Hayles sat there, plate at elbow, looking into the fire. He spoke like a man who has just arrived at certain convictions.
“Do you know, I have! I probably don’t know half what I did, but I can see a perfectly good reason for what I remember. It’s all absolutely logical, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s very interesting!” said Wharton—and meant it.
“For instance, I sold my car. I intended to do that in any case. Like a fool I went to the Motor Show the other week and immediately got dissatisfied, as I ought to have known I should. What I fell in love with was one of those S.K. sixes—the sports model—and I sort of put the idea on one side and then it kept popping up again, and finally on Saturday, when I knew I was going down to Martlesham, I got a hefty sum—for me—out of the bank. You see, I’d seen a car in a garage at Ipswich, so I thought I’d have a deal for my old one and pay the balance in cash.… Then the fog rather spoilt that—sort of put me off it—and I thought I’d do it on the Monday when I was in town.” He turned round and looked full at Wharton. “Now, do you see? I must have done all that mechanically, when I lost my memory!”
Wharton raised a comprehending hand. “Precisely what I guessed! The very kind of thing people do.” He paused to wipe his fingers and set aside the devastated tray. “Anything else in the sequence? What happened at Ripley, for instance?”
Another flash of illumination lit up Hayles’s face. “The very same thing! I remember I went to see Young. That was all the talk of poisons running through my mind. You see,” he explained, “Young gave me some poison last autumn to destroy a wasps’ nest in our garden at Ripley and I happened to be mentioning it to… Michael France and he asked me if I could get some for a friend of his—name like ‘Field’ or something like that—who had a dog he wanted to destroy. That’d be about a fortnight ago, so when I was down there I saw Young and made the excuse that I wanted it to kill off a cat of ours I didn’t like—I did kill it by the way. It was a miserable little brute—and when Young gave it me, I handed the balance to Michael—”
“You gave the poison to France!”
Hayles looked surprised. “Yes! I just told you he asked me for some. It was in crystal form but I filled a bottle with water and made a solution.”
Wharton disguised his feelings admirably. “I see. As you say, it all works out. That poison business was on your mind and you went over it all again.” He went on as if in reminiscent vein. “Mr. Franklin was very upset about your mother’s distress and did his best to find you. He seems to have found out all that business you’ve been telling me.” He leaned forward again. “And then you went to Marfleet. Remember that?”
Hayles looked up at the ceiling. “Yes… I remember going to Marfleet… now you come to mention it.”
“Hm! And that’s where you scared us.… And Mrs. Claire. That letter of yours nearly frightened her to death.”
“Letter? What letter?”
“The letter you wrote her, saying you were going to commit suicide!”
Hayles started, then frowned. “I wrote Mrs. Claire a letter! What was in it? What did I say?”
Wharton wasted no time over finding his notes. “I think I know it by heart. This is how it went—
My dear Dorothy,
When you get this—
Hayles leaned forward, head between his hands. Wharton started again.
When you get this I shall be dead. You have never understood me but now you know. What I did was for your sake, even when I had to listen last Friday evening at the top of the stairs. I hope you will always be happy. Burn this note and forget it, as I shall.
A good half minute elapsed and when Hayles raised his head, to Wharton’s surprise and no inconsiderable relief he was smiling—a bit dazedly perhaps, like a man who understands only partly.
“You frightened me when you said that—about Mrs. Claire. May I say something in confidence, but—er—perhaps you know it already. I—er—thought a good deal of Dorothy Claire”—he looked away to the fire—“and your mention of a letter, well, it was like a visit to the dentist when you have gas and wonder what you’ve said when you come round again, in case you’ve… you’ve said what you shouldn’t. When I lost my memory it was—er—like having gas. I wondered what I’d said.” He looked up anxiously. “Did Peter Claire see that letter?”
“Oh, no! Only Mrs. Claire—and ourselves.”
Hayles nodded. “Not that it matters much.… But what else did I do? Could you tell me?”
