“So am I,” said Knollis grimly.
Ellis laid the photographs on the table, and the three men bent over them, comparing characteristics. Knollis rose first, clicked his tongue, and said: “We’ll require a much more exact test, but if the second set from the bottle don’t match Brailsford’s prints taken from my cigarette case, then I’ll eat my hat. So Brailsford actually did take the bottle to Temple, and Temple was not dreaming. He apparently gave it a quick rinse out afterwards, and that would be while Mrs. Redson and Freeman were upstairs, but he didn’t make a good enough job of it. How about the sample of earth, sir?” Colonel Mowbray fished among the litter of papers on his desk, and triumphantly produced a laboratory report. “Here! Read it for yourself!”
Knollis read it slowly and carefully, and the cloud of doubt lifted from his features. “Chloral hydrate was present in a small degree, eh? Well, that ties up Master Brailsford with the doping, but I still can’t regard him as a suspect for the killing.”
“Difficult,” said the Chief Constable. “And yet the report you sent in last night states that you are satisfied that he was responsible for removing the axe. That makes him an accessory both before and after the fact!”
“Ye-es,” Knollis said hesitantly. “I haven’t quite tied him up over the axe business, but I think I see a way of doing it. I’d like you to ’phone him, sir, and ask him to run over and have a chat with you this morning. Ellis and myself will search his room while you are keeping him busy.”
“Search his room for what, Knollis?”
“A sheet of brown paper, and perhaps a pair of water-stained trousers. You see, while I am satisfied that he hid the axe in the water-butt, I have to produce more evidence. Now I can’t see him getting that axe out in the darkness without splashing his clothes. The water is dirty, greenish stuff, and should have produced a fairish stain. I can’t imagine Brailsford being so stupid as to try to dispose of the suit, or have it cleaned. I think he will keep it out of sight for a little while, and hope to have it cleaned later.”
“And the sheet of brown paper?” asked the Colonel.
“He wrapped the axe in that after wrapping it in news-paper. He wouldn’t mind dumping the newspaper, but the brown paper may have had a name and address written on it.”
“I see,” the Chief Constable said slowly. He picked up the telephone. “I’ll get him now.”
When he replaced the handset he said: “He’ll be here at eleven o’clock. What the devil am I going to talk to him about?”
“Dana Vaughan,” Knollis replied quickly. “Tell him that I was reluctant to question him about her at the house, and we thought it more tactful to ask him down here. Give him the impression that we have Vaughan under suspicion, and generally lull him into a feeling of security.”
“Cunning,” Colonel Mowbray said shortly.
“Now I want to ring Johnson, at Frampton,” said Knollis. “There is a job for him this morning.”
“Knollis speaking,” he said when the connection was made. “I’d like your help. Desmond Brailsford is coming to the Guildhall this morning to be interviewed by Colonel Mowbray. Can you make it convenient to be around and see if you identify him as Daniel Marlin? Can do? Fine! Thanks a lot. I’ll investigate your murder some day.”
The Chief Constable grinned, and suddenly became grave again. “I thought you said that you had no one under suspicion?”
“You asked me,” said Knollis in reply, “if I was in sight of the end of the case yet. I’m not! There is a great deal to be done before I can lay my hand on Brailsford’s shoulder. For one thing, I haven’t a clue to his motive, and I must know that before making an arrest.”
“Lack of dough,” Ellis interrupted.
“Meaning what?” asked Knollis.
“I caused an enquiry to be made into Brailsford’s occupation and general condition while I was in town,” Ellis explained. “Brailsford is the junior partner in a very small publishing firm which isn’t doing too well, owing to lack of capital. He isn’t very stable personally, either. He’s lost a lot to bookies during the past season.”
“Any women in his life?” asked Knollis.
“Yes, in the singular. He has a bird tucked away in a love-nest in Shepherd’s Bush, but according to my information she isn’t a chiselling type, and is waiting patiently until he can get a divorce and marry her.”
“Then he’s married!” exclaimed Colonel Mowbray.
