“I dunno. It’s a thing anyone might do—take it off and forget it.”
“I fear you under-estimate the abnormality of your behaviour,” Mr. Slocomb insisted.
“The police didn’t, you’ll be pleased to know,” Basil told him. “They were very inquisitive about that bowler. As if I hadn’t a right to get rid of an old hat and go without one when I want to! I told them I thought I’d left the beastly thing at Kutuzov’s, and anyway I never wanted to see it again, and the inspector said, ‘I can well believe that!’ in a nasty kind of way.”
“Perhaps the best we can hope for is that someone—er—annexed your hat and will never produce it. Hm! Any enquiries about the time of your arrival at Golder’s Green?”
“Nothing special. Seems pretty clear the ticket collector doesn’t know just when I passed him. Someone else who hasn’t always got an eye on the clock, y’see! But I thought of what I’d told Delia about getting to her house at ten, so I remarked, quite by the way, to the inspector that I got to Golder’s Green station at ten to ten. Good, that!”
“And what else occurred?” asked Mr. Slocomb.
“The inspector asked me about the ticket. What ticket had I taken at Warren Street? Must say you helped me there. I remembered your bright idea, and I gasped out, as surprised as could be, ‘By Jove! Was that the morning I booked to Hampstead by mistake?’ The inspector said, as dry as dust, ‘Possibly, Mr. Pongleton, it was!’ So I told him the tale, as you suggested. Used to booking to Hampstead, go there often to see my aunt, did it out of habit. It seemed to go down pretty well, though he was a bit sarcastic about why I hadn’t mentioned all this before. That’s the second point I had to tell you about. That all right?”
“At least you do not seem to have made matters worse,” conceded Mr. Slocomb. “The first man, who failed to identify you ... Hm! Ah! Now, the next point?”
“The next is deuced queer. They measured my shoes! Didn’t seem to give ’em much satisfaction. Suppose they’ve got a footprint somewhere, but how and where beats me! And that reminds me—Mrs. Waddletoes told me they asked to go into my room and took a look at my shoes there, when I was out.”
Mr. Slocomb looked worried. “I do not understand this at all, but apparently this investigation led nowhere? That is the third point.”
“Yes. The fourth one is more awkward. They asked a lot of questions about the dog-leash. First of all, on Wednesday: did I see it there when I had tea with my aunt? I know it wasn’t there then, for the girl and her young man had taken the poodle out and they didn’t get back till after I had gone. Then Thursday: the police knew already that I went out with Miss Watson. They asked me about going back with her to the Frampton: did I go inside the house? After a bit I saw what they were driving at—that might have been the moment when I got hold of the leash! I didn’t think of that immediately because I had it in my head that everyone thought Bob Thurlow took it earlier that evening when he called to see my aunt about the brooch. Well, actually I did go inside the door that night, but only for a moment. However, everyone’s been telling me these last two days that I only make things worse by not telling the truth, and I thought they’d have got at Betty for certain, and she’s most frightfully truthful; bound to tell them right out that I did go into your beastly lounge hall. So I confessed to that, but swore it was only for a minute and said they could ask Miss Watson and she’d tell them the same. They looked a bit queer at that. Surprised, I suppose, that my story agreed with someone else’s!”
“Hm!” Mr. Slocomb grunted. “Unfortunate, very! But that was probably the best thing to say. It is regrettable that you did not think of that incident before. Miss Watson—hm! I don’t know!”
“Can’t do any more about that, can I?”
Mr. Slocomb paced on in silence for a few minutes and then announced suddenly: “I am convinced, Mr. Pongleton, that I did notice the absence of the leash earlier that evening. I understand that no one else in the Frampton knows whether it was there or not after young Thurlow called. I have already mentioned to the inspector that to the best of my belief it was not there. The girl, Nellie, says that it was, but of course she is concerned to deflect suspicion from her young man. Yes, I think I can call to mind a little detail which would clinch my assurance and convince the police.”
