“I’ve no time to see Mr. Jellipot. I’m going away. Did Mr. Banks tell you why he thought it was me?”
“I don’t know that he had any reason except what was said in court. I mean about it being your window, and it being a left-handed man, and you going away. Oh, and you turning up when Mr. Hammerton was in court.
“I think that Mr. Banks attached special importance to that, because he’d said that, if you’d done it, you’d be sure to go to see Mr. Hammerton brought up. I don’t understand why, but he felt sure, and I suppose the fact that he’d said you would, and then you did, influenced Inspector Combridge’s mind.”
Well, she had got it in, as she had promised she would. She had explained the matter from the angle of the Texall Enquiry Agency, and it looked as though all the satisfaction she would get would be that which comes from the sense of a promise kept, for Mr. Entwistle listened in a silence that became grimmer as she went on.
“It rather looks,” he said, after a pause that left her vaguely afraid of she knew not what, “as though Mr. Banks were no friend to me?”
“No,” she said, “but I don’t suppose he felt any ill-will either. He just wanted to find out who murdered Mr. Rabone, and at that time he thought it was you.”
He made no answer to that. He turned to his wife to say: “Jean, we’re not going tonight. I’ve got to see Mr. Jellipot. You’d better go back to number eleven. I can phone you there.”
Mrs. Musgrave looked troubled and bewildered, but she did not appear to be a wife who argued or required explanations under whatever circumstances. She said: “Yes, Peter. But don’t be long.”
He went without replying, and Mary followed him down the stairs.
When they reached the street, she saw her taxi waiting where she had arranged.
“I’ve got a taxi across the street,” she said, when he would have turned the opposite way.
He looked at it, hesitated, and said: “No, thank you. I’ll choose it myself, if you don’t mind.”
He led the way up the street while she reflected that the pound note might really prove to be an inadequate remuneration for the waiting driver.
She stopped, as a more sinister thought came to her mind. “I don’t see,” she said, “why I should trust you if you don’t trust me.”
He looked at her with the eyes of a man whose thoughts are on other things. Then he laughed. “No,” he said, “I don’t see why you should. We’d better both get on to a bus.”
So they proceeded by that conveyance, and with a mutual feeling of recovered confidence, to Mr. Jellipot’s house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“What tickets?” Mr. Entwistle asked, as the conductor approached them, after they had climbed to the top of a Wimbledon bus.
“I’m not quite sure. All the way, I should think.”
Mr. Entwistle didn’t look pleased.
“Lawyer’s office at Wimbledon?” he asked sceptically.
“No. Don’t you see that it’s nearer seven than six? Do you think we should find him at his office now?”
Mr. Entwistle took the tickets from a man whose impatience was becoming assertive, but he continued the subject.
“Know where he lives?”
“Yes, it’s in Stagpole Road.”
“Been there before?”
“No. But he gave me the address if we should be late.”
Mr. Entwistle said no more. He appeared to find sufficient occupation in his own thoughts.
When they got down at Wimbledon he said: “Half a minute. I’ve got something to do.”
He went into a telephone booth, and found Mr. Jellipot’s name at the address which Miss Weston mentioned. Had he failed to do so, he had resolved to turn back.
He enquired from a policeman, and learned that Stagpole Road was nearly a mile away, on which he called a taxi, which, seeing assurance of her own safety in the mood of suspicion which he displayed, Mary made no objection to entering. So they came safely at last to Mr. Jellipot’s door.
The mode of travelling which Mr. Entwistle had preferred had not been the fastest possible, and Mr. Jellipot had finished dinner and was enjoying the evening cigar which was the one vice of his bachelor solitude, when his visitors were announced.
He received them with his usual quiet cordiality, and the timid, somewhat hesitant, manner which concealed the unhurried working of a very capable brain.
“I am particularly pleased to see you, Mr. Entwistle,” he said, “because your coming assures me that you had no part in William Rabone’s murder, which was an opinion I had already formed, and ventured, with some diffidence, to express to those who are most conversant with such problems, and consequently more capable of their solution than I can ever expect to be. And it also leads me to hope that another theory that I have formed, but on which I scarcely ventured to build, it being as conjectural as it was, may not be entirely unfounded.... You will take a glass of wine, Miss Weston? And you, Mr. Entwistle? No? You may be right, for your work calls for a steady hand.”
The length of this somewhat involved, and yet fundamentally lucid statement, had given time for Peter Entwistle to settle comfortably in the softly upholstered chair which Mr. Jellipot had indicated for his use, and relieved him of the necessity of immediate speech. It gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he would be speaking to a lawyer whose mind had no lingering doubt of whether he were himself a party to the crime for which he was about to denounce another; and the final words, the implication of which he was quick to guess, confirmed an opinion already formed that Mr. Jellipot was of a more astute and more militant quality, than his manner showed.
Mr. Jellipot, still in no haste to approach the subject in all their minds, asked by what means they had come, and being told that they had utilized the services of a Wimbledon bus, he had a moment of gravity.
“It was,” he said, “a rather bold thing to do.”
Peter Entwistle, who had considered it in a contrary light, looked uncomprehendingly at this criticism, and Mr. Jellipot expounded it further.
