He left the room and returned in a minute or two with his log which he laid on the table before the inspector. Craythorn opened it idly and discovered a series of incomprehensible abbreviations dotted through the entries: QSA4, QWX, R6, and others. He wished to avoid giving too direct a clue to his object, so before approaching it, he asked a question or two on more general matters.
“All I know about wireless myself is that you turn the knob to get the stations. But I’ve heard talk about these short waves and I got the idea that although you can talk to people in America, you can’t get in touch with close-in stations. Some tale about the waves skipping over a whole tract of country completely. Is that right?”
“You can talk to a man on the next street quite O.K.,” Netherby declared. “I often chat with a man in town here at G3RE. Telford and I helped him to design his transmitter when he built it. Scarsdale, his name is. He lives in Vendale Road, but he went to the Continent a few weeks ago. And I get Telford at Gm3EB as clear as a bell usually. But it’s right enough that often you can’t pick up a station only twenty miles away, whilst five minutes later you get America or the Continent coming through as clear as a bell. Trouble is that at short distances you sometimes bother other people listening on the ordinary broadcast band.”
“Harmonics?” inquired Craythorn, who knew no more of harmonics than the name.
“No, no, shock excitation is the trouble.”
“Don’t bother to explain,” interrupted the inspector, hastily. “I wouldn’t understand a word.”
“I could make it clear in a jiffy, old man,” Netherby declared with pride.
“Tell me what trouble it causes,” asked the inspector, tactfully evading the threatened exposition.
“Well, I’ve had trouble enough over it, complaints to the G.P.O., rude letters, and so forth. There’s an old cuckoo with an out-of-date receiver lives just round the corner from here and his set isn’t selective enough, that’s the root of the bother. The result is that when I start transmitting, I sometimes ‘blanket’ his reception, and he gets me instead of the B.B.C. It’s his own fault for not buying a new set. I had to make him a wave-trap before I could quiet him.”
Under cover of this conversational smoke-screen, the inspector had been turning over the pages of Netherby’s log until he came to the entries made on the night of Hyson’s death. Now, as if by chance, he fastened on this page and drew Netherby’s attention to it.
“This is all Greek to me,” he said, putting his finger on the entry. “The only bit I seem to understand is ‘9.15 P.M. Gm3EB.’ That means that you were talking to Telford at a quarter past nine that night, doesn’t it?”
“That it does, old man, you’ve hit it.”
“Then you’ve got QSA5 and R8. What does that mean?”
“That’s for ‘Very good signal’ and ‘Very strong signal.’ Wait a bit” — he glanced over the entry — “Oh, yes, I remember that night. He was coming over absolutely solid, absolutely solid.”
The inspector interpreted this to mean that the transmission from Telford was unimpeachable in quality.
“ ‘Gave him QRK.’ What’s that?”
“I told him I was receiving him well.”
“What does QRG mean?”
“He asked me to check his exact frequency in kilocycles, old man. I did it. I lost him for about a minute in the middle of that, probably a very quick fade, as he didn’t mention any hitch at his end, but I got it measured when the transmission took up again. It was just his normal frequency, of course. Couldn’t very well be out with crystal control.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated the inspector, who was getting lost in these explanations.
“Simple enough, old man, simple enough. Look ’ee here. His set’s fitted with a quartz crystal specially cut. That vibrates a fixed number of times per second when it’s excited and that controls the frequency of the wave sent out by his transmitter. I’ve got a crystal in my set, but it’s cut differently from his, so my set sends out a wave of a different frequency from the one he sends out. Same idea as two different tuning-forks sending out musical notes of different pitches, see? So long as you use one tuning-fork you get only one note and that’s fixed by the tuning-fork you use. That clear, old man?”
“Oh, quite,” answered the inspector hastily. “And what’s QWX?”
“That means I asked him what the weather was like with him. You see what he said: ‘Cool, dry, some stars showing, wind N.E.’ ”
“I’ve never heard anything on the short waves,” Craythorn explained. “Can you recognise the voice that’s speaking to you, just as I can recognise which announcer’s talking at the B.B.C?”
