A Blunt Instrument ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  But when Constable Mather, a freckle-faced and serious young man, came in, he said regretfully that when he passed up Barnsley Street he had seen nothing of any man in evening dress.

  "There you are!" said Hemingway, exasperated. "What did I tell you? Just making up a good tale, that's all the silly little fool was doing."

  Hannasyde addressed the young policeman. "When you passed, did you happen to notice whether the light was on in the basement of No. 43?"

  "That's Mrs. Prim's," said Mather. "If you'll excuse me, I'll have to think a minute, sir."

  The Sergeant regarded him with bird-like curiosity, and said: "Either you know or you don't."

  The grave grey eyes came to rest on his face. "Not till I've walked up the road, sir. I'm doing that now - if you wouldn't mind waiting a minute. I find I can think back if I do that."

  "Carry on," said Hannasyde, quelling the sceptical Sergeant with a frown.

  There was a pause, during with PC Mather apparently projected his spirit back to Barnsley Street. At last he said with decision: "Yes, sir, it was. No. 39 - that's Mrs. Dugdale's - had a window open, but she's got bars up, so it didn't matter. Then the next house, which is No. 41, was all dark, and after that there was one with the basement light on. That was No. 43."

  "I see," Hannasyde said. "You feel sure of that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You didn't hear any sounds coming from that basement room, or notice anything wrong?"

  "No, sir. The blind was drawn down, and I didn't hear anything."

  "If the light was on, the murderer may have been there," said the Sergeant. "In fact, it looks to me as though he was there, having done in Carpenter, waiting till you'd passed to make his escape."

  The Constable looked distressed. "Yes, sir. I'm sure I'm very sorry."

  "Not your fault," said Hannasyde, and dismissed him.

  "Nice case, isn't it?" said the Sergeant. "Now we only want to find that the taxi-driver didn't happen to notice what his face looked like, and we'll be sitting pretty."

  He was not destined to be disappointed. Some time later, when he and Hannasyde were back at Scotland Yard, a message was received to the effect that one Henry Smith, taxi-driver, while waiting in the rank in Glassmere Road, had been engaged by a gentleman in evening dress, and directed to drive to the Piccadilly Hotel. Whether his fare had actually entered the hotel, he was unable to say. He had not inspected the gentleman closely, but retained an impression of a man of medium height and build. He did not recall the man's face particularly; he was just an ordinary, nice-looking chap.

  "Well, at any rate it can't have been Budd," remarked the Sergeant. "No one in their senses would call him nice-looking. We've drawn a blank on the finger-prints, Chief. Whoever did this job wore gloves."

  "And no trace of the weapon," Hannasyde said, frowning. "A heavy, blunt instrument, wielded with considerable strength. In fact, exactly the same instrument that was used to kill Fletcher."

  "It's nice to think we didn't overlook it at Greystones, at all events," said the Sergeant cheerfully. "The murderer must have walked off with it under his hat. Have you got anything out of Carpenter's papers?"

  "Nothing that looks like being of much assistance. There's this."

  The Sergeant took a limp, folded letter from him, and spread it open. A glance at the signature made him exclaim: "Angela! Well, well, well!"

  The letter, which was undated, was not a long one. Written in a round, unformed hand, it began abruptly:

  Charlie -By the time you get this I won't be at our old address anymore. I don't think you really care, but I wouldn't want to do it without telling you, because in spite of everything, and the wrong you have fallen into, dear Charlie, and the evil companions, and everything I don't ever forget the old times. But I know now it wasn't the real thing, because I have found the real thing, and I see everything differently. I shan't tell you his name, because I know you, Charlie, you are without truth and would make trouble if you could. Don't think it is because of the disgrace you have got into that I am leaving you, because I know now that love is as strong as death, and if it had been the real thing I would have stuck to you, because many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. They used to teach us that that bit and all the rest was about the Church, but I know better now."

