Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 04

by Detection Unlimited

  He left the inn a little while before the London train was due, and walked through the town towards the station. He found South Street extremely congested, with various persons trying to park their cars against the kerb, and holding up all the traffic while they performed their complicated evolutions; and when he reached the market-place he discovered the reason for all this activity. Wednesday was Bellingham’s market-day, and the wide square was crowded with omnibuses, stalls, vociferous merchants, and keen shoppers. Every branch of trade seemed to be represented, from a stall displaying bric-a-brac to one presided over by a stout individual who invitingly slapped a large and bright yellow object, stentoriously proclaiming: ‘HaddOCKS, haddOCKS, haddOCKS!’

  Hemingway, threading his way through the crowd, came upon Abby Dearham, who was carrying a basket already over-flowing and who seemed to be in attendance on her aunt. She greeted him with her unaffected friendliness. ‘Hallo! Whatever are you doing here? Are you marketing?’

  ‘No, but I can see I ought to be,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, you really do pick up the most marvellous bargains sometimes. Everyone always comes in on market-day: it’s one of the done things. If you happen to like goats’ milk cheese, the Women’s Institute, over there, beside the fruit-and-vegetables, have got some, which my aunt brought in and –’

  Hemingway waited expectantly, but it was rapidly borne in upon him that Miss Dearham had suddenly lost interest in him. She appeared to have caught sight of a heavenly vision, and was staring beyond the Chief Inspector, an expression of fond idiocy upon her countenance. Turning his head, he perceived young Mr Haswell was bearing down upon them, looking quite as foolish as Miss Dearham, and even more oblivious of his surroundings. ‘I thought you’d be here!’ he said.

  ‘Charles, you are dreadful!’ said Miss Dearham, in a besotted voice. ‘You ought to be working!’

  The Chief Inspector, realising that he was intruding into an idyll, and that two at least of Thornden’s detectives had abandoned the search for truth, withdrew without excuse or leave-taking, and proceeded on his way to the station.

  The train was just pulling out of it when he reached it, and he met Inspector Harbottle in the station-yard. The Inspector came striding briskly towards him. ‘You win, Chief!’ he said.

  ‘Well, I hope I shall, but I’m not liking it much at the moment,’ replied Hemingway, disappointingly unenthusiastic. ‘Was it the date?’

  ‘It was. The Superintendent had Acton stay on. He says you’re a wonder, sir.’

  ‘He’s mistaken. However, I’m glad there’s something I’ve managed to spot.’

  ‘Anything gone wrong?’ asked the Inspector anxiously.

  ‘No, but I’m getting to be annoyed with myself. I don’t deny that that letter strengthens my case a lot, but the one thing I want I’m damned if I know where to look for!’

  ‘The gun,’ said Harbottle. ‘I’ve been wondering about that all the way down from town. I don’t see that we’ve a hope of finding it, but I think you’ve got enough on Plenmeller to justify you making an arrest. What did the doctor say about the stains on the carpet?’

  ‘Oh, they’re blood all right! Same group as Warrenby’s, too. The doctor got hold of the collar he was wearing when he was shot: that was bloodstained, of course. And I took those papers round to Coupland last night, and he was quite sure two letters at least were missing. That’s all right, as far as it goes, but neither the bloodstains nor the missing letters incriminates Plenmeller. I rather hoped I might be able to establish that he came down Wood Lane after the Vicar’s wife did. Do you remember Carsethorn saying that one of the villagers had seen them both coming away from The Cedars on Saturday? Well, I sent Carsethorn out to Thornden after you left yesterday, to talk to this character.’

  ‘No good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that exactly. I should say, from what Carsethorn told me about a highly exasperating interview, that Plenmeller did come into the High Street later than Mrs Cliburn, but as the old man contradicted himself three times, not to mention remembering what happened, because of its having been at that exact moment that something else happened, only, when he came to think it over, that wasn’t on Saturday, but on Thursday – well, you know the sort of thing! – he isn’t the kind of witness anyone would want to call.’

