The Unfinished Clue

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "I have it here," replied Harding. "There are one or two things in it that I want you to explain."

  "Well, I've nothing to add to it, really, but I'll explain anything you like," said Geoffrey handsomely. "Only, as a matter of fact, I don't see myself what more you could possibly want to know. I mean, considering I wasn't here when my father was killed -"

  "Will you tell me, Mr. Billington-Smith, what sort of terms you were on with your father?" said Harding. interrupting this speech without ceremony.

  "Look here, what on earth has that got to do with it," expostulated Geoffrey. "I keep on telling you I wasn't here when Father was murdered!"

  A certain sternness made Harding's voice less pleasant all at once. "Mr. Billington-Smith, my time is limited. Will you have the goodness to answer the question?"

  Geoffrey swallowed. "All right, but I still don't -" He saw the Inspector's face harden, and broke off. "Well, l suppose we didn't hit it off frightfully well. My father was absolutely hide-bound, you know. One just had to make allowances for him."

  "When you say that you didn't hit it off, do you mean that you quarrelled?"

  "Oh no, we didn't exactly quarrel. My father used to rave a bit at me, but I didn't quarrel with him, because as it happens I'm not the quarrelsome sort, and besides. it wasn't worth while."

  "Why did your father rave at you?"

  "Good God, I don't know! It was just his way. Well, as a matter of fact, he wanted me to go to Sandhurst, only I wasn't strong enough — not that I would have if I had been, because I should have loathed the Army — and he was frightfully fed-up when I took to writing. Of course. as far as he was concerned, there simply wasn't any other profession but the Army. I've had Army drummed into my ears till I'm sick to death of the sound of it. I've got a cousin who's a cavalryman — well, he was here this weekend, he left soon after breakfast yesterday morning — and all I can say is if he's a fair specimen I'm glad I didn't go to Sandhurst. Only of course, the mere fact of Francis — my cousin — being in the Army was quite enough to make Father think him the devil of a fine fellow. Of course Francis always took jolly good care to keep on the right side of Father. Though as a matter of fact I happen to know that for once in a way he failed to touch Father yesterday. However, that was probably only because father was in such a filthy mood. I've no doubt he'd have stumped up in the end. But because I happened to be a bit delicate, and — well, literary — Father never had the slightest use for me. I may say that the only books he ever read in all his life were Dickens and Scott, so that just shows you the sort of man he was. I mean, he simply knew nothing about art or literature, and he hadn't the slightest sympathy for anyone who was different from himself."

  "You must have had a very hard time of it," prompted Harding kindly.

  "Well, I did, to be quite honest. Not that it made any odds, really, and I don't want to give you the impression that we were always at loggerheads, because we weren't. Naturally, when I was a kid it was pretty rotten for me, but since I grew up I simply went my way and he went his."

  "In fact, there was never much love lost between you?"

  "Good lord, no! Father had no time for me at all. Personally, I've always believed it was because of my mother. She ran away with another man when I was a kid — not that I blame her for that, because I'll bet he was a swine to her — but anyway I'm pretty sure that was why he didn't like me."

  "Would you describe him as having been "an absolute beast" to you ever since you could remember?"

  "Oh, I shouldn't put it as strongly as that!" Geoffrey said. "To me he was more of a joke than anything. though of course he was often frightfully annoying."

  At this point the Sergeant's gaze transferred itself to Harding's profile, dwelt there a moment, and fixed itself finally on a blank space on the opposite wall.

  "You don't live here, do you, Mr. Billington-Smith:' inquired Harding.

  "No, I share a flat with a man I know in town. But that isn't because I don't get on with my father!"

  "I wasn't suggesting that," replied Harding equable. "You have recently become engaged to be married, have you not, to a Miss Lola de Silva?"

  Geoffrey stirred restlessly. "That's all off now, I can assure you."

  Harding looked up from a note he was making. "Indeed? But it was not all off, was it, when you brought Miss de Silva here on Saturday?"

