Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  “Well, gentlemen, thanks for your help. I think that’s enough for now. I shall be on the job again early tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll have got a little further by then. You’ll be available, of course, in case you’re wanted?”

  “You’ll find me at the Works or at my flat,” said Cross. “Or shall I stick around here tonight, Geoffrey? You look used up, and someone’s got to break the news to Mrs. Armstrong.”

  “Thanks, Arthur,” said Geoffrey. “I’d be glad. Good night, Inspector. Good night, Superintendent.”

  As the car moved off, he leaned heavily against the front door. “Oh, God!” he said. “What a mess!”

  “Better get to bed,” said Arthur.

  In the car, the Inspector was pulling viciously at his pipe. “It looks like being a tough case, Super,” he said. “A really nasty case. That young fellow is a bit too bright for my liking.”

  “Which young fellow?” asked the Superintendent.

  “The one with all the answers,” said James.

  CHAPTER VII

  Soon after ten o’clock the next morning, Inspector James walked into the Superintendent’s office and helped himself to a chair. He looked fresh and cheerful, as though in spite of everything he had had a thoroughly good night’s sleep.

  “Well, Super,” he began brightly, “what do you make of it all?”

  Superintendent Jackson smiled his heavy good-natured smile. He was a slow-moving commonsense man, wary in his replies. He had progressed in the Force chiefly by not making mistakes. He said: “I don’t make much of it, I’m afraid. It’s one of the most coldblooded, brutal murders I’ve ever been mixed up in, I know that – but there’s not much evidence pointing to anyone, is there?”

  “Not a jot, as far as I can see,” said James, lighting his pipe and settling himself for a nice comfy talk. “Somebody’s been very clever, and is probably hugging himself with delight at this very moment. What about the loose ends, Super? Did you get them cleared up?”

  “Mostly,” said Jackson. “I’ve been on the job myself since eight o’clock this morning. We called at the houses each side of Hollison’s and across the street. A stockbroker lives at number twelve – a man named Forsythe. He was having dinner at eight o’clock last night – he thinks he may have heard a knock next door, but he couldn’t be positive.”

  “Bright chap,” said James.

  “Yes,” said the Superintendent. “I asked him about other noises – cars and so on – but he wasn’t any use. At all the other houses I drew a complete blank. There was someone in all of them last night, but no one heard a sound that meant anything. An old lady at – number fourteen said she heard someone singing a hymn in the street about six, but I gather she’s nuts and converses with Mars in her spare time. Two people said they heard cars in the road during the evening, but they couldn’t remember when – and why should they? I’ve got a man going through the rest of the houses in the road, and also those that back on to Hollison’s in the doctor’s road, but it’s pretty hopeless. That fog muffled everything – thank heaven it’s cleared now.”

  “There’s plenty still hanging around the case,” said James. “Plenty! Anyway, I didn’t expect much from the neighbours. What about the young lady? Did you manage to squeeze anything out of her – any spicy bits of gossip about Hollison?”

  The Superintendent grinned. “I could’ve squeezed her, all right! She’s a peach, Inspector. If I hadn’t been a respectable family man ...”

  “Tut, tut,” said James. “I ought to have gone myself. Anyway, what did she have to say?”

  “Nothing. Except what we know. She’s a medical student at the South London – third year. Following in father’s footsteps, and very keen. She said she’d seen Hollison once or twice but never spoken to him. Her father thought a lot of him – pillar of society and all that. First thing she knew about last night’s affair was the phone going and a voice squeaking into the receiver that help was wanted. She hasn’t any doubt it was a man. Apparently he said – here, I’ve got it down somewhere – oh yes, he said, ‘There’s been a horrible accident at Charles Hollison’s house,’ and he gave the address, ‘quite near you,’ he said. Then he said, ‘For heaven’s sake send round right away.’ That’s as near as she could remember anyhow. She’s a good witness – very cool and sensible. She told the chap the doc wasn’t in, but that she’d look after it for him. It seems she thought it would be a fine opportunity to be in first on a real case and get some practice, so she shoved a coat on and a scarf over her head and rushed round on foot to the scene of the accident.”

