If the night air had been raw and penetrating in its dank chill, Macdonald thought that he preferred it on the whole to the hot airlessness of the room into which he was ushered. It was a beautiful room from the point of view of design, panelled in some fine-grained wood of silkily gleaming surface, with built-in bookcases and shelves. A piled-up fire burned merrily in a beautifully designed hob-fireplace, but Macdonald guessed that there was central heating in addition to account for the even heat of the room. The air was heavy with cigar smoke, and the smell of whisky was noticeable. Mr. Verraby’s hand must have been unsteady when he poured out his drink from the square Georgian decanter. Dressed in a quilted black satin dinner jacket, Mr. Verraby looked a very prosperous gentleman indeed. Macdonald took in a great deal in one deliberate glance—the panelled room with its rich, plum-coloured damask curtains, Persian rugs, gleaming crystal and silver, deep modern armchairs—the whole a bizarre contrast to the milieu in which the case had originated, “the ’orrible ’ovel” of Mr. Albert Folliner, and the gaunt studio where the Manatons lived.
Macdonald took off his overcoat—to do so was necessary in such a temperature—and Mr. Verraby went on genially, “Whisky and soda, or a hot toddy, Chief Inspector? You must need something after your investigation in that ice-house in Hollyberry Hill.”
“Thanks. I’m on duty, and we don’t drink on duty, as you probably know,” rejoined Macdonald. He sat down in one of Mr. Verraby’s magnificent armchairs (the C.I.D. man could not deny the comfort of that tour-de-force of modern luxury), and without further preamble, Macdonald went on: “I have the outline of your official report, but I should be glad if you would recount the whole story in detail in your own words.”
“By all means, by all means. I was on duty this evening patrolling by the new Power Station at the northern end of Hollyberry Hill. As you know, we generally—er—hunt in pairs, but my opposite number, Colonel Gratton, is laid up with ’flu, and I went on duty alone. I was due to be relieved at ten o’clock. Owing to the chilliness of the night, I covered my beat more quickly than usual. Not to put too fine a point on it, it was hellishly cold, and I suffer with my liver. I walked fast in the endeavour to keep warm. Obviously, with the fog as thick as it was between eight and nine, I couldn’t see very well where I was. I knew I was in Hollyberry Hill, but that’s all I did know. I realised later that I was off my beat so to speak, but in the circumstances that was nothing to be surprised at.”
“Quite,” murmured Macdonald, as Verraby paused, evidently expecting some comment.
“It was the foulest night I remember for years,” went on Verraby, “and admittedly I was fed-up. However, to get on with the story. Shortly before nine o’clock I heard the report of a firearm of some kind—”
“One moment. Did you make a note of the exact time?”
“No. Even if I’d thought of doing so, I couldn’t have. You know what it is with watches these days, you can’t get one repaired under six months, and you can’t buy one. My wrist-watch is broken. I had a watch on me, an old half-hunter, in my waistcoat pocket, but it isn’t reliable, not to within a few minutes. In fact it isn’t reliable at all. It’s stopped since I came in. It’s there, if you care to see it—on the mantelpiece. I wound it up this morning, but it stopped, as you see, at ten o’clock.”
“Then your estimate of the time you heard the report is pure guess-work?”
“Not entirely, my dear Inspector. I have an unusually accurate sense of time—I am seldom many minutes out in an estimate. I knew the time I had come on duty. I knew that I made contact with my ‘point’—a regular constable on duty in the main road—at eight-thirty. I asked him for the time. It was nine-fifteen when I entered that studio—”
“How can you be sure of that, Mr. Verraby?”
“Because there was a clock in the studio, an alarum clock on a table near the stove.”
“There was, but the clock had stopped. It had probably been registering 9.15 ever since the Manatons came to the studio.”
