The Case of Sir Adam Braid: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  Gilroy’s interest had evaporated. He had drawn his own conclusions as to Mrs. Johnson at Brighton, and Mrs. Cotswold’s gossip about her mother only served to confirm them.

  “I don’t know nothin’ and I’m not sayin’ nothin’,” she went on, flicking aimlessly at Gilroy’s writing-table with a duster. “Of course, she always let on as she was married to that there Ling, but, as I say, I never saw ’er marriage lines and I never met any one else as did.”

  Gilroy’s cup clattered on the saucer.

  “What’s that about Ling?” he asked sharply.

  “It was Ling as she went off with. Didn’t you know that, sir? That’s what I was sayin’. With ’er first ’ardly cold in ’is grave—”

  Gilroy broke in ruthlessly on the recital.

  “Look here,” he demanded. “Who was Mrs. Johnson before she married?”

  Mrs. Cotswold stared at him in hurt surprise.

  “Ruby Ling,” she answered. “’Aven’t I just said so? I expect you wasn’t listenin’, sir.”

  Gilroy hastened to conciliate her. He did not want the fount of eloquence to dry now.

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t. So Johnson’s wife is Ling’s daughter, is she? I never realized that.”

  “And the livin’ spit of ’er mother! Mr. Ling’s a sober, ’ard-workin’ feller, and always ’as been. Ruby’s mother ’ad more luck than she deserved when she got ’im. A good father ’e’s been to Ruby by all accounts—”

  She prattled on, but Gilroy once more was not listening. He was trying to fit in the information he had just received with the facts as he knew them. When he remembered the spate of gossip he had endured from Mrs. Cotswold on the subject of Johnson and his marriage, he could have kicked himself for not having inquired into the parentage of the man’s wife.

  He made a dash for the nearest public telephone, got on to Fenn, and, within half an hour, was in his office at the Yard.

  “Ling’s daughter, is she?” was Fenn’s comment. “This is full of possibilities.”

  “It certainly opens out quite a new field of conjecture,” said Gilroy. “Johnson owed Ling money, and goodness knows what hold the man may have had over him and how he used it. If Johnson left that door unlatched for somebody, it may very well have been for Ling.”

  “And it’s Ling who has been issuing those notes, and Ling’s daughter who was wearing Sir Adam’s ring. It looks as if things were beginning to drift in a definite direction at last.”

  “Johnson got spliced uncommonly quickly after Sir Adam’s death, and, from all accounts, it doesn’t look as if it had been a love match. It certainly didn’t seem like one when we ran into them at Brighton.”

  Fenn leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

  “And the fellow’s got as good an alibi as Johnson’s if, as we have every reason to suppose, Sir Adam was alive at seven o’clock,” he said gloomily.

  “Unless Mrs. Smith was right and the cry she heard really did come from Sir Adam. The murder may have been committed then.”

  “With all the evidence we’ve got to the contrary, I should doubt it. Besides which, nothing that comes from the Smiths can be looked upon as very reliable. Their account of their own movements that night is incredibly contradictory,” Fenn reminded him.

  “All the same, I’m very much inclined to call on Mrs. Smith and see just whether I can move her as to the time at which she says she heard the noise. Have you any objection to my having a shot in that direction?”

  “None whatever. You may get more out of them than I did. They won’t tell more than they’re obliged to the police.”

  Gilroy, with Smith’s information weighing heavily on his mind, could endorse this only too heartily. He decided to lead the conversation as far as possible away from the Smiths before revealing what he had learned.

  “Johnson’s wife’s got a pretty poor family record behind her on her mother’s side, if Mrs. Cotswold’s to be believed,” he said, blandly trailing his red herring. “She spoke well of Ling, but she hadn’t a good word to say of the woman.”

  Fenn nodded.

