Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “Perhaps Mr. Slocomb would like to go now?” suggested Mrs. Bliss.

  “Ladies first!” declared Mr. Slocomb gallantly.

  “Mrs. Daymer?”

  “What about Mr. Blend?”

  “We’d better not keep the inspector waiting—such a businesslike man,” declared Mrs. Bliss. “Mr. Blend, would you mind going into the smoking-room now?”

  “Eh?”

  “The inspector. He wants to see us all in turn; if you wouldn’t mind going now, Mr. Blend.”

  “Ay, I’ll go, though I could tell him more about past crimes than this present one.” He put down a pair of long-bladed scissors with which he was clipping strips from the papers, and stumped out of the room. Betty settled herself on a humpty in front of the sofa.

  Mrs. Bliss’s knitting-needles began to click and flicker again.

  “Now where was I? Ah, the brooch! Well, Nellie had it on when she took up Miss Pongleton’s hot-water bottle that evening, and of course the poor lady noticed it.”

  “She always was inquisitive,” snorted Cissie.

  “Naturally,” said Mrs. Bliss with a touch of acerbity, “the poor dear lady would notice a fine old piece of jewellery worn by a girl like Nellie. She asked Nellie about it and Nellie let out that Bob had given it to her.”

  “And Pongle wanted to know where Bob had got it!” Cissie finished triumphantly.

  “Really, Miss Fain, if you are going to tell the story—and doubtless you can do so more brightly than I—then of course I’ve no more to say.” Mrs. Bliss knitted furiously.

  “Please go on!” Betty urged her. “Cissie just couldn’t resist a bit of detecting. We’re all jumpy, Mrs. Bliss. Now, don’t be offended!”

  In response to a nudge from Betty, Cissie added her plea: “Yes, please, Mrs. Bliss; I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not that I mind being interrupted,” said Mrs. Bliss solemnly. “But whatever may be the fashion now, in my young days we were not accustomed to speak with disrespect of the dead.”

  “But we call everyone by nicknames nowadays, Mrs. Bliss. It’s really rather complimentary,” said Mr. Grange.

  After a pause to indicate dignity slowly unbending, Mrs Bliss resumed her tale. “Poor Miss Pongleton came of a fine old family and she knew good jewellery when she saw it. It struck her as strange that Bob should give Nellie a brooch like that. Then she got reading the paper—you know she always took the Standard up to bed with her—and there she found a list of the stolen things, and sure enough there was a special description of the brooch because Lady Morton set great store by it—it was of sentimental value, as they say; she had it from her mother, I’ll be bound—and she offered a reward for it. Well, next morning, when Nellie takes in her early tea, Miss Pongleton asks Nellie to show her that brooch again, and sure enough it’s the one described in the paper. ‘You’d better leave that here with me’, she says, and so she keeps it, telling Nellie it’s too valuable for her to have about. Nellie was upset, for Bob had been particular that she wasn’t to show it to anyone and not to say who gave it to her. She takes the opportunity when I send her out on an errand to go and find Bob at Belsize Park, where he’s on duty, and tell him what’s happened. Bob comes up here in a great to-do that same evening—Thursday, it would be—and it’s my belief that he got hold of the leash from the lounge hall while he was waiting—and sees Miss Pongleton. But she doesn’t give him back the brooch, quite rightly. I think it was her idea to put him on probation and try to bring him to better ways. Well, well; so this is the result of her kindness and interest in a young good-for-nothing!”

  “I presume no one else heard about this brooch until to-day?” enquired Mr. Slocomb from the depths of his comfortable chair.

  “Not so far as I know,” Mrs. Bliss told him. “Of course I knew nothing about the business, but I don’t know who Miss Pongleton may have thought fit to consult. What I do know is that the brooch was found on the poor dear lady’s body, sealed up in an envelope with that Bob Thurlow’s name on it.”

  Mr. Blend at this moment returned from his interview with the inspector and made his way back to his little table, breathing heavily.

  “Thought I knew all about it, did he?” he chuckled. “That’s where he was mistaken!”

  “I’m quite willing to go now,” volunteered Mrs. Daymer.

  “Well, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bliss.

  Mrs. Daymer arranged her scarf and departed majestically.

