by E.
“You want me, Bill . . . Oh,” catching sight of the visitor, “Good evenin’, Inspector.”
“Good evening, Mr. Lancy. It is I who really wants to see you. You remember the night Miss de Grey died? Mr. Trimble tells me that you were in the pub round the corner. It’s quite off the record, of course, and the company won’t hold it against you—but how long had you been in the pub that night?”
The Deputy Cat grinned, sheepishly. “Well, as a matter of fact, Inspector,” he said, “I’d been there since the show started—as soon as I’d made sure that Enora was in his skin.”
“And you did not leave the congenial company at all?”
“I did not.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Lancy,” said the inspector m dismissal.
The stage-manager looked inquiringly at the inspector as the door closed behind the Cat.
“What is the point, sir?” he asked.
The inspector sat silent for a moment or two, thinking. He seemed to make up his mind to a course of action, for, after a glance at the closed door, he leaned forward, and, speaking softly, said: “This is strictly between ourselves, Mr. Trimble, and it must not be as much as whispered outside these walls. It would have a very serious effect on my investigations.” He paused, and then continued:
“What would you say if I told you that Enora was taken ill in his dressing-room before the Highgate Hill scene? What would you say if I suggested that he was never on in that scene?”
He sat back, and eyed the stage-manager.
Mr. Trimble stared at him incredulously.
“I should say that you were crackers,” he rejoined. “Dammit, you couldn’t play the scene without the Cat, and do you suppose that I shouldn’t have seen that the blasted cat wasn’t there?”
“Nevertheless, Enora swears that he did not go on in Highgate Hill,” the inspector insisted. He detailed his talk with the sick Cat, and the circumstances in which the man said he had been taken ill.
“Now, can you say whether or not it was another Cat, Mr. Trimble?”
The stage-manager gazed in bewilderment at the police inspector. “But, Inspector,” he said, “we’ve only got the two of ’em, and Lancy was in the pub. Blast it all, we had to fetch him out.”
“I know all that, Mr. Trimble,” was the retort. “But suppose for an instant that Lancy was actually on the stage, could you have told the difference between him and Enora?”
“I don’t suppose that I would—then,” the stage-manager decided, after a moment or two of thought. “I had never seen Lancy; he had never been on for Enora. And, of course, the ‘business’ would not have told me because it runs mostly according to the script and rehearsals.”
“You can’t see the face, of course?”
“No. The face is blacked up below the mask. The make-up would be the same to look at whoever was on.”
“Would he wear the same skin?”
“Lordy, no. Every cat has his own skin, of course. And great care they take of them, too. They cost a mint of money, do good skins.”
“Would there be any difference in the skins?”
Mr. Trimble jerked into recollection. “There would, yes,” he replied. “Enora’s skin is black and white, and Lancy’s is dark brown and white. I’ve only known that, of course, since he’s been playing cat in place of Enora.”
“You can’t recall seeing any difference on the night of the tragedy?”
“’Fraid not, Inspector. I wasn’t looking for it, you realize. But perhaps one of the people on the stage would have noticed it.”
The inspector made a gesture of dissent. “No, not a word about it to anybody, yet,” he insisted. “Later on, perhaps, I’ll have to ask them a few questions. There is just one other point,” he added, after a pause. “What time elapsed between your sending for the Lancy cat and the affair on the stage?”
“I’ll have to work that one out, Inspector,” the stage-manager replied. He sat for a few moments in thought “The fairy spoke Dick’s lines, and we rang down the curtain. We carried her into the Green Room. First-aid man said he thought she was dead, and we got a doctor from the audience. Then front of the house rang to say the cat wasn’t out there. I sent the call-boy for the cat . . . he ran down saying the cat was ill. Sent him to tell Lancy he was on . . . said he couldn’t find him . . . sent him to the pub . . . say about five minutes in all, Inspector. Lancy got into his skin, and we had held the curtain back for three minutes while Miss de Grey’s understudy got dressed.”
