Rider was busy with a fork in a bed containing tall, blue-flowered plants. He uprooted several of them, examined them, appeared satisfied and chopped-off the flowers and foliage. The remaining roots he bore-off to the small workshop which Mellalieu had already visited.
The policeman watched all the operations intently, his mouth open, his brows contracted in concentration. He remained deep in thought whilst Rider locked the laboratory again, washed his hands indoors and then made-off for the village, apparently on some errand or other. At length, a great truth seemed to dawn on the mind of the watcher. He caught his breath, made whistling noises to himself and said “By gor!” He pondered again, heavily and profoundly, and seemed to make up his mind. First he felt in his trousers pocket and took out an instrument which he had made from a metal meat-skewer in the secrecy of his tool-shed last evening when his wife was out. If the London chap could use a pick-lock, why shouldn’t he? Carefully he reconnoitred the premises. There was nobody about.
Mellalieu took a final furtive look around and then moved rapidly towards the workshop…
Meanwhile, Littlejohn halted outside Mrs. Congreve’s cottage. There was a notice in the window: washing done here. He knocked and the door was opened after sounds of bumping and scuffling behind it. A blast of hot, steamy air met Littlejohn, and Mrs. Congreve followed it.
The professional daily-help and washerwoman was small and fat with a figure like a sack tied in the middle. She seemed to roll rather than walk and had a pleasant round red face with twinkling eyes. As good-humoured a woman as you could wish to meet on a day’s march. And that with a husband who’d hardly done a day’s work since he married her. He was supposed to be ailing, but nobody knew the nature of his complaint. He hung about the village centre all day, propping-up the front of The Mortal Man or watching the goings-on of the place with little crafty eyes. But at night he would return and threaten to do all kinds of horrible things to Mrs. Congreve for no reason whatever. Her insurance lay, however, in being the goose that laid the golden eggs for him.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Congreve wheezily, for her labours combined with the tightness of her corsage impeded her respiration. She did not at first ask Littlejohn his business. She assumed that he had called to bespeak her for next week’s washing. She continued ironing during most of the interview, for that was the principal thing she knew about and it kept fully occupied what bit of brain she owned. She knew nothing about the war, politics or the national effort, but she could wash linens white and iron better than any laundry with its fancy new-fangled machinery!
Mrs. Congreve raised various articles of intimate lingerie from a large clothes-basket and spread them on her operating table with shameless abandon. It was obvious that they belonged to somebody else! She was using a flat-iron and two more were heating on the glowing embers in the grate. Each time she took up a fresh iron, she rubbed it on the hearthrug and spat on it. The spittle hissed, formed a bead, and rolled-off on to the floor. Whereat, she seemed technically content and with a flourish and a bump, set about her pressing, groaning as she laid her weight on the delicate silks and linens.
Littlejohn took from his pocket the sock which had been fished-out of Daft Dick’s well with Bates. It was of fine navy-blue wool with a white clock on the outer side of it.
“Ever seen that before, Mrs. Congreve?” he asked.
“Where you get that there from?” demanded the woman and with a pair of silk pyjama-trousers dangling on her fat arm, she approached and took up the sock.
“Do you know whose it is, Mrs. Congreve?”
“Certainly I do. I got the partner to it in me rag-bag. Brought it away with a lot of cast-offs from Mr. Rider’s. I darns ’is socks for ’im and them ’at’s past mendin’ he let me keep for floorcloths…”
Judging from the good condition of the particular sock in hand, it looked as if Mrs. Congreve rather hurried the natural course of wearing-out.
“…But Congreve can wear socks ’at’s long past Mr. Rider’s tastes. Was I mad when I finds-out that one of the pair as I’d throwed out ’ad vanished? Was I mad? ’Unted high and low but couldn’t find it nowhere, search as I might. Couldn’t ask Mr. Rider if he’d seen it, o’ course, him not bein’ interested.”
