The White Cottage Mystery
Page 9
He continued to beam, and again Jerry was struck by the weakness in his unpleasant face.
W.T. sat looking at him, his bright eyes hard and very penetrating under their white brows. Clarry Gale continued to grin, however, not in the least discomposed by his somewhat cold reception. He looked round the room approvingly.
‘Nice an’ comfortable ’ere, looks like,’ he remarked after a pause.
Still W.T. did not speak, and the man’s uncertain gaze travelled to the window through which the lights of the town were just visible from where he sat.
‘Strik-ingly beautiful place this,’ he went on in the ludicrous conversational tone he had adopted. ‘Strik-ingly beautiful – the Coat Daz Ure.’ And he sniffed vigorously.
The detective flicked his cigarette ash and then looked across at the unattractive object on the chair that was so much too high for him.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘what’s the game, Gale?’
‘Gime – wot gime?’ Mr Gale’s expression was innocent
W.T. smiled faintly.
‘To what am I indebted for this visit?’ he said gravely.
Clarry Gale wriggled on his uncomfortable chair.
‘You mean w’y ’ave I come?’
‘Exactly.’
Mr Gale sniffed again, and Jerry noticed how long and damp his moustaches were – like a drayhorse’s, he reflected.
‘W’y ’ave I come?’ Mr Gale repeated, with jovial indignation. ‘W’y ’ave I come? You’re a nice one, you are – is that the w’y to welcome an old friend in a foreign land?’
Jerry began to wax impatient. The man annoyed him, and his arms ached to chuck him out. W.T. appeared to be getting a certain amount of amusement out of the interview, however, and his eyes twinkled when next he spoke.
‘I beg your pardon, Gale,’ he said; ‘I did not understand at first – you have just come on a friendly visit?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mr Gale, his grin returning. ‘Jus’ a frien’ly visit – like anyone might pay.’
‘Like anyone might pay,’ repeated W.T. with satisfaction, and there was silence in the room.
Mr Gale cleared his throat encouragingly once or twice, but neither W.T. nor Jerry seemed anxious to take the hint, and after a while he was forced to reopen the conversation himself.
‘Down ’ere on business?’ he inquired at last with exaggerated casualness.
‘Sure,’ said the detective, and again there was silence.
Mr Gale’s feet began to swing to and fro and his eyes wandered vainly round the room for a topic of conversation. W.T. came to his rescue.
‘Are you on business, Gale?’
‘Me?’ The little man shot a suspicious glance at the detective, but the old man’s face was serene and benevolent as ever. ‘Well,’ he continued at last, spreading the word out until it was an explanation in itself, ‘in a way yes, and in a way no, as you might say. Mainly I’m ’ere on a holiday – ’
‘Oh yes?’ said W.T. with innocent interest.
Gale eyed the other man doubtfully.
‘My ’ealth wasn’t so good, yer see, an’ my doctor ’e said to me, “The Souf of France is the place for you, my boy.” So, ‘appening to ’ave a bit of money left me sudden by a frien’, I comes over ’ere.’
‘For your health’s sake?’ said W.T.
‘Well, w’y not?’ said Mr Gale.
‘Why not?’ said the detective blandly.‘Ten years’ hard isn’t good for anyone’s health.’
‘Eh?’ Mr Gale looked up sharply. ‘Wot yer drivin’ at?’
‘Driving at? Nothing. What should I be driving at?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mr Gale shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘We’re all matey ’ere, aren’t we?’
‘I think so.’
‘Wot d’you mean – “think so”? We are, ain’t we? I’m just payin’ you a friendly visit because I ’appened to know you was down ’ere – that’s all, ain’t it?’
‘That’s all,’ said W.T., adding innocently, ‘as far as I know.’
‘Then ’oo’s talking about ten years’ hard?’ said Mr Gale, to whose ears the words had had an ominous sound.
‘That was only a figure of speech,’ said the detective easily. ‘I was referring to your life at the “ Dene”, Brandesdon. That was pretty hard, wasn’t it?’
