by J. V. Turner
‘Really, I don’t want to press you unduly, but it seems impossible that, as the deceased’s legal advisers, you cannot assist me.’
‘Apart from any other consideration, Mr Petrie, we are entitled, as you know, to reply that we are protected from inquiry.’
The little man was startled. He frowned and paused for a second.
‘Do I understand,’ he inquired unbelievingly, ‘that you are claiming privilege?’
‘You are a solicitor yourself, Mr Petrie.’
‘And you realise that I am investigating a murder?’
‘Quite. But that doesn’t affect us, you know.’
Petrie pursed his lips. Veins throbbed at the sides of his brow.
‘And you know that I can make you produce every paper you have?’
‘By use of the proper machinery, no doubt,’ was the smooth reply. ‘Employ that machinery and you’ll have no difficulty with us.’
Amos swallowed hard. This was a check he had not anticipated.
‘Thank you. Before I ring off would you mind telling me the names of Reardon’s executors?’
‘Certainly. There were three, but one of them, William Ingram, has refused to act. The effective executors are John Ferguson and Richard Curtis. Perhaps they can assist you. Good morning.’
The little man telephoned Curtis at his chambers. He was not to be found. A call to the House of Commons was no more successful. At long last he managed to run Ferguson to earth. But the President of the Board of Trade was uncommunicative. Amos plied him with queries without success until he became exasperated.
‘Mr Ferguson,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll do me the credit of assuming that I’m not asking these questions out of idle curiosity.’
‘Yes, I quite appreciate that, Mr Petrie; but I’m afraid I haven’t enough knowledge of the details to help you.’
‘Broad facts will do at present. Can you tell me whether Paling received much money from the dead man?’
‘I believe he received some.’
‘About how much?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Mr Petrie.’
‘But, good gracious, Mr Ferguson! Don’t you know whether it was a matter of hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands?’
‘My ideas about it are very vague. I believe it was a reasonably substantial sum. But you’ll have to ask Mr Curtis about that.’
‘I’ve tried to get in touch with him and can’t.’
‘I’m sorry that I can’t assist you any further.’
It was hopeless. He telephoned Mrs Reardon at Downing Street. Amos would not have been surprised to hear that she had flown to Paris, retired to bed, gone hunting, or was patrolling the bargain basements. He was surprised, however, when informed that she had gone out with her father, Watson and Curtis to take tea on the Terrace. He looked oddly at Ripple as he replaced the receiver and passed on the news.
‘That little lady, Sunshine,’ he remarked, ‘seems to possess great powers of recuperation, but she hasn’t much idea about what folks consider decent and fitting.’
‘I’ve had doubts about her ever since I heard about that trip to Paris. I don’t think she’s exactly mother’s blue-eyed angel.’
‘Maybe not. Telephone Paris, grab anybody there who can make a tactful inquiry for us and ask them to find out whether she smells at all earthy in the place. When you’ve done that get in touch with Curtis at the House of Commons. Don’t interrupt him at his tea, or they’ll throw you into prison in the Clock Tower. Just lie in wait for him and after he’s abandoned Watson and the widow ask him a few questions about Reardon and Paling. Don’t say anything to Mrs Reardon. You can leave me to look after her.’
Petrie spent the next hour drawing cubist cows and wondering in which direction to make the next move. He telephoned Mrs Reardon and arranged to visit her immediately. She seemed excited when he arrived, more flustered than the little man had anticipated. Her father seemed to feel that there was a need for explanation.
‘My daughter allowed herself to be persuaded by Mr Watson and Mr Curtis to go out for tea. I confess I didn’t altogether approve at first of her visiting such a public place as the Terrace. But I am glad now that she went. The change has done her good.’
‘The Terrace,’ agreed Petrie politely, ‘is very beautiful.’
Lola certainly did not appear improved by the change. Amos was regarding her steadily. She did not seem anxious to speak.
‘And,’ said her father, ‘she has been much upset by what happened at the inquest and afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’ Petrie’s surprise vanished as speedily as it came. ‘Ah, yes. You’ll have received a letter from the Frenchwoman, I suppose?’
Both father and daughter stared at him.
‘From her solicitors,’ said the father eventually. ‘That woman has been got at, definitely got at.’
‘By Paling,’ said Amos cheerfully.
‘Eh? What’s that? I knew she’d been got at by somebody. Lola, didn’t I tell you that this afternoon?’ He turned to her for confirmation.
She disregarded the appeal, herself putting a question to Petrie:
‘How did you know?’
‘Inference, Mrs Reardon, pure inference. At the inquest it was most obvious that they wouldn’t stick at trifles to embarrass you, to make you thoroughly uncomfortable. But they did it in a way that preserves the value of what they have for sale. People like that never destroy their stock-in-trade. By now the Frenchwoman is well on her way back to Paris—if she has not already arrived. A man from the Yard saw her off. Still, there is something funny about this morning’s affair.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I never imagined that she made today’s demonstration for the joy of sneering about that allowance. It is equally clear that Paling does not intend to shout about what happened, because that would spoil his market. He relies with confidence on you saying nothing.’
