Mr Irwin, with a silent gesture, invited his visitors to seat themselves, and himself took his place in an armchair at the head of the long, solid mahogany table.
No one spoke. Mr Irwin waited, calm, impassive, grim, almost as if he had forgotten their presence. Yet his eyes were bright with a kind of burning watchfulness. For a man may control with absolute command every nerve and muscle in his body but never his eyes, where shines his soul. Penfold and Bobby waited for their senior officer. But Mitchell waited, too, for he knew that, so strong and strange a thing is silence, few of the light and chattering race of man can endure it for long. But plainly Paul Irwin was of the few, and Mitchell understood that he would sit there indefinitely with his impassive features and his burning eyes. Mitchell said:
‘I take it, Mr Irwin, you are aware that murder has been done to-night in the Brush Hill Central Cinema?’
The old man gave no sign that he had even heard, except, indeed, that he changed the direction of his fierce watchful gaze and fixed it upon Mitchell.
‘The victim is named Caroline Means,’ Mitchell went on. ‘I understand she was known to you and to your son, Leslie Irwin.’ He paused, but he might have been addressing a dead man or one totally deaf for all the impression his words seemed to have made. Mitchell continued: ‘In the room where the murder was committed, a hat, believed to be yours, was found.’
Still there was no reply; not so much as a quivering eyelid revealed that what had been said had been heard. Mitchell waited while, as it seemed to Bobby, interminable minutes passed. Then he said:
‘I think you heard me. May I request a reply?’
‘You have said nothing that calls for a reply,’ Mr Irwin answered then, as impassive as before. ‘You have made two statements. I do not challenge either. I have nothing to say.’
‘I believe you are a solicitor, Mr Irwin,’ Mitchell said. ‘May I remind you that a solicitor is himself in some sort an officer of the King’s justice, and has duties to perform – more so even than the ordinary citizen, who also has a duty to assist the police.’
But to this there was still no reply, only that fixed, unwavering, unchanging gaze that yet seemed somehow to tell of a tumult of fears and passions and desires held tremendously in check.
Mitchell got to his feet.
‘You are also a man,’ he said. ‘Murder has been done to-night – murder on a woman – a young girl. Do you refuse me your assistance?’
I have nothing to say,’ answered Irwin, each word, so to speak, throbbing with an intensity of suppressed emotion, yet an emotion of which there was still no least, outward sign.
‘I think I must remind you,’ Mitchell said formally, ‘that your adoption of such an attitude gives rise, naturally, to the gravest misgivings.’
‘His hat there, and him seen near the door as well,’ mumbled Penfold, even discipline unable to keep him silent longer or control his indignation.
To Mitchell it seemed that at this remark of Penfold’s old Mr Irwin’s tense expression wavered for an instant, into a momentary relief, only to harden again at once into immobility again. Swiftly Mitchell flashed another question.
‘Do you agree,’ he asked, ‘that your son, Leslie Irwin, was seen leaving Miss Mears’s room during the evening, that immediately afterwards he left the cinema, and that you followed him?’
This time Mitchell succeeded in obtaining an answer other than the perpetual ‘I have nothing to say,’ that hitherto had been Mr Irwin’s sole response.
‘Who told you that?’ he asked. ‘Mr Sargent, I suppose? If you ask him again, and if he answers truly, he will agree that, at the time, he both said and thought that Leslie was only in the act of opening the door to enter the room. Also he will agree that when my son saw us he closed it again without going in, or even looking in, and after that he immediately returned home.’
‘Did you follow him?’ Mitchell asked quickly.
But again Mr Irwin, as if regretting his outbreak, fell back upon his formula of ‘I have nothing to say,’ and, recognizing the uselessness of continuing, Mitchell said:
‘I think your son, Leslie Irwin, is in the house and awake. Can we see him?’
‘He is in the house, I believe. I do not know whether he is awake,’ Mr Irwin answered. ‘There is nothing that I know of to prevent you from seeing him. If you call to him up the stairs, I think it likely he will hear you.’
