disarmament with Stephen Guest; and Francis laid himself out to annoy every one by being extremely agreeable to Mr. Lewis.