While the doctor was making his examination, Jimmy, the local man. and Scorby, conducted a search of the room. It was the sergeant who discovered the open window and the scratches on the hasp.
“That’s the way he got in, sir,” he declared—and Jimmy and Sharpe went over to the little balcony.
“Easy,” remarked the local inspector. “He only had to climb on to that window ledge, pull himself up by the balustrade, and he was practically in the room.”
There was no clue to the identity of the killer, however, and they came back to find that the doctor had completed his preliminary inspection.
“He was killed by a heavy blow from behind.” said the divisional-surgeon, and launched into a highly technical description of the dead man’s injuries. “He must have died almost at once. I don’t suppose he even knew who killed him.”
“Then he’s much in the same position as we are, doctor,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I suppose this door leads into his bedroom.”
He went over, turned the handle, and discovered to his surprise that the door was locked.
“That’s funny,” he muttered, frowning.
“Why is it funny, sir?” asked Sergeant Scorby, at his elbow.
“Well, it seems pretty obvious that he was disturbed, and came to discover the cause,” explained his superior. “You’d think he’d take the shortest route, which was through the door, but it’s locked on the inside.”
“Maybe he always kept it locked?” suggested Sharpe.
Jimmy shook his head doubtfully, and went out into the corridor. The servants were whispering together in a frightened group, watched by a stolid constable.
“Was that your master’s bedroom?” Jimmy addressed the plump-faced man and pointed to the door adjoining the study.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man tremulously.
Jimmy went to the door, saw that it was ajar, and pushed it open. The room beyond was in darkness, but he found the switch and pressed it down. As the room became illuminated he gave a quick glance round. The bed was rumpled, the coverlet flung back, and the door of a large wardrobe stood open. Jimmy’s eyes narrowed and he went swiftly over to the massive cupboard. There were hangers with many suits inside, but they all looked curiously disturbed and untidy. Had Mr. Webb been responsible before he went to bed, or— He called to the plump-faced man, and he came reluctantly.
“Do you know anything about your master’s clothes?” asked Jimmy sharply.
The servant nodded.
“Yes, sir. I used to valet him,” he answered,
“Then take a look at this wardrobe and tell me if there is anything missing?” snapped Jimmy.
The other’s eyes widened.
“Missing—” he began.
“Yes!” broke in Jimmy curtly, and turned to make a search of the room. He found two little scraps of mud near the bed, and amongst the rumpled sheets made a, more important discovery. It was a small square of lace-edged linen—a woman’s handkerchief, and an expensive one.
His mind flew to the girl with whom the dead man had spent the evening. Was she in this business? It looked very much as if at some time or other she had been in this room. He examined the handkerchief, but there were no initials. There was, however, a faint perfume, and it was an expensive scent, which Jimmy recognised. It had just become fashionable, and was called “Sans Adieu.”
“Did your master come home alone tonight?” he inquired, and the servant, who was busy at the wardrobe, turned.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
So the Angel, if the handkerchief had belonged to her, had not accompanied Webb home after the theatre. But that didn’t say she had not come later. He put the handkerchief away in his pocket.
“There’s a suit, a mackintosh, and a hat missing from here, sir,” said the plump-faced man suddenly.
Jimmy was instantly alert.
“Describe them,” he said, and the man did so.
The description coincided with the apparel worn by the man whom Simmonds had chased down the drive.
Jimmy pursed his lips. There was no need for a man to have changed his clothes. But if it had been a woman who wished to be mistaken for a man—
“Miss Kesson,” he muttered to himself, “I’m going to give myself the pleasure of interviewing you in the morning, and I think the pleasure will be all on my side!”
Chapter Seven
Jimmy Meets The Angel
A vigorous shaking startled Angela Kesson out of a deep sleep, and she sat up yawning, to find Cordelia at the bedside with a cup of tea.
“What time is it?” demanded the Angel, her voice heavy with sleep.
“It’s gone nine,” answered the maid, “and it’s rainin’ like ’ell! Drink yer tea and I’ll put yer bath on.”
Angela took the cup and scalded herself to wakefulness.
She was having breakfast before the fire in the cosy sitting room when the knock came at the door, and after a pause Cordelia entered with a troubled face.
“I knew it ’ud come one of these fine days,” she whispered, closing the door. “An’ now it ’as!”
“What has?” demanded the Angel.
“Ther perlice!” replied the maid. “There’s a ‘busy’ in the ’all now, an’ ’e wants ter see yer.”
She thrust a card under her mistress’ nose and Angela glanced at the superscription.
“Show Inspector Holland in,” said Angela quietly, and reluctantly the maid obeyed.
Jimmy Holland entered the prettily furnished room and was greeted with a dazzling smile.
“Good morning, inspector!” said the Angel sweetly. “Do sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” Jimmy bowed a little distantly and took the chair her hand indicated. His manner was polite but frigid, and Angela’s eyes gleamed wickedly.
“Would you like some coffee or anything?” she asked.
“No, thank you!” He shook his head.
“You don’t mind if I go on with my breakfast?” she inquired. “I’m afraid I’m a little later than usual!”