  ‘We’ll do without him, then,’ said the Inspector, in a heartening tone. ‘Hallo! Market-day?’

  ‘Yes. I ran into Miss Dearham and young Haswell on my way to the station – very far gone, both of them! – and I gather the better part of Thornden’s in the town. We’ll skirt round the side, or I may be made to buy a goats’ milk cheese.’

  The Inspector had no idea why his chief should be made to buy cheese of any kind, but he forbore to enquire into the matter, suspecting him of ill-timed levity. Together they circumvented the market-place, and began to make their way down South Street.

  ‘What does the Colonel feel about it?’ asked Harbottle.

  ‘Oh, he thinks it’s doubtful! That isn’t worrying me. I know Plenmeller did it, but I don’t like a case that rests only on circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘A lot of murder-cases do,’ Harbottle ventured to point out.

  ‘Well, if this one does, I can see myself getting unpopular with the DPP over this. I wouldn’t mind so much with the ordinary run of criminals, but we’re not dealing with that kind. Our interesting friend is too clever to take any chances with.’

  ‘Well, what do you – Hallo, there he is!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just gone into that bank,’ replied the Inspector, nodding towards a building a few yards farther down the street. ‘He didn’t look as if he was worrying much, I must say. It beats me how a chap can –’ He broke off, for he perceived that his Chief was not attending to him.

  Hemingway had, in fact, stopped in front of a linen-draper’s shop, a most peculiar look on his face, his eyes a little narrowed. Surprised, the Inspector said: ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  His attention recalled, Hemingway looked at him. ‘Horace, I’ve got it!’ he said. ‘Come on!’

  Wholly at sea, the Inspector followed him down the street, and into the bank.

  The bank was as crowded as the rest of Bellingham, most of those waiting in queues before the various cashier’s guichets being housewives, much encumbered by baskets and parcels. Gavin Plenmeller had not joined any of the queues, but was writing a cheque at one of the tables provided for that purpose. His back was turned to the door, and, after a quick glance at him, the Chief Inspector stepped up to the broad counter, and ruthlessly interrupted a cashier who was engaged in counting thick wads of dirty-looking notes, behind a notice which gave customers to understand that he was in balk, and must not be disturbed. Upon being accosted, he began, in repressive accents, to request the Chief Inspector to go to the next desk. However, Hemingway had thrust his card under the grille, and the inscription it bore worked like a charm. The cashier abandoned his calculations, and looked a startled enquiry.

  ‘Anyone with the manager?’ asked Hemingway.

  ‘No, I don’t think – That is to say, I’ll go and –’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Hemingway cheerfully. He nodded towards a frosted glass-door. ‘That his office?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Hemingway, and turned, just as Plenmeller got up from the writing-table, and came towards the counter.

  The Inspector, bewildered, but very much on the alert, thought that there was something more than natural surprise in Plenmeller’s face. He gave no melodramatic start, but he seemed to stiffen, like an animal freezing, and the Inspector saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. The next moment the faintly sneering smile had curled his mouth, and he said coolly: ‘If it isn’t Scotland Yard again! Good morning, gentlemen! Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes, there’s something I want to ask you,’ responded Hemingway affably. ‘It’s a lucky thing I caught sight of you. Not but wh
at it’s a bit too crowded here for my taste. Let’s go into the manager’s office!’

  ‘I’m entirely at your disposal, but may I suggest that the King’s Head is just across the street? I can’t help feeling that the manager might not view with favour an invasion of his sanctum. If you don’t mind waiting until I’ve cashed this cheque –’

  ‘From the look of things, that’ll be twenty minutes at least, and I’m in a hurry. I daresay the manager won’t object,’ said Hemingway, edging him towards the glass door.

  Plenmeller checked, found the Inspector immediately behind him, and shot a quick, searching glance at Hemingway. His brows went up. ‘Is it so urgent?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Just a point I’ve an idea you may be able to clear up for me,’ replied Hemingway, opening the glass door, and pushing him into the room beyond it.

