“Try it, sergeant,” he urged.
“Well, I did at one time,” Bobby answered, “and then a fellow tried to palm his own hat off on me one day. In a way that’s how I came to join the police, and in uniform, of course, you have to have a helmet, so I got out of the way of going without.”
“Start it again,” urged Mr. Larson. “Still busy with the case of that poor devil who was shot here? Making any progress?”
“Oh, we think so,” Bobby answered. “We may be able to make an arrest soon. I believe the chief constable was thinking of asking if you could come to see him again. There are one or two small points he thinks you might be able to clear up.”
“Delighted, of course,” Larson answered readily, “if there’s anything I can say to help. Nasty business. Could I see him now, do you think? Save a special journey from town, perhaps.”
Bobby said he thought that would be a good idea. They proceeded together, accordingly, to the police headquarters, chatting amiably on the way. Bobby asked if Larson had had a good trip from town, and Larson said he had come by train and had had a most disagreeable journey, a woman with half a dozen brats, all sucking peppermints, and with a basketful of vegetables and kippers, having invaded his compartment. He was half humorous, half really indignant, at having been forced to put up with such travelling-companions, and then they reached their destination, where, in response to the message Bobby sent up, they were ushered immediately into the colonel’s room. The colonel said how good it was of Mr. Larson to come along, and how lucky it was he happened to be in the town again, and Larson explained he had come to see Mr. Gregson, a leading solicitor in the district.
“Bit of bad luck,” Mr. Larson told them ruefully. “I happened to see a motor accident the other day, and now they’ve laid violent hands on me for a witness – awful bore. At Winders Green it was. I was passing and saw it all – motor-car and cyclist mix up. Cyclists,” said Mr. Larson feelingly, “are God’s own pests on the roads, but this time I’m bound to say the motorist was to blame.”
“Oh, yes,” said the colonel, “there was a report came in. Something about a cat, wasn’t there?”
Larson nodded.
“The whole thing turns on the cat, apparently,” he said, smiling. “The cyclist says there was one. The motorist says there wasn’t. Unluckily for him I saw it as plainly as ever I saw anything in my life – big animal; a Tom, I should say; black, with white feet. At least, I saw it unless I was suffering from incipient delirium tremens, and then it would be rats, not cats, wouldn’t it? Anyhow, it seems I shall have to appear in court and solemnly swear there was a cat, a whole cat, and a lot else as well.”
The colonel was listening with great interest. He glanced at Bobby and saw he was listening, too. For the accident at Winders Green had happened on the same day, and almost at the same hour, as that at which the murder had taken place in Battling Copse, and certainly a witness of the accident could not possibly have been anywhere near Battling Copse at the time of the murder. The colonel was fiddling with the report now.
“I don’t think your name was mentioned, was it?” he asked.
“In your man’s report? No, it wouldn’t be,” Larson answered. “I didn’t much want to be mixed up in the thing if I could help it – takes time and worry and all that. To tell the truth, I don’t think I’ve quite got over the shock of my own experience. I still dream of it, and this brought the whole thing back so vividly.”
“An accident?” the colonel asked.
“Fellow in a sports car banged right into mine,” Mr. Larson answered. “It was near Winders Green too – some very nasty turnings about there. I had been at Sevens to see Mr. Moffatt and I was driving home. Next thing I knew I was in bed in hospital, with a strange female giving the nurse blue fits.”
“How was that?”
“Police muddle,” explained Larson, chuckling. “Happens sometimes, I suppose. By some extraordinary chance, there was nothing in my pockets to identify me – no cards, letters, anything. Then a policeman had a look at the car and found an envelope addressed to a business pal of mine. They must have gone over that car with a toothbrush. They found it at the bottom of one of the pockets where it must have been lying for months, and jumped to the conclusion it meant me. Then there was some further muddle over the phoning, and finally a poor lady turned up in the full belief she was a widow. When she found a stranger she had never seen before – well, she expressed herself freely.”