  Geoffrey gave a short laugh. "No, it wasn't. But since then — However, that's a subject I prefer not to discuss. "That's a pity," said Harding, "for it is a subject which I'm afraid I must ask you to tell me about. When was this engagement broken off?"

  "If you must know, yesterday," said Geoffrey. "Did you break it off, or did Miss de Silva?"

  Geoffrey got up quickly. "Look here, I've already said I — I don't want to discuss it! It can't have anything to do with you, and I may as well tell you that I very much object to having my private affairs pried into."

  "Sit down, Mr. Billington-Smith," said Harding. Geoffrey hesitated, and obeyed. "There are two ways of giving evidence to the police," continued Harding in his even voice. "One is to answer the questions that are put to you, and the other is to have the truth pumped out of you. I recommend the first of these. You will find it less unpleasant."

  Geoffrey looked rather frightened. "I didn't mean — of course, if you assure me it's necessary, that's another matter. Only I don't mind telling you that I've been utterly disillusioned about Lola — Miss de Silva, you know, and I simply don't want to hear her name mentioned again."

  "Did she, or did you break off the engagement?" repeated Harding.

  Geoffrey ran his hand along the arm of the chair. "Well, it's all rather difficult to explain. In a way, she did."

  "What do you mean by "in a way"?"

  "Well — I found she was completely mercenary. Of course, I'd been living in a fool's paradise. I see that now.

  "You are wandering from the point, Mr. Billington-Smith."

  "Oh, I don't know that I meant anything in particular!" said Geoffrey irritably. "She said she wasn't going to marry me, and that opened my eyes, and I can assure you nothing would induce me to marry her now, however much she may think I'm going to."

  "Does she think you are going to?"

  "God knows what she thinks. She's one of those, beautiful, utterly soulless fiends. I was blinded by her."

  "Why has she changed her mind?" asked Harding.

  "Because all she cares for is money. Money! Now Father's dead she thinks I shall be frightfully wealthy though he may have left all his money to Francis for all I know. It wouldn't surprise me in the least; it's just the sort of thing he would do."

  "Did Miss de Silva, then, break the engagement for pecuniary reasons?"

  "Yes," Geoffrey admitted reluctantly.

  Harding put down his pencil. "I see. Now, I am not going to ask you whether your father disliked the engagement, because I know that he did. Also -"

  "You seem to know the hell of a lot," muttered Geoffrey.

  "I'm glad you are beginning to realise that," replied Harding calmly. "It is no use trying to put me off with these half-truths and evasions, you see. You are only giving me an impression I am perfectly sure you don't want me to have. On Monday morning you had a interview with your father, who was very angry with you. That is so, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Geoffrey answered, somewhat subdued. "At least, he was angry about Lola."

  "What was the result of that interview, Mr. Billington-Smith?"

  "Well, we had a bit of a row — more than that, really , because he was absolutely livid with rage — and in the end he said I could get to hell out of his sight, and he going to cut off my allowance, and he never wanted to set eyes on me again. Not that that was likely to worry me , any of it, because as I said, we didn't hit it off, and as for starving in a ditch, which was the way he put it, money simply means nothing to me, and in any case I can support myself with my pen. I can tell you, it was a very jolly interview."

  "It seems to have been," a
greed Harding. "When it was over, what did you do?"

  "Naturally I went up to tell Lola what had happened. It simply didn't occur to me that it would make any difference as far as she was concerned. Of course, being practically disowned was a bit of a bore, but I really wasn't worrying much then."

  "You say you went up — I take it Miss de Silva had breakfasted in her room?"

  "Oh yes, she never gets up before eleven. In fact she wouldn't let me see her till then, and I had to kick my heels on the landing for ages. And when she did let me into her room, and I told her — well, it was an absolute knock-out. I thought she was joking at first, when she said she wouldn't marry me if I hadn't got a lot of money. Then I saw she wasn't, and I suppose I had a sort of utter revulsion of feeling, because all I could think of was to get out of the house, and away from Lola. I felt I should be sick if I stayed another moment. So that's exactly what I did do."

  "What?" said Harding.

  "Got out of the house," Geoffrey said impatiently.

  "Have you any idea what the time was when you left the house?"

