The shorter man looked at him insolently and asked: “Well, have you quite finished?”
“I have finished work for today,” Andrew answered.
“Good!” the other rejoined. “Now we can get to business. I don’t think you spotted me a couple of days ago.”
“I did not,” Andrew replied, “and I don’t spot you now. Who are you?”
The man laughed, contemptuously. “Well, I’m damned. Tony!” he exclaimed. “Lizzie’s right. You’ve got the cheek of the devil. Pretending to my face that you don’t know who I am!”
“It is no pretence at all,” said Andrew. “You are a complete stranger to me.”
The man laughed again, more savagely, and was about to make some further rejoinder when one of the tall men interposed. “There’s no use in wasting time on talk,” said he. “Is this the man?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “This is the man.”
Thereupon the tall man took a pace forward, and, touching Andrew lightly on the arm, said:
“I am a police officer, and I arrest you, Anthony Kempster, on a charge of fraud and personation.”
“But,” protested Andrew, “my name is not Anthony Kempster.”
“That may be,” replied the officer, “but my information is that you are Anthony Kempster and I hold a warrant for your arrest. You can see it if you like.”
“There is no need,” said Andrew. “I am not disputing your authority to arrest Anthony Kempster. My point is that I am not Anthony Kempster. This gentleman has made a mistake.”
“Well, you know,” the officer replied, not uncivilly, “we can’t go into that here. You must come with me to the station. Then the Inspector will read the charge over to you and you can say anything that you want to say. I can’t listen to any statements. My duty is simply to arrest you and hand you over to the proper authorities. And you had better not say anything until you get to the station. May I take it that you are coming along quietly?”
Andrew smiled sourly. “It doesn’t seem as if I had much choice,” said he. “I’m certainly not going to make a scene, and I hope you are not going to.”
“No,” replied the officer, “you will not be subjected to any unnecessary indignities if you don’t give any trouble. We’ve got a car waiting down the road. We shan’t have to walk you through the streets. Are you ready?”
“I shall be when I have strapped my easel and stool together,” Andrew replied.
“Very well,” the officer agreed. “Be as quick as you can.”
Andrew folded up the easel and the stool and strapped them together. Then, grasping the handle of the strap, and slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he turned to the officer. “I am at your service now,” said he; whereupon the two officers placed themselves one on either side, and, as the informer walked on ahead down the slope, they followed in his wake. Looking forward in the direction which the red-headed man was taking, Andrew now saw, on the road below, just at the entrance to Rotten Row, a large car, and, a few yards ahead of it, a taxi-cab. As they bore down on the car, Andrew observed that the driver, who wore some kind of official uniform, had emerged from his place by the wheel and was standing by the door, which he was holding open; and, glancing at the taxi-cab, he could see, though not very distinctly the face of some person peering out through the rear window. But he had not much time for observation, for when they reached the car one of the officers immediately stepped in and directed him to follow, which he did. Then the other officer entered and was shut in by the driver, who now walked round to the front and took his place at the wheel; and Andrew, glancing out through the front window, saw the redheaded man getting into the taxi, which started as he slammed the door. After a few seconds the car—the engine of which was already running—started forward and the mysterious and not very promising journey had commenced.
It was not in any sense an agreeable journey. Sitting jammed in between the two rather bulky officers, Andrew’s bodily discomfort was swallowed up by his mental distress. For he could not view the immediate future without the gravest forebodings. He had disclaimed all knowledge of the red-headed man, but, as he recalled his features and his colouring, he was conscious of a distinct reminiscence of the woman who had threatened him with retribution. With those threats he naturally associated the present proceedings; and although the whole affair was founded on a mistake, he had grave misgivings as to the possibility of rectifying that mistake. “I take it,” said he, “that that man who was with you is not a police officer?”
“No,” was the reply, “he is a civilian. Name of Blake. Said you knew him.”
“I don’t know either the name or the man,” said Andrew.
“Well,” the officer rejoined, “he knew you—unless, as you say, he has made a mistake. However, we’d better not discuss that now; and if you take my advice you won’t do any talking until we get to the station, because whatever you may say will be taken down in writing and used in evidence, and then, perhaps, you will wish you hadn’t spoken.”
Andrew thanked the officer for his advice, and in pursuance of it relapsed into silence. He had plenty to think about; but, oddly enough, his thoughts tended principally to concern themselves with Mrs. Pendlewick. At this moment she was probably laying aside her lace pillow and considering, with an eye on the old wooden-faced clock, whether it was yet time to commence operations on the lamb cutlets. His direct, physical interest in those cutlets had suddenly become extinct; but his thoughts turned wistfully to the peaceful little room, the table with its snowy cloth and immaculate china and the picturesque little brown jug which gave the beer an added flavour. He could see it all vividly in his mind’s eye, and already he began to wonder gloomily when he should look on it again in the flesh.