Wharton told him—at least he gave him a subtle version that included more than one error of fact. Hayles, however, never turned a hair, even when Wharton arrived at the lake.
“What else could we think after seeing that boat? There didn’t seem a ray of hope. However, we decided to give it another twenty-four hours, so as not to distress your mother.” Then casually, “You remember nothing about that?”
Hayles screwed up his eyes as if looking back into the inscrutable past. “Not a thing. I just remember going along the drive to Marfleet Hall… then everything’s a blank.”
“Quite! However, we’ll leave that. You don’t want to be reminded of it, that’s a certainty!” He pulled out a species of notebook. “Now let’s see what you can do for us. Oh, yes! What’s your exact opinion of Usher?”
“Usher! You mean his spying on Mrs. Claire?”
“Mrs. Claire! My dear fellow, you’ve got it all wrong! However, you found out that, did you?”
“Yes… by luck really. You see, the windows of my room upstairs look out over the back, and one morning—Mrs. Claire happened to have come in at the time—I looked out of the window for something or other and I saw this chap Usher actually getting into this room by that window there! After that I kept an eye on him; then I laid a trap—pretty shrewd one—and he fell clean into it.”
“Good work! I’ll have to talk to you about that some time soon. But you’re really all wrong about his spying on Mrs. Claire. It was everybody he was keeping an eye on! Didn’t you tell us about France getting some anonymous letters? Well, France got Usher into the house to act as a sort of bodyguard.”
Hayles looked startled. “Yes, but those letters arrived only last week and Usher was here a fortnight and more ago!”
Wharton shook his head and smiled patiently. “Oh, no! There were others before that! They reached France privately—so you didn’t know anything about them.”
Hayles frowned and went laboriously through the orthodox motions of a man in a mental morass; all the same, Wharton could see he’d tied him in the devil of a knot.
“Tell me,” he went on. “When you overheard France and Mrs. Claire on that Friday evening, where were you? Upstairs at work?”
“That’s right.”
“And you thought they were making arrangements for—what we might call bluntly—an adulterous rendezvous—in this house?”
Hayles glared. “And weren’t they?”
“Good heavens, no! Ask Claire and he’ll tell you! They were making arrangements to go to a night club without Claire knowing it. That’s the only deception there was practised on him!”
Hayles blinked rapidly, made as if to speak, then looked miserably into the fire.
“Two questions, Mr. Hayles—and one answer will do for both. You were desperately anxious to get back to town. Also, when you got to this house, you were scared stiff. Exactly why?”
Hayles looked him straight in the face and fairly snapped the answers at him. “I thought Usher would tell Claire all about it and he’d kill France—I mean, that’s what I thought he’d done when I came in on Sunday and you said he was dead. All the time at Martlesham I kept worrying what had happened. I even thought France had wanted the poison to get rid of Peter Claire. I tell you I was in a state of collapse before I got here. That’s why I rang up Claire when I got back—to see if he was all right.”
“But you took your time over that!”
“I know I did. I sort of… didn’t like to dive in. I was afra
id something had happened.”
“But you didn’t come round here when you got back?”
“Why should I? France told everybody he was going to be away all the Sunday.”
Wharton shook his head. He daren’t let himself go, but a mild relief had to be given to his feelings.
“One of these days, young man, you’ll land yourself in queer street! You were asked certain questions on the Sunday night and you chose to prevaricate. Oh, I’m not questioning the chivalry of your motives! The trouble is, the law doesn’t take much stock of chivalry, as an answer to plain questions.” He watched the other with a careful eye and saw the danger signal in time. “However, that’s all over and done with. You’ve let a flood of light on things—and we’re much obliged to you.” He shook his head consolingly. “You’ve had a very bad time of it. Rest’ll soon put you right. And just a second, if you don’t mind.”
When he returned to the room he was holding the poison bottle.
“Is that the one you brought from Ripley, with the poison for France?”
Hayles examined it carefully. “Looks like it. I’m practically sure it is it!”
“You couldn’t swear to it?”
