Yet was it a probable thing? Was it not more likely that she had been dragged away by the same criminal violence which had left the dead man on the floor? Might it not be urgent that she should be rescued while he stood foolishly there? It was only later that he remembered the light quick step that he had heard crossing the floor after the sound of that dreadful cry.
Out of these confused thoughts, a counsel of wisdom came. Was he to accept the character of criminality which had been thrust upon him? But for the experience of the last month, would he not have roused alarm without thought of accusation against himself, as the natural, normal thing for a man to do?
Might it not be his greatest danger that fear should lead him to mimic guilt?
It may have been twenty seconds that he stood motionless with his hand on the switch, while these thoughts went through his mind. Then he turned and went down the stairs, marking each second step with a bloody shoe.
He switched on the lights as he went downward from flight to flight, hesitating a moment as he came to the front passage, with an impulse to open the door on the chance that there might be a policeman whom he could call, but he had an irrational feeling that Mrs. Benson should be first informed of the corpse that her attic held, and he went on to the basement, and knocked loudly on the door where he supposed that she slept.
The woman replied at once, asking what was wrong, in an alarmed voice, to which he answered: “I’m afraid there’s something wrong on the top floor, Mrs. Benson. Mr. Rabone’s been hurt.”
An agitated voice called out: “Mr. Rabone hurt? How could he be hurt...? Well, I’ll be coming up. Is he real bad? You’d better go round to Dr. Foster’s, if so. He’s three doors round the corner in Sefton Street.”
As the voice ceased, there were sounds of movement within the room.
Francis stood hesitating. To call a doctor might be a wise thing to do. But he did not like to go out for such a purpose without giving her a more adequate idea of what she would have to face when she should arrive at the top of the attic stairs.
“Yes,” he answered, “I’ll fetch the doctor at once. But I’m afraid Mr. Rabone’s dead. I think he’s been killed. I think you ought to let the police know.”
He heard a gasping exclamation inside the room. But it seemed that the old woman rose to the emergency, for she called in a firmer voice: “Well, you’d better get the doctor at once. He’s the one to say about that. It’s no good standing there. I’ll get Miss Brown to come in.”
She heard her new lodger’s feet retire as he obeyed this instruction, and emerged a few moments later hastily dressed, and unbarred the basement door with a shaking hand, to summon Miss Janet Brown.
Francis went out by the front door, which had been chained and bolted as though every burglar in London cast covetous eyes upon Mrs. Benson’s ancient furniture. He found Dr. Foster’s without difficulty, and a speaking-tube at the side of the night-bell enabled him to inform the doctor of the nature of the case which required his attention.
Dr. Foster said that he would be down in three minutes. What, more exactly, was the address? Francis could not give a number that he now realized that he did not know. He thought (with a moment’s discomfort of doubt) that he could find Mrs. Benson’s house again without hesitation. It was less easy to describe it to another, and Dr. Foster was decided in mind that he would not risk having to knock up the wrong houses to enquire for a murdered man who was not there. He said that Francis had better wait, and guide him to the address. So he agreed to do, and stood in the street while the three minutes became ten.
Meanwhile, Miss Brown had taken charge of affairs on the scene of the fatality, whether murder or suicide, on which question she expressed her uncertainty in so decided a voice that it had the sound of a final verdict.
She had ascended the top flight of stairs, while Mrs. Benson stood in agitation below, gazed grimly for a long moment at the dead man (whom she had always disliked), and decided reasonably that it was an event of which the police should be informed without further delay.
She returned to her own house, where a telephone was installed, and rang up the police-station.
It happened that Chief-Inspector Combridge had come in, having been detained late in connection with a raid on a gambling den, which had failed through treachery (as he must suppose) among his own staff. He was ill-tempered, and very tired, and on the point of going home, when Miss Brown’s tale came over the wire. He said: “Only half a mile away? Have a car round at once. I’ll take Potter and Sears.”
He got to the house before Francis returned with Dr. Foster. He looked at the dead man, and had no difficulty in deciding that there was nothing a doctor could do which would be useful to him. But he learned that a young lodger, Mr. Edwards, had gone out to fetch one, and admitted it to be an orthodox course of action. He reserved his opinion about Mr. Edwards, as he did about everything. The great need in homicidal investigations is to approach everything with an open mind. At present, the case looked like a prosaic suicide, the cause for which would probably be plain enough when the dead man’s circumstances were disclosed. A bank inspector? Ten to one there would be something wrong at the bank. Possibly the man had had warning that investigation was taking place, and had chosen the surest road of escape.... But he would assume nothing. Here was the doctor who had been summoned. It appeared that the lodger was leading him up the stairs.
Inspector Combridge would have preferred that the police surgeon (for whom he had already sent) should have been first on the scene, but he allowed nothing of this to appear in the cordiality of his reception of a medical gentleman who had been properly called in.
