“That’s jolly interesting,” said Reeves, his intelligent eyes very bright.
The warden looked rather worried: Reeves guessed he was a conscientious fellow, not given to careless gossip.
“I don’t want to give you a wrong impression,” said the warden. “You know how it is with these artist blokes, they seem queer fish to ordinary careful chaps like me, and I may be doing them an injustice. I didn’t like Stort, but Listelle was even nastier. I’d back him as the likelier of the two when it came to dirty work.”
“Anything solid to go on, or just a hunch?” asked Reeves.
“Just guess-work,” replied the other. “Stort was an obstinate, tiresome beggar, but Listelle was cunning—he’d always got an answer to everything, and he was plausible as they make ’em. I’ve just thought of something which might interest you. Listelle used to play darts up at that pub just off the High Street—the Green Dragon. He was a wonderful darts player I’m told. One of our fellows used to go there, and he said Listelle used to spin yarns about an old miser he knew—said he used to spend the nights counting up his treasure… It might be worth your while to go up there and see if you can get any information.”
“Good. I’ll follow that up,” said Reeves. “Is the chap who told you about it still at your post?”
“No. He was called up last year. He’s in Iceland I believe. Look here. I’m worried about this,” said the warden. “I’m telling you a lot of hearsay and guess-work, and come to think of it, you may be thinking I’m a bit too forthcoming with my suggestions. I suppose a warden, like me, might be said to have opportunities of house-breaking and all that.”
Reeves laughed. “Don’t you worry about that! I reckon you were on duty at the post between eight o’clock and ten last night.”
The warden grinned sheepishly. “Yes. I was. Thanks be for that.”
“O.K.,” said Reeves. “Now the chap who really interests me of these two is Stort, because you say he was the one who used to climb the Sedgemoor Avenue garden. You never heard of Listelle doing that?”
“No. I don’t think so. It was Stort the old lady mentioned, and I think she knew ’em by sight all right. I’d give a lot to know if he did come and climb that wall last night. In a way, it’d have been an easy job to do—and I can’t see how you can ever prove anything.”
“Well, to start with it’s a matter of finding Stort and asking him just what he was doing last night,” said Reeves.
“And if he’s faked an alibi?”
“It’s not nearly so easy to do as people believe,” said Reeves. “Most people break down under examination when they’re lying because it’s very difficult to lie consistently. However, no use counting one’s chickens. I’ve got to find him first.”
“Well, if I come across anyone who knows anything about him, I’ll let you know,” said the warden. “Our chaps do pick up a bit of gossip one way and another. I only hope I’m not setting you out on a wild-goose chase, because I don’t know anything against either of these chaps, except that Stort made free with the old lady’s garden, and Listelle spread rumours about old Folliner being a miser.”
“If nobody ever told us any ideas that came into their heads we should have a poor time in my job,” replied Reeves. “It’s chaps like you who’re willing to help who give me a chance. Any other ideas thankfully received.”
“Good! I’ll tell you if anything occurs to me,” replied the warden. “You see I’m particularly interested in this case of yours, because I’ve lived around here nearly all my life. My father had a house in Hollyberry Hill—one of those derelict ones at the Dayton Crescent end—and father knew old Folliner when he was a reasonable being. It’s true he was very well off at one time. He had a builder’s and decorator’s business and owned some property as well. I believe he had a reputation as a very hard man—he was down on his poorer tenants I believe, but he was respected. He paid his debts and was straight. It’s only of recent years he’s got so eccentric. Some people say he speculated and lost all his money, and that turned his head. Other people say he became miserly and hoarded it, but nobody knows for certain. I lived over the other side of Hampstead for some years, and lost sight of him. When I came back here I was amazed to learn he was still alive. He must be over ninety now, about the same age as my own father would have been had he lived. Think of it. 1850 to 1940. What a period to have lived through! Some folks say there’s been more change in the world in those hundred years than in the whole thousand years preceding. Progress? My hat! Do you call it progress?”
