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It Might Lead Anywhere

Page 9

by E. R. Punshon


  He was prowling about the room as he talked, looking here, there, and everywhere. Opportunities for hiding-places seemed rare. He noticed a bag of artificial manure in one corner, a large bag. He remembered that the small strip of garden in front was both small and neglected. Behind the cottage was only a paved yard.

  “Brown hadn’t an allotment anywhere, had he?” Bobby asked.

  “No. Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Well, I was only wondering—why the artificial manure and so much of it?” Bobby explained.

  He opened the bag and thrust his hand down in the fertilizer within. At once he felt something. He drew out yet another small canvas bag, this time one only, partly filled. He emptied it on the table. Some fifty or sixty sovereigns rolled out. But there was still something left within. Bobby took it out. It was a foolscap envelope endorsed, ‘My last will and testament.’ Bobby handed it to Mr. Spencer. “I think you might open it and have a look,” he said. “Don’t you? It may give us a pointer. Perhaps this young Kayes comes into it. It’s odd the way he keeps turning up.”

  Mr. Spencer opened the envelope, and drew out a paper. Glancing at it, he said:

  “Very short. Properly drawn up, I think.” He read aloud: “Everything of which I may die possessed to Maurice Goodman, retired solicitor, of Four Oaks, near Chipping Up, Wychshire.” He put the paper down and stared at Bobby. “What do you make of that?” he demanded.

  CHAPTER XI

  SURPRISE LEGACY

  Mr. Spencer’s desire to know what Bobby made of so unexpected a development, remained unsatisfied. For Bobby made nothing of it at all. So he said nothing and thus greatly impressed Mr. Spencer who thought that Bobby must be too busy thinking it all out, to have words to spare. Mr. Spencer suggested that perhaps there was some relationship between Goodman and Brown, though if so it was odd that as far as was known there had never been any intercourse between the two men. Bobby, always a believer in the direct approach, said he supposed the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Goodman to explain.

  First of all, however, the two of them conveyed the bags of gold to the Oldfordham police station for safe custody till morning when the money could be deposited in the care of one of the banks. That accomplished, they proceeded to Four Oaks, where, when they arrived, Miss Foote came tripping, bright-eyed and smiling, to open the door for them.

  “How nice,” she said, switching on the full battery of her charms, “but I don’t suppose it’s poor little me you’ve come to see. It’s Mr. Goodman you want, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Spencer said gallantly that if they had come to please themselves, it would undoubtedly have been to see her. Unfortunately, business, even serious business, had brought them, and so it was in fact Mr. Goodman they had to interview.

  Miss Foote dimpled and said he was a naughty man to talk like that; and of course they knew, didn’t they, that Mr. Goodman had retired and now never undertook legal business or gave advice? But she would let him know of their arrival if they would wait a moment or two in the drawing-room into which she now ushered them. Then she gave another of her bewitching smiles and sidelong glances to Bobby, thereby subtly managing to convey to him that though a girl had to be nice to the middle-aged, it was those who combined comparative youth with a settled position who were really interesting.

  “Charming little thing,” said Mr. Spencer when she had left them, and he straightened his tie while wondering if he could spare enough coupons to buy a new one.

  “Does she live here, do you know?” Bobby asked.

  Mr. Spencer plainly thought the question indiscreet.

  “Nasty-minded people,” he said severely, “have been talking, I know. But surely a man of Mr. Goodman’s age—sixty, if he’s a day—” Mr. Spencer paused and looked complacent; for he was only forty-five, and the difference between forty-five and sixty seemed to him as the difference between noon-tide and the chill of falling night. He added: “Besides, Mrs. Fuller, the cook, is a most respectable woman. I believe Miss Foote acts as housekeeper as well as secretary.”

