4.50 From Paddington mm-8

by Christie, Agatha

  "Where, presumably, Harold Crackenthorpe is, in bad need of money."

  "Well, he wouldn't have got it by strangling his late brother's widow," said Mr. Wimborne. "And nobody's murdered Luther Crackenthorpe which is the only murder that would do the family any good. So, really, Inspector, I don't quite see where your ideas are leading you?"

  The worst of it was, Inspector Craddock thought, that he wasn't very sure himself.

  Chapter 15

  I

  Inspector Craddock had made an appointment with Harold Crackenthorpe at his office, and he and Sergeant Wetherall arrived there punctually. The office was on the fourth floor of a big block of City offices. Inside everything showed prosperity and the acme of modern business taste.

  A neat young woman took his name, spoke in a discreet murmur through a telephone, and then, rising, showed them into Harold Crackenthorpe's own private office.

  Harold was sitting behind a large leathertopped desk and was looking as impeccable and self-confident as ever. If, as the inspector's private knowledge led him to surmise, he was close upon Queer Street, no trace of it showed.

  He looked up with a frank welcoming interest.

  "Good-morning, Inspector Craddock. I hope this means that you have some definite news for us at last?"

  "Hardly that, I am afraid, Mr. Crackenthorpe. It's just a few more questions I'd like to ask."

  "More questions? Surely by now we have answered everything imaginable."

  "I dare say it feels like that to you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, but it's just a question of our regular routine."

  "Well, what is it this time?" He spoke impatiently.

  "I should be glad if you could tell me exactly what you were doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December last – say between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight."

  Harold Crackenthorpe went an angry shade of plum-red.

  "That seems to be a most extraordinary question to ask me. What does it mean, I should like to know?"

  Craddock smiled gently.

  "It just means that I should like to know where you were between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 20th December."

  "Why?"

  "It would help to narrow things down."

  "Narrow them down? You have extra information, then?"

  "We hope that we're getting a little closer, sir."

  "I'm not at all sure that I ought to answer your question. Not, that is, without having my solicitor present."

  "That, of course, is entirely up to you," said Craddock. "You are not bound to answer any questions, and you have a perfect right to have a solicitor present before you do so."

  "You are not – let me be quite clear – er – warning me in any way?"

  "Oh, no, sir." Inspector Craddock looked properly shocked. "Nothing of that kind. The questions I am asking you, I am asking of several other people as well. There's nothing directly personal about this. It's just a matter of necessary eliminations."

  "Well, of course – I'm anxious to assist in any way I can. Let me see now. Such a thing isn't easy to answer offhand, but we're very systematic here. Miss Ellis, I expect, can help."

  He spoke briefly into one of the telephones on his desk and almost immediately a streamlined young woman in a well-cut black suit entered with a notebook.

  "My secretary, Miss Ellis, Inspector Craddock. Now, Miss Ellis, the inspector would like to know what I was doing on the afternoon and evening of – what was the date?"

  "Friday, 20th December."

  "Friday, 20th December. I expect you will have some record."

  "Oh, yes." Miss Ellis left the room, returned with an office memorandum calendar and turned the pages.

  "You were in the office in the morning of 20th December. You had a conference with Mr. Goldie about the Cromartie merger, you lunched with Lord Forthville at the Berkeley –"

  "Ah, it was that day, yes."

  "You returned to the office at about 3 o'clock and dictated half a dozen letters. You then left to attend Sotheby's sale rooms where you were interested in some rare manuscripts which were coming up for sale that day. You did not return to the office again, but I have a note to remind you that you were attending the Catering Club dinner that evening." She looked up interrogatively.

  "Thank you, Miss Ellis."

  Miss Ellis glided from the room.

  "That is all quite clear in my mind," said Harold. "I went to Sotheby's that afternoon but the items I wanted there went for far too high a price. I had tea in a small place in Jermyn Street – Russells, I think, it is called. I dropped into a News Theatre for about half an hour or so, then went home – I live at 43 Cardigan Gardens . The Catering Club dinner took place at seven-thirty at Caterers' Hall, and after it I returned home to bed. I think that should answer your questions."