‘It was ’ell,’ said Mr Gale explicitly. ‘’E was a one, ’e was – orf ’is bloomin’ onion, I believe. They oughter ’ave ’ad ’is ’ead up at the ‘orsepitals to ’ave a look in after ’e was dead. I didn’t ’arf lead a life wiv ’im.’
‘I wonder you stuck it.’ W.T. put the question casually, and Clarry Gale nearly fell for it. His expression changed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself up in time and shrugged his shoulders elaborately to hide his sudden reticence.
‘Jobs are hard to get, guv’nor,’ he said, adopting a pious whine. ‘Especially when you’ve been the type of man wot I ’ave,’ he added sententiously.
‘Eh?’ said W.T.
Clarry Gale nodded virtuously.
‘I said wot I ’ave been,’ he repeated pointedly. ‘I mean, we’re all frien’s ’ere. You know wot I ’ave been – it’s no good me pretendin’ wiv’ you.’
‘Not in the least,’ said W.T. with polite ambiguousness.
‘That’s right, then,’ said Mr Gale happily. ‘But bein’ down ’ere for a noliday, and seein’ an old frien’ in a bit of a fix as you might say, I thought I’d come along and give you a ’and, see?’
W.T.’s expression did not change.
‘That’s very nice of you, Gale,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But what makes you think I’m in a bit of a fix, as you call it?’
Clarry Gale grinned and winked knowingly.
‘You can’t come it over me, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘I know the police so well – one way an’ another. Still, wot is there to be touchy over? It ain’t everyone who can find ’is way about a foreign town all in a minute. You’ve jest been unlucky, that’s all. But it so ‘appens that I’m in a persition to give you just the bit of information you require.’
W.T. still smiled, but there was a faintly mystified expression in the back of his eyes.
‘Turning detective in your old age, Gale?’ he said. ‘How d’you like the job?’
‘Suits me fine. Now, guv’nor, what’s it worth to you?’
A light of understanding flashed into W.T.’s face.
‘What is what worth?’ he demanded.
Clarry Gale shook his head.
‘Play fair, guv’nor, play fair,’ he admonished. ‘Plain speaking asks for plain speaking, don’t it?’
‘It does,’ agreed W.T. ‘What is this piece of information you want to sell me?’
Gale looked doubtful.
‘You never was a man to act dirty, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Wot yer playin’ at? You know you’ve been ‘anging around ’ere these last two days lookin’ for somebody you ain’t been able to lay your ’ands on.’
‘Oh,’ said W.T., who was beginning to see how the land lay. ‘And what makes you think I haven’t been able to find – er – what I’ve been looking for?’
‘Well, you ain’t ’ad no interview, ’ave you?’ The words broke from the old lag involuntarily, and W.T. glanced at him sharply.
‘How do you know I want to have an interview?’ he demanded.
Clarry Gale looked blank.
‘Wot’s the idea of coming down ’ere, then?’ he said. ‘I know wot you’re after – I ain’t barmy – I just thought I could give you a little ’elp, that’s all. You see, I ’appen to know where they are.’
‘They – who are they?’
Mr Gale leant back as well as he could in the high chair, tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and attempted to look disgusted.
‘Now, that’s coming it a bit too thick – a bit too thick, that is,’ he commented. ‘You know ’oo I mean.’
W.T. crossed one knee over the other and folded his arms.
/> ‘Gale,’ he said slowly, ‘when you saw me here, did it never occur to you that I might be interested in you?’
‘Me?’ Mr Gale’s mouth dropped open and his little ferrety eyes grew wide. ‘Me?’ he repeated. ‘You’re jokin’, guv’nor … You ain’t got nothin’ against me. I’ve gone honest for ten years, I ’ave.’
The detective did not speak, and Mr Gale’s spirits returned.
‘My alibi was all right too, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘Oh, quite,’ said W.T. mildly.
‘Well, then, w’y the ’okey-pokey?’ Mr Gale was aggrieved. ‘Let’s get down to business. I can give you the hotel of them two girls, number of their suite an’ everything. Wot’s it worth?’
W.T. hesitated.
