by Leo Bruce
“What about the brother, Bertrand Rafter?”
“I don’t know anything about him. They say he’s very quiet. He never comes in here. Well, if it’s true what they say he can’t very well. See, he’s living with that young secretary of his. I don’t know why they don’t get married. They’ve been together a long time, now. I tell you who does come in sometimes, though. That’s young Dalbinney. He can’t be more than twenty-one or so and they say he’s ever so clever. Has a lot to say for himself, anyway. Books and that.”
“He wasn’t here on the evening we’re talking about, was he?”
“I wonder. I can’t be sure, really. I don’t think he was, else I’d have remembered. Unless that was him talking to Mr Stringer over there. No, that was another night. I’m sure he wasn’t in, was he, Vivienne? Young Dalbinney? On the night that fellow was murdered?”
“I really couldn’t say,” said Vivienne without much feeling.
“I don’t think so, anyway,” said Doris, dismissing the matter. “Are you going to have lunch in the hotel? They’ve got sheeps’ hearts on today.”
“I might,” said Carolus, thinking this was the end of Doris’s confidences, at any rate for the moment.
“You’ll enjoy them. Our cook does them ever so nicely. And I’ll try and think of anything else I can tell you. Oh! There was one thing I didn’t like. When he first came in—this fellow who was murdered, I mean—while he was sober he paid with a note pulled from his pocket case. A small case it was, the folding kind, that he took from his hip pocket. But when he’d had a few of those large whiskies he pulled out an envelope full of money and paid from that. It looked like a lot of money to me and I didn’t like it, with him having had a lot to drink.”
“Did you say anything?”
“No. It wasn’t for me to say anything. I didn’t think any more about it, really.”
“Have you told anyone else this?”
“No. I’ve only just remembered it. And the way those police spoke to anyone I shouldn’t have told them whatever happened.”
“An envelope?”
“Yes. Just an ordinary envelope. He kept it up in his breast pocket. I think there was some writing on it.”
“Did anyone else see it?”
“I don’t think they could have done. Not here, anyway. There was no one near him at the time.”
“Did you know everyone who came to the bar that night?”
“Pretty well. I didn’t know who Miss Rafter was at the time, but I heard after. There was no one out of the ordinary in that evening.”
It was three weeks since the murder, yet Carolus felt very close to it. The splendid little Doris could obviously think about nothing else and had been remarkably observant. Then Carolus was occupying the room in which Rafter was to have slept and drinking in the bar in which he had spent his last evening. This afternoon, moreover, Carolus intended to walk down to the shelter on the promenade in which the body was found. That time had passed since the murder was unimportant. Carolus felt, as he had intended to feel, in the thick of it.
More so when after lunch he set out for a walk along the promenade. There was a direct road called Carter Street from the Queen Victoria hotel to the sea as he had noticed when he had driven over it this morning. Carolus took it and reached what he took to have been the point at which Rafter was hesitating when the policeman saw him. Nothing whatever could be deduced from that hesitation. He could have been merely wondering, in a half-drunken stupor, whether to turn left or right, or he could have been debating in which direction the last shelter lay if he had made an appointment to meet someone there. Or just getting his breath.
At all events he had turned right and Carolus did the same. There had been a strong wind against Rafter, he remembered, and very few people about. Today there was a last streak of pale sunlight on the sea and it was cold. He passed a number of people well wrapped up who seemed to be taking their exercise seriously.
Ahead of him he counted four shelters, about two hundred yards apart, so that the last was nearly half a mile away. It would have taken Rafter at least ten minutes, in that wind, to reach it. The first two shelters were fairly well occupied but, by the time he reached the third, people passed less frequently, and in the shelter only two people sat looking rather chilly.
Beyond it no one seemed to be walking. The road dividing the promenade from the houses which overlooked the sea now curved inland, leaving a long triangular garden between it and the promenade. This garden broadened out till by the time Carolus reached the last shelter he was thirty yards or so from the road. The garden had iron railings and before approaching the shelter Carolus turned in to it and spoke to a man working there.
“Is this garden loogked at night? “he asked.
“How many more times?” asked the man. “If I’ve been asked that question once I’ve been asked it a score of times since this murder’s happened. Yes, I lock it myself every evening at eight in winter and ten in summer. Never do to leave it open. You’d be surprised what they get up to if a garden’s open at night.”
“No I shouldn’t,” said Carolus truthfully. “It was locked on the night this man was killed?”
“Certainly it was. That’s not to say someone couldn’t have popped over the iron railings if he was a bit nippy. It’s been done before. We had a lot of plants stolen last year.”
“You’ve no reason to think anyone did so that night?”
“No, I haven’t. The police was examining all along the railings and in the flower-beds and that. I don’t know whether they found anything. They don’t say. But I saw no sign of it having been got into. If this murderer was the sort of Jack the Ripper I think he was …”
“Surely you’re thinking of Spring-heeled Jack?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant to say. It wouldn’t have been much trouble to him to nip over.”
