by Peter Main
Even the Chief Inspector, the least perturbable of men, began to look rather worried.
“All right, John,” he said soothingly. “Tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can help you.”
The Professor calmed down enough to explain that what he wanted was to meet a chap who would be able to tell him all about the robberies committed during the last forty-eight hours. He refused to give the Chief Inspector any reason for this sudden desire on his part, but, after a certain amount of arguing, he managed, as he always does, to get his own way. He was collected by a constable and escorted from the Chief Inspector’s room.
I was left in the Chief Inspector’s room rather like a piece of baggage in a cloak-room, left to be collected at some later date, as yet unspecified. I filled in the time by trying to read a shockingly bad history of the Royal Society. I regretted the sixteen shillings I had spent on the purchase.
The Professor was away for a considerable length of time. When he reappeared his face was covered with happiness like sunshine on a field. He beamed at the Chief Inspector as if he really loved him, and I came in for some share of the benevolence. Having a very suspicious nature, which I was not born with but which developed through contact with the old man, I wondered what mischief he had been up to this time. My only consolation was that there was not much mischief for the Professor to find in the precincts of Scotland Yard itself, unless, of course, he had persuaded someone to show him the Black Museum and had filled his pockets with trophies. His pockets are always bulged to such an extent that no one would notice if they were rather further distended.
“Hullo, Reggie,” he said cheerfully. “I bin doin’ yer work for ye, ye lazy dog. I told ’ee this mornin’ that I smelt very old fish in that story ye got from Grimble an’ the Morgan girl. Well, kinda turnin’ the matter over in me mind I sort of came to the conclusion that that story o’ theirs was designed wi’ some kinda ulterior motive, presumably to cover up some business which they didn’t want to be discovered. Ye see,” he looked earnestly at the Chief Inspector, “I got the scientific mind, an’ I wanted to see what kinda causes there could be for inventin’ a story that I thought was certain to be false. So, puttin’ me brains to work—ye should try it sometime, Reggie, it keeps ’em in order an’ does ’em no harm—I came back wi’ the idea that their story was a kinda alibi an’ that maybe they’d bin doin’ somethin’ that might ha’ got them into trouble wi’ the police.”
He beamed happily round the room. He radiated satisfaction like a sunray lamp radiates ultra-violet.
“Well, havin’ got this far in me ideas, I says to meself that maybe what they’d bin doin’ would ha’ appeared in the papers. So, be God, I sends young Max here to go an’ get ’em for me an’ I starts readin’ me way right though ’em. Incidentally, ha’ ye ever tried readin’ right through three papers, eh? Well, I’d advise ye not to. Yer brain gets fuddled wi’ the most unadulterated tosh. After I’d bin readin’ for a long time, an’ had got through two o’ the papers—ha’ ye ever noticed how things are always in the last drawer or bottom paper o’ the file?—as I was sayin’, I got through two papers and there, in the third o’ ’em, I found this.”
He opened his hand and the tiny slip of newsprint fell out on to the Chief Inspector’s desk. It was rather crumpled. The Chief Inspector flattened it out and I bent over beside him to read it.
It merely stated that Mr. Arthur Cameron, taxi-driver, had been held up and robbed, near Marble Arch, by a young man and a girl. The young man carried a revolver.
“See,” the Professor crowed, “what ye’d told me about Grimble sort of suggested to me that he wouldn’t be goin’ in for anythin’ original in the way o’ crime. He hasn’t got the brains. There’s bin plenty o’ robberies o’ taxi-drivers in the papers, an’ what was more likely than that young Grimble thought that here was an easy way o’ turnin’ the dishonest penny. So I come’ along here an’ puts up wi’ the most shockin’ treatment ever offered to a man o’ my standin’ an’ brains. But, bein’ kinda strong willed, I puts up wi’ the insults an’ the rudeness an’ insists on gettin’ me own way. An’ what do I find? No. Don’t ye start tellin’ me what I find is quite obvious to anyone wi’ a bit o’ sense. O’ course it is. It was quite obvious to anyone wi’ a bit o’ sense that the thunderin’ world went rollin’ round the sun, that the said world was roughly round in shape an’ that there was a force which we now call gravity. Yes. It was obvious but no one kinda thought o’ it till it was pointed out. Well, as I was sayin’ when ye started to interrupt me, what I found was that the descriptions o’ the couple that held up the taxi-driver coincide, pretty well, wi’ Roland Grimble an’ Janet Morgan.”
