by Molly Thynne
“You’re implying now that Civita’s story of his loan to Anthony was a fabrication?”
“Why not? If you remember, Miss Anthony scouted the suggestion from the beginning. I’m ready to believe that Anthony went to the Trastevere to see Civita, probably at Civita’s invitation, but it was not for business reasons. Go back to your own theory as to his reactions after his last interview with his daughter.”
“We agreed that he’d naturally have his knife into Bianchi.”
He paused, then:
“Bianchi,” he repeated softly. “Good lord! Bianchi and Civita!”
“Why not? Howells, the only person who could identify Bianchi, has never, so far as we know, seen Civita. It was your own suggestion that Anthony, in his anger, may have sought out Bianchi and threatened him with disclosure. And, after his interview with his daughter, Anthony knew too much.”
Arkwright did not answer immediately. His hands deep in his pockets, his eyes on the ground, he took a couple of turns through the room. Then he faced Constantine.
“It’s no good,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t hold water. We’ve gone into Civita’s movements on the night in question pretty thoroughly, and he couldn’t possibly have been with Anthony at the time he was murdered. His time’s accounted for from six in the morning till eight o’clock that night, and we’ve agreed that that’s the limit we can give to the time of the crime.”
“That was my stumbling-block till yesterday afternoon,” answered Constantine. “Then I grasped where we’d gone astray. In our preoccupation with his murderer we’d forgotten Anthony. Do you realize why Anthony’s snuff-box was found on Meger’s body?”
In spite of himself Arkwright smiled. For once Constantine’s imagination had run away with him.
“According to your theory, it was no doubt planted there by Civita. It won’t do, sir. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be more sorry by the time I’ve finished,” retorted Constantine with a flash of impatience. “Meger was in possession of the box because it was an important factor in his impersonation of Anthony.”
He leaned comfortably back in his chair to enjoy the effect of his last words.
He was rewarded. Arkwright did and said all the things he had hoped for, and more. He finished on a high note of incredulity.
“But, good heavens, sir, do you realize what you’re saying? Anthony was seen by three witnesses, two of whom, at least, are perfectly reliable!”
Constantine straightened himself.
“Sit down,” he said, “and pull yourself together. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. I’m getting old and possibly senile, but, in spite of that, the facts are on my side. I’ve only two points to put before you, but they’re damning. The man your first witness saw on the Embankment was wearing Anthony’s coat and Anthony’s hat. As we know now he even had Anthony’s snuff-box in his pocket, but he was not wearing Anthony’s shoes, for the simple reason that they probably wouldn’t fit him. I have his granddaughter’s authority for saying that Anthony never wore pointed shoes or rubber heels in his life, and this man was wearing both.”
Arkwright shot out of the chair into which he had reluctantly subsided.
“Is this true, sir?”
“Ask the constable who saw him and then look through Anthony’s effects. Now for my other point. The proprietor of the coffee-stall who saw him later is ready to swear that he had unusually long, polished nails on both hands. And Anthony was a violinist! I’ll challenge you to get together fifty violinists and find one among them whose nails haven’t been cut almost to the quick on the left hand.”
Arkwright was already mumbling to himself, thinking aloud.
“It’s true that not one of them saw him in a decent light. Fantastic as it is, it could have been done. God, what a mess, though!” He stopped clawing at his hair and looked up. “This knocks our time-table all to blazes! He could have been killed any time after Andrews saw him. You’re not going to kick the bottom out of his evidence too, sir?”
“No, he’s the only one of the lot who really had a good look at him. I’ll leave you Andrews, if that’s any comfort to you. What are you going to do?”
“I shall know that better after the conference, but the obvious step is to get hold of Howells. If Civita’s at the Trastevere to-day we can no doubt manage to let Howells have a sight of him. If not, we must get him down here on some excuse.”
“He mustn’t see Howells,” said Constantine.