Under normal conditions, Rider would probably have been very interested to learn how socks were transferred from his own feet to those of Congreve!
“Where’s this other sock then, I’d like to borrow it?”
The truth seemed to dawn suddenly on the daily-help.
“Where you got that there sock from?” she said with undue ferocity. Then without waiting for an answer she continued.
“Borrer an old sock! Wot next? Excuse me keeping on ironin’. Promised these things to Miss Cockayne before tea…”
And she set about the pyjama jacket with a will.
“The other sock was found down the well with the body of the dead man in Daft Dick’s allotment. I want the other of the pair. Find it, please. I’m the police officer in charge of the case.”
“Perlice!” whispered Mrs. Congreve, turned pale and clutched her ironing-table for support. “I didn’t steal them socks, mister. They were given to me…only yesterday…that is, only yesterday I brought away the one for a cleanin’ rag. Couldn’t find the other. I’m an honest woman, I am. Anybody in the village’ll give me character…”
“All right, calm yourself. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. I only want to get this matter clear. You put aside a pair of socks—of which this I have here was one—at Mr. Rider’s to bring home. Later, when you went for them, one was missing and you couldn’t find it. So you brought one only for a floor-rag or something. That it?”
“Yes, mister, that’s it without a word of a lie and strike me dead if I’m not tellin’ the truth.”
“Well then, please find me the sock you brought home with you.”
Mrs. Congreve rolled to a cupboard, brought out a large canvas bag and turned-out its contents on the oak settle. Pieces of old cloth, rags, string, coloured bits of wool, a mangled pair of corsets…Mrs. Congreve rummaged feverishly among them. No sock came to light.
“I know I ’ad it…good for nothing but me rag-bag, not havin’ a marrer one to make a pair. Where is it now…?”
She was almost in tears. She pondered heavily in a bothered fashion.
“Surely Congreve’s not got it on…! surely…!” she said at length.
“Where is he? Hurry please, Mrs. Congreve. This is most important.”
“He’ll be in the square sunnin’ himself, like as not…”
Littlejohn waited no longer. He didn’t know Congreve from Adam, but inquiries brought the man to light. We will not waste time on the idle good-for-nothing. He isn’t worth it. But he had on Rider’s old sock. On the other foot, a grey plus-four stocking from somewhere! Congreve didn’t care. He was no dandy. Suffice to say that he was persuaded with the help of half-a-crown to retire behind the yard-door of The Mortal Man and remove the hose from a foot which didn’t seem to have seen soap and water since its creation.
Littlejohn compared the sock he had in his pocket with that he had obtained from the disgusting Congreve, who ran like a hare to drink away his spoils after shedding it.
The two articles made a pair. The clock of the one from the well was on the outside-left; the other was on the outside-right.
Littlejohn decided forthwith to go to Olstead, pick up Gillibrand and a warrant, and then visit Rider at once.
On the way to the ’bus, he met Mellalieu, returning, well-satisfied from his snooping exhibition. The constable became very loquacious, for a change, and poured out a long tale in Littlejohn’s ear.
“I’m just off to see Inspector Gillibrand at Olstead, Mellalieu, so keep an eye on Rider whilst I’m away. I’ll not be long,” said Littlejohn.
Mellalieu felt that he had something to do at last. Very elated
, he returned to his cottage for a drink of tea before resuming his vigil.
“Wot you been at again?” asked his wife in her usual fashion as he entered looking very pleased with himself.
“Ask no questions, missis, and you’ll be told no lies. It’s official business. Confidential. ’Ighly confidential.”
Mellalieu was surprised at his own audacity. So was his wife. She threw him a momentary glance full of respect. It is a pity he didn’t see it, otherwise he might have followed it up with a still more masterly attack and established himself as domestic boss once and for all.
Chapter XX
Deductions
You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you.
—Act V. Sc. I.
At the police headquarters in Olstead, Littlejohn met
Gillibrand and together they interviewed the Chief Constable, Colonel Twiss.