“But, I say—that will make the case blacker against Bob. I don’t want to do that.”
“I fear, Mr. Pongleton, that you yourself are in sufficient difficulty to make me feel that I—er—should not be justified in withholding any shred of evidence which might be of assistance in—er—exculpating you.”
“I don’t like it. You might wait and see how things turn out. But how’s time going? I have to call for my people at half-past nine.”
They were now walking down Heath Street, having circled the Leg of Mutton pond. “We must waste no time,” Mr. Slocomb agreed.
“There’s not much more. They asked about Aunt Phemia’s letter on Friday morning; seemed to know all about it, so I owned up to having got it and said, as you suggested, that Aunt Phemia wrote it in a fit of annoyance and told me she had made a new will and cut me out of it. Also said that I tore it up, being fed up about it. That went down well, I think, though again they were a bit sniffy because I had, as they said, ‘kept this important information to myself’ for a time. And did I know that actually her latest will so far discovered was in my favour? I told them I had heard that and it gave me a pleasant surprise. Had I any idea where another will might be?—Not the faintest; stuffed up the chimney perhaps! They’ll be searching like mad for another will now, I suppose—do me out of the cash if they can’t hang me!”
“It may be just as well if they do find it,” Mr. Slocomb suggested.
“Better of two evils! Maybe! It struck me, it’s a queer thing that the first time I ever asked your advice was about money—d’you remember? You gave me a good tip about investing tuppence ha’penny, and you said you’d be glad to help me if I ever had any more to invest. I’ve thought of that during this week-end and, by Jove! if I do get Aunt Phemia’s money I’ll come to you with the lot and get you to stow it away safely for me.”
“You might do worse,” said Mr. Slocomb modestly. “Your aunt was—er—I might say, conservative in her ideas about investment, and was not willing to take my advice. Otherwise, I flatter myself, her fortune might have been considerably increased. I shall be only too pleased to help you at the appropriate time. Now I think you have mentioned five points, Mr. Pongleton. There are two more?”
“Yes. Let’s see. They asked me a lot of questions at the end about Friday evening—just what I did. I was careful to tell them the same story, with a few more details about the New Vic.—what the film was and so on; they got rather bored with that. And, by the way, I’ve fixed that with Beryl—she won’t say anything that doesn’t agree with what I say. There were some of the old questions about Friday morning—when I left my rooms and so on. I think I did that part quite well and there’s nothing special to report. All quiet on that front!”
“The inspector appeared to be—er—satisfied?”
“Of course he isn’t really fond of me, but I don’t think he caught me out on anything.”
“That was the sixth point? Not exactly a point perhaps——”
“Just a sixth thing to tell you. Now the seventh point is one of my own. What about that notebook? You remember you wrote down a lot of things I told you in my rooms on Saturday, and you said you’d destroy those notes?”
Mr. Slocomb indulged in a dry chuckle. “So you are learning the need for caution! You need have no anxiety on that score, my young friend! You may realize, perhaps, that the whole affair is irregular, highly irregular, and I have no wish to be known to be concerned in any way in what might seem to be—er—an attempt to deceive the police authorities. Such an occurrence would be most distasteful to me! You have not, of course, mentioned to anyone that you have—er—confided in me?”
“Good heavens, no!”
&
nbsp; “It might arouse—er—suspicion if we were thought to be—ah!—plotting together.” Again that dry chuckle. “I may say that nothing but my regard for your aunt and my respect for your family, mingled with my concern for your own embarrassing situation and my—er—complete confidence in your innocence, would have persuaded me, perhaps against my better judgment, to connect myself with the affair at all.”
“Of course I’m awf’ly grateful to you and all that, and I’ll never forget it,” Basil assured him.
“Well, well; I shall not neglect that notebook. I may need to refer to it again, but it shall certainly be destroyed in due course. And naturally the notes therein are quite—er—harmless. Merely a few jottings as to times of events. Here we are at the underground. I do not think there is any cause for undue anxiety. The situation seems to be developing—er—as satisfactorily as can be expected. Good morning, Mr. Pongleton!”
