Peterson said “Yes” again.
In answer to questions about the revolver, he said it was Mr. Craddock’s own revolver. Mr. Craddock kept it in the second draw of his writing-table—“That one on the left, sir.” No, the drawer wasn’t kept locked—never had been so far as he knew. Mr. Craddock told him once that the revolver was loaded. That would be about six months ago. He couldn’t say why Mr. Craddock had mentioned it. Asked whether he had ever handled the weapon, he replied, “Oh, no, sir—certainly not, sir.”
“Did you see anyone else handle it this morning?”
Peterson coughed.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“If it’s for coughing, you needn’t—if it’s for not answering what I’ve just asked you, it’s no good. Did you see anyone handle that revolver?”
Peterson cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Out with it, man!”
“It was Mr. Renshaw, sir. He came in as it were right behind us—behind Mr. Rush and me—”
“Yes—go on.”
“Well, sir, we looked at Mr. Craddock, and he was dead all right. And Mr. Renshaw he says, ‘Good God!’ and goes down on his knees and takes hold of his wrist. And Mr. Rush says, ‘He’s gone! Look at the hole in his head!’ And then he says to me to look lively and ring up for the police, so I went over to the table and took up the receiver off the telephone. And then I saw Mr. Renshaw had got up. He went across to where the revolver was and he picked it up. And Mr. Rush said very sharp, ‘You put that down, Mr. Peter! There’s nothing must be touched.’ Mr. Renshaw he had the revolver by the handle.”
The Inspector frowned.
“I suppose you mean the butt?”
“Well, you know best, sir. He had it in his right hand the way you’d hold it if you were going to fire—at least, that’s the way it looked to me. And when Mr. Rush said that, he said, Mr. Renshaw did, ‘Quite true, Rush,’ and he shifted the pistol into his left hand, taking hold of it by the other end, and he dropped it back on the floor as near as could be where it was before. And Mr. Rush spoke to him very sharp indeed and told him he’d be getting us all into trouble.”
The Inspector frowned more deeply still.
“I want to get this quite clear. You say Mr. Renshaw took hold of the revolver first by the butt and then by the barrel?”
“He took hold first one end and then the other.”
That concluded the examination of Peterson, and he was allowed to depart.
“Now what did he do that for?” said the Inspector. “A gentleman like Mr. Renshaw—army officer, isn’t he?—he knows as well as you and I do that he oughtn’t to have touched that revolver. Now, if it had been Peterson that doesn’t know the muzzle from the butt—him and his handles!”—here the Inspector snorted—“you’d say he’d lost his head—and not a lot of it to lose either! But Mr. Renshaw, he knows as well as you and me that that weapon would have to be examined for fingerprints, and when he goes plastering his hands all over it—well, Abbott, what do you make of it?”
Detective Abbott spoke in his pleasant public school voice.
“It looks as if he wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any fingerprints except those Rush and Peterson had seen him make after Craddock was dead.”
The Inspector nodded.
“Meaning he knew something about the fingerprints that were there, and meant to cover them up—his own likely enough. A bold, impudent trick that, and no mistake.”
Young Abbott shook his head.
“I shouldn’t think they’d be his own. If he’d shot the man he’d have wiped the revolver and left it in Craddock’s hand. He’s too cool a card to have left the place shouting murder when there was quite a decent chance of staging a suicide.”
“Bright ideas you have—don’t you, Abbott? Makes me wonder where you get ’em from. What do you know about Mr. Renshaw that makes you say he’s a cool card? Ever come across him before?”
Young Abbott’s face did not change at all. He said,
“Yes, sir. I was wondering whether I’d better tell you.”
“Well, you’d better tell me now.”
“Well, sir, we were at school together for a bit. He’s older of course. I—well as a matter of fact, I fagged for him.”
“And you say he’s a cool card?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, remember you’re not fagging for him now. Lord—it’s hot!” He wiped his brow. “Better have the porter next,” he said, and settled back into his chair.
