“One. Motive. To obtain money, and to obtain it from a brother whom she was known to have hated in the past. Two. Opportunity. She knows that house as no one else knows it, and it’s probable that she was in the house all the morning, and had every opportunity of arranging things as she wished. Three. Method. What she doesn’t know about guns isn’t worth knowing.”
“All points equally vague. Not a thing to put before the Public Prosecutor, even, let alone a jury. I’ll try my hand with Paul on the same pattern. Motive, to acquire the house by gradually removing other members of the family. Note that Basil is dead, Martin has vanished, and people like yourself are trying to fasten a capital crime on to Veronica. Opportunity, nil, as at present observed, but ingenuity may suggest something. Method. Knowledge of guns equal to Veronica’s. Nothing sound except the motive. It’s a queer situation, Peter. Of the five members of the family three are off the map. One shot. Two whereabouts unknown.”
“Queer it is,” agreed Vernon. “Among a lot of uncertainties, are you certain of this point: that deceased was shot not earlier than 12.30 on the Wednesday?”
“Perfectly certain.”
“So that Paul cannot have shot Basil before he left.”
Macdonald laughed. “That’s it – in a nutshell – so far as I can see at present. The one thing that is absolutely certain is the time of death.”
“And that Veronica, with the possible exception of Martin, was nearest to the stairs leading to the playroom when the shot occurred?”
“Yes.”
“So we can count on the possible – or probable – collaboration of Veronica and Martin?”
“That’s hypothetical, and no amount of meditation on ingenious theories is going to get the case any further until a few more facts are brought to light. The first one to be studied in this locality is ‘Where is Martin and is he dead or alive?’ If he’s dead, then it looks as though Paul were at the bottom of it, no matter what improbabilities stand in the way, because Paul must have wanted Martin and Veronica out of the way – but I don’t think Martin is dead. I’m pretty certain he isn’t.”
“Why?”
“If you’re going to accept the evidence of Veronica’s devotion to her twin brother, you can’t square her present attitude with a belief that he’s been murdered. If Veronica thought that Martin was dead, she would be a raging fury out after his murderer. She isn’t even anxious, Peter. All she wants is for the case to be closed down, so that she can be left in peace. Not only does she not believe that he’s dead, she knows where he is, or I’m a Chinaman.”
“Doesn’t that fit in with all I’ve been saying?” broke in Vernon. “Basil’s dead. Veronica’s got the money she wanted, and in due time Martin will reappear and they will restore Wulfstane and cock a snoop at Paul. Incidentally, here’s another theory about Paul’s little journey into the unknown. Wasn’t it possible that news leaked out in the city that Basil was riding near the wind, and Paul decided to be off the map when the bust-up came?”
“I don’t know. Rumours do get round. You ought to be able to trace that sort of thing better than we can. Fleet Street wafts echoes to its intimates. But leaving Paul out of it, where is Martin?”
“Somewhere in that damned great house, tended by sister Veronica.”
“I think so, too, and it’s going to be a devil of a job to prove it. I’ve got a search warrant. I can arrive complete with my own men, architects, builders and structural experts, but I doubt if it would be any good. That house is built on a labyrinth of cellars. I suspect that some of them spread out under the terraces and right out into the park itself; the entrances and exits may be obvious to those who know the place, but to the uninitiated they’d be the devil. It’d take a week of Sundays to search the place adequately. Then there’s this to it. If Martin is lying doggo by his own choice, and I should imagine that’s the way of it, then if we corner him he may shoot himself. He’s a neurotic, and to unearth his dead body is by no means the end we’re aiming at.”
“And so what?” grinned Vernon. “Research in camera? Speaking as one who has already done a bit of prowling, I’m all in favour of doing a little more. There’s one entrance to the vaults in the shrubbery to the south of the east wing – but I haven’t penetrated further. I’ve made a ground plan of the outside of the house, with approximate measurements, and. a few notes on the immediate surroundings.”
