The Inspector nodded. "Anyone but Jones and Carter know of this scheme of yours?"
"Well, of course not!" said White impatiently. "A nice stink there'd have been if they had! I can't see what you want to know about it for. It can't have any bearing on the case." A thought struck him; he said sharply: "Who put you on to it, anyway?"
"I needn't worry you with that," replied Hemingway. He thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew out certain objects, which he laid on the desk before White. "Now, if you could identify any of these, you might help me a lot," he said. "One lady's hair-slide; one broken nail-file; one small magnet; and one gent's pocket-knife in good condition. Seen any of them before?"
White took a moment to answer. "What's this? Starting an ironmongery business? Where did you find them?"
"In your shrubbery."
"I've never seen any of them before in my life." "Funny. I thought for a moment you had," said the Inspector blandly.
"Well, I haven't." White flicked the hair-slide with a contemptuous finger. "Probably the maid's. I don't wear them myself. I don't amuse myself picking up needles with magnets either; and I've never used a nail-file in my life."
"What about the knife?" inquired the Inspector.
"It might belong to anyone. I've seen dozens like it. I used to have one myself, if it comes to that. Anyone could have dropped it."
"No idea who, sir?"
"No, none at all," said White, looking him in the eye.
"Well, that's very disappointing. Mind if I ask your son if he happens to know anything about it?"
"Good Lord, you don't suppose my son had anything to do with Carter's death, do you? You're wasting your time! He'd got no interest in Carter whatsoever."
"Still, I don't know why you should object to my asking him if he's seen the knife before," said the Inspector.
White got up. "Object! I don't care a damn how you choose to waste your time. I'll call my son."
Alan, stridently summoned, lounged into the study a moment or two later. From the defensive expression on his face, the Inspector judged that he expected to be violently taxed with having betrayed his parent. He made haste to dispel this fear by holding out the pocketknife. "Good afternoon, sir. Ever seen that before?"
Alan looked rather relieved, and took the knife. "Where did you find it?"
"Do you recognise it, sir?"
"Yes, it's mine. At least, I think it is. I lost one just like it only the other day, anyway."
"That doesn't prove it's yours," said White. "It's a common enough pattern."
"I didn't say it did prove it. All I said was that it looks as though it might be mine. What's the mystery about? Where was the thing found?"
"In the shrubbery," replied the Inspector.
Alan put the knife down rather hastily. "Oh, I see! Well, what of it? I often go there, and I dare say it dropped out of my pocket."
"Exactly what I was thinking myself," said the Inspector. "I wonder if you know anything about the rest of my little collection?"
Alan glanced at the desk. "Good Lord, did you find them all in the shrubbery? No, I don't know whose they are. They certainly don't belong to me. What's that thing? A nail-file? Oh well, it probably belonged to the last maid we had. She used to file her nails into points, and paint them red into the bargain. That's why she got the push."
"Yes, that's very interesting to the Inspector," said White sarcastically. "If that's all you can tell him, you may as well make yourself scarce."
"Not on my account," said Hemingway. "I'm just off myself."
"Sorry I couldn't be of more assistance to you," said White, accompanying him out into the hall. "As for that other little affair - you'll keep it under your hat, won't you?"
The Inspector said briefly that there was no need for him to worry about that, and left the house, a thoughtful man. When he told his Sergeant the result of his visit, Wake knit his brows, and said after profound consideration: "Well, I suppose one might get something out of it, sir, though it doesn't seem very likely to me. If young White got wind of that scheme of his father's, others might have done likewise."
"So they might," said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. "And then have shot Garter just to upset the scheme. I've come across people like that, of course. In books."
Sergeant Wake flushed, and said in a mortified voice that he was only trying to use his imagination, as his chief had frequently advised him to do.
"Forget it!" said Hemingway.
Silence fell. Hemingway, sitting at his desk, drew an intricate mosaic of cubes and squares on the blottingpaper, apparently absorbed in this childish occupation. Sergeant Wake watched him hopefully. Suddenly the Inspector threw down his pencil. "What's the most common motive for murder, Wake?" he demanded.
