“That was the cunning part! He was that artful! He hitched the leash round a hook on the window, so that it would look as if the poor dumb creature strangulated itself. And then he went out for a walk, just as if nothing had happened. There’s callosity for you!”
“And how did you ever bring it home to him?” asked Mrs. Daymer.
“Ah! That was the invention of Providence, if you like! It just happened there was a boy scrambling on a fence, as boys will, and he happens to look up and sees the whole deed. He didn’t say anything at the time, being afraid they’d ask him what he was doing on the fence, and not his own fence neither; but after a day or two he heard them talking about how poor Dido had strangulated herself out of the window and he says, ‘That dog didn’t ever strangulate itself—it was strangulated intently.’ So of course that got round to our ears—though we couldn’t hardly believe it, young Joe had seemed so cut up about Dido’s death—and Father took it up.”
“It must have been a dreadful shock to all of you,” Mrs. Daymer declared. “And you never heard any more of the young man? He would be older than yourself, I suppose?”
“Not so much older. He was a young chap then, twenty perhaps; I reckon he’d be getting on for fifty now. It so happened we did hear of him again. You see, my sister Dollie was walking out with a young fellow by the name of Parsons; a decent chap he was, though it wasn’t him she married in the end. Well, Dollie got a little money saved up; she was always a careful one, and she was a waitress at the Grand Hotel, and a nice little bit she used to get in tips sometimes, and living at home of course she hadn’t much expense. Well, Dollie wanted to put this money safely away, and Parsons, he was in the same office with young Joe, and he told her that Joe knew of a good thing. Dollie didn’t like the idea of that at first, but Tom Parsons got round her and in the end Joe took the money and got Dollie to sign some papers and that was the last she saw of it.”
“Do you mean to say he embezzled it?” demanded Gerry.
“I wouldn’t say that. He declared it was all a piece of bad luck and that his own savings were in the same concern, and he was in a concern too, or pretended to be. He did take on about it, Dollie told me. He said she’d get her money back in the end, and more too. But she never did, and it’s my belief to this day that that’s what wrecked Tom Parsons’ chance with Dollie. She never forgave him, though I don’t think the lad was to blame; it was said he lost his own money too.”
“Did your sister sue Slocomb for the money?” Mrs. Daymer asked.
“She did see a lawyer about it, but it was all a bit awkward, seeing that Dollie didn’t dare tell Father that she’d had dealings with Joe. She daren’t make it public, and the lawyer said it would cost a lot and he wasn’t sure they could get the law of him anyway, for there was nothing to show that it had gone into Joe’s pocket, though it’s my belief to this day that that’s where it went. And would you believe it, that lawyer sent her in a bill for just telling her that. There’s no accounting for some people!”
“His advice doesn’t seem to have been worth much,” Mrs. Daymer agreed. “This was a long time ago, I suppose?”
“It would be soon after Joe left us. I believe Dollie did hear more talk of how he’d got money out of others too, but soon afterwards he left that office and went up to London to reprove himself. Dollie married Fred Smithers, who was in the drapery. Father was in a nice way about that, our family not being in trade, though drapery is a gentleman’s business, I always say! And Fred’s got his own shop now, in Warwick Street, and doing well.”
“We are extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Birtle, for telling us all about that unfortunate affair. I suppose this young man—Slocomb did you say his name was?—wasn’t of a local family? Do you know where he came from?”
“That I can’t remember. He thought a great deal of himself, but I daresay his family wasn’t such great shakes as he made out.”
“What was he like in appearance, this Joe Slocomb? I am not asking out of mere idle curiosity, you understand. Such matters are of great importance to me in my study of the types who are guilty of these excesses.”
“Excessive you may well call it,” declared Mrs. Birtle. “Even if poor Dido had got in his way—and of course she was a great big dog—did I tell you?—but house-trained—well, that wasn’t any justifyment for such a deed. But you were asking what he looked like. A dapper little chap he was, not very big, with the smallest feet I ever saw on a man. Very fussy about his appearance he always was, forever brushing and polishing. A sort of betwixt and between in his colouring, so far as I remember, and quite a good-looking young fellow, though perhaps a bit sharp. Very good indoors he was too. A very fussy way of speaking he had and used long words—though that’s nothing against him, for I always think that long words sound genteel.”