  “Mrs. Johnson’s a fine strapping girl, and quite capable of inflicting the wound that killed the old man, if that’s what you’re leading up to,” he admitted. “But, honestly, I find it a little difficult to fit her in with the known facts. Of course, it’s not impossible that she may have had an interview with Sir Adam which ended in a quarrel between them; but an uneducated woman, especially one of Mrs. Johnson’s type, gives herself away pretty thoroughly when she loses her temper, and you must remember that Webb, though he couldn’t distinguish the words that were being said, listened for some time to the voices, and his impression certainly was that the woman belonged to Sir Adam’s own class. I’m pretty sure that, at the bottom of his heart, he believes she was Miss Braid, but being a kind-hearted little chap, he isn’t going to say so. If it had been Mrs. Johnson he heard, he wouldn’t be under any such delusion.”

  “All the same, if Johnson did leave the door open for any one, why not for the woman he was going to marry?”

  “I’m not saying she’s beyond suspicion, but I admit that I share Jill Braid’s conviction that she knows nothing of Johnson’s peccadilloes. She was genuinely taken aback when she realized that he was in trouble, though she rallied pretty quickly and showed extraordinary presence of mind over that business of the ring. She’s got a head on her shoulders all right.”

  Gilroy nodded absent-mindedly. The moment had come in which to pass on what he had learned from Smith, and he was searching in vain for an opening.

  “There’s one bit of information I’ve stumbled on,” he said, conscious that he was making an uncommonly awkward plunge, “that I think you ought to have. The trouble is that I’ve promised not to give away the name of my informant.”

  Fenn turned on him sharply, and, for a moment, Gilroy thought he was going to give trouble. Then he caught the twinkle in Fenn’s eyes.

  “I couldn’t help it,” he said hastily. “I couldn’t possibly have got the information in any other way, and it’s worth having.”

  “I’ve been expecting something of the sort,” was Fenn’s comment. “That’s where you blessed amateurs have the pull over us. We can’t lend ourselves to that sort of thing. At least, not officially. If you’re confident that you’re justified in withholding the name of your informant, I suppose I must let it go at that. Fire away.”

  “It appears that there was an extra person in the flats on the night of the murder. He was seen both to go in and come out.”

  Fenn did not waste his time in questioning the information.

  “What time did he leave?” he asked sharply.

  “That’s exactly what my informant does not know,” admitted Gilroy. “Whoever saw him was standing too far off to identify him, and can only say that two men went in and two left, sometime between half past six and just before seven. There’s no clue as to which of them left first.”

  “But they both left before seven? That doesn’t help Jill Braid much, if Sir Adam were alive at seven. If her evidence didn’t fit in so well with the accounts of Webb and Stephens I should be inclined to think she was the victim of her own imagination. As it is, the thing’s a deadlock. Get on to the Smiths, if you like, and see what you can do. They’re shy birds, but, from what you’ve told me just now, it looks as if you might get round them.”

  Gilroy cast a quick glance at his face, but it was inscrutable, and, for the life of him, he could not make out whether or not there was a hidden meaning in his last words. They were ambiguous enough, however, to cause him to heave a sigh of relief when he found himself on the other side of the door of Fenn’s office.

  He went straight back to Romney Chambers, intent on rounding up Mrs. Smith. But there was no answer to his ring, and the flat seemed to be deserted. Looking out of his own sitting-room window, half an hour later, he was both amused and annoyed to see a careworn individual, wielding a big reflex ca
mera with a top-heavy lens, assiduously photographing various aspects of Romney Chambers. He had press photographer written all over him, and Gilroy retired hastily from view, conscious that, however much the Webbs would no doubt enjoy this sort of thing, he might have considerable difficulty in dodging the reporters, once it became known that he had been called in to view Sir Adam’s body.

  The photographer was a conscientious worker. On leaving Romney Chambers he did not put his camera away, but strolled down the street, pausing at the corner, outside Ling’s shop, to take a last photograph. This done, he turned into the shop, bought a packet of cigarettes, and adroitly led the conversation to the recent murder.

  Ling was ready enough to tell what little he knew.