“Can the Cat get into his skin by himself?”
“Crumbs, no. He has to have a dresser.”
“Company’s dresser?”
“No. Usually engaged locally. The theatre generally has a list in waiting.”
“Right.” The inspector stood up. “That will do me for the time being. I’ll probably come again after I’ve made some inquiries.” He stepped towards the door, and paused before opening it. “Remember, Mr. Trimble, not a word of this to anyone.”
“As you say, Inspector.”
It was a silent and thoughtful Inspector Bradley who made the return journey to Burlington. He sat in a corner seat of a first-class carriage, and, ignoring his travelling companions’ attempts at conversation, smoked his pipe throughout the journey. The result of his cogitations was put into operation next morning.
It started at the Green Man. The little public house was a pleasant enough hostelry, living a gay Bacchanalian life ’neath the shadow of the Pavilion walls. In truth, the theatre was the chief contributor to its existence, for the proprietor was an old pro himself. Dave Henley had been a popular comic of his time. Never a top-of-the-Bill, but popular with his audiences; and he had chosen this house to buy at the end of his career, with that knowledge in view.
His lounge bar had its walls decorated from ceiling to panelling with signed photographs of stage stars past and present, and there were few nights when pros of both sexes appearing at the Pavilion failed to drop in for a quick one between acts, or after their night’s work was done. This touch of the glamour of the footlights had attracted a steady clientele, from whom Dave derived a far better Treasury than ever he had done from the other side of the footlights. However, he deserved his popularity; there is a great deal of truth in the statement that it wants a good pro to make a good pub.
It was to Dave Henley that Inspector Bradley carried his troubles as soon as the house opened for the morning custom.
“A talk, Inspector?” echoed Dave. “Come into the back parlour. Nothing wrong, is there?”
Nothing, Dave. I want to see if I can get any help out of you. This Pavilion job,” he added, as the door closed behind them.
“Nasty job that, Inspector,” commiserated Henley. “I knew most of the parties concerned in it. Used to come in here quite a lot.”
The inspector nodded. “Yes, that’s where I’m hoping you will be able to help,” he announced.
Henley pecked an inquiring look at his visitor. Inspector Bradley acknowledged it.
“It’s Lancy, the Cat understudy, you know. I’m told that he was fetched from here after Enora had been found ill in his dressing-room. Do you know if that is correct?”
“Quite,” responded Henley. “One of the stage-hands came dashing in, grabbed him by the arm and said he was wanted at once to go on for Enora. He went. I was just serving him with another pint.”
“How long had he been in before that happened?”
“He came in a few minutes after we opened.”
Inspector Bradley leaned forward in his chair, and emphasized his next question with a wagging finger. “Can you say, Dave, whether he went out of the place at all?” he asked. “And if he did at about what time. And how long he was away?”
The inn-keeper hesitated. Inspector Bradley, noticing it, supplemented his inquiry with an explanation. “What I’m trying to get at is whether it would have been possible for Lancy to be out of here for about ten minutes and then return—little enough time, in fact, for his
absence not to have been commented upon.”
Henley whistled softly. “Like that, is it?” he said. “Well, I wouldn’t like to be sure of it. I was pretty busy in the two bars, you know. But Lancy was here every time I looked round the parlour. Tell you what, though, Harry Jenkins may know. He was sitting with him all the evening. If he was away Harry would remember it. He’ll be in about six o’clock.”
The inspector digested the information with a frown. “I don’t want to make any inquiries among the public at this stage, Dave,” he announced. “It’s a bit awkward.” He looked at the inn-keeper, hopefully.
Henley responded, with a grin. “You mean you would like me to find out, eh?” he queried. “All right I’ll have a go. Look in about seven o’clock.”
Fortune, however, turned her face from the inspector. His appearance in the lounge shortly after seven o’clock was greeted by Henley with a nod in the direction of the back parlour. To there he adjourned, followed after a few moments by the innkeeper.
