Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MR. SLOCOMB ADVISES

  BASIL PONGLETON was executing fancy steps to the accompaniment of blaring wireless “lunch-time music” when Mr. Slocomb arrived for lunch. The latter paused on the threshold of the room, a look of pain and horror on his face.

  “Sorry!” said Basil, switching off the wireless. “Must pass the time somehow, and if this is what the B.B.C. hands out to us, who am I to refuse it?”

  Mr. Slocomb shut the door behind him. “I think it would be wise,” he suggested, “to keep our discussion of—er—salient points until after lunch. Mrs. Waddilove coming in and out ... Of course, some reference to your aunt’s unfortunate death would be only natural.”

  Mrs. Waddilove came in with a dish of cutlets. “Now I hope you’ll make a good meal, Mr. Pongleton,” she admonished him. “Excuse me, sir”—to Mr. Slocomb—“but Mr. Pongleton is that upset; why, what he ate for breakfast wouldn’t give a fly indigestion, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it; and he gen’ally so hearty!”

  They ate their lunch with a good deal of haste and little conversation. During the course of the meal Basil told Mr. Slocomb firmly: “I’ve asked you for your advice and I want it, but I warn you there’s one thing it’s no earthly use advising me to do, and that’s to report it all to the police. I simply can’t do that. So you’ve got to help me keep it dark.”

  The entrance of Mrs. Waddilove saved Mr. Slocomb from the distasteful necessity of admitting his willingness to become an accomplice.

  When Mrs. Waddilove had cleared away with a silence and deftness which was surprising in view of her bulk, they settled themselves on either side of the bright fire and Mr. Slocomb produced a small black notebook.

  “I say,” exclaimed Basil in alarm; “you’re not going to write down the truth? Seems risky, I mean. And feels a bit too much like the police.”

  “Rest assured that I shall not be guilty of any indiscretion. But I think we may see the relevance and importance of each fact more clearly if we jot down the items and piece them together. Of course the notes must be destroyed afterwards. Now, to begin with, Mr. Pongleton, you told me this morning that you commented to Mr. Plasher on the telephone that you must have been passing Belsize Park station just when the murder was committed. May I ask by what means are you, in what for the sake of convenience we will call your public story, supposed to know when the murder was committed?”

  “Good Lord! Have I made another howler? Now, look here, Mr. Slocomb, we all know that my aunt must have been murdered soon after Gerry saw her alive on the stairs at—when was it?—nine-twenty or something like that. No one supposes she sat down and waited for the murderer to arrive.”

  “Ye-es. I only wish to warn you, Mr. Pongleton, of making any statements based on knowledge acquired by you on your unfortunate expedition up those stairs. That expedition did not officially take place. Please do not assume that I intend to connive at any attempt to deceive the police authorities. But I am bound to say that by your rashness and prevarication you have put yourself into a difficult situation. When once a man has been found to be untruthful, I believe the police are often reluctant to believe his subsequent statements.”

  “You needn’t rub it in, Mr. Slocomb. I’m only too well aware what a mess I’m in! That’s why I’ve asked your advice. But what else could I have told the police? By the way, Waddletoes has told me that the police asked her when I left here on Friday morning, and she told them it was twenty past nine. I expect that’s about right. She brings my early tea at eight; and as soon as I read Aunt Phemia’s letter I yelled to her to hurry up with breakfast, and I leapt out of bed and hustled around no end. I had breakfast at about a quarter to nine, she says.”

  “If Mrs. Waddle—Waddilove is definite and unshaken in her statement as to the time you left this house, that may be a factor in your favour. Miss Pongleton left the Frampton at nine o’clock on Friday morning. Her appointment with the dentist—Mr. Crampit of Camden Town—was for ten o’clock. At her request I had myself telephoned to him and arranged the—er—interview. The time of her departure from the Frampton can be testified to by several inmates of the boarding-house, myself included.”

  Mr. Slocomb noted these times meticulously in his little notebook.

  “Now let us proceed with our reconstruction of events,” he continued. “There are certain points on which we may be guided by assumption. I read in the paper this morning that an official at Belsize Park noticed Miss Pongleton proceed towards the stairs on Friday at, he thinks, about nine-fifteen. He is probably correct.... The next person who saw her was Mr. Plasher—if we accept what he says——”

  “Oh, but surely—I mean, Gerry...!”