Macdonald considered. “Sorry to cramp your style, Peter, but you’d better keep away from the house. I know you’re pretty canny, but I don’t want Veronica and co. to think that house is being watched. I’d rather they thought the reverse.”
“I get you,” said Vernon, quite good-humouredly. “Well, I’ve never got in your way yet, and I’m not going to start doing so now – though I’m mad keen to get to know that place better. Look here, Jock. What about brother Richard in all this? Does he know where Martin is, according to your theories?”
“He may suspect,” replied Macdonald, “but my reading of Veronica’s mind is that if she is hiding Martin as may be the case, she wouldn’t let Richard or any one else know about it. Of one thing I do feel certain, and that is that nothing can go on in that house without Veronica’s knowledge of it, but Richard is in a less privileged position. It’s twenty-five years since he lived there, and he’s only been back home a week. If Veronica and Martin wanted to pull wool over Richard’s eyes with regard to something going on inside the house, I think they’d manage it all right.”
“There are only the two of them living in the house at present, aren’t there?” asked Vernon, and Macdonald nodded.
“The two of them only – on the face of it. Personally I think it’s probable that Martin is there, too. We’ve got to find him somehow, but without precipitating a further tragedy. I think my best move is to go back to town, and let Veronica know I’m going, and reappear unobtrusively later.”
“Hm,” chuckled Vernon. “How’s town? I did a little private research before I came away but didn’t get very far.”
“Oh, did you? Have you heard of a Mrs. Lorne?”
“Have I not? I covered her divorce case – meaning the case she brought against her husband. I can tell you a few facts on my own personal observation. Mrs. Lorne was more than a little matey with Basil. She’s a very good dancer, and he was quite a pretty performer for a man of his weight. There’s a small private dancing club – very select and catering for the expert few – in St. John’s Wood. I was taken there by a lovely whose partner let her down at short notice. Basil and Cynthia Lorne were there, dancing very prettily. In addition to that, I have seen the self-same Cynthia Lorne dining with Paul Mallowood at the Savoy.”
“What else do you know about her?”
“Nothing very interesting. She makes the dollars fly all right – and hasn’t over many to scatter at the moment. Both Paul and Basil Mallowood were men with money to spend, and that, I think, was their claim to attractiveness in Mrs. Lorne’s eyes. Are you considering whether her presence at Wulfstane on the Wednesday had any bearing on the matter? Of course, she was brought up within a few miles of the Mallowoods, and she seems to have been one of Veronica’s few friends.”
“Rather an odd pair to be friends,” mused Macdonald. “In giving evidence, both Veronica and Richard stressed the point that Cynthia Lorne was asked for the night in order to dilute the masculine nature of the party. The thing which interests me about her is that she was a link between Paul and Basil Mallowood in London. If either of them wanted news of the other without applying for it direct, I imagine that Mrs. Lorne could have supplied it.”
“Talking about Basil and Paul in London, have you had the privilege of viewing their habitations?” asked Vernon.
Macdonald replied by another question, “Have you?”
“I just called,” murmured Vernon. “The servants at Basil’s place were not entirely unforthcoming. They had their own views about his scheme of life, but no information at all as to where he spent his comprehensive week
-ends. One can call upon logic and the King’s Proctor for an assurance that it was not chez Cynthia Lorne.”
Macdonald nodded. ” We both seem to have arrived at the same, and the obvious, conclusions,” he observed. “Basil covered his tracks with unusual thoroughness and care. I think that he must have been living for years with a realisation that a rapid retirement might become necessary. There isn’t a photograph of him in existence barring his passport photographs, and they are not too good. If there had been another it would have come to light by now, for any photographer would jump at the chance of supplying one and reaping the profits. Problems – to find the establishment at which a prosperous city man spent half his time. I’m hoping that his car may lead us to the answer eventually, or else the taxi-ranks. I doubt if friend Basil patronised buses and tubes exclusively, careful as he was. A man who is used to a car likes to drive from door to door.”
