by John Rowland
I accepted the implied invitation with alacrity. I knew that here I might be getting myself a little involved, as I had done earlier with Bender; but after all I had no official standing at all in the case, and it was up to me to get such information as I could by whatever method I liked. I didn’t worry at all that some people might have frowned on my methods of getting the information; nor did it worry me that my methods were not exactly those which Shelley might have chosen.
I was not Detective-Inspector Shelley, with all the might of Scotland Yard behind me. I was a mere pressman, working on my own; and whatever seemed to me the most satisfactory way of getting information, as long as I did not go too far on the wrong side of the law, it was in every way open to me to use. That was how I looked at the matter through the whole course of the case; and I think that the sequel showed that I was right. As to that the reader will be able to judge when he comes to the end of this narrative.
“Any news, Mr. London?” Maya Johnson asked eagerly as I sat down.
“Well, that depends, in the words of the well-known broadcaster, on what you mean by news,” I said, stalling for all I was worth.
“Have they caught the murderer yet?” asked Foster.
“No.” That was an easy one to answer. But I resented the fact that I was being asked questions. I had intended to do all the asking, and let them answer my queries.
“Any ideas on the subject of the murderer’s identity, Mr. London?” asked Maya Johnson. There was a slight suggestion of bantering in the tone of these people, but at the same time I was well aware of the seriousness of their position. I was assured that they too didn’t feel themselves to be in a position of a hundred per cent safety.
“Well,” I said, “everybody has their theories in these matters, you know.”
“And what is yours?” asked Foster.
I recalled a remark of Bender’s earlier in the day. “Well, there is a law of libel in this country, you know,” I said. “One can’t be too outspoken in such affairs as these, or one may find a prosecution for criminal libel hanging around one. And that is something which I have no ambition to undergo.”
“We think that we know who did it, you know,” Maya Johnson said seriously. I studied that beautiful face with added interest.
“Really?”
“Yes; you see, we knew Tilsley and we knew a little of his affairs. Not that he talked about them very much, but now and then he let something slip. Tim and I have been exchanging ideas since we saw you yesterday, seeing how our memories of Tilsley tallied, and we both agree on the point of the man in Broadgate who is most likely to have been responsible for Tilsley’s death.”
“Really?” I didn’t dare to do anything in the way of mental jogging here. If these young people were to share with me the idea that had come to them, the sharing would be a matter of their own free will, and nothing that I did or said would make very much difference.
“Who do you suspect?” I asked. “I’ll not take any advantage of what you say. I’ll only undertake to pass on to the correct quarters whatever seems to me to have some sort of factual basis. And I’ll see that there is some sort of protection against the libel laws, if such protection is possible—which I think it will be.”
They exchanged glances. I could see that they were in two minds, doubtful, not knowing me well enough to judge if I could be really trusted. I didn’t know what I could very well do to increase their trust, but I knew that the best thing that I could do was to let the couple have their head, and hope that they would be able to tell me what they knew, without in any way straining whatever good will I had managed to build up for myself in their minds.
“Did you ever hear of a man called Margerison?” asked Foster at length.
“The name is familiar,” I said realising that they had not seen an evening paper, and so did not know anything about the second murder that had taken place in Broadgate.
“He is a dealer of some sort—I’m not sure what sort—but we think that there is something more than a little crooked about him,” Maya Johnson explained.
“And what does that mean?” I asked.
“That we think he murdered John Tilsley,” answered Foster.
I smiled. “I’m afraid that you’re barking up the wrong tree there,” I said.
“Why?” they exclaimed simultaneously.
“Because Margerison himself was murdered late last night,” I said.
“What?” This was almost a roar from Foster.
“I assure you that it is true,” I said. I took a folded edition of an evening paper from under my arm, and pointed to a headline on the front page.
Foster fairly grabbed the paper from me. He spread it out on the table before him, and he and Maya Johnson devoured its contents eagerly. There was no doubt that this revelation had taken them by surprise.
Now I was becoming conscious that there was a sudden increase in the tension of the atmosphere. I am sensitive to these things, and I was aware that something was happening. I looked up and drew in my breath with a sudden hiss.
Standing in front of us was another of the odd figures who had already come into the case—Mrs. Skilbeck, the pale woman from the Charrington Hotel. I was very surprised to see her there. Her face was distorted with grief and rage. Something had happened, I could tell, to cause a real emotional crisis in this normally stoical woman.
“Mr. London!” she gasped. “I saw you come in here, and I watched and followed.”
This surprised me somewhat. “Why?” I asked. “Have you got something to ask me or tell me?”
“I thought I had something to tell you,” she said, “and that is why I followed you in here. Now I’m not so sure that I have anything which I should care to tell you, when I see the company which you are in.” Her eyes flashed fire as she glanced at Maya Johnson and Timothy Foster.
This was so surprising to me that I did not quite know how to respond to it.
