by Molly Thynne
“I’m not bothered about the money. I can manage, just as I’ve always managed. It was only that, when grandfather told me about the will, I saw a chance of chucking this beastly fashion-drawing business and getting some real training. I’ll stick to my old job while you get on with yours, Mr. Fenn. But you will get on with it, won’t you? It’s getting rather important to me that you should!”
This time she did achieve a smile, rather a tremulous one, over her shoulder, as she was leaving the room.
Gilroy hurried after her to let her out, and Fenn was left to his own not very pleasant reflections.
“Well?” he queried, as Gilroy reappeared.
Gilroy stood frowning, his hands deep in his pockets.
“On my word, I don’t know,” he muttered. “She’s a very fascinating person.”
“She’s more than that,” said Fenn shortly.
Gilroy nodded.
“I’m quite ready to believe it. One thing’s obvious, even on such short acquaintance. She’s got brains. Don’t overlook that fact, Fenn.”
“I don’t see why that should count against her,” was Fenn’s rather tart rejoinder. “You’ve got brains yourself, I presume, but I shouldn’t put you down as a suspicious character.”
Gilroy laughed.
“Thanks. But, joking apart, do you realize what an enormous pull a woman with looks, charm, and brains has with any man, even a well-seasoned policeman? If Miss Braid wasn’t transparently sincere just now she’s a consummate actress. Personally, I should infinitely prefer to think she was honest. But, then, I like her! That’s why I’m walking warily.”
“Walk as warily as you choose, but you won’t catch her out,” asserted Fenn. “And, remember, the cleverest criminal makes a slip, sooner or later. The true statement is the only one that is absolutely consistent. She’s implicated herself right and left, but she’s never once contradicted herself, and I’m ready to swear that she won’t.”
“I hope not,” said Gilroy gravely, and left it at that.
If Fenn had been aware of the news that was awaiting him at the Yard, he would have been even more emphatic in his championship of Jill Braid. He had barely hung his hat on its accustomed peg in his office before he was constrained to snatch it off again and set out in response to a telephone call from the Chelsea police station.
The waterproof which had been taken from the hall in Sir Adam’s flat had been traced and an arrest had been made.
The local inspector met him at the door of the station.
“We’ve pulled in the man,” he said—“an out-of-work, name of Stephens. It was a smart bit of work on the part of the pawnbroker’s assistant. The description of the waterproof was circulated early this morning, and when this chap tried to pawn it this afternoon, the assistant recognized it and passed the word to his master. The man gave a false name and address, but the pawnbroker sent his boy after him and traced him to a doss-house in Lawrence Street. We had no difficulty in getting him.”
“Has he made a statement?” asked Fenn.
“Yes. He’s quite willing to talk. Says he knows nothing of the murder, of course. Didn’t know there’d been one. He hasn’t seen a newspaper, according to his own account, or he wouldn’t have tried to pawn the waterproof.”
Fenn gave instructions that a message should be sent to Miss Webb and the newsagent, Ling, asking them to come to the station early next morning, then made his way to the cell in which the man Stephens was confined.
He found him easy enough to deal with. A gaunt, poorly-dressed man, with the broad shoulders and muscle-bound hands of one who has been a good worker in his day. Fenn saw at a glance that this was no habitual criminal. He showed none of the aplomb of the practised malefactor, and seemed only too anxious to give a frank account of himself.
“I ain’t never been in trouble before, mister,” he assured Fenn earnestly, his white face twitching and his gnarled hands clenched to stop their trembling. “And I shouldn’t be now, if it wasn’t for this blasted war. I was in good work when I joined up, but me job got filled while I was away, and, try as I would, I couldn’t get nothing when I come back. It’s been a couple o’ days ’ere, and a couple there, and the last two months I couldn’t get nothin’. Walked me feet off, I ’ave.”
Fenn let him talk. He was watching him closely. The man was frightened, that was evident; but there was something, too, in his manner of the shamed consternation of a decent working-man who finds himself on the wrong side of the law for the first time.
