Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Macdonald got up out of the big chair.

  “Well, Mr. Verraby, there may be other questions to bother you with later, but I’ve kept you up quite long enough for to-night. I apologise for the lateness of this call.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. I’m never an early-to-bed fellow. Do some of my best thinking in the small hours. Don’t go yet. I hoped you’d tell me if you’d come to any conclusions yet, and what you made of that precious set-out in the studio.”

  “I’ve come to no conclusions at all, but I’ve collected some quite valuable data. Now I’ve got a report to write, so I must be off. Good-night, Mr. Verraby. Thank you for your frankness. If anything else occurs to you that you can tell me about Mr. Folliner, I shall be very much interested to hear it.”

  Chapter Six

  I

  Macdonald went to see Neil Folliner early the following morning. The C.I.D. man began by explaining the position to him from the point of view of the English legal system.

  “I want you to understand our procedure over here before I ask you any questions at all,” he said. “The man who arrested you was a Special Constable, and he acted within his powers, according to his own discretion. This Special Constable gave evidence that he had discovered a crime of violence which he assumed to be murder. He found you at the scene of the crime, and he arrested you on suspicion of being involved in it. Without going into the evidence at the moment, I think it’s not unfair to say that he had grounds to justify his action. No, wait a moment,” as young Folliner protested vigorously: “let me finish what I have got to say. Since you have been arrested and charged, you will appear before a magistrate: that is according to English law.”

  A grin spread over Neil Folliner’s tanned face at this juncture. “I get you. Habeas Corpus. We had a guy lecturing to us about that. I didn’t reckon to try it out myself so quickly.”

  “Oh, good. You know all that—well, it’s a fair system to my mind,” said Macdonald, “a long sight fairer than most systems prevailing on the Continent, say, at the present time. The magistrate, as you probably know, has power to release you if he considers the evidence against you is mistaken or inadequate: he has power to remand you, or to let you out on bail. It’s up to him. Now for my part. I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, and it is my job to investigate this crime. I want to get at the truth of the matter—that and nothing else. I am going to question you, and if, as you say, you are not guilty, it is to your own interest to answer questions as fully and accurately as you can. As you probably know, it is my duty to warn you that anything you say can be taken down in writing—”

  “And used in evidence against me,” quoted Folliner. “I know the patter. Now see here. I don’t know anything more about this murder than you do—a darned sight less, I reckon. I’m willing to answer any questions you like. You look a straight guy to me, and that’s good enough. Get on with it, and take it all down, just as you say. I got nothing to lose by coming clean, because I’m not in it, see? I know I did a fool trick trying to bolt, but I’m not a gangster, used to facing it out. I lost my head because I was frightened. Got that?”

  “Yes. I follow. Now say if you start at the beginning, and tell me how you first heard of Great-uncle Albert.”

  “O.K. My folks have got a ranch in the Okanagan, B.C. Fruit farming. When I knew I was coming overseas, Pops says to me, ‘I don’t know where you’re going, son, but if you land up in London, you go and see old man Folliner. He was my dad’s brother, and I’d like to hear news of him. Maybe he’s under the daisies. Maybe not, but I’ve got an address from my old dad’s letters, and if you find him alive, and he’s flush, maybe he’ll be a friend to you.’ Wal, I did come to England, and after a bit I was stationed near Aldershot, and when I got leave I came up to London and went to the address Pops gave me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Way back last fall. End of September.”

  “Right. And then?”

  “And then? I went and knocked at that durned front door, and the oldest guy in the world opened it. Poor old blighter! He’d got Methuselah beaten hollow. It took a lot of talking to make him tumble to who I was, and then, oh cripes, I was sorter sorry for him. I could have laughed over my dad saying he’d be a friend to me. I tell you he was next-door to starving, and not ashamed to say so. I did what I could for him. You given that house the once-over?”

  Macdonald nodded.