“It’s no go, Inspector,” the latter announced. “I’ve seen Harry and he says that Lancy never left the place until he was fetched. Sat in the lounge all the time telling stories and bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to show he was a better Cat than Enora. Harry is quite positive about it.”
“Then that’s that,” commented the inspector. “Thanks, Dave, for the help.”
But he had not yet shot his last bolt. There still remained, he thought, one chance. Dick Whittington’s stage-manager had said that the cat would be bound to have a dresser in order to get into his skin. He meant to explore every avenue, and the dresser was his next obvious step. He turned in at the front entrance of the Pavilion, and sought the manager.
In the office he explained his predicament, still under the seal of silence.
“Yes, that would be Bennett, I expect, Inspector, but I’ll make sure. Do you want to see him?”
The inspector nodded.
The manager dialled a number on the house telephone, and spoke to the stage-manager.
He replaced the receiver with a nod at his visitor. “It was Bennett,” he announced “The stage-manager is bringing him along.”
Again, the inspector was doomed to disappointment. Bennett was equally confident that Lancy had not been in the theatre at all between the time that he left after the curtain had gone up on the first scene, and the time that he was fetched from the Green Man to play his part. He could not have used his skin without his (the dresser’s) knowledge.
“How comes that?” asked Bradley.
“Because his skin was in his dress basket, and I had the key,” was the reply. “He’d given me the key that morning when he came for his mail. I had to get his dirty laundry out and put the clean clothes in. I forgot to give him back the key when he came in in the evening, and they had to fetch me when he wanted the skin. Anyway, I had to help him into it, whenever he used it.”
“That,” said Inspector Bradley, as he wandered homewards, “that puts the kibosh on that.” He carried the news next morning to his chief constable. That official greeted the negative results with a portentous frown.
“Then it means, Bradley, that you are no nearer a solution than we were on the night of the girl’s death,” he said.
“Afraid that is so, sir,” was the despondent reply.
“It’s bad—very bad. What do you propose doing with Enora? You can’t keep him in the hospital indefinitely. He’s been spoofing you, of course.”
“Afraid that is so, sir. But on the evidence I’ve got I can’t charge him. No magistrate would commit him. I don’t think they would even give me a remand. I can’t produce any evidence except that of opportunity.”
“Then we’d better call in Scotland Yard, Bradley. We can’t let anybody get away with this, you know.”
“Just as you like, sir. We haven’t had much experience of murder here, and the company is in London now, anyway.”
* * * * *
Thus it happened that the following morning Superintendent Jones, the weighty and ponderous figure of the C.I.D. headquarters, toiled up the steps of the Embankment building to the horseshoe room of the Assistant Commissioner of Police (crime). He entered, and sat down with a grunt.
“Trouble,” he announced.
“Trouble it is, Jones,” was the reply. “Burlington wants our help.”
“Burlington? That Jane job?” The superintendent had a habit of lapsing into American in moments of stress. “They’ve . . . had it . . . a week . . . cold . . . mutton now.”
“I’m afraid that’s so, Jones. But you’ll have to tackle it.”
A snort from Jones.
“Gimme Kenway?” he asked.
The Assistant Commissioner smiled. He knew Jones by this time. The staccato tones, the annoyance, was only a cloak for the enthusiasm of the man-hunter. So was the demand for Kenway. The combination of stolid fact-searcher Jones and the volatile imaginative Inspector Kenway was a powerful one. That was why the A.C. smiled.
“Yes, Jones, you can have Kenway,” he said.
CHAPTER VIII
ENTER DOCTOR MANSON
Doctor Manson pulled up his big, black Oldsmobile outside the police headquarters in Waingate, Sheffield. He got out, stretched his long legs and his back, cramped with its sojourn in the bucket driving-seat, and after a sniff and a glance at the pall of smoke that hung in the sky above the great blast furnaces, stepped into the station.