“I suppose,” he said, “you felt a doubt as to whether Miss Weston might be a decoy to lead you into a position of further compromise, or even more acute and imminent danger. I do not blame you for that. Whether or not you believed what she must have told you, it remained a possibility which you would wish to eliminate from a position already sufficiently hazardous. But did you think how easily, by the method you chose, you could be followed here by those whom you will have, in fact, a greater reason to dread?”
“No,” Peter admitted, “I can’t say that I thought of that.”
Mr. Jellipot shook his head slightly over the ill-judging recklessness of the young, and recovered cheerfulness to observe that, as no one could have foreseen that Miss Weston would be calling upon him, or the purpose with which she went, the damage might not have been very great.
His next words went to the heart of the subject which had brought Peter Entwistle there, and saved him the task of preliminary explanation. “I needn’t ask you to tell me,” he said, “who killed William Rabone. Your coming here is sufficient answer to that. What I should like to know is whether you have, or could obtain, anything in the nature of legal proof, or whether it will be necessary to make the arrest on the minor charge.
“I need not tell you that you yourself will now be in great jeopardy till the arrest is made; nor that Inspector Combridge will be particularly cautious to avoid making a third arrest till he is very sure of his ground.... I should add that I have asked him to be with us at ten o’clock, or as soon after as possible, so that you should be brief in anything that you may wish to say before he arrives, or if—against which, for your own sake, I should wish to dissuade you very strongly—you should prefer to leave without seeing him.”
Mr. Entwistle, thinking that the precept of brevity was somewhat contrary to the example which Mr. Jellipot set, was at last given an opportunity of reply. “I don’t know,” he said, “what you’ll call legal proof, but
I can give you enough evidence to put him away for ten years on the London & Northern frauds, and I should think you’d do best to begin on that. You’ll find it’s easier to get evidence on the Rabone case after he’s arrested, unless I’m wrong.... But as to going before the inspector comes, there’s no man that I’m more anxious to see.... Does he expect that he’ll find me here?”
“No. It was a suggestion that I felt I had no right to make until I had more to go on than what might have seemed to other minds an improbable guess. He will be coming here to let me know what he’s been able to do to trace Francis Hammerton. I did venture to tell him that I might have something helpful to contribute from my side.”
“I don’t know that I can help you in that. It depends upon what the Inspector knows.”
“He knew nothing this morning, but he won’t have been idle since then.” And having said that, Mr. Jellipot turned the conversation to other topics. He was complimentary to Mr. Entwistle’s wife. He expressed satisfaction when he learned that she had a life-interest in some property in Scotland, to which they meant to retire. He approved Mr. Entwistle’s explanation that he had cultivated too many branches of manual art in the past, and had decided that excellence would be more probably attained if he should confine himself to landscape painting, which, in future, he was determined to do. It was still a few minutes to ten when Inspector Combridge was shown into the room.
CHAPTER FORTY
“I think,” Mr. Jellipot said, “that you may speak without reserve before Mr. Entwistle, who may be able to supplement any knowledge you have obtained.”
The Inspector looked the surprise he felt, but he had a well-founded confidence in Mr. Jellipot’s discretion. He said: “We’ve found out a bit, thanks to a good man who happened to be on his beat in Deal Street last night.
“He’d happened to see Hammerton in court when he was sentenced, and he recognized him going into a restaurant which hasn’t a very good reputation, at about seven last night.
“I had an interesting hour with the proprietor, and then with two of the waiters, and in the end I got this. Francis Hammerton dined there with Augusta Garten and two other men. One of the men left early. They can’t or won’t say who he was, and they’ve given me one of those general descriptions that mean nothing at all. It’s no use searching London for a tall dark man in a grey suit, and with a habit of wearing spats.
“The other man was an ex-officer named Driver, about whom we know a good deal and not much that’s good. He was cashiered from one of the Guards regiments after he’d been caught cheating at cards.
“Hammerton and Miss Garten left with him in his car about 9:45 p.m. and they didn’t go to the house in Hounslow where he has been lying low since we caught Tony Welch.
“Where they did go is what we’ve failed to find out as yet. But we know the number of Driver’s car, and we’re having a good look-out for it all over the south of England.”
Mr. Jellipot turned to Entwistle to ask: “Can you give us any idea where Driver was most likely to go?”
Peter Entwistle did not answer that. He asked Inspector Combridge: “May I put a question to you first?”
“You may if you like. I can’t promise to answer before I hear it.”
“I want to know why you were waiting for me with a warrant for my arrest in Mr. Garrison’s court. Did you expect me to be there when Hammerton was put in the dock?”
“Yes, I did. I thought at that time that you were the criminal, and there is a common belief that the actual murderer is unable to keep away when another man is being prosecuted for his crime.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that gag. I don’t know whether it’s true. May I ask you just one thing more? Did you have that idea yourself, or did someone else put it into your mind?”
The Inspector hesitated. He disliked being questioned by Peter Entwistle, and if he replied further he wished to be sure that he would receive payment in kind.
“If I answer that, do I understand that you will tell me how Francis Hammerton can be found?”