  The Sergeant read this missive, remarking as he gave it back to Hannasyde: "She had got it bad, hadn't she? Fancy anyone feeling that way about the late Ernest! Looks as though she must have written it when Charlie was in jug. What you might call corroborative evidence only. She probably did do herself in for love of the late Ernest, and Charlie was the sort of dirty little squirt who'd put the black on anyone if he saw his way to it. And where are we now? Do you take it that Carpenter saw the late Ernest murdered?"

  "If he did, it raises one or two questions," replied Hannasyde. "Did the murderer not only see Carpenter, but also recognise him? Or did Carpenter recognise the murderer, and attempt to blackmail him?"

  "Look here, Chief, are we casting North for the part, or are we assuming the murderer is an entirely new and unsuspected character, whom we haven't even laid eyes on?"

  "How do I know? I admit, nearly everything points to North. Not quite, though. In favour of that theory, we have North's unexpected return to England, his unexplained movements on the night of the murder, Mrs. North's peculiar behaviour, and the presence of a man in Barnsley Street tonight who corresponds vaguely with his description. Against it, I think we ought to set North's character first. I have his sister-in-law's word for it that he's no fool, and I believe it. But what could be more blundering and foolish than to murder a second man in precisely the same way as he murdered the first?"

  "I don't know so much," interrupted the Sergeant. "Come to think of it, it's worrying us a bit, isn't it? If he's the smart Alec you say he is, it might strike him as a pretty fruity idea to do in his victims as clumsily as he could. Moreover, it's not as dumb as it looks. He doesn't leave his finger-prints behind him, and he's got some trick of concealing his weapon which a conjurer couldn't better."

  "Yes, I've thought of that," admitted Hannasyde. "But there are other points. Where and when did a man in his position come into contact with Carpenter?"

  "At Greystones, on the night of the late Ernest's murder," replied the Sergeant promptly. "Look, Super! Supposing you forget Mrs. North's second instalment for the moment. Take it that Carpenter was hiding in the garden all the time she was with the late Ernest -'

  "What the devil would he be hiding for, if he had come to blackmail Fletcher?"

  The Sergeant thought for a moment. "How about his having hidden for exactly the same reason Mrs. North did? He may have been walking up the path when he heard her open the gate behind him -'

  "Impossible. If that were so, he must have met Budd, and he didn't."

  "All right," said the Sergeant, in long-suffering accents. "We'll take it he was there all the time. Came in while Budd was with the late Ernest. Instead of hopping out of his hiding-place the instant Budd left, he waited a moment to be sure the coast was clear. Then Mrs. North came into the garden, and he continued to lie low. When she left the late Ernest, North had just arrived. She hid, just as she told us, recognised her husband, and bunked - No, she didn't, though! The postman saw her leaving by the front entrance just after 10.00! Wait a bit! Yes, I've got it. North killed the late Ernest somewhere between 9.45 and 10.00, and left by way of the garden-gate, watched by Mrs. North, and our friend Charlie. Not knowing of Charlie's presence, Mrs. North slipped into the study, just to see what kind of fun and games had been going on, found the late Ernest, got into a panic, and bunked through the house. Carpenter, meanwhile, made his exit by way of the garden-gate - time 10.02 - was seen by Ichabod, and bolted in the same direction that North had taken. He came in sight of North, followed him -'

  "Followed him where?"

  "Back to town, I suppose. He must have tracked him to his flat to have found out who he was. After that
he tried his blackmailing game on North, and North naturally had to eliminate him. How do you like that?"

  "Not much," said Hannasyde.

  "Well, if it comes to that I don't fancy it a lot myself," confessed the Sergeant. "The trouble is that whichever way you look at it that North dame's story gums up the works. We've got to believe she hid behind the bush at some time or other, because we found her footprints. Similarly we've got to believe she went back into the house, because of the postman's evidence."

  "Exactly," said Hannasyde. "And, according to your latest theory, she went back into the study when Fletcher was dead. Now, you've seen the photographs. Do you seriously think that a rather highly strung woman, seeing what she must have seen from the window, deliberately went into the study?"

  "You never know what women will do when they want something badly, Chief. She wanted her IOUs."

  "That won't do, Hemingway. She could not have opened the desk drawer without moving Fletcher's body. She must have known that before she set foot in the room. We can take it she didn't go in to try and render first aid, because if she had she'd have called for help, not stolen out of the house without saying a word to anyone."