“Mistakes will occur,” said the colonel. “When did this happen, do you remember?”
“I remember well enough,” answered Larson grimly. “Made me miss an important appointment for that day – the tenth it was, last month. I believe the man I failed still thinks I fixed it all on purpose to disappoint him.”
The colonel looked at Bobby. This seemed important, for if as a result of this accident – and the truth of Larson’s story could easily be tested – his car had been examined so closely by the police soon after he left Sevens, then if he had had any pistol in his possession it would certainly have been found. Ena’s story seemed disproved, then, just as by his earlier statement his alibi seemed to receive further confirmation.
“But you don’t want to hear about my troubles,” Larson went on smilingly. “I believe you wanted to see me about something?”
“Yes,” the colonel answered. “We are very worried about Mr. Moffatt’s pistol. It’s missing, you know. We should very much like to get some idea of when it disappeared. Did you ever see it?”
“No, not that I remember, and certainly I should,” answered Larson. He smiled again. “I think I’ve said as much before. The little Moffatt girl been saying things?”
The colonel started.
“Why do you ask?” he inquired cautiously.
“Oh, I’m definitely in her bad books,” the other answered smilingly. “She called me a horrid man and a murderer the other day. That wretched kitten of hers nearly tripped me up. I felt like scragging the little beast, and I dare say I looked it. The little Moffatt lady was very indignant. I asked if she minded if I broke its neck – not quite all in fun either; I felt like it. She called me a murderer, or words to that effect, and rushed off in a temper. She’s got a little temper of her own, that girl.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” agreed the colonel, thoughtfully feeling his ear.
“I’m not sure,” Larson continued, “that she doesn’t suspect me of picking and stealing as well. Moffatt was raising Cain about his stamps having vanished from his desk, and Miss Ena saw me just before alone in the room. I had left my cigarette-case there and I went back for it, and she came in just as I was picking it up. I am sure she thought it was the stamps I was after.”
The colonel glanced again at Bobby. Apparently both matters mentioned by Ena could now be regarded as satisfactorily answered, and he drew a breath of deep relief. He thanked Mr. Larson warmly for the assistance he had given, and the frankness with which he had spoken, and Larson said with a certain hesitation:
“There is another thing I’ve had on my mind. Did you know –” He hesitated again. He made a deprecatory gesture with his large, well-manicured hands, from which, Bobby noticed, that fine diamond ring of his had vanished – only for evening wear, it was, perhaps, Bobby thought; too valuable for every day. Larson said: “It’s just this: did you know Moffatt was being blackmailed?”
“Blackmailed?” the colonel repeated, sitting up abruptly. “Are you sure? Who by?”
“By Bennett,” Larson answered. “Very likely you knew, but I felt I had to mention it because – well, it’s a possible motive, I suppose.”
CHAPTER 22
PASSED TO MR. PEGLEY
It was a moment or two before the colonel spoke. He was endeavouring to readjust his ideas. He looked round quickly at Bobby, whose face was impassive, giving no hint of the tumult of confused and contradictory ideas seething in his mind. Larson told himself that Colonel Warden looked hopelessly bewildered, and his attendant se
rgeant too stolid to be bewildered by anything. He waited gravely; a little amused, too. He had said what he felt it necessary to say, and now he waited the outcome, if any. The colonel drew a deep breath and said:
“That is a very serious statement, Mr. Larson. It may mean –”
Larson held up his hand.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “What it means or doesn’t mean is your affair. Nothing to do with me. I should very much prefer not to be mixed up in the thing at all. Does a business man no good. Takes up a lot of valuable time as well. Bad enough that I may have to give evidence in this motor accident case at Winders Green. But I felt I had to ask if you knew. I gather you didn’t.”
“I take it you are certain of your facts?” the colonel asked.
