Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  Mr. Blend shuffled away and Mrs. Bliss, after gathering up some of his litter and crushing it into the wastepaper basket, followed.

  Mr. Slocomb returned to an empty room, and sinking again into the deceased lady’s chair with a comfortable sigh, he filled his pipe and relapsed into contemplation, whilst Tuppy lay motionless on the rug at his feet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A CONFESSION

  THE next morning, which was Saturday, Mr. Slocomb was rung up in his office by Basil, the nephew of the late Miss Pongleton.

  “Say, can you possibly spare me a few minutes—just want your advice; no, not business exactly; private affairs—very private. You’re always great nuts on advice; my aunt had no end of faith in you. Most awf’ly grateful—round in a few minutes.”

  Mr. Slocomb replaced the receiver carefully, as if the mouthpiece might stretch down and bite him, and sat for a few minutes delicately tapping his fingertips against one another and trying to make his eyebrows meet across the top of his long nose. He was interrupted by a clerk. Would he see a Mr. Pink, “nibbling at that fruit and greens in Highgate”? Yes, he would.

  “And, Smithson, Mr.—er—Basil Pongleton will be here to see me before long. Ask him to wait in the outer office until Mr. Pink leaves.”

  Smithson gave a little flick of his head and opened his eyes wider as if swallowing with an effort the name of Pongleton, made famous since yesterday by an old lady’s horrible end on the stairs of Belsize Park underground station.

  “Ri-sir!” he assured his employer as he departed. Basil Pongleton arrived looking flustered and hot, although it was March, and was set to cool in the outer office while Mr. Slocomb extolled the merits of the “fruit and greens” to Mr. Pink, who looked more suited to “a nice butchery”, as Smithson had whispered to the giggling typist after showing him in.

  Basil waited restlessly until he noticed a rubicund gentleman pass through the outer office, when he leapt to his feet ready for the summons, which soon followed, to Mr. Slo-comb’s inner den.

  “Well, Mr. Pongleton; this is a shocking affair; most—er—regrettable. And mysterious.”

  “Yes, it beats me who could have done it, and I’d give a lot to find out because the truth is I’m in an awful mess. That’s why I’ve come to see you, Mr. Slocomb.”

  Basil threw his black felt hat carelessly on to a chair, ran his fingers through his already ruffled hair, and made short, apparently purposeful, darts at various parts of the room, checking himself after every few steps.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Slocomb admonished him irritably. “Please explain in what sort of a mess you find yourself.”

  Basil sat down hard in a low armchair and immediately hoisted himself out of it and transferred to a small upright one.

  “It’s like this. It’s awfully difficult to explain and I had a ghastly time with the police yesterday. Wonder they didn’t arrest me right away, but they’re keeping an eye on me. I noticed a fishy-looking fellow with police-feet lounging opposite my window in Tavistock Square this morning at breakfast-time, and now he’s outside here.”

  “A detective! Watching my offices! This is not exactly—er—beneficial to my business. Really, Mr. Pongleton, don’t you think you might have been more careful?”

  “Thought you mightn’t want to see me if I explained that I was bringing a follower! But I wasn’t sure about him when I telephoned. I rather wanted to make a test and see if he did follow me here. But I expect I’m safe for the moment. Haven’t they got that young fellow Bob Thurlow under arrest? Though I can’t believe he did it. But I suppose they’re hardly likely to arrest two quite unconnected people for the same crime at the same time.”

  Mr. Slocomb’s mouth was drawn into the lines of an inverted V, and his eyebrows tended to repeat the same figure. “Am I to understand, Mr. Pongleton, that there are grounds for—er—your arrest in connection with this crime—this horrible crime? Really, I had not expected this!”

  “Nor had I,” Basil declared. “But do you know anything about Bob Thurlow?”

  “I have not heard whether any charge has yet been brought against him, but when it is brought I surmise it may merely be that of complicity in the burglary at Lady Morton’s house. The police will thereby be enabled to detain him without committing themselves, for the time being.”