  The manager was seated at a large knee-hole desk, the cashier to whom Hemingway had spoken at his elbow. He looked up over the top of his spectacles, by no means pleased by the unceremonious entrance of three uninvited persons. ‘Mr Plenmeller?’ he said, surprised. He glanced from Harbottle to Hemingway, and then at the card in his hand. ‘Chief Inspector – er – Hemingway? You wish to see me?’

  ‘Properly speaking, it’s Mr Plenmeller who wishes to see you,’ said Hemingway. ‘He deposited a package with you on Monday, for safe-keeping, and now he wants to show me what’s in it. – Take him, Harbottle!’

  ‘But how did you know, Chief?’ Harbottle demanded, when at last he found himself alone with the Chief Inspector.

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Hemingway calmly. ‘I took a chance on it.’

  ‘Took – You never!’ said Harbottle, with conviction. A look of foreboding crept into his face. ‘You aren’t going to tell me it was this flair of yours?’ he said imploringly.

  ‘I oughtn’t to have to tell you!’ retorted Hemingway. ‘Not but what there was a bit more to it than that,’ he added truthfully. ‘In fact, I ought to have tumbled to it before I actually did. I told the Chief Constable yesterday that if this were London I should be nosing round the safe-deposits, and why I didn’t carry straight on from there, and think of bank-strongrooms, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Everyone was talking you silly,’ suggested the Inspector helpfully.

  ‘Very likely! And if I have any lip from you, my lad, you’ll be sorry!’

  ‘I get into the way of repeating the things you say, sir,’ explained the Inspector. ‘But do you mean that just because I told you Plenmeller had gone into the bank you guessed he’d deposited that Colt there?’

  ‘Well, no, not quite,’ confessed Hemingway. ‘When you told me that, it came to me in a flash that he was just coming out of a bank when I happened to run into him here on Monday morning. Putting two and two together, and taking into account the psychology of Mr Gavin Plenmeller, it seemed fairly safe to trust my instinct.’

  ‘Good lord!’ ejaculated the Inspector. ‘And where would you have been if he hadn’t deposited the Colt in the bank?’

  ‘Exactly where I am now. I should have arrested him anyhow. But the instant he set eyes on me I knew I was right. He’s a good actor, but seeing me in the bank gave him the nastiest shock he’s had – so far.’

  ‘But to rush it like that – !’ said Harbottle, his respect for forms and ceremonies considerably shocked. ‘Pushing into the manager’s office without a by your leave, and telling him lies about Plenmeller’s wanting to show you the contents of a package you’d no proof was in the bank at all! You ought to have had a warrant!’

  ‘Yes, that’s where I think quicker than you do, Horace. You try getting a warrant to search a bank! First, you’ve got to put up a strong case, then you’ve got to get authority to make the manager disclose that he has received a package from your suspect, and after that you’ve got to apply for a special warrant, and lastly, just to round things off, you’ve got to wait for three days after you’ve presented it before you can execute the warrant! Thanks, I’ve had some! Meanwhile, Mr Gavin Plenmeller gets wind of what you’re up to, and thinks up an ingenious stalemate. No, the proper thing to do was to rock him right off his balance!’

  ‘He couldn’t have done anything,’ argued the Inspector. ‘We could have had him watched, and the bank too.’

  ‘We could, of course, but there’s something you’re forgetting, Horace. Two things, in fact.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked the Inspector, frowning.

  ‘All that hanging about would have been a bad curtain. If you hadn’t got a silly prejudice against the theatre, you’d know that. And on top of that,’ said the Chief Inspector comfortably, ‘I’ve got a fortnight’s leave due to me on Saturday. I had to force the pace!’

  About the Author

  Georgette Heyer wrote over fifty books, including Regency romances, mysteries, and historical fiction. Her barrister husband, Ronald Rougier, provided many of the plots for her detective novels, which are classic English country house mysteries reminiscent of Agatha Christie. Heyer was legendary for her research, historical accuracy, and her inventive plots and sparkling characterization.

  Table of Contents

  Front Cover

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  About the Author

  Back Cover