‘Exactly. Didn’t that occur to you?’
‘No; but it’s clear enough now that you point it out. Yes, I think you’re right, Roger. And of course she hasn’t said a word to anybody else.’
‘Oh, no; she’s not the sort to do that. Whoever was responsible for Bentley’s death, Miss Mary Blower isn’t putting herself into any unnecessary hot water over it.’
‘What a little blighter! And you really think that she’d have let Mrs Bentley even hang without saying a word?’
‘Not a doubt of it. She’s got a very big grudge against her, and she’s not going to worry herself for a small thing like that one little bit. No, not at all a pleasing young person, Miss Mary Blower.’
‘But look here, do you think there’s anything in the idea? Do you think she really did give that stuff to Bentley? And if so, was it a mistake?’
‘I don’t know. If she did, and if it was a mistake (and I don’t think it was anything else), then really, all one can say is that Mrs Bentley deserves all that’s happened to her, because a more glaring instance of culpable negligence you could hardly imagine. Fancy leaving a tumbler of arsenic and lemonade in a sick man’s bedroom! It’s tantamount to murder. No, I must say that, if Mrs Bentley didn’t leave it there deliberately, it’s almost incredible.’
‘That’s an idea, though,’ Alec said reflectively. ‘You mean she might have left it there in the hope that Bentley would help himself to it? In other words, that she meant Bentley to die, but not exactly to murder him; the thing would be more or less of an accident.’
‘Yes, that’s the sort of thing a woman might do to salve her conscience, though of course it’s no less murder than forcibly feeding a man with the stuff. But if she did, then we’re up against the same old difficulty that I pointed out right at the beginning—why trouble about the decoction of fly-papers when there’s that big packet of arsenic so handy?’
‘But look here, she might not have known that packet was arsenic. Supposing you were right when you said that somebody might have given it to Bentley to dose himself with. You see what I mean; in that case Mrs Bentley wouldn’t know that it was arsenic, would she?’
‘But Alexander, this is brilliant! That leads us to a conclusion that I certainly never had contemplated before—that two people were trying to poison him; Mrs Bentley herself with fly-papers and somebody else with the packet of arsenic!’
‘Well, we did rather touch on that idea last night, didn’t we? You remember when Sheila said that it mightn’t have been the arsenic out of the packet that killed him. You said something about it being a coincidence, but not so great as it would have been if the drug was aconite or something like that.’
‘Yes, I remember; but that was rather different. What I meant was that some unknown person gave him the packet of arsenic, and some other unknown person fed him arsenic on his or her own initiative—not that Mrs Bentley was either of them. But Lord, the whole thing’s getting so blessed complicated I really don’t know what I did say or what I did think or what I think now! Only one thing is extraordinarily clear in my mind at the present moment.’
‘And that is?’
‘That if friend Allen was on our list of suspects before for reasons of pure motive, he’s now there for other very concrete reasons indeed. And his name’s written in capital letters and it’s underlined three times with red ink.’
‘Great Scott, yes!’ exclaimed Alec, almost excitedly. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. I was meaning to mention it as soon as we left the house. Because he’d been spending the evening with Bentley before that packet made its appearance?’
‘That’s the idea. It seems a reasonable inference that friend Allen might have something rather interesting to say about that packet, if he could only be induced to talk.’
‘That’s going to be a bit of a job,’ Alec mused.
‘Yes,’ Roger agreed. ‘But it’s got to be tackled, and as soon as possible. In fact, it’s obviously the next step in this train of interesting inquiries. “Our Representative Interviews Suspected Man.”’
‘How are you going about it?’ Alec asked with interest.
‘Well, I’ve been turning that over subconsciously in my mind ever since we left that house. I shall have to try and find out this afternoon as much as I can of Allen’s habits and character, and then act accordingly. There are all sorts of different ways of getting all sorts of different people to talk, and I’ve got to try and get some idea in advance of the sort of methods to adopt with this particular gentleman. Let’s hope Sheila’s in; I shall have to consult her about it.’
They had reached the front door of Dr Purefoy’s house, and Roger pressed the bell-push with a thoughtful air.