“Now I really think we must be going,” said Mrs. Daymer. “We have taken up a great deal of your time, and it is very good of you to have told us so much. It will be of great assistance to me.”
“You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?” suggested Mrs. Birtle.
“I don’t think we ought to trouble you further,” Mrs. Daymer began, but Gerry was accepting the invitation with enthusiasm. He seemed to be fascinated by Mrs. Birtle’s conversation.
“A pleasure!” Mrs. Birtle declared. “I like a nice cup of tea myself and a chat about old times.”
Over tea Mrs. Birtle indulged in further reminiscences about her family, and Gerry listened with rapt attention and even drank two cups of the purplish mixture which she offered them. No further significant facts about Joe Slocomb were gleaned by the investigators, and the exact fate of Dollie’s money remained a mystery, except for the recollection that Joe promised to “put it into a company”.
As Mrs. Daymer and Gerry made their way to the station to catch the 5.20 train back to Town, Gerry expatiated on the charm of Mrs. Birtle.
“I never knew that such people existed. She’s a gem—a dream! By Jove, I’m glad I came!”
His pleasure was to receive a douche of cold disillusionment on his arrival in London.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CONSPIRACY!
BERYL and her uncle drove back to Beverley House from the Frampton in silence, and on their arrival they stood looking at each other in the hall, realizing that James’ wife and Beryl’s mother would be waiting for them, bristling with awkward questions. People’s personalities seem to be changing, thought Beryl: Uncle James, who had always been rather ferocious and alarming, had become a pathetic old man who must be protected; whilst kind, fluffy Aunt Susan had become alarming and must be prevented from worrying Uncle James.
Beryl put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder.
“Suppose you go into the study, Uncle. Don’t worry—I’ll see Basil later and find out what it’s all about; I know it isn’t as bad as it looks. Now I’ll go and talk to Mother and Aunt Susan.”
The old man moved uncertainly, with bowed head, towards the study door, and Beryl drew a deep breath. Could Basil give a satisfactory explanation of this pearls business?
Her mother looked up cheerfully as she entered the sitting-room.
“Well, dear? Is it all right? The pearls?”
Beryl rushed into a vague description of all that had happened at the Frampton and tried to fix their attention on what seemed to her the minor details.
“Well, really!” her aunt declared. “In the chair! I consider that the police are a great deal overrated. I’m afraid that inspector is quite incompetent. I hope James is writing to The Times about it. You would think they might have discovered by this time who did that horrible crime, especially when they have got the man under lock and key, and without causing us all this inconvenience.”
“But where is Basil?” asked Mrs. Sanders.
“At the police-station with Inspector Caird, trying to clear up some of this muddle.”
“Well, if Basil can clear anything up I shall be surprised,” his mother admitted. “Poor boy! He takes afte
r me. Full of ideas but no head for business! And all the Pongletons are splendid business men. Such a pity!”
Beryl had a bad hour listening to a rambling discussion by her aunt of the situation and trying to lead them away from the more awkward points. When the telephone bell rang she leapt to her feet, thankful for an interruption as well as for the prospect of news.
“That you, Beryl?” came Gerry’s welcome voice.
“Gerry! My dear! Thank goodness you’re back! Where are you?”
“Euston. Sorry, darling, that I’m so late. Everything all right?”
“No!” declared Beryl desperately. “Everything’s frightful. It’s been a ghastly day, and wherever have you been? Inspector Caird wants you; he was in an awful state because you vanished so suddenly. I really think he believed you were running away.” Beryl found that her voice was becoming trembly. The immense relief of knowing that Gerry, at least, was all right had brought her almost to tears.
“Suppose I’d better go and see him at once. I wonder where——”
“Hampstead police-station; he’s there with Basil. We found Aunt Phemia’s pearls and another will too, but there’s some frightful mystery about the pearls and Basil’s explaining—at least, I hope he is. Come round here afterwards. My dear, I shall be glad to see you!”
