Detective Duos

by edited by Marcia Muller

  “Don't ask me how it got there. You know what hospitals were like in the war. Mrs. Cibber went on taunting the man in her own peculiar way, and he stood there examining the gun and presently loading it, almost absently. You can see the scene?”

  Campion could. The pleasant, perhaps slightly overcrowded room was vivid in his mind, and he saw the gentle light on the china and the proud, bitter face of the woman.

  “After that,” said Kenny, “the tale gets more peculiar, although both accounts agree. It was Mrs. C. who laughed and said, `I suppose you think I ought to be shot?` Woodruff did not answer but he dropped the gun in his side pocket. Then he packed up the hold–all and said, `Good–bye.`” He hesitated. “Both statements say that he then said something about the sun having gone down. I don't know what that meant, or if both women mistook him. Anyway, there's nothing to it. He had no explanation to offer. Says he doesn't remember saying it. However, after that he suddenly picked up one of his aunt's beloved china fruit bowls and simply dropped it on the floor. It fell on a rug, as it happened, and did not break, but old Mrs. Cibber nearly passed out, the companion screamed, and the girl hurried him off home.

  “With the gun?”

  “With the gun.” Kenny shrugged his heavy shoulders. “As soon as the girl heard that Mrs. Cibber had been shot, she jumped up with a tale that he had not taken it. She said she'd sneaked it out of his pocket and put it on the window sill. The lamest story you ever heard! She's game and she's ready to say absolutely anything, but she won't save him, poor kid. He was seen in the district at midnight.”

  Mr. Campion put a hand through his sleek hair. “Aah. That rather tears it.”

  “Oh, it does. There's no question that he did it. It hardly arises. What happened was this. The young folk got back to their bed–sitting room about ten to nine. Neither of them will admit it, but it's obvious that Woodruff was in one of those boiling but sulky rages which made him unfit for human society. The girl left him alone – I should say she has a gift for handling him – and she says she went to bed while he sat up writing letters. Quite late, she can't or won't say when, he went out to the post. He won't say anything. We may or may not break him down, he's a queer chap. However, we have a witness who saw him somewhere about midnight at the

  Kilburn end of Barraclough Road. Woodruff stopped him and asked if the last eastbound 'bus had gone. Neither of them had a watch, but the witness is prepared to swear it was just after midnight – which is important because the shot was fired at two minutes before twelve. We've got that time fixed.”

  Mr. Campion, who had been taking notes, looked up in mild astonishment.

  “You got that witness very promptly,” he remarked. “Why did he come forward?”

  “He was a plainclothesman off duty,” said Kenny calmly. “One of the local men who had been out to a reunion dinner. He wasn't right but he had decided to walk home before his wife saw him. I don't know why he hadn't a watch” – Kenny frowned at this defect – “anyway, he hadn't, or it wasn't going. But he was alert enough to notice Woodruff. He's a distinctive chap you know. Very tall and dark, and his manner was so nervy and excitable that the dick thought it worth reporting.”

  Campion's teeth appeared in a brief smile.

  “In fact, he recognized him at once as a man who looked as though he'd done a murder?”

  “No.” The Inspector remained unruffled.

  “No, he said he looked like a chap who had just got something off his mind and was pleased with himself.”

  “I see. And meanwhile the shot was fired at two minutes to twelve.”

  “That's certain.” Kenny brightened and became businesslike. “The man next door heard it and looked at his watch. We've got his statement and the old lady's companion. Everyone else in the street is being questioned. But nothing has come in yet. It was a cold wet night and most people had their windows shut; besides, the room where the murder took place was heavily curtained. So far, these two are the only people who seem to have heard anything at all. The man next door woke up and nudged his wife who had slept through it. But then he may have dozed again, for the next thing he remembers is hearing screams for help. By the time he got to the window, the companion was out in the street in her dressing gown, wedged in between the lamp post and the mail box, screeching her little gray head off. The rain was coming down in sheets.”

  “When exactly was this?”

  “Almost immediately after the shot, according to the companion. She had been in bed for some hours and had slept. Her room is on the second floor, at the back. Mrs. Cibber had not come up with her but had settled down at her bureau in the drawing–room, as she often did in the evening. Mrs. C. was still very upset by the scene at the meal, and did not want to talk. Miss Smith says she woke up and thought she heard the front door open. She won't swear to this, and at any rate she thought nothing of it, for Mrs. Cibber often slipped out to the mail box with letters before coming to bed. Exactly how long it was after she woke that she heard the shot she does not know, but it brought her scrambling out of bed. She agrees she might have been a minute or two finding her slippers and a wrapper, but she certainly came down right away. She says she found the street door open, letting in the rain, and the drawing–room door, which is next to it, wide open as well, and the lights in there full on.” He referred to his notes and began to read out loud. “`I smelled burning`” – she means cordite – ”`and I glanced across the room to see poor Mrs. Cibber on the floor with a dreadful hole in her forehead. I was too frightened to go near her, so I ran out of the house shouting “Murder! Thieves!”`”

  “That's nice and old–fashioned. Did she see anybody?”

