“I see,” said Moresby gravely. “It couldn’t by any chance have been that she had a taxi outside, could it?”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Worksop with decision. “The fact that she was in a taxi would not have prevented me from helping her to the best of my ability.”
“But was there a taxi?”
“Now you mention it, Mr. Moresby, I believe there was. Yes, I’m sure there was. I remember her saying, could she have the keys at once as she had a taxi waiting.”
“Ah! You didn’t glance into the taxi, did you? I’m rather anxious to know whether there was anyone else inside it.”
“There I cannot help you, sir. I almost certainly didn’t glance inside the taxi. It would not have been a very polite action, would it? ”
“Wouldn’t it?” said Moresby vaguely. “Well, never mind; it’s nearly as important for me to know that she had a taxi. Thank you, Mr. Worksop.”
“At your service, sir,” responded Mr. Worksop courteously, as he rang off.
Moresby pressed a button and sent a messenger to summon Sergeant Afford.
“Well, Afford,” he grinned, “care to have another go at those Euston porters? Well, well, how that takes the mind back. ‘Oh, those Euston porters: here they come, here they come, here they come! ’ When was the song? Nineteen-thirteen or thereabouts. Well, well.”
Sergeant Afford eyed his chief in surprise. For Chief Inspector Moresby to carol during office hours betokened something portentous. “What news have you had, sir?”
“Wonderful detective, Afford, aren’t you?” sneered Moresby. “Ought to be in a story-book, you ought. But I have had a bit of news for all that.” He retailed his bit of news.
“So off you go back to Euston, my lad, and get hold of the regular taxi-men there, and see if you can find one who drove a young woman on the 1st of August last from Euston to Kennington—40, Elfrida Road, with a call at 207b, Kennington High Road on the way. Yes, I know we’ve tried to find the man before, but we hadn’t got the Kennington end then; that may jog their memory. And if you can’t find the man there, go the whole round as usual; and don’t you show that ugly face of yours here again till you’ve found him.”
Sergeant Afford returned the other’s grin, and went off, uncomplaining.
As for Moresby, he went out to lunch.
It was at about half-past three that the last drop was added to Moresby’s cup of joy for the day.
The telephone-bell on his desk rang, and Inspector Fox announced himself at the other end.
“Just ringing up before I tackle the shops, chief. Thought you’d like to hear the good news.”
“What good news? Get it out, man, and don’t palaver so much.”
A faint laugh came from the other end of the wire.
“The landlord recognises the girl all right. And the other one too.”
“Wargrave?”
“Wargrave. He visited her there two or three times.” Moresby chuckled horribly. “We’ve got him now, my boy. We’ve got Mr. Smartie now.”
CHAPTER XIV
By six o’clock that evening his two subordinates had reported fully to the chief inspector, in person. At last it seemed the luck had really turned. Sergeant Afford had found, without difficulty this time, the taxi-man who had driven Mary Waterhouse from Euston to Kennington, and that link was finally established. Like Mr. Pringle, the driver had been impressed by her personality, and remembered considering that Kennington was not nearly good enough for her. He remembered too the halt at the house-agent’s, and altogether had proved a most satisfactory witness.
Inspector Fox had been no less fortunate. Apart from the great coup of the landlord’s identification of Wargrave, he had established some useful facts elsewhere. Armed with Miss Waterhouse’s photograph, he had tackled the neighbouring shops, with the result that no less than three persons, Mrs. Dairyman, Mr. Grocer, and Mrs. Baker, had definitely recognised her. (Two of these three, it may be noted, had already been almost certain of recognising the photograph in the newspapers, but had not “liked “to come forward. With such prejudices does unfortunate Scotland Yard have to strive.) Their tales were, substantially, the same. Miss Waterhouse had not opened an account; she had paid cash; she had come regularly, well, almost every day you might say, for about a week, and had then come no more. Mrs. Dairyman, Mr. Grocer, and Mrs. Baker had all wondered why.
“That fixes it,” Moresby said with satisfaction. “We knew all right that the second week in August was the time, but this fixes it; and pretty near the beginning of the week too. But it doesn’t prove it,” he added, more ruefully. “Not that she was killed, I mean.”
“No, it doesn’t do that, Mr. Moresby,” Inspector Fox agreed. “You can’t say that just because she left off dealing with the local tradesmen, that means she was dead.”
“And for that matter,” added the chief inspector, “the proof that it was Mary Waterhouse’s body at all isn’t anything like as strong as I’d like. I can hear Wargrave’s counsel pulling it to bits easily enough. We know it’s all right; but will the jury? ”
“Oh, come, Mr. Moresby. That’s going back a lot.”
“Well, that’s how this case makes me feel. I suppose we are getting on, and I suppose we will hang Wargrave one day, and our luck does seem to have turned at last. But I wish,” said Moresby brutally, “that he was under the ground and the whole thing finished.” He frowned heavily. “Anyhow, it’s up to Mr. Smartie now. We’ll have him on the carpet to-morrow morning, and it won’t be my fault if he slides off it this time.”
