by Cyril Hare
“Never mind about that. The point is that, contrary to my information, the orchestra was short of one player at the opening of the concert.”
“No!” Both Dixon and Pettigrew spoke at once.
“I don’t understand,” said Trimble, turning to them. “If Mr. Jenkinson was not there——”
“But that’s just the point,” Dixon persisted. “He was there—or rather, the man I thought was Jenkinson was there. I had never seen him before, of course, but I assumed it was him. A first clarinet was there, anyway.”
“That is perfectly correct,” said Pettigrew. “I was on the look-out for him, as we had had so much trouble in getting hold of a player. He came in just as the National Anthem was ending.”
“And it was not this man?” Trimble pointed to Jenkinson.
“Nothing like him,” said Dixon.
“Do you agree, Mr. Pettigrew?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mr. Evans, what do you say?”
Evans shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t help you there,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly recognize anybody at that distance. But I can say that the wood-wind struck me as sounding rather thin during the playing of the National Anthem. What Mr. Pettigrew says would account for that, of course.”
“Perhaps you noticed this man, Mrs. Basset? You were in the orchestra, and so nearer to him than anyone else here.”
“I should be the last person to see what was going on in the back of the orchestra,” said Mrs. Basset, virtuously. “Naturally, I had my eyes on the conductor the whole time.”
“That applies to me too,” added Eleanor.
“It comes to this, then,” said the inspector. “If these two gentlemen are right”—he indicated Pettigrew and Dixon—“there was someone in the orchestra, playing the part of first clarinet, who had no business to be there.”
“There’s no question about being right,” Dixon put in. “Mr. Jenkinson is fairly conspicuous, and this fellow was quite different. He was about half his size, for one thing.”
“Very good. Accepting your story, then, we find that this unknown person came on to the stage after all the other members of the orchestra were in their places—and left the building immediately after the murder had been discovered.”
“You mean——” Mrs. Basset began, but Trimble held up his hand.
“Finally,” he said, “he was only able to effect his appearance in substitution for Mr. Jenkinson because the real Mr. Jenkinson had been unexpectedly delayed on his way to the City Hall.”
“Through a piece of remarkable incompetence on the part of my driver,” Jenkinson interjected.
“Was it incompetence?” Trimble retorted. “If this man intended to take your place in the orchestra it may well have been part of his plan to see that you did not arrive and spoil his game.”
“I don’t quite see how he could have had any part in having Mr. Jenkinson delivered to the wrong place,” said Pettigrew. “We arranged from this end for him to be met by one of Farren’s cars. The driver must simply have made a mistake.”
“If it was Farren’s car that met him,” said the inspector. “However, we can very quickly check up on that. What time did you order it?”
“Some time after five,” said Dixon. “I put the call through myself.”
“Five ten, to be precise,” Mrs. Basset added. “I was there at the time, and my watch is particularly reliable.” Anybody who questioned the accuracy of Mrs. Basset’s watch, her manner indicated, would be a bold man indeed.
“One moment,” said Trimble. “I will have this matter of the car looked into at once.”
Leaving the room, he went into the passage and spoke to the constable at the door.
“Ask Sergeant Tate to come here at once, please,” he said.
At that moment the sergeant appeared from the artist’s room.
“We have finished in there, sir,” he reported. “May the body be removed now to the mortuary?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, sir. And may I——”
Trimble cut him short.
“You are to go at once to Farren’s Garage in the High Street,” he commanded. “Find out if they received an order from Mr. Dixon to meet a train at Eastbury and to bring a gentleman to the City Hall this evening. What car they sent, name of driver, and whether the order was carried out. Get a statement from the driver, if possible, and all relevant details. Report back here to me as quickly as possible. Sharp, now!”
Grumbling something under his breath, which fortunately for the inspector’s peace of mind was inaudible to him, the sergeant departed. Trimble returned to the rehearsal room. He found Jenkinson impatiently looking at his watch.
“This watch, Inspector, though not particularly reliable,” he said, “informs me that it is getting fairly late, and I have not very much time if I am to get any food before I catch the last train back to Whitsea. Since I hope it is now definitely established that I did not reach this place in time to kill Lucy Carless, may I be allowed to go now?”
“I am sorry, sir,” said Trimble, “but before you leave I am afraid I must ask you to tell me exactly what happened to you this evening.”
“I thought I had sufficiently described that already,” said Jenkinson wearily. “Through an inexcusable blunder——”
“No, no. From the beginning, please, and in as much detail as possible.”
“Very well. At about five o’clock, then, I was telephoned to by Mr. Dixon and asked to come here to take the place of a clarinettist who had refused to play at the last moment. At least, that was what I gathered had happened, but I may be wrong. It was arranged that I should catch the six thirty-five train from Whitsea and be met at Eastbury Junction at seven twenty-nine. I did catch the six thirty-five and I did arrive at Eastbury at seven twenty-nine, or as near to that hour as makes no matter. And,” added Jenkinson firmly, “I was met.”
“What sort of car was it?”