“I pinched the coat all right,” the hoarse, troubled voice went on. “But if any one’d told me a year ago I’d do such a thing, I’d ’a given them something to remember me by. Desperate, I was. I didn’t know where to turn, then I ’eard some talk in a bar of the money the old gent kep’ in that flat. I ’ung round and kep’ an eye on the place for the better part of a week, but I couldn’t bring meself to go up. Then last night, when I see the chap as works for ’im go out, I took me chance and slipped in. But I never got nothing but the coat.”
“How did you get in?” asked Fenn. “Not into the building—I know the door downstairs is always open—but into the flat?”
“I found the door open when I got up there,” asserted the man. “I’d brought a chisel, but I didn’t ’ave no need to use it.”
“What?” exclaimed Fenn, in astonishment.
Stephens nodded.
“Standin’ ajar, it was, and, what’s more, someone’d slipped the catch what ’olds the lock back. I know, because I left it like that when I went in. Thought it’d be easier to get out, like, if I ’ad to leave in a ’urry. Whoever left it like that did it a-purpose.”
This was indeed news, in view of Johnson’s emphatic statement that he had shut the flat door behind him when he left.
“How soon was it after the servant left that you went in?” asked Fenn.
“Not more than a minute or two. As soon as I see ’im turn the corner.”
“Did you meet any one on the stairs or in the flat?”
“Not at first, I didn’t. There was some one in with the old gentleman—a lady. I ’eard ’er talkin’ when I went in. That’s ’ow I knew the settin’-room door was open. I ’adn’t counted on that, and, somehow, when the time came, I couldn’t bring myself to go past it. That’s ’ow I come to wait in the hall.”
“Could you hear what was being said in the study?”
“Not clear, I couldn’t. But the lady was in a proper temper. I remember ’er sayin’ somethin’ about ’avin’ born’ with ’im for years and not standin’ it any longer; but I was too took up with what I was to do next to notice much of what was bein’ said. I’d counted on the old gentleman bein’ shut in the study, and I’d meant to get through to ’is bedroom, quiet-like. It was there they said ’e kep’ ’is money. In a bedroom at the back.”
“Who put you wise to all this?” demanded Fenn sharply.
“No one special. It was common talk in the bar, and if I ’adn’t been so ’ard put to it for a bite to eat, I shouldn’t ’ave taken no notice of it. I’m not keepin’ nothin’ back, mister. It was common talk, that’s all.”
He was obviously speaking the truth, and Fenn motioned to him to go on with his story.
“When I see the door was open and ’eard ’em talkin’, I give it up and settled to ’ook it. Then, just as I was slippin’ out, quiet, I see the waterproof ’angin’ on the stand, and I pinched it. Honest, I never touched nothin’ else, mister.”
“Did you shut the door after you?”
Stephens shook his head.
“I didn’t dare, on account of the noise. I’d just pulled it to behind me when I ’eard a step on the stair, and not wantin’ to be seen, like, I goes up the passage a bit and gets behind a bit o’ wall.”
Fenn nodded. He had noticed the angle in the wall of the passage himself and knew that a man could stand there out of sight of the front door. He had to admit that the story rang true enough, so far. But there was more to come.<
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Stephens bent forward, his face almost touching Fenn’s in his earnestness.
“There was some one went into the flat while I was standin’ there, mister,” he said. “I don’t know who it was and I never see ’im, me not darin’ to put me ’ead round the corner of the wall. I don’t know whether it was man, woman, or child, but I’ll take my solemn oath some one come up those stairs and went through that door, and, what’s more, ’e shut it behind ’im. ’E was mighty quiet about it, but I ’eard the latch click.”
“Did you see him come out?”
“Not me, mister! I wasn’t waitin’ for no one. As soon as I ’eard that door shut, I slipped out and got away as quick as I could. But there wasn’t no murder done while I was there, and I didn’t ’ave no ’and in it, and that’s gospel truth I’m tellin’ of yer.”
“What time did you leave the flat?”
For a moment Stephens looked baffled, then his face cleared.