“Depends where you’re progressing to,” said Reeves. “Sometime these past two years I’ve thought human beings were making a bee-line for hell. If your dad passed out before the nineteen-forties, I reckon he was luckier than old Folliner.”
“I reckon he was,” said the warden fervently.
Chapter Eight
I
After Reeves had left the Air Raid Warden’s office, he returned to number 25, entered by the front gate, and walked round to the back. The path had once been gravelled, but now it was what Reeves described as “a muddy mess.” The gravel had long since been washed away or ground into the sooty London soil, and to-day there was another good reason for the decrepit appearance of the “path.” The A.F.S. had been called in to pump out the water from the dug-out, and their hose had been dragged through to the back garden. Reeves went on, past the main entrance to the studio, whose door was only six or seven feet away from the ground-floor windows of the house. Reeves, studying the lay-out, thought it probable that the studio had been built in the first place for the use of the owner of number 25, and it seemed likely that a covered way had been arranged from the french window of the house giving access to the studio. The further end of the studio building, where the “K. and B.” was situated, was probably a later addition. The small window of the studio gallery, where Rosanne slept, was on a level with the first-floor window of the house.
Reeves walked down the length of the studio and noticed that Bruce Manaton stared at him from a window—stared resentfully, as though he were exasperated by the intrusion into his privacy.
The dug-out was empty of water now: it had been planned as a deep trench, but the unsupported walls had slipped, and it was now a shapeless, malodorous muddy hole, flanked by the pile of clay which had been excavated by the diggers. This had been thrown against the garden wall on the north side, and the wall had partially collapsed as a result.
Reeves walked on, past the back entrance of the studio, until he reached the wall dividing the garden from that of the garden in Sedgemoor Avenue. The wall was about eight feet high, and in very poor condition. Reeves easily found a gap in the brick-work which assisted him to climb up, and a moment later, with the agility of a monkey, he straddled the wall and looked over into the other garden. He found himself facing an irate elderly woman who was armed with a rake, and so baleful was her glance that he wondered if the rake would be used in a frontal attack on himself.
“Young man, this is an outrage,” she declared, and her voice was such a deep bass that Reeves was positively startled.
“I think that’s putting it a bit strongly, madam,” he protested pleasantly. “I’m only doing a bit of reconnaissance work. I say, I do like your garden. I’m a bit of a gardener myself when I’m off duty, and it’s a real pleasure to see a place so well-kept.”
Reeves generally managed to say the right thing when he wanted to, and his spontaneous sounding (but calculated) appreciation had just the effect it was intended to have. The stalwart lady grounded her rake and looked at Reeves quite amiably. Reeves guessed her age to be about sixty, her status that of an independent spinster, her health excellent, and her character that of “a holy terror.”
“I take great pride in my garden,” she replied in her booming voice, pushing back her cropped white hair with a muddy hand. “It’s wonderful how things grow here. My roses are quite
a sight in summer, but the way the neighbourhood is deteriorating is lamentable—lamentable!” she reiterated. “This was once a very desirable and respectable neighbourhood, and look at it now! Crimes abounding at one’s very door, privacy disregarded, and everything going to rack and ruin. Bombs I can disregard—we’re all in it together—but crime and corruption and disreputability—it’s too much.”
“Most upsetting for you, madam—and the sight of these derelict houses must be most depressing.”
“Most depressing. Very depressing indeed,” she said. “I had a trellis put up on that wall once, and my polygonum was covering it nicely, but that wretched creature who lived in the studio insisted on its being taken down. He said it interfered with his light—stuff and nonsense! Unhappily that wall is not my wall. I was helpless in the matter.”
“Very trying,” said Reeves sympathetically. “I have heard that you had a lot of trouble with the studio tenant at one time.”
“Trouble! These artists are all alike, no sense of responsibility or decency. I could tell you things you would scarcely credit.”