“No, sir, he isn’t,” Ellis replied. “There’s no trace of it at Somerset House, anyway. No, that is just the yarn he has spun to excuse himself from marrying her. He seems to be a one-woman dog, and there is nothing against his moral character otherwise.”
“Pity!” remarked the Colonel. “That sort of fellow usually has two or three of ’em, and it always helps. Great pity! However . . .”
He looked sharply at Knollis. “What about La Vaughan, as Ellis calls her?”
Knollis looked worried. “I’m not at all sure, sir. She has provided information which indicates blackmailing on Brailsford’s part, and has also hinted that she is interested in Sir Giles. I think I’ll call on him on my way to Baxmanhurst—and we may as well get moving now. There is nothing more to be done at this end as yet. The rest is going to be patience and perseverance.”
Sir Giles was on the point of leaving Knightswood for the site of his intended flying-club when they arrived, but he jumped happily from his car and showed no annoyance at being delayed in his plans.
“Something bestirring?” he asked as he joined them on the gravel drive.
“Nothing at all,” Knollis said with a fair show of glumness. “By the way, do you happen to be interested in Miss Vaughan, by any chance?”
Sir Giles eyed Knollis gleefully, his head askew. “As an amateur criminologist I deduce that the remark is by no means by the way, and that you have called specifically to ask if I am gone on her. The answer is in the negative—and why the hell do you want to know?”
“I—er—merely wondered,” Knollis said lamely.
“During the short time I have known you, Inspector Knollis,” said Sir Giles, “I have learned that when you are merely wondering you generally have a first-class idea floating round your mind. Won’t you be frank? Why did you ask me?”
“Er—well,” hesitated Knollis, “in case you haven’t noticed it, Miss Vaughan seems to be very interested in you, and I merely wondered if your interest could be mutual.”
Sir Giles gaped. “Dana, interested in me? Don’t be absurd, man!”
“I’m not being absurd,” replied Knollis. “I do assure you that the lady is very interested.”
Sir Giles threw his cigarette away and stood gaping at Knollis. “Well, I’ll be blowed! And yet I suppose I could do a lot worse. She’s good-looking, talented, and knows how many beans make four. Yes, it’s quite an idea—but I’ll stick to my aircraft, thank ye. I can make a kite go which way I want it to go by a slight pressure of my hands, and a sideways kick of my foot. You can’t do that with a woman, not in the best circles, that is.”
“How old is she?” asked Knollis.
“Oh, level thirty, I should say. Milly’s only about thirty-five, you know. She probably looks older as a result of all her troubled life, and living with Freddy. He’d age anybody.”
“And you are definitely not interested in Miss Vaughan?” Knollis insisted, as if he was not yet sure.
“Definitely not, Inspector!”
“In which case we will leave you. Lovely morning, isn’t it? Now what time is it? Five to eleven, so we’d better be moving. Good morning, Sir Giles!”
“Hey! Give me the wire when you make the arrest!” Sir Giles called after them. “I’ve never seen it done!”
“You’ve had that!” Ellis called over his shoulder.
On arriving at Baxmanhurst, Knollis sought out Freeman, and asked her if Brailsford was out.
“He is, sir. He asked Smithy to take him into town on business. He had to be there at eleven. There was a tel
ephone call for him earlier in the morning.”
“And Mrs. Manchester?”
“She is keeping to her room, sir, because she isn’t feeling very well. A nasty rash has come on her hands, and she’s worried about it.”
“Thank you,” said Knollis. “Now I wonder if you can remember which suit Mr. Brailsford was wearing on Tuesday evening?”
“Easily, sir,” Freeman replied, “because I had his lounge suit to press. He only has two suits with him, so he would be wearing his ginger plus-four suit.”
“Good enough,” said Knollis. “Where does he keep it—by the way, he’s not wearing it this morning, is he?”
“No, sir, he’s gone out in the lounge suit. He keeps them in the wardrobe, of course.”
She looked at Knollis as if she could not understand why he had asked such an obvious question.
Knollis thanked her, and set off upstairs with Ellis. In Brailsford’s room, they stood for a moment and took stock of it, and then Knollis went to the wardrobe and opened the door.