The curtains had been drawn, and the sun shone bright outside. Rush came stumping into the room, his face very red and his back very stiff. He refused to sit down, and delivered all his answers to a point about a foot over the Inspector’s head. His name was Albert Edward Rush, his age was sixty-five years, and he had been porter at Craddock House for thirty of them, leaving out the four years he was away at the war.
The Inspector sat up and took notice.
“Served in the war, did you?”
“August nineteen-fourteen to December nineteen-eighteen.”
Rush had no sirs up his sleeve for policemen. His war record was dragged from him a word or two at a time. Royal Fusiliers. Three times wounded. Finished up a sergeant. Glad enough to be back at his job. Yes, of course he knew how to fire a revolver. “What d’you take me for—a blinking fool?”
Inspector Lamb laughed.
“No, sergeant. Well now—did you know Mr. Craddock had a revolver?”
Rush wasn’t so ready with his answer this time.
“If I did, what about it?”
“Did you? That’s the question.”
Rush glared.
“And I say, what if I did?”
The Inspector spoke him fair.
“Come, come—there’s no need to take it like that. Did you know he had a revolver?”
Rush was not placated.
“I suppose I did,” he said in his surliest voice.
“Did you know where he kept it?”
Rush let out his breath with a snort.
“What are you a-hinting at? Everyone knew where he kep’ it. He’d leave the drawer open—anyone could see what was inside.”
“Did you ever handle it?”
Rush’s eyes were hot and angry. His voice rasped.
“What’d I handle it for? Had enough of the mucky things in the war without wanting to handle one of them now! What are you getting at?”
Detective Abbott’s colourless eyebrows rose a little, but the Inspector refused to take offence.
“Well, well, you didn’t handle it. But you saw Mr. Renshaw handle it, didn’t you?”
“Who says I did?”
“That doesn’t matter, sergeant. The question is, what do you say about it?”
Rush stood there stiff and scowling. He snapped out,
“He picked it up. I told him he hadn’t oughter.”
“How did he pick it up?”
“Butt end first, and when I told him off he caught hold of the muzzle and dropped it down where it come from.”
“Get that down, Abbott,” said the Inspector. “Now that revolver was fired some time last night—some time between one and four in the morning as near as the medical evidence can put it. I want to know if you heard anything that might have been the shot.”
“No, I didn’t—nobody couldn’t down in that basement.”
“And you didn’t leave the basement?”
“Not before a quarter to six I didn’t. I work I do, and when I go to bed I go to sleep.”
“So do I,” said the Inspector heartily. “Now I want to know about the outer door of this place.”
“Anything wrong with that?”
“No, no. But you lock it up at night, I suppose?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What time do you lock up?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“And if anyone wants to get in after that?”
“Those that lives here has their keys.”<
br />
“The door isn’t bolted?”
“Of course it ain’t!”
“And what time do you open up in the morning?”
“Six o’clock mostly.”
“Now, sergeant—this is very important. You locked up last night as usual?”
“Eleven o’clock I locked up.”
“And after you locked up no one could get in without a key?”
“I told you that.”
“And when you came to open up at six o’clock this morning the door was locked as you left it?”
“Putting words into my mouth, aren’t you? What’s the game? Want to get me telling lies and catch me out? Because you won’t! See? To start with, it was a good bit before six when I come to open up this morning, and to get on with, the door wasn’t locked—it was on the jar.”
The Inspector leaned forward with a hand on either knee.
“The door was open?”
“No, it wasn’t—it was on the jar, like I said.”
“It had been unlocked?”
“Seemingly.”
“But you’re certain you locked it?”
“When it comes to the proper place I’ll be taking my Bible oath I locked it.”
The Inspector leaned back again.
“If someone wanted to go out after you locked the place up, could they shut that door without being heard?”
A grim smile appeared on Rush’s face.