While the formidable lady boomed on, Reeves was examining the further side of the wall. There was no staple in it now to facilitate climbing, but he was quite sure that he would have found no difficulty at all in obtaining a foothold. The path of the further garden was neatly flagged with crazy paving, he noticed, the interstices planted with Arabis and Aubretia and other small plants. So far as he could see there was a trellis gate which shut off the garden from the approach in Sedgemoor Avenue.
“We get to hear some queer stories in my job,” he said. “I’m a C.I.D. man, madam.”
“I see. Well I suppose detectives have to climb walls and to do other peculiar things,” she said, and Reeves bent towards her.
“I hope you haven’t been too much bothered with our interrogations, madam. I know it is often very tiresome to be worried with seemingly unnecessary questions.”
“No. I have been put to no inconvenience at all—not by the police. An inspector did call, a stout middle-aged man, very civil and respectful, but as I was away last night, I was unable to help him. I was fire-watching, as I habitually do once a week.”
“I have an idea that you could give us some help in another way, madam,” went on Reeves. “If you could tell me when it would be least inconvenient for you, I should be grateful if you would answer a few questions.”
“Any time you like, any time,” she responded. “I am seldom out. My name is Miss Stanton, and this house is called ‘Ithaca.’ A classical name, chosen by my dear father.”
“A very beautiful name,” said Reeves tactfully. “I will call on you later, madam, and I apologise for my appearance on your wall. We do have to behave like performing monkeys sometimes, all in the prosecution of our duties.”
He grinned as he spoke, showing an excellent row of white teeth in his lean angular face, and Miss Stanton boomed out a deep and hearty laugh.
“You appear to be an intelligent and civil monkey,” she replied. “I will show you my garden some time. I have Hellebore in flower, and Winter sweet.”
“Wonderful, in a London garden, too,” said Reeves.
He slipped back to his own side of the wall and brushed his trousers down, indulging in a quiet chuckle which was very full of mirth. “Marvellous old girl,” he said to himself. “What the blazes is Hellebore? I must find out.”
He made his way back past the studio, where Bruce Manaton stared at him again from the window, and made his way to the front door of number 25.
II
“Inspector Jenkins inside?” Reeves enquired of the constable on duty at the door.
“Yes, he’s there, and the Chief Inspector’s just come in, too.”
Reeves went inside and upstairs to old Mr. Folliner’s bedroom. Jenkins, together with a clerk from his department, was still examining the never-ending papers which had been packed into the vast wardrobe. Macdonald was standing by the window.
“I’ve just been described as a civil and intelligent monkey,” said Reeves, “and can you tell me what Hellebore is?”
“Christmas rose,” replied Macdonald promptly. “Did she call you that, too? I saw you doing your stuff on the garden wall.”
“The things I’ve done in the name of duty,” groaned Reeves. “Anyway, I’ve been getting a spot of information.”
He gave Macdonald a neat précis of his gleanings, and ended up: “What about it? Do I pop round to Bickfords and start in on the good old trail?”
“I think so,” replied Macdonald. “You’ll probably find that their records were lost in the blitz, their van driver is now a prisoner in the Far East, and no one has ever heard the name of Stort anyway. Now say if both you chaps listen to me for a bit, and give me the benefit of any brain-waves you’re likely to have.”
Reeves seated himself on the late Mr. Folliner’s armchair, Jenkins removed his glasses, and Macdonald leant back against the window and expounded.
“Yesterday evening three people—at least—entered this room. One was Mrs. Tubbs. She left the house just about half-past eight and went in to see Miss Manaton, and left a latch-key on the kitchen table. Mrs. Tubbs did not arrive back at her own home until after 9.15, just as the nine o’clock news was over. She lives in Myrtle Place, about ten minutes’ walk in the usual way, but admittedly the fog was very thick. Mr. Verraby, according to his own account, came into the house just after nine o’clock. According to the night watchman, Verraby should have reached this house by five minutes to nine. Neil Folliner says that he got here ‘just after nine,’ about right according to Private Brown’s computation.”