Basil strode on down Rosslyn Hill feeling that he was managing affairs rather well.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GERRY CAUSES ANXIETY
BERYL and Gerry slipped away from the inquest on Monday morning before the verdict was given. It was a dark grey day, soused with slanting rain, and the grey Alvis stood outside St. Pancras coroner’s court with its hood up. Beryl, in a leather coat buttoned up to her chin, ran out of the court and through the old burial ground with her head down and bolted into the car like a rabbit, closely followed by Gerry. In a moment they were shooting along the crowded road towards Euston, Beryl at the wheel.
Two women, who had failed to find places in the court and stood waiting at the door in the hope of satisfying their ghoulish curiosity by staring at the principal characters in the Pongleton affair, saw the hurried departure of Beryl and Gerry.
“My dear! That’s the car we saw behaving so oddly on the North Circular Road yesterday,” one of them declared.
“Behaving oddly? I don’t remember. What was it doing?”
“You know—it was just in front of us and it slowed down with practically no warning at all and drew into the side.”
“Oh yes! And you nearly ran into it!”
“Indeed I did not! I avoided it very skilfully considering how it behaved. The driver ought to be very grateful to me. But I took a good look at it.”
“Well, I couldn’t be sure of the car myself, though it certainly was like that one. Did you see its number?”
“I can’t say I could repeat the number from memory, though I’d know it if I saw it written down, but it was DV—I’m certain of that, because it seemed so suitable. And—that—was—the—man!” The speaker evidently considered the identification to be of great significance.
“Can’t say I looked at him particularly.”
“But I did. When he stopped the car, he and the woman with him took out notebooks and began writing in them. Most extraordinary behaviour!”
“Was that the girl?”
“No—that’s the strange thing. It wasn’t a girl, but a middle- aged woman, all wrapped in woollies and rough sort of clothes. You know—sort of arty.”
“Who d’you think she was?”
“I can’t say, but there’s more in this than meets the eye. That young man’s the one who’s engaged to the old lady’s niece, and not only that, but he admits that he went down those stairs on Friday morning and passed the old lady, and no one saw her alive after that. I wonder he’s still at liberty! And now look at him—dashing off like that before the inquest’s over. I shall tell the police about this. It’s my duty!”
The speaker, well satisfied that, although she had missed the inquest, she had created for herself a speaking part in the drama, went to seek a policeman.
Meanwhile the Alvis was nosing its way to Euston. Beryl was a clever but rather reckless driver, sliding the car through the cumbersome traffic with a nonchalant air. Gerry loyally professed perfect faith in her driving, though it often gave him bad moments.
Gerry had arranged with Beryl on Sunday that she should drive him to Euston and take the Alvis back to Beverley House. “Urgent business,” he had said to her—“and confidential. I’ll explain on the way to the station.”
“Urgent business has become a sort of disease,” Beryl had thought. “Gerry has caught it from Basil.”
“It is business,” Gerry told her, as they drove to Euston, “but not Oundle, Gumble, and Oundle’s business. It’s to do with the murder, and it’s really nothing to do with me at all. It’s awfully difficult to explain and I hate making a mystery of it to you, Beryl. After Basil’s mysterious complications I expect you’re about fed up with mysteries, but I can’t tell you the whole story because it affects two other people.”
“You needn’t tell me a thing if you don’t want to. I’ll take it on trust,” Beryl assured him. But she did sound a bit fed up, he thought.
“I’d rather give you an idea of it. It’s like this: someone, whom we’ll call X, has more or less accidentally discovered something about another person, Q, which may have some bearing on the crime. But the connection is so far-fetched that one really can’t take the information to the police as it stands, especially as Q doesn’t seem, so far, to be concerned in the affair at all.” He thought he detected a faint sigh of relief from Beryl at that.
“X is going to make some enquiries which may clear it up a bit,” Gerry continued, “and I’m just going to help. If we get anything more definite we’ll pass it on to the police.”
