“You evidently expect my sympathy, sir,” said Macdonald. “I speak for myself in saying that I do not consider that your case merits any sympathy at all. Because you were afraid of being accused of murder, you used your authority as a Special Constable to accuse another man of a crime which you must have known that he did not commit. In charging Neil Folliner with this crime you misrepresented the evidence. It is plain that on the evidence I should be justified in arresting and charging you with murder.”
“But I am innocent! I swear before God that I know nothing of this thing. He was dead before I entered the room. I tell you, I discovered this murder: someone shot the old man. Isn’t it in the highest degree probable that his nephew did so, hoping to inherit the old man’s fortune?”
“All this will have to be debated by the jury,” said Macdonald. “When you are called as witness at the inquest I advise you to state all facts plainly and accurately. Meantime, though I am not putting you under arrest, I warn you that you must not leave this house.”
Mr. Verraby stared at the C.I.D. man with a glance in which horror and incredulity were combined.
“I tell you I did not do it,” he wailed—but Macdonald made no answer.
Chapter Fourteen
I
When Macdonald left Mr. Verraby’s house he made his way back on foot to Hollyberry Hill, and he arrived there just as Robert Cavenish turned into number 25 and knocked at the door of the studio. Macdonald heard Bruce Manaton’s outburst when he opened the door, and the Chief Inspector walked silently down the side of the studio and stood by the small window below the north light, whence Manaton had watched Reeves passing by that afternoon. The whole of Manaton’s furious speech was audible outside the window, for Macdonald himself had seen to it that that window was open a crack. He heard Cavenish go outside again, and the door being banged furiously behind him: Cavenish walked slowly back to the road, with the steps of a man who hesitates as to what he should do, and after a while he began to tramp up and down outside, a hundred yards this way and a hundred yards that.
Macdonald stood where he was, thinking. During the search of the studio that afternoon he had instructed his woman detective to make certain of a fact which he had observed earlier in the day: it was because he wanted to ascertain that one point that he had waited until it was just on black-out time before he had searched. Detective Caroline Lathom had told Macdonald that it was quite easy to get outside the small window in the gallery of the studio and to stand upon the ledge: thus standing a person of average height had their eyes on a level with the window of Mr. Folliner’s room. When the shutters were closed in this room the air-raid warden had had cause to complain that light shone out of a hole in the shutters. Mrs. Tubbs had put this matter right by pasting paper over the hole, but Macdonald had had the paper removed. It then became evident that when the light was burning in Mr. Folliner’s bedroom—and the old man had a harsh unshaded bulb—it was possible to see into the room from the window of the gallery in the studio. If anybody had been sufficiently inquisitive to want to get a “close-up” of the occupant of the bedroom, it would have been very easy to put a plank from one window sill to the other and step up close to Mr. Folliner’s window. Remembering Mrs. Tubbs’ account of Stort’s painting of Mr. Folliner, also Miss Stanton’s complaints about that gentleman’s habit of trespassing, Macdonald thought it more than probable that Stort had thus played “Peeping Tom,” and that it was on visual evidence of Mr. Folliner’s evening occupation that Listelle had entertained the bar with his account of the “clinking coins.” Macdonald doubted if coins had been much in evidence—it was nearly thirty years now since sovereigns had been in common circulation: he also realised that the “peep-show” could not have been observed since the black-out restrictions were imposed, and thus neither Bruce Manaton nor his sister would have had any chance of prying on Mr. Folliner.
Moving quietly along by the studio wall, Macdonald reached the end nearest to the house: here the cord which had belonged to the flag pole flapped dismally above his head. He went and fetched a ladder which he had had brought in, upended it silently, and after listening for a moment or two, he climbed the ladder and caught the loose cord and pulled it. It was not slack: some weight resisted the tension that he put on it—not a very heavy weight; if he had continued to pull he could have hauled the line in. He let the cord go after an experimental tug, leaving it flapping as before, and then climbed down and removed the ladder, putting it inside the back door of the house.
