by Cyril Hare
Something like a sigh of relief came from Jellaby.
“As I think you are aware, I work in the Enforcement Branch,” he went on, “I share a table with Mr. Phillips. It is near the end of the room furthest from the door, and next to the entrance to Mr. Edelman’s office. I have a little sketch plan of it here, if it would be of any assistance to you. Between the hours of three and five fifteen p.m. on Friday I was there without stirring from my seat. I have a number of witnesses to that effect. Not, I should point out, either Mr. Phillips or Mr. Edelman. Mr. Phillips was out of the room between three fifty and four ten. Mr. Edelman left his office at a little before a quarter past three and did not return to it until close on twenty minutes past four. But a number of other persons working elsewhere in the room can vouch for my presence throughout the time I have mentioned. I may refer you to Mr. Clayton, Mr. Walton, Mr. Parker. . . .”
“That is very satisfactory, Mr. Wood,” murmured Mallett.
“There is another matter on which I desire to make a statement,” Wood went on. “I am aware that I have unwittingly placed myself in a position that might be misunderstood as the result of having been responsible for planning the plot of a work of fiction in this office. I am prepared to make the fullest possible disclosure.” He pulled from his pocket an untidy bundle of paper. “Here are all the documentary materials on the subject—all, without exception. I am keeping nothing back. Please peruse them at your leisure. I know that they may be construed as evidence against me, but I insist that on any fair reading of them it must be plain that the crime to which they relate is purely, entirely, imaginary!”
His voice rose almost to a scream on the last words.
Mallett stirred the heap of papers on the desk before him with the tip of his forefinger.
“But surely, Mr. Wood,” he said gently, “if you have a well-attested alibi, it isn’t really necessary for me to go through all this? There seems to be a lot of reading matter here.”
Exhausted by his eloquence, Wood gasped two or three times before muttering, “Of course, if you’re prepared to take my word for it——”
“And the word of Mr. Clayton, Mr. Walton and Mr. Parker,” Mallett reminded him. “Surely, that should be enough for anyone?”
“Yes,” Wood admitted, “I suppose it should.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mallett went on, in the manner of a very large cat playing with a very small mouse, “although my colleague and I are extremely glad that you are able to provide us with such a good account of your activities on last Friday afternoon—my colleague particularly—I am afraid you have rather jumped to conclusions in volunteering your statement.”
He paused and in very leisurely fashion filled and lit his pipe. Wood’s strained expression meanwhile did not relax and his eyes never left the inspector’s face.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mallett, blowing out the match and depositing it carefully in Mr. Bissett’s ashtray, “I intended to ask you a few questions about your other activities.”
“My—other—activities?”
“Activities which I can indicate most simply by the name Blenkinsop.”
If Edelman had been present at that moment, he would undoubtedly have been gratified to observe the accuracy of his psychological observations. Wood’s face seemed to crumple up. The sharply drawn features became blurred as though the spring that had held them rigid had suddenly snapped. His whole body sagged and slumped forward in his chair. The silence was broken by Mallett’s voice, cold and impersonal, administering the official caution.
“I’ll tell you everything,” came the answer, in a voice that was only just above a whisper.
A quarter of an hour later, Wood departed, leaving behind him a signed statement, which amounted to a detailed confession. It set out the exact circumstances in which confidential information of the working of the control and instructions for evading it had been conveyed outside. It gave dates, facts and figures, named individuals and firms. Wood’s memory was a good one, and under the inspector’s firm guidance, every relevant particular had been included. The shabby little story was complete down to the last detail.
“So that’s that!” said Mallett, as he re-read the document before putting it away. “A miserable little job cleared up. Won’t the Controller be pleased!”
“What will they do with him, do you think?” asked Jellaby.
“That’s a matter for the Ministry, I suppose. They can either prosecute that poor little rat under the Official Secrets Act or go for his employers for breach of the control and use him as a witness. I hardly think he’ll try to go back on this,” he added grimly.
“He certainly made things easy for you, once he started,” Jellaby observed.
“Thank goodness for that! After all, we had nothing whatever to go upon except Edelman’s assertion, and that was only in the most general terms. If Wood had chosen to stick his toes in, we should have been able to get nowhere. It’s lucky for us that the citizen who knows his rights and has the guts to stand on them is a rare type.”
“Well,” said Jellaby, “this is all very nice for you, but we’re still not——”
“An inch nearer catching Miss Danville’s murderer. I know. Don’t rub it in. But we’ve had one stroke of luck to-day and we may still have another. There is still Master Rickaby to be tackled.”
The interview with Rickaby, however, proved to be a sad anticlimax. The inspector had not been speaking to him for two minutes before he realized that this unattractive young man belonged to precisely the type that he had just complacently characterized as “rare”. Rickaby obstinately refused to assist the police in any way whatever. He did not know anything about Miss Danville, he said, and he very emphatically did not wish to be mixed up in any police inquiries. When Mallett resignedly asked him if he would sign a statement to that effect, he promptly replied that he would do no such thing except in the presence of a solicitor.