“You’d better ask Mr. Pyne in number one about that. Ten years he’s been complaining about the noise that door makes when it shuts.”
“Then if anyone wanted to come or go without being heard, they probably wouldn’t risk shutting that door. They would, in fact, be inclined to leave it as you found it, on the jar?”
Rust grunted.
“None of my business what they’d do. I locked up, and that I’ll swear to.”
Detective Abbott wrote this down. The Inspector looked round at him, said, “I’m taking a list of the flat-holders—get it down on a separate sheet so I can have it handy,” and turned to Rush again.
“Now, sergeant, just give me all those flats from A to Z.”
“They don’t run no more than one to twelve,” said Rush, with his scowl at its blackest.
The Inspector was not to be moved from his good humour.
“Well, let’s have ’em from one to twelve,” he said easily.
Stiffly erect, Rush ticked them off.
“Number one—that’s Mr. Pyne. Want me to tell you about ’em as we go along?”
“If there’s anything to tell.”
“They’re people,” said Rush. “Always something to tell about people, only it don’t always get told.”
Here at last was a subject on which he would be willing to talk. Lee Fenton could have told the Inspector that.
“Well, Mr. Pyne, he’s in number one—old bachelor as thinks himself an invalid—nothing to do but plan whether it’s a pill or a powder he’d best be taking next. He’s here all the time—bin here ten years. Number two’s Mrs. and Miss Tatterley—went away a week ago. Ladies they are. And number three is the two Miss Holdsworths—and they’re away—bin away since the beginning of July. And that’s the first floor.
“Then second floor. Number five is Mr. and Mrs. Connell—he’s a chartered accountant he is, and she’s a bit of a girl. They’re gone hiking they have—bin away two days. And number four, that’s Miss Lemoine—and she’s gone away with old Lady Trent out of number six—gone abroad. So that finishes the second floor.
“The third floor’s all Craddocks—Miss Lucy Craddock in number seven, Mr. Ross in here, and Mr. Peter Renshaw in number nine that was Miss Mary Craddock’s flat until she died three weeks ago. And Miss Lucy, she went off on a foreign cruise yesterday evening, and Miss Lee Fenton she come in with her aunt’s key, so it’s her that’s in number seven now.”
“Miss Fenton came in last night?”
“Round about seven-thirty it would be, and Miss Lucy’d bin gone some time, and Miss Lee Fenton she’d got her aunt’s key—met her at the station, she said, and come in to stay till Miss Lucy gets back. And Mr. Renshaw, he’s settling up Miss Lucy’s affairs. Army officer he is, and Miss Mary’s executor. That’s the third floor.
“Fourth floor. Potters have ten and eleven—Mr. and Mrs. in eleven, governess and three children in ten. They went off to the sea first of August. Number twelve’s Miss Bingham. She got back day before yesterday, and we could have done without her. Prying old maid—that’s what she is.”
Detective Abbott wrote that down. It occurred to him that a prying old maid might very well be the answer to a policeman’s prayer.
Rush was giving particulars about Mrs. Green, the charwoman. She hadn’t been with them very long, not above three months, when she took over from old Mrs. Postlethwaite who’d had the job for fifteen years. No, she didn’t sleep in. She did her work—he wasn’t going to say how she did it. Women weren’t a morsel of good at their work so far as his opinion went. She’d gone off with a bad turn last night, and he didn’t expect to see her, not before the afternoon, if then.
“Drink?” enquired the Inspector.
Rush shook a gloomy head.
“A silly, peter-grievous female,” he pronounced.
The Inspector enquired whether she would have a key to the front door, and was told certainly not.
“Well, that’s Mrs. Green. Now what other service was there in the house? All these flats—who looks after them? You and Mrs. Green don’t do it all?”
Rush scowled.
“Inside the flats is none of my job, except for Mr. Pyne that I made an arrangement with and many’s a time I’ve wished I hadn’t. One of the sort you can’t please, he is.”
“Well, what do the other people do?”