It would not, thought Carolus, and, again not approaching the shelter, he crossed to the railings on the other side, below which was the beach.
Here, too there would be no difficulty. The pebbles were perhaps four feet below the level of the promenade and anyone, even a determined woman or elderly man, could have made that descent, then crept along under the promenade wall till he wished to climb up again. But why? It was dark and the murderer was, presumably, alone. Why not walk openly back?
At last he came to the shelter itself. He did not know exactly where the murdered man had been found and it did not matter. It was the situation of the shelter which interested him rather than its interior. Quite alone, nearly a hundred yards from a house, beyond the usual limits of pedestrians’ passage even in daylight and almost certain to be deserted on a dark windy night, it was the ideal place for a carefully planned murder. Retreat from it afterwards was easy.
There was something eerie about it, here in the fading light with the sea roaring grimly not many yards away and the harsh scream of sea-gulls audible. Whoever had chosen this place had imagination of a macabre sort and a taste for the dramatic.
Carolus stood gazing at the shelter and the beginnings of a notion came to him.
7
SINCE Carolus had been ‘called in’ by Mrs Dalbinney he decided to see her that afternoon. He found Prince Albert Mansions easily enough, a mighty piece of
masonry occupying one side of an open square. He went up to the first floor and found Mrs Dalbinney wearing something that he believed was called an ‘afternoon frock’ or a ‘tea gown’. Her sustained gentility rather irritated him. He longed to say something vulgar. But he held his tea-cup and nodded gravely while she talked.
“Actually, Mr Deene, we do not feel that your intervention is necessary now in view of the exorbitant fees you mentioned. The whole unpleasant matter seems to be evaporating.”
“Evaporating?”
“The police have asked us no further questions and the unfortunate gossip in the town has subsided. We begin to think that it may be better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Your lat
e brother Ernest being the sleeping dog, I take it?”
Mrs Dalbinney looked rather haughty.
“I was speaking figuratively,” she said. “I meant that this very disagreeable incident will soon be forgotten.”
“You don’t want to know who killed your brother?”
“You seem anxious to stress the relationship. We wish to forget it.”
“I don’t think that will be possible until the murderer has been discovered and tried. At all events you have asked me to investigate and I intend to do so. So let’s start with your own movements on the night of the crime.”
Mrs Dalbinney flushed.
“I find that remark in extremely poor taste,” she said. “I have already given the police any such information as they require.”
“Then you won’t mind repeating it to me. I understand you went to the cinema with your sister?”
It did not seem to occur to Mrs Dalbinney to wonder what was the source of this information.
“What could be more pointless than a recital of my movements on that evening, Mr Deene? You are in search of a murderer, I think? Perhaps you suggest that I was walking about with a coal-hammer and that I attacked my brother with it?”
“I have formed no opinions at all. But I do seriously recommend you to answer my question. If I am to accomplish anything for the fees you are going to disburse I must know these details.”
Mrs Dalbinney seemed to struggle with herself for a moment.
“It’s too ridiculous,” she said at last. “I haven’t the least objection to the whole world knowing, but … Oh very well. I went to the pictures with my sister Emma.”
“At what time?”
“We met at seven-thirty.”
“Where?”
“In the foyer of the Palatine Cinema.”
“That is on the front, I think?”
“It overlooks the sea, yes.”
“You go often?”
“De temps en temps. I find television tiresome and vulgar.”
“But not the cinema? What film did you see?”
“Actually, something rather macabre. The Black Island. There was a shorter film with it. Perhaps you would like to know that we came out at ten o’clock and returned here….”
“Immediately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you come straight here from the cinema, Mrs Dalbinney?”
Mrs Dalbinney rose.
“No, Mr Deene,” she said in a satirically dramatic fashion. “No, I first marched along the promenade with a coal-hammer in my hand and murdered my brother with it! Are you satisfied with that?”
“No, I’m not. I’d like to know if you came straight here.”
“Of course I did. Now please don’t be ridiculous. I have never walked along the promenade at night in my life.”
“Did anyone see you return?”
“My sister came with me.”
“No one else?”
“I really have not the slightest idea.”
“Was your son in when you returned?”
“He was not up. Whether or not he was in bed I cannot say. I do not invigilate my son’s movements.”
“No. Of course not. You did not go out again that night?”
“Out? Certainly not. My sister stayed here for the night. She frequently does so.”
“There’s a question I must ask you and everyone else even remotely connected with the case. Have you ever had in your house a heavy hammer like the one used by the murderer?”
“Really, Mr Deene, I cannot be expected to know what tools may or may not be about the house. I have certainly never noticed such a thing.”
Carolus seemed to consider for a moment, then brought out a very different question.
“Do you know a man named Lobbin? “he asked.
Mrs Dalbinney’s manner changed.
“Why do you ask me that?”
“I just wondered,” said Carolus. This was perfectly true. He wanted to prolong his catechism because he felt the woman was not being frank, and had hit on this name as the first local one that occurred to him.