  Bobby made no comment, though privately he was of the opinion of the London magistrate who thought that housekeeper was a word that covered many sinners. No business of his though; and, following his usual custom, he began to look attentively round the room to see what indications he could gather of the character and habits of its inmates. Little enough. Probably everything had been supplied for a lump sum by one of the big Midwych furnishing firms. Conventional to a degree, and what better mask for secrecy than a strict and careful conventionality. That is, if there are secrets to hide, but then, there may be none. For, of course, convention can also very well hide nothing but itself. The door opened and Mr. Goodman came in. Bobby noticed at once that he looked pale and worried. He was evidently uneasy, there was a nervous twitching at the corner of his left eye Bobby did not think had been there before, he had developed a way of starting and listening to any unusual sound, to his two visitors he seemed to give but half his attention, as though their unexpected visit interested him little. Once he even rose in the midst of Mr. Spencer’s apologies for troubling him, and went to the door and opened it abruptly, as if he suspected someone might be listening there.

  “I thought I heard a knock at the front door,” he explained, apologetically—and not very convincingly. “Miss Foote said she was going to Mrs. Cox’s down the road and Mrs. Fuller is busy somewhere.”

  He offered them cigarettes, recommending them as being of a special and very excellent Balkan brand. Unobtainable now, he said, but he was able to get a few from time to time from an old friend and former client, who had been in the habit of importing them privately and still had a stock. Then he went off to the room he called his study at the back of the house to fetch drinks, he said. Returning with whisky and soda, he remarked that he took it their call was in connection with the information he had given the Wychshire deputy chief about the Chipping Up disturbance. But he didn’t think there was anything else he could tell them. All he knew was the phone message from the Chipping Up post office he had thought it well to pass on. Was there any connection between Chipping Up and the Oldfordham tragedy that had taken place later?

  “If it’s a coincidence, it’s a curious one,” opined Mr. Goodman, shaking a doubtful head.

  “There’s precious little to go on so far,” Mr. Spencer told him. “But in going through the house we found Brown’s will.”

  “His will?” repeated Mr. Goodman as he asked them both to say ‘when.’ “His will? Had he property to leave? I understood he lived in a very poor way. It’s not a will I drew up when I was in practice, is it?”

  “Apparently the estate will amount to somewhere about eight thousand pounds,” said Mr. Spencer.

  Mr. Goodman turned and stared. Soda he was adding to the whisky he had poured out, splashed unheeded on the tray. He looked utterly bewildered, incredulous even.

  “What?” he said. “What? Oh, that’s impossible.”

  “It’s quite true,” Mr. Spencer assured him.

  Mr. Goodman continued to stare. It seemed as if he still found it difficult to believe what he was told, and for the first time he seemed to forget those preoccupations—fears perhaps—which, till now, had appeared to prevent him from giving his two visitors his full attention.

  “Impossible,” he repeated. “He couldn’t … not Brown … how could he? What makes you think …? There must be some mistake. …”

  “Pretty solid mistake,” said Mr. Spencer cheerfully. “The deputy chief and I had quite a job handling it. It’s gold—sovereigns.”

  As if the weight of this information was altogether too much for him, Mr. Goodman collapsed into the nearest chair. His florid, flushed face, flushed even a deeper hue.

  “Sovereigns,” he repeated stammeringly. “Sovereigns—gold?”

  “Twenty-one canvas bags,” Mr. Spencer told him. “Each of them has about two hundred sovereigns in it. A sovereign is worth about double what it used to be, so that means �
�8,000 or thereabouts. A tidy little sum. It’s all left to you. You are sole legatee and executor.”

  Mr. Goodman gaped, stared, and now the blood ebbed slowly away from his face, leaving it deathly pale.

  “Me? Are you sure?” he stammered. “It can’t be … it’s impossible.”

  “We were as surprised as you are, when we found it,” Mr. Spencer said.

  But to Bobby it seemed that something more than surprise was shown in Goodman’s startled, staring eyes, his trembling hands, the alternate pallor and dark crimson flushes his features showed. Nor was there any trace of the pleased excitement most men would show at the news of an unexpected legacy of £8,000. Deep emotions, indeed, were evidently shaking Goodman through and through, but what they were it was hard to tell. Anger, Bobby thought, and fear, perhaps, or was that only his own imagination? Wild-eyed and staring, Goodman still sat there; and once or twice he put up his hand to his throat, as though he had difficulty in breathing. Then he saw how Bobby’s keen eyes were on him, and by what seemed a supreme effort he tried to regain his self-control. He made a gesture towards the whisky and soda on the table near. Mr. Spencer interpreted it correctly and began to fill a glass.