  “By Jove, I hadn’t thought of that! You mean they may not think he really did it and they’re probably keeping him safe, just in case, and nosing around for another murderer?”

  “Of course I am not in the confidence of the police, but that occurs to me as a possible development. They may collect further evidence against Thurlow himself.”

  “Well, I dunno that that makes it much better for me. It’s like this—really it’s awf’ly difficult to explain; the hell of a mix-up. And mind you, this is between you and me. I told the police what I thought good for them—at least that’s what I meant to tell them but I may have got a bit muddled.”

  Mr. Slocomb leant forward across his desk, tapping the top of it with one bony finger.

  “You have something to conceal from the police?” he enquired portentously. “I do not know that it is quite suitable for me to hear this—and especially here.” He considered. “But perhaps if I can advise you ... Well, let me hear.”

  Basil tiptoed to the door and opened it suddenly, revealing only Smithson and the typist who, at this abrupt intrusion, became immobilized in the midst of a joke, as if a cinema film had been suddenly stopped. Basil shut the door before their faces had time to recompose themselves.

  “All right,” he announced. “Old Ducks’-feet is probably still in the street outside.”

  Mr. Slocomb had half risen, in horror at this irregular behaviour.

  “Really, I should be obliged, Mr. Pongleton, if you would refrain from conduct which may tend even further to bring my offices into disrepute.”

  “Sorry,” Basil apologized, sinking into the armchair. “I’m all of a doo-da. But your offices, you know—too respectable; nothing can harm their reputation. Why, just your own arrival every morning on the stroke of ten would be enough to allay suspicion, even if they found a corpse on the doormat. But now I’ll get on with it!”

  Basil drew a deep breath and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Yesterday morning I set out to go and see Aunt Phemia. I’d had a letter from her—one of her snorters—saying she’d disinherited me.”

  Mr. Slocomb clucked sympathetically. Basil took no notice of the interruption.

  “Seems that last time I had tea with her—Wednesday I think it was—she overheard me make some improper remark to Betty Watson in the hall as I left.”

  “Some improper remark?” enquired Mr. Slocomb with interest.

  “That’s her word. What happened was that I met Betty just home from her office and told her I’d been doing the dutiful, or some muck of that sort. I’m sure I’d shut the drawing-room door behind me, and if people open doors for the purpose of listening they must expect to hear the unexpected. Aunt Phemia probably did. She was already in a bit of a wax with me over something else. Anyway, when I got that letter yesterday morning I thought it might be diplomatic to rush up to Hampstead and explain it all away.”

  “But why in the morning?” asked Mr. Slocomb severely.

  “Well, I got the billet doux with my morning tea—now I come to think of it, it’s funny I didn’t get it on Thursday, for Aunt Phemia didn’t usually waste much time when she had something unpleasant to say. However, there it was on Friday, and I was going out that afternoon and was booked up for several days so I thought I’d better pop up and see her at once. If I got there bright and early it might have a good effect—she was always rubbing in my indolent habits. Well——”

  “One moment,” Mr. Slocomb interrupted with pointing finger—“was Miss Pongleton’s letter dated Wednesday or Thursday?”

  “Quite the police manner,” grumbled Basil. “I don’t know. I tore it up and I didn’t notice particularl
y. Does it matter?”

  “No, no. Continue.”

  “In the underground I remembered that she had said something on Wednesday about making an appointment with the dentist for Friday, and she’d probably start at break of day. A pity, thought I, now that I’ve risen with the dawn and got all togged up, if I miss her. I remembered that she always came to Belsize Park to save the coppers, and that she always walked down the stairs, and some insane idea got into my head that she’d be toddling down those stairs at that very moment. So I got out at Belsize Park, and after a look round the down platform and in the passages I got more and more convinced that Aunt Phemia was on her way down those stairs. So what did I do but start to walk up them!”

  “Up the stairs!” gasped Mr. Slocomb in horror.