  "No, of course I haven't," replied Geoffrey. "When a man's stood up to a blow like that, had his faith in women completely destroyed — well, what I mean is, you don't suppose I stopped to look at the time, do you? All I know, is it was some while after eleven, and before Father came in."

  "And when you left the house, Mr. Billington-Smith where did you go?"

  "Oh, I don't know! Miles away. I simply walked and walked."

  "I quite appreciate the fact that you were extremely upset," said Harding, "but surely you must have some idea of where you went?"

  "Yes, well, I went through the woods first, and over to Longshaw Hill, and I suppose I sort of circled round it more or less by instinct, because I found myself on old Carnaby's land — he owns the place on the main road, between us and the village — and I came home by way of the footpath through his park. As a matter of fact, I didnt come out on the main road at all, because you can get from Moorsale Park on to our land without touching the road. There's just a farm-track you have to cross, and then you come to the spinney at the bottom of the garden. That's how I came."

  "I see. Did you meet anyone while you were out?"

  "To meet anyone was the last thing I wanted!" said Geoffrey bitterly.

  "Try to remember, Mr. Billington-Smith. I don't know this countryside, but you have described what sounds to me a very lonely walk."

  "Of course it was! I didn't want to run into people. I wanted to be alone!"

  "Are you well known here?" Harding asked. "If someone did happen to see you during the course of your walk, would they be likely to recognise you?"

  "I don't know. I dare say. It depends." Geoffrey looked defiantly across the table. "I see what you're driving at, but if you think —"

  "I am not driving at anything," Harding said gravely, "But I want you, in your own interests, to try and remember whether you did not meet someone."

  "I tell you I don't know! My mind was in an absolute turmoil. I'm pretty sure I didn't actually meet anyone, hut how on earth can I know whether anybody saw me or not?"

  "Very well, Mr. Billington-Smith," Harding answered. "That is all I want to ask you at present. Will you ask Mr. Halliday to come here, please?"

  Geoffrey got up jerkily. "Look here, Inspector!" he burst out. "This is all jolly fine, but if you've marked me down as a suspect simply because I can't bring a lot of witnesses forward to prove I'm speaking the truth — well, I call it a bit thick! There are heaps of people with just as much reason for wanting to kill Father as I had — and if you want to know there's one person in particular with a damned sight more reason — and to single me out —'

  Harding glanced up from his notebook. "Mr. Billington-Smith: really, this is not leading us anywhere. Will you send Mr. Halliday in to me, please?"

  Geoffrey hesitated, and then flung round on his heel and strode to the door. As he opened it Harding spoke again. "Oh, just one moment! Did the Chief Constable warn you that it would be necessary for the safe in your father's study to be opened in my presence?"

  "Yes, he did, and Father's lawyer is coming down tomorrow," snapped Geoffrey, and walked out, banging the door behind him.

  Inspector Harding gazed meditatively after him. He said, without turning his head: "You looked at me once I think, Sergeant. What was it?"

  "Well, sir, I couldn't help thinking that for Mr. Billington-Smith to say the General was a joke to him was a very different tale from any I ever heard. It didn't seem to me that you could very well rely on anything he said. What I should call a mighty bad witness, sir."

  "Atrocious," said Harding.

  The Sergeant coughed behind his hand. "Begging your pardon, sir, I thought you was a bit high-handed with him — if I might pass the remark. If he had happened to object to the question he took exception to I couldn't help wondering where we'd have been then."

  "We should have apologised gracefully, Sergeant. But if I hadn't bullied him a little I should have got nothing out of him at all. A tiresome young gentleman."

  "Yes, sir. And it's a weak story he told you."

  "A very weak story," said Harding.

  "He's what you might call hasty-tempered too," pondered the Sergeant. "Very excitable, he seemed."

  "Excitable, and badly frightened," said Harding, and turned his head as the door opened to admit Basil Halliday.

  Chapter Eleven

  Halliday walked forward, glancing from Harding to the Sergeant, and back again. "Good afternoon," he said. "You want to ask me some questions, I think."

