“I’m sure Mr. Plasher had no idea you wanted to interview him again,” said Beryl wearily. It was too bad of Gerry to leave her to deal with this situation. She seated herself on the edge of the dusty table, as if realizing that there would have to be a good deal of explanation before she could escape.
“I blame myself for letting him go. One of our men was waiting to give him a message from me, but no one took much notice when he slipped out of the court; we all thought he was merely taking you outside the room, Miss Sanders, for a breath of air. You looked very pale, you know—a very painful ordeal for you and your family. Believe me, I sympathize with you. But we must know where Mr. Plasher is.”
Beryl had gained a little time, as she hoped to do, and had decided that it was useless to refuse to say where she had taken Gerry; that could easily be traced. Why should she conceal anything? Only because she knew so little that her story might sound thin. But she couldn’t help that; Gerry shouldn’t have been such an ass. And, so far as she knew, he didn’t specially want to keep his movements secret from the police. He had hurried her away from the court, but that was only so that he might catch the train and to avoid being seized by any of those tiresome reporters.
The inspector stood stiffly in front of her, waiting for her to speak.
“Really, Inspector Caird, I can’t tell you much. We left in a hurry because Mr. Plasher had to catch a train. I drove him to Euston in his car and left him there. He will be back to-night, or to-morrow at latest.”
“Can you tell me what train he was catching, Miss Sanders, and where he was going?”
“He left no address, so far as I know—he wouldn’t be likely to as he meant to come back to-night. He took no luggage. I think he mentioned Chester, but I’m not really sure. It was some business matter.”
“Ah!” Inspector Caird seemed relieved. “Then doubtless his firm can give me some more information.”
“I don’t think so. No, I’m sure it’s no good asking them. It was not their business, but some private business for a friend. Beyond that I know nothing. We got to Euston between eleven-twenty and eleven-twenty-five.”
Inspector Caird was recalling, in his mind, the times of the boat-trains, but Beryl did not know that. He thought she knew a little more than she had told him or intended to tell him, but he was sure that she genuinely believed that Gerard Plasher would return that evening or the next day. He himself was not so sure.
“Thank you, Miss Sanders. Now there’s one thing I want to ask you about yourself. Did you go driving with Mr. Plasher in his car on Sunday afternoon?”
“Sunday afternoon? No; I was at home. I went with Mr. Plasher in his car in the morning to the Frampton, to fetch my aunt’s dog. Is that what you mean?” Beryl’s tone was cool.
“In the morning you merely drove from Beverley House to the Frampton and back? Not round the North Circular Road?”
“Merely from Beverley House to the Frampton and back,” Beryl repeated indifferently.
Inspector Caird thanked her and held the door open for her.
As she came out she noticed two figures in a dark corner of the hall, away from the door. A man who stood rather slouchingly, and wore a black felt hat with wide brim, had his back to her, but she was quite sure that it was Basil. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he had an air of uneasiness. And whoever was that girl? Beryl wrinkled her nose distastefully. A tightly-fitting blue coat hugged a rather dumpy little figure on plump, shiny pink-stockinged legs. One of Basil’s little weaknesses, doubtless, but he might have more sense of fitness than to chat with her in a corner at such a time and in such a place as this!
Beryl hesitated. Would it be too frightfully tactless to make some excuse to speak to him and perhaps draw him away?
The woman noticed her and said something to Basil, who turned quickly and caught Beryl’s impatient look. He blushed—Beryl knew how angry he would be to realize that he was doing so—and turned back to the woman with a negative shake of his head. Beryl joined her mother, who was waiting alone near the door.
“James and Susan have gone on in a taxi. Did you notice Basil talking to that woman? She waited there for him and pounced on him as he came out—simply pounced!—and they have been talking there for ages. Really I can’t think what Basil has to do with her. His friends are too awful, but she doesn’t look like one of his artistic set exactly. Do you think it is something to do with poor Phemia?”
“I haven’t an idea, Mother. Perhaps someone from the Frampton,” suggested Beryl wildly.