The truth was that the chief inspector, though still elated by the progress that had been made, was no longer quite so carried away by it as he had been that morning. In the interview with Wargrave that was now inevitable he foresaw several nasty moments for that gentleman, but so long as he kept his head Moresby was very much afraid that the honours would still remain with him.
Wargrave did keep his head.
He made not the slightest objection to coming to Scotland Yard again. Greeting Moresby with a little nod and a completely expressionless face, he dropped into his chair, crossed his legs, folded his arms, and then lifted his eyebrows without having spoken a single word. Mr. Wargrave was quite evidently not going to give himself away by talking too much.
In the corner the constable sat with pencil openly poised.
Moresby began quietly. “Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Wargrave, but there are one or two points we still don’t quite understand.”
Wargrave grunted—as Moresby thought, derisively.
“That revolver, for instance. I understood you to tell me last time you were here that you didn’t own a revolver?”
Wargrave said nothing.
“You were not speaking quite truthfully?”
Wargrave said nothing.
“Come, sir. I asked you if you were not speaking the truth when you told me you had no revolver?”
Wargrave spoke for the first time. “Am I under any necessity to answer you?”
“Necessity? Certainly not. But I suggest that it’s very much to your interest to do so.”
“How?”
“Because otherwise,” said Moresby glibly, “we might form a misconception about you.”
“You’ve done that already. However, I’ll answer you. Yes, I lied when I told you I didn’t possess a revolver.”
“And why did you do that, Mr. Wargrave?” Moresby asked, in hurt tones.
“Precisely because of that misconception you’ve just mentioned,” Wargrave replied curtly. “And that is also the reason why I hid it.”
“And is it also the reason why you threatened Sergeant Johnson with it, sir?”
“Threatened Sergeant Johnson? What on earth are you talking about?”
“I understand that when the sergeant approached you in the field, you pointed your revolver at him
—loaded in five chambers.”
“Then you’ve another misconception to contend with,” Wargrave sneered. “But I imagine that you can’t really be so foolish as to understand anything of the sort. If your sergeant understood it, he’s half-witted.”
“You deny that you pointed the revolver at him?”
“The suggestion,” said Wargrave, with a tight little smile, “is not merely untrue; it’s silly.”
“I see, sir. Thank you. Why did you hide the revolver?”
“I’ve just told you.”
“Because you were afraid that we might have formed a misconception about you?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t think I quite understand you, Mr. Wargrave. What misconception exactly did you think we had formed? ”
“Come, Mr. Moresby,” Wargrave mocked, in imitation of the chief inspector’s own manner. “Don’t be childish.”
“Well, to be frank, then, you thought we suspected you of having a hand in Miss Waterhouse’s death?”
“To be still franker,” Wargrave said drily, “I knew you suspected me of having caused it.”
“You’re quite wrong, Mr. Wargrave. It’s too early to suspect anyone yet.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Moresby began to scribble on his blotting-paper. He was getting no further.
“I should like to know,” he said slowly, “why you really hid that revolver, Mr. Wargrave?”
Wargrave shifted in his chair in an exasperated way. “How many more times am I to tell you?”
Moresby noted the sign of exasperation with satisfaction. He went on putting questions about the revolver: why Wargrave had denied the possession of it, why he had tried to hide it, what he had intended to do with it, why, why, why, putting the same query over and over again in only slightly different words. His plan was perfectly simple: to exasperate Wargrave to such a pitch that when he finally sprang the bombshell about Kennington the other would have so lost control of his nerves as to be startled into some vital denial. The tactics were perhaps not of the kind of which Superintendent Green would have approved, but Moresby was not bothered by that.
“Good God, man,” Wargrave broke out at last, “how much more about this infernal revolver? I’ve told you and told you again. I refuse to answer another question about it.”
Moresby judged that his time was ripe. “Very well, sir. If you refuse, you refuse. Then perhaps you’ll tell me instead how many times you visited Miss Waterhouse at 40, Elfrida Road, Kennington, between the 1st of August last year and the 8th?”
No sooner had he spoken the words than he knew that he had lost the trick. Wargrave seemed to tighten suddenly all over. The look of irritation vanished from his face, to be replaced by its former expression of blankness. Moresby could not help admiring the man’s self-control.
There was scarcely a pause before he answered, in flat tones: “I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly. Two or three times, I believe.”
“You admit, then, that you did visit her there?”
“Of course.”
“But I understood you to say last time you were here that you never saw Miss Waterhouse again after the end of last summer term?”
“You understood quite correctly. I did say so.”
“You were not speaking the truth, then?”
“I was not.”
“You were trying deliberately to mislead me?”
“I was.”
“That was a very serious thing to attempt, Mr. Wargrave.” Wargrave said nothing.
“What was your reason?”
Wargrave gave his bleak little smile. “You know my reason well enough.”
“I should prefer you to state it, if you care to do so; though I should warn you that—”
“Oh, I don’t mind, if you want your man to take it down. My reason was that same misconception you spoke of just now.”