‘I say,’ Alec said, not without apprehension. ‘will you want me for this interview with Allen?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Sheepwash,’ Roger replied a trifle absently. ‘This is going to be a very delicate affair indeed, and blundering cameramen who forget to take photographs would be altogether out of place.’
It was now a few minutes past twelve o’clock. In answer to Roger’s inquiries the maid who opened the door informed them that Mrs Purefoy was out and that Miss Purefoy was upstairs in her bedroom.
‘I wish you’d tell her that we’ve come in, and would like to see her for a minute if she’s not busy, would you?’ Roger asked.
‘Yes, certainly, sir.’
‘No, don’t bother, Jane,’ Alec interposed, making his way to the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll see to it.’ He tilted his head back and opened his mouth; a noise not unlike the note of a fog-horn issued forth and travelled hurriedly to the upper regions. The noise might with difficulty be construed into the word ‘Shee-la!’
‘Great Scott!’ observed Roger mildly.
Jane hastily clapped her hand to her mouth and retired to her own fastness, uttering stifled sounds. A door upstairs could be heard to open.
‘Hal-lo!’ floated down a shrill howl.
‘Want you! Come downstairs!’ enunciated the fog-horn.
‘Can’t! Busy! Come up here!’ replied the howl.
‘Right-ho!’
They bounded up the stairs.
‘That’s right,’ said Sheila, meeting them at her door. ‘Come on in. I couldn’t go down. I’m ironing.’
‘Domestic young woman,’ observed Roger, following her inside.
‘Oh, one always has to wash and iron one’s own undies. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with them.’
‘I very seldom do mine,’ Roger murmured. ‘But then I have a very trusting nature.’
‘What do you think of my room?’ Sheila demanded. ‘Pretty useful, isn’t it? All my own idea. Commonly known as the Pillar of Fire.’
‘That is beyond me,’ Roger confessed.
‘Don’t you see, you silly man? A cloud of smoke by day, and a pillar of fire by night—a bedroom at night and a boudoir in the day-time. That object with the blue cover and the cushions is my bed, brushes and things pop out of the drawers of that table and turn it into a dressing-table, and the washstand’s behind that screen. Bon?’
‘Very bon,’ Roger approved.
‘Like the colour-scheme?’
‘Ripping! I congratulate you.’
‘Topping!’ said Alec dutifully.
‘That’s all right, then. Now you can tell me the news. Sit down somewhere, the bed’s the comfiest—I beg its pardon, the divan. There’s a box of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. Don’t mind me going on ironing, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Roger, seating himself in an armchair by the window and modestly averting his gaze from the object of Sheila’s ministrations.
He proceeded to tell her the results of his two interviews during the morning, his suspicions of Mary Blower and the gist of his conversation with Alec on the way home. Sheila listened with lively interest. When Roger had finished, she delivered her verdict with certitude and decision.
‘Mrs Bentley didn’t leave her arsenic and lemonade on the chest-o
f-drawers, because we’ve made up our minds that she was innocent, and she couldn’t have been innocent if she had. That washes out an accident on Mary Blower’s part. Mary Blower didn’t do it deliberately, because she probably wouldn’t have the guts; these servants talk a lot, but when it comes to doing anything, they just give notice and flounce off. Allen didn’t do it, because he wouldn’t be such an idiot. Mrs Allen got the arsenic and asked her husband to give it to Bentley and tell him that story about it being some wonderful cure; that gives her her revenge on both of them, you see, her husband and Mrs Bentley. Probably she thought they’d both be accused together. That’s what happened.’
‘So now all we’ve got to do is to go round to the police and have Mrs Allen arrested,’ Roger said admiringly. ‘I do wish I had your faculty of disentangling complicated threads in two seconds and putting my finger right on the heart of the mystery without any hesitation whatever, Sheila. It’s a wonderful gift. You ought to apply for a job at Scotland Yard; you’re wasted at the ironing-board.’
‘Oh, you can laugh,’ Sheila said equably. ‘But that’s how it’ll turn out in the end, believe me.’
‘Sheila,’ Alec interposed suddenly. ‘You’re getting uppish again. It’s time you were scragged.’
‘Now you leave me alone, Alec, or I’ll throw this iron at you. I swear I will!’