  “She says not, and I believe her. She was directly under the only lamp post for fifty yards and it certainly was raining hard.”

  Mr. Campion appeared satisfied but unhappy. When he spoke his voice was very gentle.

  “Do I understand that your case is that Woodruff came back, tapped on the front door, and was admitted by his aunt? After some conversation, which must have taken place in lowered tones since the companion upstairs did not hear it, he shot her and ran away, leaving all the doors open?”

  “Substantially, yes. Although he may have shot her as soon as he saw her.”

  “In that case she'd have been found dead in the hall.”

  Kenny blinked. “Yes, I suppose she would. Still, they couldn't have talked much.”

  “Why?”

  The Inspector made a gesture of distaste.

  “This is the bit which gets under my skin,” he said. “They could hardly have spoken long – because she'd forgiven him. She had written to her solicitor – the finished letter was on her writing pad ready for the post. She'd written to say she was thinking of making the upper part of her house into a home for her nephew, and asked if there was a clause in her lease to prevent it. She also said she wanted the work done quickly, as she had taken a fancy to her new niece and hoped in time there might be children. It's pathetic, isn't it?” His eyes were wretched. “That's what I meant by futility. She'd forgiven him, see? She wasn't a mean old harridan, she was just quick–tempered. I told you this isn't a mystery tale, this is ordinary sordid life.”

  Mr. Campion looked away.

  “Tragic,” he said. “Yes. A horrid thing. What do you want me to do?”

  Kenny sighed. “Find the gun,” he murmured.

  The lean man whistled.

  “You'll certainly need that if you're to be sure of a conviction. How did you lose it?”

  “He's ditched it somewhere. He didn't get rid of it in Barraclough Road because the houses come right down to the street, and our chaps were searching for it within half an hour. At the end of the road he caught the last 'bus, which ought to come along at midnight but was a bit late last night, I'm morally certain. These drivers make up time on the straight stretch by the park; it's more than their jobs are worth, so you never get them to admit it. Anyhow, he didn't leave the gun on the 'bus, and it's not in the h
ouse where his room is. It's not in the old lady's house at 81 Barraclough Road because I've been over the house myself.” He peered at the taller man hopefully. “Where would you hide a gun in this city at night, if you were all that way from the river? It's not so easy, is it? If it had been anywhere obvious it would have turned up by now.”

  “He may have given it to someone.”

  “And risked blackmail?” Kenny laughed.

  “He's not as dumb as that. You'll have to see him. He says he never had it – but that's only natural. Yet where did he put it, Mr. Campion? It's only a little point but, as you say, it's got to be solved.”

  Campion grimaced.

  “Anywhere, Kenny. Absolutely anywhere. In a drain – ”

  “They're narrow gratings in Barraclough Road.”

  “In a sandbin or a static water tank – ”

  “There aren't any in that district.”

  “He threw it down in the street and someone, who felt he'd rather like to have a gun, picked it up. Your area isn't peopled solely with the law–abiding, you know.”

  Kenny became more serious. “That's the real likelihood,” he admitted gloomily. “But all the same, I don't believe he's the type to throw away a gun casually. He's too intelligent, too cautious. Do you know how this war has made some men cautious even when they're being the most reckless? He's one of those. He's hidden it. Where? Mr. Oates said you'd know if anyone did.”

  Campion ignored this blatant flattery. He stood staring absently out of the window for so long that the Inspector was tempted to nudge him, and when at last he spoke, his question did not sound promising.

  “How often did he stay with his aunt when he was a child?”

  “Quite a bit, I think, but there's no kid's hiding–place there that only he could have known, if that's what you're after.” Kenny could hardly conceal his disappointment. “It's not that kind of house. Besides, he hadn't the time. He got back about twenty past twelve: a woman in the house confirms it – she met him on the stairs. He was certainly spark out when we got there at a quarter after four this morning. They were both sleeping like kids when I first saw them. She had one skinny brown arm around his neck. He just woke up in a rage, and she was more astounded than frightened. I swear – ”

  Mr. Campion had ceased to listen.

  “Without the gun the only real evidence you've got is the plainclothesman's story of meeting him,” he said. “And even you admit that gallant officer was walking for his health after a party. Imagine a good defense lawyer enlarging on that point.”

  “I have,” the Inspector agreed, dryly.

  “That's why I'm here. You must find the gun for us, sir. Can I fetch you a raincoat? Or,” he added, a faintly smug expression flickering over his broad face, “will you just sit in your armchair and do it from there?”

  To his annoyance his elegant host appeared to consider the question.

  “No, perhaps I'd better come with you,” he said at last. “We'll go to Barraclough Road first, if you don't mind. And if I might make a suggestion, I should send Woodruff and his wife back to their lodgings – suitably escorted, of course. If the young man was going to crack, I think he would have done so by now, and the gun, wherever it is, can hardly be at the police station.”

