‘He told the police without any hesitation,’ she answered in a low voice, ‘that he knew Mr. Mace possessed a revolver because he had borrowed it a few weeks back.’
Paul pursed his lips. ‘What did he want to borrow a weapon for?’ he asked.
‘It was usual for them to walk home together after the bus had been garaged for the night,’ she explained, ‘but one evening a few weeks ago Mr. Mace had arranged to call on some friends at Keston. Dick was left to walk home alone with the day’s takings, and as they were a considerable amount, and the walk is a lonely one, he suggested borrowing Mr. Mace’s revolver.’
‘What did he do with it after that evening?’ asked Paul.
‘He placed it in a drawer in his bedroom and forgot all about it.’
‘Do Lonsdale and Mace live together then?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘And did Lonsdale tell the police just what you have repeated to me?’
‘Yes. You see, when I heard of Dick’s trouble, I went to a friend of mine who is a solicitor and got him to go down and see Dick. I wasn’t present at the interview, but he told me just what had occurred — that’s how I know so much of the detail.’
Paul walked over to the window and back again, his brows knit. ‘On the face of things it doesn’t look too good, Miss Denver,’ he said candidly. ‘The police were amply justified in arresting both Lonsdale and Mace. It would’ve been quite possible for Lonsdale to have descended from the top of the bus at Homesdale Road, shot Hooper, thrown away the revolver and restarted the bus immediately after.’
‘You’re not very helpful, are you?’ she said, and her voice was a little disappointed.
‘You mustn’t misunderstand me. I’m merely looking at it from the point of view of the police. I must get their point of view before I can attempt to find a loophole in the evidence. At the present moment I can’t see one — though that is not quite truthful. I can see one, but it’s a very unlikely one.’
‘Then you’ll take up the case?’ said Sally eagerly.
‘I’ll tell you that after I’ve been to Bromley and seen Lonsdale himself. I should like to hear the story from his own lips.’
‘May I go with you?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I think it would be better if I went alone. But if you’ll give me a telephone number that will find you, I’ll ring you up after I’ve seen him and tell you whether I’m prepared to take the case up or not.’
She gave him a West Central number which Bob noted down. ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ she asked.
‘Not at the moment,’ he answered
‘Then I won’t detain you any longer.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr. Rivington, and thank you.’
3
Three White Hairs
Detective-Inspector Robin thrust his hands into his pockets, rested his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece, and yawned. ‘If only we could find the motive, Maitland,’ he grunted, ‘the thing would be as clear as daylight. I don’t think there’s any doubt this fellow Lonsdale shot the old man, and I’m willing to bet that Mace was in on it too.’
Divisional-Inspector Maitland looked across his desk at the Scotland Yard man, and nodded slowly. ‘That’s my opinion too,’ he agreed, ‘and as for motive, I’ve been thinking it over. Probably this man Hooper had a lot of money on him. He may have taken out his wallet during the journey, and Lonsdale, seeing that he was carrying a wad, decided to get hold of it.’
‘That’s possible. Yes, that’s very possible.’ The little fat man with the round face and twinkling eyes scratched his chin slowly. They called him Round Robin at the Yard, for obvious reasons. He had opened his mouth to say something when there came a tap on the door leading from Mainland’s office to the charge-room. In answer to the inspector’s gruff invitation, a constable appeared.
‘There’s a Mr. Rivington in the charge-room asking for you, sir,’ he announced.
Round Robin looked up quickly. ‘Rivington!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now what the dickens is he doing here?’
‘Shall I ask him in?’ said Maitland, and at the other’s nod he gave order to the constable and the man withdrew.
‘Now,’ muttered Mr. Robin thoughtfully, ‘I wonder if he’s come on this bus murder business.’
‘Why should he?’ said the divisional inspector. ‘Doesn’t strike me as being the sort of case that would interest him.’