  "That's all very clear, Mr. Crackenthorpe. What time was it when you returned home to dress?"

  "I don't think I can remember exactly. Soon after six, I should think."

  "And after the dinner?"

  "It was, I think, half-past eleven when I got home."

  "Did your manservant let you in? Or perhaps Lady Alice Crackenthorpe –"

  "My wife. Lady Alice, is abroad in the South of France and has been since early in December. I let myself in with my latch key."

  "So there is no one who can vouch for your returning home when you say you did?"

  Harold gave him a cold stare.

  "I dare say the servants heard me come in. I have a man and wife. But, really, Inspector –"

  "Please, Mr. Crackenthorpe, I know these kind of questions are annoying, but I have nearly finished. Do you own a car?"

  "Yes, a Humber Hawk."

  "You drive it yourself?"

  "Yes. I don't use it much except at weekends. Driving in London is quite impossible nowadays."

  "I presume you use it when you go down to see your father and sister at Brackhampton?"

  "Not unless I am going to stay there for some length of time. If I just go down for the night – as, for instance, to the inquest the other day – I always go by train. There is an excellent train service and it is far quicker than going by car. The car my sister hires meets me at the station."

  "Where do you keep your car?"

  "I rent a garage in the Mews behind Cardigan Gardens . Any more questions?"

  "I think that's all for now," said Inspector Craddock, smiling and rising.

  "I'm very sorry for having to bother you."

  When they were outside. Sergeant Wetherall, a man who lived in a state of dark suspicion of all and sundry, remarked meaningly:

  "He didn't like those questions – didn't like them at all. Put out, he was."

  "If you have not committed a murder, it naturally annoys you if it seems someone thinks that you have," said Inspector Craddock mildly. "It would particularly annoy an ultra respectable man like Harold Crackenthorpe. There's nothing in that. What we've got to find out now is if anyone actually saw Harold Crackenthorpe at the sale that afternoon, and the same applies to the teashop place. He could easily have travelled by the 4:33, pushed the woman out of the train and caught a train back to London in time to appear at the dinner. In the same way he could have driven his car down that night, moved the body to the sarcophagus and driven back again. Make inquiries in the Mews."

  "Yes, sir. Do you think that's what he did do?"

  "How do I know?" asked Inspector Craddock. "He's a tall dark man. He could have been on that train and he's got a connection with Rutherford Hall. He's a possible suspect in this case. Now for Brother Alfred."

  II

  Alfred Crackenthorpe had a flat in West Hampstead , in a big modern building of slightly jerry-built type with a large courtyard in which the owners of flats parked their cars with a certain lack of consideration for others.

  The flat was of the modern built-in type, evidently rented furnished. It had a long plywood table that let down from the wall, a divan bed, and various chairs of improbable proportions.


  Alfred Crackenthorpe met them with engaging friendliness but was, the inspector thought, nervous.

  "I'm intrigued," he said. "Can I offer you a drink, Inspector Craddock?" He held up various bottles invitingly.

  "No, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  "As bad as that?" He laughed at his own little joke, then asked what it was all about.

  Inspector Craddock said his little piece.

  "What was I doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December. How should I know? Why, that's – what – over three weeks ago."

  "Your brother Harold has been able to tell us very exactly."

  "Brother Harold, perhaps. Not Brother Alfred." He added with a touch of something – envious malice possibly: "Harold is the successful member of the family – busy, useful, fully employed – a time for everything, and everything at that time. Even if he were to commit a – murder, shall we say? – it would be carefully timed and exact."

  "Any particular reason for using that example?"

  "Oh, no. It just came into my mind – as a supreme absurdity."

  "Now about yourself."

  Alfred spread out his hands.

