Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Jenkins stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels slightly, as he did when he was thinking.

  “Doesn’t make sense now, does it?” he enquired, and chuckled a little. “Every picture tells a story,” he added, “and that p.c.’s a poem. ‘Don’t you worry—I’ll do what I can.’ Looks to me as though nephew had had a long story poured out to him on a previous visit—poor old uncle starving, and all that. I’ll lay any money deceased didn’t let nephew from Canada know about the contents of the cash-box. Neither, to make sense of it, would nephew have sent uncle a postcard to say he was coming to see him if he’d intended to bump him off.”

  “No. You wouldn’t think so. The only thing is that nephew was surprised by our Special… It’s a pity it wasn’t the usual constable on this beat this evening, Jenkins.”

  “Um… you’ll be wanting to look into that,” said Jenkins.

  “Yes. I’ll make one guess about this case, Jenkins. Either it’s going to be obvious and easy, or it’s going to be almighty difficult. Someone shot the old man with his own pistol: someone walked out into the fog with his pockets crammed with loot. A dirty dark night, with visibility nil: no one outside if they could help it.”

  “Um… Yes,” grunted Jenkins. He knew just what Macdonald meant.

  IV

  A moment later Detective Reeves came into the room and addressed Macdonald: “They’ve brought Mrs. Tubbs round here, sir. Shall I bring her up?”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. Bring her up here.”

  He went to the bed and smoothed the sheet neatly over its sorry occupant. He guessed that the sight of a shrouded body was no novelty to an elderly London charwoman—and as for the rest of the room, she must have known it as well as she knew her own.

  “I’m sorry to have to bring you here, Mrs. Tubbs: it’s a distressing business for you.”

  Macdonald spoke gently as he looked at the little wizened soul who came into the room, but she faced him with the indomitable courage of her kind.

  “Never you mind me, sir. I seen worse things during the blitz. ’Orrors—why, you get ’ardened to ’em. I’m sorry about ’im, though,” nodding towards the bed. “’e was an ’ard-’earted old skinflint, but I looked after ’im, same as I would a child or a loony. Bless you, I’ve brought ’im food to keep ’im alive before now. Did ’e just pop off in ’is sleep, so to speak?”

  “No. He was shot,” rejoined Macdonald. He watched her keenly and saw her mouth agape with astonishment.

  “Shot? ’Im? Shot hisself, you mean?”

  “Why do you suggest that? Had he ever threatened to take his own life?”

  “Lor’, no. ’E’d never’ve done that. Wanted to live to be an ’undred, ’e told me. No. But ’e’d got a pistol. A big wicked thing it was. ’E showed it me once. ‘Mrs. Tubbs,’ ’e said, ‘if anyone ever try to attack me, I’m ready for ’em,’ and I sez to ’im: ‘don’t you go on so silly. Who’s going to attack you, and what for? You’ll be doing yourself some ’arm with that there wicked thing you’ve got,’ I told ’im. ‘You go and chuck it in the ’orse pond’.”

  Macdonald gradually checked Mrs. Tubbs’ garrulity and led her on by specific question and answer to an account of her work with Mr. Folliner, and such details as she knew concerning him. For ten years, said Mrs. Tubbs, she had “done” for him, while he had grown steadily more and more impoverished.

  “Not that I believed all he told me,” she said. “This house, now, it was his own—I do know that.” Apparently Mr. Folliner had let off most of the rooms in his house until such time as they grew so dirty and in need of repair that no one would take them. He had refused to do any repairs or decorations, saying that he had no money to meet such expenses. The studio had been let until the bombing of 1940, when the tenants had “walked out on him,” to use Mrs. Tubbs’ expression. “Pore old thing, he was in a bad way then, with no money coming in at all,” said Mrs. Tubbs. “I used to come along every day, though he couldn’t pay me a penny. Never knew if I’d find him alive or dead. Deary me, that was a time, that was, what with the blitz and food that hard to come by. I always brought ’im a snack, I couldn’t bear to think of ’im just starving slowly. When ’e let that great awful studio to Mr. Manaton, I told ’im straight ’e’d ’ave to pay me something if I was to go on coming. ’E’s dirt mean: I knew that—still old folks do get queer in the ’ead, and it’s no use blaming ’em. The Almighty’s got some funny ways, I always did say so. Mr. Folliner, ’e was all alone in the world, none of ’is own to care for ’im.”