  “Nasty moment for her when she pushed the door open,” said James. “I bet she wished she’d left it to daddy!”

  “Not a bit of it, Inspector. She said it was horrible, of course, and she felt a bit queer for a minute, but she got down and felt the old boy’s pulse, which wasn’t there, and she saw right away that there wasn’t anything could be done for him, which was true enough. So she didn’t bother to call another doctor – she just rang the station. I gather she said, ‘There’s a man been murdered at 12A Welford Avenue,’ which was so obvious it stuck out a mile. We sent Macpherson along right away and I followed in a second car. Mac examined the corpse. He said Hollison hadn’t been dead more than twenty minutes or so. Miss Whitworth said, ‘That’s right,’ and got a flea in her ear for her pains.”

  The Inspector grinned. “I’d like to meet that young woman some time. You don’t think she could have done it?”

  “What, her?” said the Superintendent. “Don’t be funny, Inspector. She’s only about five foot five, and Hollison was a big chap. If she’d lashed out at him, she’d have hit the back of his neck, not his head. In any case, she’d never have had the strength to smash his skull in like that.”

  “You’ve fallen for her,” said the Inspector. “Your opinion is worthless.”

  “Oh, come, Inspector ...” For a moment Jackson was open-mouthed. Then he smiled a bit sheepishly. “I thought for a moment you were serious.”

  “Well,” said James, thoughtfully, “she is a bit small, of course. But the old boy might have been kissing her feet! Suppose they’d been having an affair, secretly, and she got angry with him because he wouldn’t fork out enough dough. Crime of passion! After all, we’ve only her word for it that there was any telephone call at all. She could easily have found out the domestic arrangements and slipped round at a suitable moment.”

  “You don’t believe all that, Inspector?” Jackson was horrified.

  “No,” said James. “I agree with you – she’s too small and not strong enough. Now tell me, I suppose there’s no doubt about the time of death. I mean, if it had been earlier – say, soon after Hollison had come in – it might make a difference to a lot of things. Forget the telephone call for a moment – that could have been made a couple of hours after the murder. Is the medical evidence watertight?”

  “Better ask Mac yourself,” said Jackson. “I daren’t. He was positive. So was she. The poor old chap had barely stopped twitching.”

  “You put things very crudely,” said the Inspector. “All right, we’ll have to accept the time of death as fixed. Eight o’clock, as near as makes no odds. Now what about this chap’s voice – the one who telephoned? Any chance of Miss Whitworth helping us there?”

  “I pressed her on that, Inspector. She said it was high and squeaky – that it sounded disguised. She thought that out afterwards, of course, but she thought it sounded funny at the time. ‘Funny?’ I said to her. ‘What do you mean – a bit like this?’ and then I said something in a high voice myself. She said, ‘Yes, very much like that.’”

  “I wish you’d do it again, Jackson,” said James earnestly.

  “I won’t, sir – you keep on making fun of me. It was all in the line of duty. I shouldn’t think if you brought the criminal face to face with her and told him to speak, she’d be able to say for a certainty one way or the other. She doesn’t think so either.”

  “This case is all dead
ends,” said James. “What about Mrs. Armstrong?”

  “Poor old girl, she was knocked all of a heap, in spite of having been a matron or something. Mr. Cross broke the news to her when she came in last night at ten. She gave an awful shriek and they had to pour brandy down her throat. She’s calmed down this morning, but she looks pretty ill and worried to death. She must have been fond of the old boy. After all, a quarter of a century is quite a while, and she’d looked after him like a mother.”

  “You did say like a mother?”

  “Inspector, I’m surprised at you. You’re full of nasty suggestions this morning. You should see her face! You can’t tell where her neck stops and her chin starts. Just the sort of woman to make a good reliable housekeeper.”

  James guffawed. “Super,” he said, “you’re a man after my own heart. We’re going to work well together. So she couldn’t help at all?”