“So shall I,” Gerry assured her ungrammatically. “Are you all right? Your voice sounds queer.”
“The telephone,” Beryl murmured.
“I was going to Hampstead police-station with Mrs. Daymer anyway, so that’s all right,” Gerry continued.
“Mrs. Daymer? Why on earth?”
“I’ll explain later. All’s well! G’bye, darling.”
Meanwhile Basil had been escorted in a taxi from the Frampton to Hampstead police-station by Inspector Caird. In the gloomy silence of the journey the inspector mentally reviewed the situation. A foul case! he thought to himself. All these blasted clues, pointing in different directions: a brooch, pearls, wills, to say nothing of the extraordinary behaviour of Basil and of Gerry and the co-operation of such unlikely collaborators as Gerry and Mrs. Daymer. Basil and Mr. Slocomb too; his sleuths had reported three interviews between them, and now Slocomb appeared as a legatee under the new will. How did he come in?
The inspector ran through the evidence against Basil. He had to confess that Basil’s own incriminating behaviour was the chief point against him. But there was one important point which Basil did not know about yet. He had left his fingerprints on the rail of Belsize Park spiral staircase, above the spot where the body was found. When the inspector interviewed Basil on Sunday night he had invited the young man to smoke, and indicated a silver box on the table. Basil, in helping himself, planted several fingers firmly on the polished surface without misgiving, and those prints had been identified, after a lot of trouble, with some of the multitude on the stairs. In the hope that Basil might give away something really useful, the inspector was keeping this evidence in reserve, but he had a suspicion that Basil might, with his engaging air of ingenuousness, be able to show conclusively that he had helped his aunt up those stairs on some previous occasion.
The footprint had seemed a piece of luck for the police, but it hadn’t helped much as yet. Bob Thurlow, who had been pasting up notices on the platform, had slopped some paste out of his bucket in a dark corner near the foot of the stairs. Someone—presumably the murderer—had trodden in it and had left the mark of a rather pointed shoe, of small size for a man, on the lowest step, pointing upwards. It was not Bob’s nor Gerry’s; conceivably Basil might wear shoes which would fit it, but none could be traced among his possessions. Yet he had got rid of a bowler hat—could he have disposed of shoes also? He probably had time between leaving Tavistock Square and arriving at Golder’s Green to commit the murder en route, though the times were a little difficult to vouch for accurately.
But how does the latest will fit in? thought the inspector. It disinherits Basil and therefore takes away his motive for the murder, which in any case seemed slight since the disposal of the money was always rather uncertain and there was evidence that his aunt, while she lived, frequently supplied him with cash.
His thoughts turned to Gerry. He was engaged to Beryl, who inherits under the new will. They were pretty certain that either Beryl or Basil would inherit. A ray of inspiration shot through the dark confusion of the inspector’s thoughts. The whole thing’s a damn conspiracy! he concluded. The pearls found in the chair, probably put there by Betty Watson, are fakes; these weren’t ready in time for Basil to hand them to his aunt on Wednesday, and the letter—ah! the letter!—which Basil received from his aunt on Friday morning, telling him of her appointment with the dentist, provided him with the opportunity of meeting her on the stairs and made him decide to act at once. Young Plasher has gone off to sell the real pearls—but why so suddenly, at this juncture?
However, that may be cleared up; the thing is straightening itself out. The letter also told Basil of the will and gave a clue to its whereabouts. One of the gang abstracted it—is this where the Daymer woman comes in? They needed another accomplice in the boarding-house, since they dared not let Betty Watson into the whole plot. Betty—a really human feeling for Betty was breaking through the inspector’s usual impersonal attitude towards every individual connected with a criminal case. He couldn’t help liking that nice little girl, and he could hardly keep his hands off Basil, slouched in the opposite corner of the taxi, when he reflected that the brute had involved Betty in this nasty business. For she was involved—she had been detailed to put the fake pearls in the chair—and she’d be loyal to the last. Of course that was why she had lied about Basil having entered the Frampton on Thursday night; he had gone in and had snatched the leash, though Betty hadn’t noticed at the time. Perhaps she now guesses this and is trying to defend him.