‘I’ll give you two hundred-franc notes for it,’ he said at last.
‘Two perishin’ quid? That ain’t much. If I’d ha’ thought that was all you could rise to, guv’nor, I wouldn’t ’a’ troubled to ’a’ come.’
The old detective shrugged his shoulders, and taking out his note-case selected the two notes he had mentioned.
‘Take it or leave it,’ he said.
Gale took the money, still grumbling.
‘If you wasn’t an old frien’ things would be different, I can tell you,’ he said, ‘but in mem’ry of the parst an’ one thing an’ another ’ere you are.’ He put his hand in his pocket and drawing out an envelope thrust it into the detective’s face. W.T. glanced at it and put it in his note-case.
Gale edged towards the door. ‘I’ll be goin’, then,’ he said. ‘Glad to ’ave seen you again and to ‘ave done what I could for you. Any other time you want me, I’m staying down the road in the “Maison Sud”.’
‘For long?’
‘No – o’ny a d’y or so. So long, guv’nor. So long to you too, sir.’ And Clarry Gale pattered out.
Jerry looked at his father, who was still seated, his arms folded.
‘What’s the idea of paying for a piece of information we already have?’
W.T. took out the envelope Gale had given him.
‘Norah Bayliss and Grace Christensen. Suite Number nine. Hôtel Magnifique,’ he read aloud.
‘Well, we know that already,’ said Jerry. ‘At least, we know the hotel; the number of the suite isn’t necessary.’
W.T. nodded absently. He was grave now, and his eyes were veiled with their heavy lids.
‘I don’t see what you were driving at,’ Jerry persisted. ‘Why didn’t you let me pitch the grinning little hypocrite into the street?’
‘Jerry, my boy,’ W.T. spoke mildly. ‘You haven’t the mind of a detective. Gale has given us some very interesting information. Don’t grudge him his francs.’
‘The number of a hotel suite – ‘began Jerry contemptuously.
‘Quite,’ said W.T., ‘just think of the things Gale has told us. Unintentionally perhaps, but still told us – facts that are of great interest to us.’
‘I don’t see,’ said Jerry.
W.T. sat up in his chair and ticked the points off on his fingers as he spoke.
‘First of all,’ he said easily, ‘he has told us that he is watching us. Secondly, that he is watching Mrs Christensen and Norah – probably he followed them out here. Thirdly, he is in touch with them – on speaking terms, but not in their employ – ’
‘Hold a moment,’ cut in Jerry. ‘I don’t see how you make that out.’
W.T. looked at him gravely.
‘He must be on speaking terms with them to know that we have not had an interview with Mrs Christensen yet, but, on the other hand, he can’t be in their employ, or he would not come to us to sell us information that would mean him losing his job … I’m afraid it’s blackmail. He knows something.’
‘Blackmail? Gale blackmailing Mrs Christensen?’ Jerry spoke quickly. ‘That’s impossible, Dad – I mean, your own argument cuts both ways. Gale wouldn’t come to us to sell us information that would – would mean you getting at Mrs Christensen and so removing his source of money.’
W.T. nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said; ‘but, you see, Gale knew that I was bound to find Mrs Christensen sooner or later – he wanted to know how much I knew, and also to make sure that I wasn’t after him. Incidentally he thought he might pick up anything there was going before the smash. I know that type so well. They don’t think ahead at all. Probably he guessed I had seen him, and wondered why I was so quiet – folk with uneasy consciences get nerves, Jerry.’
‘Blackmail,’ repeated the boy, to whom the idea was new, and horrible for its very likelihood. ‘If Mrs Christensen is paying Gale blackmail it’s pretty certain that she – she’s guilty – and Norah … Oh, my God, Dad!’
Old W.T. looked across at the boy’s drawn face and his own expression softened.
‘The next move,’ he said, ‘is mine.’
13 Mrs Christensen’s Secret
As W.T. walked down the steep, narrow streets of the old border village no one would have dreamed that he was a detective on a case of murder.