  “Well then. You know. I wrote home to Pops and told him to bung some food parcels over next mail. The only good point in the whole crazy bag of tricks he called his home was the hired woman, an old Jane named Mrs. Tubbs. She’s white, she is: kept him alive out of goodness. Somehow the old guy seemed to cotton on to me, and I went there a coupla’ times before Christmas. I got forty-eight hours’ leave yesterday, and I mailed him a card saying I was coming. That fog of yours nearly turned me back—I wish it had—but I knew the way from the Tube up at Hampstead and I plugged on. The kid I was with tried to stop me coming, but I didn’t want to let the old man down. There it was—and here am I.”

  Macdonald nodded. “That’s all clear enough. Who was ‘the kid’ you mentioned?”

  “Oh, can that! I don’t want to get her mixed up with you cops. She’s the sister of a chap I know. Never mind that.”

  “What time did you set out, and from where?”

  “Wal, I had tea at a big joint near Piccadilly Circus—‘Corner Houses’ you call them, for no reason I can see—and we sat on there until nearly seven, and then we went and had one at a joint up the road. I left there about half-past seven, and got mixed up in the fog. Never thought I could get lost like that, but I did. It was after eight before I made the Tube, and it took me half an hour before I got to Hampstead. I was being careful then: I asked the way of everyone I met; I tell you there weren’t many out in the streets last night.”

  “Can you remember anyone you spoke to?”

  “There was a Sapper I spoke to—I turned my torch on him. He was at the end of Hollyberry Hill, waiting for his Jane. I thought he must be bats to hang around on a night like that, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was just after nine I got to uncle’s.”

  “Did you hear any report or gun shot?”

  “I heard lots of pops. The railway was letting off fog signals somewhere, I reckon. When I got to the front door I found it was open. Not wide open, but just standing ajar. I didn’t like the look of it. I knew the old ’un wouldn’t leave his front door open. I shouted when I got inside, but no one answered, and I just went on upstairs. I’d got a torch and I knew where he slept. The light was on in his bedroom—I saw it under the door. I just went right in, and saw him. It was horrible.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? Nix. I was just flummoxed, as though I’d been winded. I can only remember saying to myself, ‘Poor old guy, it’s a dirty shame.’ I just stood there, staring like a zany, and the next thing I knew was the guy in dark blue was behind me, shouting at me—”

  “Behind you?”

  “Sure. I’d taken about three steps into the room, and I was standing by the foot of the bed. I didn’t hear him come in.”

  “Could the Special Constable have been in the room before you—standing behind the door?”

  “Cripes! I’ve been thinking of that. I don’t know. I tell you I don’t know. I opened the door and went right in. I didn’t notice anything but poor old Methuselah, until the big guy started shouting at me. He pawed me, and I shoved him off. I realised what I looked like, and I made a lunge for the door and got outside and slammed the door-to. I ran downstairs, and somehow I slipped on the floor in the vestibule—the lino was all rotten and I reckon it tripped me up. I still thought I could get away, and I turned to the back of the house, thinking I could slip away between the wall and the side of that studio. I knew I couldn’t run far, the street was no good. Anyway he caught me. I was going to hit h
im, when I suddenly thought I was being a fool and only making things worse. I could have killed him with my hands if I’d been a killer, but I’m not, see? Rather than that, I gave in. The cop, he banged on the studio door, and they let us in. It was a rum set-to, and no mistake. I thought I was dreaming, but they were decent to me, same as your regulation cops were. Not like that old turkey—Special, or whatever you call him.”

  Neil Folliner paused here, but before Macdonald spoke, the lad went on:

  “Now you listen to me a bit. I’ve had a few hours to get cool in the head and think this out, and I tell you I didn’t sleep much last night. First of all, if I’d planned to shoot the old man, I shouldn’t have sent him a postcard in advance saying I was coming, should I? You may think I’m pretty green, but I’ve got more horse-sense than that. Next, if I was going to shoot him, I shouldn’t have left that front door open for anyone to walk upstairs and catch me at it. That bit don’t make any sorter sense to me. I’d have shut that door and planned to get away some other how. Last, if I’d done the shooting, and got a gun in my hand, I shouldn’t have let that qualified Special cop me so easy. Shoot once, shoot twice. Why not? Second time’s easier and you’ve only got one neck to hang by. You still hang ’em in this country, don’t you?”

