by J. V. Turner
The tenants of Flat 13 presented greater obstacles. The woman had been a beauty of the small-featured type. The beauty might still have been with her but for the steps she had taken to preserve it. She had replaced the girlish complexion with a flat white and her eyes had the glaze which comes with death or over-brightening. Her mouth was out of curl. Petrie had no other reason for remembering her. In the way ladies have she had sailed up the staircase, leaving her husband to follow and had noted nothing. Her husband, however, had a more curious story to tell. He was short, fat and irascible. But he admitted that someone else entered through the door as he was closing it. He thought that the ‘someone’ was a resident and took no notice of that fact.
‘What makes you think he was a resident?’ asked Amos.
‘Because he said so. How could I know if he hadn’t?’
‘Perhaps you might have recognised him?’
‘Perhaps I might. But I didn’t.’
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’
‘How do you think I could tell until I did see him?’
‘Are you certain you can’t identify him?’
‘I might have been able to if I’d kissed the man on both cheeks as they do abroad. I’d even have done that if I’d known that it would save you troubling me. But I had no idea that I’d be pestered by these questions.’
‘Was the man in evening dress?’
‘Yes … no … oh, how the devil do I know?’
After another few minutes Amos decided that the stranger might have been tall or short, fat or lean, bearded or clean shaven, and of any complexion between negro and albino. He retired defeated.
Ripple met him on the stairs. The Yard man was plainly excited.
‘I took a gamble,’ he said, ‘and it’s come off. They’ve got the key to Watson’s door at Cannon Row Police Station. What do you know about that?’
‘Astonishing. How’d it all come about?’
‘I just took a blind bet that whoever stole it might have thrown it away. I telephoned asking for a list of all or any keys handed in as found since midnight. Among the half-dozen they’ve got is the one to this flat. A charwoman walking to the County Hall early this morning picked it up near Westminster Bridge and took it to the station. No doubt about it being the right one. They have given me the number and Watson has identified it as his.’
‘Smart work, Sunshine. You do get happy thoughts at times. Now that you’ve got so far what do you intend to do about it?’
The Inspector’s enthusiasm waned and vanished. Melancholia settled on him once again. He shrugged his thin shoulders.
‘Never mind,’ said the solicitor, ‘it might have been worse.’
‘But not much. What are you going to do?’
‘Just think for a while in case it might save me a lot of unnecessary work. Ever try that way of investigating, Angel?’
‘And don’t call me Angel. I’m no angel.’
‘Leave other folks to admit that. Let’s say farewell to Watson for the time being and we’ll take a walk.’
‘That’ll suit me. I’m tired of that man.’
‘I’m not. He interests me. But then, so do fish.’
Watson shook hands with them thankfully. The little man had begun to scare him. Amos led the way into Whitehall, recounting angling stories that made Ripple wince. The Yard man was pleased to leave his companion and Petrie headed for the office of the Public Prosecutor, promising to call at the Yard when inspiration of some sort had struck him. Ripple expressed the hope that the idea would strike with sufficient force to render the little man unconscious. On these terms they separated.
Much later in the day many Members of the House of Commons had congregated in the Corridor Bar. To those with extravagant views about the luxurious surroundings afforded politicians in their leisure hours this wood-partitioned structure might come as a surprise. It was like a wayside estaminet in France, tucked away between the Committee Room Corridor on the first floor, and the staircase leading to the Debating Chamber.
‘It really is uncomfortable,’ remarked one tactless Member, ‘to feel that any man you talk to may be a murderer.’
‘There’s always a sure way of avoiding the discomfort,’ said Dick Curtis.
Members chuckled. A small group sat at each table. Most of them appeared cheerful—including Curtis.
‘I feel very inclined to sell my Calicoes …’
‘Would selling Tin Plates on this rise do me any good …’
‘I can see five shillings clear on each one and I’m not trying to reach the moon …’
‘I never expected Great Steels to jump like that …’
On all sides conversation turned to stocks and shares. Members abstain from voting when a vote will put money into their pockets. But they would be more than human if they had no interest in windfalls and windfalls were showering on them now. Reardon’s Budget was just out and under the exceptional circumstances the news was made public before the Stock Exchange closed its doors. It had certainly ‘shaken the trees.’ Prices were rising all round. Fred Otwood turned to Curtis:
‘Is everyone going into the City?’
‘No, they’re only trying to sell their Income Tax returns for the benefit of the next Chancellor. That was a damn good Budget.’
Even Otwood had to nod his head. It was an unwilling gesture.
‘It was a brilliant arrangement of taxation. I must admit that I had never thought of it. If I had got the idea I’d have been nervous about the way the public would have fallen for it.’
‘Lord!’ said Manning as he joined them, ‘poor Reardon could have made a fortune twice over if he had used the advance information he had a couple of weeks ago.’
‘That would have been disgraceful,’ snorted Otwood. ‘Very, very disgraceful. Thank goodness such things don’t happen.’
‘Does murder happen?’ asked Curtis plaintively. ‘I didn’t think until now that it was possible in this place. What you were talking about, Otwood, did happen about sixty years ago. The sinner was not a Minister. He was a young fool of an under secretary and got turfed out of politics for ever.’