‘Peace, little children!’ Roger intervened hurriedly. ‘Alec, stop growling and lie down. I want to talk to Miss Purefoy. Seriously, Sheila, admire though I do your powers of penetration and insight, and aghast though I am before your grasp of the situation, there are one or two little things that have got to be done before we can arrest Mrs Allen, and most of them concern the lady’s husband. Now, I’ve got a little job I want done that’ll just suit you.’
‘Good! Spit it out.’
‘I want you to go off the very minute after lunch and find out all you can for me about this man Allen—where he works in London, what he does, what his habits are, what sort of reputation or character he’s got (make allowances for prudery and local prejudice), and anything else you can ferret out about him. I think you said you knew some people who knew them. Can you manage that—between lunch and tea, if possible?’
‘I’ll have a jolly good shot at it,’ quoth Miss Purefoy. ‘In fact, if you’re in such a hurry I might try one or two people straight away, before lunch; it’s not half-past twelve yet, is it? I’ll just finish off this chimmy, and the other things can wait.’
‘Admirable devotion to duty,’ Roger said warmly. ‘All things considered, I shall have to think about a little promotion for you, Detective Purefoy. There might even be some germ of an idea in the theory you propounded just now, in spite of its incoherent improbability.’
Sheila’s reply was pointed and pithy, and it had better not be printed.
During the afternoon Roger went out with Dr Purefoy on his rounds; he took a novel and a rug with him and obtained plenty of fresh air with a minimum amount of exertion. Alec allowed himself to be bullied by Mrs Purefoy into accompanying her on some calls which she professed to be quite unable to face without his support; he spent the afternoon sitting about in dismal silence in half-a-dozen drawing-rooms and sternly avoiding the quizzical glances which his cousin continued to throw at him.
As it happened, Dr Purefoy was due to give an anæsthetic at the local hospital at half-past four. Mrs Purefoy and her victim being still in the throes of that most fell of all social duties, Roger and Sheila had tea together alone.
Sheila arrived a quarter of an hour late, threw off her furs and gloves and sat down behind the tea-tray. She was wearing a little brown velour hat with a feather in it pulled well down over her head, and a trim brown coat and skirt; her cheeks were flushed with exercise in the keen air, and she looked particularly delightful. Roger even paid her the tribute of wishing for one fleeting moment (a) that he was not a good seventeen years older than she was, and (b) that he did not find bachelordom such a very pleasant mode of existence.
‘Well, I don’t know that I’ve got a frightful lot for you, Roger,’ she said. ‘You do take milk and sugar, don’t you? I dug up about a dozen people altogether, pumped them briefly but efficiently, and then went out and wrote down against their gateposts as much as I could remember of what they’d told me.’
‘Did you? Good girl. It’s the only way. Let’s have a look. Bread-and-butter?’
‘Thanks. Oh, you couldn’t make head or tail of it. I’d better give you a sort of precis of the whole lot. Did you ever have to do precis-work at school? Most awful rot. Wait a minute ’til I’ve had a cup of tea, which I’m simply dying for, and then I’ll hold forth.’
She hurriedly ate two pieces of bread-and-butter and a rock bun, gulped down her tea and poured herself out another cupful, and then extracted from her handbag a much creased and rather grubby piece of paper which she proceeded to study with close attention.
‘Ronald Whittaker Allen,’ she announced; ‘born eighteen ninety, and still going strong—very strong. Business, motor-car dealer; business address, 33 Orange Street, New Bond Street, W. Tall, burly, fair, red-faced; small, close-clipped moustache; jovial, jocular, hearty, cheery; a little loud, a little coarse; not nearly good enough for Mrs Allen, much too human for Mrs Allen, much nicer than Mrs Allen, not nearly so nice as Mrs Allen; drinks somewhat, but not too much; wears a diamond ring; thoroughly good-hearted, thoroughly bad-minded; rather like a superior kind of bookmaker. There! That’s the whole lot, just lumped together.’
‘Thanks most awfully, Sheila,’ Roger said warmly. ‘That’s extraordinarily good; just exactly what I wanted to know. I feel as if I’d known the man for years. You couldn’t possibly have done better. Great work!’