Jenkins intervened here. “According to the evidence of the photographs, which shows Neil Folliner’s footprints superimposed on Verraby’s, Verraby got here first, which fits in with the times.”
“Yes. I think we can assume that. Neil Folliner and Verraby both state that the cash-box was lying on the floor, empty, when they arrived. According to Jenkins’ researches among deceased’s papers, the latter has realised all his property—saving this house—for cash, his transactions being spread over a period of nearly ten years. At the beginning of that period he had a banking account at the City and Westminster, but he withdrew all his money out of deposit in 1938. There is no evidence to show what he did with it.”
“He put it in that cash-box,” said Jenkins, “I’ll lay any money that’s what he did with it, and he spent happy hours every evening counting up his notes. I expect he wished it was in gold—misers love gold—but he couldn’t get gold, so he had to be contented with notes.”
“It’s a reasonable assumption,” said Macdonald, “anyway for the moment we’ll assume that the money was in the cash-box, and that the murderer stole it.”
“Half a jiffy,” said Reeves. “Was the old chap shot with his own pistol?”
“Yes. There’s no question about that. The bullet’s been examined and the breech markings prove that it was shot from the pistol found on the floor. This pistol was bought by old Folliner in 1930—the receipt for it is among his papers. The P.M. shows that he was knocked over the head first, and then shot.”
Jenkins nodded his solid head. “Yes, and you can make another assumption from that. He recognised the person who came into the room, that’s why they shot him. Wanted to make perfectly certain he wouldn’t recover and give them away.”
“That seems reasonable to me,” said Macdonald. “Of course, there are several variations which might be worked out: it’s possible that one person shot him, and that another stole his valuables.”
“Possible, but I don’t believe it,” said Jenkins. “The murderer took the loot—I’m certain of it. We’ve three possibilities at present—one is Mrs. Tubbs, one is Mr. Verraby, and one is Neil Folliner.”
“Four,” said Reeves. “The fourth is Miss Manaton.”
“There aren’t any t
races of her,” said Macdonald. “Of course, Neil Folliner was wearing army boots, heavy things which left imprints on the damp linoleum. Verraby was wearing crepe rubber soles, which also leave a characteristic mark. Mrs. Tubbs was admittedly in the house on her lawful occasions.”
“How nearly can they fix the time of death?” asked Reeves, and Macdonald replied,
“That’s a point which the medical experts will never swear to—not within minutes. They have been proved wrong too often. The surgeon reached here at 9.40—a very good effort considering the sort of night it was. He said that death had occurred within the hour preceding his visit—possibly more than an hour, possibly less.”
“So it’s a possibility that Mrs. Tubbs could have shot him before she left here?”
“Yes. It’s a possibility, among other possibilities.”
“She knew—although she denied it—that Neil Folliner was coming: she could have left that postcard handy for you to find.”
“Yes. It all fits in quite well, but why did she go into the studio when she left here?”
Jenkins shook his head, rubbing his bristly chin thoughtfully with a wide thumb. “She wouldn’t have done it, Chief. You’ve got to consider human nature as well as possibilities. If Mrs. Tubbs had shot old Folliner and stolen his money, she’d never have gone into the studio and chatted to Miss Manaton like that. Mrs. Tubbs would have gone straight home and hidden the money. Also, it’s probable that she’d have denied ever getting to number 25 that evening: she’d have made some story about the fog being too thick, and said she’d got lost. Then there’s another point: that chap in the Sappers—Brown—said he heard her singing as she walked towards this house. D’you think she’d have advertised herself as she walked if she’d got in mind to do a job like this? On the grounds of time-table and the mechanics of the thing, I grant you it’s a possibility Mrs. Tubbs could have done it. From the point of common sense—and common humanity for that matter—I just don’t believe it.”
Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery Page 10