‘You never know with Paul Rivington,’ said Mr. Robin, shaking his round head. ‘He has a trick of appearing on the simplest cases and turning everything inside out.’ He stopped abruptly as Paul entered. If Detective-Inspector Robin had been surprised at the presence of Paul, Paul was no less surprised at seeing Mr. Robin.
‘Hello!’ he greeted. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I didn’t expect to see you either,’ replied the other. ‘How are you, Rivington?’ He extended a chubby hand, which Paul gripped. ‘What are you doing down here, eh?’
‘I’m seeking information.’
‘About this bus crime?’
Rivington nodded.
‘Why? How do you come into it?’
Paul pulled a chair towards him and sat down. ‘If you’ll listen for two minutes I’ll tell you,’ he said.
They listened for two and a half minutes. At the expiration of that time, Paul had given them a résumé of his interview with Sally Denver.
‘If you’re going to set out to prove that Lonsdale didn’t commit this crime,’ commented Mr. Robin when Paul had finished, ‘you’re only wasting your time, Rivington. I was only saying to Maitland before you arrived that the thing is as clear as daylight.’
‘There are several shades of daylight,’ answered Paul. ‘Anyway, I haven’t made up my mind one way or the other. I’m waiting until after I’ve seen Lonsdale, and that’s what I’ve come for. I want to know if it’s possible for me to have a word with him.’
Mr. Robin looked across at the divisional inspector. ‘Any objection?’ he asked gently.
Maitland shook his head. ‘Not me,’ he replied. ‘If Mr. Rivington wants to see Lonsdale, he can see him, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That’s very nice of you, Maitland,’ said Paul. ‘I promise you I’m not going to butt in and try and snatch the kudos from the official force. Whatever I find out I shall place at your disposal.’
‘D’you want to see Lonsdale now?’ said the chubby little inspector.
‘Yes, I think so,’ answered Paul. He rose to his feet as Mr. Robin crossed to the door.
‘We’re keeping him here until after the inquest,’ he explained as he led the way along a stone-flagged passage to the cell.
‘When is the inquest?’ enquired Rivington.
‘Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. Are you coming?’
‘I may,’ said Paul. ‘As I say, it all depends on my interview with Lonsdale.’
‘Well, you won’t have long to wait for that,’ said Mr. Robin. Stopping outside an iron door, he inserted a key in the lock, turned it, and threw the door open.
Dick Lonsdale was sitting on the truckle bed, and he looked up quickly as they entered. In spite of his unshaven appearance and haggard face, Paul’s first impression was that he was extremely good-looking. There was nothing of the conventional criminal in the wide-set blue eyes, crisp fair hair, and thin, firm mouth.
‘I’ve brought a visitor to see you, Lonsdale,’ said the inspector. ‘This is Mr. Paul Rivington. He’s apparently interested in your case and he wants to ask you a few questions.’
Dick rose to his feet. ‘How do you do, Mr. Rivington?’ he said simply. ‘I suppose Sally has been to see you. She said she was going to.’
‘She came this morning,’ said Paul, shaking the other’s outstretched hand, ‘and I’ve come along to hear the story from your own lips.’
‘I can only tell you what I’ve already told the police,’ said Dick, ‘and if you want me to, I’ll go over it again with pleasure.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’d be glad if you would.’
Once more seating himself on the end of the truckle bed, Dick told his story. He told it so clearly that Paul got a very vivid picture of his movements on the fatal part of the journey. What’s more, at the end of the recital he had a conviction that the man was speaking truth.
‘That seems very clear,’ he said when the other had finished speaking. ‘Now, will you answer a question or two?’ Dick nodded. ‘Have you any idea who either of your passengers was?’
‘No, they were both strangers to me.’
‘Can you describe them?’
Dick gave a detailed description of the woman who had so interested him, but his word picture of the outside passenger was less complete. ‘I really didn’t take so much notice of him,’ he explained, ‘but he was an old man, somewhere near sixty I should say. His hair was quite white.’
‘Pity you didn’t pay more attention to him,’ said Paul disappointedly. ‘Now, what about Hooper? You’re positive you never saw him before he joined the bus at Charing Cross?’