  “Have you ever heard him mention a nephew in the Canadian Army?” enquired Macdonald. He was letting Mrs. Tubbs tell her story more or less in her own way, realising that he was getting a curiously vivid picture of the old miser as portrayed by the garrulous Mrs. Tubbs.

  “Oh, ’im—his nephew Neil you mean,” she replied. “Yes, I’ve seen ’im, and a nice good fellow ’e is—great-nephew by rights. Got all worried about ’is pore old uncle starving in an ’ovel as ’e put it. Old Mr. F., ’e was cunning as well as mean, I knew that, pore old misery. ’E tried to get all ’e could out of that young chap, only I put me spoke in and said to Mr. Neil private, ‘Now don’t you believe all ’e says and go wasting your pay on ’im. I know you boys ’aven’t got too much of the needful, and you can only be young once,’ I says. ‘Keep your money in your own pocket, and if so-be things is really bad, I’ll let you know.’ I just couldn’t bear to think of that nice young chap giving ’is pay away to that ole misery. When you think ’ow they’re just goin’ to be killed in their thousands, same as they was at Wipers last time, well it ain’t fair to spoil what days they’ve got left, if you take me.”

  “Yes. I understand,” said Macdonald.

  V

  Gradually the C.I.D. man led Mrs. Tubbs on to the events immediately preceding Mr. Folliner’s death.

  “I always come in and tidy ’im up in the morning,” she said. “Lookin’ at this room now, it’s no credit to anyone, and I know it, but it’d ’ave been a sight worse if I ’adn’t done what I could. I left ’im something for ’is dinner and lighted ’is fire, though ’e fussed something sinful about paying for the coal. Then these last few months I’ve took to popping in last thing of an evening, so as to see ’im settled for the night. Fact was, I worried over ’im,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep comfortable in me own bed thinkin’ ’e might ’ave fallen downstairs or something, all in the dark. I often told ’im not to go outside this room after black-out, but ’e would prowl.”

  “He was fairly steady on his legs then?” asked Macdonald, and she nodded.

  “Yes. ’E wasn’t too bad. Last winter ’e ’ad a bad turn, and couldn’t get out of ’is bed for rheumatism and that, and I told ’im ’e mustn’t bolt the front door no longer, in case ’e couldn’t let me in when I came in the morning. ‘You must give me a latch-key,’ I told ’im. That was after we’d ’ad a rare old to-do when ’e was too ill to come down and open the door, and I ’ad to get the builders from number ten to put a ladder up to the bathroom window so’s I could get in. After that ’e gave me a latch-key, so’s I could just pop in and out, which I done regular, night and morning, same’s I told you.”

  “And when you left him this evening, Mr. Folliner seemed quite as usual?”

  “Yes. Quite bright, ’e was. I saw ’im into bed between eight o’clock and ’alf-past, and then I popped in to see Miss Manaton in the studio there. I like ’er. She’s a lady, and kind and polite as anyone I ever met, and a fair old time she has with that brother of hers. I never could abide these artists, fair old muckers they always is, and as for carrying-on, well some of ’em’s not fit for a decent woman to know. Miss Manaton though, she’s a real lady. I’d trust ’er anywhere—and that reminds me. I left the latch-key in ’er kitchen. I remembered I’d put it down on the table, but I didn’t worry. I knew I’d find it there in
the morning, same’s I’d done before.”

  “Did Mr. Folliner say anything to you about expecting his nephew to call and see him, after you’d left him this evening?”

  “No, sir, not ’e. ’E wasn’t expecting Mr. Neil. I know that, ’cause ’e got into bed. ’E wouldn’t ’ve got into bed if ’e’d been expecting his nephew. ’E was particular in some ways, though you might not think it, seeing ’ow ’e lived. Mr. Folliner, ’e was a gentleman once—a scholar. ’E could write beautiful, and spoke the same as you do.”