“If your enquiries are successful will it mean that you’ve found who the murderer was?”
“I can’t say that. Honestly it all sounds a bit unlikely to me. I’m inclined to think that X is after a red herring.”
“Is it worth going?”
“It may not be, in one sense; but I think it’s better that X should not go alone. I mean to be back to-night. I’ve had to tell old Gumble that I wanted the day off to attend to business matters for you. I’m sorry about that; I suppose I might have asked for the rest of the day without giving any reason, leaving him to guess that I wanted to attend the funeral, but Gumble almost put the words into my mouth and made no bones about it.”
“If you don’t get back to-night, shall I know where you are?” asked Beryl. There was a hint of complaint in her voice and Gerry feared she was taking it badly, though he knew she wouldn’t make any fuss.
“But I shall be back. I’m not taking any luggage. If I am delayed—but that’s impossible—I’ll telephone. You mustn’t worry, Beryl darling. There’s no danger or anything of that kind, and I’ll tell you all about it when I come back. I do hope you won’t have a too beastly day, and that it won’t create a bad impression, my not being at the funeral. I say, you’ve got me here in ripping time.”
The car skidded round on the swimming road to draw up against the pavement outside Euston station.
“Good-bye, darling; you’re an angel!” Gerry extricated himself from the car with the neatness of long practice and sped into the booking-hall. Beryl drove away, reflecting that the chief qualification for angelic status seemed to be a readiness to do odd jobs for distraught young men without asking too many questions.
She returned to St. Pancras coroner’s court in case the inquest was not yet over. Leaving the car outside the old graveyard, she found people gathered in a hesitating group at the entrance of the court, buttoning up coats and opening umbrellas. Pushing her way through this throng to the gloomy hall, she saw her mother, her Aunt Susan, and Uncle James standing uncertainly in a corner, looking around and making incomplete remarks. It was clear to Beryl that Aunt Susan was “in a fuss”.
“Oh, Beryl dear!” Aunt Susan hailed her. “I am so glad you’ve come back. The police want to see Gerard again, and really they have been in quite a state over the way the two of you vanished suddenly like that.”
Uncle James was “shushing” his wife fiercely; her high-pitched voice, with a slight gasp of anxiety in it, had caught the attention of the loiterers at the door, and some of them turned round to look inqu
isitively at Beryl and her relatives, whilst others pointed at the little muddy grey car drawn up against the pavement, and whispered eagerly.
“That’s the niece.”
“Drove off in that car with that young Plasher—the one that said he saw the old lady walking down the stairs.”
“Sporty little car....”
“Sporty young feller, too, if you ask me....”
“Bit too sporty fer the police; where’s he got to now?...”
The scattered remarks pricked Beryl’s consciousness like little barbed darts. She hunched her slim shoulders against them.
“Let’s get away, Mother. I’ve got Gerry’s car here. I can take you home, and Uncle James and Aunt Susan can get a taxi.”
“But where is Gerry?” asked Mrs. Sanders.
A tall man approached them unobtrusively. Beryl recognized him as Inspector Caird who was in charge of the case.
“Excuse me, Miss Sanders, but can you tell me where Mr. Plasher is? We want him to clear up a few little points.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him to-day; he has gone away on business, but will probably be back to-night.”
What was the meaning of the expression that flickered for a moment in Inspector Caird’s eyes? Beryl wondered. Was it merely surprise, or wasn’t there a hint of dismay and anger? He unobtrusively signed to her to follow him into an empty room opening off the hall.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Plasher has gone? We want some important information, which I think he can give us, without delay.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. I don’t know.” Beryl spoke slowly and deliberately. She looked at Inspector Caird and then beyond him at a yellow fly-spotted notice on the wall.
“I don’t want to worry you, Miss Sanders, but I must impress upon you that if you will help us to get into touch with Mr. Plasher it will save much waste of valuable time. After all, you have just driven him away from here in his car.”
Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics) Page 17