When Basil seemed to be under suspicion, the inspector decided, the gang planned to have the last will found, as it would tend to deflect that suspicion. The Daymer woman was to arrange that, but through lack of co-ordination, not knowing where Betty had put the pearls, she messed it up.
The inspector’s thoughts turned back to Mr. Slocomb; probably he’s in the gang; a wily bird, he may well be the brains of it. The footprint might be his—but why in heaven’s name should they need to have three of them on the stairs, unless they thought there was safety in numbers and that the multiplicity of clues would confuse the police hopelessly. Gerry had since advertised his presence there, probably with the deliberate intention of leading the police astray; his rôle may have been to hold the old lady in conversation until the others arrived. He could help the others make an inconspicuous getaway and boldly show himself to Bob and act the innocent man. Slocomb had been very anxious to clear Basil by that volunteered evidence about the leash. The inspector glanced at his notebook. Had Slocomb time to get to Belsize Park? He had informed the police complacently, when questioned, that on Friday morning, as usual, he took a short constitutional before catching his train at Hampstead station at 9.40. The fact that he did travel from Hampstead at that time had been confirmed by acquaintances, but between 9.5 and 9.40 where was he? He walked, he said, down Downshire Hill and along the borders of the Heath, but there had been no definite confirmation of this. That had seemed only natural. He took his walk alone, and why should anyone notice him specially? But suppose he did not take a walk?
Beryl Sanders was slightly involved, too, but probably not seriously. She had certainly tried to conceal that damning note about the pearls, she refused to say where Gerry had gone, and she expected the pearls to be found. She might be fairly deeply implicated, the inspector decided.
As for poor Bob Thurlow, now waiting apprehensively in gaol, Inspector Caird believed that he was less guilty than any of the others who were still at large. The inspector realized that some of his subordinates engaged on the disentanglement of the Pongleton puzzle thought him barmy to ignore the clear evidence of Bob’s guilt and waste time hunting for anoth
er criminal. He had a wide experience of guilty men telling lies—cunning lies, stupid lies, and bold lies. He also had a considerable, though less varied, experience of innocent men telling the truth—obvious truth, shameful truth, and almost incredible but nevertheless genuine truth. He had a personal conviction that Bob Thurlow’s own story belonged to the last category, but there was little as yet to persuade a jury to agree with him.
When Basil and the inspector arrived at Hampstead police-station, Basil was set to wait in the outer office under the imperviable gaze of a constable. Another constable followed the inspector to an inner room.
“The Lost Property has rung up, sir, to say that they have a bowler hat answering to our description, which was found in an underground train at Edgware on Friday morning. The train would have stopped at Golder’s Green at ten-fifteen, and it was a City train, sir—not from Warren Street. They’re sending it along.”
“The whole train? Hm! I think we’ve got him.” Inspector Caird became grim. “He’ll find it a bit difficult to explain how he set out from Warren Street at nine-thirty and arrived at Golder’s Green in a train from the other line, and not until ten-fifteen. That gives him ample time. Any news of young Plasher and the Daymer woman?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Damn silly to let them give us the slip! Look here, take these”—he held out, very carefully, the pearls in their tissue-paper wrapping and the will in its envelope, encased in another piece of paper—“to Perrin to examine for fingerprints, especially on the will that’s inside the envelope; then tell him to pass on the pearls to be tested to see if they’re fakes. And—a moment—what about that other Johnny’s time? He may have been there. Send a man to make this test: he starts from the Frampton, goes to Hampstead station and takes train to Belsize Park; there goes up the stairs to the point where the body was found; waits there—mm!—ten minutes; then returns to the down platform and takes a train back to Hampstead, where he crosses to the up platform and waits for a train. He is to move quickly but not so fast as to be conspicuous. He is to time himself carefully from the Frampton until the moment when he could board a Charing Cross train on his return to Hampstead station. He is to report here as soon as he has carried out the test. And now bring in Mr. Pongleton.”
Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics) Page 21