‘Positive,’ declared Dick. ‘He’d certainly never travelled on the Blue Moon before. It’s a hobby of mine to take particular notice of the passengers, and since I have a very good memory I should remember if he had.’
Paul Rivington pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Tell me about this revolver,’ he went on presently. ‘Did anyone besides Mace and yourself know that you’d borrowed it?’
‘Mrs Mace knew,’ replied Dick. ‘That’s Harry’s mother. She was present when we made the arrangement.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘No, nobody else.’
‘When did you last see the weapon?’
Dick considered a moment before replying. ‘I think it was about a week ago,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t be quite certain. Anyway, it was several days. I put it in a drawer in bedroom in which I kept some old letters and papers, and I remember when I last saw it I made a mental note to return it to Harry.’
‘And you can’t suggest how it got to the place where it was found?’
‘No. I can’t understand it at all, unless somebody took it from the drawer.’
Mr. Robin, who was watching Paul keenly, could see nothing in his expression to give him a clue to his thoughts; and when, after a few more questions, Rivington took his leave of the haggard-faced man on the pallet bed, he was still in doubt as to what conclusion the man had come to. He put his curiosity into words as they walked along the stone corridor on the way back to Maitland’s office.
‘Well, what do you think of it, Rivington?’ he asked.
‘I’m puzzled,’ answered Paul.
‘You mean, I suppose,’ grunted Mr. Robin, ‘that you don’t think he’s guilty?’
‘I mean just that. If he’s guilty, he’s the biggest fool that was ever born, and he doesn’t give me that impression at all.’
‘Hm,’ grunted the little inspector. ‘I suppose you’re going to rip things wide open, as usual. And I suppose you want the entire police force to help you?’
A smile twisted the corners of Paul’s lips. ‘No, not all of it,’ he answered. ‘I just want a little assistance from you and Maitland.’
‘Well, you can have it, you know that,’ said Round Robin. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I want you to let me have a look at that bus.’
‘Well, that’s easy enough,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll take you along now, if you like.’
‘I should like,’ said Rivington.
The way to Menion’s Garage took them over the part of the route the Blue Moon had travelled on the night of the murder, and Paul slowed down as he reached the top of Mason’s Hill. From there to the Barley Mow he drove at a snail’s pace, making mental notes of the distances and trying to visualise Lonsdale’s description of all that had happened on that stretch of road two nights ago.
At the Barley Mow he put on speed and soon arrived at Merrion’s Garage, where after a swift glance at the outside of the Blue Moon he climbed onto the conductor’s platform and made his way down the gangway inside.
‘On which seat was Hooper sitting when he was killed?’ he asked.
Mr. Robin pointed it out and Paul made a careful inspection of the immediate vicinity of the seat. He found nothing to reward his search, but on the back of the seat directly behind the fatal one he saw something which attracted his attention and caused him to stoop down quickly.
‘What have you found, Rivington?’ asked the inspector, suddenly interested.
Without answering, Paul detached two tiny objects that were adhering to the cushion and held them up between his fingers.
Mr. Robin stared at them. ‘Why, they’re hairs!’ he exclaimed disgustedly. ‘I thought you’d found something useful.’
‘I’m not at all sure that these are not going to prove very useful,’ answered Paul, and to the other’s surprise, he raised the hairs to his nose and sniffed them.
‘What in the world are you doing that for?’ asked the inspector.
There was a slight gleam in Paul’s eyes as he looked across at his companion. ‘Try it yourself,’ he said, holding out his hand.
With his red face the picture of bewilderment, Mr. Robin took the white hairs carefully and held them to his nose.
‘Smell anything?’ asked Paul.
The inspector wrinkled his forehead. ‘Yes, a peculiar aromatic smell,’ he answered. ‘It’s very faint, though. What is it?’
‘Spirit gum,’ answered Paul shortly. ‘These hairs never grew naturally. They either came from a wig or a false moustache, and there’s still a slight trace of the gum clinging to them.’