“What I do know is that Bennett was boasting about being able to squeeze Mr. Moffatt. And I have seen a bundle of notes to some considerable value said to have been paid over by Moffatt – naturally I was not a witness to the transaction. Also I know Bennett was threatening what he could do if Moffatt didn’t ‘pay up and look pleasant.’ I know Moffatt seemed to be having considerable difficulty in meeting ordinary calls on his pocket. Which explains, I suppose, why he was trying so hard to pump me for Stock Exchange tips. In passing, I never give them. I don’t operate on the Stock Exchange, don’t believe in speculation. Moffatt told me in so many words it was a matter of life and death to him to raise money.”
“But he is a rich man?”
“He was quite frank about that,” Larson explained. “He has a good income – but every penny mortgaged – and no capital at all. A curious, difficult position, I admit. There’s a trust fund of £100,000 in old consols. It was established many years ago, apparently by his grandfather, or great-grandfather perhaps. The trustees have absolute power. They can withhold the income or any part of it at their discretion. When the trust was established some time in the last century, stringent precautions were thought necessary. Apparently the then heir was an irresponsible sort of person – poet and that sort of thing. The consequence is, no loan can be raised on the security of the trust fund. Moffatt might be told any moment that only his board and lodging would be paid, and the rest of the income allowed to accumulate for his heir. And what he gets from his estate is fully mortgaged, too. He was finding it more and more difficult to satisfy Bennett’s demands – or so Bennett said – and Bennett was using a good many threats.”
“You are sure of all this?” the colonel asked.
“An old schoolfellow of mine turns up to see me every now and then with a hard-luck tale. Not a very satisfactory person, I’m afraid, but well – old school memories, you know. I generally give him a fiver to get rid of him. A month ago I was rather surprised to see him doing himself well in a West End restaurant. He saw me, and came across and insisted on repaying the last fiver I had lent him. He showed a thick wad of notes. I wondered what had happened, and he told me he was in partnership with a man who could get all the cash he wanted from a rich friend. I didn’t say anything more. I thought it sounded fishy, but no business of mine. Two days ago he turned up to get the fiver back. I was curious, and after a bit of pressing it all came out. His friend had been drawing large sums from a Mr. Moffatt, and now his friend was dead and there wouldn’t be any more money coming in. I asked if his friend’s name was Bennett. He said yes, and went on directly to accuse Moffatt. So far as I know he had no actual grounds to go on. But I felt you ought to know.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the colonel. He drew a writing pad nearer. “This man’s name and address?” he asked.
“Carter. Robert Carter. But I’m not sure he uses it now. He’s passed under others, I fancy, though I don’t know. Dodging creditors, I expect. I don’t know his address – and I’ve often wished he didn’t know mine.”
“It may be difficult to find him?”
“You might try the Rowton Houses or a Salvation Army shelter, places like that,” Mr. Larson suggested. “I’m afraid if he hears the police are asking for him he will probably vanish. I have my suspicions about some of his recent proceedings. Probably he’ll turn up to see me again when he thinks another fiver is due, but that won’t be just yet. I’ll let you know when he does, of course.”
“What you are telling us is entirely what Carter told you?” the colonel asked. “Can it be trusted, do you think?”
Mr. Larson shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s for you to say,” he answered. “I wouldn’t trust Carter too far myself, but his story seemed to fit. And I don’t quite see what object he could have in inventing a set of elaborate lies to tell me.”
“No,” agreed the colonel. “But a man in Mr. Moffatt’s position – have you any idea what Bennett knew, or thought he knew, about him?”
“Not the faintest. I was very surprised myself. Possibly he had been trapped in some way. I’ve known it happen. I expect you’ve had cases. You know the sort of thing – woman, compromising position, indignant husband round the corner, and a scandal the victim daren’t face. But I don’t know. All I can tell you is that it was something that happened on one of the American liners.”
The colonel could not prevent himself from whistling softly. He turned and looked at Bobby, who, too, looked a little startled.
“Mr. Moffatt was asking your advice about investments?” the colonel asked after a pause.
Mr. Larson shrugged again those broad shoulders of his whereto his unusually small head for his height made so odd a contrast.
