She opened the door carefully, saying,
“Is that you, Mrs. Tubbs?”
“That’s me, dearie,” replied a cheerful Cockney voice, and a short wizened little woman negotiated the entrance and squeezed herself into the kitchen.
“Lor’! You give me quite a turn seeing you in that outfit,” said Mrs. Tubbs. “Jest like your brother you look, the dead spit of him. I got you a coupla’ pairs of lovely ’errings orf the barrow as I passed. You can’t beat ’errings for food value, and tasty at that.”
“You know, you are a dear, Mrs. Tubbs! You’re always doing me a good turn—”
“Bless you, dearie, that’s all right. Don’t you go bothering your head being grateful. I just popped in to say I’d come and lend you an ’and with the scrubbing to-morrow. What time can you get that brother of yours out of the way? ’E do fuss so. Can’t bear menfolk worriting round me when I’m working, and that’s flat.”
“He’s going out at ten to-morrow morning, Mrs. Tubbs.”
“That’ll suit me fine, dearie. I shall have time to pop in and look at my old bundle of misery and then I’ll come on to you for an hour or two, just as you likes.”
“I shall be jolly glad to have you. That studio floor is interminable, and most of it’s still filthy. I’m afraid it’s a rotten job for you, though, and I’m ashamed I can’t afford to pay you any better.”
“Now that’s all right, dearie. I’m doing fine, with me old man in the P.B.I. same as he was before, and me daughter in munitions. ‘Mum,’ she says to me, ‘why don’t you stop at ’ome, like a lady, with me making good money and that?’—but bless you, dearie, it don’t come natural just stopping at ’ome. I always done a spot of work, and I’m used to it. As for my bit of bother up there—” and she jerked her thumb expressively over her shoulder, “it ain’t what ’e pays me, that wouldn’t keep a flea, it’s just I can’t bear the thought of ’im living alone and no one going in to see if he’s alive or dead.”
Rosanne shuddered a little. “You mean old Mr. Folliner? I thought he was a horror. I went in to see him when my brother and I took the studio, and he made me feel just as I did when I saw the black beetles on this floor—all creepy-crawly. He’s a miser, too, isn’t he?—horrible old skinflint.”
“He’s all that, dearie, with knobs on. Getting worse, he is, too. Breaks ’is wicked old ’eart to part with a penny. Still, what I says is, we may all be old ’orrors in time, if we’re spared. I known ’im ten years, and ’e wasn’t that bad once. Anyway, I said to me ’usband, ‘Alf,’ I says, ‘I’m going to see ’im out, and I’ll lay ’im out wif me own ’ands if ’e dies on me, but see to ’im I must. Can’t leave ’im all alone like that, day after day.’”
“Well, I call it jolly decent of you. There wouldn’t be many people who’d bother about him. You’ve got more Christian charity than I have, Mrs. Tubbs.”
“Now don’t you mention them two words to me, dearie. Charity I can’t abide, and as for a Christian, I’m a proper ’eathen. I ain’t been to church since I went when me first was christened, and that one died within the year, and I said ‘What’s the good of it, any old ’ow?’ Now I must just pop off. See you in the morning, and remember you do them ’errings in oatmeal, same’s I told you. Lawks! What a night. Not fit for a dog to be out, and that’s flat.”
The cheerful old body squeezed herself out of the door, and Rosanne stood and mused for a moment, marvelling over the kindness of Mrs. Tubbs and her like. It seemed to Rosanne that there was more genuine goodness to be found among the poor and illiterate than among all the intellectuals who posed as her brother’s friends.
Before dishing up the supper, Rosanne decided to go outside to see if the studio black-out were really efficient. She had contrived screens for the big north light and was always afraid that they would fail in their purpose. Screening the kitchen light again, she slipped out into the garden and the fog closed round her like a blanket.
III
“Smells good, Rosanne, and by God, I’m hungry. Who thought to bring the beer? Delaunier? Good for you. Well—here’s luck. We need it.”