The rosy face of Mr. Robin changed, and into his twinkling eyes crept an expression of excitement. ‘By Jove, Paul, you mean —’
‘I mean,’ interrupted Paul, ‘that somebody has been inside this bus recently who was either wearing a wig or a false moustache. Keep those hairs carefully, Robin. I think they’re going to be very important indeed.’
He turned abruptly, and leaving the interior of the bus began to climb the iron stairway to the top deck. Mr. Robin followed him laboriously, and found him bending over the seat on which the outside male passenger had sat on the night of the murder. For a long time Paul examined it carefully, and presently in the fold of the mackintosh cover he found what he was seeking: another of the white hairs. Comparing it with the two the inspector already had in his possession, he discovered that in colour and texture they were identical.
‘I think that’s fairly conclusive,’ he remarked. ‘I shall be very much surprised if the old man who was eccentric enough to travel outside on such a night was an old man at all. The white hair was obviously a disguise.’
Mr. Robin was staring at him, his small mouth wide open, his whole appearance suggesting an overgrown Kewpie doll. ‘You know what this means,’ he began.
‘I know what it suggests.’ broke in Paul. ‘It suggests that the man who occupied this outside seat was the murderer of William Hooper.’
4
The Man with Red Hair
The first thing Paul did when he got back to the police station was ring up Sally Denver and to tell her that he had decided to take on the case.
‘Well,’ he said to Maitland when he had hung up, ‘let’s see what facts we’ve got in our possession.’ He ticked them off, as he spoke, on his fingers. ‘Hooper, for some reason we don’t know, travelled on the Blue Moon from Charing Cross to the Barley Mow. At some point near Homesdale Road he was shot dead by a person unknown. On the same bus was a man, obviously disguised, and who may or may not have left the bus at the top of Mason’s Hill. Those are our facts.’
‘Don’t forget the revolver with which the crime was committed,’ said Round Robin.
‘I haven’t,’ answered Paul. ‘Until you hear from the firearms expert, that is not a fact. There’s no proof yet that that revolver fired the fatal shot.’
‘I’m pretty certain that it did though,’ remarked
the inspector. ‘However, all this talk won’t get us anywhere.’
‘I quite agree with you,’ said Rivington. ‘Therefore, if you’ll give me Mrs. Mace’s address, I’ll be getting along there.’
Maitland found the address and gave it to him. After promising that he would look in again during the afternoon, Paul left the police station, and, getting into his car, set off to find Magpie Hall Lane.
After some little difficulty he succeeded in finding it and the house where Mrs. Mace lived. It was a tiny place, spotlessly clean. Mrs. Mace, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, escorted him into the microscopic sitting-room when he had explained the reason for his call.
‘I’m sure it’s all a dreadful business,’ she said as she insisted on his occupying a particularly uncomfortable chair, ‘and of course the police have made a mistake. Dick wouldn’t kill a fly. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea, sir? I’m just making one myself.’
‘No thank you, Mrs. Mace,’ said Paul. ‘All I want is to have a little chat with you.’
She sat down opposite him and smoothed her apron with her hands. ‘I’m sure I’ll do all I can to help you,’ she said. ‘What was it you wanted to know?’
‘My main reason for coming to see you was to ask if you have had any strangers call lately — during the last week, for instance?’
She looked at him with a rather surprised expression. ‘I can’t think of any —’ began Mrs. Mace slowly, and then she stopped with a sudden exclamation. ‘Why, yes I can though!’ she cried. ‘There was the man with red hair. I forgot about him.’
‘Red hair!’ exclaimed Paul, and his eyes sparkled. ‘Come now, Mrs. Mace, this sounds interesting. Tell me all about this man.’
‘Well, sir, perhaps you noticed that the house next door is empty?’ Paul nodded and she went on: ‘The people moved out a fortnight ago. These houses are council houses, and they don’t stay empty long because there’s generally a queue of people waiting to occupy them. You can understand then that I wasn’t surprised when a man came here shortly after the Todmores moved out.’
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