  “What did he ask you?” Cissie enquired of her friend Betty, who was squatting at her feet.

  “Just when I went out this morning and how I went to town and whether I saw Pong—Miss Pongleton start. The inspector was rather a dear and thanked me for being clear and concise.” Betty, hugging her knees tipped her little head up with a momentary air of self-consciousness.

  “I think he’s a perfect pig,” grumbled Cissie. “I wonder how Mrs. Daymer is liking him.”

  “I suppose he will want to know when any of us last observed the dog-leash hanging on the umbrella stand,” suggested Mr. Slocomb in a tone that implied that if the inspector did not want to know this he was ignorant of his own business.

  “Oh yes,” agreed Cissie and Betty together. “I couldn’t remember,” added Betty. “It’s impossible really to be sure when it wasn’t there, though one might remember an occasion when one had actually seen it there.”

  “I don’t see that it’s easier to be sure one way than another,” objected Cissie. “I don’t think it was there last night when I went to bed.”

  “You had some special reason for noticing its absence?” asked Mr. Slocomb.

  “Oh no, I didn’t. But I didn’t notice it there.”

  “Why should you?” asked Betty.

  Hearing the door open they all looked round to see how Mrs. Daymer looked after her ordeal. But it was Nellie who stood timorously on the threshold.

  “Please’m, Mr. Plasher. Says ’e wants to see everybody!”

  “Good!” exclaimed Cissie with enthusiasm. Gerry Plasher was engaged to Beryl Sanders, Miss Pongleton’s niece, and he might be able to add further details to their speculations, she thought.

  “Show him in, Nellie,” Mrs. Bliss instructed the girl.

  “One moment,” called Betty after her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bliss; I think Nellie can tell us something. Nellie, do you remember when you last saw Tuppy’s leash in the hall?”

  “Why yes, miss; I’m sure it was there when I put Mr. Grange’s umbereller away in the stand las’ night. It’d bin dryin’ in the kitchen an’ I put it away las’ thing, so’s it’d be ready for ’im in the mornin’. An’ I got that there leash tangled up with it when I stuck it in, so I know it was there.”

  “And this morning?” Betty asked.

  “That’s the funny thing, miss. It weren’t there this mornin’ when I tidied. Leastways, I was certain sure of that, but the p’lice kep’ on astin’ me about it an’ how did I know an’ all, an’ mebbe it was another mornin’ I didn’t see it or another evenin’ I did see it, an’ reelly I don’ know me own mind about it now.”

  “That’s queer!” mused Betty as Nellie went out. “You’d think Nellie would be the one person who’d be sure to notice if it weren’t there when she was dusting and putting things straight, especially as she was often the first to be blamed if the leash couldn’t be found. ‘Last thing’ last night would be after Bob had been to see Miss Pongleton and gone away again.”

  “I shouldn’t take much heed of her,” Mrs. Bliss began, but was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Gerard Plasher. Nervousness caused by anxiety as to the right method of greeting the company on this unusual occasion made him more exuberant than usual.

  “Good evenin’, people! This is a state of affairs—what! Awful business—so disgustingly sordid, dog-leash and all! But that young Bob didn’t do it!”

  There was a babble of exclamation: “How do you know?” “Have they caught someone else?” “I knew he didn’t! He’s really a very nice young m
an!” (This last from Cissie.)

  “I know he didn’t do it because I was talking to him just when it was done!”

  “Just when...?” began Mr. Slocomb, fixing Gerry with a stare of amazement.

  Betty got the question out more quickly. “How do you know when it was done?” she demanded. “The body lay there till this afternoon.”

  “Ah! But I went down those stairs this morning and I passed the old lady on the way. No mistaking her, with her old purple coat and all; besides, I wished her good morning.” Struck by a sudden idea, he paused. “Good morning! So I did! Not much of a good morning for her!”

  “But what on earth made you go down the stairs, Gerry?” enquired Cissie.

  “Y’see, I had a wager with a fellow in the office that there were more than two hundred stairs. ’S a matter of fact it all arose out of my telling him how the old lady always walked down them. I had heard that from Beryl. I said I’d count them; and when I got to the station this morning there wasn’t a lift ready, and I thought of the bet and, being brisk and active, what did I do but skip down those stairs. A little way from the top I passed old Miss Pongleton, and then in the passage at the bottom, on my way to the platform, I met Bob with a pail of paste—he’d been sticking up some notices on the platform, I s’pose—and I thought I’d ask him about the stairs because, ’s a matter of fact, saying how-d’ye-do to Miss Pongleton put me off my count and I wasn’t quite sure.”