  “You see,” said Basil. “Nasty, isn’t it? But I’d better finish. Well, I started up and began to curse myself for an idiot, realizing there must be miles of them—and then suddenly I came upon what looked like an untidy bundle of old clothes flung down on those stairs. I almost trod on it before I saw it, for I was panting up with my head down. There was something horribly familiar about that old purple coat, and in a moment I saw that Aunt Phemia was inside it. There she lay on her face, head downwards, as if she had stumbled and gone headlong. That’s what I thought at first, but I began to lift her up and noticed the ghastly look of her face, and then I saw there was something tight round her neck. She was dead as a doornail; there was no doubt of that. It was horrible. Even if she was a bit of a trial to her family, why should she have to die like that? Whatever kind of a beast could have done it? A sort of blind rage came over me; the police must get on his trail at once. I began running up the stairs like a lunatic, but I was out of breath in a minute and I thought I’d get to the bottom quicker than to the top, so I started down again. I began to think what I’d say to the police—and then suddenly I wondered where I came in. D’you know, I sat down on those stairs and tried to think things out. I was properly shaken. I saw how it might look to anyone else—or how I thought it might look. What was I doing on the stairs? they’d ask. You know, Mr. Slocomb, I don’t know how to make you believe this. I know it sounds pretty rum, but if only you could realize how I felt. I know I acted like a fool, but I simply couldn’t think clearly.”

  “At what time did all this happen?” Mr. Slocomb asked coldly.

  “Time? Good Lord! I don’t know. Pretty early in the morning. About ten o’clock I should say, or a bit earlier.” Basil looked around him in a harassed way.

  “Can you prove the time, do you think?”

  “Prove it? No, I can’t prove anything. That’s the trouble. Well, there I sat on the stairs, and the only thing I could think of was that if people knew I’d been on the stairs with Aunt Phemia they’d think I’d murdered her. Her money, you see, and being fed up with her.”

  “But you say she had disinherited you? That will remains to show that you would not benefit by her death,” Mr. Slocomb pointed out.

  “It probably doesn’t exist. She may never have made it, or she may have torn it up. Anyhow, I got it into my head that the one thing to do was to get away before anyone saw me, and go up in the lift and call at the Frampton and ask for her as if nothing had happened. I went on down the stairs, and at the bottom I speered around and waited a bit, and then suddenly I felt I couldn’t do that. I’d had a nasty knock, you know, and I didn’t feel it would be safe to go to the Frampton and ask for Aunt Phemia, knowing all the time she was upside down on the stairs. I’d never pull it off, and besides, then people would know I was about in the station at that time. So I did a bolt for the platform and dived into a train for Edgware.”

  “Edgware?” enquired Mr. Slocomb, as if to say, “Does anyone go to Edgware?”

  “Yes; that train happened along and the other platform was a blank. When I was in the train it occurred to me that it was rather a good idea. I’d go to see old Peter—lives at Golder’s Green, Russian and quite mad; paints. It had come into my mind earlier that I might look him up after seeing Aunt Phemia; I really did want to see him about a picture of Beryl that he’s to do, and the morning’s the only time you can be sure of getting him.”

  “Did you mention to anyone your intention of going to see this man?”

  “Don’t s’pose so. Who was there to mention it to? Oh, I might have said to old Waddletoes—my landlady, y’know—that I would probably lunch at Golder’s Green. I don’t know. I sat in that damned train and tried to pull myself together, and I was feeling a bit better by the time I got to Golder’s Green but still pretty wonky. I walked about on the Heath a bit before I went to Peter’s house; then I thought to myself that that wasn’t the best procedure—someone might see me straying about like a lost lamb and remember it later; so I went to Peter’s.”

  “Will he be able to say at what time you called?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. He has even less idea of the tempus than me. His wife’s pretty sane, but I think she was out—oh yes; she came in later.”

  “And how did you spend the rest of that day, Mr. Pongleton?”

  “I had lunch with Peter and his wife and began to feel safe and soothed and inclined to stay till all hours; but I had to come away at last—before tea. I walked to Golder’s Green station and then I felt I couldn’t bear that underground again, and I knew I’d feel an insane impulse when we passed Belsize Park station to get out and see if the corpse was still on the stairs, so I got on a bus instead. I didn’t feel like going home; thought the police might be waiting to see me, to identify the body or something, so I had supper in a low place in Soho and sat there smoking for a bit, till I shook myself up and went home.”