  “Bowled you over, eh?” he said smilingly. “I’ll make it pretty stiff, shall I?”

  The drink did Mr. Goodman good. He began to look less shaken, more normal. He sat for a moment or two with his head in his hands. He muttered:

  “That explains … only why?”

  “Explains what?” Bobby asked.

  Instead of answering, Goodman, still evidently struggling hard to regain and keep his composure, put out his hand towards the whisky tray. Mr. Spencer anticipated him, filling the glass once more.

  “Stiff as you like,” Goodman muttered. “You must excuse me—a shock, surprise.”

  “Explains what?” Bobby asked again, and Goodman gave him a sharp, upward, suspicious glance.

  “Explains a lot,” Goodman said. “It’s restitution—that’s what it means. The will I mean. Leaving it all to me. Restitution. It wasn’t the name. Browns are common enough. Lots of them. It did just cross my mind it might be the same man when I heard there was a Brown going about with some itinerant preacher and then all that about listening to a New York concert when he was killed. I didn’t take it seriously, just a passing notion. It seemed too improbable. But this business of the legacy makes it clear.”

  It was now Mr. Spencer’s turn to look very bewildered.

  “How do you mean?” he asked. “Why restitution? I’m afraid I don’t follow at all.”

  “No, no, of course not,” agreed Goodman as he helped himself to yet a third drink, even stiffer than the others. Not that it seemed to have much effect. He drank very slowly, in sips. Between sips, he said: “You must excuse me. Brings back so much. Quite a shock. It must be the same man. A great shock. This money, I mean.”

  “I only wish,” said Mr. Spencer feelingly, “I could have the same sort of shock.”

  “It’s being gold, in sovereigns, that clinches it,” Goodman said. He addressed all his remarks to Spencer, but it was Bobby he watched. He went on: “The cunning of it.” He paused again, seeming to meditate on this with admiration. The other two waited patiently. “Untraceable. Untraceable. He left the whole lot to me, you say? His way of making restitution, I suppose. Threw me a bit off my balance. Well, what it comes to, is this. It must be the same Brown who was my managing clerk shortly before I gave up my practice in the thirties. I began to suspect he was gambling on the Stock Exchange with my money—I mean, my clients’ money in the firm’s care. I went into the accounts and I found a deficiency of about £4,000. Brown didn’t wait to be questioned. He just disappeared. To the continent first; and afterwards anywhere in the world, or so I supposed. I knew he had a passport. I never thought of his doubling back and establishing himself almost on my doorstep. Cunning again. I told you, it had just crossed my mind lately that this Brown might be my old managing clerk. But not seriously. It seemed too unlikely. It was an old loss, long since written off as a bad debt. Serious, of course, but I was able to stand it.”

  “I suppose efforts were made to trace Brown?” Bobby asked. “Was a warrant issued?”

  “Well, no,” Goodman answered. “I preferred to say nothing and stand the loss myself. Severe enough, Lord knows, but not crippling. I had one or two strokes of real luck about the same time. Compensation. It’s often like that. Knock-downs and pick-ups. That’s the way it goes. If you keep your head, that is. Frankly, I didn’t want to make a fuss or prosecute. It doesn’t do you any good if it gets round that your staff has been playing tricks with your clients’ money. You’re responsible. You’re to blame. You ought to have been more careful; more wide awake. It might even be hinted that, perhaps, you had been standing in. At the best, it’s your business and your duty to know what’s happening to the money your clients have entrusted to you. If you don’t, not much to your credit. I accepted the loss as my punishment for what I felt some people would be quick enough to call culpable carelessness—or worse. I had almost forgotten about it—not quite, the loss of a few odd thousand pounds does leave an impression—when I heard that a Mr. Brown, living in Oldfordham, had been talking about me. It did just cross my mind as a bare possibility that it might be my old managing clerk. There were one or two things I noticed. This Oldfordham Brown was said to be keen on music and my old head clerk had been that, too. Knew a lot about it. In a way that brought us together. I expect it made me trust him more completely than I might have done otherwise. I’m no musician but there’s nothing I enjoy more than really good music. I got into the way of talking to Brown about it. When we had both been at the Philharmonic the same evening. He taught me a lot. It was he who told me about Sibelius. Made me a Sibelius fan like him. Not many in Midwych. Probably it was because of Sibelius that he was listening to that American concert the paper says he had tuned in to when he was killed. I expect I should have been listening, too, if I had known—and had a short-wave set. It made it all a much greater shock when I found out what he had been up to. Talking music to me and then going off to embezzle my money. Oh, well, you never know, do you? There was the preaching business, too. That sounded a bit like my man. He had religious fits from time to time—religion, music, and embezzlement, what can you make of that? Though his idea of religion seemed to be blaming the Jesuits for everything. Whether it was a railway accident or a war, he was always sure it was the Jesuits again. Exactly like Hitler and the Jews. Used to get very worked up about the Pope, too. He had a very poor opinion of the Pope. All the same, I never really thought it could be the same man. Impossible, I thought. Incredible he should have the impudence to settle down almost on my doorstep, so to speak.”