II
After he had replaced the ladder, Macdonald glanced at his watch: the luminous hands pointed to nine-thirty. He went out into the street and listened in the darkness: Robert Cavenish was still there, tramping slowly along about a hundred yards away. As Macdonald waited, a man came silently up to him in the darkness.
“Ward, sir. No one else has come near—only that chap who’s walking up and down. Inspector Jenkins is still inside. Says he’s nearly through.”
The whispered words were spoken close to Macdonald’s ear. He replied equally softly:
“Very good. Keep on the alert. It won’t be easy: we may be here all night for nothing. Look out for Reeves. He may report later. Drew’s on duty at the call-box. I’m going to tell this other fellow to go home.”
Ward melted away into the darkness, and Macdonald waited until Cavenish drew level with the gate. Then he went out and caught him up.
“Mr. Cavenish, I think it would be wiser for you to go home. You can’t do any good tramping up and down here, and it’s a cold night.”
Cavenish came to a halt. “The Chief Inspector, isn’t it? Sorry if I’m in the way. I’m worried.”
“What are you worrying about?”
“Rosanne Manaton. Her brother doesn’t know where she is.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want him to know where she is. In any case, you can’t do anything about it. Better go home. This is my beat to-night, and I can’t have people loitering.”
“I see. Meaning that if I don’t go, you’ll take steps to remove me?”
“That’s it. Be advised—go home and stay there, and do your thinking by your own fireside. You’ll have to give evidence to-morrow.”
There was a pause: Macdonald could hear the other man breathing quickly beside him. At last Cavenish said:
“Do you know where she is—Rosanne?”
“Yes. I know. Now, once again, go while the going’s good. Good-night.”
“You won’t tell me—?”
“I have told you everything I’m going to tell you.”
“I see. Then good-night.”
Cavenish turned away and walked off steadily, southwards. Macdonald returned to number 25 and went in at the back door: its hinges moved silently now, and in the darkness no one could see that it was slightly ajar. He waited inside, waited as he had done a hundred times, to see if a “hunch” worked true.
A quarter of an hour later, Macdonald became aware that someone was approaching the door: it wasn’t so much hearing, and certainly not sight, which warned his detective faculty of someone at hand. He stepped close to the slightly open door.
A voice spoke, very softly: “Drew, sir: report from C.O. Randall Stort’s body has been picked up on the Metropolitan line near Harrow.”
Macdonald was silent a second: then he said, “Go back to the box and wait. Reeves may call through. Tell him about Stort and say he’s to report here as soon as he can.”
“Very good, sir.”
Another shadow departed silently, and Macdonald was left with his thoughts—grim thoughts. In his mind’s eye he saw a series of pictures, and chief among them were some wall paintings, smeared, obliterated… a mess of paint on a dingy wall.
It was half an hour later that he heard another sound, not in the street this time: the slight scraping came from the wall at the far end of the studio, where Reeves had climbed only that
afternoon. Someone was climbing the wall—but not Reeves. The latter would have contrived this activity with much less sound. “A cat had nothing on Reeves,” so they said who had been on the trail with him. Macdonald stayed where he was, listening.
The intruder slithered down the wall on the studio side, not very skilfully. Macdonald heard the thump of feet landing on the earth, and a few seconds later footsteps—very quiet footsteps—sounded along by the studio and then some further sounds at the end nearest the house. Then came a slight dragging sound—the cord from the flag pole rattled a little on the corrugated roof as it was disturbed. Silently Macdonald emerged from the back door, but as swiftly drew back. A beam of light shone whitely down the dingy path as the studio door was flung open, and Bruce Manaton’s voice shouted: “Who’s there? Rosanne, is that you—is that you, I say?”
A man’s voice answered, low and urgent.
“No. It’s not Rosanne. Shut that door! The light’s glaring right out into the road.”
“Damn the light! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where is Rosanne?”