  There was fear in the lad’s eyes despite his resolute voice, and Macdonald replied: “Yes. A murderer found guilty may be hanged, but not before he’s had a fair trial and conclusive evidence proved against him—conclusive from the jury’s point of view, that is. Quite honestly, it’s my opinion that an innocent man has very little to fear in an English Court of Law. I have been instrumental in getting murderers sentenced, but I have never, to my knowledge, seen an innocent man sentenced.”

  Folliner grinned: a rueful grin, still half afraid, but his tired face lightened as he replied: “You sorter do me good. You talk sense, and you listen to what I say. Can I go on a bit?”

  “You can.”

  “I said just now that if I’d been doing the shooting, I shouldn’t have left that front door open for someone to come in and catch me at it. That wouldn’t have suited me at all—but it might have come in handy for someone else. Shoot the old guy, and then wait for some poor boob to butt in and arrest him for murder. I can see that. What I can’t see is the object of the shooting. It seems just plum crazy. The old man was just a harmless old boob, poor as a down-at-heels hobo. He couldn’t have done any harm, far as I can see.”

  “That’s my province,” said Macdonald, “and I’d advise you not to think out accusations against anyone else. Better stick to plain facts for the moment. You can have a lawyer if you want one, and he’ll do the thinking for you.”

  “That’s all nice and plain, but I reckon this is a frame-up. It wasn’t just chance I walked in on the old man’s corpse and got copped before I’d time to think. I’m the cat that burns its paws on someone else’s chestnuts, and I don’t like it. You see, I didn’t do it.”

  He spoke with a pained earnestness, and Macdonald went on:

  “Then it’s up to me to find out who did. Answer this next question carefully. How many people did you tell that you were going to see your uncle last evening?”

  “I told my mate in camp, Joe Saunders. He came over in the same transport with me. I told the kid I went to the flicks with, and her brother. He came with us—but I didn’t tell them till I saw ’em yesterday forenoon, so they make no difference. The only other person who would have known was Mrs. Tubbs. Uncle would have told her, not that that makes any difference. She’s all right.”

  “Next, do you know the studio people at all? Have you ever spoken to any of them?”

  “I don’t know them. I’ve seen the lady once or twice, going in or out of the studio. I thought she was just fine, a real looker, but I’ve never spoken to her.”

  “Do you know anybody else in the district?”

  “Barring the hired woman, no one at all. How should I?”

  “When did you send the postcard to your uncle?”

  “Day before yesterday. I figured out he’d get it yesterday morning.”

  “Do you possess a revolver or pistol?”

  “None. Never had one. I’ve got a shotgun and a rifle of my own way back home, but we’d no use for fancy firearms. We’re decent folk where I come from.”

  “I want you to think again about going into that house in Hollyberry Hill. You found the door open, and you say that you guessed something was wrong. You would have been on the alert when you went into the house. Did you hear anything at all?”

  “Nix. It was dead quiet. I shouted once, ‘You there, uncle?’ I knew there was no black-out, and I used my torch, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “Did you turn your torch light down on to the stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see any footsteps? The pavements were wet with the fog.”

  “No. I never noticed. Everything was damp, clammy.”

  “When you went into the room, how far did you go in?”

  “About three steps, I reckon. Then I stood still. I didn’t wander about any. Say, it’s lino on that floor. Did you get your cameramen on to it?”