“Well—er—I couldn’t, but I’m sure it’s the one—if you know what I mean.”
“I think I see.” Out of his pocket came the pistol. “And what about this? Ever seen it before?”
Hayles undoubtedly had; his eyes showed that. “It’s Michael’s!” Then he looked startled. “Is it—er—”
“It is,” said Wharton. “It’s the one… he killed himself with. And you’re sure it’s his?”
“Absolutely! I was with him when he got it. It used to be Dunally’s. He got it in the war.”
“Dunally did! I didn’t think he was as old a man as that!”
“He’s over thirty. We saw it in his quarters one day and Michael took a fancy to it.”
“Where did France keep it?”
“In a drawer of the secretaire out there—at least, that’s where I last saw it.”
“When was that?”
Hayles frowned. “I don’t know really, but Claire’d remember it. One day last week, I think it was; we were all out there having an argument about the calibre gun it’d take to drop a man clean in his tracks—size of bullet and so on—and Michael got out this pistol. Claire laughed at him, you know—‘You don’t call that damn thing a pistol!’ sort of thing; then we all laughed, and, as far as I remember, Michael shoved it back in the drawer again. That’s the last time I saw it—till you just gave it me.”
“Why exactly did France take a fancy to it?”
“I think he said it was unusual. Also I remember how he laughed about it. Said it’d make a charming present for a lady.”
“Did he!” said Wharton. “Well, that’s been a great help to us. But just one other question and I think that’s the lot—and it’s about Michael France. Had he, do you know, been carrying on an intrigue with a woman? the sort of woman who might come here?”
Hayles was quiet for a moment. “That’s a rotten sort of question to ask—”
“I know it is—but it’s a necessary one, and in confidence between you and me.”
“Well, the trouble was you never knew when he wasn’t carrying on with some woman or other. Two things used to pull him together. He loved boxing more than he did women. He’d never do that sort of thing when he was in training or semi-training—”
“You mean doing a music-hall show?”
“That’s it; as he was at the Paliceum. I don’t think he ever fooled about then… but you couldn’t have been sure. Once he used to bring… well, some pretty warm people round here, till Claire made a fuss. Also since he—er—well, I don’t think he’d have risked Mrs. Claire seeing anything of that kind.”
“Puritanic, was she?”
“Not at all,” said Hayles frigidly. “There must be limits, you know.”
“Exactly.” Wharton had another peep at the notebook. “By the way, one thing’s just occurred to me. Why didn’t you refuse point-blank to go to Martlesham?”
Hayles turned his head away and looked rather ashamed of himself. “To own up, I suppose… I was a coward. And I kept on hoping something’d turn up.… Also I couldn’t very well refuse because I hadn’t a reason… and it was really most frightfully important—on the face of it—for me to see this chap… I had to see.”
“Precisely! You were in a difficult position.” He rose, took off his glasses and put them ceremoniously away in the battered case. Hayles rose too.
“Now if I were you, Mr. Hayles, I’d see a doctor. If he orders it—and I think he will order it—get back between the blankets for a day or two. If we should be in a muddle, perhaps you’ll help us.”
“Oh, most decidedly!” At the door he paused. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me something. If—er—Michael France committed suicide, why was he buried in consecrated ground?”
Wharton gave the high-sign of secrecy. “There wasn’t a verdict brought in! Besides”—and the rest was whispered into Hayles’s ear. He nodded as if he understood; then a further question.
“Yes, but why are you keeping Usher on?”
“He had a week’s notice to run,” explained Wharton airily. “And he was our only evidence till to-day. Now you’re back he can go at any time.”
“What do you mean ‘evidence?’ If you don’t mind me being rather rude, why is everybody still here?—yourself, for instance?”
“Heaps of things to clear up,” said Wharton enigmatically. “We have to know why people commit suicide! it isn’t enough to know they’ve done it. France, for instance, why should he?”
Hayles looked at him oddly. “Haven’t people—people like Michael France especially—all sorts of things in their lives that none of us will ever find out?”
