by Molly Thynne
Fenn nodded.
“I thought as much,” he said. “It’s a pity you can’t be a little more definite, though. You’ve no reason to think they’re not part of that payment, I suppose?”
“None,” was the man’s decisive answer. “As I told you, I just shoved the notes Johnson gave me into that there box, along of whatever other money I might have had in it. I can’t rightly say what there was in there already, what with people comin’ in and payin’ their bills and me changin’ cheques for customers. All I can say is that those notes got paid out with the rest, and there’s no reason why Miss Webb shouldn’t have got them, same as any one else.”
Fenn took a pencil from his pocket and jotted down a couple of numbers in his notebook.
“You might keep that handy,” he said, tearing out the leaf and handing it to Ling. “If any of the numbers between those two turn up, ring me up at the Yard and make a careful note of where they came from.”
Ling glanced at them and tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket.
“I’ll remember ’em,” he said. “I’ve got a good head for figures. But if you’re after Johnson, inspector, you can take it from me you’re on the wrong tack. Like as not, that money was part of his wages.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re right,” answered Fenn noncommittally. “I hear he’s married, by the way.”
Ling looked up quickly. Fenn had a feeling that he was going to volunteer information of some sort. If he had meant to, he evidently thought better of it.
“So I’m told,” he said. “He’s a chap as’ll be all the better for having a woman to look after him.”
Fenn was very thoughtful as he left the shop. His mind went back to his first interview with Johnson after the murder. He remembered the white, strained face, the restless eyes focusing themselves for a second on his in answer to a direct question and swerving the moment the effort of will was over. The man had been a bundle of jangled nerves; the extent of his collapse out of all proportion to the shock he had received. And yet his account of his actions had been clear and straightforward, and had been confirmed by too large a number of independent witnesses, to be anything but true.
Fenn was inclined to the opinion that Johnson had had no hand in the murder, but had seized his opportunity, during the confusion that followed, to rifle either the dispatch-box or the missing hat-box. Hence his obvious nervousness. That the hat-box had not left Johnson’s rooms, Fenn had reason to know, but he doubted if it had ever been there. The pity was that he had not discovered its traces directly after the murder. As it was, the man had had time and to spare in which to get rid of it.
So far as the notes were concerned, Fenn had ascertained from Sir Adam’s solicitor that the old man had been in the habit of paying his servant’s wages at the beginning of each month, and that, unless Johnson were lying, the last payment had been made on October the third, close on a month before the notes Fenn had succeeded in tracing had been issued to Sir Adam by his bank. Johnson had applied to the solicitor for money due to him after Sir Adam’s death and had been paid a month’s wages in lieu of notice, his explanation being that his master frequently let a week or more elapse before he remembered to pay him, and that, owing to his irritability, he had not liked to remind him that his wages had been due on November the first. There was, of course, the possibility that the man had actually been paid by Sir Adam at the beginning of November and had been guilty of a barefaced attempt to get the money twice over, but the solicitor had seen no reason to doubt his statement, and had paid him without questioning it.
Whichever way one looked at it, Johnson’s honesty seemed open to criticism, and Fenn decided that the sooner he tightened the strings round him the better.
CHAPTER XII
Jill Braid and Gilroy arrived at Brighton on the Sunday night, and it was not until Wednesday afternoon that they first caught sight of Johnson and his bride. The weather had turned bitterly cold, short, fitful spells of pallid sunshine alternating with rain and east wind, with the result that the piers were deserted in favour of cinemas and teashops, and even the most hardened of the trippers showed themselves as little as possible out of doors. Gilroy’s scheme for running accidentally into Johnson seemed doomed to failure.
On the other hand, the bracing air and absence of anxiety were working wonders with Jill. Her old buoyancy had returned, and with it the pluck that had enabled her to face life so gallantly after her father’s death, when it had been a question of finding a market for the only work she could do, half-trained though she was, or throwing herself on the charity of her grandfather. She had chosen the former, and only she knew how hard the struggle had been. And then, just when it seemed as if she had won the respect and affection of the cantankerous old man who could do so much for her if he wished, the ground had been cut away under her feet, and she found herself on the brink of an abyss blacker and more terrible than anything she had ever been called upon to contemplate.
But now, as her nerves responded to the keen air and the stimulus of Gilroy’s company, she regained her fighting spirit. Some one, she told herself, had killed her grandfather, and if Johnson, as Gilroy and even Fenn seemed to think, held the clue to the riddle, she was prepared to take a hand in the solving of it. She set herself to the task of running Johnson to earth with a fervour that tickled Gilroy’s sense of humour, though, as she reminded him, he had been the first to suggest the possibility of achieving something in that direction.
Oblivious of the vile weather, she dragged him, unresisting, from one second-rate place of entertainment to another; and he, who had worked so hard and played so little in the course of his life, found himself growing lighter-hearted and more easily amused each day.
It was not, however, in any of these places that they eventually ran their quarry to earth. Taking advantage of one of the infrequent spells of good weather, they had decided to brave the bitter wind and go on the pier.
