by Cyril Hare
Stephen sat bolt upright in his chair.
“Good God!” he said. “Does anybody imagine that Martin and I killed the blighter?”
“No, no!” Mallett assured him with a rumbling laugh. “It’s not so bad as that. The position simply is that it has been ascertained that you two had an interview with the deceased shortly before he met his death, and the coroner appears to think that you may be able to throw some light on it.”
“I see.”
“I learned that inquiries were being made for somebody of your name in London, and thought it would simplify matters if I found out whether you were the individual referred to. Now all I need do is to have the Midchester police notified, and you will get a witness summons in due course. The inquest has been adjourned for a week, I understand.”
“I see,” said Stephen again. Then he added: “I shall have to go, I suppose?”
“I am afraid so. Indeed, it would be very inadvisable for you not to go. I can see that the position may be a little difficult for you, all the same, and I dare say you might consider the possibility of being legally represented.”
“Thank you very much.” Stephen paused, and then added: “By the way, Inspector, you haven’t told me how it was that you guessed why I went to Midchester.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly difficult. You see, after our little talk the other day, I got a friend in the Markshire police to supply me with a list of the people who had been staying at Pendlebury at the same time as your father, and I noticed the name of Parsons on it.”
“Then you were interested in the case, after all?”
“To that extent only. And I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a case, exactly.”
Stephen stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment or two before he spoke again. Then he said: “Look here, Inspector, I’ve been a bit of a fool about this Parsons business. How much of a fool I didn’t know until it was pointed out to me yesterday. The more I think about it, the more I feel convinced that I was on the right track about Parsons. Is there any chance of the police helping me now to prove what I still believe to be the fact—that Parsons actually murdered my father?”
“Well,” said Mallett slowly, “where there has been no crime officially known to the police and where the proposed suspect is dead in any case, there’s very little we can do. All the same, in the very special circumstances here, entirely unofficially . . . Perhaps you could tell me just what your theory about Parsons is?”
Stephen plunged once more into the narration of the events which had taken place at Midchester and the theory Martin and he had built up upon their discoveries there. The inspector listened to him with grave attention. At the end of the recital he nodded slowly.
“Well, Mr. Dickinson, your theory is decidedly interesting. I wouldn’t put it higher than that, but it is interesting, and if I may say so, ingenious. I see no reason why discreet inquiries should not be made, both in Midchester and London, and if anything comes of them, I shall, of course, let you know.”
“If only the time wasn’t so desperately short!” Stephen said. “I must, I simply must, have something to go upon by Monday at the very latest.”
“I shouldn’t despair of getting information by Monday,” the inspector reassured him. “If there is any information to get, that is. We move pretty quickly in the Force, you know.”
Sitting there in his arm-chair, he looked as solid and immovable as the Sphinx.
“As you are so short of time,” he went on, “it was perhaps rather unfortunate that you didn’t investigate the position of Parsons a little earlier in the day. I suppose that was because he happened to come at the bottom of your list?”
“We left him and Vanning to the end because they seemed the least likely.”
“Just so. And before you got to them, I suppose you had sifted out all the other people on this list of mine?”
“Yes.”
“Without any results?”
Stephen hesitated. With the recollection of Mr. Dedman’s bitter sarcasm fresh in his mind, it was not surprising that he should be unwilling to expose his and Martin’s short-comings in the art of detection to a professional.
“Without any tangible results,” he said, at last. “If there had been any, I should not have bothered about Parsons, of course.”
“But there were results of a kind?”
“In two cases there was apparently something to go on, but it didn’t amount to very much when you examined it afterwards.”
Mallett shrugged his shoulders.
“This is your affair, of course, Mr. Dickinson,” he said. “But I rather gathered that you would be glad of any help, official or otherwise, that I could give you. Besides, if you have any grounds for suspicion against anybody, I’m not sure that it isn’t your duty to reveal them.”
So encouraged, Stephen put to the best of his ability the case against Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. March. If he feared a repetition of the contemptuous reception which he had met from Mr. Dedman the day before, he was quickly reassured. The inspector proved to be a courteous and attentive listener, although it was impossible to tell from his face what impression the story was making on him.
“I’m afraid you’ll think we have made a bad bungle of the whole affair,” Stephen concluded.
“Not at all,” Mallett assured him. “Not at all. I think, if I may say so, that you have been remarkably thorough in your investigations, all things considered. I shall remember what you have told me and follow it up so far as I can. There is only one aspect of the case which I am surprised that you have not taken into account,” he added.
“What is that?”
“I seem to recollect at our first meeting your being somewhat impressed by one little fact which I brought to your notice. I mean, the curious little incident of the man whom your father thought he recognized while I was talking to him at the hotel. Have you considered that at all?”
“No. I admit I have not.”
“Considering it now, do you think that any of the people we have been discussing could be identified with that person?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There may be nothing in it, of course, though I remember that at the time I first mentioned it to you, you seemed to attach some importance to it.”