“Trust us for that. He mustn’t be allowed to get the wind up in any way,” agreed Arkwright. “We can’t act yet, we’ve got nothing to go on, even if Howells does identify him. But you’re most damnably convincing, sir. What they’ll say at the conference, I don’t know.”
“He’d have some difficulty in explaining that card, even now, in the witness-box,” pointed out Constantine; “but I quite agree, as regards the murder, you’ll have to go warily. You’ll be able to get Civita’s finger-prints, I suppose?”
Arkwright nodded.
“That’s easy enough. As a matter of fact, we’ve had a man in the Trastevere for the past few days. He got himself taken on as a temporary waiter. He’ll be able to lay his hands on a glass or something out of Civita’s office. He’s been in touch with the officer who’s watching Carroll, and between them they’ve unearthed some rather interesting facts. It appears that certain of the people who frequent the restaurant are in the habit of running up accounts with Civita. There’s nothing unusual in that, but there is in their method of payment. Instead of settling with him in the usual way by cheque, they go to his office, men and women alike, and pay him there. They certainly do come away with receipted accounts—our man has managed to see one or two—but he’s convinced that it’s a blind. If we could get enough evidence to justify a raid, we might be able to hold Civita for twenty-four hours on suspicion while we search his flat. I’ll put it to the Assistant Commissioner this morning at the conference, but I doubt if it will lead to anything. He’s too wily a bird to leave any loose threads lying about. Beyond that, it seems to me we’re stymied unless something fresh crops up.”
Constantine agreed with him.
“Now that Meger’s dead we’re helpless,” he said. “The snuff-box was found on him and he was probably responsible for the impersonation of Anthony, and neither of those two things can be brought home to Civita. We can’t even prove that he saw Anthony that night. As regards the cards, I agree with you that we should only put him on his guard by questioning him about them at this juncture. But I’m morally certain that he, not Meger, was responsible for Anthony’s death. That alibi of his has been altogether too good from the beginning.”
Arkwright sat staring disconsolately at the floor.
“What set you on Civita’s track in the beginning?” he asked suddenly.
“Betty Anthony’s conviction that the story of the projected loan was a fabrication, to begin with. She knew her grandfather too well to be mistaken as to the strength of his prejudice against debt of any kind, and besides, she’s no fool. I tried to persuade myself that her attitude was due to the shock of his death, but it bothered me. Then I was struck by the fact that Civita’s alibi covered the times at which we believed, and, as we know now, were meant to believe, the murder had been committed, whereas he had practically no alibi for the two following nights. Macbane’s first estimate as to the time of death must have been a shock to him. He hadn’t, of course, taken into account the effect of the drug on the body and had omitted to cover that period. Mind you, I was only playing vaguely with the theory, but it was Betty Anthony’s insistence that made me wonder whether that message of Civita’s to Anthony hadn’t been juggled with. It was really as a feeler that I got you to take those fingerprints. Then, as you know, I decided yesterday to test those reputed appearances of Anthony and stumbled on the truth.”
“There’s a faint chance,” said Arkwright slowly, “that if Binns’ story is true we may get hold of someone who saw eit
her Meger or Civita at the Parthenon on Saturday night. One or other of them must have dropped that key.”
“It’s a chance in a hundred, but it’s worth trying. Meanwhile, if you can get Civita out of the way for a few hours it’ll be all to the good. I want to see his flat again.”
“There’ll be nothing, you may be sure. He’d know better than to take a chance there.”
“All the same, I should like to take a look round. Has it struck you that, if our suspicions are correct, Meger timed his suicide singularly aptly, from Civita’s point of view?”
Arkwright, who was lighting his pipe, snatched it from his mouth.
“You’re surely not suggesting that he engineered that!” he exclaimed. “Carroll’s account was pretty convincing, and he’s too much of a rabbit to lie convincingly. I’ll swear he saw the man throw himself out. What’s your idea?”
“I haven’t got one,” admitted Constantine frankly. “And I’m inclined to agree with you about Carroll. All the same, Meger’s sudden death bothers me, and I should like to be with you if you search the flat.”