  "She might have done that if she knew the murderer was her husband."

  "If she knew that I can't think she'd have gone into the study at all. Unless she and he are working together, which hypothesis is against all the evidence we have, I don't believe she saw the murder done."

  "Wait, Super! I've got it!" the Sergeant said. "She couldn't see into the study from behind the bush, could she?"

  "No."

  "Right! North leaves at 10.02. He's the man Ichabod saw. Mrs. North, not knowing what's been happening, creeps up to the study window to see. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

  "So far," agreed Hannasyde. "Where's Carpenter? Still in ambush?"

  "That's right. Now, you say Mrs. North wouldn't have gone through the study. She had to!"

  " Why?"

  "Ichabod!" said the Sergeant triumphantly. "By the time she was all set to do a disappearing act down the path, he must have reached the gate. She wouldn't risk hiding in the garden with the late Ernest lying dead in the study. She had to get clear somehow, and her best chance was through the house."

  Hannasyde looked up with an arrested expression in his eyes, "Good Lord, Skipper, you may be right! But what happened to Carpenter?"

  "If he was hidden behind one of the bushes by the path he could have sneaked back to the gate as soon as Ichabod passed him on his way to the study. Must have done."

  "Yes, possibly, but bearing in mind the fact that the other man left the garden at 10.02, and made off as fast as he could walk towards the Arden Road, and was seen by Glass to turn the corner into it, how did Carpenter manage (a) to guess in which direction he'd gone, and (b) to catch up with him?"

  "There you have me," owned the Sergeant. "Either he had a lot of luck, or it didn't happen."

  "Then how do you account for his having known who North was? The Norths have been kept out of the papers so far." He paused, tapping his pencil lightly on the desk. "We've missed something, Hemingway," he said at last.

  "If we have, I'd like to know what it is!" replied the Sergeant.

  "We've got to know what it is. I may find it out from North, of course, but somehow I don't think I shall. He's more likely to stand pat, and say nothing."

  "He'll have to account for his movements last night, and the night of the late Ernest's murder."

  "Yes. But if he gives me an alibi he can't substantiate and I can't check up on, I shall be no better off than I am now. Unless I can trace the connection between him and Carpenter, or prove he was in Barnsley Street last night, I haven't any sort of case against him. Unless I can rattle his wife into talking - or him, through her," he added.

  "I suppose it's just possible North may have had a meal at that restaurant friend Charlie was working at," suggested the Sergeant doubtfully.

  "I should think it in the highest degree unlikely," replied Hannasyde. "North's a man of considerable means, and if you can tell me what should take him to a fly-blown restaurant off the Fulham Road I shall be grateful to you. You were with me when I visited the place: can you picture North there?"

  "No, but no more I can at any of those joints in Soho," said the Sergeant. "But it's a safe bet he's dined at most of those."

  "Soho's different." Hannasyde collected the scattered documents before him, and put them away in his desk. "Time we both went home, Skipper. There's nothing more to be done till we've seen North. I propose to pay him a visit first thing in the morning - before he's had time to leave the house, in fact. I'll leave you to look after this end of the business. No need for you to attend the inquest. See what you can dig out of Carpenter's past history. I'll take Glass along with me to the Norths', just in case I need a man."

  "He'll brighten things up for you, anyway," remarked the Sergeant. "I'm sorry I shan't be there to hear him give his evidence at the inquest. I bet it's a good turn."

  Superintendent Hannasyde reached Marley at halfpast eight on the following morning, but he was not the first visitor to the Chestnuts. At twenty minutes to nine, as Miss Drew sat down to a solitary breakfast, a slender figure in disreputable grey flannel trousers, a leather patched tweed coat, and a flowing tie, was ushered into the room by the slightly affronted butler.

  "Hullo!" said Sally. "What do you want?"

  "Breakfast. At least, I've come to see if you've got anything better than we have. If you have, I shall stay. If not, not. Kedgeree at home. On this morning of all mornings!"