For five hours the sleek car had purred along the hundred and sixty seven miles between the C.I.D. headquarters on London’s Embankment and those in the steel city. Doctor Manson had driven himself, and he had driven alone, his eyes noting only physically the changing scenery—the heights of Hertford, the downs of Bedford, through Huntingdon and Rutland, through the county of Dukeries, on to Worksop, and then, finally, the run through to the city of steel. Hour after hour he had urged the car along on its hunt. His eyes saw but not his mind; that keen, analytical pigeonhole of knowledge and reasoning was detachedly preparing a plan of investigation which would start active operation in Sheffield. The Yard scientist was following the trail of the Fiery Cross.
He had listened with a keen, if undemonstrative, interest to the story of the conflagrations told by the insurance societies’ legal adviser. In point of fact, Doctor Manson had, before the visit, cast a curious eye on the very fires which had been the object of the talk. A man with a suspicious mind, he had noted the curious incidence of total loss, and had filed away the various reports which had appeared in the Press. That was a performance which to him was routine work in investigation.
“You never know” he had once told the deputy scientist, Sergeant Merry, “you never know but what at some time you may require such material, and if you have not filed it away, the assistance it could have rendered is not at hand.” His dictum, and method, had been justified on several occasions; a little heap of soil stored away because it was curiously unlike any other soil in the neighbourhood had, most unexpectedly, helped to hang Silas Levy months afterwards.
The insurance lawyer’s more detailed information had changed his curiosity into something like suspicion. He had told the Assistant Commissioner that the complete destruction of the shops named, could only be explained as due to one of two things; it was in search of the correct answer that he had made the journey to Sheffield.
The scientist had asked that an appointment with the chief constable should be made for him. It was, however, the superintendent, six feet in height and broad in proportion, who greeted him. The chief constable, he explained, was on sick leave, but he, the superintendent, was under instructions to render all the help that it was possible to give. And, he added, he would be glad to do so to so distinguished a visitor.
To the scientist’s explanation of his visit he replied with a little whistle, and a raising of the eyebrows.
“Fines and Howards’ fire, eh?” he said. “Hum. Now, I never felt comfortable about that business at the time.”
; Doctor Manson looked up sharply. “Do you mean that you suspected that it was not accidental?” he asked.
“Not suspected, exactly, Doctor. The thought just crossed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Well, Fines and Howards were in the main street. It’s a very busy centre, a promenade at all hours of the day and night. Even at midnight there are quite a number of people passing up and down its length. When the firemen reached it, not three minutes after the alarm was raised, the place was a blazing inferno, with no chance of saving it. It seemed queer to me, if you follow what I mean.”
“I think I see the point, Superintendent. You mean that one would have thought in such a promenade that some sign of flames should have been seen before they reached such proportions?”
“That is exactly what I do mean.”
“Any reason why they should not have been seen?”
“The shop window and door shutters were up.”
“That usual?”
“No. But the manager explained it by saying that the windows were stocked with expensive material, and they did not want the place smash and grabbed. In point of fact I did ascertain that the shutters had been put up each night for a week.”
“I take it that as you were thus disturbed you made other inquiries into the blaze?”
“That is so. I saw the fire chief, and he said—”
Doctor Manson interrupted him. “If you don’t mind, Superintendent, I would rather the fire brigade superintendent told me himself what he thought. I like my matter at first hand. Now, what standing had the firm?”
“They were at one time a very prosperous business, doing the best trade in the city in their line. But of late years their stock had gone down considerably. One or two London firms had opened up in the city, with more fashionable stuff, and cheaper, too. They had a burglary some months before this fire, and their claim for insurance was refused by a company. I had to make some inquiries into it.”
“On what grounds was the claim contested?”
“On the grounds that in view of the kind of stock they were selling, and had been selling for some time, it was highly contestable that they had such goods as were claimed for on the premises. In the end they did not fight the company but allowed the loss to stand. Their explanation of the stock was that they were trying to get back their former trade, and were consequently stocking better and more expensive material in order to compete with the London firms.”