  “We are considering the facts, impersonally,” Mr. Slocomb pointed out dryly. “Mr. Plasher states that he ran past Miss Pongleton on the stairs a few minutes after nine-fifteen; that is his usual time of arrival at Belsize Park on his way to business. He is not quite sure of the exact time, but presumably he would be at the bottom of the stairs before nine-twenty, and there he paused a few moments to speak to Bob Thurlow whom he met in the passage.”

  “Going towards the stairs with a bucket, I gathered from Gerry. But he says there’s nothing in it—nothing suspicious about Thurlow’s appearance, I mean.”

  “You yourself saw nothing of Mr. Plasher, I presume?”

  “Oh no; but then he’d be in the other passage,” Basil pointed out.

  “Yes, yes. But it is necessary to have every point clear. Officially no one else saw Miss Pongleton, dead or alive, until the afternoon, but she can hardly have been on the stairs—er—alive, for more than ten minutes after Mr. Plasher saw her. Perhaps you have heard the sequence of events that led to the tragic discovery?”

  “I’ve had some rather scrappy accounts from Gerry and Beryl, but I’m not very clear about it.”

  “As I understand from Mrs. Bliss, that good lady became anxious when Miss Pongleton did not return to lunch, as she had precisely stated that she would do so at the usual hour. Mrs. Bliss telephoned to Mr. Crampit and learnt that Miss Pongleton had not kept her appointment. Mrs. Bliss then rang you up—that is to say, she obtained this number—and Mrs. Waddilove informed her that you were out and that your aunt had not been here. Mrs. Bliss hastened to Belsize Park station and made enquiries there. No one remembered seeing Miss Pongleton—the man who afterwards stated that he had noticed her had doubtless gone off duty—and Mrs. Bliss telephoned to the police station. The police, learning of your aunt’s habit of going down the stairs at the station, investigated the staircase with the results known to you.”

  “How did Bob Thurlow come in? Oh, I remember, his name was on some paper my aunt had on her.”

  Mr. Slocomb related the affair of the burgled brooch, as he had heard it from Mrs. Bliss.

  “That all seems a bit queer, doesn’t it?” suggested Basil. “I mean, why should Aunt Phemia write his name on the envelope or whatever it was, and why should she carry it about with her?”

  “I see nothing queer about it,” snapped Mr. Slocomb. “You must surely be aware that it was your aunt’s habit to secrete things in somewhat peculiar places, and until she had decided on a hiding-place to her liking she would carry papers and so forth about with her in her somewhat capacious handbag. She was very meticulous, and it would be natural for her to wrap up the brooch and write Bob Thurlow’s name on the package.”

  “But look here, it wasn’t in her bag but in her pocket!” Basil declared. “I read that in the paper.”

  “Really, is it of any significance?” Mr. Slocomb snorted.

  “Well, you said ‘bag’,” sulked Basil; “and I’m trying, under your guidance, to be accurate. But what was she doing with the brooch anyway? Either she ought to have left it with the girl or, if she must interfere, the police should have had it.”

  “Certainly her procedure was somewhat irregular. Your aunt took a great interest in young Thurlow, and possibly she was holding the brooch until she could
exact some promise from him that he would return it to its owner or to the police. It is likely that she carried it with her to prevent the girl Nellie from recovering it whilst she was away from the house.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my aunt, except the last bit. She was a hard old woman, and I don’t believe she had a spark of interest in the young man except for the services she got out of him for nothing. Why, she used to have to pay a girl to take that poodle for walks!”

  “Poodle?” enquired Mr. Slocomb.

  “Oh, I know it wasn’t—isn’t—a poodle; but never mind. I suppose young Thurlow’s done for anyway, poor fool; even if he clears himself of the murder business he’ll lose his job on the underground. And I suppose the fact that he was mixed up with a burglary will make the police ready to believe he is capable of murder too.”

  “Assuredly Thurlow seems at the moment to be the person with both opportunity and motive.”