“Oh, I hardly think so, dear. Mrs. Bliss is very particular, and I believe they’re all quite nice people. Not at all like that! I don’t know how to put it, but really she hardly looks respectable! Her mouth! And her eyelashes!”
“But everyone makes up nowadays, Mother. I didn’t see her close to. Shall we go home? Basil will follow, I expect. I know who that must be—some relative of Bob Thurlow’s; a sister perhaps.”
“I should hardly have thought ... But you never can tell...” murmured Mrs. Sanders vaguely, as she followed Beryl to the car.
“Well, I don’t like her,” Mamie was saying to Basil. “I’m glad she’s not your girl. But promise you’ll get me the cash soon? I must have it—reelly—or I wouldn’t have said a word now.” She held on to the lapel of his coat. “Your father, now—can’t you touch him for a bit?”
“I’ll do my best; surely you realize that, Mamie? It’s very difficult for me, and you only make it worse, catching hold of me here, with everyone looking.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Mamie demanded in indignation. “I thought it was you the p’lice had their eye on, not me. It’s not very nice for a girl to be seen talking to anyone that’s under suspicion like you are.”
“What makes you think I’m under suspicion?”
“You told me so yourself, Geoff, when I came to see you Sunday, and you said there was a bobby watching outside the house. Nice thing for me, to have them watching me like that!”
“Well, I did my best for you and I told you not to come again. I can’t stay here talking any longer. All the family will be wondering where I am.”
“Oh no, they won’t. They saw you standing here. Lor’! Anyone’d think you was a schoolboy, the way you can’t stop and talk to a friend without everyone wanting to know what it’s all about! But I won’t keep you, Geoff. I don’t want to get you into any trouble, but I wanted to make sure that you don’t forget me.”
She released him, and with a hasty good-bye he left her there and sped away from the court.
Mamie did not escape so easily. A thin, middle-aged man who walked alertly on his toes had been prowling about in the Victorian shadows of the coroner’s court, and now he shot up from nowhere in front of Mamie as soon as Basil was outside the door.
“I’m the Daily Chat,” he informed her confidently; “I wonder whether you can help me?”
Mamie jerked her chin in the air. “If you think I’m mixed up in this case, you’re mistaken. I came along just to hear the case—nat’rally anyone’d be interested—but I know no more than you do. A good deal less, I reckon, consid’ring how you go prying around in corners!”
The Daily Chat was not discouraged. The principal figures in this case were singularly uncommunicative: James Pongleton was ferocious; his fluffy wife, who might have talked, was kept closely in tow by him; Gerry Plasher had been polite but apologetically “unable to say anything”; Basil sheered off like a timid colt and his only contribution had been: “The whole thing’s a confounded muddle and I’m not going to help you make a worse mess of it”; Beryl Sanders had been haughty. But this young woman who had held Basil Pongleton talking in a corner for ten minutes or so seemed more promising.
“Miss—er—mm—you’re a great friend of Mr. Pongleton’s, I know; you will understand that I myself, a comparative stranger, can hardly trouble him at this time, though he has been very helpful—oh, very helpful. Of course he and all his family realize that the Press can gi
ve the police valuable assistance in unravelling the mystery. Now I believe you can tell us something——”
“I might tell you a lot,” admitted Mamie saucily, “but it’s not likely to interest you, and I can’t tell you anything about this business, so you’d better not waste your time.”
“You know Mr. Basil Pongleton well, of course? This is a dreadful thing for him.”
Mamie nodded, slightly appeased. “I’ve met him now and then. Mind you, I’m not saying it’s nice for anyone to have their aunt murdered like that, but he’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a real good sort, and you can put that in your paper! Wouldn’t hurt a fly! Well, you see for yourself, he didn’t have to go in the box this morning. You’d better get your eye on that young fellow Plasher—him that saw the old lady on the stairs, as he says.”
“You know Mr. Plasher too, of course?”
“Never set eyes on him before to-day!”