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand you,” I said. “These people are friends of mine, and they were friends of Mr. Tilsley. They have been kind, in trying to help me towards solving the mystery of his death—a mystery in which I thought you too were interested.”
I was a little consciously on my dignity; but, honestly, I couldn’t for the life of me see what the woman was getting at.
“You won’t solve the mystery of his death by talking to these people if you talk to them till doomsday,” she said. “And you say that they are friends of yours and friends of John Tilsley’s. They may be friends of yours—I don’t care if they are or not—but they were certainly never friends of his. I knew him too well to swallow any such story as that. Of course, you never knew him, or knew anything about what he was doing, so I cannot answer for your opinion of them.”
This was a completely unexpected speech, and I didn’t know what to say about it. Certainly Mrs. Skilbeck was an odd woman, and she had some queer mental attributes. Maya Johnson had been gazing at the newcomer with wide-open, astonished eyes. Now she spoke to her.
“We were friends and business acquaintances of Mr. Tilsley,” she said. “I don’t know who you are to say that we can’t help Mr. London, here, to solve the mystery of his death. We have certain ideas about the matter. They may be mistaken ideas—I wouldn’t know about that—but they are at least sincere, and you have no right, no right whatever, to say that we do not mean everything we say.”
“I don’t know much about you, Maya Johnson,” replied Mrs. Skilbeck. “One thing, however, I do know about Timothy Foster here. You might be wiser, if you are fond of him, not to ask me what it is.”
Maya Johnson looked completely mystified. I certainly shared her feelings.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I thought you might not,” Mrs. Skilbeck replied, and her face took on an expression of determination. She looked like some grim avenger as she
stood there.
“But what do you say that you know about Tim?” Maya Johnson asked quietly.
“I know what John Tilsley used to say about him—he said it to me repeatedly.”
“And what was that?” It was curious, I reflected, that this scene of complex drama could be played out in the saloon bar of a little Kentish public house without anyone else becoming aware of what was going on. None of the other drinkers in the bar seemed even to notice that anything was happening which merited their attention.
“What did John Tilsley say about Tim?” repeated Maya Johnson. Timothy Foster laid his hand on her arm, as if he would restrain her from going any further in the matter, but she shook his hand off in an irritated fashion.
“No, Tim, I want to know,” she said.
“You shall know, if you want to, and much good will it do you,” said Mrs. Skilbeck. “John always said that he would be murdered, and that Tim Foster would be his murderer!”
There was silence. Then Mrs. Skilbeck, with that uncanny glide-like walk, made her way out of the bar, while Maya Johnson collapsed over the table, her head on her arms, in a helpless storm of tears.
Chapter XVIII
In Which an Emotional Crisis is Surmounted
I don’t know if you’ve ever sat in a fisherman’s pub opposite a woman in tears, a woman, moreover, whose fiancé has just been accused of murder. If you have you will know that I felt about as uncomfortable as a man well can. The fact that Mrs. Skilbeck had left us had slightly cleared the atmosphere; but there was no doubt that a feeling of great emotional tension existed, a feeling not at all easy to dissipate.
Foster leaned protectively over Maya Johnson, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Come on, snap out of it!” he counselled her. “What does it matter what the woman said?”
Maya Johnson raised her head. Her eyes were red and her face already considerably tear-stained. “But she said that you had killed Tilsley,” Maya said.
“What does it matter what she said?” asked Foster for the second time.
“It matters a lot!”
I could see that this remark shook Foster considerably. He sat up and looked surprised.
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, if she goes around saying that sort of thing it will sooner or later come to the ears of the police!”
“And what if it does?” I couldn’t help admiring the sheer pudding-headed obstinacy of the man, unwilling even for a moment to admit that such an accusation of murder could in any way hurt him or have any sort of effect on his life. Still, I personally thought that Maya Johnson’s attitude was the more sensible one. It would have been foolish to deny that the slinging about of murder accusations is a dangerous business, especially when the police are to all intents and purposes stumped by a case. If enough mud is slung at anyone, as the old proverb has it, some is likely to stick. I thought it was high time I took some part in this argument, and tried to make this obstinate young man see some sense.
“Look here, Mr. Foster,” I said, “you must realise that there is a lot of sense in what Miss Johnson is trying to say. If a woman as bitter as Mrs. Skilbeck slings about accusations like that there will be plenty of people who will believe that she is telling the truth. You know—there’s no smoke without fire, and all that sort of thing.”
“But I don’t care what people believe. I know that I didn’t kill Tilsley, and that’s enough for me.” He set his jaw obstinately. I could have kicked him. It is all very well to be firm, but firmness eventually becomes stupidity, I think.
“It isn’t what you know, Mr. Foster,” I said. “It’s what the police think that will eventually settle this case, and we don’t yet know what Mrs. Skilbeck may be telling the police.”