“Twenty thousand devils! Must you be such a fool? Go inside and shut that door.”
“I won’t go inside…”
“Oh, won’t you? Then I’d better come in and talk to you.” The other voice, very low and deep, had an ominous note in it. “Come inside and talk there, my friend. It will be better for both of us. Rosanne is not on in this act.”
Macdonald, peeping between the cracks of his own door, saw two figures in silhouette against the light of the studio. Then the door was closed as they both went inside.
Macdonald made a spring for the stairs and whistled—a short clear note. Jenkins was upstairs, and Jenkins was a useful fellow in an emergency. He heard Jenkins’ answering whistle, and called softly, “There’s another party in the studio—come and stand by.”
Macdonald himself went outside and moved swiftly to the studio window, the one which he had unlatched when he had helped to black-out that afternoon: he stood there and listened. He could hear the deep voice of the newcomer—a low, soft murmur, but not a word that was spoken was audible: the voice was pitched much too low. Occasionally Bruce Manaton’s irritable staccato broke in, but nearly always in question—a querulous demand for information which told Macdonald nothing. He stood there waiting, until he was aware that Jenkins was beside him. Macdonald whispered: “Stand by here. I’m going to see if I can get inside the gallery window.”
He slipped quickly along to the further end and balanced a short plank against the wall for a foothold: from here he could reach the projecting sill of the window, and he hauled himself up, absolutely silently. Macdonald had often reflected that he himself would make a very useful cat-burglar. His experience as a rock-climber enabled him to utilise any hand-hold or foothold available, and he had the balance of a cat.
Standing there in the darkness on a very precarious ledge, he set about the business of opening the casement window which Detective Lathom had left unlatched. It was a ticklish business, which meant balancing on one foot with a minimum of space for bending, and one false move or sound would have ruined his project. The window was curtained inside by a heavy woollen curtain: Macdonald knew that he had one advantage—the position in which the two men were sitting in the studio was such that they could not see up into the gallery. All he had to do was to get inside without making any sound. Once the window was open it took all his skill—and muscle—to achieve an entry. Cold though the night was, he sweated as he lowered himself and got one foot inside, every muscle taut until cramp nearly defeated him.
When he was at last inside, both feet on the floor, the black-out curtain still between himself and the rest of the studio, Macdonald took a deep breath. The business of negotiating his silent entry had taken as much effort as any hazardous rock-climb, to say nothing of being vastly more uncomfortable.
He drew the window to behind him, and slipped down on to the floor, conscious that while he had been concentrating on his own gymnastics he had not consciously heard a word of the conversation going on below in the studio. He moved forward softly to the edge of the gallery and parted the curtains a chink so that he could see below. He could just see the top of Bruce Manaton’s head, the other man was a little beneath the gallery and thus concealed from Macdonald, but a hand was stretched out holding a whisky bottle, and that same hand poured out half a tumbler of the spirit and pushed it towards Manaton.
“Get outside of that, old man; that’ll steady your nerves. Remember this: you’ve got nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing. Things couldn’t have gone better. I told you the scheme was foolproof if you would only play your part—and by Gad! you played it well. The evidence stands, and it’s indisputable.”
The deep bass whisper ceased, and there was another gurgle as the whisky bottle was tilted: Macdonald could smell the spirit in the glasses, so near was he to the drinkers.
“My God, I needed that!” went on the cautious whisper. “I’ve had all the work to do, remember that.” A low, satisfied chuckle followed the lip-smacking of a satisfied drinker. “It was almost incredible the way things worked out,” he went on. “I felt as though I was working a puppet-show, pulling the strings and making the puppets dance… It was as near perfection as could be.”
Bruce Manaton brought down his glass on to the table with a slam. “Near perfection,” he echoed, and his voice was thick, his articulation slurred. “Near—but not perfect. I’ve been thinking. That rat Stort. If he hears about this, he’ll barge in.”