“I wish you would consult a solicitor,” Mallett said. “I have no doubt at all that he would advise you to make a full statement, in your own interest.”
“Then I shouldn’t take his advice,” said Rickaby truculently. “Why should I? I’ve got my rights, haven’t I? If I choose to say nothing, I suppose I can. It’s no use your trying to use third degree methods on me.”
“Nowadays,” said Mallett quietly, “people of your sort usually call them ‘Gestapo methods’. You should try to be a little more up to date. And, by the way, if you should find yourself under police observation from now on don’t write to your M.P. about it. He might want to know why you’re not in the army. Run along now, before I forget I’m a policeman and give you a good smacking.”
Jellaby broke the silence that succeeded Rickaby’s departure.
“I’ll arrange for the police observation straight away,” he said.
“Please do. It will give him a bit of a fright that’ll do him good.”
“What’s at the back of his behaviour?”
“Sheer cussedness, I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t believe he has anything to hide, but simply thinks he sees a chance of scoring off authority. Mr. Edelman would probably have something interesting to say about his psychology.”
He rose and stretched himself.
“It’s been a tiring day,” he said. “I have a strong feeling that I have been talking to a murderer during the course of it and that makes it worse. The whole business seems to me just as illogical as it did this morning, and I can’t see my way to put it into shape.”
“And now?” said Jellaby.
“Now,” Mallett replied, tapping Wood’s confession, “I am going to make glad the heart of Mr. Palafox. That will be one good deed for the day, anyhow. After that——What time did you say the Gamecock opened?”
Chapter 17
ILLUMINATION AT EASTBURY
“Inspector Mallett would like to speak to you, Mr. Pettigrew,” said Miss Brown.
Since his visit to Jellaby’s office on the day of the inquest, Petti
grew had seen nothing of Inspector Mallett. During the past week he had watched the excitement about the case of Miss Danville rise to a fever pitch, and then slowly subside as day succeeded day without any fresh development. It had been an extremely difficult week to live through. Work at the office had been thoroughly demoralized, and only the efforts of a few staunch devotees of routine, such as Miss Clarke, had succeeded in preserving a semblance of order among the staff. Life at the Fernlea had been almost unbearable. Inevitably the inhabitants had begun to look askance at one another as each became aware that suspicion pointed towards their group. Nothing was said in terms, but feelings showed themselves in an unusually elaborate and distant courtesy of utterance, breaking down now and then into angry altercations over trifles. The sudden disappearance of Wood had relieved the tension momentarily, but when it became known that he had merely been suspended on account of misbehaviour and not arrested for murder, the gloom of mutual distrust settled down on the company again. Naturally enough, Pettigrew welcomed the inspector’s reappearance as the sign of a relief from intolerable suspense.
When Mallett came into the room, Pettigrew was quite shocked to see how tired he looked. Colour had deserted his cheeks, there were dark patches under his eyes and even his moustache points drooped a little. It was the face of a man who had been working long hours under great pressure, and it was not the face of a man who had carried his work to a successful conclusion.
“I came to tell you, sir,” said Mallett in level, expressionless tones, “that Blenkinsop Limited were committed for trial yesterday on all charges.”
“Oh!” said Pettigrew in a disappointed voice.
The inspector caught his eye for a moment but did not comment on what was in both their minds.
“Both prosecution and defence were anxious for the case to be dealt with as soon as possible, so it has gone to Eastbury Assizes, which start to-day week.”
Pettigrew pricked up his ears. Eastbury was on his own beloved Southern Circuit. At that moment circuit life appeared to him like an Eden from which he had madly shut himself out. If he could only get away from this dreadful place just for a day or two to the sweet sanity of the circuit mess, he felt that life would be tolerable again. But Mallett was still speaking.
“Mr. Flack has been nominated to prosecute,” he said. “He has suggested that, although a plea of guilty is anticipated, it would be desirable for a witness to attend from this office to prove the receipt of the returns submitted by the defendants.” He coughed and added, “Mr. Flack thought that as legal adviser you might be a suitable person.”
Pettigrew caught Mallett’s eye again, and this time he detected something very like a wink.
“Would it be right,” he inquired, “to describe this arrangement as a wangle between the pair of you?”
“Well, sir,” Mallett admitted, “Mr. Flack did indicate that the circuit had missed you a lot lately, and it occurred to me that in the present circumstances you might be glad of a little change.”
“I am very much obliged to you both,” said Pettigrew, “and I shall certainly be at Eastbury, though Mr. Flack knows as well as I do that the evidence could be given by any of the clerks. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Inspector?”
“I don’t know whether you want to hear about the Wood affair, sir. We are still clearing up a few doubtful points and I expect to be in a position to submit a report to you in a fortnight or so. But if you would like to discuss it now——”
“No,” said Pettigrew. “Emphatically I do not want to hear about it now—or later, for the matter of that, though then I expect I shall have no choice in the matter.”
“In that case,” said Mallett, looking more tired than ever, “I have nothing else to tell you this morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Pettigrew said, and the genuine sympathy in his voice broke down the inspector’s reserve.