“Please do,” he said. “No doubt you went to bed rather later—than usual?”
“How clever of you to guess that. But, of course, you’re a detective, aren’t you?” There was exaggerated awe in her voice, and Jimmy felt himself redden, and was annoyed.
“Yes, I’m a detective,” he said. “That is the reason I’m here. The fact is, Miss Kesson, I should like you to answer a few questions.”
“Questions?” repeated the Angel, her grey eyes widening innocently. “What questions? I haven’t been doing anything against the law, have I, inspector?”
“You should be better able to know that!” retorted Jimmy. “You were at the Mayfair last night with Montgomery Webb?”
“I was. You saw me. You were in the opposite box,” said Angela. “It was quite a good show, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” agreed Jimmy. “But I didn’t come here to discuss its merits.”
“I’m still waiting to hear what you did come for,” she said, delicately nibbling at a piece of toast.
“I came to ask you for an account of your movements after you left the theatre,” he answered.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Really, Inspector—er—Holland,” she said, a little coldly, “that appears to be my business.”
“I’m afraid it’s also mine!” retorted Jimmy. “I can’t force you to answer, of course, if you refuse. But I’m investigating a serious crime, and your evidence may be helpful.”
He was watching her narrowly, but her lovely face remained impassive, except for a faint expression of quite a natural surprise.
“A serious crime?” she repeated.
“It would be difficult to find a more serious one,” he replied curtly. “Murder!”
She caught her breath and stared at him.
“But how dreadful!” she lowered her voice, “Still, I don’t understand how I—
“Mr. Montgomery Webb was murdered in the early
hours of this morning with his head battered in!”
She put up a hand to her slender throat.
“Mr, Webb?” she whispered. “It seems—it seems impossible—“
“It’s true, all the same,” said Jimmy. “And I want to know when you left him and what you did after.”
“Poor man and he was so cheerful—” she began; and then suddenly she seemed to realize the point of his question. “Oh, but you’re not—you can’t be thinking that I had anything to—to—”
“I’m not thinking anything, Miss Kesson,” said Jimmy, as she hesitated. “I’m only making inquiries.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you very much.” she said doubtfully. “Mr. Webb drove me home after the theatre, and 1 went to bed.”
“Straight to bed?” inquired Jimmy.
“Well, no.” she answered. “I wasn’t very tired, and I wrote some letters and read for a little while.”
“You didn’t go out again?” he insisted.
“Why, of course not!” she replied. “It was after twelve before I got home.”
“And you didn’t see Webb again after you said goodnight at the door?”
“Of course I didn’t. I left him in his ear. He said he was going home.”
“Supposing I told you,” he said, eyeing her steadily, “that I have evidence to prove that you did go out again and that you went to Webb’s house, what would you say?”
“I should say that you were mistaken,” answered Angela, coolly returning his gaze. “Which would be more polite than suggesting that you were mad?”
She reached towards a box on a table at her side and helped herself to a cigarette. Her fingers were quite steady as she lit it and blew a thin stream from her red lips.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
“No, I’m not!” he snapped. “I believe you were at Webb’s house last night. I believe that you were there when I arrived, and that you escaped by dressing yourself in a suit of his clothes—”
He stopped as she began to laugh softly.
“Really, Mr. Holland,” she said, “you’re the most amusing man I’ve ever met. What a ridiculous suggestion to make!”
“Is it ridiculous?” he asked. “Can you prove that what I’ve said isn’t true?”
“Can you prove that it is?” she retorted. “You’ve been reading too many detective stories. I had nothing to do with the murder. Why should I want to kill the poor man, anyhow? He was rather a bore, but that’s not a reasonable motive for killing him. I’m afraid, Mr. Holland, you’re wasting quite a lot of time over me!”
“If you weren’t at Webb’s house, how did your handkerchief come to be found in his bedroom?” he demanded.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Was it?” she said. “It sounds a little indelicate, anyway.”
He put his hand into his breast pocket and took out the little square of lace-edged linen.
“Isn’t that yours?” he asked.
She looked at it curiously.
“Yes, it’s one of mine,” she admitted. “But it has no initials. How could you tell?”
“I wasn’t certain until I entered this flat,” he answered. “But the scent of Sans Adieu is unmistakable—”
Again she interrupted him by laughing.
“My dear man,” she said, “quite half the women in London are using Sans Adieu. It’s the latest rage. I’ve been thinking of giving it up because it’s becoming too common. You may be a very good detective, but you don’t know much about the habits of women.” She smiled at him, her eyes alight with amusement, and he thought he had never seen anything more attractive.
“But this is yours?” he said, and she nodded.
“Yes. I’m afraid poor Mr. Webb must have been a trifle sentimental. Fancy taking my handkerchief as a souvenir. Or perhaps I’m misjudging him and dropped it in the car.”
Chapter Eight
The Man Who Came By Night
Jimmy Holland looked at the lovely mocking face of the girl before him and felt a little foolish. Here was an explanation for the presence of that handkerchief which had not occurred to him—an explanation, moreover, that was reasonable and likely. If it had been anyone else but the Angel he would have apologised and taken his leave there and then. But the rumours that had circulated about her must have some element of truth. The unimaginative men at the Yard were not in the habit of suspecting people without a just and tangible cause, and there was no doubt that her record was peculiar, to say the least of it.