Mitchell thought so, too. He thought it likely the young man, who must have heard their arrival, was not only awake but listening. He muttered an order to Bobby, who left the room for the hall, and at the bottom of the stairs called softly:
‘Is Mr Leslie Irwin there? If so, will he please come down?’
That the young man had been waiting and listening was evident, for at once he appeared, coming with a quick, hurried nervousness down the stairs and across to the diningroom, the door whereof Bobby was holding open for him.
Like his father he was tall and of slender build, and in feature he bore him a strong resemblance, though a resemblance curiously softened. It was as though Nature, in taking the elder man for a model had wished to introduce an element of beauty, but had been able to do so only at the cost of introducing also weakness and indecision. The bright, fierce steady eyes of the father were equally bright in the son, but with a soft and gentle, almost timid, brightness, and were veiled by exquisitely long and curling lashes. The nose, equally well-shaped, had lost its aggressiveness. The mouth, in the older man set in such hard, straight lines, showed in the younger yielding curves above a dimpled and receding chin that was almost ludicrously different from old Mr Irwin’s; square, determined, and forward thrusting. None the less the likeness was very marked, and if the boy showed none of his parent’s grimly resolute air, as of one who would yield not even in trifles, yet still Leslie did somehow in his manner suggest an innate wilfulness, and even obstinacy, that told he would not readily give up anything he wanted. Possibly the essential difference between them was, however, that what the father willed he would always will till he had achieved, but the son’s will would be much more fluid, various, and changeable.
And Mitchell thought to himself that the strain they only too plainly both endured showed itself characteristically in each: in the father by a grim and almost sullen silence and watchfulness, in the son by the haggard, worn expression of his features, and in a redness and inflammation of the eyes that suggested recent tears.
It was on Leslie, as he came into the room, that both Penfold and Bobby concentrated their attention, trying to form an estimate of his character, and noting his distressed and haggard look and the extreme nervousness he seemed to show. But Mitchell chiefly watched Paul, and how a glow of tenderness and love and pity seemed for an instant to transform his features, melting momentarily through the mask of his impassivity and then vanishing again.
‘Come in, Leslie, my son,’ he said, but so softly it is doubtful whether any of them but Mitchell heard him.
Leslie did not. His father’s words went, for him, unheard. He stood in the doorway, facing them, for Bobby had gone back to his place and his notebook. Leslie looked at the three police officers in turn with a kind of angry defiance, clenching his fists, squaring his shoulders a little, as if he would have liked to fling himself on all three of them in physical conflict. He stared across at his father with a mingled expression of dread and challenge of which Mitchell could understand nothing. He had seen a man in the dock look at the judge on the bench like that, dreading him, and yet defiant of all he could do. Very loudly, but not too steadily, Leslie said:
‘I don’t care what you think. I didn’t do it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Obstinate Silence
The words sounded clear and strange in the heaviness of that oppressive room. No one answered, and Mitchell, watching Paul Irwin closely, and seeing that he allowed no sign to show on his impassive, unmoved countenance that he had even heard his son, thought it certain that all this had been discussed between
them previously – that the unchanging features of the elder man, the reddened eyes and twitching nervous mouth of the younger, both testified to some scene of high emotion that had recently taken place between them.
‘They knew,’ Mitchell thought. ‘How did they know?’
At the same moment Bobby leaned across to him, and whispered:
‘They’ve been talking it over. They’ve been getting ready for us.’
Mitchell nodded, and Leslie left his place by the door and flung himself down in an empty chair near the fireplace. He said:
‘Well, now then.’
‘Mr Irwin,’ Mitchell said to him. ‘No one has accused you–’
‘What’s the use of talking like that?’ Leslie snarled, interrupting. ‘When a lot of bobbies turn up after... after – My God!’ – he broke off into a kind of low wail – ‘it’s awful... awful.’