  “But do you know Bob?” asked Betty.

  “Oh yes; he came in with Tuppy once when I was here with Beryl having tea with Miss Pongleton; and then seeing him afterwards at Belsize Park I remembered him. I go from that station every morning, y’know.”

  “But you can’t have kept him talking long,” objected Betty.

  “No, but there he was with his pot of paste and all and not a sign of a dog-leash about him, and I’ll bet my bottom dollar he wasn’t on his way to do a murder. And then the old lady wouldn’t have taken long to get to the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Did you observe anyone else on or near the stairs?” Mr. Slocomb asked.

  “Not a soul; not so much as a blackbeetle,” Gerry declared. “Though it’s a beetly place, isn’t it?” he added, looking at Mr. Slocomb enquiringly.

  “Really, I can hardly tell,” said that gentleman severely. “I suppose you have informed the police of all this? They would be interested, I think—although perhaps it is not an incident which you will be anxious to make public.”

  “Y’mean it might look fishy against me? Yes, I thought of that: young man admits seeing murdered lady on the stairs; no one sees her alive afterwards. Yes, but that can’t be helped.”

  “Oh, Gerry, had you better say anything about it?” asked Cissie.

  “Don’t you see, it may clear Bob?” Mr. Plasher insisted. “Of course I rang up Beryl when I read the news in the paper and she told me about Bob. She was going down to see Basil—he’d been out all day—so I thought I’d come up here and see if you knew any more. As I walked up the hill I sorted things out in my mind, and I’m going to the police-station now.”

  “We have a police inspector in the house at this moment,” announced Mrs. Bliss with pride, as if he were some rare specimen whose capture was due to her prowess.

  “Really! Where is he? What luck!”

  “One moment!” Mrs. Bliss admonished him. “He is interviewing Mrs. Daymer.”

  “Gosh! Reminds you of the papers, doesn’t it? ‘The person whom the police are anxious to interview...’ I guess I can tell them a lot more than Mrs. Daymer.”

  “I should advise you, young man—if you will trust the judgment of one who has had twice your years in this world,” said Mr. Slocomb—“to relate your news circumspectly unless you want to find yourself under suspicion. For my part, I cannot see how this will help Bob Thurlow much: no one can tell how long the old lady may have paused on the stairs. She was considerably less brisk in her movements than you are, remember.”

  “It might help him. Anyway, there’s no sense in keeping it back. Ten to one that half a dozen people noticed me make a bolt for those stairs. The man who clipped my ticket, f’rinstance; he sees me every morning and probably knows my striking face by now. And Bob might think of it himself, as a sort of alibi—I wonder he hasn’t done that already. If I’m going to be under suspicion, as Mr. Slocomb kindly suggests, it’ll look better for me to own up at once.”

  Mrs. Daymer came in and Mr. Plasher shot up out of his chair.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Daymer! Here’s your chair. No, it’s all right; I’m off to see your inspector.”

  Mrs. Daymer smiled at him graciously as she resumed her traditional seat, and cast another glance of dislike at Mr. Slocomb, who sat firmly in the desirable chair that had been Miss Pongleton’s. When she had resettled herself the others told her of the latest development.

  “Has it occurred to any of you,” she remarked grimly, “that if Bob Thurlow were innocent he would have thought of Mr. Plasher as providing an alibi; but if he were guilty he would know that it wasn’t an alibi and it wouldn’t occur to him to try to make one out of that chance meeting. It is helpful in these cases to study the mental attitude. That is only one point, however.”

  “I don’t know that it helps much, but I’ll go and tell Nellie what Mr. Plasher has told us,” said Mrs. Bliss. “It may hearten the poor girl a little, but I’m afraid she’s got a black time ahead of her. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find she’s smashing all my best plates, such a state of mind she’s in.” Mrs. Bliss gathered up her knitting and left.