“Just as easy, old man, just as easy. You couldn’t make a mistake when it’s a voice you know and when it’s a good night for transmission. Besides, you’ve got the fellow’s frequency. That gives you an idea which station you’re talking to. See?”
“A man couldn’t fake his voice with a gramophone record, or anything of that sort?” demanded the inspector, thinking he saw a weak point.
Netherby laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’ve been reading tec yarns. That sort of thing may happen in them, maybe, but not in real life, not in real life. We talk on the short waves, you know, exchange ideas, give each other the latest notion that interests us. That doesn’t go down in the log, but it’s always done between friends. Now how could you fake a gramophone record to make it answer questions that have been put on the spur of the moment? It can’t be done, old man, can’t be done at any price.”
He consulted his log for a moment and then continued:
“Look here! See this? I noticed a very slight hum in his transmission and I remember I spoke to him about it. And he said he had been sick and I asked a question or two about that. Could you get a gramophone record to answer me pat on things like that? Bosh, old man, bosh! No, when you find in my log that I’ve been talking to Telford or Stevens or Scarsdale, then you can take it that I have been talking to Telford or Stevens or Scarsdale, as the case may be. And that’s flat. I’d go into court and swear to it, any day. I know what I’m talking about.”
“You seem to know Telford pretty well,” Craythorn said as though merely to get away from the field in which he had blundered. “Ever come across any of his family?”
Netherby shook his head.
“No, I didn’t know them. He’d a pretty wife. Died lately, poor thing. I got a shock when he told me about it one night. I never spoke to her, just saw ’em together once in the street. But between you and me and the door-mat, old man, she looked to me like a V-A-M-P-I-R-E with all the letters in the right order and none of ’em missing. My missus was with me at the time, and she remarked on it too.”
“I’ve heard she was pretty, but some of these good-lookers have no taste in dress,” said the inspector, sagely. “Did she dress well?”
“A bit quiet, for my taste, old man. In grey, with a grey fur. I like ’em with more colour about ’em, myself. Not that she didn’t suit that style. Hard lines on him, losing her. Very fond of her, too, one could tell by the way he spoke about her after she died. Suicide, it was. Very sad. Terrible for him.”
And, rather to the inspector’s surprise, Netherby betrayed a genuine sympathy with Telford in his misfortune. Apparently to cover this up, the little vulgarian changed the subject.
“That reminds me, old man, what about that other case of suicide we’ve had lately? — Hyson, I mean. That was a lad! My firm deals in ledgers and office books generally, and I came across him in Lockhurst’s office when I called on business. What was at the back of that affair, d’you know? He’d been embezzling, of course. That’s all come out. But why embezzle? Cherchez la femme, old man. She’s generally at the back of things. You take my tip.”
“What makes you say that?” demanded the inspector, alert.
“Well, our offices are in the same street as Lockhurst’s. I’ve seen a tall strapping wench going into Lockhurst
’s after hours, now and again. And only one light upstairs. Working overtime, perhaps. But that was a while ago. I haven’t seen her doing that lately.”
He reflected for a moment and then added:
“Bar once. I did see her, one night, standing outside that office, with a look on her face as near hell as I can recollect. She didn’t go in, that night, though. Just walked up and down for a moment or two, looking blue murder. Got the chuck, was my impression.”
“You’d know her again?”
“Know her again? You bet I would, I’ve seen her often. But no names, no pack-drill, old man,” he ended, guardedly.
Craythorn easily identified this girl who had stood outside Lockhurst’s office “looking blue murder.” Olive Lyndoch, obviously.
“I won’t bother you further,” he said. “Got another call to make to-night. Thanks for telling me these things.”
“Come round any night and listen in on the short waves, old man,” Netherby invited him hospitably. “Then you’ll see how easy it is to spot a particular voice.”
Craythorn’s appointment was with the Chief Constable. He preferred to have his recollections fresh, when there was a chance of his being questioned about interviews. Sir Clinton listened without interruption to his report on Telford’s and Netherby’s evidence.