  Macdonald asked, “Can you read, Mrs. Tubbs? I see you haven’t got any spectacles, and most folk need glasses as they grow older.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got a pair from Woolworth’s at ’ome—suit me perfect. I can read all right when I’ve got me glasses, but not without.”

  “Well, there’s a postcard on the mantelpiece from Mr. Folliner’s nephew, Neil. I’ll read it to you.”

  Macdonald got up and read the postcard aloud, adding: “I found this card under the newspapers in the chair there.”

  “Well I never! That’s not like Mr. Folliner. ’E was very particular about never leaving any of ’is letters about. Suspicious, ’e was. Old folks get like that, some of ’em. I’ve never known ’im leave a letter about anywhere—and I’m quite sure ’e’d never ’ve gone to bed if ’e’d thought Mr. Neil was coming—unless ’e went queer in ’is ’ead all of a sudden. That’s what it looks like. ’E must ’ve ’ad the card and then forgot. ’E’d ’ave told me if Mr. Neil was coming. It was an excitement for ’im when ’e first ’eard ’is nephew was over from Canada—the grandson of his brother Frederick, Neil was. ‘Per’aps ’e’s a rich man,’ ’e said to me. And did Mr. Neil come then, sir?”

  “Yes. He came this evening, and found his uncle dead.”

  “Deary me! It would’ve given ’im a nasty turn, poor young man. Fancy ’im shooting ’imself after all. I’d never’ve thought ’e’d do it. I can’t help being sorry, for all that ’e was an old ’orror, as Miss Manaton said. Poor old misery! Whatever come over ’im to do a thing like that?”

  Macdonald next asked: “If any letters came for Mr. Folliner, did you bring them up to him?”

  “Not me. ’E took them out of the letter-box ’is self. Always went down to the door when ’e ’eard the postman’s knock. I never saw none of ’is letters except when ’e was too ill to get downstairs last winter.”

  “Did he have many letters, do you know?”

  “’E ’ad quite a lot then—all business letters, printed ones I mean. Nothing private. When Mr. Neil first wrote, my old Mr. Folliner said it was the first letter ’e’d ’ad in years—meaning private letter. We used to ’ave a very nice postman on this round—Joe Baines. I know ’is mother in Camden Town where I once lived. Mr. Folliner was very put out when Joe Baines was put on another round. We’ve got a postwoman now, and she’s often late what with one thing and another, and Mr. Folliner didn’t trust ’er. Silly, I calls it. Women’s as careful as men any day, and a sight better, some of ’em.”

  “Can you tell me if Mr. Folliner had any friends at all, or anyone who came to see him?”

  “Nobody, sir. If it ’adn’t been for me, no one would ever ’ve come to this ’ouse. It’s true Mr. Manaton came in once or twice, and his sister, when they took the studio—but they’ve never been in since. They didn’t like ’im, and it’s true ’e tried to do them. ’E was a real proper old skinflint. The folks who had the studio before—Stort their name was—they came in sometimes, to try and get Mr. Folliner to do some repairs. But ’e never would. Randall Stort, that was the name, and ’e ’ad a nasty little nosey parker living with ’im, name of Listell or something like that. Mr. Stort, ’e made a picture of Mr. Folliner—I saw it in the studio and it gave me the fair creeps: painted ’im like a miser, ’e did, with ’is skinny ’ands all clutching bank-notes. You never did see such a thing. A liberty, I called it. ‘I done ’im from memory, ma,’ Mr. Stort said to me, and I turned round on ’im. ‘No familiarities from you, Mr. Stort,’ I said, ‘and if I ’ad to choose between you, I’d rather ’ave Mr. Folliner any day. At least, ’e was a gentleman once, and that’s more’n you’ll ever be,’ and I walked out with two and sixpence owing to me and me pail and scrubbing brush just left in the middle of the floor. ‘Ma,’ indeed!”