His glance passed on quickly from him to the lodger who was showing a modest inclination to retire, of which Inspector Combridge instinctively disapproved. He looked at Francis, who looked at him, and the recognition was mutual.
“So,” he said, “this is where you’ve been hiding, is it? And what am I to think you’ve been up to now...? You’d better finish dressing, and come back with me. Potter, you can take him in charge.”
Francis became conscious for the first time that he had gone out to summon the doctor without vest or coat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chief-Inspector Combridge took a few hours of much-needed sleep, and waked to consideration of the problem the night had brought. He was unsure as yet whether he had to deal with a prosaic suicide or a perplexing crime. At present, he had not even ascertained the essential point of whether Rabone had been a left-handed man.
He had learnt the danger of developing theory in advance of facts, and he was not disposed to assume that Harold Vaughan was guilty of murder, because he had been convicted on a quite different charge. But he knew how frequently enquiry concerning those upon whom suspicion falls will disclose a record of previous intimacy with the law. In the case of Vaughan, he admitted in an honest mind that he was less satisfied of his guilt than the jury’s verdict had shown them to be. But it was a sinister fact that his antecedents had not been traced; and if he had twice become involved in crimes in which he was not concerned, he was a most unfortunate young man.
Anyway, it was satisfactory to feel that he was securely held. He would be available for questioning, and could be charged at leisure if the evidence should appear to point in his direction.... Satisfactory, also, that his days of defiant freedom had been cut short, and the reproach of being unable to find him had been lifted from the shoulders of the very capable body to which Inspector Combridge belonged. But it was possible to wish that he had been found in a different way. The murder (or suicide) would acquire an additional dramatic interest in the public mind because it had been occasion for the arrest of Vaughan. He saw that, if murder it were, it would be one of those cases in which the prestige of the Metropolitan Police would be too deeply involved to allow failure to be considered. His own reputation also. He was not one to waste many hours in sleep when such a case was waiting investigation....
He interviewed Miss Bro
wn, from whom he heard much, but learned little of value which he did not already know.
He interviewed Mrs. Benson, from whom he learnt more, including certain facts, such as that of Miss Jones’s disappearance, which deepened mystery, and others which seemed to increase the probability that Vaughan, possibly in conjunction with the missing girl, was responsible for a brutal crime.
He learnt from Sir Lionel Tipshift’s report that suicide was an improbable explanation—might, indeed, be put out of mind, except as a line of defence which they must be prepared to meet when the murderer should be wriggling to dodge the doom that his guilt deserved.
He circulated a description of the missing girl.
He interviewed Sir Reginald Crowe, the chairman of the London & Northern, with whom he had had previous associations, and whom he knew to be his good friend.
Sir Reginald had no charge to make against the dead man. He was reticent on that point. Inspector Combridge could see him again in a few days, when he would be more fully informed, and would give a final reply. Meanwhile, it must be understood that he made no suggestion of any kind: no accusation at all.
He gave the Inspector authority to enquire at the branch where Rabone had kept his own private account, though he understood that it had no abnormal features, and was unlikely to contain anything to assist enquiry. Inspector Combridge, having a different hope, went on to interview the branch manager, and came away well content.
All this was done before 4 p.m., and at this point the Inspector felt that he had come to something too closely resembling a blank wall for his liking—unless the murder could be fixed upon the man who was already under arrest.
He had a case against him, but it was of conjecture and suspicion rather than proof. It was one which a clever counsel might tear to rags. Unless he could find the girl—unless he could be sure what that open window meant—well, he had still to interview Vaughan, and there was hope there. He had deliberately deferred doing this until he had collected all the data that other sources supplied.
Now he would listen with a fair and quite open mind to whatever Vaughan could say in his own defence. It was no evidence that he sought anything but the truth if he anticipated with the confidence of experience that he would obtain a statement which would put the man who would be persuaded to make it in a more precarious position than that in which he already stood.
Even if he were innocent, there would almost certainly be some circumstance which he would desire to conceal, something which might appear to draw suspicion toward himself, which would tempt him to the more dangerous lie. If he were guilty, it would be still more probable that he would make assertions which careful enquiry would overset.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The interval which Inspector Combridge allowed to elapse before questioning his recovered prisoner had given Francis an ample leisure in which to consider his own position.
His first bitterness against the malice of circumstance had been blended with an undercurrent of fear, and he was disposed to curse the occasion which had given him such improbable freedom, only to return him to bondage with the threat of a second accusation, and the fear of a far more terrible sentence than that which was already his.
But further thought brought better hope, and the sanguine spirit of youth rose to a vague anticipation that demonstration of his innocence of this greater crime might open the way for reconsideration of the offence of which he was already convicted.
His money, and the cheque-book with its blank counter-foil, were now in the possession of the police, and it was a reasonable conclusion that his identity would be quickly discovered.
Seeing that that which he had suffered so stubbornly to prevent had passed beyond his control, he found an unexpected relief in the thought that he would now be able to acknowledge his identity and could establish contact with his own friends.