  "Are you going to the inquest?" asked Sally, watching Neville inspect the contents of the dishes on the hotplate.

  "No, darling, but I'm sure you are. Herrings, and kidneys and bacon, and a ham as well! You do do yourselves proud. I shall start at the beginning and go on to the end. Do you mind? Something rather nauseating in the sight of persons eating hearty breakfasts, don't you think?"

  "I am what is known as a good trencher-woman," replied Sally. "Roll, or toast? And do you want tea or coffee, or would you like a nice cup of chocolate to go with all that food?"

  "How idly rich!" sighed Neville, drifting back to the table."Just coffee, darling."

  "You're one of the idle rich yourself now," Sally reminded him. "Rich enough to buy yourself a decent suit, and to have your hair cut as well."

  "I think I shall get married," said Neville meditatively.

  "Get married?" exclaimed Sally. "Why?"

  "Aunt says I need someone to look after me."

  "You need someone to furbish you up," replied Sally, "but as for looking after you, I've a shrewd notion that in your backboneless way, Mr. Neville Fletcher, you have the whole art of managing your own life weighed up."

  He looked up from his plate with his shy, slow smile. "Art of living. No management. Is Helen a witness?"

  She was momentarily at a loss. "Oh, the inquest! No, she hasn't been subpoenaed so far. Which means, of course, that the police are going to ask for an adjournment."

  "I expect she's glad," said Neville. "But it's a great disappointment to me. One of life's mysteries still unsolved. Which story would she have told?"

  "I don't know, but I wish to God she'd tell the true story to John, and be done with it. You've no idea of the atmosphere of cabal and mystery we live in. I have to think before I speak every time I wish to make an observation."

  "That must come hard on you," said Neville. "Where are they, by the way?"

  "In bed, I should think. John didn't get in till very late last night, and Helen hardly ever appears till after breakfast. I suppose Miss Fletcher's going to the inquest?"

  "Then you suppose wrong, sweetheart."

  "Really? Very sensible of her, but I made sure she'd insist on going."

  "I expect she would if she happened to know it was being held today," he agreed.

  She regarded him curiously. "Do you mean you've managed to keep it from her?"

  "No difficulty,"
he answered. "Entrancingly womanly woman, my aunt. Believes what the male tells her."

  "But the papers! Doesn't she read them?"

  "Oh yes! Front and middle page of The Times. All cheaper rags confiscated by adroit nephew, and put to ignoble uses."

  "I hand it to you, Neville," said Sally bluntly. "You've been a brick to Miss Fletcher."

  He gave an anguished sound. "I haven't! I wouldn't know how! You shan't tack any of your revolting labels on to me!"

  At that moment Helen came into the room. Her eyes looked a little heavy, as though from lack of sleep, and the start she gave on seeing Neville betrayed the frayed state of her nerves. "Oh! You!" she gasped.

  "I never know the answer to that one," remarked Neville. "I expect it's similarly dramatic, but I can't be dramatic at breakfast. Do sit down!"

  "What are you doing here?" Helen asked.

  "Eating," replied Neville. "I wish you hadn't come down. I can see you're going to disturb the holy calm which should accompany the first meal of the day."

  "Well, it's my house, isn't it?" said Helen indignantly.

  Sally, who had risen, and walked over to the sidetable, came back with a cup and saucer, which she handed to her sister. "You look pretty rotten," she said. "Why did you get up?"

  "I can't rest!" Helen said with suppressed vehemence.

  "Night starvation," sighed Neville.

  Helen cast an exasperated glance at him, but before she could retort, the butler came into the room, and said austerely: "I beg your pardon, madam, but Superintendent Hannasyde has called, and wishes to see the master. I have informed him that Mr. North is not yet down. Would you have me wake the master, or shall I request the Superintendent to wait?"

  "The Superintendent?" she said numbly. "Yes. Yes, you must tell the master, of course. Show the Superintendent into the library. I'll come."

  "What for?" asked Sally, when the butler had withdrawn. "He didn't ask for you."

  "It doesn't matter. I must see him. I must find out what he wants. Oh dear, if only I could think!"