“There’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t,” agreed Arkwright. “But if you’re going to produce any more bombshells, for heaven’s sake let it be soon! I’ve had more surprises this morning than are good for me. I’ll ring you up if we get a move on to-day.”
He was as good as his word. Constantine, who had cancelled an engagement at his club on the chance of hearing from him, was sitting reading in a chair by the fire when Manners announced that Arkwright was on the telephone.
“It’s all right. Very much all right!” came his voice. “We got him absolutely unawares. He didn’t even know that we’d taken Carroll. And the stuff was there! Over a thousand grains of cocaine, according to the analyst, diluted and done up, all neat and tidy, in packets. And a bottle containing about seven ounces. They were in a cupboard behind that big desk of his, and we had a bit of a job finding it. He came in just as the fun was over, and he’s been busy explaining himself ever since. He’s had his solicitor down and he’ll be out on bail to-morrow, so now’s your chance if you want to take a look at that flat. I’ll call for you on my way and be with you in twenty minutes. That right?”
“Very much all right. Congratulations! The conference was satisfactory, I gather?”
“They gave me a free hand, which was all I wanted. With reservations, of course!”
What those reservations were he explained to Constantine as the police car slid smoothly through the lamp-lit streets. Certain people were to be dealt with lightly, should any kind of list of Civita’s clients materialize. Lady Malmsey in particular.
“I gather that she’s a relation of the Duchess of Steynes,” explained Arkwright innocently, and was surprised at Constantine’s chuckle of sheer delight.
CHAPTER XIV
CIVITA’S flat was in darkness when the porter opened the door for them with his pass-key.
Arkwright led the way, switching the lights on as he went, and swung to the right into the bedroom from which the unfortunate Meger had gone to his death. It looked bare and ungarnished, the only trace of its late occupant being the closed suitcase containing his clothes which stood on a chair near the bed.
“Nothing of any interest here,” said Arkwright. “We’d better go upstairs.”
Constantine strolled over to the window and peered out, but it was too dark to see into the well below.
“Is this room overlooked from the outside?” he asked.
“The staircase windows opposite look on to it,” answered Arkwright, “but, apart from that, this is the only portion of the building that has any living-rooms giving on to the air-shaft. As a matter of fact, we did try to find out if anyone opposite could substantiate Carroll’s story, but all the tenants use the lifts, and there was no one on the staircase at the time.”
“What room’s above this?”
“Civita’s sitting-room. Want to have a look at it?”
Constantine nodded, and together they went up the short staircase that led to the upper floor.
Civita’s sitting-room was typical of the mind of the man who owned it. The furniture was not only costly, but comfortable, and, while in excellent taste, was faintly reminiscent of a writing-room in the best type of hotel. A french window, with the two smaller windows on either side of it, opened on to the air-shaft, and Constantine, unlatching it, stepped out on to a long, narrow balcony that ran along the whole width of the room.
Arkwright, meanwhile, was engaged in running through the contents of the drawers of the huge, ornate writing-table that stood in one corner of the room. He very soon found that it contained nothing but receipted bills, business papers, and a few private letters, mostly in Italian. There was nothing that could be connected in any way with the secret traffic at the Trastevere. He took out the drawers and ran his fingers over the dusty cavities that had held them, but could discover nothing. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the room, exploring every possible receptacle. Every now and then he glanced towards the window, to see the light of Constantine’s electric torch flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp on the balcony outside.
At last he joined him, brushing the dust off his fingers as he did so.
“Nothing doing,” he said, “though you might run through a couple of letters from Italy that I’ve got here. I’ll have a squint at the other rooms, but I’m afraid we’re wasting our time. If he kept an incriminating list of any sort it wasn’t here or at the Trastevere. Any special attraction out here, or are you just trying to catch cold?”
Constantine stepped back into the room.
“Neither,” he said cheerfully, “but there’s something very suggestive about that balcony.”