“It was soon after half-past six by the church clock when I went in, and I wasn’t there not more than five minutes all told. And I do know as it was a quarter to seven when I started to walk to Waterloo. I looked at the clock, so did the chap as was with me.”
Fenn was conscious of a sick feeling of disappointment. From the beginning he had been fighting against the conviction that the man spoke the truth, and now, if he could bring a witness to the fact that he was clear of Romney Chambers by six-forty-five, at which time, according to Webb, Sir Adam was still alive, suspicion was bound once more to revert to Jill.
“Can you produce this man who was with you?” he asked.
To his surprise Stephens shook his head helplessly.
“That’s what the inspector asked me,” he said. “And I’ve been trying to remember the chap’s name ever since. You see, it was this way. I run into ’im just outside the door of those fiats. ’E was a chap as I’d served on board ship with in nineteen sixteen and I ’adn’t seen ’im since. It was ’im as reckernized me, or I shouldn’t ’ave known ‘im. When ’e see me ’e sung out and called me by name. ‘Scotty,’ ’e used to be known as, ’im bein’ from the North. Come from Leith, I remember. But what ’is real name was, I don’t know. And what I do know is, ’e ain’t in London. I see ’im off myself by the seven-forty-somethin’ for Southampton. Walked to Waterloo, we did.”
“Let’s get this straight,” said Fenn. “You met this man, Scotty, directly after leaving Romney Chambers and walked with him to Waterloo Station. Is that right?”
“That’s right, mister, only we didn’t start at once, like. I suppose we must ’ave stood there talkin’ for ten minutes or so. ’E asked me what I’d been doin’ since I got me discharge, and ’e said, was I up against it, goin’ by the look of me clothes and that, I suppose. I told ’im ’ow things was, and ’e passed me a quid for old time’s sake and said as ‘e’d look me up next time ’e was in London. I told ’im the branch of the Legion as would always find me, me knowin’ Mr. Whitaker, the secretary. Then I walked with ’im to the station, and we ’ad a drink in the bar there, and I went with ’im to ’is train, and that’s the last I see of ’im.”
The statement was read over to him and he signed it.
“You’ve no idea whether the person you heard go into the flat was a man or a woman?” asked Fenn, as he prepared to leave.
The ghost of a grin came over the man’s haggard face.
“You’d be hard put to it to tell one from the other nowadays,” he said. “And the skirts don’t make a noise now like they used to. And whoever it was was steppin’ light, remember. All I do know is that some one went through that door uncommon nippy and shut it behind ’im.”
And Fenn was left to make the best he could of that.
CHAPTER VI
If Fenn had not been worried by the uncomfortable conviction that Stephens was speaking the truth he would have been a happy man next morning, secure in the knowledge that his fears for Jill Braid’s safety were definitely laid to rest and his credit at Headquarters enhanced by the capture of Sir Adam Braid’s murderer.
He had his man paraded in the yard of the police station in the presence of Miss Webb, Ling, Ling’s friend Bell, Isaac Samuel the pawnbroker’s assistant, and two other witnesses the newsagent had managed to gather in early that morning. As regards numbers these made an imposing enough list.
With the exception of Miss Webb, who twittered and hesitated, and finally declared that, though Stephens looked exactly like the man she had seen hanging about the flats, she could not go so far as to say he was the man, the witnesses picked him out unhesitatingly from among a dozen others gathered at random.
Bell, who was in Ling’s shop when the newsagent noticed Stephens for the second time, remembered the incident perfectly, and had taken a good look at the man when Ling pointed him out to him. As hall porter of one of the blocks of mansions in Shorncliffe Street it was his custom to keep a sharp eye out for any suspicious-looking characters. He identified Stephens easily.