The party of five were seated round a table near the stove, and Rosanne, with Delaunier on her right and Cavenish on her left, was ladling out the stew. She paused a moment, the ladle in mid-air, and listened.
“There’s someone outside. I was certain I heard something when I went out ten minutes ago.”
“Why go outside on an evening like this?” asked Delaunier. “Hades itself couldn’t be worse. I loathe fog more than anything on earth.”
“I went out to see that there weren’t great chinks of light shining out from the north window,” said Rosanne, and Cavenish put in,
“No one need be afraid of raiders on a night like this. Fog immobilises them completely.”
“I’m not afraid of raiders. I’m afraid of being fined five pounds when I haven’t got it to pay,” retorted Rosanne. “We’ve had air-raid wardens in here complaining several times already.”
“Oh, to hell with them,” said Bruce impatiently, and Ian Mackellon put in:
“I say, there is a shemozzle of sorts going on outside. I’ll go out and see what it is. Perhaps an air-raid warden’s staggered into the dug-out.”
“Let him drown, then. The damn fool thing’s brim full of rain water,” replied Manaton, and Mackellon jumped up just as someone thumped on the studio door. Bruce Manaton got to his feet swearing angrily, and Rosanne cried out,
“Switch the big light off before you open the door.”
“What a life,” said Cavenish, and his eyes met Rosanne’s with kindly sympathy. Delaunier sat still in his place, superb in his Cardinal’s scarlet, but with a glass of beer in one hand, looking oddly unnatural in contrast with the ecclesiastical trappings. An altercation was going on at the main door of the studio.
“There isn’t a telephone, so it’s no use trying to be high and mighty.” Bruce Manaton’s resonant voice was clearly audible. “We’re poverty-stricken painters here, not plutocrats with telephones. If you want to ’phone go to the post office—first on the right and third on the left.”
“…represent the law…demand your assistance…”
A stuttering breathless voice answered Manaton’s impatient tirade and Mackellon put in:
“What’s the poor devil done, anyway?”
Rosanne jumped up and ran to the door. A screen kept the light from the doorway, and in the dimness she had a confused impression of a tall grey-headed man in navy blue who seemed to be grasping a lad in khaki, the latter tallow-faced, and leaning against the door post, panting.
“Why not come inside and explain?” asked Rosanne. “If there’s been an accident we will do our best to help.”
“Accident? There has been a dastardly crime, a deplorable outrage.” The big man in dark blue was getting his breath back. “I must summon assistance, and I have the right to call on all law-abiding citizens to assist me in my duty. I have arrested this miscreant—”
“Oh come off it, and don’t try any more jargon on me,” said Manaton flippantly, and Rosanne put in quickly,
“Well, whether you’ve arrested him or not, why not come in and shut the door, and he looks half dead himself anyway.”
“I’ve twisted my damned ankle so that I can’t stand,” put in the lad in khaki. “If it weren’t for that I could have got away.”
“I call you to witness that statement,” said the grey-headed man. “Come inside, quietly now. Resistance will do you no good. You are under arrest, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used as evidence.”
He propelled the soldier inside and banged the door to behind him. Rosanne saw that he was in the uniform of a special constable, a big prosperous-looking man of sixty. The Tommy winced as he tried to put his foot to the ground and staggered, and Mackellon shoved a chair forward saying
:
“Let him sit down anyway. He’s all in.”
Delaunier strode forward in his Cardinal’s scarlet, and his appearance added the last touch of fantasy to the group: the Tommy looked bemusedly from the scarlet figure to Rosanne, tall and slim in her black ski costume.
“It’s not real—I must be dreaming,” he said, “or else I’m mad… the whole show’s stark crazy.”
“What the hell is it all about?” demanded Manaton, and the Special Constable replied:
“A dastardly murder has been committed in the house adjoining this studio. I have arrested this man—arrested him red-handed—and I must see that he is secured before I summon assistance. Is there a cellar or other apartment where he can be locked up? I shall hold all of you persons responsible for him, remember.”