“Ah! I had thought that perhaps you might be the lady whom he took for a drive yesterday afternoon.”
“You did, did you?” Mamie was indignant. “What are you getting at? I’m not the sort to go in a car with any young fellow who’s passing, even if he is quite the gentleman, which I will say for this Mr. Plasher.”
“I quite understand,” the Daily Chat assured her. “I thought that, being a friend of the family, you might know who went out with Mr. Plasher yesterday.”
“You’d better ask him! I must be getting along.” Mamie whisked away and left the Daily Chat disconsolate.
Meanwhile Inspector Caird was dispatching his minions in all directions to gather information which might help him to get on to Gerry’s track, or at least to discover his destination and intentions. The inspector lost no time in sending a careful description of Gerry to all the west-coast ports, with commands that any would-be voyager of this appearance was to be detained. He considered the wisdom of asking the B.B.C. to broadcast the description and an appeal to Gerry to “communicate with the police”, but decided to postpone this step until the afternoon.
Until Gerry’s abrupt and unexpected disappearance from the coroner’s court, Inspector Caird had not been paying very much attention to him. His story of his encounter with Miss Pongleton on Friday morning seemed to have no gaps in it and no inconsistencies, and although the inspector realized the possibility that Gerry might be the clever criminal playing a magnificent game of bluff, he did not give much thought to this theory, though he deputed a man to keep an eye on Gerry and to make some discreet enquiries. This man reported that there was nothing to indicate that Gerry had any opportunity to get hold of the leash; there was no evidence that he was short of money or that he had any means of knowing of Miss Pongleton’s appointment with her dentist on Friday morning. Neither had he any grudge against the old lady. He was, of course, engaged to Beryl Sanders, who might possibly inherit Miss Pongleton’s money; in fact, it now appeared likely that she would inherit it, unless the will made on Wednesday had been destroyed—by the old lady herself or by some other person. The inspector was beginning to believe that it might have been found and destroyed by Basil, and he feared that it might be impossible ever to obtain proof of this. The theory that Gerry murdered Miss Pongleton with the idea of obtaining her money indirectly through his marriage with Beryl seemed far-fetched, especially since there was nothing to show that he could have known of the will made on Wednesday, and its contents.
Gerry’s sudden departure aroused alarm and suspicion in Inspector Caird’s official mind. He relieved some of his anxiety by an outburst of anger against the man who should have kept an eye on Gerry and whose vigilance had been dulled by Gerry’s apparently normal behaviour throughout the last two days and his willingness to give any information asked for. The inspector told himself that if they had allowed the real criminal to elude them so neatly, his own career was ruined. But the frenzied activities of the police during that morning failed to disclose that Gerry had made any of the preparations which might have been expected of an escaping criminal. He did not seem to have provided himself with any large sum in cash, nor to have taken any luggage, nor to have obtained a passport. The only clue to his disappearance was the information given by that observant lady, Miss Miggs, that he had driven a middle-aged woman in rough, arty clothes in his car on Sunday afternoon along the North Circular Road, and that they had stopped to make notes in their pocket-books. Further investigation disclosed the absence from the Frampton of Mrs. Daymer. She had left early on Monday morning for an unknown destination, carrying a leather satchel in which she had packed what she might need for a stay of a few days. A description of Mrs. Daymer was sent forth into space to join the description of Gerry.
The inspector was baffled. Was this sudden flight the result of panic? And, if so, what had happened to alarm him? Or was it planned beforehand, with money carefully banked elsewhere in another name, and other supplies deposited, to be collected en route? In that case, what was the motive for the murder? The pearls! Miss Pongleton had owned a pearl necklace which had not so far been found among her belongings, though it had been thought that it would turn up in some obscure hiding-place. But, unless the Pongleton family had been deceived, or had deceived the inspector, about the value of the pearls, they were worth only from fifty to one hundred pounds, surely not enough to provide a motive for murder? It was remotely possible that the pearls were worth more than anyone supposed, and that Gerry was aware of this.