  “We did.” Macdonald chuckled. “We know our stuff, you know, even though we are more conservative than the transatlantic police. Well, that’s all for now. When you’re questioned in court, stick to your facts and don’t give any opinions. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

  II

  Later in the same day Chief Inspector Macdonald was called into the Assistant Commissioner’s office to discuss the case of the Hampstead murder. Colonel Wragley always enjoyed hearing Macdonald expound, though the natures of the two men frequently resulted in conflicting views based on identical evidence. Biologists pour cold water on “racial peculiarities,” holding that such arguments are frequently inexact and unscientific, but the fact that Wragley was a Saxon and Macdonald of Highland Scots’ extraction accounted for many of their differences. The Assistant Commissioner was white-haired now, but he had been fair-headed in his youth: his skin tanned to a brick red in sunlight, and his head was round rather than long. His sanguine complexion and blue eyes were those of an impetuous man, to whom patience was an effort requiring self-discipline. Macdonald was dark-headed and grey eyed, long and lean and built for endurance. He had a noticeably long head and the type of skin which tans slowly without scorching, and patience was his long suit. Seeing the two men seated, the Saxon prone to sudden movement and abrupt gesture, the Scot very still, given to no gesture at all, an onlooker could have made a shrewd guess as to their qualities.

  “Well, what do you make of it?” demanded the Assistant Commissioner.

  “Murder by person or persons unknown, sir,” replied Macdonald. “In one respect the case should be simple, but it isn’t. It’s one of those cases in which suspicion can be limited to a given number of persons, and each of those persons has been interrogated. The murder occurred round about nine o’clock—not long before and certainly not long afterwards. As you know, it was a foggy evening, a beast of an evening, when very few people were out of doors if they could avoid it. Now at one end of the block in Hollyberry Hill where number 25 is situated, there was a night watchman. The Electricity Company is doing some essential work there, and this man was left in charge of the electricians’ equipment. His name is Bardon, and he has a good character: he has been employed by the company for years. At the other end of the same block in Hollyberry Hill, at the corner of Seton Avenue, Private William Brown of the Royal Engineers was waiting for his girl friend. He waited for one hour and ten minutes before she came to keep her appointment. It’s nice to know that such constancy exists. It must be rare these days.”

  “Possibly, possibly. Has this—er—romance anything to do with the case?”

  “Yes, sir, I think it has,” replied Macdonald placidly. “Private Brown was able to tell me exactly how man
y people passed him during his vigil. Further, he was able to tell me who those people were, having observed them either by the light of his own torch, or of the torches the pedestrians carried themselves. Just after he reached his trysting place, Private Brown heard footsteps and a voice singing ‘Tipperary.’ He knew the singer—it was an elderly charlady called Mrs. Tubbs whom he had often noticed at the same spot and the same hour on other evenings. She sings when the weather’s bad to keep her spirits up.”

  “Really. I begin to see the point, but could you expedite the narrative?” demanded Colonel Wragley.

  “By all means. Brown’s evidence amounts to this. During the time he was waiting, only three people passed him. One was Mrs. Tubbs, who walked towards number 25 at five minutes past eight, and returned again at eight thirty-five. The second was a special constable, identified as Mr. Lewis Verraby, who challenged Brown as to his business—and was told to mind his own. The third was Private Folliner, who passed Brown at five minutes to nine, and enquired if he were in Hollyberry Hill. Now to turn to the night watchman at the Dayton Crescent end of the block. He testifies that only one person passed him between eight o’clock and nine-fifteen. He knew the time, because there is a chiming clock on the church tower further up the road. The only person who passed him was a special constable, who walked northwards shortly after eight, and returned, walking in the direction of number 25, at ten minutes to nine. So much for pedestrians. Now the block between Seton Avenue and Dayton Crescent has only eight houses on the east side, where number 25 stands, and of those eight houses only 25 is occupied. The others are empty, awaiting demolition. Their garden gates are fastened up, and investigation shows no sign of anybody having used the gardens as a hiding-place. There were no footmarks at all, though the ground is very soft.”