I must say that this information was not altogether to my taste. When I thought of Janet Morgan I felt inclined to paraphrase John Keats and exclaim: “Thou wast not born for clink, immoral bird.” But there was no holding back the old man. He was on top of the world, as mad as a hatter, but full of his own importance as a detective.
The Chief Inspector was very interested. He chewed at least a quarter of an inch of the best cedar wood from the end of his pencil. Then he picked up the telephone and issued his orders, orders which, I knew, would be obeyed in the shortest possible time.
Briefly these orders were that he wanted Janet Morgan and Roland picked up and brought in as soon as was possible. His voice as he gave the order showed that he meant it.
Chapter 9
Arrests and Emotions
ROLAND GRIMBLE did not look any too happy when he was brought in by a uniformed police-constable, but he did not let his discomfort interfere with his insolence of bearing. He looked at the Chief Inspector with a glance that said as plainly as his mouth could have done that he resented the behaviour of the police. I would not have been surprised to have heard him announce that he meant to write to his Member of Parliament about the unwarrantable interference with the liberties of the subject. In fact, he might almost have stood as a symbol for the President and Council of the Association for the Preservation of Civil Liberties.
Peeling off a pair of pale lemon yellow gloves, of the sort which I believe are described as being dog’s skin, he glanced at the Professor and then at me. The look in his eyes conveyed perfectly his opinion that we were considerably less than the dust beneath his taxi wheels. If there had been a snake crawling across the floor of the room he would have doubted whether it would have noticed our backbones rubbing on its belly as it crawled over us. I must say that I don’t think either the old man or I took this hardly. Speaking for myself alone I can safely say that I would rather have been one of Mr. Roland Grimble’s enemies than his friends.
The Chief Inspector kept him waiting. He stood first with his weight on one leg and then on the other. He tried whistling between his teeth, but somehow the tune was not what it should have been. He lit a cheap Turkish cigarette and filled the room with scented fumes. I’d rather have had the old man’s pipe smoke, awful though that is.
Finally, the Chief Inspector broke the point of his pencil. He took up a knife and started to sharpen it. In the middle of this performance he looked up as though surprised to see Mr. Roland Grimble. That character did not seem to be quite so pleased with life as he had been
when he arrived in the office. He spoke, however, before the Chief Inspector.
“I understand, Inspector,” his tone was as lofty as the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, “that you wish to see me again? I really cannot understand why you should desire to interfere with my arrangements in this manner. I happened, as a matter of fact, to find it most inconvenient to have to come here at this time. And while I am on the subject I would like to complain about your fellow’s treatment of me. He did not ask whether it was convenient for me to come along at this time, and when I protested was positively rude.”
He turned a spitefully triumphant look at the police-constable who still stood behind him. The look did not seem to worry the constable.
Chief Inspector Bishop l
ooked at the point of his pencil and made up his mind that it was to his satisfaction.
“How interesting,” he said, “how very interesting. I will be obliged to dismiss my constables to suit your ideas of how they should behave?”
He looked quizzically at the constable and then at Grimble. The latter, however, did not appear to see the glance or decided to ignore it.
“However, Grimble,” the Chief Inspector went on, his voice hardening, “it may interest you to know that I do not require your presence here in connection with the death of your aunt.”
Grimble gave a start, and then looked at the Chief Inspector in a way that was designed to show that he wondered if the man had gone suddenly mad. He might just as well have tried writing rude remarks on lavatory walls for all the difference it made.
“No,” the Bishop continued softly. “I have other matters to discuss with you—notably attempted perjury and another matter that will wait for the moment.”