“The jacket is here, but where are the trousers? Get cracking, Ellis, and search the whole room.”
Ellis eventually found the trousers in the bottom drawer of the dressing-table, buried under Brailsford’s shirts and collars.
“There are stains,” he called across the room; “greenish ones, too. You hit the nail on the head, sir!”
Knollis got to work on them with his magnifying-glass, and finally folded it away. He gave a smile of satisfaction. “I don’t think I’ll be setting the lab people on a fool’s errand if I get them to analyse those stains. See that a sample of water is taken from the butt for comparison tests. And now for the brown paper, if it still exists.”
It was found in a hat box in the adjoining box-room.
Knollis had no doubts that it had been wrapped round the axe. The folds all indicated that it had been made into a triangular parcel, and to aid the impression was a small hole such as might have been made by the spiked end of the implement.
“And now what?” asked Ellis.
Knollis parked himself on a chair and balanced his chin on his hands. “Exactly! Now what! I can satisfactorily prove that he put the doped beer in Temple’s way, and I can satisfactorily prove that he removed the axe after the murder—and what else have I got? Nothing.”
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” said Ellis.
“You see,” said Knollis, although it was only too evident that he was talking to himself: “you see, Ellis, Dana Vaughan suggests that Brailsford is drawing money from Mildred—but that doesn’t tie-up with the notion that Brailsford killed Manchester. There is also the point that Vaughan suggests that Mildred was afraid of Manchester knowing how much she was spending. Now did Manchester know that Brailsford was Mildred’s brother? Did he know that she was Marlin’s daughter? Does Vaughan know that Brailsford is Daniel Marlin? These are the questions to be answered: Who killed the budgie? Who killed the cat? And, finally, who killed Manchester? That reduces the problem to its simplest terms.”
“A pretty string of questions,” Ellis remarked. “Who benefits by Manchester’s death, apart from the whole world of suffering mankind?”
“Mildred, directly,” said Knollis, “but I am more concerned with the question of who benefits indirectly. Is it possible for either Vaughan or Brailsford to be in a position to tap Mildred’s bank balance now that Fred is dead? I’m hanged if I can see any motive other than a monetary one. Oh, damn it; let’s get back to town. I’ve reached that muddled stage where I can’t see the wood for trees. We’ll call and see the Colonel, and then disport ourselves in a local pub until lunch-time. Perhaps the fog will clear then. Bring those pants and the paper for the lab.”
Ellis drove back to town, dropped Knollis at the Guildhall, and went on to the Home Office laboratory.
Knollis satisfied himself that Brailsford was no longer in the building, and went up to the Chief Constable’s room to face a contented man.
“Johnson recognised him, Knollis,” he said happily. “Says he would recognise him anywhere, although he has aged since their last meeting. As for Brailsford, well, I got him talking, and he opened out beautifully. Told me all I wanted to know.”
Knollis was dubious, and showed it by his expression, so that the Chief Constable removed his monocle, polished it, replaced it, and shook his head. “Don’t be so suspicious, Knollis! I may not be a Yard man, but I’m not entirely lacking in intelligence, y’know!”
Knollis took a seat and planted his palms firmly on his knees. “What did he tell you?”
“All about Vaughan. Says he is sorry for Mrs. Manchester, too. She has some secret, he told me, that is giving her a great deal of worry. That will be the secret of her parentage, of course. He implies that Vaughan is aware of it, and is pumping the cash out of her regularly.
“It seems that there have been rows in the house over the amount of money spent by Mildred. Manchester was suspicious of her, and challenged her. She told him that she was helping a poor relative—”
“That may be true,” Knollis said grimly. “However, please continue, sir.”
“Brailsford did not say so outright, but he gave me the impression that he suspects Vaughan of doin’ in Manchester.” He shook his head. “Most convincing fellow! He almost had me believing him at one time. By the way, what did you find?”