Gilroy, who was talking to Jill and had not observed the couple who were immediately ahead of him, was suddenly aware of her hand on his arm.
“Look!” she whispered.
He followed her gaze and saw Johnson in the act of paying for his ticket. And he was paying with a Treasury note!
Gilroy fumbled wildly in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. As he counted them he thanked his stars that in the last shop he had been to he had been given his change in silver.
He stepped into the place Johnson had just vacated.
“I suppose you couldn’t give me a pound note for this?” he asked, placing his accumulation of half-crowns and shillings on the ledge.
The ticket clerk, who was in the act of putting away Johnson’s note, laid it down while he counted the money.
“Right,” he said, handing the note over to Gilroy, who pocketed it, paid for the tickets with the last odd shillings left to him, and passed through with Jill on to the pier.
They could see the Johnsons battling with the wind ahead of them, and knew that there was no fear of losing them now.
“Do you know the numbers of those notes Fenn is after?” he asked.
Jill shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter, though,” she said. “We can send him the number of this one. Note collecting seems to be our forte at present.”
Gilroy took her arm and drew her to one side.
“My suggestion is that we take it gently and meet them on their way back. We don’t want it to look as if we’d followed them. If we run into them near the gate they’ll take it for granted that we’ve only just arrived.”
In theory the scheme was excellent, but by the time the other couple had lingered at the end of the pier and strolled slowly back towards the entrance, Gilroy and Jill were blue with cold.
“If we get anything more exciting than influenza out of this I shall be surprised,” murmured Gilroy. “Come on. Now’s our moment!”
They started briskly forward in the path of the approaching couple. At his first clear view of them
Gilroy decided that Johnson’s honeymoon was not being a complete success. He was stalking ahead of his bride, his hands buried in his pockets and his chin tucked into the turned-up collar of his coat. She followed, her high heels slipping precariously on the damp boards, her skirts whipped about her knees by the wind. Together they presented as perfect an illustration of sullen discomfort as it was possible to imagine.
The sight of Jill Braid did not serve to lighten Johnson’s gloom, though he greeted her civilly enough. If he was surprised to see Gilroy he did not show it. They exchanged the usual commonplaces about the weather, Gilroy wondering when he was going to introduce the girl who stood close behind him, her chin held high, her dark eyes glowing more dangerously each minute. It was not until she lost patience and emphasized her presence by a sharp dig in his ribs that her husband deigned to notice her.
After that the two groups fell naturally apart, Jill trying to hold Mrs. Johnson in conversation with a view to giving Gilroy a free hand with Johnson. Gilroy, conscious of the short time at his disposal, was debating how best to approach the topic he had in mind, when Johnson surprised him by introducing it himself.
“Have they found out anything about Sir Adam’s death, sir?” he asked. “I saw in the papers that they’d made an arrest, but they don’t seem to be giving much away.”
“It’s a mysterious business altogether,” answered Gilroy. “You’ve got no ideas yourself, I suppose, on the subject?”
He saw the man’s eyes flicker.
“Me? None. Sir Adam hadn’t no enemies that I know of, and if it was a thief, it might have been any one.”
“I was discussing it with Miss Braid just now,” went on Gilroy. “She was telling me that her grandfather sometimes had quite a lot of money in the flat. You’ve no idea where he kept it, I suppose?”
“The only money I ever saw, he took out of the dispatch-box in his bedroom. The chap as did the job got into that all right. If there was any other place, I’ve never seen him go to it.”
“What do you make of this story of Mr. Webb’s about some woman he overheard quarrelling with Sir Adam?”
Johnson’s answer was emphatic.
“I don’t make nothing of it, sir. Mr. Webb’s a very pleasant gentleman, but he’s on the imaginative side, if you understand me. I wouldn’t bank too much on anything he might say, if I was the police.”
“All the same, there seems no doubt that there must have been some one talking to Sir Adam, and according to Miss Braid, who heard them laughing, it was some one he knew pretty well.”
A dull flush crept over the man’s white face.
“There wasn’t anybody there when me and Mr. Webb went in,” he stated, with a hint of defiance in his voice. “I’ll answer for that. It’s what I’ve told the police all along, and I stick to it. It’s no good them coming bothering me about it.”
Gilroy was conscious that Jill’s conversation with Mrs. Johnson was hanging fire. She caught his eye, and intimated clearly that she wished to go.
He led the way to the entrance, stepping naturally into Jill’s place at the other woman’s side.
“I hope you’ve found some nice lodgings,” he said, smiling at her. She was a fine, handsome woman, and so tall that her dark eyes were on a level with his.
“Not so dusty,” she answered, “though they’re a bit out of the way. If I’d known as Vinor Street was right up by the station I’d never have let Ned take the rooms. Not as it matters much; we shall be back in London soon enough, thanks be to goodness!”
Gilroy made a mental note of the road she had mentioned. It tallied with the address Johnson’s landlady had given him. Evidently he was making no secret of his whereabouts.
They parted at the entrance, Johnson obviously relieved to see the last of them, his wife with a provocative flash of her fine dark eyes in Gilroy’s direction.