“Who has he murdered, anyway?” demanded Manaton, and the Tommy burst out:
“I haven’t murdered anyone, I tell you. I don’t know a damned thing about it. Someone else did the old man in—not me.”
He was a Canadian, Rosanne noticed, very young, his fair face tanned, but pallid and drawn.
“Silence!” commanded the Special Constable. “There is to be no discussion at all. I asked you, sir, about a cellar or other apartment suitable for a lock-up. I have no time to waste on arguing.”
“And I have no cellar, nor yet any apartment suitable for a lock-up,” replied Manaton coolly, and Cavenish spoke for the first time.
“Look here, sir. It’s no use talking about lock-ups in a studio which hasn’t a single door which locks properly. Leave this chap here while you go and telephone or find another officer. There are four of us here, and he can’t get away. He’s obviously in no state to get away, and he can hardly stand, let alone run.”
The big grey-headed man seemed to be mollified by the quiet voice and sober bearing of Cavenish. He replied less pompously:
“Yes, yes. That is true—but you see my difficulty. I am alone—my fellow-constable is ill, and I must have assistance.”
“Quite so—and the best thing for you to do is to go and telephone to your headquarters, leaving your prisoner here,” replied Cavenish. “You probably know the locality better than we do—we are all newcomers here—and you will get the co-operation you need more quickly if you do the explaining yourself. We shan’t run away—and your captive can’t run.”
“It’s all very irregular,” said the Special, and Bruce Manaton put in:
“It’s not my idea of regularity either, having murder at supper time. So far as I am concerned, the sooner you get the assistance you need, the better. I want my supper.”
“Your levity is misplaced, sir. This is a serious matter,” boomed the big Special, and Rosanne broke out:
“Do you think we don’t realise it’s serious? It’s horrible—for all of us,” and Ian Mackellon put in quickly,
“Look here, sir, this is just quibbling. Do you want one of us to go out and try to find a telephone, or are you going to do it yourself? As Cavenish says, you’re safe enough in leaving this fellow here with the four of us to look after him, but we don’t want to behave as though we were in a Russian novel, and talk about it all night.”
“I will go myself and telephone—but you people must be responsible for my captive until I return,” replied the big man pompously. “I must ask your names before I leave you, and—er—see your identity cards.”
“The official mind at work,” said Bruce Manaton softly.
Chapter Two
I
The big Special Constable left them alone for a while at last. As Cavenish said afterwards, the man had done things the wrong way round—as representative of the law he should have stayed with his captive and sent one of the other men to telephone or to find a policeman, but obviously this “Special” did not trust any of the oddly assorted party to give a message properly. He wanted to do it himself. Cavenish and Mackellon both later admitted their unwillingness to go away from the studio leaving Rosanne to face the incalculable behaviour of her irritable brother, and the pompousness of the war-time representative of the law. Delaunier they discounted as a man of no ability whatever, save in his own profession.
When the front door closed behind the Special, Bruce Manaton said coolly:
“Well, I’m going to have my supper no matter what happens—or what’s happened.” He turned to the Tommy. “Like some beer? You look frayed out.”
The lad shook his head, and Rosanne said to him,
“You’ve hurt your ankle, haven’t you? Better get your boot off before it swells.”
He looked at her in a puzzled way. “You heard what that guy said?” he asked. “He told you I was a murderer.”
“I know he did. I should think he’s very stupid,” replied Rosanne calmly. “I don’t know anything about you, but if you’re hurt, I’m quite prepared to bandage you up.”
Cavenish came over to the lad and held out his hand to him. “I don’t know anything about you either, but I’m prepared to go as far as Miss Manaton. Let’s undo your boot and see the damage.”
“Decent of you. It hurts like hell. I can’t think why you should bother.” He broke off, and then said, “Someone’s bumped off the old guy upstairs—in the house up against this studio. That swollen-headed cop said I did it. I didn’t. I just found him. The front door was open and I walked in. He was my uncle.”