  "It's as I tell you – I've no memory for times or places. If you were to say Christmas Day now – then I should be able to answer you – there's a peg to hang it on. I know where I was Christmas Day. We spend that with my father at Brackhampton. I really don't know why. He grumbles at the expense of having us – and would grumble that we never came near him if we didn't come. We really do it to please my sister."

  "And you did it this year?"

  "Yes."

  "But unfortunately your father was taken ill, was he not?"

  Craddock was pursuing a sideline deliberately, led by the kind of instinct that often came to him in his profession.

  "He was taken ill. Living like a sparrow in the glorious cause of economy, sudden full eating and drinking had its effect."

  "That was all it was, was it?"

  "Of course. What else?"

  "I gathered that his doctor was – worried."

  "Oh, that old fool Quimper ," Alfred spoke quickly and scornfully. "It's no use listening to him, Inspector. He's an alarmist of the worst kind."

  "Indeed? He seemed a rather sensible kind of man to me."

  "He's a complete fool. Father's not really an invalid, there's nothing wrong with his heart, but he takes in Quimper completely. Naturally, when father really felt ill, he made a terrific fuss, and had Quimper going and coming, asking questions, going into everything he'd eaten and drunk. The whole thing was ridiculous!" Alfred spoke with unusual heat.

  Craddock was silent for a moment or two, rather effectively. Alfred fidgeted, shot him a quick glance, and then said petulantly:

  "Well, what is all this? Why do you want to know where I was on a particular Friday, three or four weeks ago?"

  "So you do remember that it was a Friday?"

  "I thought you said so."

  "Perhaps I did," said Inspector Craddock.

  "At any rate, Friday 20th is the day I am asking about."

  "Why?"

  "A routine inquiry."

  "That's nonsense. Have you found out something more about this woman? About where she came from?"

  "Our information is not yet complete."

  Alfred gave him a sharp glance.

  "I hope you're not being led aside by this wild theory of Emma's that she might have been my brother Edmund's widow. That's complete nonsense."

  "This – Martine, did not at any time apply to you?"

  "To me? Good lord, no! That would have been a laugh."

  "She would be more likely, you think, to go to your brother Harold?"

  "Much more likely. His name's frequently in the papers. He's well off. Trying a touch there wouldn't surprise me. Not that she'd have got anything. Harold's as tight-fisted as the old man himself. Emma, of course, is the softhearted one of the family, and she was Edmund's favourite sister. All the same, Emma isn't credulous. She was quite alive to the possibility of this woman being phoney. She had it all laid on for the entire family to be there – and a hard-headed solicitor as well."

  "Very wise," said Craddock. "Was there a definite date fixed for this meeting?"

  "It was to be soon after Christmas – the weekend of the 27th…" He stopped.

  "Ah," said Craddock pleasantly. "So I see some dates have a meaning to you."

  "I've told you – no definite date was fixed."

  "But you talked about it – when?"

  "I really can't remember."

  "And you can't tell me what you yourself were doing on Friday, 20th December?"

  "Sorry – my mind's an absolute blank."

  "You don't keep an engagement book?"

  "Can't stand the things."

  "The Friday before Christmas – it shouldn't be too difficult."

  "I played golf one day with a likely prospect." Alfred shook his head. "No, that was the week before. I probably just mooched around. I spend a lot of my time doing that. I find one's business gets done in bars more than anywhere else."

  "Perhaps the people here, or some of your friends, may be able to help?"

  "Maybe. I'll ask them. Do what I can."

  Alfred seemed more sure of himself now.

  "I can't tell you what I was doing that day," he said; "but I can tell you what I wasn't doing. I wasn't murdering anyone in the Long Barn."

  "Why should you say that, Mr. Crackenthorpe?"