“Everything I looked for,” Knollis replied. “His trousers were hidden away, and are stained. I also found the sheet of paper, and the folds in it substantiate Mrs. Temple’s story of him carrying a triangular parcel. Things don’t look too rosy for Mr. Brailsford at the moment.”
“Then pull him in!” the Chief Constable exclaimed. “Why potter about with him like this? He’s done it, hasn’t he?”
Knollis did not answer.
“Well, hasn’t he?” repeated the Chief Constable.
“On the face of it, yes,” Knollis replied slowly.
“Then why on earth—”
Knollis rose, and slapped his hat against his leg. “I can’t prove it, and I can’t trace any motive to him.”
The Chief Constable sucked a tooth, and then looked hard at Knollis. “You mean that you are stuck?”
“Temporarily, yes,” Knollis admitted. “I’ve slipped somewhere, and I don’t know where it is.”
Colonel Mowbray left his chair and came round the table. “But look! What are you going to do about it! You must do something! I mean, we can’t let the case go into the unsolved file. What are you going to do?”
Knollis walked to the door. “I’m going to lunch, sir.”
“And after lunch?”
Knollis clicked his tongue. “Is there a good news theatre in Trentingham?”
“News theatre?” the Chief Constable gasped.
Knollis nodded. “One with a couple of Donald Duck’s in the programme.”
“This—this is a murder investigation, Knollis!”
“Yes, I know,” replied Knollis, “and Donald is very funny. I always find him most refreshing.”
CHAPTER XV
THE VIRTUES OF HERR GLASER
At three-thirty that afternoon Knollis emerged from the news theatre with a smile lurking on his lips, and a brighter gleam in his eyes. He had long since learned that true mental relaxation was not to be found in idleness, but in a change of subject, and he no longer felt jaded. With a springy step he returned to the Guildhall, collected his car, and drove to Baxmanhurst. Here he asked to see Mrs. Manchester, for the second time only since her husband had been so violently butchered. She received him in the sitting-room, and Knollis lost very little time in exchanging courtesies, although he did comment on her bandaged hand.
“I don’t know what is the trouble with it,” she said wearily. “My finger-tips are sore, and Denstone does not seem to know what has caused it—but I don’t suppose you have called to discuss my health.”
“No,” said Knollis, “my errand is nothing so pleasant.”
He looked at her carefully. Sir Giles was r
ight; she looked considerably older than her thirty-five years. He would have placed her age another ten years higher.
“I have tried to avoid bothering you,” he said, “but the investigation has reached a stage where a great degree of frankness is necessary on your part if we are to find your husband’s murderer.”
She gazed down at her hands, folded in her lap.
“If I can help . . .” she murmured weakly.
“You are the daughter of Marlin, I believe?” Knollis said.
“Yes,” she said without looking up. “I suppose it was natural and inevitable that you should find out.”
“It was,” Knollis agreed. “Did your husband know that?”
“Yes, he did.”
“How long had he known?” asked Knollis.
“Merely a few months. Brailsford told him—although how he knew I cannot imagine,” Mrs. Manchester replied.
Knollis nodded to himself. It was to be a game, apparently. Well, he was quite capable of playing it. He would suppress his knowledge of Desmond Brailsford’s true identity.
“The morning that you discovered the cat in the cactus house; why did you go there that morning?”
“To look round, of course, Inspector.”
“You made a purpose journey, Mrs. Manchester?”
“Ye-es,” she answered hesitantly.
“Your husband asked you to do so?”
She looked up then. “How did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Knollis replied frankly. “It is a surmise—but he did ask you to take a look in the cactus house!”
“Yes,” she admitted. “One of the cacti had flowered, and he was anxious for me to see it before it faded away. Some of them only flower for a few hours, you know,” she added listlessly.
Knollis beat a tattoo on his knee with his finger-tips. “Mrs. Manchester!”
“Yes, Inspector?”
“You know that your husband killed both the cat and the budgerigar? You are aware of that, aren’t you?”
Mildred Manchester nodded. “Yes, I knew that on Tuesday morning. Yes, it was Fred.”
“You were afraid for your own life, were you not?” Knollis next asked.
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