Curtis noticed Eric Watson enter the bar and stand alone at the far end. He left his own group, strolled over to him. Watson dangled a whisky and soda in his hand. He appeared supremely miserable and Curtis touched his arm consolingly.
‘Don’t worry yourself, Eric. That won’t do you any good. Smile like blazes and damn all of them. Have another drink?’
‘I’ve got one, thanks. It’s rotten to be in a position like mine through no fault of my own. I feel as though everybody is staring at me suspiciously.’
‘And the more you feel like that the more they’ll think that your guilty conscience is showing on your face. Hang it, man, we’re all suspected, aren’t we? Neither age, respectability, nor adipose tissue has got even me exempt. It seems to me—’
Curtis ceased speaking. A sudden hush had fallen. Watson stared, and his face grew even more pallid. Amos Petrie had entered the bar! Their sacred privacy had been violated. Members stared at the little man as though the devil had arrived—complete with horns. Many of them rose from their seats and moved away. Petrie blinked and rubbed his large hands on his incredibly violent handkerchief. He appeared completely bewildered, looked from man to man like a startled rabbit. The bar emptied rapidly. Only Curtis and Watson remained. He ambled towards them with an embarrassed smile.
‘I can’t buy myself a drink here, but would one of you take a sympathetic view?’ he asked with mock deference.
‘But you’re only a member of the public,’ said Watson, ‘and you can’t come in here. Please leave immediately.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Watson, but special arrangements have been made for me. Here is the authority showing that I may enter.’
Curtis and Watson looked at the document. Eric groaned as he returned it. Petrie smiled sympathetically.
‘I thought there was one place where we could drink and talk withou
t you butting in?’ said Watson. ‘Haven’t you pestered us enough for the time being?’
Curtis touched his friend’s arm and turned to Amos.
‘Welcome to the fold, Mr Petrie,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Humble beer, just humble beer. I never impose upon people.’
He fingered his newly filled glass and stared at the empty bar.
‘Have you all got guilty consciences?’ he inquired.
‘You wouldn’t have thought so if you’d entered a couple of minutes earlier. They were cheerful enough then.’
‘So I noticed as I walked along. My hearing is most remarkable. I developed it listening to the soft breathing of fish. Seems that quite a number have made a killing on the Stock Exchange, eh?’
Both men looked at him suspiciously. Certainly his hearing must have been more than acute.
‘They have been taking some of the gifts the gods give them,’ said Curtis. Watson did not speak. He looked at the little man as though an ill wind had blown in some unfortunate refuse. Petrie continued to smile.
‘Do you think they deserve these gifts?’ asked Petrie with doubtful innocence.
There was mockery in Curtis’ reply:
‘It would be disrespectful to say they didn’t. It might be breach of the high privileges of Parliament to say they did.’
On that ambiguous note Curtis smiled and walked away. Watson watched his exit with increased misery. Then he started to follow him. Petrie placed a gentle hand on his wrist.
‘Just one moment, Mr Watson. You can tell me a few things I’d like to know. Do you think it improbable that there was any advance buying of shares before the Budget?’
‘I do. Astonishing, isn’t it?’
Amos smiled tolerantly and rearranged his spectacles.
‘Sarcasm, Mr Watson, is a double-edged weapon. I’d advise you not to use it. It may turn out to be a boomerang. I think you’re wrong about the advance buying?’
‘You have proof of that, of course?’ The tone was still scornful.
‘I’m seeking information—not giving it.’
‘And being in search of information you encourage me by demonstrating that lack of consideration you’ve given me in the past? Every man here will suspect me further when they know that you’ve singled me out again for an individual interview.’
‘They must have nasty minds. You talked about encouragement. I don’t encourage you at all. I make no promises and no bargains. But I do offer you the opportunity of assisting me. I can visualise certain circumstances in which you might be glad of it.’
‘I think it might puzzle you to name them.’
‘It is at least an alternative to a crime of passion.’
Watson threw back his head as though he’d been stung. His eyes widened as he glared at Petrie. The little man looked at him as though his last comment was endowed with complete innocence.
‘You sicken me with your talk about crimes of passion, Petrie.’
‘Why? Have you never heard of such a thing?’
‘It is pure piffle, absolute rubbish.’
‘Quite, quite.’ Petrie’s manner was entirely unruffled, his tone placid. ‘But if you were a policeman …’
‘Which, thank God, I am not,’ snapped Watson, tempestuously.
‘… you would know that women or money, and sometimes women and money, are at the bottom of ninety-nine murders out of every hundred. Why not help me to show that Reardon’s murder was a matter of money? It would suit you better that way.’
The bite in the last sentence was unmistakable. But the little man was still smiling as he toyed with his glass. Then he tilted his head to one side like a bird and peered at Watson.
‘I can see through you and your tricks, Petrie.’
‘I hope you do, I sincerely hope you do. I’ve done my best to make my meaning plain. Do you realise that I could have detained you this morning—and would have done so if I had thought that you’d try to get away?’