‘I certainly don’t intend saying anything,’ said Lola, shivering.
Petrie sympathised. ‘Of course not. It was an outrage on your feelings. They were only able to do it with impunity because the inquest was private. If the Press had been present it would never have happened. Still, having made the threat the next step was plainly to make some claim against you in proper legal form.’
‘That’s precisely what the scoundrels have done,’ said the father.
‘Mr Curtis thinks we have no right to complain about the letter from the solicitors,’ said Mrs Reardon. ‘He says it is just the ordinary introduction to an action at law.’
‘Mr Curtis ought to know,’ assented Petrie. ‘Of course, that’s just what I would expect. They’ll get all they can out of you without breaking the law. It is possible that that may content them. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Paling wanted another bite at the cherry. I don’t want to depress you, but your troubles may not be over when you’ve settled the action these solicitors are about to start.’
The father shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘You mean that we’ll have to fight it?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Or maybe separate the Frenchwoman from Paling.’
‘How on earth do you suppose we can do that?’ inquired Lola.
‘That remains with you. Perhaps, Mrs Reardon, you wouldn’t mind giving me Paling’s address since you must know it. After that I would like you to invite him here for dinner. Would you mind?’
‘Invite him here for dinner?’ repeated the woman. Her tone might have suggested that Petrie had invited the bailiffs to distrain on her furniture.
‘That’s right. You do that and I may be able to help you. When he arrives you can talk to him about anything you like so long as you keep him here for an hour. Telephone him now, will you? Please give him the impression that the appointment is important.’
Lola hesitated for a while. Her father came to Petrie’s rescue:
‘The gentleman wouldn’t suggest it, Lola, unless he had some very good reaso
n. I would do as he wishes.’
She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly and grabbed the telephone. A couple of minutes later Petrie crossed Whitehall to the Yard. He found the lugubrious Ripple munching a ham sandwich.
‘Hallo, lad. What has Curtis got to say for himself—if any?’
‘This business is sending me mad. Everybody has gone dumb. I saw him after waiting for years and all I got then was that he was not in a position to discuss the matter until he had inquired further into Reardon’s affairs. I tried to start him talking. Hopeless!’
‘Too bad, Sunshine. I’m going to do something very illegal. Paling has accepted an invitation from Mrs Reardon to dine with her. While he’s there I’m going to take a look over his rooms. Let me have a man to take with me.’
‘But you can’t do that without a warrant!’
‘I’ll chance that. Something tells me that if I wait for a warrant I might as well forget Paling altogether. After all, laddie, the risk is mine. Let me have a man and while I’m breaking the law you can scout round and nose along the same trail—what exactly was the scope and nature of the financial dealings between Paling and Reardon? That’ll keep you away from the beer bars for a while.’
‘Keep me away? Hell, man, all the King’s horses and the King’s men couldn’t do that for you. I’ll collect this man for you, but I know nothing about what you intend doing. Is that quite plain?’
‘All right, Catastrophe. Find a man for me who can open locks.’
Ripple grimaced unpleasantly and hurried from the office. Five minutes later Petrie and a detective were on their way to Paling’s. Once inside the flat they settled down to a systematic search. They groped inside the wardrobe, extracted everything from the desk drawers, looked into the bed, tested the floorboards and Petrie even peered up the chimney. Eventually he settled down to search the man’s clothing, turning every pocket inside out, examining the seams and peering inside the sleeves. Even each crumb of wool was scrutinised, shredded over a piece of paper and examined under a magnifying glass. As he worked the detective combed through the desk. He interrupted Amos to hand him a small cardboard box. The man made no comment. Petrie opened it, stirred the contents, looked at the inscription inside, stirred the contents again, made a note on the box, slipped it into an envelope and put it into his pocket.
‘I wonder whether Paling ever took medicine for his complexion?’ he asked. ‘I knew he was fairly particular about his appearance, but I don’t imagine he went as far as that.’
The Yard man shook his head. He did not know Paling; neither did he know what Petrie was talking about.
‘I don’t suppose he would,’ said Amos apparently talking to the ceiling. ‘But it’s a great beautifier. At one time quite a lot of women took it for their complexions. They may still take it as far as I know. Course, you can make it into a medicine of various sorts. What they’re all for—’
He suddenly ceased talking. There was every reason why he should stop. The angry voice of Paling cut through the air!
The man’s tone was metallic and his eyes glittered. His appearance was as effectively dramatic as if it had been arranged with cue and prompter. The Yard man opened his mouth as though to speak, decided otherwise and remained silent. Petrie greeted him with a sunny smile.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Mr Paling. Come right inside. You’re very unexpected, but frightfully welcome all the same. You turn up just like fish, Mr Paling—when you least expect them.’
‘What is the meaning of all this?’ Paling pointed to the articles strewn over the floor.
Amos produced his handkerchief and continued to smile.
‘Looks something like the aftermath of a jumble sale, eh? Come in and take a seat. I was beginning to feel the need of your assistance. May I congratulate you on the lightness of your step? Really, you should be decorating a ballet, Mr Paling.’
The man drew himself to his full height. He was four or five inches taller than Petrie.