  “We can use that, you know,” said the pressman appreciatively, as he put away his note-book. “An independent opinion like yours is always interesting, and we always try to get as much local colour as we can. Now, if I might have a snap? Standing in front of the shop, by the doorway here, would be best. I’ll send you a copy.”

  For a moment Ling looked dubious. Now that the interview was over he was no doubt wondering, as many before him have wondered, how much he had been led into saying, and how foolish it would look in print. In the end, however, he yielded to the blandishments of the photographer, and consented to step out on to the pavement and pose in front of the camera.

  “It’s a good many years since I’ve been took,” he said, with a chuckle. “It’ll be a funny thing if I see my own face lyin’ on the counter one mornin’!”

  “You’re lucky in your weather,” was the photographer’s cheerful comment. “If it had been like yesterday, I should have been hard put to it to get you at all. Now, one more, if you don’t mind, from the side here. That’s right. Much obliged to you. You’ll hear from us in a day or two. Good-morning.”

  He packed his camera into the case and went on his way.

  Three days later Ling received two excellent and highly glazed portraits of himself. There was nothing on the envelope which contained them to indicate which of the big daily papers had so highly honoured him, and he searched in vain through his stock, day after day, for the illustrated article he had understood was shortly to appear, and eventually concluded that it was being kept back until the case was actually in the courts.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The morning after Ling’s interview with the press photographer found Fenn in the train on his way to Southampton. A message had come through, the night before, to say that Macnab had recovered consciousness and was in a condition to make a statement, and the detective was determined to lose no time in hearing what he had to say.

  For the first time since the death of Sir Adam Braid he was feeling hopeful, for he shared Gilroy’s conviction that, once they knew the motive of the attempt to put Macnab out of the way, they would find themselves on the track of the murderer.

  It was a relief to hear, when he reached the hospital, that the man was improving steadily and was, mentally, none the worse for his adventure. Fenn realized how much he had been counting on this interview, and wondered ruefully whether he had not been allowing his imagination to get the better of his judgment.

  He found the ship’s steward lying at the end of a long ward, a screen on one side of the bed to keep the light from the window from his eyes. His face was almost as white as the bandage round his head, and he looked weak and shaken, but his eyes were clear and reassuringly intelligent.

  Fenn began by taking his account of his and Stephens’ movements on the night of the murder. As he had expected, it tallied, word for word, with the statement Stephens had made. He admitted that Stephens was carrying a waterproof over his arm and that he seemed anxious to move on all the time they were chatting together. This was what had led to his suggestion that Stephens should walk with him to the station and talk over old times on the way. He denied emphatically that Stephens’ hands or clothes were stained in any way, and declared that he could not have missed seeing it if they had been.

  “You take my word for it, inspector,” he concluded, “he ain’t got nothing to do with the murder. I didn’t serve all that time with him for nothing. He’d never bring himself to do a thing like that.”

  “If the murder was committed at the time we think,” answered Fenn, “you’ve cleared him all right. Now we’ll get on to your business. Any idea who hit you?”

  “None!” was the prompt answer. “But I’d like to get my hands on him! I was on my way back to my lodgings, as innocent as you please, never suspecting nothing, when he got me, plump on the back of my head, and I didn’t know nothing more till I came to myself in this bed. I might have had a glass more than usual, but I wasn’t what you could call the worse. If I hadn’t been so unsuspecting they’d never have got me like that.”

  “You hadn’t had words with any one that evening?”

  “Not a soul! I reckon whoever did it was out for what he could get. And he must have been disturbed, because he didn’t get nothing.”

  “So you’re none the worse except for a crack on the head. Ever come across a man called Goldstein?”

  Macnab stared at him.

  “Never heard the name before. Anyway, I’m not partial to Jews, and I take it he’d be one.”

  “He is,” answered Fenn.

  He produced an envelope from his pocket and took out a photograph.

  “Ever seen that face before?” he asked.

  Macnab examined it with obvious distaste.