The latter had at one time been a colonial administrator and during his period of office, had allowed a native to be wrongly sentenced for a crime which, it turned out later, he had never done. So, Colonel Twiss was inclined to be ultra-cautious.
“Mustn’t do anythin’ rash and bring the damned whirlwind round our ears,” he said. “Better have it cast-iron before we act.”
“I think we can trust Littlejohn for that, sir,” said Gillibrand loyally. He had been putting-up with this sort of thing for years and sometimes it affected him like a strange nightmare in which for every step he took forward, his feet slipped two back. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Littlejohn stretched his legs and began.
“The preamble to this case is pure surmise…”
“Tcha, tcha, tcha,” said Colonel Twiss and made gestures across his face as though trying to wash it with one hand.
“…The facts come later to clinch the theory. First, the Bates affair. Bates having robbed a London bank makes for cover in the country and arrives at Stalden. He’s heard of the place as the home of a famous unorthodox bonesetter, whose technique has done wonders. The newspapers have been full of it at times. Squabbles with the orthodox school; certain bold practitioners being choked off by their colleagues for aiding and abetting Wall: celebrities cured of complaints the rest couldn’t touch. It’s all been in the news. Bates has an idea. Why not change in himself the principal means of his identification given by the police? A deformed arm and a broken nose.”
The Chief Constable blew out his cheeks and Gillibrand winked encouragingly at his colleague.
“How to persuade Wall to harbour him, an escaping criminal, however? Bates is in luck. In gaol he’s heard from a buddy who’s given him chapter and verse of an illegal operation with which Wall’s nephew is connected. This relative is a qualified man and Wall is as proud of him as if he’d been his own son. Bates makes the most of this in persuading the old fellow to do as he wishes. And here again, he’s lucky. Young Dr. Wall and his father, Nathaniel Wall’s partner, are on a cruise somewhere and can’t be contacted. Perhaps on the other hand, old Wall was so out of it in his little village immersed in his work, that he didn’t know who Bates was, or not until he’d become too far involved in harbouring him or in performing an operation on him. He did the job; not very successful in the case of the nose, but almost a complete cure of the arm. The surgeon who examined the dead body will tell you that. The result seems to have been that Bates was given a new lease of life and freedom and the police didn’t nab him.
“We know that Bates was mixed-up in a counterfeiting racket before his spell in gaol. He was a skilled engraver. Probably when released, he was so hard-up that bank-raiding was all he could think of. After he’d finished with Wall, he managed to make contact with another gang of forgers, this time on an international scale. The head man kept himself in the background. He eventually hid himself in Stalden, whether at Bates’s recommendation or not, we can’t say. He took a cottage and there, posing as a writer, engraved the plates which were sent to London for use, by way of an accommodation address at Seven Sisters Road. That man was Rider.”
The Chief Constable cleared his throat noisily, thrust his hands deep into his pockets and paced about the room like a caged tiger.
“Pure surmise, Littlejohn. Pure surmise!” he said explosively.
“Not quite, sir. We’ve traced parcels, presumably containing engraved plates, passing between Rider and the Seven Sisters address. The postmistress at Stalden has produced the records to bear it out. Furthermore, Bates was the go-between for Rider and the gang and picked up the parcels at Seven Sisters Road. The proprietor of the newsagency which constituted the accommodation address there, has given a recognizable description of him. The police laid hands on several of the small fry of the gang, but the big fish, Rider and Bates, kept clear of the net. And whilst they were free, the rest wouldn’t talk; so you can guess the fear they’d instilled into them. The war and the cutting of continental communications, as well as the tightening of regulations, finally put them out of business.”
“Urumph, urumph…still a bit vague, eh?”
“Now let’s get down to more tangible matters.”