  Bobby and Mr. Spencer had listened to all this with the greatest interest, the closest attention, and now Mr. Spencer shook a wondering head.

  “Most interesting,” he said. “Most remarkable. It seems we can take it then that Brown left you this money as a sort of making amends. Probably under the influence of this itinerant preacher. Well, well, a kind of ‘Chickens coming home to roost,’ in reverse. I congratulate you.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Goodman. “Yes. Strange how religion can affect a man. I remember how it showed sometimes in the office. I used to try to stop it, all that talk about Jesuits and the rest of it. Really, one thought he would go off his head altogether some day. But I suppose it did help to make me trust him more. That and the music. My only excuse for the carelessness that allowed him to play tricks with my clients’ money. Not that they ever knew; and now it all comes back.”

  “Very nice, too,” said Mr. Spencer, still with a touch of envy in his voice as he thought how nice it would be if any such unexpected windfall came his way. “I congratulate you,” he said again.

  “I must think what to do about it,” Mr. Goodman said. “Of course, there’ll be heavy death duties. Fortunately, I’m not in need of it for myself. A loss long since written off. Perhaps som
e Oldfordham charity? You might be able to suggest something? Or some useful public object? A new wing to the cottage hospital? We must think about it. You’ll be able to advise me?”

  “I shall be delighted,” declared Mr. Spencer beamingly, foreseeing all the kudos that would accrue to him as the chosen channel through which this welcome, fructifying stream of gold would be guided and directed.

  “It’s certainly a strange turn of events,” agreed Bobby, “but it doesn’t seem to help us very much to identify the murderer.”

  “No,” agreed Spencer, recalled from happy dreams of civic ceremonies in which he would take a leading part; introducing Mr. Goodman, as the munificent donor, to such visiting bigwigs as the Lord Lieutenant of the County, the local M.P., and so on; making on them all a most favourable impression, through his super-efficient, smooth-running arrangements. “No, that’s true.” His tone suggested that it was also comparatively unimportant. “Still, if a man has a huge sum in gold hidden under his bedroom floor and it gets known—well, I ask you.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Goodman. “Very well put. Very clear and convincing. Find out who knew about it and there you have your man.”

  CHAPTER XII

  CONSULTATION

  By the skin of his teeth, Bobby managed to get home before the dinner was entirely spoiled. Just as well, for Olive had succeeded in producing for to-night an unusually good wartime dinner in Britain—tinned soup, dried salt cod, dried egg omelette, dried milk pudding. But then Olive was used, as eels are said to be used to being skinned alive, to dinners that vainly awaited a diner still rushing about on some pressing errand or another that was really a sergeant’s or inspector’s job, but that in the prevalent shortage of man-power had to be attended to by a deputy chief constable. Gone were those happy days when an important executive simply picked up his phone and gave orders. Now he had to get out and do it himself. In fact, except on pay days, hardly worth while being an important executive at all. Fortunately, for in all things evil there is something good if we do but diligently distil it forth, there was no cook to lose her temper over a ruined dinner and give indignant notice, since not all the newly acquired dignity and prestige of a Mrs. Deputy Chief had availed to secure Olive a specimen of that almost legendary race. Indeed, she had to admit she was exceptionally fortunate in having the services of a resident maid of sixteen who knew nothing and of a daily woman who did nothing.

 

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