by J. V. Turner
Paling’s vehemence left him breathless. Amos was amazed at the change in the man. But he was without mercy as he probed deeper in his search for the truth.
‘Was it part of Reardon’s plan to murder you with poison that was actually in your own possession?’
‘No, of course it wasn’t. He had the poison right enough. But do you imagine for a minute that I was going to leave it with him when I found that he was using it to murder me? Ask yourself. After that attempt of his at Milford I made him hand it over to me. That’s how you came to find it at my place. He had to give it to me. I told him that if he didn’t I’d report the attempted murder to the police. I demanded it as the price of my silence.’
‘The price seems modest enough. I confess I was surprised to find that the police weren’t called in by either of you.’
Paling took a deep breath, and plunged into another sea of words.
‘That’s what I ought to have done, Petrie. I was a damnation fool to throw away that poisoned wine. It put me right away into a false position. You see why? It gave the cunning swine the chance of working against me again! He just suggested to his friends that whatever the trouble between us was I must have been the cause of it. I was a fool, a complete fool. But … oh, I was tied hand and foot.’
Petrie’s head began to sway to and fro. With a flurried movement he grabbed for his handkerchief. His glance did not move, though, from Paling’s face. The little man decided to take the plunge.
‘That’s not the version of your association with Reardon that I’ve heard, Paling. Looks to me as though you’ll have to explain.’
‘I was his partner,’ announced Paling, almost defiantly.
‘J. P. Hermanos,’ suggested Amos helpfully.
Paling nodded. ‘I’m glad you know. It makes things easier for me.’
‘Thomas Price was in the same line of business?’
The man frowned for a second and then shook his head.
‘No. I’ve never heard that name before. Don’t know him.’
‘Know William Hepworth, of the Rue du Fossee aux Loups, Brussels?’
A blank look appeared in Paling’s eyes, and again he shook his head.
‘Both those men,’ said Petrie slowly, ‘were engaged, as you were, in speculating on the Budget, and, like you, both used false names.’
Amos could see the blood pulsing through the veins at the sides of the man’s forehead. His hands were clenched, the eyes sparkled with concentrated venom.
‘Reardon always told me,’ he said, ‘that he dare not let any- one into the secret. He said that it would mean his irretrievable ruin if he did. That’s why it was so essential for him to have someone he could trust. And that’s where I come into the picture.’
‘And he felt that he could trust you, did he?’
‘It wasn’t a matter of what he felt. He took jolly good care to see that he could. Edgar Reardon wouldn’t trust any man.’
‘I must hear more about this. What did he do to ensure your complete fidelity in his interests?’
‘I suppose there’s nothing for me to gain now by staying dumb. You seem to know plenty. Want the real answer to that question?’
‘Of course I do. You’ll gain nothing by sitting on the fence.’
‘Well, here is your answer. Edgar Reardon could trust me because of the money he made me put in the partnership. Add to that the way in which he worked the business, and you can see that I couldn’t play crooked with him if I’d wanted to. God! It was very cunning.’
‘You’d better tell me the complete story, Paling. It may help you.’
‘All right. Get me a cigarette, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
The detective at the door stepped forward and opened his case.
CHAPTER XXII
PALING’S STORY
PALING inhaled some smoke and hesitated like an inexpert diver about to take the plunge. Amos sat back and folded his arms.
‘Well,’ commenced the man, ‘the arrangement was that he should put eight thousand pounds into the business—’
Petrie held up his hand. ‘Wait one second. How could he do that if he were to remain in the background?’
‘He transferred the money to me in the first place.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, at various times since the beginning of the year. When I was prepared to put in my money he would put in the equivalent, and then, when the pass-book was in order and I was ready to put in more money, he would do the same.’
‘You mean that you also invested eight thousand pounds?’
‘Sixteen thousand! He insisted on me paying in double to take a half share of the profits. He kept pointing out that he was the one supplying the information on which the partnership operated, and he was the person taking the risk.’
‘But, Paling, that wasn’t getting you into his power. It was the other way round. He was putting himself into your power. You could have walked away with the profits, and he would have been powerless—unless he wanted to sacrifice his political position.’
‘So he said, Petrie. He told me over and over again that if there was any trouble about the division of the profits I’d only got to sue him, and he’d be compelled to pay up. Believe me, it didn’t work out that way. Follow me carefully. Since he insisted that it would work out that way, that all the risk was with him, and that I held all the security, he insisted on me supplying some guarantee. The only condition on which he would enter the deal was that the signature of the firm should be his. I didn’t even sign a buying form, except per pro. The bank had authority to honour none but his signature. He signed all the cheques on the Hermanos account.’
‘So that you tied up your own money in this venture?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But you were compensated by very large profits.’
‘Which I’ve never been able to touch, Petrie. I couldn’t even get my own money back without a cheque from Edgar Reardon. That’s what he put to me at Milford when I found out about the poison. He said that if I made a criminal charge he’d fight me, and if he fought me he’d see me damned before he returned a penny to me. He was going to claim not only the profits, but also the entire capital of Hermanos.’