  “No, and I don’t want to,” he said decisively.

  Fenn retrieved it.

  “That settles Goldstein, then,” he said. “Though the chances are that he wouldn’t have appeared himself, even if he had had anything to do with it. Now, what about these?”

  He produced the two photographs of Ling that the pseudo press photographer had taken the day before. As he placed them on the bed he watched his man narrowly. He had sent his photographer down to Ling’s shop as a matter of routine, and at the last moment, just as he was leaving his office, had slipped the prints into his pocket on a sudden impulse.

  Macnab was staring at them in obvious perplexity.

  “I’ve seen that chap somewhere,” he said slowly, “but, for the life of me, I couldn’t say where. Not so long ago, either.”

  The photographer had included the doorway of Ling’s shop and a row of news-boards, propped up against the wall. The sight of them seemed to stimulate Macnab’s memory.

  “I know that place,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s that paper shop close to where I met old Stephens. And that’s the chap that keeps it. Don’t know what he calls himself, though.”

  “How did you come to see him?” asked Fenn.

  “I dropped into the shop to buy a paper and just passed the time of day with him. That’s all I know about him. Seemed a pleasant enough chap, from what I remember.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Shortly before I met Stephens. Five minutes or so, I should say.”

  Fenn consulted his notebook.

  “According to Stephens, he met you about six-thirty-eight. Say you spoke to this man in his shop at six-thirty-three, would that be right?”

  “Near enough, I should imagine.”

  “That tallies with his own account of his movements. He says he left his shop at about six-thirty-five. That would be after you’d gone?”

  “That’s right. I didn’t say more than a couple of words to him. Then I strolled out and down the street. If I hadn’t stopped to light my pipe I should have missed Stephens. And if he says he left his shop, he’s speaking the truth. He passed me and I said ‘good-evening’ to him, just before I ran into Stephens. Stephens must have seen him too. Didn’t he say nothing?”

  “He never mentioned him, but there’s no reason why he should have noticed him. I don’t suppose he’d have made any impression on you if it wasn’t for the fact that you’d just seen him in the shop.” Macnab looked sceptical.

  “I should think he’d
have remembered him. Why, he must have passed him on the stairs.”

  “What stairs?”

  The question came like a pistol shot.

  “Why, the staircase of the place Stephens came out of. I saw him go through the door and up them.”

  Fenn drew his chair closer.

  “Let’s get this right,” he said. “You stopped to light your pipe and this man passed you. What happened then? Try to be as exact as possible.”

  “I recognized him and wished him ‘good-evening,’ as I said. So far as I can remember he didn’t answer. Then he turned into the building, the same one Stephens came out of. That’s the last I saw of him.”

  “How long was it before Stephens came out?”

  “Not more than a minute, I should say, but it’s some time ago, you must remember. I wouldn’t like to be exact. But it couldn’t have been long. That’s why I thought Stephens would have met him on the stairs.”

  Fenn leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Several things were becoming clear to him.

  “He didn’t see him,” he said quietly. “But he heard him go into the flat. This clears the air with a vengeance. You say you spoke to him. That means that he knew he’d been recognized. No wonder he tried to stop your mouth!”

  “You don’t mean that it was that chap from the paper shop as bashed me on the head?” demanded Macnab, in aggrieved bewilderment.

  “Unless I’m very far out the actual bashing was arranged, if not carried out, by the unpleasing gentleman whose portrait I showed you just now,” answered Fenn. “But there’s no doubt now who his employer was. You’ve helped me to the best day’s work I’ve done for a long time, and I’m grateful. I’m afraid we may have to ask you to come up to London as soon as you’re on your feet again, though.”

  “I’ll come, if I can do old Stephens a good turn,” Macnab assured him. “We’ve been through some funny times together, him and me, and I ain’t forgotten it.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Fenn got back to London. He dropped into the Yard to see to one or two important arrangements, then went straight to Gilroy’s flat. He found him at home.