Ling’s two witnesses, Frederick Gibson, a chauffeur, who had seen Stephens on the evening of November the sixth, while waiting at the corner of Shorncliffe Street for the arrival of his young lady, and the young lady herself, Mabel Parry, a shop assistant, were even more valuable as witnesses, for Gibson had not only noticed Stephens and pointed him out to Miss Parry, but they had both actually seen him enter the flats. They were definite as to the time, Miss Parry having been a few minutes late for her appointment and Gibson having chaffed her about it. They gave the time as six-thirty-four, which tallied with Stephens’ own account of his movements. Gibson happened to drop into Ling’s shop and speak of what he had seen, and Ling, with the common sense and intelligence Fenn had noticed in him at their first interview, had commandeered the services of both of them.
Samuel, the pawnbroker’s assistant, had no difficulty in identifying Stephens as the man who had pawned the waterproof. He had been too interested in the coat, owing to its resemblance to the one circularized by the police, not to take good stock of the man who brought it in.
On the whole, Fenn had as good a case as he could wish to take into court. Purely circumstantial evidence, of course, but it would take a clever counsel to knock a hole in it. On his own confession, Stephens had gone into the flat and stolen the waterproof, and Fenn could produce six unassailable witnesses to prove it. A cast-iron case, provided the hypothetical “Scotty” did not come forward; and, much as he would have liked to do so, Fenn could not quite bring himself to dismiss “Scotty” as negligible. In the course of his career he had learned to gauge pretty accurately the extent to which a man was perjuring himself, and Stephens belonged to a type which does not lie convincingly. Fenn had examined the statement the man had made when he was first charged, and it tallied exactly with the one he had himself taken later. And the station inspector, an experienced officer, was of the opinion that the man had not known of the murder until he was actually charged with it.
Fenn had a few words with the divisional surgeon, who happened to be on the premises, before leaving. He had his evidence cut and dried for the inquest. Braid had died as the result of a stab in the back of the neck, two and a half inches deep, which had severed the carotid artery. Sir Adam might have lived for a minute or so after the blow, but, given an old man with a heart that was none too strong, the chances were that death had been almost instantaneous. The surgeon would not commit himself as to the extent the assailant’s clothes would be likely to be stained with blood, but he went so far as to say that, if his movements had been swift enough, he might escape with smears on his hand and sleeve. He had seen the bath-towel which had been found in Sir Adam’s bedroom, and was of the opinion that the stains on it were those of human blood. There seemed little doubt that the murderer had wiped, not only his hands, but the knife on it, before leaving the flat.
“He left no other traces, I suppose?” asked the surgeon.
“None. He must have wiped his hands thoroughly before making his haul, unl
ess, of course, he’d already taken the things when Sir Adam came on him.”
“He was a pretty cool customer if he searched the bedroom after the murder. The servant might have come back at any moment.”
“It depends when he actually did commit the murder. Johnson was so regular in his habits that he could be counted on not to get back before seven, at the earliest. I’m inclined to place the actual murder sometime between six-fifty-five and seven-fifteen, or possibly between seven and seven-fifteen. Miss Braid, unless she is mistaken, heard people talking as late as seven. Does that fit in with the results of your examination?”
Fenn knew only too well that at any moment now he might be forced to discredit Jill’s evidence.
“Perfectly. Roughly speaking, I should say the old man had been dead about an hour when I saw him. Might have been more. It’s difficult to be precise. The inquest’s on Saturday, I hear.”
“Yes. We shall ask for an adjournment, I expect.”
The surgeon glared at him.
“Of course. Trust you fellows for that. That’s another half-day lost for me.”
“I thought you doctors liked that sort of thing,” returned Fenn innocently. “You do cut rather a fine figure, you know. Barring the judge, you’re the only person in court who can snub the prosecuting counsel with impunity.”
He slipped out just in time to avoid the surgeon’s sulphurous rejoinder.
He had not been back at the Yard ten minutes before a card was brought to him.
“Now we’re for it,” he groaned, for the name it bore was that of Daniel Whitaker, secretary to the branch of the British Legion to which Stephens belonged. Fenn remembered he had said that this man was a friend of his.
Mr. Whitaker proved to be a hollow-chested little man, with thin sandy hair and a white intelligent face. Fenn guessed rightly that he had been badly gassed in the war. He plunged straight into the business in hand.
“I hear one of my men is in trouble,” he said.