Arkwright stood leaning against the side of the window, his eyes raking the darkness. The velvety blackness of the air-shaft was broken at intervals by the subdued lights from the staircase windows opposite. To his left and right the narrow walls were blank and lost in gloom. Looking down, he could see a finger of light streaming from between the curtains of the bedroom below, and made a mental note to switch it off on his way out. Beyond that he found the balcony uninspiring, and said so.
Constantine did not answer, but there was a subdued elation in his eyes that made Arkwright suspicious.
Together they examined the bedroom and were mildly astonished at Civita’s prodigality in the matter of clothes. His pyjamas could only have graced the figure of a middle-class Latin, and were in amusing contrast to his usual restrained sartorial sobriety. But beyond these revelations of character there was nothing of interest in the bedroom or anywhere else in the flat. Arkwright, grimy and, by now, thoroughly bored with the whole proceeding, decided to go home.
He looked round for Constantine, missed him, and eventually ran him to earth in a small room that Civita had evidently used as a lumber-room. Arkwright had already reluctantly gone through the two built-in cupboards that stood on each side of the fireplace and found them filled with old rugs, curtains, broken electric fittings and discarded pictures, the usual debris that accumulates in the best-ordered flats.
He found Constantine on his knees, examining two pairs of long black velvet curtains that had probably once been used to drape the windows in the sitting-room. They were badly crumpled and torn in places, and had evidently seen a good deal of wear. Beyond that there seemed no reason why they should have attracted his notice.
“Have you discovered any paper or string in the course of your wanderings?” enquired Constantine, rising stiffly to his feet.
“There’s a drawerful in the hall.” answered Arkwright. “But if you’re thinking of taking anything away with you, you can’t, you know. This isn’t a jumble sale!”
“All the same, I’m going to have these curtains,” Constantine assured him blandly. “Get me something to wrap them up in, there’s a good fellow.”
Arkwright stared at him aghast.
“I say, sir, you can’t do that!” he exclaimed. “Civita will
be out on bail to-morrow, and if he misses anything here, woe betide us. He’ll have his solicitor on to us like a terrier on a rat. We can’t plead that a pair of curtains is evidence of drug traffic!”
“All the same, I’m taking these,” insisted Constantine calmly, “and it’ll look a great deal worse if you oblige me to carry them down in the lift in my arms.”
He was folding them as he spoke and piling them in a bulky heap on the carpetless floor.
“Honestly, sir, you can’t do it,” remonstrated Arkwright. “If he can prove that we’ve taken anything that isn’t admissible as evidence, he can have the coat off my back. It’s all very well for you, but the police can’t afford to risk a scandal of that sort. The public’s a bit touchy already on the subject.”
Constantine picked up the curtains and clasped them to his bosom.
“You’re quite at liberty to say that you left me alone for a few minutes and were not aware that I had taken anything until the complaint reached you,” he said, his muffled voice coming from behind the mass of velvet. “And I’m quite prepared to languish in gaol if necessary, but I’m not going away without my curtains.”
Constantine was not a large man and the curtains were voluminous, to put it mildly. Arkwright gave one look at him and subsided into helpless mirth.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said when he recovered, “and, if necessary, I’ll give my popular performance of the three monkeys. But I hope you realize what you’re doing.”
He took the bundle from Constantine, who relinquished it with a sigh of relief.
“I shall probably sneeze for the rest of the night,” he said, “and Manners will jump to the conclusion that I’ve got a cold and make my life a burden to me. It seems incredible that they could have got so dusty in so short a time.”
Arkwright, the huge bundle tucked comfortably under one arm, stared at him in astonishment.
“They’ve been there for years, by the look of them,” he exclaimed.
“In spite of which I’ll take my oath that they were adorning Civita’s sitting-room windows not so many days ago,” answered Constantine. “Ask his charwoman if I’m not right! Meanwhile, you’ll have to trust me till this evening, but I assure you I know what I’m doing. And, just to annoy you, on the way out I’ll show you another item of interest you’ve missed!”