If Watson’s heart did not miss a beat his face belied him. It was purged of anger. Now it reflected doubt, with fear not far away in the background. His ashen cheeks told their own story.
‘Isn’t this something like gross intimidation?’ he asked, trying to bluster and failing hopelessly.
‘I hope not. You have only to say that you don’t want to speak and that ends the argument.’
‘But you had nothing whatever against me on which you could have held me. I am a solicitor myself. You forget that, don’t you?’
‘I do not. You were nearer to Reardon before his death than any other man. You poured out his drink for him. If the motive was money—well, you could discover the contents of that Budget in time to make a fortune for yourself. If the motive for the murder was passion—well, you loved Mrs Reardon before she was taken from you, and you still love her. The strophanthus seeds were in your flat, and the story of the robbery was not too convincing. You reminded me that you are a solicitor. Work those few odds and ends out for yourself.’
Watson gulped. ‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked.
‘The names of those in this House who might have had advance information about the alteration in taxes.’
‘None outside the Cabinet, and the Financial Secretary. I didn’t know them myself. Mr Reardon was very, very cautious.’
‘Know of anyone outside who would want to delay the Budget?’
‘No one knew what was in it. Sometimes trade interests are consulted under pledge of secrecy, but that wasn’t necessary.’
‘Anyone talking here tonight show special knowledge?’
‘No. It was just idle talk—nothing more or less.’
‘I think,’ said Petrie slowly, ‘that I will now see the widow.’
‘Have you been playing with me all this time?’
‘No. I’m committed to nothing except to finding the murderer. I have a perfectly open mind. But you’ve added little to what I know.’
‘Well, I’ll come with you to Downing Street.’
‘I won’t stop you. I can’t very well. But I’ll give you a strict warning before we leave this bar. You would be well advised, very well advised, to see that you don’t in any way interfere with any inquiries I may make either now, or at any other time. I am ready to see Mrs Reardon immediately. As we walk think over what I have just said. It may save you more than mere trouble.’
Watson turned and breathed a curse into his empty glass.
They left the bar.
CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER SHOCK FOR PETRIE
THEY walked in silence to Downing Street. Amos was wondering what line of inquiry Inspector Ripple was following. Watson was struggling to assess the amount of the small man’s knowledge. The first inkling they had upon their arrival at Number 11 that more trouble had arisen was presented to them with such emphasis that it carried along the passage through two doors. The butler had announced their names.
‘Let them come in!’ shouted someone. Amos had had a wide and unfortunate experience of frigid welcomes, but never before had he heard an invitation quite so harsh and forbidding. It was with difficulty that he recognised the voice of Mrs Reardon. It was laden with passion, saturated with anger. Before they advanced far along the passage they heard a plaintive remonstrance.
‘But my dear …’
‘Oh, what does it matter?’ shouted the widow. ‘All London will know by tomorrow. There’s nothing else that can happen now.’
Watson almost halted. Petrie wriggled with his handkerchief. As they entered the room their surprise increased. Mrs Reardon was pacing the floor as though anxious to tear some person to pieces, but undecided about the choice of the first victim. Her face was set in grim lines of anger, her hands twitched, her eyes shone with passionate feeling. Her pacing was ceaseless.
Standing near the fireplace was a man in the late sixties, high of colour, white of hair, wearing the resigned expression of one who has been swept away by uncontrollable forces. Occasionally he fidget
ed with his tie, glanced at the newcomers without interest. Petrie had seen his photograph many times in the newspapers. It was Sir Clement Andrews, the father of the widow.
Close to him a woman lolled back in an easy-chair. Certainly she was more composed than any other person in the room. Petrie eyed her curiously. Her black gown was a trifle too ornate, her face showed that either she or her maid had abundant patience, her beauty had had its day and passed, but there were traces of a handsomeness in earlier years. She seemed amiably placid, gazed at the newcomers and smiled with an ease born of much use.
Standing by her side was Paling. He, too, seemed unmoved by the widow’s anger. There was a trace of amusement playing round his face as he bowed to the two men. Watson walked over to Mrs Reardon; she moved away from him, continued to move to and fro like a caged tigress waiting for a meal. Petrie placed his battered hat under his elbow, coughed gently and waited for an explanation, or a storm. He was not certain which would arrive first.
‘This is all very awkward,’ said Sir Clement helplessly. Tone had left his voice. He waved his hands as though to indicate that as far as he was concerned conversation had ceased.
‘Do you think it wise to speak now, Mrs Reardon?’ asked Paling.
‘Why should she not speak?’ asked the woman in black. Her accent was slow, deliberate, obviously foreign. She chose the words with an effort. The widow wheeled round and glared at her. The stranger met the ferocious stare with a calm smile. Petrie began to feel uncomfortable as he waited for events to happen. He had no intention of starting the ball rolling himself.
‘Do you know that woman?’ asked the widow, flinging an arm in the direction of the stranger. Watson shook his head, Petrie nodded absent-mindedly, recovered himself, and muttered ‘No.’
‘Well, that is the former wife of Edgar Reardon,’ she said with dramatic emphasis on the word ‘that.’