Vernon nodded. “He kept his car in a private lock-up in Manchester Mews: he had his repairs, washings and what nots attended to by Sun’s Garage, and as Sun’s minions and mechanics deal with a few thousand cars a day, they have no interesting reminiscences concerning a goodish newish Austin owned by prosperous city man. Now Paul’s two-seater Rolls Royce tourer was a far more noticeable outfit.”
“As Paul’s scheme of existence was a far less devious matter than Basil’s, so far as I can gather,” replied Macdonald. “However, if Basil’s private haunt is not run to earth in a day or two, I shall lose faith in my own department.”
“It may prove to be a bit late in the day, Jock,” said Vernon. “Didn’t his banking account give any information?”
“None so far. Frequent cheques made out to self, cash generally taken in pond notes. He was a thoughtful soul. On the week-end previous to his leaving London, he asked for his bank statement, and the return of outstanding old cheques. He either destroyed the lot, or left his passbook at some spot unknown to us. His record in the bank ledgers was singularly unenlightening.”
“Have you any powers to examine Paul’s banking affairs Jock?”
“None whatever. We’ve nothing against Paul officially – not at the moment, any way. His banker, like his fellow director, would refuse any information in the client’s absence. The fact that one brother has embezzled and subsequently shot himself does not bring the other brother within reach of the law. The only information given by Paul’s bankers was the numbers of notes recently issued to him. One of these was changed at the garage where he put in on the Wednesday morning on his way to Croydon.”
Vernon grinned. “This is a damned interesting case, Jock. I can see a lovely lot of variations concerning its permutations and combinations – but take my word for it, Veronica and/or Martin thought it all out in their leisure time.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” said Macdonald, and Vernon retorted:
“But you’re being precious careful not to state your own notions, Jock. Incidentally, I picked up one bit on my way home from the pub in Mallowdene last night. You know Higgins the gardener?”
“Ay. Higgins it was who put Paul’s suitcases in the boot of the Rolls. Higgins has been trying to work that garden single-handed for two years – stout fellow.”
“And during his efforts among the herbaceous borders he overhears a bit from the windows. Now it seems to me likely that if you asked him what he’d overheard he’d tell you that he wasn’t in the habit of listening in – but I’ll make you a present of his results for what they’re worth. When Paul arrived on Wednesday, Veronica took him up to his room – the one at the south-west corner of the Jacobean wing. Higgins was working in the border immediately below the window. Paul and Veronica had a long talk, and Veronica ended up by saying that Basil had offered to help her, and of the two of them, she preferred to become dependent on Basil. Now counting on Veronica’s queer sense of humour, that’s a way of saying that she sees her way out via Basil.”
“How did you overhear this, or was it a direct confidence on Higgins part?”
“Not on your life. I walked behind the couple of hearties when they left the bar, both well primed.”
“You don’t seem to have wasted much time during your stay in the neighbourhood,” observed Macdonald. “Can you tell me this. Where’s the nearest salmon river to here?”
“Lord, I don’t know. Miles away,” said Vernon disgustedly. “Why?”
“I found a salmon rod in Martin’s bedroom – a good one. It was strong, but nice and light and flexible. Have you ever cast fly in a strong wind?”
“I have.”
“So have I. The line, thin as it is, blows out on the wind. If you tied some tags on to the line, so that it resembled the tail of a kite, it would blow out still harder. If, in addition, you weighted the end of the line you could do some odd things with it.”
Vernon stared. “I’ve known you for a long time, Jock, and we’ve seen some damned odd things in the course of that time. Never having known you talk through your hat before I’m assuming you’re talking sense now – but I can’t see the point.”
“Well, think it out. You say you’ve made a plan of the exterior of Wulfstane. You attended the inquest. You know all the facts I know – and you’ve made me the present of a few additional ones, for which I’m not ungrateful. The existence of the salmon rod is my own private contribution. It may be demonstrated before a jury one day. Apply your wits and see if you can make any application of it.”
And with that Macdonald refilled his pipe and Vernon sat and stared at the fire, twisting his mobile face in comic perplexity.