“One of the penalties of the, I suppose, rather unusual position I occupy in City affairs,” he explained. “It happens that often I am in possession of highly confidential information – if, for example, I am trying to arrange a merger of some kind. Obviously, if only for my own sake, I keep that information to myself or else the merger would soon be off – and my usefulness at an end, incidentally. But many people can’t understand that. They seem to think I can use my knowledge in speculation, when, if I did, it would be cutting my own throat. I’m a company promotor and agent, not a speculator in stocks and shares.”
“You didn’t give Mr. Moffatt any advice, then?”
“Well, I gave him the only possible advice in present circumstances. With the new Government rearmament programme, a child can see base metals must rise. Common sense, not speculation. Buy fifty or a hundred tons of tin to-day, hold a while, bound to sell at a profit. I don’t mind passing that tip on,” he added, smiling, “and I don’t mind adding that my own profit in base metals is – well, not five figures yet.”
The colonel looked dazed, admiring, envious. He nearly rushed to the phone to order someone – he didn’t quite know who – to buy a hundred tons of tin. Then it occurred to him that possibly that would require more money than his available cash balance at the bank amounted to. But didn’t one buy things on the Stock Exchange without having to pay for them? Only perhaps that didn’t apply to base metals. Bobby, knowing well that his balance at the post office came to less than, not five, but three, figures, was spared this temptation. Dismissing his momentary dreams, and with a new note of respect in his voice, the colonel went on:
“I think I remember it being mentioned that you crossed to New York once in the same boat with Mr. Moffatt?”
“That is so. I didn’t see much of him, but that is when our acquaintance began.”
“Do you remember a game of poker on that voyage?”
“I don’t think so. Why? Anything special about it? I have played with Moffatt once or twice, but I’m not much of a card-player. Moffatt plays a remarkable handholds good cards, too, as a rule; but, then, he knows how to play them.”
The colonel pressed him further, but apparently any poker played on that voyage had passed entirely from Mr. Larson’s memory. He offered, however, to look at his diary. He explained he had kept a diary for many years. It was a practice he had often found useful. Probably if he had played poker on that voyage there would be a note: “Poker,” and a further note – so much won or lost.
With that the interview ended. The colonel conducted Mr. Larson to the door with all the respect due to a man who acknowledged that his dealings in base metals had not yet brought him a profit amounting to five figures. Bobby contented himself with looking out of the window. The colonel came back, sat down, and began to think. He leaned his head on his hands and sighed, for by now it was not only his ear that was aching. He said moodily:
“Every time we get anything, it turns out to be something else.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, almost as dejectedly, “every time the rabbit comes out of the hat, it turns into a pigeon and flies out of the window.”
“Funny thing about Moffatt’s money being tied up like that,” the colonel went on. “Explains why he’s always grumbling about the rate of interest you get from old consols and yet never tries to change.”
“I’m beginning to think,” Bobby said slowly, and more to himself than to the colonel, “that the trust fund may prove to be the explanation of the whole affair.”
“Well, anyhow,” declared the colonel, “Larson seems to be cleared. Miss Moffatt is clearly wrong in thinking he had taken her father’s pistol. If his car was searched in the way he says it was – and we can easily test that – his possession of a pistol couldn’t possibly have been overlooked, and he had hardly had time to get rid of it. And he can’t very well have been committing a murder in Battling Copse and witnessing a motor accident at Winders Green at the same moment.”
“No, sir; that much is plain,” agreed Bobby.
“One fact we are certain of,” the colonel went on, “is that Moffatt’s pistol was used – and he’s the one person in whose possession it would be in the ordinary way.”
“In a case like this,” said Bobby, “it’s a comfort to have even one fact to be sure of.”
“He was in the library alone all afternoon by his own account,” the colonel continued. “Perfectly easy to slip out and back unseen. And this blackmail story. We know there was something, though apparently Larson didn’t. Fatal for a man in his position if it got about he had been blacklisted by the steamship companies as a card-sharper.”
The Dusky Hour Page 18