“You can hardly blame Telford for cutting up rough,” he commented when the inspector had finished. “He was very fond of his wife, I’m told, and naturally that poison-pen tale would rasp him. This Netherby man seems to have his wits about him. By the way, Inspector, do you attach importance to that tobacco?”
“It’s always a clue,” declared Craythorn, scenting a trap. “Every little helps.”
“Well, it won’t do to say: ‘Pipe tobacco: therefore a man must have been there.’ What’s to hinder a girl buying a pipe and some tobacco, smoking a whiff or two, and then leaving the remains on the hearth by intention? On the other hand, a man may find it convenient to change his brand of tobacco.”
“Quite so, sir,” admitted Craythorn, sceptically. “Have you seen the results of the P.M.?”
“No drugs detected and from the state of digestion they put death at about an hour after his last meal. But that’s nothing one can lay stress on, you know. Digestion varies from individual to individual.”
The Chief Constable paused and then added:
“There’s one witness we haven’t tapped yet.”
“Who’s that, sir?”
“This infernal poison-pen pest. That anonymous creature dropped a letter into Hyson’s letter-box between eight o’clock and the time the maid came back. Now any person doing a thing like that would be keeping a sharp look-out to see if anyone was looking on. And I don’t know if you noticed it, Inspector, but when I was going over the premises I happened to see that one of the drawing-room window-blinds hung slightly askew. So I tried pulling it down several times, and each time it left a slight gap between blind and sash through which one could see into the room from the outside. It’s on the cards that the poison-pen pest looked in to make sure the coast was clear. I wish Duncannon could put his hand on the right person.”
He picked up something from his desk and handed it to the inspector.
“That reminds me, here’s another poison-pen production, addressed to me personally. I’ve put it between these glass sheets so that you can examine it without leaving finger-prints. But I don’t suppose there are any finger-prints on it, anyhow. Have a look at it.”
Like the other anonymous letters, this new document had been composed by pasting printed letters on a sheet of notepaper. Craythorn ran his eye over it and read:
“You don’t know this. Barsett has been bluffing you. Ha! Ha! He paid a visit to Hyson on the night of the murder. Now what about it?”
“I’ve seen more of these things than you have, Inspector,” Sir Clinton explained, “so perhaps I’d better tell you about one or two points. First of all, you see that the address on the envelope is typed, instead of being like the others. Then the notepaper is good stuff, not like the cheap kind used for the ordinary run of these things that I’ve seen. Again, all the ‘genuine’ poison-pen letters I’ve seen have been made by cutting bits out of one of the local newsrags which use rather bluntish type on inferior paper. This type is clean-cut and looks suspiciously like the fount they use for leaders in the Times; and the paper also reminds me of the Times, though that’s just a guess.”
“Somebody else taking a hand in the game, sir, like that Lyndoch girl?”
“It looks like it,” Sir Clinton agreed. “And, while we’re on this poison-pen business, here’s another exhibit. I asked Duncannon to give me a list, extending over six months from April to September, showing the dates on which poison-pen letters were received, so far as they were reported to him. Of course there may have been some that the addressees destroyed without reporting them. Anyhow, here’s the list. Look at the output. That creature is really very industrious.”
He handed the sheet of paper to Craythorn, who was surprised in his turn by the number of entries.
APRIL, 1, 3, 4, 5, 11, 12, 15, 21, 24, 27, 30; MAY, 4, 7, 12, 13, 16, 21, 25, 26, 29; JUNE, 2, 3, 5, 8, 10, 11, 14, 17, 18, 21, 24, 25, 27, 30; JULY, 1, 15, 17, 18, 21, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31; AUGUST, 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 11, 17, 20, 22, 25, 26; SEPTEMBER, 4, 7, 8, 11, 15, 16, 17, 21, 25, 28, 30.
“Phew!” ejaculated the inspector. “That’s mass-production, that is. I’d no notion, sir, that it was going on at this rate.”