Verraby laughed, a rich deep laugh, musical and well-bred, but to Macdonald’s ear it lacked the essential quality of a laugh—amusement. “Ah, you have me there, Chief Inspector: you have me there. I shall have to take refuge in the time-honoured cliché, ‘to the best of my knowledge and belief’ it was shortly before nine o’clock this evening that I heard a sound which I judged to be the report of a firearm. Is that in order?”
“It is. Will you answer this question very carefully. Did you immediately assume that the report was that of a firearm, or did you formulate that judgment after experiencing the later events of the evening?”
“On my soul, Chief Inspector, this is an inquisition in detail with a vengeance. You don’t take much for granted, do you?”
“Nothing,” rejoined Macdonald quietly. “In police work detail is too important to be taken for granted. Lest you think that I am being unduly detailed, I would like you to realise this. It is very easy to forget details. The most valuable evidence is that which is given immediately after an event, before the mind has had time to forget or to modify—to ‘rationalise events,’ as the psychologists say.”
“Precisely, precisely. Don’t imagine I’m taking this amiss. I admire your thoroughness, Chief Inspector. I only wish there were more men of your calibre in the Police Force. I speak from experience, you know. Sterling fellows, our force, but lacking in finesse—one appreciates a first-class mind when one meets it. Now, shall I carry on?—and are you sure you won’t forget regulations to the extent of joining me in a drink? No? Well, I’ve had a heavy day, and here’s how!”
Having mixed himself a whisky and soda, Mr. Verraby continued: “I heard a sound which I immediately judged to be the report of a firearm. I was at once on the qui vive. It was obvious that the report was at some little distance, and probably not in the open air. I judged that the sound came from a house somewhere away to my left and in front of me. That of course was an impression, recorded by my mind as I heard the report. I stood still for a moment and listened. I heard nothing—neither footsteps nor movement. I had my electric torch with me, and I turned its beam on to the entrance of each house as I passed.”
“The fog was then very thick?”
“Damned thick. I could, however, see as far as the front doors in most cases. Those houses, you will find, have only a yard or two of front garden. As a matter of fact, the majority of the houses in that block—between Seton Avenue and Dayton Crescent—are derelict, waiting demolition. I had in mind that empty houses have not infrequently been the scene of crime. I listened carefully as I walked, but I heard nothing at all. When I reached number 25 the light of my torch told me that the front door was open, and I decided to go inside to investigate.” Mr. Verraby paused here, and then added:
“I don’t pretend to be cast in a heroic mould, Chief Inspector. I felt that it was my duty to go inside that house, but I admit that I didn’t relish the prospect. On the contrary, it was very definitely repugnant to me. However, I went.”
Macdonald felt that he had been offered a cue—it was up to him to congratulate Mr. Verraby on his praiseworthy sense of duty in the face of danger, but something in the man’s complacency made Macdonald unsympathetic. He merely enquired:
“And then—?”
Mr. Verraby’s manner became a shade less expansive.
“Oh, I went downstairs to begin with, thinking that the inmates of these houses would probably favour the basement rooms. I soon realised that these were unoccupied. Then I went upstairs. I saw a thread of light under a door, and I went to it and opened it. I saw a Tommy in khaki standing by the bed, and I saw the occupant of the bed—a ghastly sight. I took a step forward, but before I could formulate a word, the soldier swung round and succeeded in getting past me to the door. I tried to stop him, but he was a powerful fellow and I was taken by surprise. I immediately pursued him—”
“One moment. Could we get this
a bit clearer? When you entered the room, the soldier was by the bed, farther from the door than yourself?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I took a couple of steps forward—a mistake on my part, as I realised almost immediately. I should have stayed by the door, but I am not experienced in these matters. The murderer immediately sprang forward—”
“If you don’t mind, we won’t adopt any assumptions, Mr. Verraby. There is no actual proof that the soldier was the murderer.”
“No? I should have thought it self-evident. However, as you will. The soldier sprang forward, eluded my effort to stop him, and rushed out of the room, banging the door as I regained my balance. I immediately gave chase, and had the satisfaction of hearing him fall heavily in the hall. This gave me an opportunity to catch up—I was nearly at the bottom of the stairs before he reached the front door—”
“The latter was still open, I take it?”