“So that is your explanation,” he said quietly.
“It’s the only sensible one,” she answered. “Since I certainly did not take the handkerchief to Mr. Webb’s house, he must have taken it there himself.”
She was laughing at him. He saw the amusement in her eyes and was unusually embarrassed.
“You have a car, haven’t you?” he asked, and when she nodded, “What garage do you keep it at?”
“You take a lot of convincing,” she said. “It must be very unpleasant to have such a suspicious nature. Harker’s, in South Street. The telephone is beside you. Why not ring them up and ask if I took my car out last night, which is what you’re dying to know. It’ll ease your mind.”
She was quite safe in suggesting this, for the man who ran Harker’s was merely a nominee for herself, and he had received his instructions that morning.
Jimmy made a wry grimace, and then grinned.
“I don’t think I’ll bother, since you’re so pressing,” he said, rising to his feet. “I seem to have been barking up the wrong tree.”
“I think you have, rather,” she agreed. “All the same, I’m grateful to you. It’s been rather amusing.”
He left, carrying with him a memory of laughing grey eyes and a lovely mocking smile that was altogether charming and adorable. He called in to Harker’s all the same and put hit question, though he expected and received a negative answer.
The Angel left her flat a few minutes later and walked round to the garage for her car, and the man whom Jimmy had left for that specific purpose followed at a respectful distance. Mr. Harker, a red-faced sandy-haired man came forward from a small office to attend to her personally as she walked into the yard.
“Good-mornin’, miss,” he said, rubbing his grease-covered hands down the leg of an even greasier pair of overalls. “Want your car?”
“Yes, please,” she answered.
“Hi, Ginger! Miss Kesson wants ’er car,” yelled Mr. Harker and was answered by a muffled voice from under a big saloon.
“She’s been filled up,” said Mr. Harker, and then looking quickly about him added in a hoarse whisper: “There was a feller ’ere this mornin’ askin’ if you’d ’ad ’er out last night.”
“Oh, then he did come,” murmured the Angel.
“Yes, miss.” Mr, Harker nodded quickly. “ ’E didn’t get no change out ’o me, though,” he grinned, showing a row of broken yellow teeth.
“Presumably he’ll come again,” said the girl. “There’s a man outside now who’s followed me from the flat.”
Mr. Harker screwed up his eyes and stared at the entrance to the yard.
“I can’t see no one, miss,” he said.
“He’s there all the same.” said Angela calmly. “I hope he enjoys himself. He doesn’t worry me.”
‘Ginger’ appeared at that moment, a long, thin, weedy youth with a face that was black with oil.
“Shall I push the car out for you?” he inquired.
“Please,” said Angela. “Stick to your story, Tom,” she went on, turning again to Mr. Harker. “The car wasn’t out last night.”
“You bet your life I will, miss,” he said, “and so will my boy. We ain’t forgot, miss.”
She laid her hand on his arm.
“I know I can always rely on you, Tom,” she said, and moved away to climb into the car, which George had just brought out.
Mr. Harker watched the long machine and its dainty driver disappear out of the yard
, and turned to his son.
“That’s a girl in a million, boy,” he said. “That’s a real lady. There ain’t many like ’er, son. She’s got guts!”
The Angel lunched leisurely at the Chatham Grill and then drove slowly into Berkshire. She came presently to a small village as yet unspoiled by the ubiquitous builder, though there were signs that his encroachment would not be postponed for long, and negotiating the narrow streets, stopped her car near a tiny church that crowned the brow of the hill. It was an aged building, nestling amid an ancient graveyard to which curiously clipped yew-trees gave an old-world atmosphere.
The Angel stood for a moment or two by the lychgate, eyeing the scene wistfully and with an expression that had grown very soft; and then she opened the gate and passed through. It was very quiet and peaceful here in this old burial ground with the grass-grown mounds and crumbling stones. There was no one about, no sound except the twittering of the birds in the big oak-trees that had been old when the first grave had been dug. An air of peace and tranquility. London, with its bustle and rush and noise, seemed very distant—almost to belong to another age.
The girl walked slowly along the little path, started the church, and came to the more modern portion of the graveyard. Here, instead of grass were flowers, and the headstones were fresh and white. Here the crumbling dust that lay beneath was remembered, and perhaps mourned for a little time at least. Presently this part, too, would become neglected as memory faded. There would be no more flowers; the neat mounds would grow rank and weedy, and the brave monuments fall into decay. That was the real meaning of death, thought the Angel—to be forgotten.
“But I shall never forget!” she vowed silently. “I shall never forget!”
She came at last to a grave marked only by a simple cross. It was not a new grave, but it had been carefully tended. A sheaf of blood-red roses lay on the green turf—roses that were beginning to fade. The Angel stooped and picked up the dying blossoms, replacing them with the fresh ones she had brought.
And then she turned away and went back to the place where she had left her car. Her weekly task, which was a labour of love, was done.
The Angel Page 4