‘But if you acted reasonably?’
‘Then he’d play fair, and I’d have my half share as arranged.’
‘And what guarantee had you that he would play fair?’
‘Almost nothing. I only had the guarantee that had already failed me. I could sue him and still leave him something to save. He forced me to return to that position.’
Paling talked on for ten minutes. By then Amos held a complete explanation for every suggestion that had been made against the man with regard to the incidents at Milford. He gave Petrie the address of the safe deposit in which the Hermanos papers were kept. He even wrote out an authority to withdraw them from the deposit—at the same time expressing doubt as to whether they would accept it. He showed no hesitation in writing Hermanos, Price, Hepworth, or any other word, or collection of words. At Petrie’s dictation he wrote fast and he wrote slowly; he wrote with a fine nib, and with a broad one. But his writing had always the same characteristics. Except when it degenerated it was a mere scrawl, slim and stilted, an oddly unpractised hand. He could never have attained to the careless boldness shown in the signatures of either Price or Hermanos.
One other thing interested Amos. That was the appearance and development of the blind spot in Paling’s mind. When he had been questioned before he had been quick to seize on points in his own favour. Now he seemed to be incapable of seeing the very obvious pit he was digging for himself. Every detail by which he proved the unlikeliness of any attempt on Reardon’s life with arsenic only added to the strength of the motive which Paling had to get rid of his embarrassments—and the man who was causing them. Paling did not seem to scent the danger.
Petrie gave him a rude awakening.
‘When did you last see strophanthus seeds?’
‘I�
��ve never seen strophanthus seeds.’
Petrie made a gesture of impatience, and turned to the man at the door.
‘Take him away. The gentleman will no doubt think about my very simple question. I would strongly advise you, Paling, to use the next half-hour putting a very considerable jerk into your memory. So far you have done well. But you’ve only made a start along a long, long road. Let me know when you’ve recovered your memory.’
Immediately Paling left the room Ripple walked in.
‘Collins won’t be in town for another hour, so I came back. There was some stuff I forgot to give you. I wouldn’t put it among the other papers, because it seemed risky. I left it in the safe. Here you are—my check on Reardon’s banking account.’
Amos looked hurriedly down the list. He made one discovery of real importance. Reardon had prepared for his pre-Budget gamble by transferring money and securities worth £30,000 to Thomas Price, of Bloomsbury. Ripple also was impressed by the amount.
‘He certainly didn’t do things by half,’ said the Yard man.
Petrie made no comment. He was comparing the figure with Ripple’s note of the cover put up by Price.
‘No,’ said the little man, ‘but Price apparently did. He only used between eleven and twelve thousand pounds of the money. Get a man to go through Price’s banking account, and then we can cross-check. You understand? I want this £30,000 traced. What became of the unused balance? Was it allowed to lie fallow?’
‘I’ll see to that. I’d like to meet that man Price.’
‘Never despair. I’m not so certain that you haven’t seen him. Oh, get the bank manager at Bloomsbury to improve on the landlady’s description of Price. Another thing that must be checked, and I’d like you to do this yourself. Reardon used to have a screen round the back of his chair in the private room at the House. I was told that nothing had been moved, but when I arrived in that room there was no screen. I want to know when it was moved, by whom it was moved, why it was moved, and where it is now. All clear?’
‘I’ll see to that immediately. Anything else?’
‘One thing. I’m told there was an earthenware jar on his table. I want it. If it isn’t there I want to know where it is, who took it, when it was first missed, and whether it was empty. The same person can probably kill both birds for you.’
Ripple had not long been gone when the ‘House’ telephone rang. Petrie was informed that Sir Norris Wheeler, the Commissioner, wanted to see him. Amos swore profusely, collected a battered hat, and locked away all the loose papers. Then he went to meet Sir Norris. The Commissioner greeted him cheerfully.
‘I wanted to know how the investigation is advancing, Petrie.’
‘Oh, it’s advancing—just advancing. That’s about all.’
‘Surely you’re nearer a solution than you were at the start?’
‘I think we’ve managed to make things a bit more confusing.’
‘Doesn’t sound as though you want much more than luck,’ said the Commissioner nastily.
‘Perhaps you’re right. We could do with luck, more room in which to work, less interference from those not engaged on the case, better weather, and more regular hours of sleep.’
Sir Norris abandoned the effort, and the little man sauntered along Whitehall in time to discover that his favourite hostelry had just opened. He spent half an hour emptying a pint tankard, and browsing over the pages of the Fishing Gazette. When he returned to the Yard he found a report waiting for him. Some-one had performed a thoroughly slick piece of work. The detective delegated to the job had already seen the manager of the branch bank at Bloomsbury.
It seemed at first that the material secured was scarcely worth waiting for. To the manager, Mr Price appeared as a prosperous customer from the country with gout in the eye. The manager had been so impressed with the gouty eye, and the patch over it, that he had forgotten to look at the sound eye. He had a hazy idea that Price wore hair on his face somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where.