“Some of them does for themselves, like Miss Craddock, and Mrs. Connell, and the Miss Holdsworths, and Miss Bingham. And some of them has daily help, like Lady Trent and the Potters, but they’re away, and when they’re away the helps don’t come—and I see to it that they hands in their keys, for I won’t be responsible without.”
“Very sound,” said the Inspector.
Rush was dismissed.
Chapter Thirteen
In Lucy Craddock’s sitting-room Peter Renshaw stood on the black woolly rug before the empty fireplace and mapped out a plan of campaign. Lee, sitting on the arm of the largest chair, was looking, not at him, but out of the window at a patch of hot, hazy sky. There was a very much worn Brussels carpet on the floor, its original tints of mustard and strong pink now mercifully merged in a general shabbiness. The walls, like those in No. 9, were completely covered with pictures—water colours, etchings, photographic enlargements, and a family portrait or two in oils. There were at least six small tables as well as an upright piano, and a good many unnecessary small chairs. The top of the piano was quite covered with photographs in silver frames.
“It’ll be perfectly all right if we keep our heads,” said Peter in his most dogmatic voice.
Lee looked round at him. It was rather an odd look.
“Oh, Peter dear,” she said, and there was a pitying sound in the words. It was as if she was much older since the yesterdays when they used to quarrel. She felt old, and sad, and tolerant, and wise, and very sorry for Peter, because she couldn’t see any way out of this without somebody being hurt, and she was afraid, not for herself, but for him.
Peter went on.
“Everything will be absolutely all right, only—Lee, you’re not listening, and you’ve got to listen. They may send for one of us at any moment. They won’t be so long over Peterson and Rush, and then it’s pretty sure to be either you or me.”
“I wonder whether Rush saw Mavis go out,” said Lee quickly.
“That’s just it. I hope he didn’t. But whether he saw her or not, it’s going to be very nearly impossible to keep Mavis out of this. You see, there were those two glasses, both used, and the very first thing the police will do is to find out w
here Ross spent the evening and who was with him. Well, he’s always at the Ducks and Drakes. Everyone knows him there, and if she’s been going out with him half as much as Lucy’s been complaining about, it’s ten to one that most of them will know Mavis, and the minute this show is in the papers they’ll be tumbling over each other to tell the police that she was there with him last night. Unfortunately I was at the Ducks and Drakes myself, and if I’m asked I shall have to say that I saw Ross and Mavis there, because when dozens of other people must have seen them it will only add to the general fishiness if I pretend I didn’t. What I do hope is that they won’t have any proof that she came back here. I’ll hold my tongue about that if no one else saw her. What about you?”
Lee drew in her breath.
“I shan’t say anything either.”
Peter squared his shoulders.
“I don’t really give a damn about Mavis. She got herself into this, and we’re all going to want a lot of luck to get her out of it. But it’s you—” he came over to Lee and dropped his hands on her shoulders—“you, my dear—you. They’ll ask you all sorts of questions. They may press you pretty hard. Because you don’t belong here, and your coming in like that just on the very night that Ross was shot—well, it’s bound to make them sit up and take notice.”
Lee’s eyelids lifted slowly and she looked up at him. She was not nearly so pretty as Mavis—the features too irregular, and just now her whole aspect too pale, too drawn with fatigue. But she had eyes which would be beautiful even when she was old. Something in the shape, something in the way that they were set, something in the shadow which the lashes cast—very dark lashes, thick, and dark, and fine—something in the deep, changing grey of the iris. Peter’s heart always stirred in him when Lee looked up at him as she was looking now. But this time it stirred to a pulse of fear. His hand tightened on hers, and he said,
“You’ve got to hold your tongue about yourself, my dear. You came here, you were very tired, and you went to bed. You slept all night, and when you heard the commotion on the landing you came out to see what was going on. And that’s all. Do you hear? That’s all.”
“Peter—”
The Blind Side: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 7