“You think that she will tell the police what she told us?” This was Maya Johnson, and the nervousness in her tones made it clear to me that she was very deeply in love with Timothy Foster. I had, indeed, for long thought that this was so, but her response to this threat to him made it clear to me that her feelings were deep.
“I don’t think that she will have any option,” I said. “If the police hear of these accusations—and they’re bound to do so sooner or later—they will at once pull her in for questioning. They’ll have no option in the matter, either. They would be fools to ignore it. This case is a real mystery, and anyone who makes an accusation which seems to have some factual support is bound to be listened to with considerable respect.”
The people in the pub had by this time ignored us. When Maya Johnson had first collapsed over the table the barman had made a move towards us, as if he thought that this was a case of a drunken customer who would have to be requested to leave; but since she had apparently settled down quickly he had changed his mind.
What I had said seemed to impress the lady fairly considerably. Even the obstinate Foster appeared to see that there was much good sense in what I was saying.
“You do see, don’t you, Tim?” Maya Johnson said earnestly. “This is not something that you can just laugh off—you’ve got to take it seriously. Your life may depend on what happens in the next day or two—and if your life doesn’t matter to you, it matters a lot to me.”
I was impressed by this girl. She was amazingly beautiful, but, unlike many beautiful girls, her face was not merely a brilliant façade with nothing behind it. I thought that she was a very intelligent woman, with a lot of good sense in her pretty head.
“All right,” he said. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I’ve got a proposition,” she said, and paused. The emotional crisis appeared to have passed, but I was still conscious of some tension in the air.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You are investigating this case, aren’t you?” she said. “I mean, you are reporting it for your paper, and you’re trying to see if you can get hold of any fresh information which will give you a chance to beat the other papers to it.”
I nodded. “That’s so,” I said.
“And you believe that Tim is innocent?”
“I do.” This was nothing more than the truth.
“Well, will you do your best to clear Tim of this accusation that Mrs. Skilbeck has made?”
“Well, in a sense I’m doing that already,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
I smiled. “Well, I’m doing my best to find out who is responsible for the death of Tilsley, and if I do manage to find out who it is, that will clear Tim, won’t it?”
For the first time since Mrs. Skilbeck had entered, Miss Johnson smiled. It was not a very strong smile, but nevertheless it was a big improvement on the strained expression which had previously filled her face.
“Will you come back to my flat with us?” she asked. “I feel that we should have a further chat about this, and a place like this doesn’t seem to me to be at all suitable for such a discussion.”
“O.K.,” I said, draining my glass.
So in a few minutes we were installed in Maya Johnson’s comfortable flat. I sat on the settee under the window, and Maya Johnson and Tim Foster occupied cosy armchairs on either side of the empty fireplace.
“Now,” she said with an air of determination, “I think that this is a sort of council of war.” It was odd how this beautiful woman had, in a sense, taken control of the situation. I was slightly amused. Actually, there was no doubt which of the two young people was the stronger personality. I had no doubt that they would have a happy married life; equally I had no doubt that the big decisions would be hers and not his.
“Well,” I remarked, “there is one thing which might be settled right away, and you can settle it without any difficulty at all, I should think.”
“What is that?”
“That is whether either or both of you have an alibi for last night.”
She looked puzz
led. “Why last night?” she asked. “Tilsley was killed the night before.”
“True,” I explained, “but you forget that Margerison was killed last night, and there is obviously a connection between the two crimes. Personally, I don’t think that there is any doubt at all that whoever killed Tilsley also killed Margerison. The police, I know, share that opinion.”
They looked at each other. “What time was it that you left here, Tim?” she asked.
“About ten o’clock,” he said.
“You were here from some early hour until ten?” I asked.
“I shut the garage at about half-past six,” he explained, “and came straight around here. Maya cooked us a meal, which we ate at about half-past seven. I was, as I said, here until about ten o’clock. Then I went home.”
“See anyone you knew on the way?”
“Not a soul.”
“Anyone see you enter the house?”
“No. It’s a service flat that I’ve got, and there is no porter on duty after nine. All the residents have a front-door key and let themselves in.”
“H’m.” I thought this over. It did not seem to be too promising since it was clearly in no sense an alibi.
“When was Margerison killed?” asked Maya Johnson. She was now icy-cold and clear. The trace of hysteria which I had seemed to sense in the pub had now gone.
“The police surgeon is playing for safety,” I said. “All that he will say is that it was some time between seven o’clock and midnight last night. The sensible doctor, in these cases, will not commit himself too closely, you know.”
Maya Johnson looked a little scared. “Then Tim hasn’t got any sort of alibi,” she commented.
“Not for the latter part of the period, anyhow,” I admitted. “And even for the earlier period, they will probably think that your evidence is biased. They do not accept without considerable reservations the evidence of a fiancée for the man to whom she’s engaged. From the police point of view after all, that’s good sense. You might well be lying, and, supposing that Tim was guilty, you might be expected to lie if you thought that you could save his life.”