Grimble looked even more blank-faced. “What on earth do you mean?” he asked.
“Your statement this morning,” the voice was gentle but there was a hidden hardness behind it, “is a complete fabrication.”
“Nonsense,” Grimble tried his mouth at a laugh, but the resultant noise was curious and unamused. “Nonsense. My dear fellow, you don’t know what you are talking about. My statement this morning, which I may say was only made after considerable thought,” a rude noise from the Professor was ignored, “is a clear account of an incident such as it appeared to me and to Miss Morgan.”
“Eh?” said the Professor suddenly, with the air of one who suffered from deafness.
“I said,” said Grimble, “that my statement was a clear account of facts as they appeared to me.”
“Mmmhum,” mumbled the old man, “an’ they say that if ye look through the wrong end o’ a telescope ye’ll see as much as ye can through the other, only it’ll be too small to distinguish. Go tell yer story to the horse-marines, son, maybe they’ll swallow it, for no one else will.”
Grimble looked at him as if he was something particularly unpleasing which had been brought in by an untrained dog.
“Grimble,” the velvety covering had dropped from the Chief Inspector’s tone, “I would like a truthful account of what you were doing that night. An account without the embroidery which you have hitherto seen fit to use. Yes.”
He paused with the expression of one who waits for something. Grimble leaned over his desk and squashed out the end of his cigarette in the tray of pins. He did not seem to be unduly concerned.
“My dear man,” he looked at the Chief Inspector, “I have made my statement and it is the truth whether you like it or not.”
“If you tell a good lie stick to it,” that was Professor Stubbs. He leaned back in the large chair. From the expression on his face it was quite obvious that he was enjoying himself.
The telephone beside the Chief Inspector’s elbow shrilled briskly. He picked it up and whispered into the mouthpiece. Then he laid down the receiver and returned to the examination of the point of his pencil. Grimble’s uneasiness was becoming more apparent.
The door opened and another uniformed constable brought in Janet Morgan. I still thought she looked the tops. She was much less worried looking than Grimble, whom she inspected rather critically in the unkind light of the Chief Inspector’s room.
“Good morning, Miss Morgan,” the Chief Inspector was suave, “Mr. Grimble was just on the point of revealing to us why he concocted the story which you and he gave to my men earlier this morning.”
“Don’t you believe him, Janet,” Grimble broke in. “I’ve been insisting that our story is the truth. Isn’t it?”
Miss Morgan looked at the Chief Inspector and then at Grimble. She smiled happily and it made her look even nicer.
“Miss Morgan,” the Bishop was insistent, “you are a sensible young lady and don’t want to get into unnecessary trouble. Why did you pass on that untrue story?”
She said nothing, but just went on looking at the Chief Inspector. If I had been in his position I’d have begun to feel uncomfortable. Her eyes so obviously said that he was a great big man, ever so handsome, and that she was relying upon him to protect her.
The Chief Inspector, however, did not quail beneath the assault of the big guns of sex-appeal. I think he would have got his answer out of her in a few minutes; but the telephone rang once more before he had time to return to the attack.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, send him up.”
The door opened yet again to reveal a man in a large overcoat wearing a peaked cap. He looked straight at Grimble and then turned to examine Janet Morgan.
“Yus,” he was definite in his tone, “yus. That’s ’em.”
Janet Morgan looked at the man as if she had never seen him before in all her life. I noticed that Roland Grimble tried to follow her example, but he was not so successful.
“What on earth does this man mean?” she enquired haughtily. “I’ve never seen him before in all my life. What on earth is he talking about? He looks as if he drove a taxi.”
“Yus, miss,” said the cab-driver, “you and that fine young fellow-me-lad should know that I drove a taxi. You got fourteen pun’ off of me the other night.”
Miss Morgan continued to look at the taxi-driver as if he was stark staring mad. The driver did not change countenance but went on slowly chewing a quid of tobacco.
“That’s all right, Cameron,” the Chief Inspector was brisk “You can prepare a statement downstairs.” He addressed the constable, “And get him to sign it.”