“Has someone been gossiping maliciously?”
“I don’t know. What do you know of Lobbin?”
Mrs Dalbinney looked uncomfortable.
“Mr Deene,” she said. “I have found your questions silly and impertinent but I believe you have some pretensions to being a gentleman. If you have been told anything relating to myself and the Lobbins I trust you will treat it with the contempt it deserves.”
“I will when I know the truth of the matter. What is it?”
“I will give you my confidence. Lobbin’s wife is a most offensive woman. Most offensive. Some months ago there was an incident of a very humiliating kind. I would prefer to forget it but since you have apparently heard something of it you had better know the truth.”
“I should like to.”
“Lobbin himself is a harmless individual, clumsy, tactless and of course without the instincts of a gentleman. But he meant no harm. He asked me if he might call on me to give me some information which he thought would interest me. I gave him permission to do so and one evening at six o’clock he came here. Most unfortunately, as it happened, no one was with me. It is impossible to find domestic servants now and I have only a daily woman. I was alone here.
“Lobbin, of course, behaved with complete propriety, gave me his information and went away. But under the stress of the nagging of his wife he apparently revealed to her that he had made this call and she, either from stupidity or design, put a most monstrous interpretation on it. She arrived here on the following evening and demanded to see me. My daily woman, who fortunately stayed late that day, with the greatest courage told her I was out but she forced her way into this room and began to say the most unspeakable things.”
“Such as?”
“I should not dream of repeating them. Had I wished to make it a police court action she would have been heavily fined or sent to prison, but of course I could do nothing of the sort. She actually suggested that there had been something improper between her husband and me.”
Carolus succeeded in suppressing a smile.
“Really!” he said.
“It would not be the first time, she shouted in coarse and ringing tones, that she had discovered her husband’s infidelities. Can you imagine anything so sordid? And this was supposed to relate to me! To me, Mr Deene. I was too angry to speak. Eventually my daily woman, who showed the greatest resource, ran down and fetched the night porter.”
“Vivienne’s husband,” said Carolus.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“The night porter, a large and serious-minded man, was able to remove the woman from this apartment and I gave orders that she should never again be admitted, even to the hall downstairs.”
“You haven’t been troubled again?”
“Not directly. But I gather that this woman’s venomous tongue has continued to spread the vilest slanders. I have consulted my brother Locksley Rafter, who is a solicitor. He came to see me about it quite recently. Actually, on the afternoon of the day on which this wretched man was found murdered.”
“I see. Now what I should like to know, Mrs Dalbinney, was the nature of the information Lobbin brought to you that day.”
“Why? What possible relevance can that have?”
“Difficult to say. But I should like to hear it.”
Mrs Dalbinney paused.
“You may not believe me, Mr Deene, but I must tell you that this is the first time I have realized that it may have some relevance, for it concerned my brother Ernest, whom I then believed to be dead.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. It appeared that Lobbin had been a prisoner of war with him and they had undergone forced labour together on the notorious Burma Road. He remembered my brother well. The name ‘Rafter’ is an unusual one. The family goes back to Plantagenet times when a certain Simon de
Rafter or de Raefter …”
“Yes, yes. Very interesting. Didn’t Lobbin at once recognize the name when he heard it?”
“He did not connect it. He would naturally not associate a man such as he had known with the members of my family.”
“I see.”
“But someone eventually told him that we had lost a brother in the East during the war and he decided to tell me what he remembered of him.”
“And what did he remember?”
“It is an old story, Mr Deene, and a disgraceful one. I suppose every family like ours with a long record of public service and a distinguished name has some skeleton in the cupboard and I’m sorry to say my brother Ernest was ours. What Lobbin told me only confirmed what I already knew. My brother Ernest betrayed his fellow-prisoners to the Japanese. He was a collaborator.”
“It must have been dreadful for you to learn that,” said Carolus sincerely.
“It was indeed, particularly for my brothers, who both distinguished themselves in the war; Bertrand in the CMP became a Provost Marshal and Locksley was in the Judge Advocate’s department. But we knew about Ernest fifteen years ago and had had time to forget it. One black sheep in such a flock is understandable.”
“And Lobbin confirmed it?”
“Eventually, yes. He started by trying as it were to gild the pill but I told him frankly that we were aware of my brother’s treachery, on which he told me an extraordinary story. Ernest, it must be understood, spoke some Japanese. Before the war he had gone to Tokyo to represent his firm and had picked up a fair knowledge of the language. From the moment of his capture he showed himself willing to give the Japanese any information he had. This might not have been so serious since as a mere NCO he could not, perhaps, give them much very valuable information. But it went further than that. He was put among other prisoners for the very purpose of spying on them and reporting their movements to the enemy. This went on for a considerable time until his fellow prisoners became suspicious. They watched him and were convinced that he was a source of information to their captors. When they had sufficient proof of this, they decided to kill him.