  Kenny considered. “He may give himself away and lead us to it.” He agreed although without enthusiasm. “I'll telephone. Then we'll go anywhere you say, but as I told you I've been over the Barraclough Road house myself and if there's anything there it's high time I retired.”

  Mr. Campion merely looked foolish, and the Inspector sighed and let him have his way. He came back from the telephone smiling wryly.

  “That's settled,” he announced. “He's been behaving like a good soldier interrogated by the enemy, silly young fool – after all, we're only trying to hang him! The girl has been asking for him to be fed, and reporters are crawling up the walls. Our boys won't be sorry to get rid of them for a bit. They'll be looked after. We shan't lose 'em. Now, if you've set your heart on the scene of the crime, Mr. Campion, we'll go.”

  In the taxi he advanced a little idea.

  “I was thinking of that remark he is alleged to have made,” he said, not without shame. “You don't think that it could have been `Your sun has gone down,` and that we could construe it as a threat within meaning of the act?”

  Campion regarded him owlishly. “We could, but I don't think we will. That's the most enlightening part of the whole story, don't you think?”

  If Inspector Kenny agreed, he did not say so, and they drove to the top of Barraclough Road in silence. There Campion insisted on stopping at the first house next to the main thoroughfare. The building had traded on its proximity to the shopping center and had been converted into a dispensing chemist's. Campion was inside for several minutes, leaving Kenny in the cab. When he came out he offered no explanation other than to observe fatuously that they had a “nice time” and settled back without troubling to look out at the early Victorian stucco three–story houses which lined the broad road. A man on duty outside, and a handful of idlers gaping apathetically at the drawn blinds, distinguished 81 Barraclough Road. Kenny rang the bell and the door was opened after a pause by a flurried old lady with a duster in her hand.

  “Oh, it's you, Inspector,” she said hastily. “I'm afraid you've found me in a muddle. I've been trying to tidy up a little.

  She couldn't have born the place left dirty after everyone had been trampling over it. Yet I don't mean to say that you weren't all very careful.”

  She led them into a spotless dining–room which glowed with old mahogany and limpid silver, and the wan afternoon light showed them her reddened eyes and worn navy–blue housedress. She was a timid–looking person, not quite so old as Kenny had suggested, with very neat gray hair and a skin which had never known cosmetics. Her expression was closed and secret with long submission, and her shoulder blades stuck out a little under the cloth of her dress. Her hands still trembled slightly from the shock of the evening before.

  Kenny introduced Campion. “We shan't be long, Miss Smith,” he said cheerfully. “Just going to have another look around. We shan't make a mess.”

  Campion smiled at her reassuringly. “It's difficult to get help these days?” he suggested pleasantly.

  “Oh, it is,” she said earnestly. “And Mrs. Cibber wouldn't trust just anyone with her treasures. They are so very good.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She was so fond of them.”

  “I daresay she was. That's a beautiful piece, for instance.” Campion glanced with expert interest at the serpentine sideboard with its genuine handles and toilet cupboard.

  “Beautiful,” echoed Miss Smith dutifully. “And the chairs, you see?”

  “I do.” He eyed the Trafalgar set with the cherry–leather seats. “Is this where the quarrel took place?”

  She nodded and trembled afresh. “Yes. I – I shall never forget it, never.”

  “Was Mrs. Cibber often bad–tempered?”

  The woman hesitated, and her firm small mouth moved without words.

  “Was she?”

  She shot a swift unhappy glance at him.

  “She was quick,” she said. “Yes I think I ought to say she was quick. Now, would you like to see the rest of the house or – ?”

  Campion glanced at his watch and compared it with the

  Tompion bracket clock on the mantelshelf.

  “I think we've just time,” he said, idiotically. “Upstairs first, Inspector.”

  The next thirty–five minutes reduced Kenny to a state of jitters rare to him. After watching Campion with breathless interest for the first five, it slowly dawned on him that the expert had forgotten the crime in his delight at discovering a treasure–trove. Even Miss Smith, who betrayed a certain proprietorial pride, flagged before Campion's insatiable interest. Once or twice she hinted that perhaps they ought to go down, but he would not hear of it. By the time they had exhausted the third floor and were on the steps to the attic,
she became almost firm. There was really nothing there but some early Georgian children's toys, she said.

  “But I must just see the toys. I've got a `thing` on toys, Kenny.” Campion sounded ecstatic. “Just a minute – ”

  A vigorous tattoo on the front door interrupted him and Miss Smith, whose nerves were suffering, emitted a little squeak.

  “Oh, dear. Somebody at the door. I must go down.”

  “No, no.” Campion was uncharacteristically effusive. “I'll see who it is and come back. I shan't be a moment.”

  He flung himself downstairs with boyish enthusiasm, Miss Smith behind him, and Kenny, seeing escape at last, following as quickly as the narrow stairs would permit.

  They reached the hall just in time to see him closing the door. “Only the post,” he said, holding out a package. “Your library book, Miss Smith.”