‘There was no special lightness of step required. Does one have to tread cautiously when entering one’s own flat? But I am still waiting for your explanation.’
‘Please don’t grow impatient. Sit down and we’ll have a brief and friendly talk.’ Petrie did not apparently appreciate that he was inviting the man into his own home!
Paling scowled, walked over to the mantelpiece and stood with his elbow resting on it. The little man straddled on a chair with his arms leaning over the back of it. The Yard man, without waiting for instructions, stood between Paling and the door. Paling gave no indication that he had observed the move.
‘Show me your search warrant,’ he snapped.
‘You travel far too fast,’ said Petrie easily. ‘I am here partly on Mrs Reardon’s account, partly for other reasons.’
‘Did she expect that you’d find some of her spoons here?’
‘No, not spoons,’ replied the little man placidly, ‘but your acuteness has already recognised one set of circumstances which might have justified us being here.’
‘But not without a search warrant. This is a most unpardonable outrage. You can’t come into a man’s flat like this and turn all his stuff upside down. I mean to see your search warrant. You hear me? I insist upon seeing that warrant.’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to be terribly disappointed.’
‘What on earth do you mean? Haven’t you got one?’
‘If you make so much noise you won’t even be able to hear why you’re to be disappointed. That would be just too sad. I came here on an inquiry of some importance and I want to ask you a few odd questions about what we’ve discovered.’
‘Naturally I shall refuse to answer any of your questions. Get out of my flat. Then I’ll lodge my complaint in the proper quarter.’
‘In that case I must take the responsibility of acting on the information I possess. But I must remind you that it is your duty to assist me if you can do so without incriminating yourself.’
‘There is no question of incriminating myself. If you had come to me in an ordinary and decent way I would have been only too pleased to give you all the help possible. But after breaking into my flat and ransacking the place without a search warrant you can’t expect me to say anything at all. Leave this place at once.’
‘Well,’ remarked Petrie calmly, ‘let’s see just how far you are prepared to go. It might be very interesting and very instructive.’
Amos paused deliberately, and commenced to play with his handkerchief. The Yard man and Paling stared at him as he continued to finger the silk square. The delay was producing a feeling of almost intolerable tension. Paling moved his feet restlessly, and slid his elbow along the mantelpiece. They could hear the clock ticking out the seconds. It seemed that Petrie had no intention of speaking. But at last he swung round a little on his chair, smiled at Paling disarmingly, and asked his first question:
‘May I ask, Mr Paling, how it comes about that you have in your possession, or, at least, in this flat had in your possession, enough arsenic to kill at least ten men?’
The tick of the clock seemed to increase in volume until it filled the room.
CHAPTER XII
MR PALING’S METABOLISM
PETRIE pursed his lips, and continued to fondle the handkerchief. The man near the fireplace coughed nervously. Then he straightened his shoulders as though the action gave him confidence. He sneered.
‘My metabolism needs help from time to time, as you yourself might have acutely deduced.’
Petrie spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant much or nothing. He was still smiling.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Of course, that explains everything, doesn’t it? Funny, I thought you resented it when I mentioned the arsenic.’
‘Not at all. I resented your impertinence in coming here without my permission, and without a warrant.’
‘Well, well. We’ve got beyond that stage now.’ He produced the envelope from his pocket, and extracted the cardboard box, looking inten
tly at the lid. ‘Would you object to telling me when you purchased this aid to your metabolism?’
‘I don’t see why I should tell you, but the matter is of no importance. I bought it in Paris last January.’
‘First week, second week, third week—or when?’
‘I think it was on January 28th.’
‘What a memory! How do you manage to arrive at the date?’
Paling checked himself when about to reply. The check was obvious, but not the reason. He broke forth impatiently:
‘That wouldn’t interest you in the slightest, Mr Petrie, and you can’t possibly have any right to know what I was doing in Paris four months ago. I refuse to reply.’
‘Can’t you tell me why you went to Paris?’ asked Amos artlessly.
‘Why does anyone go to Paris?’
‘Depends upon the individual disposition. I go there to get bored. Others go to make themselves ill. I don’t know you well enough to take a guess. What had you been doing before you visited Paris?’
‘Oh, if it’ll save trouble and time I’ll tell you. I’d been in Spain on holiday. I stopped in Paris on my way back.’
Petrie stirred his finger among the contents of the box.
‘And in spite of your holiday in Spain you had to purchase this as an aid to your metabolism?’
‘Yes, if you like to put it that way.’
‘I can see no other way of putting it. And I see that your worst forebodings were realised. You have used the arsenic.’
‘Some of it.’ The air of outraged dignity was fast slipping from Paling, and he eyed Petrie narrowly. The little man slipped the box back into his pocket and changed the subject abruptly.
‘Did you see much of Edgar Reardon during the week prior to his death?’
There was a momentary hesitation before the reply came:
‘We were together throughout the whole week.’
Petrie elevated his eyebrows, and moved his fingers faster through the crumpled handkerchief. Paling licked his dry lips.
‘You surprise me. Were you and your disturbed metabolism alone with Edgar Reardon?’
The Yard man smiled. Paling snapped his fingers irritably.