But his chief concern was for Mrs. Pendlewick. He thought of her with all her preparations made for his entertainment, awaiting him, at first impatiently, then anxiously, and then, as the time ran on, and it became evident that something out of the ordinary had happened, in real alarm. He was very troubled about her and wondered vaguely what she would do when night came and still he did not return. Would she set inquiries on foot? And if so, how would she go about it? Perhaps she would apply to the police. He hoped not; because it was his intention, at present, not to disclose the whereabouts of his abode. He didn’t want the police to get access to his rooms to rummage among his possessions and possibly establish a connection between Molly and the alleged Anthony Kempster. That would be intolerable in any case; but, if he should be unable to dispel the illusion as to his identity, it would be absolutely disastrous.
So his thoughts rambled on until the slowing down of the car in a rather narrow street recalled him suddenly to his present business. He had taken no note of the route that the car had followed and had no idea as to his present whereabouts; but when the car stopped opposite a building with a large doorway and a constable in the uniform of the City Police came forward to open the door, he realized that he must be somewhere in the City of London.
The senior officer stepped out and halted to wait for him, and he followed immediately with the other officer close on his heels. They entered through the wide doorway and passed into a large, bare room furnished with some benches and a few plain Windsor chairs. On two of the latter were seated the only occupants of the room; the red-headed man and the woman whom he had met in the train. The former greeted him with an insolent stare and a half-suppressed grin; the latter—to whom he bowed stiffly, raising his hat—gave him one swift glance and averted her face. It was evident to him that she was greatly distressed and agitated, for not only were there traces of tears on her pale and drawn face, but her hands, resting on her lap, trembled visibly. It was easy to see that already she was being torn by pangs of remorse.
The senior officer had gone out of the room immediately on their arrival. He now returned and took charge of Andrew, beckoning to the woman to follow. “Not you,” he added, as the red-headed man rose from his chair. “You stay where you are. I’ll se
nd for you if I want you.”
With this, he conducted Andrew out of the room, along a passage and into a large, barely furnished office where an inspector sat at a desk with a number of papers before him; a grave, scholarly-looking man with a bald head and a pair of round-eyed, horn-rimmed spectacles. As they entered, he motioned the woman to a chair and cast an inquisitive glance at Andrew. “Is this Kempster?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“Has he made any statement?”
“No, sir, excepting that he denies that he is Anthony Kempster.”
The inspector nodded, and, pulling out a drawer of the desk, selected a paper from a number of other documents and turned to Andrew. “You will want to know exactly what you are charged with. I will read out the charge and then hear if you have anything to say. It is that you, Anthony Kempster, did, on the 20th of April, 1919, and on divers other occasions, falsely personate one Francis Redwood deceased, for the purpose of effecting a fraudulent life insurance. That is the charge. Now, is there anything that you wish to say? You are not bound to say anything, but if you do, I have to caution you that anything that you may say will be taken down in writing and used in evidence.”
“All that I have to say,” said Andrew, “is that I am not Anthony Kempster.”
The inspector looked round at the woman and asked: “What do you say to that, Mrs. Kempster? Is this man your husband or is he not?”
“I say that he is,” she replied in a low voice.
The inspector turned to Andrew. “Now,” said he, “what do you say to that? Do you say that this lady is making a false statement?”
“No, not at all,” Andrew replied earnestly. “I have not the least doubt that she is speaking in perfect good faith. But she is mistaken. She is, indeed. I can only suppose that I bear a remarkable resemblance to her husband, but I assure you that I never met her until a few days ago when she spoke to me in the train. I beg you, madam, to look at me again and see if you are not mistaken.”
As he spoke, he looked appealingly in the woman’s face; and as he did so, he saw that it had taken on a very curious expression—an expression of which he could make nothing. Whether it denoted doubt or hope or relief or merely bewilderment he was unable to judge. But it was a very singular expression: so singular that the inspector noticed it, for he remarked: “I suppose there isn’t any mistake? I don’t see how there could be, but still, we want to be sure. Are you sure, Mrs. Kempster?”
She hesitated for a few moments and then replied, doggedly: “Yes. He is Anthony Kempster.”
The inspector turned once more to Andrew and said in a patient, persuasive tone: “You hear that. What do you say now?”
“I say again that this lady is mistaken.”
“Very well,” said the inspector, in the same quiet, persuasive tone, “let us suppose that she is. Then, you see, if you are not Anthony Kempster, you must be someone else. You see that, don’t you?”
Andrew had to admit that the inspector’s logic was unimpeachable. “Then,” the inspector pursued, “all that you have got to do is to prove that you are someone else and we shall know that you can’t be Anthony Kempster. Come, now. Tell us who you are.”
Andrew was, naturally, not unprepared for this question, and had already decided on his reply. “I think,” he said, “that, under the present circumstances, I would rather not give my real name.”
“Very well,” said the inspector, without the slightest trace of irritation, “then, for the present, we will call you Anthony Kempster. Any objection to telling us where you live?”
“I would rather not give any address, at present,” Andrew replied.
“Quite so,” said the inspector. “Not a very communicative gentleman. But if you won’t tell us anything about yourself, we shall have to find out as best we can. Perhaps you have got something in your pockets that will help us.”