“Just a car. There was nothing remarkable about it—except perhaps that it was rather cleaner and more comfortable than is usual. It was the only one waiting at the station, and as soon as I approached the driver opened the door and said, ‘Mr. Jenkinson?’ I said, ‘Yes,’ got in, and he drove off.”
“What did the driver look like?”
“I really can’t tell you. It was dark by then, of course, and the British Railways are fairly economical of their lighting at Eastbury. He had a peaked cap on, and a dark overcoat, I remember. He was a perfectly ordinary man, just like anybody else, and he spoke in a perfectly ordinary voice. Naturally, I took no particular notice of him. I very much doubt if I should know him again.”
“You didn’t notice the number of the car?”
“As a matter of fact, I did, but that comes later in the story. Since you are interested, you had better have all the facts in their proper order. As I was saying, the man drove off. We drove some distance, but as I am unfamiliar with this neighbourhood I cannot say exactly how far, or in what direction. Eventually we reached a town which I assumed in my ignorance to be Markhampton. The car stopped outside a large building, at a door labelled ‘Artistes’ Entrance’. I got out. No sooner had I done so than the car drove away. I looked after it in some surprise, as I rather expected that the driver would expect a tip (which I was perfectly prepared to add to my expenses account) and at that point I noticed its registration number.”
“What was it?” Trimble asked.
“TUJ 104. And should you ask me why I happened to make a note of it, the answer is that I was brought up by a highly disagreeable uncle whose names were Thomas Uriah Jenkinson, so that the initials were unpleasantly familiar to me. As for the number, I can only say that it immediately occurred to me that if my uncle had lived to be a hundred and four he would still be alive and presumably more disagreeable still.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkinson. Your statement has been extremely valuable. There should, at any rate, be no difficulty about tracing the car now. Where did you
find yourself, by the way?”
“I found myself where the car left me—on the pavement outside the Artistes’ Entrance. I duly entered, and was presently confronted by a pasty-faced young man in a dinner-jacket who demanded to know what I was doing there. I told him that I was a member of the orchestra, at which he looked somewhat surprised and said that he thought the band was all there already. He went away and returned with a creature prominently labelled ‘Master of the Ceremonies’, from whom I learned that I had strayed into a Home Guard Reunion Ball at the Assembly Rooms in Didford Parva.”
Jenkinson paused at this point to glare fiercely at Pettigrew, who had been seized with an uncontrollable desire to laugh. When order had been restored, at the risk of apoplexy on Pettigrew’s part, he cleared his throat and went on.
“To add insult to injury, the fellow suggested that I should, as he put it, ‘join the boys’ and take part in, and even add to, the hideous riot of cacophony which had by then broken out in another part of the building. After disabusing him of this idea, which was not easy, I set about looking for a conveyance to bring me here. There appeared to be no cars to be obtained in Didford Parva, and I was eventually reduced to waiting in a queue of rustics for the local omnibus, which finally brought me to the door of this police-infested place. That is my story, sir, and if its recital has been as valuable as its experience was distressing, it should rank as the most important piece of evidence ever recorded. Have I your leave to go?”
Whether or not Jenkinson’s purpose had been to exasperate the inspector to the point where he would be only too thankful to get rid of him was a question on which one at least of his audience could not be certain. If so, he had succeeded in his plan, for the words were no sooner out of his mouth than Trimble darted to the door and ushered him out with great courtesy and obvious relief.
Returning to the room, the inspector looked at the little group of men and women. It was apparent that they were all in some degree suffering from reaction after the shock of Lucy Carless’s tragic end. Their faces were drawn and tired. Mrs. Basset was openly yawning. Evans, hunched on the piano stool, was contemplating the keyboard as if longing to escape from the squalor of events into his own private world of music. Not out of any particular sympathy for them, but because in their then condition they did not seem likely to be capable of giving him much further help, he decided that it was high time to release them.
“I do not think I need keep you here much longer,” he said. “Mr. Evans, I suggest that you should come round to the police station, say in an hour’s time, when you have had a little refreshment, and I can then ask you to clear up a few points which I want further information about. As for you other ladies and gentlemen, I have your addresses, and I can call on you tomorrow if necessary. I have plenty to do tonight,” he added, lest anyone should think that he, Inspector Trimble, was seeking to spare himself. “Before you go, however, there is one question I must ask. There is one person unaccounted for in this affair, and that is the man who impersonated Mr. Jenkinson, as a player of—what is the name of the thing?”
“A clarinet,” said Dixon.
“A clarinet—precisely. Now is this an uncommon sort of thing?”
“Good clarinets are hard to come by, like everything else nowadays,” murmured Evans, as though speaking to himself. “I saw a nice B flat one for sale in London the last time I was there….”
“I mean, are there many people about who can play it?”
“A full orchestra has at least two, and a military band a great many,” said Evans, coming out of his abstraction. “But if you mean, many people in this neighbourhood who can take the first clarinet’s part in a piece like Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, there aren’t. That was our trouble.”
“Good. That narrows the area of our search a good deal. Last question: What did this particular player look like?”
The question was directed at Pettigrew. He had seen it coming for some time, and was ready with his answer.