  “The opportunity was doubtful, Gerry thinks.”

  “Mr. Plasher states that he passed Miss Pongleton, who moved slowly, near the top of the stairs. After he himself left the stairs he stopped for a moment to speak to Thurlow and then went on his way. It is reasonable to suppose that Thurlow, if he then went straight up the stairs, would meet Miss Pongleton before she reached the bottom—and I understand that the body was found no great distance up.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem likely to me and I can’t say the motive seems at all clear,” Basil persisted.

  “The motive, presumably, was to recover the brooch. He would learn from the girl Nellie that it was in Miss Pongleton’s possession. Possibly he heard you coming up the stairs just as he was searching for it. But it is not our business to detect the criminal. Time is getting on, and before I go I think we had better get your own movements clearly stated—for our private information.” Mr. Slocomb consulted his notes. “You left here at nine-twenty and proceeded to...?”

  “Warren Street station—ten minutes’ walk.”

  “And bought a ticket to...?”

  “Hampstead. It wasn’t till later that I got that idiotic idea about Belsize Park.”

  “The ticket to Belsize Park would be a cheaper one?”

  “Oh yes; it’s another penny to Hampstead.”

  “And still another penny to Golder’s Green?”

  “Yes—I forgot that on Friday, till I got out at Golder’s Green. It struck me as I held out the ticket to the collector, and I got into a panic, but I saw he was examining the ticket and I had to say something, so I explained quickly that I’d changed my mind after getting the ticket, and then I paid the extra penny.”

  “Hm! It might have been less noticeable if you had handed him the penny with the ticket, without saying anything.”

  “By Jove, Mr. Slocomb! You’d make a snappy criminal; you think of everything!” Basil exclaimed in admiration. “But it wasn’t anything out of the way to have to pay on a ticket.”

  “And you arrived at Golder’s Green at what time?”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know any times,” declared Basil.

  “To revert, for one moment, to Belsize Park. I do not suppose it is of the least use to ask you at what time you left the station after—er—viewing the body?”

  “No, it isn’t. What a hellish invention time is!”

  “But can you say whether you encountered there—or caught sight of—anyone who knows you, who might recognize you?”

  “Not a soul. I told you how I skulked on the stairs till the coast was clear; then I skipped along to the platform and hopped into a train. There may have been one or two people getting in or out but I don’t suppose they noticed me particularly. Certainly I didn’t notice them; I was much too taken up with noticing myself.”

  “A risk; undoubtedly a risk; especially as your behaviour in—er—skulking—er—skipping and—er—hopping may have been conspicuous. Hm! To proceed: you do not know the time of your arrival at your friend’s house in Golder’s Green, but have you any idea how long you walked on the Heath?”

  “I’ll engage a timekeeper before I get mixed up in another crime! No, I don’t know; I just mooned about a bit. Perhaps a quarter of an hour; perhaps half an hour. I got my shoes very muddy,” he added helpfully.

  “And the distance from Golder’s Green station to your friend’s house is...?”

  “Good ten minutes’ at a fast trot. He lives in North Way.”

  The telephone bell rang; not with any significant note as it does in the best regulated murder mysteries, but with its usual ear-splitting insistent din. Basil rushed at the apparatus.

  “H’lo! Yes—Basil. O-o-h!”

  He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Mr. Slocomb.

  “Police have been asking Peter’s wife when I got there yesterday and how long I stayed.”

  Mr. Slocomb was considering the notes he had jotted down and he seemed to take no notice of Basil, but he muttered abstractedly, “About ten; yes, ten—or very soon after.”

  “I don’t know, Delia,” Basil was saying to the telephone. “You know I never know the time; but I got up rather early that morning. What time do you think it was? Oh, of course you were out when I arrived. What does Peter think? No, of course he wouldn’t know. Well, does it matter? I should think I got to you soon after ten. Yes, ten—gives you a bit of a shock, does it, me being so bright and early? Well, I told you I was feeling very brisk. What? Rotten? Oh yes, I did feel a bit off colour later on, all through getting up so early, I expect. Yes, I’m all right now, thanks. How’s Peter? You didn’t go out till after ten? Well, I believe Peter said I’d only just missed you—no, of course I didn’t miss you entirely, luckily. Anyway, it’s not important, is it?—the time, I mean. The police are donkeys. Usual routine: they have to find out where everyone was. And, I say, Delia, you’ve got my hat. No, I haven’t a cat. H for hell ... yes, a bowler. Oh, but you must have it. I left it behind me yesterday. I don’t suppose you would notice it among all the odd tiles and garments you keep in your hall, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one of your disreputable friends had nabbed it. I’m sure I left it there; I know I came home without it. I’ll collect it when next I come. Don’t worry. Right! Good-bye!”