‘You know what has happened?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Carrie’s been murdered,’ Leslie said, staring at him. ‘Murdered,’ he repeated, as if trying to understand the significance of the word. More collectedly, and even with a certain dignity, he added: ‘I loved her, and some day we were going to marry.’ Then, in the same jerky manner, he turned to his father. ‘Well, now then, it won’t happen now,’ he said very bitterly. ‘So that’s all right, isn’t it?’
But not so much as the quivering of an eyelash showed that Paul Irwin had heard. Mitchell asked:
‘I believe you left the cinema before the discovery was made. Do you mind explaining how and when you heard.”
‘Good Lord,’ retorted Leslie impatiently, ‘all Brush Hill heard within two minutes. I heard some people going by outside here talking about it. Then my father came in and told me.’
Almost simultaneously Paul said:
‘I was walking home. Someone passing called out to me – it was someone who knew me; more people know me in Brush Hill than I know. He called out that a girl at the Central Cinema had been killed. I went back. There was a crowd outside, talking about it. I came back here and told Leslie.’
When they had spoken, father and son exchanged strange glances; both Mitchell and Bobby saw, and wondered what might be their meaning. Leslie noticed how they were looking at him, and looked back angrily:
‘Well, now then, if you want to run me in, why don’t you?’ he demanded.
‘We are only making preliminary inquiries,’ Mitchell answered. ‘There is not sufficient evidence as yet to justify action. But I am bound to say that refusal to answer questions, refusal to help–’
‘Who is refusing to help you?’ Leslie interrupted angrily.
‘I’ll help you all I can. I’m perfectly ready to tell you everything. You can believe it or not, just as you like. I don’t care. Everyone knows I wanted to marry Carrie. I called for her to-night in a taxi. I took her to the cinema. Heaps of people saw me. I hadn’t told father. He thought I was going to a lecture at the Birkbeck. Well, I didn’t. That s all. I went to the Central instead. Then I saw dad there. So I thought I had better clear out. I didn’t want another row just then, and I rather hoped he hadn’t noticed me. I told Carrie, earlier on, I should have to get away quick so as to turn up at home as if I had come straight from the Birkbeck, so I knew she wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t stop.’
Do you mind telling me where you were, and what you were doing, when Mr Paul Irwin saw you?’ Mitchell asked.
‘I was just opening the door of Carrie’s room. I wanted to see her. Some of them were saying things about her.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘They were all jealous of her; it was all a lot of lies just because of that. But I wanted to ask her about it. They said she had let one of the other girls down somehow. I went back to her room to ask her.’
‘You knew which was her room, then?’
Of course I did. I couldn’t have gone there if I hadn’t. It was Sargent’s own private office. They had managed to forget her somehow when they were assigning accommodation to the competitors, and they had to ask her to make shift with Sargent’s office because there was no room anywhere else. The whole thing was a muddle. Sargent couldn’t run an afternoon-tea-party without messing it up. I was just going in to speak to her when I saw dad, with Mr Sargent, at the other end of the passage. It was a bit of a startler, because dad never went near places like that, and he and Sargent had been going for each other over the Sunday-opening question. Well, I didn’t want a row there, with Carrie and everyone listening, so I cleared out home – that’s all. Then dad came, and told me...’
He paused, nearly breaking down. Mitchell waited till the boy had gained his self-control once more, and then asked: I understand that was the first you had heard of what had happened?’
‘Yes, it was. Except that I heard some people talking outside here, but I didn’t know what they meant. Of course, if I had done it I should have known all about it, shouldn’t I? Only I didn’t.’
Mitchell took no notice of this outburst, but continued: ‘You tell me you hoped Miss Mears would consent to marry you. Does that mean there was an understanding between you, but no formal engagement?’
‘Yes. We were waiting. She said we must wait till I was more settled, and she was, too. She wanted to get a start on the films, and, then, I don’t get my money till I’m twenty-five. If she had once got a start she would have made a big hit – couldn’t help it, not with her looks. Our idea was I would be her manager, and write things for her and produce them.’ He was looking at his father as he said this, angrily and defiantly. Evidently it was the first time he had ventured to tell of such hopes and ambitions for the future, only now that they could no longer be realized. He added: ‘I had to wait till I was twenty-five before I got my money, and, besides, she said I must pass my final, too. She thought it would be such a help, when I was manager for her, if I had been admitted a solicitor.’