Wharton led him adroitly to the front door. “True enough! But we’re the servants of the law—not its masters. All the same, everything’s practically cleared up.… And now you get away to bed!”
Hayles smiled wistfully. “Well, I’ll go home… and I think perhaps I’ll see the doctor, only, if I’m fit enough, I’d better come round to-morrow. There must be an awful accumulation of work.”
“Work be damned! It’s rest you want—not work!” The remainder of the conversation lost itself on the porch and Hayles’s footsteps had died away before Wharton came quickly to the lounge. He rang up Claire.
“Hallo!… That 3, Regent View?… Mr. Claire in?… Tell him I want to speak to him very urgently, please.… Never mind the name.”
As he stood there, receiver at ear, Franklin came through from the cloak-room. “You heard everything?” Franklin nodded. “Norris in?” Franklin nodded again.
“Hallo! That you, Mr. Claire?… Wharton speaking from number twenty-three. Hayles has just turned up!… Yes, loss of memory.… You might let Mrs. Claire know, will you? I think she was rather worried.… I’m just coming round to see you about that. If he gets to you first, I don’t want you to see him. Leave word you’re out.… Yes, in ten minutes or less.… Good-bye.”
Norris came in. “Everything all right?” asked Wharton.
“Yes, sir. He won’t give us the slip this time.”
Wharton gave a dour look. “If he does, I pity the bloke who’s responsible.… You heard everything all right, John?… What’d you think about it?”
“Damned if I know,” said Franklin. “I couldn’t see his face. From what I could hear, I should say you’d have a stiff job in fastening anything on him. He might even be genuinely innocent!”
“Almost thou persuadest me!” drawled Wharton with what was meant to be a sneer. Then he let himself go. “Might be innocent! He might be the Archbishop of Canterbury!” He snorted again. “What he’s done is just what I told you two yesterday. He’s been in retirement in a desert place, thinking things out. He’s got a cast-iron set of answers and reasons… and it’s our job to find a hammer to smash ’em! He knows his principal witness—Fr
ance—is dead. I’ll bet he’s hunted every newspaper through, since he’s been away, and had a pair of earphones glued on, listening for his name in an S.O.S.… Now he crawls back with a yarn that’d break a jury’s heart.… And he’s gone home to think of some more!”
Norris put in a consoling word. “You did get that news about the pistol, sir.”
“I’m going to check that now. John, would you mind going back to your place and I’ll call up there later. Write up all that conversation, if you can. Norris, you’d better tidy up Hayles’s room in case he decides to turn up to-morrow.… As a matter of fact I think I’ll call up the doctor and tell him he’s pretty bad. And you might get hold of likely spots and see if you can find anybody who knows where Dunally’s hanging out, and then check up on that pistol. I’ll see Claire about it now… and I’ll give him the tip about those lies I had to tell Hayles.”
“By the way,” said Franklin, “has Claire attempted to communicate with Usher?”
“Devil a word! However, I’ll make some excuse to refer to it. I might ask him what he wants done… about notice and… a reference.”
“Reference!” said Franklin. “That’s damn good!” Norris caught his eye and winked. Wharton tucked the ends of his muffler into his coat and trudged off.
Franklin got on his own coat and squinted at himself in the glass. “What’s your own idea, Norris? Think he’s innocent?”
“I didn’t hear all of it,” said Norris. “And, as you said, I didn’t see his face. Still, the old man seems pretty sure he’s not.… However—”
Franklin caught his eye again, and laughed. “As you say, however—”
* * * * *
It was very much later when Wharton did roll up at St. Martin’s Chambers, where Franklin was still brooding over the intricacies of the case and feeling decidedly egg-bound. His face lit up as he let the General in.
“Just popped in for a second!… Just the tiniest spot!… Got any more ideas about your friend Hayles?”
Franklin handed over the drink, then looked thoughtful. “I don’t know that I have… except that things rather fit in with a theory Travers is rather keen on.”
Dead Man Twice Page 24