Assuming that the pearls might provide a motive, Inspector Caird began to test the case against Gerry. The footmark on the stairs seemed to belong to a small man who wore rather pointed shoes; it did not belong to Gerry, but it might possibly belong to a woman. Mrs. Daymer seemed to be definitely linked with Gerry’s disappearance; the footmark might be hers, and she, living at the Frampton, would have been able to secure the leash for him. On Sunday afternoon a man named Jones had reported to the police that on Friday morning, at about 9.25, he had seen a slim man of middle height, wearing a dark overcoat and bowler hat, “slink away” from the passage leading past the foot of Belsize Park stairs. The inspector had immediately arranged an identification parade with the confident hope that Jones would be able to identify Basil, but he had been disappointed. Jones’ description was vague and he had not seen the man’s face, but he professed to be certainly able to identify him “in two twos” if only he could catch sight of his back once more. The inspector had not thought it possible that the “slinking” man was Gerry, who was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, wore a light overcoat and did not, so far as could be discovered, possess a dark one.
Basil corresponded to the description more nearly; he sometimes walked with a slouch, which Jones might call a “slink”, and he had certainly set forth from Tavistock Square on Friday morning in a bowler hat. The inspector had decided that Jones was a mutt; now he began to wonder whether, after all, Jones might have seen Gerry. If that were so, Gerry must have spent some ten minutes on the stairs—and how had he occupied that time? Inspector Caird feared that the answer to that question was the solution to the puzzle. The time at which Gerry had reached his office on Friday morning had not been very surely vouched for, the inspector recollected; and Bob Thurlow was in such a state of terror and seemed so afraid that the truth would incriminate him further, that anything he said about the time when he had spoken to Gerry was quite unreliable.
The inspector looked up Mrs. Daymer’s alibi for Friday morning; she had been engaged on “literary work” alone in the smoking-room at the Frampton; no one had enquired very closely into that. The inspector believed that if only Jones could identify Gerry, a plausible case might be pieced together against him. But now where was Gerry to be found?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DISCOVERIES
THAT dark drenched Monday was the most wretched day of Beryl’s life. The police gave her no peace. Clearly they were rattled by Gerry’s unexplained disappearance. They visited his rooms and interrogated his landlord, as Beryl heard when she herself
rang up his address in the forlorn hope that he might have left more precise information there. Beryl’s feelings changed from annoyance to exasperation and finally to dismay. Was it possible that he had actually meant to give the police the slip and that he would not come back? She dismissed the idea indignantly but it returned again and again. She remembered what she and Gerry had heard at the Frampton on Sunday morning about another will. If it existed it was probably in Beryl’s favour. The police of course were capable of believing anything; they might think that the possibility of Aunt Phemia’s money going to Beryl would provide Gerry with a motive for ... Beryl refused to name it, even to herself.
Of course it was utterly ridiculous. Beryl herself was not badly off and Gerry was doing well on the Stock Exchange; at least, he always seemed to be doing well—he was never short of cash or worried about his rent, as Basil constantly was. But one did hear of people who seemed quite prosperous and suddenly crashed financially. That was absurd. Gerry wasn’t a gambler. Besides, they had talked over their plans again and again; had even begun to look for a flat and mapped out the honeymoon tour. It was impossible to imagine that Gerry had been deceiving her all the time. That he could be in desperate need of money, need so desperate that ... Again she refused to put the possibility into words, even in her mind.
She wished that she had drawn the conversation with Inspector Caird to that possible will and made it clear that even if it disinherited Basil in her favour it would make no difference to him in the end. The money was always regarded in the family as due to him at his aunt’s death, and certainly it would go to him.
So all through the day Beryl’s thoughts tormented her, and to smother them she talked frantically to her family in a way quite unlike her usual calm manner—which had sometimes been described, spitefully, as blasé. Mrs. Sanders was annoyed to notice that Beryl was irritating her Uncle James by her random remarks.
Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics) Page 18