“How did you get on?” he asked Jill, as soon as they were out of hearing. “The address we got is all right, which is something. That chap’s as nervous as a cat at the mere mention of the murder. I’d give something—”
He broke off in amazement. Jill had stopped short and was clutching his arm, her eyes blazing with excitement.
“There’s something wrong, frightfully wrong, about Johnson,” she stammered. “And I don’t know whether we ought to go to the police here or try to get hold of Mr. Fenn. That woman, Mrs. Johnson, was wearing my grandfather’s ring!” Gilroy could only stare at her.
“Are you sure?” he said at last.
“Of course I’m sure! It’s unmistakable! It’s exactly like the one I’m wearing now, which grandfather had copied for my father. I don’t suppose there are any others quite like them in the world.”
“Did she see yours?” asked Gilroy swiftly.
“No. I thought of that, but, thank goodness, I’d got my glove on. But Johnson may have guessed I’d seen it. In which case, even if we go straight to the police here, we shall be too late. What are we to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gilroy slowly. “But I fancy we’d better try to get on to Fenn. As you say, if Johnson has spotted the fact that you’ve seen it, he’ll have taken steps by this time in any case, and we shan’t gain anything by dragging in the local police. Did she see you looking at it, do you think?”
“I’m sure she’s got nothing to do with it,” said Jill decisively. “I don’t like her much and I think Johnson’s caught a Tartar, but she never tried to hide the ring; in fact, I think she’s proud of it. She was quite frank about their plans, too. I’m sure she’s got nothing to hide.”
“Is there a telephone at your place?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll see you back to your lodgings, then, and after that I’ll go straight to the nearest public call office and try to get Fenn. He’ll have to take back one or two things he’s said lately about our little efforts.”
“Did you ever come across a more unsatisfactory honeymoon couple?” asked Jill, as they hurried in the direction of her lodgings. “I’ve never seen two people look more fed up in my life!”
“Some people never know their luck,” agreed Gilroy, with a glance in her direction. Then, receiving no encouragement, he went on hurriedly, “Johnson looks sick, physically and morally. Did you get anything out of her, by the way?”
“Nothing, except that she seems to have a pretty poor opinion of her husband! She told me that they were starting a tobacconist’s business, and that she intended to serve in the shop and see that the money they took went into the till. She volunteered the information that ‘Ned’ was soft about money and that he’d have to give up betting, or else there’s going to be trouble. She’s evidently going to make him toe the line! I may be wrong, but I got an impression that he’d wriggled rather at the last moment, and that, in the end, she’d pinned him down in spite of himself.”
“She may know something and have used her knowledge to bring him to heel.”
“It’s possible,” said Jill doubtfully. “But one thing I’m certain of, she wasn’t nervous to-day and she wasn’t hiding anything. Johnson was anxious to get away all the time he was talking to you, but she was quite prepared to be friendly.”
Gilroy lingered on the steps of the boarding-house, making plans for the evening, while she waited for the door to open. He arranged to call for her after dinner and take her to a cinema. By that time he would know what steps Fenn proposed to take as regards the ring.
“There’s a gentleman called to see you, Miss Braid,” said the maid, when she opened the door. “He’s in the sitting-room.”
“To see me?” exclaimed Jill in astonishment. “I don’t know a soul in Brighton!”
“He asked for you by name, and when I told him you were out he said he’d wait,” volunteered the maid.
Jill and Gilroy stared at each other. The same idea had struck both of them. Johnson!
“I think I’ll just stand by, if you don’t mind,” said Gilroy significantly.
Jill nodded
and led the way into the sitting-room.
Planted firmly on a small plush sofa in the centre of the room, his bowler hat on his knee, his eyes fixed contemplatively on a flourishing aspidistra, was Chief Detective-Inspector Fenn!
CHAPTER XIII
Gilroy’s triumph was short-lived. When Fenn compared Johnson’s note with the numbers on his list it did not tally.
Fenn handed it back to him with a smile.
“Sorry, Robert,” he said. “It was a smart bit of work and you deserved better luck, but I’m afraid this one’s innocent. Not that it makes much difference, the ring’s good enough for us. We can hold him on that.”
“Are you going to arrest him?” asked Jill.
Fenn did not answer immediately. He sat staring into the crown of his hard hat, lost apparently in meditation.
“Look here,” he said at last, turning suddenly to Jill. “Supposing he did take the ring in a moment of temptation, do you wish to prosecute? It will rest either with you or Sir Adam’s solicitors, and I don’t know that we need drag them into it.”
She hesitated. She had never disliked Johnson, and, to the best of her knowledge, he had served her grandfather well.
“Unless you think he was concerned in the murder—” she began uncertainly.
Fenn smiled at her.
“If I knew that, it would be all over but the shouting,” he said. “To be honest with you, I’m keeping an open mind about it, and that’s all I can say. There’s been something on the man’s mind all this time, and if he did do a bit of pilfering, we know now what it is that’s been worrying him. If he’s fundamentally honest, as he very likely may be, the fact that he was tempted and fell would be enough to account for his manner. If it wasn’t for one thing, I’d be inclined to acquit him of any hand in the murder.”
He paused.