He learnt during the day, and felt it to be a good omen, that he was not to be charged immediately with the jail-breaking “offence” he had committed (the law holding, with lamentable absence of humour, that it is the duty of all convicts, even though their cells should be left unlocked, to continue to occupy them for the terms of the sentences they have received), nor was he to be consigned at once to one of the major jails, as would have been the usual routine. If he should not be suspect himself, he saw that he might be reserved as witness of the crime, the perpetrators of which might, for all he knew, be already known to the police, if not actually in their hands.
He was not surprised, nor unwilling, when, at about 5 p.m., he was summoned to leave his cell, and conducted to a room in which Inspector Combridge sat at a broad desk, and some other police officials, whom he did not know, were scattered about.
Inspector Combridge said: “Sit down, Vaughan.” His tone was curt, but not unkindly. His hand motioned to a chair opposite his own desk.
As Francis took it, he noticed a police-sergeant at an adjoining table who sat with pen and paper ready to assist the enquiry.
“Two days ago,” the Inspector began, “after conviction and sentence, you escaped from custody?”
“I walked out. If he got the chance, I suppose anyone would.”
Inspector Combridge did not discuss that. He was merely beginning the examination in an ordinary manner. He asked: “Where did you go?”
“Where you found me.”
“Straight there?”
“Yes. The door was open, and I walked in.”
“You expected to find it open?”
“No. How should I? I hadn’t expected to get away.”
“But you might have hoped for acquittal. Where would you have gone then?”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“No? How long had you known Mr. Rabone?”
“I never knew him at all.”
“And the young woman—Miss Jones—how long had you known her?”
“I had never met her before.”
“Well, we shall see.” His voice took a serious tone as he went on: “I want you to appreciate the position in which you stand. You escape from custody. Within two days a man is murdered in a house which otherwise is occupied, so far as we are at present informed, only by two women and yourself. One of the women has disappeared and the other is not under suspicion. You slept on the floor below the room of the murdered man. It appears that you were first on the scene of the crime.
“There is at present no charge against you, and I am under no necessity of warning you, but I tell you now that you are under no obligation to say anything if you prefer to remain silent. In that event, we must establish the truth in our own ways.
“But, if you are innocent of this murder, you may find the truth to be the simplest and wisest in your own interest.
“The fact that you were the first one to raise the alarm obviously is not in itself evidence of any criminal responsibility. But there is one other matter which I must invite you to explain, if you are able to do so.
“You must have been penniless when you entered Mrs. Benson’s house. It appears that you made promises of payment to her which you did not keep. The young woman who has disappeared had also been frank in informing her landlady that she was out of work, and that her money was almost gone.
“Last evening, if Mrs. Benson’s testimony is to be believed, you retired to your room at a very early hour, possibly to avoid meeting the man who was to be murdered during the night; possibly because you were not in a position to make the payment to Mrs. Benson which you had promised earlier in the day.
“But Miss Jones subsequently gave an assurance on your behalf that you would be able to pay when you came down in the morning.
“At some time between 2 and 3 a.m., Mr. Rabone, who had a habit of carrying a considerable sum in his pocket-book, was murdered, and robbed.
“You were then arrested on the scene of the crime, and you had a sum of over twenty pounds in your pockets.”
Francis heard this statement of the case which he had to meet with an outwar
d calmness, for he was conscious that the Inspector watched him keenly for any sign of confusion or admission of guilt. But his heart sank somewhat, for it was a line of attack which he had not expected to hear. In fact, the idea that William Rabone might have been robbed had not previously entered his mind.
But he recognized the fairness with which he was being treated. He was told what the position was, as against himself, and he could be silent or speak at his own choice.
He said: “I didn’t have the money from him.”
“From Miss Jones?”
“No. Not from her.”
“Then will you explain how it came to your hands?”
“I would rather not. I don’t really see why I should.”
“It is for you to decide. But I will be more frank with you than you are with us. Treasury notes cannot usually be traced. You may be relying on that. But there are exceptions.
“When notes are issued for the first time, there may be records of the numbers of the series which are paid out from the Bank of England, and which are distributed over the counter by the bank which receives them in bulk.
“There were notes of such a kind that Mr. Rabone drew to refill his pocket-book three days ago.”
Francis listened to this statement and was not greatly impressed. Actually, the two ten-shilling notes that he had received from William Rabone did not come to his mind.
“I should think,” he said, “that that should be very useful to you in discovering the thief.”
Inspector Combridge looked his surprise, which he rarely would.
“And that,” he asked, “is all that you have to say?”
“Yes. About that. I think it is.”
“You still decline to give any explanation of how that money came into your hands during the night?”
“It wasn’t during the night.”
“Or the day before?”
“Yes. It was my own money. I don’t see why I should.”
The Inspector’s voice was colder than before as he asked: “Is there any statement that you wish to make concerning the events of the night?”
The Attic Murder Page 6