"Passion," replied the Sergeant promptly.
"Not by a long chalk it isn't. Money, my lad; that's why five out of seven murders are committed."
"Yes, but Carter hadn't got any money," objected Wake.
"He'd got something just as important, if only I'd had the sense to see it sooner," said Hemingway. "He'd got an aunt."
The Sergeant frowned disapproval. "That brings us back to the young lady: Miss Cliffe. I must say, I don't like it, sir."
"Oh no, it doesn't!" replied Hemingway. "Miss Cliffe doesn't get Aunt Clara's fortune, by what Mr. Dering tells me, and as he's a Chancery barrister I wouldn't be surprised if he knew what he was talking about."
"Well, I know that, sir, but she didn't, did she?"
"No, she didn't, but that isn't to say that others were as ignorant. What I want to know is who the old lady's heir is, now that Carter's been disposed of. Get me Miss Cliffe on the 'phone, will you?"
The Sergeant found the number in the directory, and picked up the receiver. "But, good Lord, sir, that's very likely bringing in someone we've never even heard of!" he said.
"Well, why not?" demanded Hemingway. "I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of this lot, for there isn't a penny to choose between any of them!"
The Sergeant told the Telephone Exchange the number he wanted, and tried to put his jostling thoughts into words. "Yes, sir, I know; but if we go and dig out some stranger I don't see how he could have known what Carter's movements were, or Hallo, is that Mrs. Carter's residence? Inspector Hemingway would like to speak to Miss Cliffe, please."
Chapter Fifteen
Mary, rather bewildered at the other end of the wire, was unable to tell the Inspector very much, but although she had no idea of the exact locality of the Home which housed Clara Carter, she did remember that it was situated in an opulent suburb of London. The Inspector noted down this somewhat vague address, and asked her if she happened to know who managed Miss Carter's affairs. No, she had never heard, but she thought the old lady must have some trustees - if she actually existed.
"What, is there any doubt about that?" demanded Hemingway.
"I don't know. I mean, I've never set eyes on her, and I never heard of my cousin's going to see her, or anything. He only talked about inheriting her money, and being rich one day, whenever he got into debt, or wanted to get money out of Mrs. Carter, so he may have made her up."
The Inspector said in a shaken voice: "May have made her up. Yes, I see, miss. Thank you very much indeed… No, I don't think there's anything more I want to ask you." He laid down the receiver, and said to his Sergeant: ""I'll have to be taken off this case soon, I can see that. Did you get that? Carter's rich aunt probably never existed outside of his imagination. I'll bet he floated a whole lot of phoney companies in his time! Now you get the Department for me, and find out if the Chief's there."
In a few minutes' time the Sergeant handed him the receiver, and the deep, calm, voice of Superintendent Hannasyde hailed him. "Hallo, Hemingway! How's it going?"
"Fine!" replied the Inspector. "Lovely decor, very classy cast, right out of Ibsen."
A chuckle reached him. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing, only that I'm beginning to hear no
ises in my head," said the Inspector.
"Oh! Like that is it? Is that what you rang up to say?"
"No, sir, I rang up to ask for a bit of research to be done by the Department."
"All right, what is it?"
"You know Chipston?" said Hemingway. "Well, I want someone to find out if there's a Home for Mentally Deficients there. If there is, I want an old lady of the name of Clara Carter. She's a spinster, she's very rich, and she's been in residence a good many years. I want to know who looks after her affairs, and where he lives; and I want someone to find out from him who, after Wallis Carter, is the heir to her property."
"Very well. It doesn't sound very difficult. Is that all?"
"Except for booking a nice quiet room for me, it is," replied the Inspector. "But I wouldn't like to keep anything back, Chief, and I'm bound to tell you that I'm not absolutely sure that there's any such person as Clara Carter."
Hannasyde's voice sounded a little puzzled. "I thought you said she was a rich spinster?"
"That's right," responded the Inspector. "She's a rich spinster, gone cuckoo, if she exists. Of course, if she doesn't exist, we shall just have to forget about her, and start all over again from the beginning. That's what I want to discover."