He turned slowly round to face the pasty Roland Grimble.
“There you are,” he said, with the air of a magician who has just managed to produce a whole squad of rabbits from his hat, “there you are, Grimble. You and Miss Morgan held up that taxi-driver and might have got away with it if you had not decided that your personal spite against your cousin was worth venting.”
“The man’s mad,” Grimble made another attempt to come to the rescue of his self-possession. “I’ve never seen him before in my life, and I’m sure Janet hasn’t. Have you, Janet?”
She put up a show of looking thoughtful. She pursed her pretty brows and pouted through well-defined lips.
“I don’t know, Roland,” she said finally, “there is something about his face that is familiar. I wonder whether by any chance he could not be the man who drove us home the other night and who demanded three times the fare shown on the meter? That man, I think, would be sure to recall our faces. He was so abusive.”
She sighed as if the sorrows of the world were sitting on her shoulders. In spite of the fact that I knew she was a thoroughly bad little minx, I felt an almost overpowering desire to get up and comfort her. I realised that the old man was looking gleeful. He was, in fact, practically applauding Janet Morgan’s effort at a come-back.
“Sorry,” the Chief Inspector too was full of admiration, “I’m afraid that story won’t wash. Grimble.” He started at the brusque tone of voice. “You, accompanied by Miss Morgan, held up that taxi-driver at a quarter to three, and robbed him of fourteen pounds. That, as you know, is a serious offence and the penalty for robbery under arms is not light. I would now like a truthful statement from you as to what you saw on the night of your aunt’s murder?”
He stopped and poised his pencil above the block of paper before him. Grimble took out another of his cheap Turkish cigarettes. He offered one to Janet Morgan.
“You’d better take one,” he said as she gestured away the packet, “you won’t find fags in Holloway. Yes, Inspector. You’ve got it. It was all her idea. She thought that if we could throw suspicion on to Ben Carr the police would run after him and leave us alone. It was pure bad luck that someone had to choose that night to murder the old girl. If they’d chosen the night before or the night after we’d have been all right.” I noticed that as he spoke Janet Morgan grew slightly rigid. He looked at her without affection.
&nbs
p; “Oh, yes,” he went on, “I know I’m for it. But it was her idea that we should try and make use of taxis as a source of money. Old Aunt Lottie was an old skinflint and wouldn’t give a chap enough to get by on, and so when Janet suggested that we should rob a taxi I fell in with the idea. It was all her fault.”
She had been standing so still that I don’t think any of us realised that she was coiled like a watchspring. As Roland Grimble finished speaking she stepped across to him and raised her hand. We all moved, but we were none of us quick enough.
Grimble threw his hand to his face and stepped back. Blood seeped out between his fingers. The constable had hold of Janet Morgan and she did not struggle in his grasp but, without demur, surrendered the nail file she had clenched in her hand.
Grimble mopped at his face with his handkerchief. If ever I have seen hate in a man’s eyes I saw it in his then as he looked across at the girl.
“Oh,” she laughed, “it’s all right, Roland dear. That’ll scar you prettily and you’ll carry the mark with you to your grave. You asked for it.”
From just below the left eye to the turn of the chin the point of the nail file had left a deep groove down the side of Grimble’s face. He turned to the Professor.
“She’s wrong,” he said, and his voice trembled, “she’s wrong. It won’t leave a scar, will it?”
The old man hoisted himself heavily out of his chair and examined the cut.
“No,” he said deeply, “she’s as right as rain. You’ll have a scar like Haw-Haw to the end of your days. And I must say, son,” his voice was mild and benevolent, “that if ever a man asked for it you did.”
“Scarred, scarred,” Grimble’s voice sounded as though he could not take in the meaning of the words. “Do you mean I can do nothing about this?”
“Well,” the Professor was thoughtful, but he did not let his dislike of Grimble show in his voice, “I suppose a plastic surgeon could do somethin’ wi’ it, but where ye’re goin’, son, it’s not likely that they’ll gi’ ye much chance for cosmetic surgery.”