“Quite enough of it, isn’t there? without these amateurs taking a hand, I think,” Sir Clinton declared. “But let’s get back to our own business, Inspector. We’ll have to go into this matter of Barsett again. You got a tale out of him and his servants that he was at home, alone, all that evening. Perhaps I’d better look him up myself and try my hand on him. Give him a chance of revising his souvenirs, eh? Perhaps they need it.”
Chapter Sixteen
A Revised Version
WHEN Sir Clinton called at Barsett’s house next morning by appointment, he was ushered straight into a room which looked like a study. Joan Errington had been sitting at a typewriting desk, apparently taking some notes from Barsett; but she rose as the Chief Constable entered, and, gathering up some papers, left the room by a second door.
Sir Clinton had already seen Barsett, but only at some little distance on the day of Mollie Keston’s wedding. Now, at close quarters he was struck by Barsett’s eyes: hard and bright like a bird’s, and with something of a bird’s unwinking stare.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” apologised the Chief Constable. “I shan’t detain you long.”
Barsett seemed anxious to put the interview on a friendly footing at the start.
“It’s nothing important,” he assured the Chief Constable. “I was just dictating a note or two to my secretary. You’re not a Baconian, are you?” he added, unexpectedly. “The Bacon-Shakespeare business, I mean.”
Sir Clinton shook his head with a smile.
“I know very little about it. It interests you?”
“Merely as a hobby,” Barsett explained. “Years ago, I came across one of these pro-Bacon pamphlets. I got interested. What struck me was the one-sidedness of the affair. The Baconians won’t hear a word in favour of Shakespeare; the Shakespearians won’t admit there’s any evidence on the Bacon side worth considering. Now I’m neither for one side nor the other. I happen to have plenty of time on my hands, and I got caught by the notion of presenting all the available evidence on both sides as impartially as possible, so that people could judge for themselves. It’s taken longer than I expected, but it’s interesting enough. Trouble is, I’m not much of a literary man — I mean I can’t write easily — and that has made it take longer than it might have done if I’d been an expert.”
“I’ll read your book when it comes out,” Sir Clinton assured him. “Evidence is a thing I’ve had a good deal to do with, one way and another, and it’s always interesting to get both sides properly presented. I
see you’ve got a typewriter on the desk there. Can you compose on it? Some people haven’t the knack. They need a pen to make their thoughts flow.”
“Oh, I dictate to my secretary always,” Barsett explained.
“I see she uses a Britannia,” said Sir Clinton, moving across to examine the machine. “Do you find it satisfactory? I’m thinking of getting a new machine myself shortly, and I want something which will stand up to hard work.”
“That one’s had two years of very fair wear and tear,” said Barsett. “Miss Errington hasn’t suggested an overhaul, so far.”
“Do you mind if I try it?” Sir Clinton inquired.
And taking permission for granted, he sat down at the desk, picked up a sheet of notepaper from a rack, and typed a few lines.
“It seems nice and light in the touch,” he commented. “How does it do with envelopes?”
He took an envelope from the rack and typed an address which he scrutinised carefully when he had finished.
“It does very neat work,” he admitted. “Two years old, you say, and no overhaul yet? That seems pretty sound.”
He slipped the sheet of notepaper and the envelope into his pocket as he rose from the desk chair. A glance at them had been enough to show that the address on the anonymous accusation had been written on this machine; for not only was the type the same, but there was a slight defect in the letter “g” apparent in both specimens. And Barsett’s stationery was of the same size and brand as that used by the accuser.
The machine was one thing, however, and the writer who used it was quite another. Barsett, Miss Errington, the servants, all had access to this typewriter. Possibly even a casual visitor might have taken the opportunity of using it. Then the picture of Miss Errington, rising from the desk-chair as he came in, crossed his mind. She had access to this machine every day. And her sister, as she must guess, was under suspicion in the matter of Hyson’s death. She herself as well, if it came to that, might be implicated as an accomplice. If she knew anything against Barsett, she might feel that the best way to shield her sister was to give away her employer; but she might have shrunk from doing so openly.
Murder Will Speak Page 24