He looked upon the scene around him with mild interest. His face was already tanned by the intense sun, and it looked dark against the whiteness of his hair. It was early yet, and the town was alive and busy, its inhabitants hard at work before the mid-day sun should make energetic labour an impossibility, but already the stony shore was gay with bathers. The warm waters of the bay were exquisitely blue – more blue, it seemed, than the sky, and so clear that from the road the detective could see the shadows of the shoals of little fish in its shallow depths. Every hour sleek cars and strange old canopied victorias from the station brought new arrivals to this coast of pleasure.
As W.T. passed by several faces in the crowds recognized him, and on these occasions the man or woman would glance at him sharply and move on hurriedly. These were society crooks – pick-pockets and confidence men, girl decoys and cardsharpers, come to the South from every corner of the Continent. They would work all along the coast, drifting from Mentone to Monte Carlo, from Monte Carlo to Cannes and Nice as the season progressed and their whims advised them.
W.T. was not looking forward to his task that morning; he stalked on towards the hotel with his face grave and his expression determined.
The Hôtel Magnifique stands at the far end of the road that runs round the bay – hardly five hundred yards from the Italian border. It is a huge, flat building facing the sea, a projecting wing at either end of the main block. In the courtyard thus formed there is a garden, semi-tropical and very formal, but pleasant enough for a country in which there seem to be no birds in the trees and no freshness in the leaves.
As the detective turned into this garden he saw her.
Grace Christensen was a woman of the pretty, graceful, feminine type that is not too clever. Just now she was seated in the shadow of the banana tree outside the hotel porch. W.T. noticed a subtle change in her bearing since he had last seen her in Paris. She was paler, and although her attention was fixed upon the paper on her knee and he could not see her eyes, the detective knew by the way her fingers tore nervously at the gloves in her lap that she was afraid.
‘Mrs Christensen,’ he said.
At the sound of his voice a little stifled scream escaped the woman, and she looked up at him, every tinge of colour vanishing from her face.
The detective was astonished. Either Mrs Christensen had been a marvellous actress in Paris and was now taken completely by surprise, or in Paris she had thought herself safe and now had reason to believe that her guilt had been discovered. In W.T.’s private opinion most women, while being strictly moral according to their own codes, very often had no sense of the law at all.
‘Mr Challoner?’ she said, and her voice wavered. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘Suppose we walk down there,’ he suggested, indicating the hill road into Italy. ‘I want to talk to you.’
The woman rose to her feet, and stood hesitating, her face ashy and her slender body swaying a little.
W.T. followed her into the great dim hotel that was so oddly reminiscent of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and within five minutes found himself seated opposite her in the pink-and-gold monstrosity of a lounge in suite No. 9.
In that five minutes she seemed to have become old. Lines had appeared round her mouth and under her wide, deep-blue eyes. The woman was the first to speak.
‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Tell me, why have you come?’ There was a certain determined bravery in her tone.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said cautiously. ‘There are certain things about Eric Crowther that I want to know.’
The woman shot a terrified glance at him.
‘I told you all I knew on the day he died,’ she said.
W.T. shook his head.
‘Let us be honest with each other,’ he said. ‘The situation is difficult, and – ’
‘Oh, it is!’ The words seemed to be wrung from her heart, and he paused and looked at her in surprise. Neither the words nor her tone seemed to suggest guilt. There was fear there certainly, but not admission. ‘I – I’m sorry; I ought not to have interrupted you,’ she went on. ‘I will tell you all I know.’
‘Everything?’ The detective looked at her keenly as he spoke. ‘I assure you it will be the best thing you can do, the more one knows the more fairly one can judge.’
The woman nodded.
‘I will tell you everything,’ she repeated.
‘Good,’ said the detective. ‘Then suppose we start at the beginning. Who was Jack Grey?’
W.T.’s tone was casual, but had he bellowed the name loud enough for all the world to hear the effect upon the woman could not have been more extraordinary. She sprang from her chair and shrank away from him, her face frozen into a mask in which only the eyes seemed to be alive.
‘Oh, my God! – my God!’ she whispered.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘nothing matters now but the truth.’