  "Yes," Harding answered. "Sit down, will you, Mr. Halliday? You and your wife are guests in the house, I believe?"

  "We came down for the week-end," replied Halliday, crossing one leg over the other. "In the ordinary course of events we should have gone back to town yesterday, but naturally that was impossible until this business had been cleared up. My home address is -"

  "I have it here, Mr. Halliday," said Harding. "Had you known Sir Arthur for long?"

  "No, we were quite recent acquaintances. We met at Nice, last winter. I had a temporary job that took me out to the South of France, and the Billington-Smiths were staying there during January and February. Lady Billington-Smith and my wife struck up a bit of a friendship. Then after we came home we rather lost sight of them, until my wife happened to run across Sir Arthur in town one day, and the acquaintance was picked up again." As he spoke he looked once or twice, as though compelled, at the Sergeant, and his brows twitched a little; he shifted his chair slightly to get out of the direct line of that paralysing stare.

  Harding asked in his impersonal way: "When did you last see Sir Arthur alive, Mr. Halliday?"

  "On Monday morning," replied Halliday promptly. "I saw him in his study about twelve o'clock. I'm not sure of the exact time, but it must have been about then. It's best that I should be quite frank with you, Inspector, so I'll tell you at once that Sir Arthur and I had — most unfortunately, as it turns out — a disagreement."

  "A quarrel, Mr. Halliday?"

  "No, not a quarrel. I don't say there might not have been a quarrel had the circumstances been rather different, for I had cause to feel considerable annoyance with Sir Arthur. But my being a guest in his house put me into an awkward position. One doesn't quarrel with a man under his own roof."

  "Was your disagreement of a serious nature, Mr. Halliday?"

  Halliday gave a quick, mirthless smile. "Well, that is rather difficult to answer, Inspector. The contretemps concerns my private affairs, and I should prefer not to take you into them. I can only say that it made me determined not to accept another invitation to stay with Sir Arthur."

  "Did the interview become heated?" inquired Harding."Not on my side, I hope. Ah, you are thinking of Finch's somewhat exaggerated statement! He, I believe told the Superintendent that he had overheard me having a violent row with Sir Arthur. I'm afraid that was a highly coloured version of what actually occurred , though I
must admit that I had to raise my voice to make myself heard. Sir Arthur had a habit of shouting when he was at all put out, as I dare say you've been told."

  "What you had to say to Sir Arthur, then, had the effect of angering him?"

  "Oh, very much!" replied Halliday with a short laugh. "Sir Arthur did not like finding himself in the wrong any more than most people do."

  Harding drew his pocket-book out and opened it. Hadliday shot one quick glance at it, and fixed his eyes on Harding's face again. "Do you know anything about this, Mr. Halliday?" asked Harding, arranging the four torn quarters of the General's cheque.

  Halliday's right hand clenched on the chair-arm, and relaxed again. It was a moment before he answered, and then he said carefully: "I do, Inspector. I am sorry you found that cheque. You'll understand why I didn't wish to tell you what I went to see Sir Arthur about."

  "Perfectly," said Harding, and waited.

  "I suppose I had better tell you exactly what happened," Halliday said. "My quarrel with Sir Arthur was purely on account of that cheque. Sir Arthur had been paying my wife a great many unwelcome attentions during our stay. I can best describe his attitude as pseudo-fatherly. You probably know what I mean. It made it very difficult for my wife to choke him off. Yesterday morning he pressed that cheque on her with a lot of talk about wanting to make her a little present. She tried, of course, to make him understand that it was quite impossible for her to accept such a thing, but he made it extremely awkward for her, and in the end she gave it up, and instead came at once to consult me. Naturally, I — '

  "One moment, Mr. Halliday. At what time during this morning did Sir Arthur give this cheque to your wife?"

  "That I can't tell you. It was when he and she were over at his keeper's cottage, inspecting a litter of puppies. Somewhere between eleven and twelve."

  "They returned to the house shortly before ten to twelve, I understand. At what time did your wife confide what had happened to you?"

  "Immediately, of course. She thought it was the best thing she could do — quite rightly."