Sheila flushed with pleasure. ‘Good! I was afraid you’d think it a bit scanty. More tea? Help yourself to food. These rock buns aren’t half bad. Well, what are you going to do about him?’
Roger glanced at his watch. ‘I’m going up to town at once to catch him before he leaves business. He’ll be easier to tackle that way, I think. I shan’t let on that I’m interested in the case, or that I’m staying down here, or anything like that. If I’m right in the type I think he belongs to, I shan’t have to work very hard to make him talk; if I can only get him to take a fancy to me, all I shall have to do is to sit and listen, and just put in a sympathetic remark or a pertinent question here and there.’
‘I do wish I could come with you,’ Sheila said frankly.
‘My dear, this interesting conversation will probably take place in the private bar of the Green Pig or the Crossed Horns or whatever the gentleman’s particular fancy in hostelries happens to be; and emancipated though you are, I hardly think you’d like to follow us in there.’
‘Why not?’ said Miss Purefoy defiantly. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit.’
‘No? Well, I should. Now, would you be a good little detective and sleuth me a favourable train in the timetable? I want to arrive in Orange Street a few minutes before six o’clock.’
CHAPTER XVII
MR ALLEN TALKS
THE offices of Automobiles Exchange and Sale, Ltd., joint proprietors, R. W. Allen & H. S. Titheridge, consisted of the entire spacious ground-floor of 33 Orange Street. Sliding doors permitted very nearly the whole width of the frontage to be thrown open during business hours, and within one caught a glimpse in passing of half-a-dozen or more glistening cars of all makes and sizes. Beyond the main-floor-space, at the back of the showroom, were the private offices, one for the typist, one for the manager, and one, the largest, for Messrs. R. W. Allen and H. S. Titheridge. The latter was the technical man of the firm, and as such nearly always cloistered in the basement whither middle-aged cars and cars past their first youth descended by lift, to return to the upper air a few weeks later in glistening glory and radiant with health and strength as if by the operation of some automobile monkey-gland; R. W. Allen looked after the business side of affairs.
Into R. W. Allen’s sanctum, therefore,
was shown at five minutes to six that same evening a strange customer who had confided to the manager his intention of buying a car but who wished to have a chat with one of the partners first regarding terms of payment, references and such important details; the strange customer had mentioned a preference for the company of Mr Allen, mentioning casually that he thought they had one or two friends in common, but this had really not affected the issue either way, for into Mr Allen’s presence he would have been shown in any case.
Mr Allen rose and shook his visitor’s hand with considerable warmth; he was a big, burly man, with a red face and a jolly smile, just beginning to run to flesh, and he spoke in a round, full-throated voice.
‘You want to buy a car, Mr—’—he glanced at the visitor’s card which had preceded him—‘Mr Sheringham? That’s fine. Sit down there and let’s talk it over.’
‘I’m afraid I’m a little late in the day, perhaps?’ Roger said apologetically, seating himself in the big armchair which stood at the side of Allen’s desk.
‘Not a bit, not a bit! Time’s immaterial to me. I’m often here ’til all hours.’ He glanced at the card again. ‘Mr Roger Sheringham, Vauxhall Club. Surely you’re not Roger Sheringham, the great novelist, eh?’
‘Very kind of you to put it that way,’ Roger murmured.
‘That’s fine,’ said Mr Allen with enthusiasm. ‘My wife’s got one or two books of yours.’
Roger began to feel that he rather liked this large, red-faced, very slightly vulgar man. At any rate he was honest; he did not pretend to have read books which he hadn’t just because he happened to be talking to the author of them, as, in Roger’s experience, ninety-nine people out of a hundred did. Roger recognised that Allen had already made a favourable impression on him.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he smiled. ‘I’m always glad to hear of people who actually possess copies of my books instead of depending entirely on the libraries. So much better for their author, you know.’
Allen laughed hugely. ‘Better business, eh? Well, I guess you’re right, Mr Sheringham. Authors have to live just as much as motor traders, haven’t they? So I’ll tell you what—you buy one of my cars, and I’ll buy one of your books. That’s a fair offer, isn’t it?’ He laughed hugely again.
The Wychford Poisoning Case Page 15