  “Did that rather well, didn’t I?” remarked Basil, returning to his chair.

  “What’s this about a bowler hat?” enquired Mr. Slocomb.

  “I started out yesterday in a bowler—beastly thing! Oh, beg your pardon; it’s all right on someone elderly and respectable, of course, but I never can feel at home in it. Only put it on because Aunt Phemia thought it looked gentlemanly—poor old Aunt Phemia! And I came home without it. Hope to goodness I didn’t leave it on the stairs! No, I can’t have done. It may be in the train or it may be at Peter’s. Anyway, Waddletoes noticed that it was gone when I came in last night.”

  Mr. Slocomb gazed at Basil with the utmost disapproval.

  “You can tell me, Mr. Pongleton, that you—er—mislaid a bowler hat with such incredible carelessness that you do not know where it is?”

  “You’ve got the idea,” Basil assured him. “Anyway, I shan’t need it any more.”

  Mr. Slocomb sighed heavily. “Just what did Mrs.—er—Peter say to the police?” he asked.

  “Oh, she says that she said she went out at about a quarter-past ten and that I turned up soon after. But she’s one of these red-haired women, quite unreliable, y’know,” said Basil gloomily.

  “Now, according to this story you have told the police, you got up on Friday morning earlier than usual, called to Mrs. Waddilove to prepare your breakfast quickly, and left the house with unwonted promptitude, in order to visit Mr.—er...?”

  “Kutuzov. Well, of course I didn’t rub in all that about being prompt and early. I just said I went after breakfast.”

  “And you do not know whether Mrs. Waddilove may have expatiated to the police on your hurry and the early hour of your breakfast?”

  “Oh, but surely ... well, she is rather a talker, and she’s very proud of
me when I’m out of bed before nine.”

  “Just so. Now, to consider this matter of the letter from your aunt which you received in bed on Friday morning. We know actually that was the cause of your early rising. Is there any likelihood that anyone else may know or suppose that you received such a letter and that it had any effect on your conduct?”

  “Aunt Phemia’s letter.... Let’s see. Waddletoes brought it up with my tea. I expect I let out a bit of a groan on seeing it– Aunt Phemia’s writing generally meant trouble. Waddletoes probably knows that writing by now, too, if she takes as much interest in my correspondence as she does in my appetite.”

  “Did you actually mention the letter to Mrs. Waddilove?”

  “And, if so, at what time, eh? I don’t know. Suppose someone brings you a letter and you look at it, and say, ‘Oh, hell!’ would you call that mentioning it?”

  “It would be unusual for me to make any comment on my correspondence to a third person, especially an employee,” Mr. Slocomb stated primly.

  “I bet it would. Well, when I’d read the letter I yelled to Waddletoes to get a move on with breakfast, but whether I said I was going to see my aunt or had heard from my aunt, I simply don’t know.”

  “Hm! Bad. Anyone else?”

  “There was Beryl. Let’s see ... did I tell her I’d heard from Aunt Phemia that morning? No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I didn’t want her to know I had anything to do with the old lady that day. I remember now: I told her I woke up feeling very spry and thought about her picture that Peter was to do, and so I leapt out of bed and rushed up to Golder’s Green to see him and nail him down. It’s to be my wedding present to Gerry and Beryl—at least, it was to be. Don’t suppose it will be if I’m hanged for murdering Aunt Phemia. Throw a bit of a gloom on the wedding festivities, won’t it?”

  “In my judgment, Mr. Pongleton, your wiser course would be to banish from your mind any possibility that you may be implicated, and at least to imagine yourself innocent.”