  “Did you find—er—anyone waiting to—er—interview you?”

  “The police had been there and said they’d call again. Beryl was there—my cousin. I didn’t tell her the whole story—no one knows that but you. I just told her I’d been to Golder’s Green to see Peter and then dined with a friend. By that time I’d got a paper and read about the affair, so I thought that would account for my being a bit upset. Then the ’tec arrived and I told him as much as I thought was good for him.”

  “What exactly have you told the police, Mr. Pongleton?”

  “Well, it was lucky I saw Beryl first, for when I told her I’d dined with a friend it came into my mind that that wouldn’t wash with the police, for they might try to identify the friend.”

  “Actually you dined alone?”

  “I did. Nothing criminal in that? I told the police what I had told Beryl, except that I filled in the evening at a cinema till dinner-time and that I had some food in Soho because it was after my usual dinner-hour and Waddletoes wouldn’t be expecting me. Rather neat, that; I did go to the New Vic. on Thursday and knew all about the film and where I sat. They didn’t ask me that, but they may do yet.”

  “And have you imparted any other—er—version of your activities during Friday to any other person, Mr. Pongleton?”

  “Oh no. Except to Waddletoes of course. Didn’t tell her much. Just that I had been to see a friend at Golder’s Green and stayed to lunch and then was kept—useful word that, ‘kept’—and couldn’t get back in time for dinner. She’s used to that sort of thing, and anyway she was in a great state of mind, having read the news in the evening paper by then, and so she didn’t take much notice of what I said.”

  “You have not spoken of the—er—your—the way you occupied your time on Friday to any other person?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so. Let’s see: Peter and his wife; bus, Soho, back to my rooms; Waddletoes, Beryl, police; bed. No, that’s all. Oh, Gerry Plasher rang me up this morning before I was up; seems he was at Belsize Park station that morning and actually ran down the stairs and passed my aunt on the way—she wasn’t dead then. ’Straordinary thing! Those stairs seem to have been positively congested with traffic that morning, and I suppose no one goes down them from one year’s end to the other in the ordinary way. I told him I went up to Golder�
�s Green in the underground on Friday morning and must have been just about passing Belsize Park when the murder was committed. Then I just said I didn’t get home till after dinner. Said nothing to him about supper in Soho, with or without friend.”

  “Well, Mr. Pongleton, we must try to get the facts quite clear and review them and then decide on the best course. But I have a considerable amount of business to attend to before lunch, and doubtless your—er—friend outside will be getting restless. It may be wise for you not to stay here longer, but perhaps your good Mrs. Waddle——?”

  “Waddletoes? Waddilove her name is——”

  “Ah, yes; perhaps Mrs. Waddilove could duplicate your midday repast and I could join you there for some confidential discussion. Not a restaurant, I think, and the Frampton does not offer facilities for a tête-à-tête.”

  “Rather! That’s to say delighted to ask you to lunch, Mr. Slocomb. I suppose I’d better go back to my rooms and twiddle my thumbs till you come?”

  “Perhaps some occupation...?” Mr. Slocomb suggested.

  “Might toss off a witty trifle for Punch, or perhaps a murder mystery; that’s not much in my line—never could get the story straightened out.”

  “Well, good-bye, Mr. Pongleton, for the present. Will one-fifteen suit you? I will walk up to Tavistock Square; I am very fond of a constitutional.”

  When Basil had left the office Mr. Slocomb walked over to the window and, looking down through the interstices of SLOCOMB’S BUSINESS AGENCY in white china, he saw a lounger in big brown boots and a bowler hat jump into activity and set off purposefully a few yards behind Basil’s agile figure, dodging the pedestrians in Charing Cross Road.

  Mr. Slocomb tapped the window-sill irritably.

  “Young fool!” he muttered to himself. “Pretty thin, that story.”

  Mr. Slocomb returned to the consideration of fruit and greens, confec. and tobacco, and other blameless affairs.