He glanced significantly at the officer who was standing by; who immediately stepped forward and laid an expert hand on Andrew’s coat in the region of the right breast. “What’s this?” said he. “Feels like a pocket-book.”
He slipped his hand into the pocket and adroitly fished out a wallet, which he handed to the inspector; and, as Andrew saw it transferred, his heart sank. For it was Ronald’s wallet; the one which he had found in the pocket of the coat on that fatal day at Crompton. He had used it ever since, but merely as a receptacle for notes; and exactly what else it now contained he had no clear idea. There were one or two closed compartments, which he had opened and glanced into in case one of them should contain his own or any other letter which might have to be burned. But there were no letters; and the few scraps of crumpled paper that were in them he had carelessly left there unexamined. It was a singularly foolish thing to have done, as he now realized; and he watched the inspector’s proceedings with growing alarm. “Four pound-notes,” the latter remarked, laying them out on the desk. “Clean ones. Look as if they had come from a bank.” He looked into the open compartments, and, seeing that they were empty, went on to the two closed ones. Opening one, he apparently drew a blank, for he reclosed it and passed on to the other. From this he extracted three crumpled pieces of thin paper, one of which he smoothed out carefully and studied with evident interest. Turning to Mrs. Kempster, he asked: “Do you know the names Bailey and Warman?”
“Yes,” she replied. “They are wine merchants at Ipswich.”
“Did you ever live at Ipswich? And if so, at what address?”
“I lived at Ipswich with my husband at Number 23, Beckton Street.”
The inspector nodded. Then, taking up the piece of paper, he held it out towards Andrew for his inspection. “Just take a glance at that,” said he.
Andrew took a glance at it; and instantly realized that he was lost. It was a tradesman’s bill (“account rendered”), and it set forth that A. Kempster, Esq., 23, Beckton Street, was a debtor to Bailey and Warman, Wine and Spirit Merchants, Ipswich, in the sum of four pounds. “Well,” said the inspector, “that seems to dispose of the mistaken identity racket. I presume you agree with me?”
“I agree with you that it seems to,” Andrew replied. “But I still maintain that I am not Anthony Kempster.”
The inspector smiled sardonically. “You certainly know your own mind,” said he; “but you have got to explain how you come to have a bill in your pocket addressed to A. Kempster, Esq. Can you explain that?”
“I am afraid I can’t,” Andrew had to admit.
“No,” said the inspector. “I don’t suppose you can. And that, I think, completes our business for the present. You will remember, Mrs. Kempster, that you are bound over to give evidence. You had better come back here about three o’clock. We shall take Kempster before the magistrate as soon as possible. Say a quarter to three.”
While these directions were being given Andrew looked at his alleged wife. Her expression had changed and was more inscrutable to him than ever. There was nothing in it in the least suggestive of elation or triumph. Rather did it suggest disappointment and the most profound dejection. As the inspector finished speaking, she rose, and, without a glance at Andrew, turned away and walked slowly towards the door. Suddenly she snatched out her handkerchief and held it to her face; and there came to his ear the sound of muffled sobs.
The inspector followed her with an impassive, but not unkindly eye, and, as she disappeared, he proceeded to moralize. “Women,” he remarked, “are kittle cattle. She started the ball, all agog to get it moving; and now she’d like to stop it. And she can’t. She doesn’t know her own mind as well as you do, Kempster.”
He smoothed out the other pieces of paper, and, having glanced at them, attached them to certain other documents which he put away in a tray. Then he copied on a slip of paper the numbers of the notes, and, having put this slip with the other papers, replaced the notes in the wallet and handed the latter back to Andrew. “You may as well keep that for the present,” he remarked. “You will be detained here until
we are able to bring you before the magistrate, which we shall do this afternoon.”
With this, he drew his chair up to the desk and resumed the studious pursuits in which he had been “discovered,” as the playwrights express it, and Andrew reverted to the custody of the attendant officer, who proceeded to pilot him out of the room, and presently to transfer him to the care of a uniformed constable; who conducted him to a passage in which were a couple of rows of black-painted doors, each distinguished by a number. One of these doors the constable unlocked and opened; and, having thrust in his head and sniffed, shut it again and passed on to the next. Here, the result being apparently satisfactory, he threw the door wide open and invited Andrew to enter. “I may as well relieve you of your kit,” he remarked, assisting his charge to remove the satchel from his shoulder and taking possession of the easel and stool. “The things will be taken care of and given back to you at the proper time. And I must just see what you have got in your pockets. It is only a formality; but there are certain things that you are not allowed to have about you while you are in custody. Just put them out on the table and let me look through them.”
Andrew emptied his pockets, laying the various objects on the little fixed table. These the constable glanced through, and, having satisfied himself that the pockets had been really emptied, selected from the collection a pocket knife and a small bundle of string. “You can put the rest back for the present,” said he, “and I hope you’ll be able to keep them and have the others back. And now, what about grub? When did you have your last meal?”
“About eight o’clock this morning,” Andrew replied. “But I don’t really feel as if I could manage any food.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 176