CHAPTER NINE
BEFORE Macdonald left London he had entrusted Inspector Jenkins and Detective Sergeant Reeves with the job of pursuing inquiries into the life of Paul and Basil Mallowood in London. It was curious how all inquiries about Basil seemed to result in a dead end. He had belonged to a club, but he seldom used it, save for occasional meals, and had had no correspondence addressed there. He had not played golf, he had not played bridge, and his social activities were confined to entertaining his friends to dinner – (he had a name for giving very good dinners) – and to theatre going. He had been an enthusiastic playgoer, and had taken an intelligent interest in the stage, but since his interest was only that of an onlooker, the fact added little to the sum total known about him. At his office – a prosperous Investment Trust whose shares had stood high – he had been regarded as a first-rate financier and a very hard worker, but his colleagues lead had few dealings with him beyond the scope of office routine. An occasional dinner or theatre party had been the total of his social contacts with them. It was not difficult to see that Basil Mallowood had been unpopular in a social sense. He had been a self-opinionated man and had had a very quick temper, and no sense of humour. His knowledge of international finance had been encyclopaedic, and he was a naturally fine mathematician, but his colleagues had found him heavy going socially. His dinner parties – generally for men only – had had a cachet on account of his ability to choose an interesting menu. He had taken food seriously, and his knowledge of wines and continental cooking had won for him the regard of the famous restaurateurs and head waiters, but they could tell nothing concerning him apart from his knowledge of their art. Inquiries as to how – and where – he spent his holidays, resulted in the vague reply that he usually went abroad. He had obviously known the south of Europe well, and had been as far afield as Egypt on occasions, but he did not exchange notes about his holidays as most men did. There were plenty of his acquaintances who were now only too ready to say, “I always thought there was something fishy about the fellow, he was one of those secretive men who hated giving a plain answer to a plain question,” – but none of them could give any information which was valuable from a detective’s point of view. Reeves put in a lot of hard work asking questions and following up suggestions from the garage where Basil Mallowood had garaged his car, but none of these led him anywhere.
It was one of Macdonald’s suggestions which at length bore fruit
in the difficult problem of discovering where Basil had spent his week-ends. The Chief Inspector had suggested that the Motor Insurance Companies might be able to help. If Basil Mallowood had ever been involved in a car-crash there was a possibility that the evidence put forward to the company when a claim was made might contain something useful. On inquiry, it was found that Basil himself had been a blameless driver. He had earned the fullest possible bonus on the “no claim” principle and had, so far as could be ascertained, never been involved in a car crash through his own fault. “Damned cautious beggar,” grunted Reeves to himself, being conscious that his own driving record was not so blameless. But Basil’s own Insurance Company – the Provincial and Metropolitan – proved to be unexpectedly helpful in producing details of a claim in which a Mr. George Harford (insured by the same company), had done damage to Basil Mallowood’s car in a crash in which the latter was blameless. Mr. Harford had been guilty of driving on to the Watford by-pass road from a secondary road without the “due care and attention” demanded by the Highway Code, and had inflicted some small damage to the wings and coachwork of Basil Mallowood’s Sunbeam.
“Hoping for something but expecting nothing,” Reeves set out to interview Mr. George Harford. The latter proved to be a retired commercial traveller, living in a pleasant little house between Elstree and St. Albans. Reeves called there in the evening, and Mr. Harford, a grey-haired jovial little man of sixty, looked at the C.I.D. man with the expression which every policeman gets to know so well – a compound of anxiety and curiosity, as of a man searching his conscience for recollection of illicit acts, and at the same time wondering what his neighbour has been up to.
Reeves himself was a neatly built, dark-headed fellow, with intelligent bright eyes and a capacity for making himself pleasant. That is to say, he knew when to be talkative and when to be politely official, having the wits not to get out of his depth in what he termed “high-brow stuff.” There was nothing high-brow about either Mr. Harford or his establishment, and Reeves felt that it would be easy to get on to terms with him.
Rope's End, Rogue's End Page 12
