by Molly Thynne
“On the other hand, it stands to reason that, if Sir Adam was alive at seven o’clock, and the flat was empty when Johnson went into it at seven-ten, whoever attacked him must have cleared out sometime during that ten minutes, after Miss Braid arrived,” pointed out Gilroy. “Was anything taken, by the way?”
“A dispatch-box in the bedroom has been forced, and Johnson says the old man’s gold watch and chain and certain other things are missing. He does not know what jewellery there may have been in the dispatch-box, but he thinks Sir Adam kept money there. He has seen him take money out of the box. With the exception of four pound notes and some silver which we found in Sir Adam’s pockets, there is no money in the flat now. I think we may take it that robbery was the motive.”
“You haven’t overlooked the windows, by any chance?”
There was a mischievous gleam in Gilroy’s eye.
“Oddly enough we did think of them,” answered Fenn dryly. “They were all shut and latched, with the exception of the bedroom window, which was open at the top. It’s got a patent catch, however, and that was fastened on the inside. No, the man, or woman, came and went by the front door.”
Gilroy raised his eyebrows.
“There’s no reason why the wound shouldn’t have been inflicted by a woman,” he admitted—“especially in a moment of rage. And the lady Webb heard seems to have lost her temper badly. In that case, the robbery is merely a blind.”
“On the other hand,” Fenn reminded him, “ladies don’t usually call on even the most cantankerous old gentlemen with knives in their pockets—that is, unless the murder was premeditated. In which case, where’s the motive? You don’t deliberately plan the death of an old man just because he’s habitually rude to you.”
“Who benefits by Sir Adam’s death?” asked Gilroy.
Fenn’s usually cheery face clouded, and Gilroy realized that he was worrying badly over this case.
“That’s where my trouble begins,” he said slowly. “I shall know better where we stand when I have seen Sir Adam’s solicitor; but, unless he has changed his will, Miss Braid stands to inherit every penny. And Miss Braid admits, quite frankly, that her object in wishing to see her grandfather privately was to persuade him to advance her some of the money that was to come to her at his death.”
“She knew about the will, then?” put in Gilroy quickly.
With a sigh Fenn rose to his feet and stood gazing down into the fire. He looked suddenly older.
“She knew about the will,” he admitted reluctantly. “She makes no bones about it.”
Gilroy stared at him.
“Then what’s biting you?” he exclaimed. “I admit that, so far, the evidence is purely circumstantial, but you’ve established some pretty useful facts. Ruling out Miss Braid’s story, which, you must admit, is a bit thin, Sir Adam was murdered sometime between five minutes to seven, when Webb went back to his own flat, and ten minutes past. The murderer may, of course, have made his escape during the five minutes that ensued between Webb’s departure and Miss Braid’s arrival, but in that case she was lying when she said she heard voices coming from the flat when she arrived there at seven. And what possible motive can she have for lying if she is innocent? It’s a rotten silly lie, I admit, but that doesn’t make it the more convincing. Given that the woman’s a fool and that she’s up against it—”
“She’s not a fool,” interrupted Fenn. “Anything but! And yet, if she is guilty, she’s showing about as much sense as the village idiot. She’s made one damaging admission after another, of her own accord, too, and she’s invented a story that’s so thin that a child could see through it. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to say that she heard some one leave the flat while she was waiting on the landing above, but she sticks to it that no one did leave. She doesn’t even pretend that she felt any affection for her grandfather, though she is shocked and horrified at his death. It’s incredible that an intelligent woman could be so insanely foolish!”
“If she is being foolish,” said Gilroy shrewdly. “The very baldness of her whole story inclines one to believe that it may, after all, be true. You must admit that you’ve reacted to it that way yourself. If she realizes this, she’s playing a very clever game.”
“You may be right,” admitted Fenn wearily. “But, in normal circumstances, that aspect of the affair would affect me very little. I leave that sort of thing to the counsel for the defence, and he would no doubt make good play with it. My mind doesn’t work that way. Facts are facts, and I stick to them. No, it isn’t that that’s set my mind wambling.”
He paused for a moment, then faced Gilroy squarely.
“I give you leave to think what you like, and I admit that I am going against the principles of a lifetime, but this is my firm conviction. That child is so absolutely incapable of committing this particular crime that I am willing to stake my whole reputation on her innocence. I have put it strongly because I want to convince you that, insane as the contention must sound, coming from one in my position, I am prepared to abide by it. You can take my word for it, Jill Braid was not responsible for her grandfather’s death.”
Gilroy had seldom been so thoroughly taken aback in his life. He had known Fenn intimately since the days of his own boyhood, when the chief inspector had been with the uniformed force. He had listened entranced while Sergeant Fenn, as he was then, and his father, an overworked journalist with a taste for criminology, had sat over their pipes discussing the mentality of certain of the black sheep of the neighbourhood, and later, after his father’s death, when he had set up for himself, and Fenn had been transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department, their friendship had persisted. He knew something of Fenn’s hardworking persistence. The detective was not a man of great imagination, but he was possessed of a clear, logical brain and a power of co-ordinating his facts which Gilroy, a born researcher himself, could appreciate. He had never before known him to be biased by any personal equation. Fenn noted his amazement with a wry smile.