  There was a brief silence: Jenkins had been busy noting down the salient points of Mrs. Tubbs’ narrative, and at length Macdonald said:

  “Well, it amounts to this, Mrs. Tubbs. You left Mr. Folliner about eight-thirty this evening. He was then in bed, was not expecting any visitors. So far as you know he was a poor man: so poor that you have sometimes given him food to save him from starving. The only visitor you know he had was his nephew Neil. How often had he been there, do you know?”

  “Twice. Once last October, when ’e came after tea and left when I did at eight o’clock. Once just before Christmas, when ’e brought some rations in one morning—a pound of Canadian butter, some tinned beef, chocolate, and tinned milk. They’re all there still, on the top of the wardrobe.”

  “When you left this evening, are you quite sure you shut the front door?”

  “Me? Certain. I shook it to see, same’s I always do.”

  “Very good. I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to come to the mortuary to identify Mr. Folliner, when we’ve got him moved, Mrs. Tubbs.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I’m not afraid. I’ve seen too many ’orrors in the blitz to be particular. I was going to ask you, can I look at ’im? I took care of ’im, you know, same as he was a child, and I’m sorry ’e went and did that.”

  “I’m afraid he’s a painful sight, Mrs. Tubbs—but as you will.”

  The little woman went to the bed and turned back the sheet. She stood for a moment or two and then replaced the sheet methodically.

  When she turned back to Macdonald there were tears running down her button of a nose.

  “Poor old misery,” she said. “I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad ’im do it for an ’undred pounds.”

  And Macdonald felt that to Mrs. Tubbs “a hundred pounds” was all the gold of Ophir. She could imagine no greater wealth, and the tears she shed for her “pore old misery” were token of an affection that had been genuine.

  “…seeketh not her own: is not easily provoked…” the words seemed to apply to Mrs. Tubbs.

  Chapter Five

  It was shortly before midnight that Macdonald left 25, Hollyberry Hill, and found that the constable on duty had been a sound weather prophet: the fog was lifting, and a chill wind from the north was blowing fitfully. Macdonald got into his car and drove to the nearest telephone call-box, where he put through a call to Mr. Lewis Verraby, the Special Constable who had arrested Neil Folliner.

  “Chief Inspector Macdonald of the Criminal Investigation Department speaking. I’m afraid it’s very late to bother you to-night, Mr. Verraby, but I should be glad if you could see me for a few minutes. I have been put in charge of the Hollyberry Hill case.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. By all means, come immediately, Chief Inspector. I shall be very glad to discuss the case with you. You will find my house quite easily. Haverstock Close is just off the main road, the turning beyond the traffic lights on the right-hand side as you face north: number five is at the cul-de-sac end.”

  “Thank you for the directions. I will be with you in a few minutes.”

  Macdonald always found it interesting to consider the impression made by a witness first coming in contact with the police in an official enquiry. Mr. Lewis Verraby was a Special Constable, certainly, but Macdonald intended to regard him, for the time being, simply as a witness—a non-expert witness—giving evidence of a crime. There was a curious nervous tension in the voice which spoke over the ’phone: the volubility with which Mr. Verraby had spoken, his quick and enthusiastic agreement, seemed to have a nervous quality. Macdonald remembered
André Delaunier’s statement, “the man was frightened.” Macdonald agreed with Delaunier’s statement in this—that Verraby’s voice indicated nervousness.

  Haverstock Close was a short cul-de-sac in which five small houses of the neo-Georgian de luxe type had been built, both houses and roadway probably occupying the site of some demolished mansion standing in its own garden. The fog had cleared away by the time Macdonald turned his car into the cul-de-sac, and even before he was admitted to number five, the C.I.D. man had summed up the type of house in which Mr. Verraby lived—small but luxurious, probably fitted with every modern ingenuity which the domestic architect of to-day can contrive.

  The door was opened to him by Mr. Verraby, who enquired, “Chief Inspector Macdonald? Come in, come in. I’m glad the fog is clearing away. Fog is the very devil when one is on duty, as I know all too well. This room on the right, Chief Inspector. The fire is still alight. You must be chilled right through. May I take your coat…”