“I’m afraid I had forgotten all about it until you mentioned it just now.”
“We are all of us liable to forget things,” said the inspector, with the air of a man who was quite confident that he, personally, never forgot anything. “But it does seem to leave rather a hole in the inquiry so far, doesn’t it? If you don’t mind taking a word of advice from me, you’ll devote a little time to filling that hole—if it can be done.”
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I will,” he said.
Mallett looked at his watch and rose to his feet.
“This has been a very interesting little talk,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Dickinson, that this affair has aspects which puzzle me quite a lot—entirely unofficially, of course, but I am puzzled. How far I shall be able to help you, I can’t say, naturally. A lot depends on what, if anything, we can find out about Parsons and the gentleman who called himself Vanning. Meanwhile, have you considered the advisability of employing a private inquiry agent? They are not a class of people I care for very much, as a general rule, but there is one I know of who is quite reliable—when he is sober, that is.”
“Do you mean Elderson?”
“That’s the man. Don’t let it get out that I sent you there, though.”
“I have been to him already. In fact, it was on his investigation at the hotel that we based everything we have done since.”
“Indeed? You sent him down there and he made you a report, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind very much if I looked at it for a moment? One never knows, it might give one some ideas.”
Stephen fetched it, and Mallett glanced through it. His inspection was a good deal less
cursory than Mr. Dedman’s had been, but it was none the less quick enough. As he was in the act of handing it back his features were suddenly convulsed in a spasm of pain.
“Is anything the matter?” Stephen asked.
“It’s nothing,” said the inspector faintly. “A touch of—of indigestion, I’m afraid.” (Was it imagination, or did he blush as he made the confession?) “I think I must have eaten something poisonous,” he went on.
“You don’t look at all well,” said Stephen. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor?”
“Perhaps I should,” said Mallett. “I dare say it’s nothing to worry about, but I—I’m not used to this sort of thing. Do you know of any good doctor handy?”
“Our own man is only just down the road. He’s pretty useful.” He gave the name and address.
“Thank you. I’ll look in there on my way. Goodbye.”
He shook hands, and then added: “I had quite forgotten—Mr. Johnson will have to get a witness summons too. Will you let me have his address also?”
Stephen wrote it down for him.
“No doubt you will be seeing him soon,” Mallett said, “and can let him know what to expect.”
“I will, of course. As a matter of fact, I am expecting him here about five o’clock.”
“That’s all right then. Goodbye once more, Mr. Dickinson.”
And with the best speed he could, the inspector made his way down the street to the doctor’s house.
* * *
Soon after five, Martin’s little car clattered up to the front door of the house. Stephen and his mother were finishing tea in the drawing-room.
“I’m afraid Anne won’t be able to come out with you after all,” said Mrs. Dickinson. “She seems to be in a thoroughly nervous state and I’m keeping her in bed.”
“Sorry about that,” said Martin. “Bit of a strain and all that, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’ll tell her I looked in—if you think she’d like to know, that is. No thanks, I’ve had tea. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll be toddling off now.”
Stephen went out with him into the hall, and told him of the forthcoming summons to Midchester. Martin’s sole comment was, “Bad show.”
“Annie seems dreadfully wrought up about things,” he added.
“Yes,” said Stephen. “Do you know why, exactly?”
“No, I thought perhaps you would.”
“I should think in some ways you know her better than I do.”
“Well, she is sensitive and all that sort of thing,” said Martin vaguely.
“You can’t think of anything in particular that she should be sensitive about, so far as this show is concerned?”
“No—o, I don’t think so. All the same, I can’t help thinking it would be a good thing if you could let things drop altogether.”
“I can’t,” said Stephen with an air of finality. “And, as a matter of fact, even if I could, I wouldn’t—now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I’ve just got an entirely new slant on the whole affair that may make all the difference.”
“Well, I wish you luck, that’s all,” said Martin, opening the front door.
“I shall want you to help me, you know, Martin,” Stephen told him, following him on to the pavement.
“Me? But I’m with Annie on this, you know.”
“I dare say you are. But doesn’t it seem to you that the quickest way to put her mind at rest will be to finish the business in the way we’ve always wanted to?”
“’M, yes, I suppose so, in a way.”
“Anyhow, I can’t do this job properly without you. I want your car, at least. You can just be chauffeur if you like. Come round tomorrow morning. It will be the last time, Martin, I promise you that.”
“All right, then. Shall I be round about tennish?”
“Ten o’clock will do. So long!”
“So long!”
Stephen turned to go back into the house and Martin settled himself in the driving-seat of his car. On the pavement opposite stood a shabbily dressed man. Martin observed casually that he had not seen him there before, and that he was supporting a tray of bootlaces and collar-studs for sale. He could be excused for not observing that attached to his waist coat was a rather more intricate object which was not for sale.
“Full face and profile,” murmured the shabby man to himself when he was alone in the street once more. “Good enough, I think.”