“I’m not mad,” he said ruefully, “though I’m beginning to wonder at myself. I doubt if a man was ever in a more damnable position. I’ve known Jill Braid since she was a schoolgirl in pigtails, and I can remember the row there was when she shingled her hair and called me in to take her side against her father. I’ve taken an interest in her ever since he died and left her on her own. You wouldn’t remember him, but your father knew him. He was police surgeon to our division in the old days, and we all knew his girl. She was the kind of jolly kid that made herself at home with every one. And she’s the most transparently honest person it is possible to imagine. Hence all these damaging admissions. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to her yet that she could possibly be under suspicion; but even if she did realize it, she’d stick to the naked truth all the same, even though she’s intelligent enough to know the inference that might be placed on it. You can take my word for it that she’s acting true to type and there’s no guile in her.”
He relapsed into silence, and Gilroy could find no words with which to meet the situation.
“What are you going to do?” he asked at last.
“Properly speaking,” said Fenn slowly, “I ought to retire from the case and hand it over to some one less biased than myself. But do you realize what that would mean? The facts, as you yourself pointed out, are too obvious to be disregarded. I might just as well ask for a warrant for her arrest as clear out now.”
“You’ll stick to it, then?”
Fenn nodded.
“Thank the Lord, I can honestly say that the evidence we have got so far does not, in my opinion, justify an arrest. Meanwhile, I shall hang on, and, if it’s humanly possible, find the real murderer. But you see where it lands me. If I don’t find him, and any further information comes to light, I shall have to arrest her.”
Gilroy poured out the coffee, and the two men drank it in silence. It was not till Fenn rose to leave that Gilroy gave voice to his thoughts.
; “I say,” he said, his hand on the other man’s shoulder, “you’re sure you’re not unduly prejudiced in her favour? The facts are against her, you know.”
Fenn met his eyes squarely.
“I know exactly what you think of me,” he said grimly, “and I don’t blame you. But, you see, I know the girl. As for the case against her, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve got a piece of evidence in my pocket now, which I’ve no intention of showing you, that would almost justify my making an arrest. Instead of which, I’m going to give her a chance of explaining herself. Now you know the full extent of my folly.”
His face relaxed into a smile that was half rueful, half apologetic. Then, before Gilroy could answer, he was gone.
CHAPTER IV
“Have you ever seen this before?”
Jill Braid started, taken unawares by the suddenness of the query.
It was the morning after Sir Adam Braid’s death, and she and Fenn had met by appointment in the old man’s study. The body had been removed to the mortuary, Johnson had packed his belongings and betaken himself to lodgings elsewhere, and the flat was in the hands of the police.
The study, airless and undusted, had a very bleak aspect in the cold November light that filtered in through the closed window. Fenn had drawn back the heavy curtains, otherwise the room was as Sir Adam had left it when he went to his death the night before. The ashes of the burnt-out fire still littered the grate; his pen lay on the bureau where he had placed it on rising from his seat; and the earphones still hung over the back of his chair, their long flex trailing across the carpet. No doubt his last action before leaving the room had been to place them there.
Jill took the sheet of paper that Fenn handed her and carried it across to the better light of the window. As she moved, a little shiver ran down her spine. She felt acutely conscious of her grandfather’s presence in this grey, chilly room.
As she read the letter that broke off so abruptly at the bottom of the page, her eyes widened in consternation. When she raised them, to find Fenn watching her closely, they were horror-stricken.
“Have you ever seen it before?” he repeated.
Her glance did not waver.
“Never,” she answered. “I—I had no idea he was going to do this! When I saw him last he was nicer to me than he had ever been. I don’t understand it.”
“He wrote it last night,” said Fenn quietly. “Something must have disturbed him, and he left it unfinished. Johnson says that there was a half-written letter lying on the bureau, where I found this, when he went out last night. He remembers it because your grandfather hesitated when he asked if there was anything for the post, and, apparently, decided to send it later. You didn’t know that he had any intention of cutting you out of his will?”
She shook her head.
“It’s the last thing I should have expected. The last time I saw him he told me he was leaving me everything. I was surprised, because, though I am his nearest relation, he always hated my mother, and I had been quite prepared for him to leave me nothing. I can’t think why he wrote this. I’ve done nothing to offend him.”
“I think I can answer that question,” said Fenn. “This letter from you was lying beside the other.” The girl’s face flushed.
“You mean it made him angry? I suppose it was a silly letter to write just after he’d told me he was leaving me the money, but I was desperate, Mr. Fenn. If I could have the money now, it would mean so much to me, and I asked for so little—just enough to keep me and pay my studio fees in Paris till I could start earning again. I thought he’d understand. He’d been through it all himself when he was young, and I took such trouble with the letter to show that I really wasn’t being grasping and mercenary. It never occurred to me that he’d take it like that.”