"I suppose you know what you're about," said Hannasyde. "Clara Carter, Chipston, present heir to property. Right?"
"Right it is, Chief," replied the Inspector, and rang off. "And that's about finished me for today," he announced. "If I'm on to what I think I am, there's nothing more I can do till I hear from the Department. And if I'm not on to it, I'm still packing up for the night, because my brain's addled."
"You certainly have been hard at it today, sir," said the Sergeant. "You want to get a good night's rest."
Apparently, the Inspector enjoyed a very good night's rest, for when his subordinate saw him next morning he was his usual brisk and bright-eyed self. He went off to Stilhurst Village to pursue inquiries into Robert Steel's possible movements on the afternoon of the murder, and was coming out of the general shop there when he walked into Hugh Dering.
"Hallo!" Hugh said. "I rather wanted to see you."
"That's funny," said the Inspector. "I could do with a few minutes' chat with you myself."
"Hold on while I buy some stamps, and I'll be with you." Hugh vanished into the shop, reappearing presently to find that the Inspector had strolled on down the street to where Hugh had left his car. He soon overtook him. "Miss Cliffe tells me that you rang her up last night to make inquiries about the mythical aunt. I see what you're after, of course, but do you really believe in the aunt?"
"I've got an open mind, sir. What's your feeling on the subject?"
"I haven't an idea. My instinct always prompted me to disbelieve any statement Carter made, but in this case I've nothing to go on, beyond the fact that Mrs. Carter doesn't seem ever to have set much store by the aunt. A rich aunt, conveniently mad, and hidden from sight in an asylum, sounds suspiciously unlikely to me."
"Yes, it does," agreed Hemingway. "All the same, he went so far as to say that she lived in Chipston."
"H'm! Giving a local habitation and a name to an airy nothing, perhaps."
"Look here, sir, I don't want a job's comforter, if it's all the same to you!" protested Hemingway. "What I do want, on the other hand, is a bit of expert information. You told Miss Cliffe in my presence, the day before yesterday, that there was no question of her inheriting this aunt's money."
"I did."
"I take it you're sure of your facts, sir?"
"Quite sure. According to what Carter let fall from time to time, she became insane before she had made a Will. The Law regarding intestacy is perfectly clear."
"Would it be bothering you if I were to ask you to tell me this Law, sir?"
"Not at all. When an intestate dies, leaving no issue, and his parents having predeceased him, the relations who can inherit his fortune are first, brothers and sisters of the whole blood, or their issue; second, brothers and sisters of the half-blood, or their issue; third, the grandparents, in equal shares; fourth, uncles and aunts of the whole blood of the intestate's parents, or their issue; and fifth, uncles and aunts of the half-blood of the intestate's parents, or '
"Don't tell me!" said the Inspector. "Or their issue!"
"Correct," said Hugh, with a twinkle.
The Inspector eyed him respectfully. "And that's your idea of perfectly clear?"
"Absolutely," Hugh assured him.
"Well, if that's so I'm bound to admit that you gentlemen at the Bar earn every penny you get, whichh is a thing I've often doubted. Let me be sure I've got this right! If this aunt is very old, we can take it she hasn't got any parents or grandparents living, and I remember that Miss Cliffe said that she didn't know of any relations other than her, that Carter had. So if she and Carter were the last of the family, what happens next?"
"Oh, they'll dig up some remote cousin! Failing the male line, you can try the female line. Almost endless possibilities, you perceive." He saw that the Inspector was frowning in an effort of concentration, and added: "It might go to a descendant of the grandmother's family, her father being the intestate's great grandfather. Get the idea?"
"Yes, I get it," replied Hemingway. "What I'm thinking is, that I look like having started something, and no mistake! What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?"
They had reached Hugh's car by this time, and paused by it, in the shade of a great elm-tree. Hugh began to fill his pipe. "Something my father said. I got him to attend the Inquest yesterday, to see what he made of it. One circumstance rather puzzled him. It may have puzzled you."
"And what might that have been, sir?"