“Yes. I had left it as I found it. I expected my man—the soldier—to take to his heels in the street, but instead he turned by the side of the house. He had hurt his ankle when he fell, and he was unable to make any real speed. When I laid hands on him, he virtually collapsed.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He kept on repeating: ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it. He was dead when I found him.’ I ran my hands over him to find if he had a weapon in his pockets, but I did not discover anything.”
“No. I don’t suppose you did,” said Macdonald. “If he had had a weapon, and assuming, as you have done, that he was the murderer, I don’t think you would have been able to return home here, nor yet able to tell me about the events of the evening, Mr. Verraby. It is more probable that you would have remained in the company of old Mr. Folliner until someone discovered not one corpse, but two.”
Verraby’s rather protuberant blue eyes goggled as he listened to the Chief Inspector’s quiet voice.
“That depends,” he said. “You must remember that I took the fellow completely by surprise. It so happens that I was wearing shoes with crepe rubber soles, and I moved quite silently. I was on to him before he realised that he was discovered. However, that is all rather off the point. What I should like to discuss with you is the direction of the fellow’s get-away. He made a bee-line for that studio. I am convinced that he expected assistance there, and it is my own conviction that those artist fellows were concerned in the affair somehow. Scallywags, Chief Inspector, all of them, irresponsible scallywags, capable of anything.”
“I quite understand that the studio party struck you as grotesque, Mr. Verraby, but I think you are out in your estimate of them. In addition to the painter, his model, and the painter’s sister, there were two visitors, the older named Cavenish, the younger Mackellon. Cavenish is a Civil Servant, Mackellon a scientist in Government employ. Neither of the two can be described as irresponsible, nor yet as scallywags. Bruce Manaton, the painter, is an irritable fellow, perhaps what you would describe as anti-social, but he is an educated man, and not an unreasonable one, so far as I can judge. Delaunier is an actor—but all actors are not irresponsible. Hasn’t it occurred to you that if your surmise were correct, they could have made some excuse which would have covered the escape of the man you had arrested?”
“Of course that occurred to me, but I didn’t think they would dare to try anything of the kind. I made it abundantly clear that they would be held responsible for the safe-keeping of the man I had arrested.”
“And you must admit that they discharged the responsibility. Nevertheless, Mr. Verraby, since you distrusted the studio party, I am surprised that you left your prisoner in their charge. Didn’t it occur to you to send one of the party—Cavenish, for example—to telephone for you?”
Mr. Verraby’s face flushed indignantly.
“I used my own judgment, Chief Inspector, and I think, as events have turned out, that I was not at fault. Manaton had already refused to telephone for me, and the others were equally unwilling. I had no compulsion, no power. There were four of them, five counting my prisoner. I did my best in difficult circumstances.”
“Quite so: you couldn’t do more than your best, and you had to follow your own judgment,” rejoined Macdonald equably. “I should like to return to your statement about searching your prisoner. You said ‘I ran my hands over him.’ You were looking for a weapon, a pistol or revolver, I realise that. Did you, however, notice anything bulky in his pockets? Any parcel, or bundle of papers?”
“No. Nothing bulky. He had on an army top-coat with battle-blouse underneath. I should have realised at once if there were anything bulky in his pockets, and made it my business to remove whatever it was, when we were in the studio.”
“Thanks. That is a very important point,” said Macdonald, but Verraby continued, rather stiffly:
“I have realised since that I made a mistake in leaving the man in the studio as I did, because it gave him the opportunity of destroying evidence. There might have been some papers in his pockets. I can put it on record, however, that there was nothing bulky.”
“Very good. My next question is a necessary formality. Deceased was an old man named Albert Folliner. He had lived at 25, Hollyberry Hill for many years. Have you ever known him or had any dealings with him?”