“I see. You feared . . . ?”
“Considering the ridiculous mistake you were so evidently making, I saw no reason why I should present you with any evidence which might seem superficially to support it,” Wargrave almost dictated to the constable.
“You took this mistake of mine, as you call it, pretty seriously, then?”
“Well, it was what one might call rather a capital mistake, wasn’t it?” Wargrave said grimly.
Moresby went on to the obvious question as to Wargrave’s reasons for visiting Kennington, but it was a disappointed man who put them. His hope had been that Wargrave would have denied having visited Kennington at all. There would then have been identification parades, and all the usual ominous procedure; and things would have looked distinctly black for Wargrave. But Wargrave must have summed the situation up in one flash of thought, seen the danger, and avoided it. Moresby had the uneasy feeling that his mind was up against one more subtle, more intelligent, and more adamant.
Of course, Wargrave’s explanation of his visits was both simple and, to anyone who might have believed in his innocence, convincing. He had paid his first visit to Mary Waterhouse for tea, by arrangement. She had told him about the flat she was taking, had said she would be lonely there, and had asked him to tea. At tea she had told him that one of the electrical standard lamps was defective. He had examined it, found that the socket was defective, and offered to get her a new one and fit it himself to save her the expense of an electrician. His second visit had been for this purpose. The third one had been no more than to return a book borrowed on the second occasion, a matter of a couple of minutes only.
And that was all? That was all.
“You seem to remember these trivial visits very accurately after so many months, Mr. Wargrave.”
“A schoolmaster,” returned Wargrave, “has to have an accurate memory for trivial details.”
“Humph!” said Moresby, and did not conceal his scepticism. “What did you understand of Miss Waterhouse’s plans for the future?”
“I gathered that she had taken the flat for the purpose of establishing a domicile in London, so that she and her fiancé could be married at the Kennington registry office without trouble as soon as he arrived in this country; which seemed to me a very reasonable thing to do.”
“Her fiancé had not arrived then?”
“So she told me.”
“It never struck you as odd that she should suddenly become engaged, in the middle of that term, to a man who was in Australia at the time and whom she couldn’t have been seeing?”
“No. There is such a thing as a post.”
“Nor that she should have acquired a ring, also from a man who could not have given it to her in person?”
“There’s a parcel-post as well as a letter-post.”
“The possibility never occurred to you then, Mr. Wargrave, that this fiancé, whose name even doesn’t ever seem to have been mentioned, might not exist at all? That he might have been a pure invention of Miss Waterhouse’s imagination?”
“I’m afraid it didn’t. One doesn’t usually ascribe one’s friends’ fiancés to their imaginations.”
“To account for her condition?”
“I wasn’t aware of her condition.”
“In view of the evidence we have, which I mentioned to you the other day, it seems strange that you shouldn’t have known of such an important matter?”
“I can’t help that. Miss Waterhouse certainly did not pay me the compliment of confiding in me to that extent.”
“I see. You had no suspicions at all, then, with regard to this fiancé?”
“None. Have you? I take it you can’t find him, from the way you speak.”
“We certainly haven’t found him yet. Miss Waterhouse,” said Moresby coolly, “had been blackmailing you?”
“What!” The start that Wargrave gave was genuine enough, but Moresby did not believe that it was a
start of astonishment. He had dropped his question out of the blue with the purpose of watching Wargrave’s reaction to it rather than of learning anything from his answer. For the first time during the interview the chief inspector was satisfied that he had taken the other off his guard. The start, he felt convinced, had been a guilty one, though the next moment the man had recovered himself as completely as ever. “I don’t understand you,” he said coldly.
“No? You knew of course that Miss Waterhouse was a bad character? That under various names she had served at least three terms of imprisonment before she went to Roland House?”
“I certainly knew nothing of the sort.” Moresby, watching closely, fancied he saw an expression of comprehension pass rapidly over Wargrave’s face, as if this news explained certain matters which had before been obscure; and he fancied too that he knew what these matters were.
“It’s a fact.”
“Indeed?” said Wargrave, now with only polite interest. “How extraordinary.”
“Very, to you, sir, no doubt. Now I have a note here that the last occasion on which you visited Miss Waterhouse at 40, Elfrida Road was on about August 6th or 7th. You can’t make it more definite than that?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes, and then only for a couple of minutes.”
“You did not visit the flat again, without getting a reply?”
“No, I went home to Clitheroe within a day or two of those dates and had no occasion to visit Miss Waterhouse again.”
“That’s a pity, Mr. Wargrave. If you had happened to visit her again, you see, especially by appointment, and got no reply, it would help us a lot towards establishing the date of death. Just think again, sir, if you please.”
“I can’t alter facts to help you, I’m afraid, chief inspector. I did not visit Miss Waterhouse again after I took her book back.”
Moresby leaned across the table. “Then you met her by appointment elsewhere?”
Murder in the Basement Page 16