“No. He may be dead. But I’ll tell you the best way to save him if he’s still alive. And if you give me the answer I expect, I’ll tell you who murdered Rabone.”
“It was Mr. Banks who made the suggestion to me.”
“Did he say he thought I was guilty?”
“Yes. He held that opinion. So did I at the time.”
“What does he say now?”
“I believe he has that opinion still.”
“The low hound! He murdered Rabone himself.”
Inspector Combridge’s look of surprise approached incredulity. “It is a statement which would require evidence in its support.”
“Miss Fortescue saw him leaving, just before Miss Weston came down the stairs. He gave her a hundred pounds not to squeal.”
“Any evidence besides that?”
“No. I don’t know that I have. But who else would it be likely to be?”
“I can’t answer that. I don’t know why it should be likely to be him. It sounds unlikely to me. If you knew this, why didn’t you tell us before?”
“Because I’m not that kind of rat. He’d have been safe with me if you’d offered a thousand pounds “
“As a matter of fact, Sir Reginald Crowe’s offering twice that amount.”
“Then it’s likely you’ll get all the evidence you require. But you won’t buy it from me. I didn’t know it was he, though I might have guessed without overworking my brain. But I didn’t guess that he’d planned to frame it on me, as I know he has now, and that’s why I’m sitting here.”
“How do you know that now?”
“It was he who advised me to clear out. He said the police were looking for me over an old matter that’s—it doesn’t matter about that now. I believed what he said. I’d no idea that I was under any suspicion in the Rabone case.”
“You mean Mr. Banks told you himself to go in hiding from us?”
“I don’t mean he said it face to face. He passed me the word.”
“And then told you to come to the court when Hammerton was brought up?”
“I was to be there to meet one of the gang who was to give me the tip about the Leatherhead—it doesn’t matter what it was about now.”
Inspector Combridge was interested, but still less than convinced. He said: “If you could give me the least idea why Banks should have wanted to murder Rabone, or get you into the dock “
“Because he was the one who organized the bank frauds, and he knew that Rabone was going to give him away.”
“That,” Mr. Jellipot said modestly, “was what I had concluded to be the case.”
Hearing the assurance in his voice, Inspector Combridge began to place a new value on this incredible tale. He asked Entwistle: “You can prove this, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes. I can prove that. I can give you the names of half a dozen who’ll be all the evidence that you’ll need when they know what he tried doing to me, so long as you promise not to make it too hot for them.”
“It seems to me,” Mr. Jellipot said quietly, “that you should arrest Banks before he gets any idea that suspicion has been directed upon him.”
“It’s the one chance for Augusta Garten and Mr. Hammerton,” Entwistle said, “if it’s not too late now, as it most probably is.”
Inspector Combridge did not reply. He looked worried. A third arrest without justification would be a comedy which even his established reputation would not survive. And it was an absurdly improbable tale, based on no more than Peter Entwistle’s word, which an impartial judgement might not value at a high price.
Well, to be fair, he had said that Miss Fortescue could give it some support. Another witness of the kind that is likely to do more harm than good to the side which dares to put them into the box!
And even if it could be shown that Banks was at No. 13 Vincent Street on the night in question, it was a long distance from establishing him as the author of the crime four doors away. Was he not commi
ssioned by the London & Northern Bank to watch a number of suspicious characters of whom Peter Entwistle was one? He might have been there with good reason enough, and it was consistent with his reputation for reticence that he should not have mentioned the fact.
Mr. Jellipot, who understood his thoughts very well, broke the silence by observing: “It isn’t Mr. Entwistle’s evidence alone on which you have to depend. Miss Weston recognized Mr. Banks’s leg as he left the scene of the crime. She only hesitated to say this because it seemed such an improbable thing.”
The Inspector turned to Miss Weston, who had listened silently to this conversation, as a drowning man looks for a rope. “That a fact, Miss Weston?” he asked. “I thought it was the same when I saw Mr. Banks put his out of a taxi, but it seemed too absurd to mention. It was the spats I noticed particularly—”
“Oh, spats!” Inspector Combridge recalled that these articles had been present in that description the vagueness of which he had lamented a few minutes before.
He said: “I think I shall give myself the pleasure of asking Mr. Banks a few questions.”
“I think,” Mr. Jellipot suggested, “if you put the handcuffs on him first, he’d be more likely to answer quietly.”
“Yes, I daresay he would. But wouldn’t he make a noise when I found I’d got to take them off him again? It’s easy for you to talk. You’ve no one to tell you when you go wrong.”
Mr. Jellipot, observing that the irritation of indecision had taken the inspector to the verge of incivility, had the discretion to avoid a direct reply.
He said mildly: “As I reconstruct the event—an operation in which I admit that my inexperience may cause me to overlook points which would be evident at once to your more experienced mind—the case has the simplicity which I am accustomed to associate with correct deduction.
“It is one of the difficulties of all large-scale criminals that they must have some legitimate place in the world sufficient to explain their financial resources, and to provide them with an ostensible occupation, such as will prevent suspicion being inclined toward them.
The Attic Murder Page 19