‘This Mr Price,’ muttered Petrie, ‘is like everybody else in this case—as full of tricks as a monkey.’
Amos turned to the man’s banking account. Apparently Mr Price’s gout had not run true to form. It had not had the usual unfortunate effect on the temper. He had presented a cheque for £20,000 to Mr Hepworth of the Rue du Fossee aux Loups! The little man was seeing daylight more clearly.
‘Hepworth,’ he told himself, ‘is the man who impressed himself on the Brussels accommodation address keeper as “un vrai Anglais,” and who is such an ordinary Englishman that the proprietors of a West End hotel can’t remember him at all. Mr Blank, alias Hepworth, alias Price—but not alias Hermanos.’
Petrie was peering at the fire when Ripple returned. The Yard man looked less tired since he had been out in the air.
‘I’ve got pretty well all you want, I think. I’ll start with Collins. I found him ten minutes ago. Ferguson has got a cast-iron alibi for Tuesday night. He brought friends home from the House of Commons, and the last of them stayed until after midnight. After they had departed he called the cook up to the room and gave her some sort of a present. It was her birthday, and she’d been entertaining on her own downstairs. Collins was in her party. That’s how he knows.’
‘All right. We seem to be touching firm ground at last. I’ll ring up Ferguson now and tell him to arrange a meeting for me with the mysterious Mr Price for Monday.’
He found the Minister in the hotel. Rain had ruined the golf. The little man told him what he wanted.
‘I’ll write to him at Wigan Street and arrange things, Petrie.’
‘How do you know that he lives at Wigan Street?’
‘Because my memory’s good, and I’ve seen the name in some of Reardon’s papers. You’ll find him at Wigan Street if you go along.’
‘Who is he? Where does he come from? What does he do for a living? All I know about him is that he calls himself Thomas Price.’
‘I don’t know anymore than that myself.’
Amos muttered softly, and slammed down the receiver.
‘Another blind alley, Sunshine,’ he said. ‘What sort of reports did you get from Mellor before he shuffled off the mortal coil?’
‘I had him concentrating on that robbery, or whatever you call it, at Watson’s. He checked everybody involved in the case. I’ll get the reports for you.’
Mellor’s style of composition was not notable for brightness. But Petrie was chuckling before he got to the end of the reports. He rang for a large scale map of London and a pair of dividers. He traced Mellor’s inquiries stage by stage, striding where the man went, but missing none of the facts unearthed.
Then he turned to the map of London and the dividers. He was measuring distances and comparing times with those given by Mellor.
CHAPTER XXIII
FURTHER DISCOVERIES
RIPPLE sat down while Amos worked, puffing nervously at an incredibly foul pipe. At last the little man turned to him.
‘And what about the screen and the earthenware jar, Angel?’
‘The screen was moved shortly after the death to shield the body of Reardon from unnecessary sightseers. They thought it would be quite all right. I told them to put it back as it was. They’ve done that. The jar is still on the table, and it’s empty. Anything else you want to know?’
‘Not at the moment. Collect your hat and coat. We’re walking round to the House of Commons.’ When they reached the door of Reardon’s room the little man paused to lecture the attendant on the enormity of his sin in permitting the screen to be moved. The penitent assured him that it had been replaced exactly in the original position. Petrie found that the screen was of the popular three-sectional type. He judged it to be about six feet wide when standing, and rather more than that in height. It stood some four feet behind the chair at the table, and a couple of feet away from a curtained window.
Amos bent down on his hands and knees, pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket with an apologetic
air, and commenced to examine the floor inch by inch. He seemed disappointed, and turned his attention to the skirting board. At first glance the result seemed almost negligible. Suddenly he bent lower and altered the range of the glass. There were two deep, and several slighter, indentations on the board at a low level—not more than half an inch from the floor. Apart from them the only other things to be noted were the ‘tidemarks’ left by a careless floor-washer, and some curved bootmarks on the skirting.
Ripple walked round the room, bending low, staring at the skirting.
‘Those marks are only in one corner,’ he announced.
Petrie stared at the skirting cheerfully and nodded.
‘That’s just what I hoped, laddie. I’m glad the meaning of it is obvious to you. Concealment behind this screen may not be absolute unless the person hiding crouches a little.’
He came from behind the screen, walked round to the far side of the table, and then backed away from there towards the door, staring at the screen the whole time. Apparently his impression was confirmed. He returned to the screen with a smile broadening on his face. Even Ripple tried to grin. The effort seemed to trouble him.
‘It’s a certainty, Sunshine,’ said the little man, ‘that the screen was used for more purposes than to protect Reardon from draughts.’
‘But who on earth could it be? The thing seems ridiculous.’
‘Not if we can assume visits to the Chancellor’s private room by Mr Hepworth or Mr Price. Wouldn’t a cautious statesman wish to keep them dark? You bet your life he would. Suppose the Prime Minister walked in while he was telling Messrs. Hepworth and Price the inside story of the Budget!’