  “She hadn’t a clue, sir. Just went out as she always does on Thursdays, and was back quite punctual. I sent a man over to Ealing first thing this morning to check up with Mrs. Armstrong’s sister and husband. She was there, all right – all the time. I’ll show you the report.”

  “There are too many good alibis in this case,” said James. “Damn it, somebody must have done it. And no stranger. We can rule that out. Can you imagine any casual passer-by with an itch for money knocking at a door, sloshing an old gentleman, reporting the murder, and going off without pinching anything? Of course not. It was somebody he knew – somebody with a personal motive. The position of that blow told its tale as clearly as if we’d seen it happen. Hollison came to the door, recognized his visitor, and got hit from behind as he turned to lead the way in. He wouldn’t have done that with a stranger – or even with an ordinary guest. He’d have closed the front door behind them and let them go ahead. From the evidence of that blow, I would say this was somebody he was expecting and somebody he knew so well that he didn’t have to stand on any ceremony with them. A child could think that one out. Now there may be something in Hollison’s life that we’re in the dark about. He may have been expecting a man he knew intimately – a chap we know nothing about. But I don’t believe it. He’d have had to tell his son or his nephew. In that case, we’re left with young Hollison and Cross as ‘possibles’.”

  “You saw for yourself, Inspector, Geoffrey Hollison hasn’t got an alibi. If he’d taken some risks driving, he could just about have made it by eight. I admit that he’s a nice-looking young fellow, good type, distinguished record and all that – but he comes into a rare lot of money now, by all accounts. Plenty of motive there – and about the only motive there is in this case. He could have fixed it, and gone away again, and come back at the right moment with his story of engine trouble and grease all over his hands.”

  “And a murder on his conscience? He didn’t strike me that way.”

  “Nor me – as I said, Inspector. But, good lord, you know they often don’t look what they are.”

  “I know.” The Inspector puffed thoughtfully. “I agree his story might just as easily be false as true. Just as easily.”

  “There were those notes ...” said Jackson.

  “Well, now, look at those notes. Suppose he hadn’t left that paper on the telephone table – suppose he’d had it with him all day and dropped it accidentally in the hall himself. Why should he? The notes would be in his pocket, a sheaf of them. There was no struggle – the old boy dropped like a log. Why should one page of notes get detached and fall under the body? I just can’t see it happening. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a phonier bit of evidence.”

  “You think somebody planted them there?”

  “I should think so, though it was a pretty dumb thing to do. Maybe they got there by accident during the afternoon. Does Mrs. Armstrong know anything about them – or the girl?”

  “Nothing at all – I asked specially.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll have to go along to the College and ask a few questions there. I don’t relish the job. There’s another thing, Superintendent, about Geoffrey Hollison. Just supposing for a moment he did it – why would he telephone for the doctor? What was the point?”

  Jackson was silent. Finally he said: “Blowed if I know. It beats me, that does.”

  “Why should anyone do that?” the Inspector went on. “What possible purpose could it serve? Hollison was dead, no doctor was needed, and sticking around in the house or near it was a big risk for the murderer. It must have cost him valuable minutes, when all he wanted to do was to get away. He took that risk because he wanted to establish the time of death and disguised his voice because he was known in these parts. There couldn’t be any other reason to make sense, not that I can think of, anyway. And you know why murderers so often like to get the time of death fixed?”

  “Sure – alibi.”

  “As you say, Super – it’s routine. These things mostly follow a pattern. But you don’t try to fix a time of death if you haven’t got an alibi. That would be just silly. And young Geoffrey Hollison hasn’t got one. But Mr. Cross has.”

  “What about Cross, Inspector? Does his alibi stand up?”

  “It stands up so straight, Superintendent, it might have been trained in the Guards! Either he didn’t have a thing to do with it, or it’s the finest alibi I’ve ever come across in all my life. Like to hear my tale of woe?”

  “Yes,” said Jackson, all ears.