‘No doubt,’ agreed Mitchell. ‘This money you speak of... is that a legacy?’
‘Yes – two thousand; an uncle left it me – mother’s brother. I get it when I’m twenty-five. I haven’t a farthing of my own till then. I ought to have had it when I came of age, of course,’ he added, still staring defiantly at his father, who neither confirmed nor denied, but remained as before, impassive, unmoved, and attentive.
‘There had been some sort of discussion about this legacy?’ Mitchell suggested.
‘Dad wouldn’t let me have it, if that’s what you mean, Leslie answered sullenly, and again his father neither confirmed nor denied. Leslie continued: ‘Dad’s Trustee. There’s a clause about my having it “for good and substantial cause, at the trustee’s discretion,” any time after I came of age. Dad said there was no “good and substantial cause.” When I’m twenty-five, I get it all right – only, he can still hold it back for the same “good and substantial cause.” Of course, that’s all right; no one could call it a good and substantial cause for keeping me out of my money that I want to get married. But it was enough to prevent my getting any advance on it from the bank or anyone. And Carrie said we must just wait, and it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to be formally engaged. But we were going to be – she promised that – if she won the competition and was able to go to Hollywood.’
‘Was that part of the prize?’ Mitchell asked. ‘A trip to Hollywood?’
‘No,’ answered Leslie, hesitating, and uncomfortable in a way Mitchell noticed but did not understand. ‘No. But that was the idea. If she went there as the Brush Hill Beauty Queen, she would have been sure of a trial, anyhow – and that was all she wanted. She would have managed it somehow – getting there, I mean.’
Mitchell was beginning to look worried again, and his fingers started once more their drumming, this time upon the arm of his chair. He said:
‘Do you know a Mr Claude Maddox?’
‘Claude Maddox? Yes, of course – everyone does, the way he splashes his money about. We were at the grammar-school together, and then he went out to Brazil or somewhere. He s got
a good job, and he had his money given him all right the very day he came of age.’
‘Liberal, extravagant young gentleman?’ Mitchell asked.
‘1 suppose he can afford – all the girls fall for him – the way he stands treat. Carrie didn’t, though.’
No? He wasn’t at the cinema to-night, was he?’
“ No. Carrie had just turned him down, so I expect he felt a bit sick and kept away. Treated some other girl to a supper at the Savoy, most likely.’
‘Is it likely he and Miss Mears were engaged?’
Good Lord, no! Didn’t I tell you she had just turned him down? Of course, he tried to cut everyone else out with her, but it didn’t work that time. His office was near where she worked, and he used to see her sometimes in Town. That’s all.’
Miss Mears was a young lady with many admirers?’
‘Of course – everyone almost; quite middle-aged, old chaps sometimes. She used to tell me about them. But Maddox was only one of the crowd.’
‘Do you mind telling me what makes you say Miss Mears had just turned him down?’
‘Well, she had, that’s all. She told me so herself. To-day. She met him in the dinner-hour in Town, and she told him right out she didn’t want anything more to do with him.’
‘Was Mr Sargent one of her admirers?’
‘I dare say. I don’t know. Everybody was.’
‘Do you know if he had promised to help her get a start acting for the films? Or if they ever had dinner together in Town?’
‘No, I’m sure they hadn’t. Of course not, Carrie wouldn’t – not Sargent. Besides, he’s married already. Got kids, too. Someone been telling you that? Well, you can take it from me it’s a lie.’
‘You and Mr Maddox were at school together,’ Mitchell went on, ignoring this. ‘Did you keep friendly afterwards?’
‘Yes, we were pals all the time till he went abroad for his firm. He used to come here a lot, and do carpentry and so on in the attic. He had no place at home, and I had a workshop upstairs. He used it like his own.’
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