“Rider became engaged to Miss Cockayne, of whom old Mr. Wall was very fond. In fact, he was almost her self-appointed guardian. Wall, probably rightly, imagined that the seemingly lackadaisical Rider was after Miss Cockayne’s money. He instinctively distrusted Rider and didn’t hesitate to say so. At first, we suspected that Rider and Wall had quarrelled fiercely and that Rider had grown violent and killed him. The medical report indicated an assailant stronger in the left than in the right hand. I suspected that Rider might be Bates. But that was soon disposed of by testing his fingerprints and the discovery of the body of Bates later.
“Now, had the well on Daft Dick’s allotment not been used by the eccentric owner for keeping his valuables in and belonged to somebody who used a bank or a bottom drawer, probably Bates’s weighted body would never have been found. As it was, it came to light. Also, the stone in the sock, which someone had used to stun his victim before throwing him down. The sock has been identified as Rider’s property. I hold the other one of the pair and I’ve evidence to show that the incriminating article vanished whilst actually in Rider’s cottage. Who else but Rider could have taken it?”
“Hurumph…sounds better, sounds a deal better. Brass tacks, down to brass tacks at last! Who’s the witness about the sock?”
“Mrs. Congreve, Rider’s daily help.”
“Good gad…a charwoman!!”
“Why not, sir? An honest woman, respectable, and remembers every detail, because she was planning to use the cast-off socks for her own husband. Another thing. At first, Rider said he’d an alibi for the time of the murder: he’d been with Miss Cockayne all the evening until past eleven. Now, it turns out that she was asleep part of the time during a concert on the radio and the odds are that she was lightly drugged by being given a doped cigarette. We found evidence that Rider, who’s quite a chemist in his way, had been working on cigarettes with opium in his little lab. in the garden…”
“The fellow’s a damned cad…blasted outsider…Go on, then, anythin’ more?”
“Well, as I see it, the gang had been broken up and Bates was on his beam-ends. So he turned up to touch Rider for some help. Whether or not he tried blackmail, we don’t know, but he seems to have gone to Wall as well. Perhaps he tried to get something out of the bonesetter on the strength of past history—a ghost from the unpleasant past in whose crime the old man made himself an accessory. Old Wall must have turned on him and threatened to hand him over to the police. I think Bates must have got violent, attacked the old man, and left him half-strangled into unconsciousness. On his way out of The Corner House by the back window—of which we found a key in the well with Bates, probably stolen for future use years before when he lodged there—Bates was struck down by Rider. He wasn’t dead, just like old Wall, so Rider weighted the body with stones and s
ank him in Daft Dick’s well. Then, he returned to Wall and found him lying unconscious. What had Bates told Wall? You can imagine Rider seeing Wall with a case to convince Miss Cockayne and do him out of his expectations or even to put the police on his track. But Rider was a fastidious man. He couldn’t go on with the throttling where Bates had left off, any more than he could have beat out Bates’s brains with a stone in a sock. So, he slung Wall up on the rope and pulley in the surgery and left him to choke. Then, he crept off the way he and Bates had come, through the fields behind the town, throwing the window-key down the well. Daft Dick saw Bates arrive, but had gone home for his supper when Rider came sneaking in his tracks.”
Gillibrand now broke in.
“I think on the strength of this, sir, we’d better call and see Rider at once and question him further about the sock and his movements on the night of the crime. If he can’t give a satisfactory answer, we’d better have a warrant ready and haul him in.”
“Oh, all right,” said the Chief Constable, still a bit timid about taking the plunge. “Swear one out, but go carefully.”
The two detectives, having obtained their warrant, set out for Stalden, after a bite of refreshment, for it was well past tea time. As they passed through the centre of the village, a knot of men, hanging about outside The Mortal Man gazed curiously after them. Among the loungers was Congreve and he was half-drunk. As Littlejohn drew level with him, he whistled impudently and when the Inspector turned his head, he hitched up his shabby trousers by lifting his pockets, and laid bare four inches of hose above his battered shoes. He had replaced the sock which Littlejohn had purchased from him by another of exactly the same pattern!
Chapter XXI
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 29