Cavenish was kneeling down untwisting the lad’s puttee. He replied: “You know the best thing you can do is to keep mum and tell the whole story to the police when they ask for it. If you get talking now we shall all be questioned as to what you have said, and the result will be confusion.” He began to unlace the heavy boot and the boy winced with pain, his face green.
Delaunier spoke next:
“Damn all, Cavenish, I want to hear the story. It might dramatise well. I thought so when that bleating ass of a Special came blundering in. He over-acted, of course—still, it was a good situation. Good theatre, y’know.”
Cavenish had managed to get the heavy service boot from the lad’s foot and was removing the sock from the bulging ankle, already swollen and puffy. The lad retorted angrily to Delaunier,
“Theatre, you call it? It may be fun for you, but for me it’s ruddy hell. I came over here to fight, and now it looks as though I shall get hanged for my trouble. Oh hell! Why did I ever go inside that house? The front door was open, and I just walked in—walked into a trap… It was all dark in there, and no one answered when I shouted. I went upstairs—I knew the old man slept up there—and I found him, on his bed, with his brains blown out all over the pillow… and then that cop came in and found me, and said I’d done it. Oh, God, how can I prove I didn’t do it…”
The others had all been silent during this outburst: the lad’s voice was hoarse, and his words tumbled out in a rush, as though the very effort of speaking gave relief to his overburdened mind. Delaunier, still with a glass of beer in his hand, leant forward listening, for all the world as though he were critic at an audition, cool and inquisitive. Bruce Manaton had sat down at the supper table, and was eating as a hungry man eats, intent on his food. Mackellon was sitting sideways on his chair, his long legs curled round one another, his face furrowed in perplexity. Delaunier asked:
“What made you go into the house at all?—just curiosity?”
“No.” The lad almost shouted in exasperation. “I tell you he was my great-uncle, my grandfather’s brother. My name’s Folliner, too—Neil Folliner. I wrote to him before I first came over here, and I’d been to see him before. I wrote and told him I was coming this evening, too. When I saw the front door was open I went inside. I knew something queer must have happened. You folks over here don’t leave your front doors open for anyone to walk in. I went up to his room—I’d got a torch—and there he was.”
Rosanne had produced a bandage and some iodine, and Cavenish was bandaging the swol
len ankle with neat skilful fingers. Delaunier, still with the same cool impersonal curiosity, enquired,
“And when did our cod-faced pomposity arrive—the representative of the law as he lovingly described himself?”
“The cop? He barged in when I was standing by the bed. I was all het-up and muddled. I didn’t know what to do. I’d suddenly realised what it looked like, me standing there beside that horror… It was horrible. Maybe I’ll get used to seeing things like that when we’re fighting, but I’m not used to it now. His grey hair—all in a puddle. Oh, Lord.”
“No use thinking about it, laddy,” said Cavenish gently, sitting back from his task, but Delaunier went on.
“When you saw the constable, what then?”
“I suppose I lost my head. He stuttered something about arresting me, and I bolted. I got past him, out of the door, and bunked downstairs. It was dark, and I fell over something in the vestibule and twisted my ankle. I got up again and found the door, and doubled back and got into the yard—but he caught me. I couldn’t run. It was all up once he grabbed me. He’s got beef, that chap. I gave up. I knew I couldn’t get away.”
The unhappy voice trailed off into silence.
Ian Mackellon said, “Rough luck,” and Manaton raised his angular brows.
“Not proven,” he said softly, and then asked: “Did you say the old man was stabbed?”
“No. I didn’t. He’d been shot. Close range, too. No mistake there.”
Manaton went on: “Had he been dead long?”
“No. Couldn’t have been… You’d have known if you’d seen him. He was still—oh, heck. It was grim.”
“Then why didn’t we hear the shot?” demanded Delaunier. “We were all in here, and it was absolutely quiet. Did any of you hear a shot?” he demanded.
Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery Page 2