  "Come now, my dear Inspector. You're investigating this murder, aren't you? And when you begin to ask 'Where were you on such and such a day at such and such a time?' you're narrowing down things. I'd very much like to know why you've hit on Friday the 20th between – what? Lunch-time and midnight? It couldn't be medical evidence, not after all this time. Did somebody see the deceased sneaking into the barn that afternoon? She went in and she never came out, etc.? Is that it?"

  The sharp black eyes were watching him narrowly, but Inspector Craddock was far too old a hand to react to that sort of thing.

  "I'm afraid we'll have to let you guess about that," he said pleasantly.

  "The police are so secretive."

  "Not only the police. I think, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you could remember what you were doing on that Friday if you tried. Of course you may have reasons for not wishing to remember –"

  "You won't catch me that way, Inspector. It's very suspicious, of course, very suspicious, indeed, that I can't remember – but there it is! Wait a minute now – I went to Leeds that week – stayed at an hotel close to the Town Hall – can't remember its name – but you'd find it easily enough. That might have been on the Friday."

  "We'll check up," said the inspector unemotionally.

  He rose. "I'm sorry you couldn't have been more co-operative, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  "Most unfortunate for me! There's Cedric with a safe alibi in Ibiza , and Harold, no doubt, checked with business appointments and public dinners every hour – and here am I with no alibi at all. Very sad. And all so silly. I've already told you I don't murder people. And why should I murder an unknown woman, anyway? What for? Even if the corpse is the corpse of Edmund's widow, why should any of us wish to do away with her? Now if she'd been married to Harold in the war, and had suddenly reappeared – then it might have been awkward for the respectable Harold – bigamy and all that. But Edmund! Why, we'd all have enjoyed making Father stump up a bit to give her an allowance and send the boy to a decent school. Father would have been wild, but he couldn't in decency refuse to do something. Won't you have a drink before you go, Inspector? Sure? Too bad I haven't been able to help you."

  III

  "Sir, listen, do you know what?"

  Inspector Craddock looked at his excited sergeant.

  "Yes, Wetherall, what is it?"

  "I've placed him, sir. That chap. All the time I was trying to fix it and suddenly it came. He was mixed up in that tinned food business with Dicky Rogers. Never got anything on him – too
cagey for that. And he's been in with one or more of the Soho lot. Watches and that Italian sovereign business."

  Of course! Craddock realised now why Alfred's face had seemed vaguely familiar from the first. It had all been smalltime stuff – never anything that could be proved. Alfred had always been on the outskirts of the racket with a plausible innocent reason for having been mixed up in it at all. But the police had been quite sure that a small steady profit came his way.

  "That throws rather a light on things," Craddock said.

  "Think he did it?"

  "I shouldn't have said he was the type to do murder. But it explains other things – the reason why he couldn't come up with an alibi."

  "Yes, that looks bad for him."

  "Not really," said Craddock. "It's quite a clever line – just to say firmly you can't remember. Lots of people can't remember what they did and where they were even a week ago. It's especially useful if you don't particularly want to call attention to the way you spend your time – interesting rendezvous at lorry pull-ups with the Dicky Rogers crowd, for instance."

  "So you think he's all right?"

  "I'm not prepared to think anyone's all right just yet," said Inspector Craddock. "You've got to work on it, Wetherall."

  Back at his desk, Craddock sat frowning, and making little notes on the pad in front of him.

  Murderer (he wrote)… A tall dark man… Victim?… Could have been Martine, Edmund Crackenthorpe's girl-friend or widow.

  Or

  Could have been Anna Stravinska. Went out of circulation at appropriate time, right age and appearance, clothing, etc.

  No connection with Rutherford Hall as far as is known.

  Could be Harold's first wife! Bigamy! Mistress. Blackmail?!

  If connection with Alfred, might be blackmail. Had knowledge that could have sent him to gaol?

  If Cedric – might have had connection with him abroad – Paris ? Balearics?

  Or

  Victim could be Anna S. posing as Martine

  Or

  Victim is unknown woman killed by unknown murderer!

  "And most probably the latter," said Craddock aloud.