“I haven’t the least idea,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but I really haven’t, although I was looking out for him, because I was anxious to see if he would arrive in time for the start of the concert. But the light was bad for me, and of course I wasn’t looking at him as a person, but just as an item in the orchestra. If he had been a striking figure, like Mr. Jenkinson, I should have noticed, of course. But he wasn’t. He was just—well, an ordinary man. He had horn-rimmed spectacles, I can say that, and I rather think he had a moustache, but I won’t be sure.”
“Tall? Short? Dark? Fair?”
“Middling height, I should imagine, and darkish. But really, he might have been anybody, so far as I was concerned. Perhaps Dixon, you noticed——?”
But Dixon, when appealed to, was equally unhelpful. He had been at the back of the hall, he explained, and his view was, if anything, worse than Pettigrew’s. He confirmed the horn-rimmed spectacles, and was fairly positive about the existence of the moustache, but that was as far as he could go.
Trimble shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps in time I shall find somebody else who was rather more observant. And now, I think——Yes? What is it?”
It was Sergeant Tate, hot-foot from Farren’s Garage, holding a hastily prepared report, which he handed to the inspector with an air of satisfaction.
Trimble contemplated it with an air of distaste.
“I can’t read this,” he said and handed it back.
“I shall have it properly type-written in due course,” said the sergeant breathing heavily. “But seeing that you were in such a hurry for it——”
“Very well, very well. Just tell me the gist of it now, and get it into proper shape later.”
Tate produced an old-fashioned pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, wiped them slowly and placed them on his nose.
“‘Statement of Wilfred Farren, aged forty-six, National Registration Number, DNEA three three five,’” he read. “‘I am the owner of the business known as Farren’s Garage and Hire Service, 252, High Street, Markhampton. In consequence of a telephone message purporting to come from Mr. Dixon received by me at five twenty p.m. this evening——”
“It was five ten by my watch!” protested Mrs. Basset, indignantly.
“That is what he says, Madam.”
“Well, he’s wrong. My watch is particularly——”
“Go on, Sergeant,” said Trimble.
“‘I ordered my employee, John Foch Dawkins, to take one of my cars, registered number RUJ 762, to Eastbury Junction to meet a Mr. Jenkinson by the train arriving there at seven fifty-nine. The car left——’”
“What train did you say?” asked Dixon.
“The seven fifty-nine, sir. ‘The car left my garage at——’”
“But I said seven twenty-nine. The seven fifty-nine would have got in too late for the concert.”
“‘The car left my garage at——’”
“Never mind about the rest of the statement, Sergeant,” said Trimble. “I think we have got all we want from Mr. Farren.”
“Very good, sir. ‘Statement of John Foch Dawkins, aged thirty-one, National Registration Number——’”
“I don’t want to hear it. Well, Mr. Dixon, that clears up one part of the mystery, at any rate. We know now why Farren’s man failed to meet Mr. Jenkinson. You are quite sure you said the seven twenty-nine?”
“Positive.”
“There is no doubt. I heard him myself,” Mrs. Basset added. “Farren has become very careless. A man who cannot even keep his clocks accurate is not fit to be trusted. I shall not recommend my friends to employ him in future.” Mrs. Basset herself, she indicated, was never reduced to using hired cars in any event.
On this note the meeting terminated. But it was not quite the last observation made that evening bearing on the case. The inspector and the sergeant had driven off in their police car, and the Pettigrews, Dixon, Evans and Mrs. Basset were sta
nding at the stage door of the City Hall before going their respective ways home, when Evans suddenly remarked:
“There’s one member of the orchestra who hasn’t been accounted for.”
“Who’s that?” Dixon asked.
“That damned fellow Ventry. Where on earth is he?”
9
Interview with an Absentee Organist
Ventry, in point of fact, was at home. He was sitting at ease in a deep armchair in his music-room before a blazing wood fire and smoking a cigar. Such attention as he was able to spare from his cigar he was devoting to the study of a catalogue of choice wines and spirits shortly to be offered for sale by auction by a firm in the City of London. The remains of his solitary cold supper were on the table in the middle of the room. Presently he was roused by the ringing of the telephone.
“Billy?” said a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. The cook’s out.”
“I wasn’t thinking of cooks, exactly,” the voice said, with the suspicion of a chuckle, and then immediately became serious again. “Look here, I suppose you know what happened this evening?”
“Meaning?”
“About Lucy.”
“Yes.” Ventry was silent for a moment and then repeated, “Yes. I know about Lucy. It’s a bad show, altogether,” he added.
“Of course it’s a bad show,” said the voice. “But that’s not what’s worrying me just now. It’s us.”
“I don’t quite see where we come in.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Billy, be your age! Don’t you see it means that there are going to be all sorts of questions asked about this business?”
“Yes. I can see that all right.”
“Well, all I want to say is this: If anybody asks you anything about tonight, you haven’t seen me.”
“I follow,” said Ventry. “I haven’t seen you. Is that all?”
“Is that all?” The voice sounded puzzled. “Look here, I haven’t time to say any more now. I may be interrupted any minute. So long as that’s understood.”