“And if he does, what matter? The evidence stands. In any case, he won’t. I’ve been making a few enquiries. Stort won’t barge in—nor yet Listelle. They’ll tell no tales. Neither of them. I tell you again—don’t worry. The evidence stands.”
Another chuckle sounded below Macdonald, and the clink of a glass.
“You and I have had a poor deal so far in the way of this world’s goods,” went on the whisperer. “Take you—can you draw, can you paint? I doubt if there’s a painter amongst the whole crowd of ’em who can beat you in the handling of your own medium. Go round the modern shows—the London group, the portraitists, any of them. I tell you August John himself couldn’t beat the handling of that work of yours on the easel there. What have you got out of it? What sort of life have you had? Take this bloody hole we’re sitting in! Comfort, security, recognition? Pah! one long damned struggle with circumstance. I tell you it sickens me.” There was a silence, and then the voice went on: “Some men are content to bow to circumstance, to admit defeat, to put up with poverty… ‘like the wretched slave, who with a body filled and vacant mind, gets him to bed, crammed with distressful bread…’ Not I, my friend, not I! I’ve got brains and I’ve got nerve, and, by hell, I’ve used them at long last.”
A glass was put down on the table, and a chair pushed back.
“‘Screw your courage to the sticking point, and we’ll not fail’! Now there’s this to it. We must get that stuff moved. It was policy to leave it so long, but now it’s got to be moved. I’ve been thinking it out. I’m going to divide it into two lots—one for you and one for me, and we’ll dump it in the place I arranged. We can’t cash in on it yet—no hurry, above all, no hurry! We’ll go on cheese-paring, living on the smell of an oiled rag until the excitement’s died down. May be the war will be over. We can go abroad. I’ve a fancy for South America myself, somewhere where the sun shines. You can have your villa at Capri, or that little place outside Barcelona… the future’s ours, if only we keep our heads and stick out the damned present.” Again came a chuckle. “I’m glad they searched the place so well. That raw-boned Scot’s an efficient devil. I hoped he’d search. Makes me laugh. Now you stay here, old chap. I’m going to haul the line in.”
Bruce Manaton stirred and pushed his chair back. “I’m going to keep an eye on you. You’re not above swindling your own mother, I know that. Don’t imagine I’m go
ing to let you get away with it.”
His voice was slurred and sleepy, the voice of a man who was in the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.
The other replied: “Now don’t you get imagining things: haven’t I done all the real work in this job? Without me, you’d have finished your life as an unsuccessful painter—gone to a pauper’s grave as like as not. With me, the combination of my wits and yours, we’ve got a future… Remember the future! Drink to the future!—but keep your head now. I’m going to haul that line in… Oh, all right, come if you must, but for God’s sake don’t make a sound. It’s almost certain there’s one of those C.I.D. fellows snooping around that house. Put the light out. It’s only a step outside, but nobody must hear. Remember, the only danger in the whole business is if we’re caught with the stuff on us. Have another drink. It’ll steady you.”
“I’m not going to have another drink until I know you’re playing square. You’re trying to make me drunk, hoping I’ll go to sleep and leave you to make off with the goods. Oh, no, my friend: you don’t trick me that way—and remember this—if you try any tricks I’ll see to it that you hang, even though I hang beside you.”
“Gently! Gently! No need for that sort of thing between you and me. Having got thus far, ’twere pity to spoil the good work by quarrelling. Come then, come with me—but softly, softly…chi va piano va sano, chi va sano, va lentano. Remember, not a sound!”
The light clicked out, and Macdonald was left in blackness. He heard the two men cross the studio and open the front door. He knew that Jenkins was close at hand, that Ward and Drew were on the alert outside. He reached the gallery window and opened it a crack and waited. In his mind was the memory of a grandfather clock with the weights missing: a rope, a pulley and two good weights: an empty chimney shaft and a bundle running up on the end of a line, jerking over the edge of a wide chimney cowl as the line was released and the weights ran down inside the shaft. Now the winding up process was to be put into operation.
Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery Page 18