“From what I have gathered he seems to have had a fixed idea that his relations were out to get money from him; and no doubt, when he read your letter, he concluded that you were as mercenary as the rest, and simply sat down in a rage, then and there, to write to his lawyer. He’d probably have thought better of it later. It’s just the sort of thing irritable old gentlemen do. You’re sure you did not know about this letter?”
She stared at him, puzzled.
“Why do you keep on asking me that? If he only wrote it yesterday, how could I know about it? The last time I saw him was when he called on me at my rooms, the day before yesterday. I never came into this room at all last night; and if I had, I shouldn’t have noticed anything of that sort after what had happened.”
She paused. Then a flood of colour swept over her face.
“Mr. Fenn!” she exclaimed hotly, “surely you don’t think—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” broke in a discreet voice from the doorway; “but the door was open, and as I’d stayed away from the office on purpose to catch you, I ventured to come in.”
Fenn swung round, to find Webb’s mild little face peering into the room.
“Come in, Mr. Webb,” he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Mr. Webb came in with alacrity. He executed a punctilious little bow in the direction of Miss Braid before addressing himself to Fenn.
“My sister has some information for you,” he said, “which I thought I had better pass on at once. I only heard of it this morning, and stayed away from the office, meaning to call on you at Scotland Yard. When I saw you pass the window I was really very much relieved. My time’s not exactly my own, you see.”
“Yes?” put in Fenn encouragingly, as he paused for breath.
“Well, it’s just this. According to my sister, a man has been hanging about the Chambers for several days—rather a questionable type of person, in fact—and she feels certain now that he was watching this house.”
She would, was Fenn’s inward comment, as he waited patiently for Webb’s dramatic pause to come to an end.
“She says she noticed him first on Saturday evening, and wondered what he was waiting for. Then she saw him again on Monday, the day before yesterday—that is, about lunch-time. A rough-looking man, shabby and with no overcoat; not at all the sort of person one cares to have hanging about one’s premises.”
Webb cleared his throat and settled down to enjoy his own narrative.
“Well, you know what women are,” he went on. “With all deference to Miss Braid, they can be a little fanciful, especially at a time like this—so that I was naturally inclined to take my sister’s story with a grain of salt, as they say. But when she told me that she had been so impressed by this man that she had spoken of him to Ling, who keeps the paper shop at the corner, and that he had not only noticed him too, but agreed with her that he was probably up to no good, I began to take the matter more seriously. Ling is a very level-headed man with an intelligence distinctly above his station, and he and my sister had quite a talk about this man on the very morning of the day Sir Adam died, when she went to pay our weekly bill. It may be a clue or there may be nothing in it at all, but I thought it advisable to let you know as soon as possible. I give you the information for what it is worth,” concluded Webb magnanimously.
“Much obliged to you,” said Fenn. He did not wish to discourage the little man at this juncture. Boring and futile though he was, he might prove a useful source of information. As for his sister, her imagination had probably got the bit between its teeth and run away with her; but it might be worth while to interview this man Ling, and see if he had anything to report.
“I’ll drop in on Miss Webb later, if I may, and get her to give me a more detailed description of the man,” he went on, leading Webb firmly in the direction of the door. “Many thanks for the information.”
“Not at all. Only too glad to be of service,” and Webb trotted off, feeling very well pleased with himself.
Fenn turned to Miss Braid with an amused smile hovering on his lips. If he had expected any response from her, he was disappointed. All through Webb’s visit she had been standing at the window, apparently absorbe
d in the contemplation of the mansions opposite. Now she turned on him, her eyes sparkling and a spot of vivid colour flaming on each cheek-bone.
“Mr. Fenn,” she exclaimed, “is it true that you don’t really believe that I was waiting upstairs yesterday evening? You don’t think that I came into this flat when I first arrived, do you?”
Her whole bearing was a challenge, and Fenn had to meet it. The crisis had come sooner than he liked, but he answered her with absolute honesty.
“If you tell me that the first time you entered this flat last night was after Johnson had found your grandfather’s body, I, personally, am ready to take your word for it. But it doesn’t rest with me, you know. I’ve got to convince other people more important than myself, and if I’m to do that I must have facts. If only you had been seen or had spoken to some one on the landing upstairs, my job would be easier.”
While he was speaking her eyes had been on his face. Evidently what she had read there satisfied her.
“You do believe me,” she said, with obvious relief. “That’s one comfort, anyway. But I’m beginning to understand what you’re driving at. If my grandfather had been alone and had let me in when I came at seven I might have quarrelled with him. But I couldn’t ever have murdered him! Surely you don’t believe that?”
“I don’t believe it, but, I put it to you, others might,” answered Fenn, meeting her gaze steadily.
The colour faded slowly from her cheeks, but it was characteristic of her that, in spite of her consternation, she still pursued her own argument relentlessly.
“But why should I do such a thing, just when he was behaving decently to me for the first time in my life? And the tragic thing is that I’d just begun to realize that I could have been fond of him, if only he’d let me. I suppose it’s the money you’re thinking of. But money isn’t as important as that.”