“I’m at my wit’s end, Mr. Pettigrew,” he confessed, “and that’s the fact. This Danville case has got me down as no case in all my experience has done. Mr. Jellaby and I have made every inquiry conceivable, we have interviewed about three quarters of the staff of the Control, many of them two and three times over, there’s a mountain of papers at the police-station which I’ve been through again and again, and it all adds up to just nothing.”
Pettigrew murmured sympathetically. He could see that it was doing the man good to relieve his feelings.
“It’s against all reason!” Mallett burst out. “Here you have a woman killed in broad daylight in a building crammed with men and women, within a few yards of half a dozen people at least, and there’s not a rag of evidence against one of them. The only man of known criminal propensities has a complete alibi. So far as the others are concerned, there’s nothing whatever to choose between them on the ground of opportunity but in not one case is there the faintest trace of motive discoverable.”
“Motive is of course the crux of this case,” said Pettigrew, more for the sake of keeping the conversation going than because he thought he was adding anything original to the discussion. His remark had the effect of setting the inspector off again.
“Somebody wanted to kill Miss Danville,” he said. “And that’s not all. Somebody felt that Miss Danville had to be killed, in a hurry, and took a colossal risk to do it. Why? I tell you, Mr. Pettigrew, I’ve got to find out that reason and lay my hands on that somebody. I’ve got to! The thought of that person being at large fairly frightens me.”
“It is disturbing,” Pettigrew agreed.
Mallett looked at him strangely.
“Do you realize, Mr. Pettigrew,” he said, “that your own life may be in danger?”
Pettigrew could not help smiling.
“I don’t think anybody would go out of his way to eliminate me,” he said.
“I shouldn’t be so sure of that,” Mallett retorted. “Miss Danville would have said the same a fortnight ago. Where you have a hidden motive, who can tell whether he stands in the way of the killer?”
“It’s good of you to interest yourself in my welfare,” said Pettigrew. “But after all there’s no reason why I should be picked on especially.”
Mallett’s momentary animation had disappeared. He rose from his chair and towered above Pettigrew’s desk, a weary giant of a man. Looking into the other’s eyes, he said slowly, “Perhaps there is, Mr. Pettigrew.”
A moment later he had gone.
Some time later, Miss Brown came into the room with some letters for signature. Pettigrew read them through and signed them without comment. It occurred to him as he did so that even relations between himself and his secretary had deteriorated during the past week. They seemed now to have nothing to say to each other except what was strictly necessitated by office business. Perhaps it was as well, he reflected. It was always a mistake to mix up human relationships with one’s work. There had been a time when he had been quite exercised over Miss Brown’s little problems. And now, he felt, he really didn’t care a damn. It was a relief to have that worry off his shoulders now. Or was it? He looked up to find her still hesitating beside his desk.
“What is it, Miss Brown?” he asked rather sharply.
“Did—did the inspector have anything to say about Miss Danville?” she faltered.
“No,” said Pettigrew. “That is—No. He came to talk about the Blenkinsop case,” he added lamely.
Miss Brown, who had, he now observed, been looking very pale of late, went a shade whiter.
“I see,” she murmured.
“That reminds me,” Pettigrew went on, “I shall be going to Eastbury Assizes next week. I shall be away two nights—or three, if I can spin it out so far. You still have some leave owing to you. Would you care to take it then?”
Miss Brown shook her head.
“Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew, but I don’t think I shall. As a matter of fact, I had been meaning to mention it—I was thinking of adding my extra days to my Christmas leave.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. And after that”—she hesitated for a moment or two, and then the words came with a rush—“I don’t quite know what my plans will be, but I think I may be leaving the Control altogether.”
So that was that! A week ago, she would have said outright, “I am going to marry Mr. Phillips at Christmas.” Well, if she chose to keep her own affairs to herself, thought Pettigrew peevishly, she was at perfect liberty to do so. After all, he had never invited her confidence at any time. All the same, he should have thought. . . .
What he should have thought, he did not stop to determine. Instead he said drily, “I see. Well, I shall miss you, Miss Brown.”
Miss Brown opened her mouth as though to answer, but apparently thought better of it, for after standing irresolutely for a moment, she turned abruptly on her heel and walked rather hastily out of the room.
The question of her Christmas leave and what was to follow it was not raised between them again.
* * *
The Bar mess at the Blue Boar at Eastbury would have appeared to a stranger a rather ordinary sitting-room in a second-rate country hotel, filled with commonplace men, mostly elderly, talking not very interesting shop. To Pettigrew, in his then mood, it was sheer heaven. He sat back luxuriously in his chair, listening to the ebb and flow of circuit gossip around him. Even the conversation of men whom he had been wont to consider bores now sounded in his ears like exquisite wit.
“Are you prosecuting me for abortion to-morrow, Johnny?”
“I am, my boy. I suppose you’re pleading guilty.”
“Pleading guilty! I thought you were going to tell me you were offering no evidence. My client is the most injured, respectable . . .”
“. . . He was a tartar! When somebody was bold enough to suggest that the sentence was a bit stiff, he just looked at him and said, ‘The indictment was wrongly drawn, or I could have flogged the man!’ ”