As he went back to the motorcycle which he had left at the police station, he reflected that in an instant of time, by the pressure of a finger, he had done something permanent and irrevocable. It was like pulling the lever that opens the trapdoor of the scaffold.
He was, for a policeman, a dangerously imaginative man.
Chapter Twenty
Return to Pendlebury
Friday, September 1st
“How’s Annie this morning?” were Martin’s first words when he arrived at Plane Street next day.
“She’s better,” said Stephen shortly. “Had her breakfast in bed and isn’t down yet. We’d better be getting off, hadn’t we?”
“You know, Steve, I’ve a sort of notion you’re not very keen on my seeing Annie this morning,” Martin remarked, peering doubtfully at him through his thick glasses.
“My good Martin, do you want a repetition of yesterday’s scene? Because if you do, I don’t.”
If Martin objected to being addressed as “My good Martin” by his prospective brother-in-law, he did not show it. He merely blinked at him and said:
“You don’t think she’d like my coming out with you on this show?”
“She’d raise hell’s delight, I should think.”
“In that case,” said Martin uncomfortably, “I think perhaps it would be best if I didn’t come after all.”
“You’re coming, all right,” answered Stephen in a tone of such unusual authority that Martin, to his own surprise, found himself submitting quite meekly.
“Where are we going?” he asked when they were settled in the car.
“Oh, go through Hemel Hempstead. I’ll explain as we go along.”
Martin nodded and said nothing until they had covered some thirty miles. From time to time Stephen gave a direction, but otherwise he remained equally silent.
“Look here,” Martin said at last, “I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.”
“Doesn’t the road seem familiar, Martin?”
“I know most of the main roads about London, as a matter of fact. I don’t know that there is anything specially familiar about this one. The last time I came down it was the day of your guv’nor’s funeral, actually.”
“Oh, yes, of course, coming back from Pendlebury. Well, as it’s on our way, we might as well look in there.”
“At the churchyard, d’you mean?”
“No, I meant at the hotel. (I wish you wouldn’t swerve all over the road like that, Martin.) That is, unless you’re nervous of going there.”
“Why should I be nervous?”
“Why, indeed? After all, if you’re investigating a murder, it’s the natural thing to go to the place where it was done, isn’t it? Are you feeling the heat, by the way?”
“No, why?”
“I thought you were sweating a bit, that’s all. As I was going to say, it’s an odd thing that all this time we’ve been hunting all over the country for clues, but none of us has ever thought to look at the hotel itself.”
“Why should we? We paid Elderson to do it for us.”
“Very true. It struck me at the time as rather odd that you were so keen not to go down there when we were first discussing this business.”
“You didn’t want to go down there yourself, for the matter of that.”
“I had a very good reason. (I wish you’d look where you’re going, Martin. You nearly had us into the ditch that time.) Your reason was, so far as I can remember, that you were afraid of being recognized by the people at the hotel—as a result of having been at the f
uneral.”
“Yes. That’s absolutely right. And a jolly good reason too.”
“Of course, at the funeral you’d be one of the crowd of relations. I shouldn’t have thought there was much risk. Anyway, that reason has gone now, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, if you say so.”
“I tell you another thing that has occurred to me lately, Martin. When you and Anne went off to Lincolnshire, I remember that you were very insistent that she should be the one to interview Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop and that you should merely drive her down there.”
“I don’t know what you’re driving at. You know as well as I do that I did see Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop and had a glass of sherry off her.”
“I wish you wouldn’t turn round to talk to me like that, Martin. It’s very dangerous. I can hear you quite well when you’re looking ahead, you know. Yes, you talked to Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop all right, but that was after you knew that she wasn’t the woman who stayed in the hotel. It was awfully clever of you, Martin, to spot that so quickly.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go on saying ‘Martin’ every other word. It gets on my nerves.”
“Never knew you had any, Martin. Sorry, but the name seems to have a fatal fascination for me. By the way, what do you think M stands for?”
“M?”
“Yes, M in M. Jones. In the hotel register, you know.”
“How the hell should I know?”
“I just thought you might, that’s all. You see, it has just occurred to me (funny what a lot of things keep occurring all of a sudden!) that if you are out on the loose—I think that is the accepted expression, isn’t it?—there is always the suitcase problem to be got over.”
“Now what on earth—”
“Come, come, Martin, you’re not as dense as that, you know. In fact, I’ve always looked on you as pretty smart. You were fearfully clever at Midchester, I thought. For instance, your notion of having a good look at Parsons at the meeting before you decided that it was safe to go and see him—”
“Safe?”
“But I was forgetting. We were talking about the great suitcase problem, weren’t we? What I had in mind was that if your suitcase was marked, say, ‘M.J.’ in letters large as life, it wouldn’t do to go and register as Thomas Smith, for instance. It might make the man who took it up to your room just a bit suspicious. So you’d decide that the J. stood for Jones, just for that night, and M., I suppose, would be Michael or Matthew or Melchisedeck. . . . Do you really want to stop at Pendlebury, Martin?”