Hugh struck a match, and guarded it in his cupped hand from the wind. Between puffs, he said: "Fact of the rifle's having a hair-trigger pull. My father says he can't imagine what Fanshawe wanted with a hair-trigger. Says he would have found it dam' dangerous to use, and almost impossible to load." He pressed the smouldering tobacco gently down into the bowl of his pipe, puffed again, and flicked the match away. "He can't see the point. Occurred to you?"
"Yes, sir, it has, naturally. Might be several answers. Or whoever killed Carter with that rifle may have wanted a light pull."
"Light, perhaps, but not hair-trigger, surely! It would only need a touch to set it off Too risky."
The Inspector's gaze was fixed meditatively on a large saloon car, approaching at a regal and stately pace down the village street. "Very shrewd of your father, sir. I'm much obliged to him." A grin suddenly spread over his face. "Well, I wondered whether it was Royalty for the moment, but I see now that you won't be needing me any longer."
Hugh looked round, as the Rolls Royce, taking up most of the available space in the street, drew up outside the little butcher's shop. In it, looking rather like the Tragic Muse, sat Vicky, swathed in black, and with her sunny curls smoothed into two demure wings that framed her face. A halo hat made an extremely becoming setting for this fair primness.
".Now what's she playing at?" said Hugh Voice.
"Looks to me like Lady Jane Grey on her way to the block," remarked the Inspector, following him down the street to the Rolls Royce.
By the time they had reached it, the chauffeur had opened the door, and received from one gloved and languid hand a scrap of paper bearing the order for the butcher. He went into the shop as Hugh came up. Hugh pulled the door open again, and demanded: "What the devil do you think you're doing, got up like Queen Victoria?"
Vicky surveyed him in an aloof fashion. "I feel like that," she said simply.
Hugh looked grimly back at her. "I thought I told you you were not to start any more of your antics?"
"Yes," sighed Vicky, "but my car died on me."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"This," said Vicky, waving a hand to indicate the opulence of her surroundings. "It came over me in a wave. Such a lonely, sad-looking figure, lost in the cushions of the great, sombre car. I think I was
left a widow frightfully young, and all my fabulous wealth is simply dust and ashes in my mouth. Though I rather like the idea of being a notorious woman with a shocking reputation, only no one guesses the tragedy that lies in my past, and made me what I am."
"Come out!" said Hugh, leaning into the car, and grasping one slim wrist somewhat ungently.
"Oh, did you happen to think you'd got the slightest right to order me about?" inquired Vicky in silken accents.
"Don't you argue with me!" replied Hugh. "Out you come!"
Vicky, dragged relentlessly out of the car, stamped her foot, and said: "Let me go, you horrible beast! I loathe and detest you!"
"You'll have cause to, if you make any further public exhibition of yourself," Hugh assured her.
Vicky was just about to retort in kind when she caught sight of Inspector Hemingway, an admiring spectator. She promptly recoiled, lifting her free hand to her throat, and uttering faintly: 'Ah! You! You've come to arrest me!"
"Well, I don't mind arresting you, just to oblige," offered the Inspector. "I'm never one to spoil another person's big scene, and I haven't anything particular on this morning."
"For God's sake, don't encourage her!" said Hugh.
"Yes, I thought somehow you wouldn't be wanting me any longer," said Hemingway. "Intuition, they call it. I'll be saying good morning to you, sir. I dare say we'll meet again sometime or another."
Hugh nodded to him, and turned back to Vicky. "Come on, explain this act! What are you supposed to be doing?"
"I'm buying a saddle of mutton. And talking of mutton '
"Yes, you can cut that bit. I know it. I remind you of a sheep. Your chauffeur seems to me to be buying the mutton. Did you swank into the village in that car just to play at being a wealthy widow?"
"Or a notorious woman," said Vicky.
"Well, did you?"
"No," said Vicky softly. "I'm being driven to Fritton to pick up my car, not that it has anything to do with you, and I wasn't anybody but me until I suddenly caught sight of you looking like a lawyer, or something that's been stuffed, and then I thought I might just as well as not put on the sort of act you'd be bound to disapprove of."
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