Mr. Verraby’s sanguine face again became uncomfortably suffused with red. Macdonald guessed the answer before it came, and was genuinely surprised as he realised the truth while his witness stuttered and hesitated.
“Well, the fact is, and it’s a very surprising fact, though the world is a small place as we all know, er… I didn’t actually know Folliner. In fact I should be quite justified in saying that I didn’t know him at all, but I once had some business dealings with a man of that name. I have done a little speculating in property in this district: I am the owner of these little houses here in Haverstock Close. I commissioned an architect to build them after I had bought the site. Er… I bought a property which belonged to a Mr. Albert Folliner, a small property. That would have been shortly before the war. I remember the transaction particularly because he asked to be paid in cash—a peculiar request. Of course there was no question of my recognising deceased: apart from anything else, he was too much disfigured—but I remember the name Albert Folliner.”
“Have you had any dealings with him since that date?”
“No. No… It was just a question of some small house property, nothing of any importance. He owned a small piece of land which impinged on some property I intended to develop.” Mr. Verraby paused, and he smiled at Macdonald—but it was an uneasy smile.
“I’m afraid that I’m wasting your time with these trivial details, Chief Inspector. I realise that they have no bearing on the case at all, but I preferred to answer your question fully, to be absolutely frank. I should have felt very uncomfortable if you had ever reason to say to me, ‘Why did you not tell me that you had heard of the man before?’”
“I quite agree with you: frankness is advisable in a case of this kind,” rejoined Macdonald. “I should be interested to hear further details of your transactions with Mr. Folliner,” he went on. “Was the property in question situated in this district?”
“Yes. To be exact it was in Hollyberry Hill. A small house near the main road.”
“Did you find Mr. Folliner a difficult person to make terms with—did he, for instance, put a high value on his own property?”
“To begin with, the price he asked was quite fantastic: we broke off negotiations with him several times. Eventually he accepted an offer on valuation, after having tried, quite unsuccessfully, to sell his property elsewhere.”
“And you paid in cash?”
“I did: he was paid in £50 notes. He refused to accept a cheque.”
“A curious transaction.” Macdonald’s voice was quietly conversational. He went on:
“I notice that a considerable number of old houses in the Hollyberry Hill dis
trict are derelict, awaiting the housebreaker. I suppose that when they are demolished, the land on which they stand will be ‘developed’ as the saying is.”
“Flats,” said Mr. Verraby. “Good small modern flats, centrally-heated, labour saving in every way. If you build good flats you can’t go wrong. The demand is unlimited. The woman of to-day doesn’t want to be bothered with housework and cooking—the kitchen-range and copper régime is gone for good. Give them good small flats, with a restaurant on the premises, and service obtainable, and you can let every flat in the block before the builders are out. Of course, there’s a limited demand for small first-class houses like this one, architect-built and decorated, but take it from me, the future is in flats—what with taxation and cost of living there aren’t many people can afford what I call a decent house.”
“You’re evidently very much interested in your occupation,” said Macdonald, and Verraby replied:
“Oh, I’m interested all right—from the beginning to the end. To build a block of first-class flats needs capital. I’m interested in that; capital’s a very absorbing subject. Then there’s the matter of choosing an architect, and putting the right type of block in the right neighbourhood, considering such details as transport facilities and shopping facilities. When I first came into the land-development business I regarded it as an amusing side-line. Now I find it’s an absorbing interest—or more accurately, it was an absorbing interest, until this infernal war upset everything.”
“Yes. It must have put a stop to your building schemes rather abruptly. It must be an exasperating situation to own a piece of land ready for development and not to be able to put it to any use.”
Verraby made a wry face. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. Exasperating? I tell you it’s maddening. Capital tied up, in many cases interest to be paid—and the whole thing’s at a standstill. It’s a case of survival value again; the man who manages to survive and keep out of the bankruptcy court until peace is signed is going to be in a privileged position afterwards, if he’s got the land to get busy on. What’s going to be the first demand when this war’s over? House room. I tell you the demand’s incalculable.”
Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery Page 7