  “Well, you know I was at Sir John Lutimer’s place. They weren’t too pleased to see me, any of them, and I can’t blame them. There was quite a party on. Lutimer is a big shot in the Foreign Office, and he was giving a fatherly farewell to two nice young people who left this morning – at least I think they left – for Buenos Aires ... The man was Charles Everton, and he’s going out with his wife to take up his duties as First Secretary at the Embassy. By and large, he’s about the most convincing witness you could imagine. So’s his wife. They’re clear-headed, quiet, and sure of themselves.”

  The Inspector leaned forward. “They both confirmed everything that Arthur Cross told us, and a lot more besides. They contacted him at the roundabout – it was they who approached him. They were lost, and he said he was. He said he was going to his uncle’s at Welford Avenue and they said they were going to Hailey Crescent. He wasn’t eager about taking them; just kind of browned off with the fog and pretty hopeless about finding anything, but ready for a try. They exchanged a few polite words in the car, with Cross feeling his way and nobody seeing very much, and then they stopped and Cross said he was lost. They all took a peek out of the car, helped by Cross’s torch, and they were in Hamley Avenue, just as Cross said. I checked up very carefully and there’s no doubt about it. Everton read the name, and his wife, too. I said, ‘Are you prepared to swear to that name?’ and Everton said, ‘My dear Inspector, I’d swear to that before God Almighty himself,’ and his wife said, ‘Really, darling!’ But she was just as emphatic – it was his language she didn’t quite like. I said, ‘What time was it roughly?’ and Everton said, ‘It was just about eight o’clock.’ I said, ‘How do you know?’ and he said, ‘We were due here for dinner at eight,’ and old Lutimer grinned. Everton said, ‘I kept on looking at my watch every few minutes – you know how you do if time is moving quickly and you’re standing still and wanting to get somewhere. So if you’re trying to pin something on our friendly driver, Inspector, don’t pin it for eight o’clock!”

  The Inspector wiped his forehead, which had got rather damp. “Then I asked Everton about the bombed house. He said he couldn’t see a thing himself, but that it was apparently a few yards down from the corner of the street and that Cross was gone about five minutes. He said that he and his wife were talking Foreign Office shop and hadn’t got particularly impatient. They both heard a loud knock and that was all. Then Cross came back in a frightful temper, saying he’d fallen and hurt himself. It was dark and they couldn’t see whether he had or not. Everton said: ‘I should think it was more than probable, Inspector. It wouldn’t ha
ve surprised me if he’d said he’d broken his neck.’ That young man will go far in his profession – he has plenty of confidence. After that they drove away, stooged around hopefully just as Cross said, and finally reached Lutimer’s. I’ve got a note of all the times and they all make sense.”

  The Superintendent gave a low whistle. “That’s certainly an alibi!”

  “It’s unbreakable, Jackson – absolutely unbreakable. I’ve taken sworn statements from the Evertons – my word, I was unpopular last night, I can tell you. Those statements are pure gold for Cross. He was undoubtedly at Hamley Avenue at eight o’clock last night, and in fog it’s a good half-hour’s run from Welford Avenue. So he couldn’t have killed his uncle, and that’s that.”

  “It’s a pity,” said Jackson.

  “What’s a pity?”

  “That he couldn’t have killed his uncle. I don’t much like Mr. Cross.”

  “A most unprofessional remark,” said the Inspector severely. “Are we going to hang a man because you don’t like him? Come to that, I don’t like him either. He’s too smooth. His story’s too good. But there it is – he’s not a suspect – he’s ruled out. And yet—”

  “What’s on your mind, sir?” Jackson made an excellent Watson.

  “At eight o’clock this morning,” said James, “I called at Welford Avenue and asked Cross if he’d mind going over to his flat with me, so that I could have a look round. He didn’t exactly take to the idea – in fact he was very huffy – and of course I said he needn’t if he didn’t want to. Naturally, he came along with the best grace he could, grumbling about a bad night and early hours and business going to pot. We went up to his flat, and there was a distinct smell of petrol. I said, ‘You’ve been wasting your coupons, Mr. Cross,’ and he smiled sourly and said, ‘It’s my coat, Inspector. I got some blood on it from my hand last night and called back on my way to my uncle’s so that I could clean it off.”