  “About that leash,” Betty began. “I really don’t see how Bob could have got hold of it. It was in the hall late last night but——”

  “It is only natural,” Mr. Slocomb interposed in a tone of superior scorn, “that the girl Nellie should profess to remember that the leash was there after her young man left the house last night. It is not difficult to make oneself believe what will tally with one’s own earnest wish.”

  Betty shook her head but said nothing.

  “I’m going to bed,” announced Cissie. “My head’s simply in a swim. Coming, Betty?”

  They went off together, but not immediately to bed. They sat before the gas-fire in Cissie’s room, discussing the affair.

  “Fancy poor old Gerry being suspected!” mused Cissie.

  “And who’s suspecting him?” enquired Betty.

  “Old Slow-go, for one. And probably that disagreeable inspector, by now. But, Betty, do you think he could have done it? You see, he’s engaged to Beryl Sanders, who is Pongle’s niece, and I suppose she’ll get the money—so he might have a motive.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous! I don’t suppose Gerry ever thought of money in connection with Beryl, and anyway it’s Basil who is more likely to inherit Pongle’s fortune, though I think it’s a bit uncertain. Basil once told me that Pongle made a new will quite often—if she was fed up with him she’d make a new one in favour of Beryl—so no one could ever be sure who would really get it.”

  “I wonder if she really had much. She wore such awful old clothes, and they were awful even when new. Anyway, Betty, I hope Basil gets it, for your sake. But you know, supposing Gerry did do the deed, wouldn’t it be a good plan for him to pretend to be so innocent and open?”

  “How can you have such ghastly ideas?” Betty protested. “And what about the leash? How could he have got it?”

  “I don’t know,” Cissie admitted. “Unless he crept in somehow, late at night. Let’s see, last night it was there; that was Thursday—that’s when Basil took you to the movies. But we don’t know how anyone got the leash. Of course I don’t believe Gerry did it. I was just making up theories.”

  “Then I think you’d better wash them out and start again,” Betty advised her.

  Down below in the drawing-room Mr. Blend continued to pore over his papers, taking no notice of the others. Mrs. Daymer and Mr. Grange discussed mental attitudes until Mr. Grange was summoned to the smokin
g-room, when Mrs. Daymer retired to bed. Mr. Slocomb read those parts of the Evening Standard which he always reserved for steady contemplation after dinner until, after Mr. Grange’s brief interview with the inspector, his own turn came. Mrs. Bliss looked into the drawing-room and found it empty of all but Mr. Blend and Tuppy.

  “Dear, dear! There’s that dog!” she exclaimed with annoyance. “Where’s he to sleep, I wonder.”

  Tuppy looked as if he would sleep peacefully anywhere. Mrs. Bliss came to the hearthrug and surveyed him.

  “What a day this has been, and this poor animal deprived of two of his best friends at one blow! To think of that young Bob taking him out for walks so nicely! Why, only that last Wednesday ... That ever he could do such a thing! And the poor soul on her way to the dentist too, with trouble enough over her teeth, you’d think!”

  She raised her voice to attract the attention of Mr. Blend.

  “Do you remember saying, Mr. Blend, that true humanity shows itself first in kindness to dumb animals? Out of one of your scrap-books, I think it was. I thought it so good at the time and little knew ... Well, well!”

  Her remark had a strange effect on Mr. Blend. He laid down the page he was cutting, regardless of the fact that his long-bladed scissors scrunched diagonally across a column of type.

  “That’s it, Mrs. Bliss! And to think I couldn’t hit on it and you should have quoted it just at this moment! I thank you, I’m sure. Now I ought to be able to find it.”

  He began to gather up his cuttings, pencil, and scissors in an untidy mass. His slipshod habits were a constant trial to Mrs. Bliss, because the mauled papers and cut pieces which he left about made so much litter.

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Blend. It’s a wonder to me that you can ever find anything, the way you have it all in such a mess.”

  “Untidy old beggar, that’s what I am. Never mind, Mrs. Bliss; this keeps me happy. Good night, Mrs. Bliss—good night!”

  “I suppose the dog must sleep here,” Mrs. Bliss was muttering. “But he’ll never be easy without his own basket and his cushions. Why ever didn’t I get them from the poor lady’s room before the police locked it up? It’s been such a day as I’ve never lived through before, and this poor animal sleeping all unconscious!”